Rosewood

An affluent stranger arrives in town perhaps intent on settling (Ving Rhames as Mann), a veteran of World War I who's fed up with violent chaos.

He proceeds with reservation meeting many people without saying much, his experience far too disconcerting to suddenly chill unbound and trusting.

In a neighbouring laidback town two lovers meet for an assignation, the aftermath extremely cold as toxic masculinity furiously erupts. 

Her face is bruised and battered and can't be hidden from her timid husband, so she runs out into the quiet streets to proclaim she's been assaulted by an African American.

Her white assailant visits a local black homestead in case hounds are roused to follow him, as her story enflames racist tensions and a mob gathers seeking vengeance. 

The residents of the African American town misjudge the situation, since they've lived there in prosperous peace for amicable generations.

The stranger quickly departs but bigots head out in hot pursuit, while the mob descends with unleashed fury and women and children flee to surrounding swamps.

He returns to assist and guide but it's too late for the honest town.

But a local shopkeep keeps his head.

And brings an engine round.

Many of the women and children escape but the cultural damage is done, no reparations or retribution for the innocent victims of terror.

According to Posse and 19th century chronicles this was by no means an isolated incident, as hard fought freedoms were vigorously asserted within a climate of grand dismissal.

It's beyond depressing to sadly think about how racist pretensions never faded, or how over a hundred years after the American Civil War they still persist with blunt derision.

Aren't the regions where they still culturally persist still economically disadvantaged, with overflowing prisons and lacklustre public institutions and the majority of the wealth possessed by an elite few (see The Spirit Level: Why Equality is Better for Everyone as I've mentioned before)?

Rosewood highlights the insanity associated with passionate hatreds, the lack of rational thought applied when zealous fervour actively pontificates.

Seeing disproven conspiracy theories proliferate in the current bizarro reckless public sphere, people drinking bleach and attacking pizza parlours, is disheartening to say the least.

When I was younger there was a much stronger emphasis on fact based evidence and journalistic integrity.

Not to mention public education.

Which hopefully isn't being replaced by YouTube videos. 

Official Secrets

Back to Coventry again and the question of whether or not there are instances where it's in a government's bests interest to mislead the public, in order to cut down on panic and/or mass hysteria.

Letting the Nazis know their enigma codes had been compromised would have likely delayed the end of World War II significantly, but it was still known that Coventry was to be bombed, and with that information hundreds of lives could have been saved.

Seems like you could have kept the information on the down low and simultaneously achieved both objectives, the only serious hindrance being spies, or a lack of knowledge of whom to trust.

Why the ambitious stubbornly think the freewheeling are prone to mass hysterics as opposed to order and discipline (when kept fully informed) is a most unfortunate prejudice, and even though twitter and social media quickly shoot down clandestine pretensions, such pretensions still calculate with austere breadth, exposed hypocrisy notwithstanding.

This period of time has become frighteningly ludicrous inasmuch as clearly exposed political plots move forward regardless of blatant corruption, the character of the people who expose them awaiting ruin, large portions of the public choosing to applaud the plots regardless.

It's like we live in the age where the public is incredibly well informed but large swaths prefer non-traditional sources to orthodox journalism, and as the postmodernists continue to deconstruct sincerity and truth, the charlatans amass fortunes adhering to Bacon's negative instance, and the left's doctrinal relative truth.

An age of sensation, where anyone can run a story online, the irony, and many don't critically evaluate what they're reading, or even care when it's obviously false.

Fake news is like alcoholism, actual fake news, not The New York Times or The Globe and Mail or The Guardian.

You know you shouldn't have another drink, you know the same misfortunes await if you do, but after you have that drink, and deal with those very same misfortunes the next day, the only way to make the repercussions go away is to believe that one more drink won't hurt, or if I keep reading this yahoo some day his or her lies will make sense.

I still spend a lot of time reading traditional news outlets who hire people who function according to a code that upholds honesty and integrity.

Sometimes I think I'm out of touch.

Until I see Sanders beat Trump in the latest poll!

And the Brits stickin' it to Boris Johnson.

I actually saw the poll on Instagram, posted by Team Sanders. The mainstream news isn't that hip to Sanders yet.

Sanders!

If aliens existed and we had definitive proof I'd let the public know. I prefer to see what happens and trust in general reasonability.

If all the data demonstrated that the Earth is warming at an alarming rate, as it does, and something needs to be done to cool things down, I'd let people know and implement policies to reduce greenhouse gas emissions, even if it would take 200 years to feel their effects.

In Official Secrets, true story, Katharine Gun (Keira Knightley) discovers that government officials in Britain are intentionally misleading the public to gain support for the Second Iraq War, and she boldly lets the people know.

Takes a lot of flack in the aftermath.

But totally does what needs to be done.

The film's direct, factually predisposed, but still presents a tale of heroism as noteworthy as it is endearing.

Characters are criticized within for being anti-war, as if such a viewpoint is undesirable.

I always thought it was the other way around.

But I'll never work for the secret service.

Phew.

Could you imagine?

Tom à la ferme (Tom at the Farm)

The importance of observing traditional checks and balances can be psychotically nurtured if oppressive horrific novelties ironically pasteurize love's volatile abandon.

To tenderly sympathize with incarnate cruelty is to harvest oneself a baleful dereliction.

A surprise can self-awarely compromise a narrative's prim and proper puerility if its imaginary facts have not been uniformly concentrated.

Awkward evasive perplexities.

Undisciplined counterstrikes, will be willfully punished even if their unexpected serenities instigate lasting calm.

Assuredly.

The madness associated with a cultural code's disavowed diversions creates sickeningly compelling bonds of trust in Xavier Dolan's brilliantly disturbing Tom à la ferme (Tom at the Farm), awestruck incredulous bereft terror, to submit, penalize, collapse, love's dedicated time honoured insurgencies, incomparably construct an orderly trespass.

There's no need to introduce his face firsthand, just driven concrete crazed malevolency.

Violently obscuring.

Before the resurrection of sound.

Editing by Xavier Dolan.

Gloria

The world of post-divorce adult dating releases a sombre upbeat frustrated flow in Sebastián Lelio's Gloria, as risks are taken in her (Paulina García as Gloria) search for a partner, unleashing fresh currents of desire, tormented by encumbering egotistical eddies.

She ebbs.

She flows.

But deception and non-committal petulancies provoke circularities of their own, pinpointed purchased prolific paddlings, pensively oriented, destination, cued.

The film champions a vital sense of heightened self-appreciation in the face of unsolicited undeserved shame, staying afloat after having been cast adrift, eventually docking on a jaunty friendly shore.

Look at how she comports herself.

Brought back to life by the power of pop music, suppressing her instincts so she can still give it a shot.

Why not eh?

Beautifully bouncing back.

From stranger tides.

Devil's Knot

Seemingly criminal investigative buffoonery is exactingly exposed yet authoritatively dismissed in Atom Egoyan's Devil's Knot, the lives of three teens dependent on said revelations, the law more concerned with either fabricating or submitting to superstition.

The evidence which Egoyan vets cannot lucidly resolve resulting legal tensions.

Dedicated altruistic private investigator Ron Lax (Colin Firth) resolutely prowls to defend, analyzing the facts exhaustively and judiciously, earning trust where none has ever been granted, proceeding directly, from a sense of justice.

But his team is held back by insurmountable time constraints and predetermined sentences, foregone conclusions belittlingly arresting, narcoleptic networks, propagandized anew.

The film harrowingly spawns a persisted enveloping remittance, a sublime sense of optimism institutionally dismayed, helplessness, the beautiful, the dissolute, the scapegoating of difference, a purloined procedural penitentiary.

Nothing can be proven.

Fights against overwhelming odds.

The knot represents the ways in which authorities sometimes outlaw/vilify/demonize a bohemian perspective then rely on their sanctified laurels while using the strategies of that perspective to illegitimately act.

It happens in the film anyways.

And in Foucault.

Oddly, I've been wondering recently if there's ever been a documentary film made about duty counsels and/or legal aids.

Appropriately timed thought even if Lax isn't a lawyer.

I've noticed a negative stereotype associated with the work legal aids perform which a solid documentary film and accompanying book could help destabilize.

Something like Duty Counselled.

Or something else.

Amsterdam

Three close friends, living in a small town, married and settled, habitual and unsuspecting, routine linear sturdy timber, off for an expected excursion, wives, nothing to be worried about.

But a salacious drug and alcohol fuelled binge replaces their traditional fishing trip, in none other than fabled Amsterdam, during which an adulterous peculiarity comes to light, ushering in a new set of incongruous relational vertices, discordant complexities, whose devastated heartbroken pinpricked clutches, deceptively destabilize a longstanding foundation of trust.

It's a morality tale.

A classic case of conjugal infidelity crushing one's sense of purpose and well-being.

The crush is perhaps too limiting as its despondent affects prevent Sam (Robin Aubert) from taking part in most of the film, exploratory analysis sacrificed for betrayed obsession, Amsterdam examining the detonation of reason, as thoughts of forgiveness abandon.

His friends are left trying to explain his absence after he chooses to remain in Europe, their cover-up exacerbating the situation, lies, trauma, incompatibility.

They didn't hire Columbo to investigate this one.

Old school yet relevant, Amsterdam substantializes conceptions of loyalty and friendship, refusing to disqualify their guilt, hardboiled chaotic remorse.

But it really boils down to childishness.

Whose the more childish, Sam or Jeff (Gabriel Sabourin)?

From right to left?