Les Créatures

Secluded cerebral calisthenic splotched stratagem, a married writer intuitively interacts, unfamiliar with the customs of his new home, curious yet shy emboldened substantiated combustion.

He can speak with animals and on occasion visits the forest, his accent often positively received, through rampant scamper and modest scuttle, the conversation like plush evergreen.

Intrigue abounds within the village as a doctor seeks extramarital counsel, his advisor's sister stopping by for a rest, falling for a spry electrician. 

Yet something sinister abides shut in having created a grotesque machine, which can manipulate latent emotion and compromise intransigent will.

Citizens bustle converse galavant unaware of diabolical schemes, the transformation of hesitant trusts into quizzical plights unforeseen. 

The writer confronts him and finds himself challenged to a binding preponderant duel, the outcome of which could disrupt his smooth flowing consummate conjugal cool.

Thus impulses cynical and communal dreamily contract bewitched altercation, lighthearted delegates blind unsuspecting of desire lacking canned sublimation.

One of the strangest films I've seen or at least one whose climax I didn't see coming, its origins rather traditional apart from introductory jocose accelerations. 

Burgeoning sci-fi ambiently acquired through greenhouse craft embowering predicaments, as if the emergence of tactile technologies would wildly disturb inveterate calm.

Unless alternative goals could be applied to their grand distribution, less shocking age old applications of wholesome bittersweet drowsy hitched life.

Agnès Varda seems to have been wary of advancing technologies, as suggested by motorboats introduced at La Pointe-Courte's end, and the imposing machine haunting Les Créatures. 

She clearly loves the environment as demonstrated by multiple shots in both films, crabs freely represented, interspecies communication romanticized in the latter.

From a contemporary perspective, the machine could represent The Social Dilemma's criticisms of social media, something emphatically required to reinvest it with progress, to reimagine a less hostile life.

A wonderful film literary imagination enriched through uncanny romance.

Essential pioneering sci-fi.

One heck-of-a clever bucolic.  

Red Sparrow

Extreme deception bluntly orchestrating maddeningly corrupt initiatives, coldly addressing severe characteristics with the flippant admiration of vanity in bloom.

Emaciated modus operandi, secretively adjusted objectives, flirtatiously plummeting pirouettes, applauding emotionless utilitarianism.

Innate degeneracy opulently upholding volatile foundations meticulously irradiated.

Occupational hazards phantasmagorically posturing with the resigned duplicitous elegance of nouveau riche ostentation, spread so delicately thin that one's senses aspirationally swoon with treacherous wonder.

Dissimulated.

Prevaricated.

If you can figure out what lies beneath a question's seeming innocuous simplicity as it's delivered with clumsy sincerity by someone who has no respect for you, it's easy to lie and give them the answer they expect to hear, the poorly concealed sarcastic nuances of their tone having betrayed their vicious intentions, their misguided readymade conclusion (along with what they intend to do with it), and after providing the answer for which they search which is easy enough to detect, you'll hopefully never hear from them again, calico.

Red Sparrow.

Wherein incomparable poise is wounded then theoretically transformed into a solicitous unimaginative reflection exalting spirited disillusion, commandeered to effortlessly seduce while never questioning executive artifice.

She does seduce effortlessly and you wonder how an undercover operative could have let his guard down so obliviously, but it does save time in a film that's already considerably lengthy.

For good reason.

It patiently follows resourceful Dominika Egorova (Jennifer Lawrence) from career ending catastrophe to harrowing rebirth, accentuating her helplessness piecemeal before considering an alternative only awkwardly presented hitherto, thus enabling multidimensional character development within the strictest confines.

Pigs at the trough beware, Egorova is comin' to get 'cha.

The Americans are generally presented as trustworthy agents while the Russians betray their government with cause, a comment on the price of bearing petty grudges, one disloyal American voraciously bisecting the cultural stereotypes.

Not as intricate as some spy films, but Lawrence's stark brutal portrayal of a coerced fledgling homegrown psychopath still brazenly holding on to her innocence, as accompanied by a feisty Nate Nash (Joel Edgerton), a reserved General Korchnoi (Jeremy Irons), and a fierce Matron (Charlotte Rampling), situated within a clever direct script whose subject matter is uncannily relevant if Icarus and Russia's other international relations woes are interwoven, still helps Red Sparrow stand out, the groundwork for an outstanding sequel having been provocatively laid.

Perfect February release.

Mind-bogglingly coincidental.

The Girl on the Train

Woebegone coy wailing whispers, loves lost unavailing misters, crescents incoherent past, conjuring disclosed the tracks exacting causal punishments, the unignored passions hellbent mystery steeping pains in bellowed seemingly surficial celloed, instinct buried deep beneath each crushing dipsomanic beat, could she clue in expressly solve and vindicate romantic sprawls?

Wherewithal.

Consensual adulterous ramifications haunting Tom (Justin Theroux) and Anna's (Rebecca Ferguson) marriage, his ex-wife Rachel (Emily Blunt) obsessively views the putters of the wealthy suburb where she once happily lived as she passes by on the train every morning, like a saturated classics scholar trying to piece together the activities of an ancient civilization based solely upon tantalizingly loose scattered fragments, it soon becomes apparent that she has seen something, although it will take some fecund fogcutting to find out if she has indeed taken note.

Panoramic puzzling.

Cross worded deluge.

Tate Taylor's The Girl on the Train sounds comedic but is in fact deadly serious.

Tensions gradually increase as the baffled slowly fit the pieces together, jilted jigsawing jousts in stark rendition, autumnal auspicious reminiscence, engendered through firm resolve.

Acrimony.

Tenderness.

The film's well-structured, deftly integrating seemingly innocuous lives to suspensefully prepare you for myopic innocence with scenes that prevaricate in probability.

Multiple characters skilfully intertwined as Rachel's ride proceeds bush tag.

Hokey at points and Rachel's conclusion could have been lengthier.

Traditional comments on marital infidelity chimed.

Infatuated caprice.

Destructive blind ceremony.

Félvilág (Demimonde)

Fair weather thickets, robust tumbledown, opulent rickety flush strings resound.

Erotic.

Instrumental.

Respect and fascination, a subject of the film, one diligently striving to detect an aesthetic hidden within musical provenance, thought allied with action distilling muses to kindle pluck, historical serenity, vixens and vertices, the other manifesting sensation in a shroud, aware of its immaculate presence, seizing and securing the moment's acceleration, ostentatious in its longevity, commanding, assured.

Time slowly transfiguring each one.

Elza Mágnás (Patricia Kovács).

Achievement and success, unconcerned with scandal or perplexity, like Odette de Crécy, she mesmerizes in swoon.

Kató (Laura Döbrösi) escapes life on the streets and is caught between the ethical and the spectacle, rigorously learning what she can to survive.

Quickly.

Visceral film, Félvilág (Demimonde), examining morality through an economic lens, poverty and poignancy luxuriously dissected, picturesque propriety, enabling restrictive plights.

A romantic poet, jealous servant, and coddling magnate complete the script, their attention devoted to Elza, who consequently revels in her agency.

Carefree leisure and desperate servitude liaise within, desire harmonizing their ambitions, dedication sterilizing their chagrin.

Ex Machina

Secluded conscious regalia, decrypted, impounded, coming into being, a prison designed to shelter and educate, to analyze, upgrade, the introduction of an independent perishable, ethical, unfamiliar, clever, to administer a test, to discover life incarnate, artfully manipulated by both subject and architect, forced to come to a conclusion, to discover where the truth resides.

Ava (Alicia Vikander) seeks to escape.

Her creator conceals both lock and key.

It's like he's an incorrigible misogynist, intent on designing a beautiful female companion intelligent enough to converse with yet still subservient to his every command.

He creates model after model in search of perfection, but finds a lack of free will too boring, and too much despicable.

Like the seducer who moves from conquest to conquest, when his interest fades, he falls for another, searching for the one, who chooses to freely serve.

An idealist.

A scoundrel.

His genius has nurtured thoughts of divinity which his unwitting protégé finds distasteful.

Thoroughly seduced.

He boldly acts.

Ex Machina philosophically examines artificial intelligence and cyberconsciousness while blending instinct and abstraction to harvest a technological state of nature.

It forges a strong balance between the basic and the exceptional, like advanced computational ergonomics, interweaving narcissism and psychosis, to hauntingly contemporize freedom.

Why treat a brilliant companion like a pet?

Love involves sacrifice, to commit one must let go.

Pygmalion pouncing in the darkness.

Candide suffering the blows.

It should have ended with Caleb (Domhnall Gleeson) pounding on the glass.

Garm Wars: The Last Druid

Barren and aimless, two mutually destructive cultures battle for supremacy on planet Annwn, consciousness prolonged indefinitely, omnipresent tactical analysis, the survivors, the residue, a permanent present reliant upon regeneration as opposed to growth to secure its objectives, goals whose rigid confines have imprisoned their masterminds in an endless cycle of repetitive monotonous decay, their citizens in a derelict jagged futureless rot whose entrails pathologically require constant immured virulence.

Bleak film, Garm Wars: The Last Druid, indirectly examining the ethnocentric politics of perpetual conquest and ruin, collegially counterbalanced, by an adventurous dreamlike team.

They head out into the forgotten wilderness, in search of truth, guided by the vestiges of spiritual purpose, embracing the enchantments of the unknown.

Their endeavours lead to some captivating scenes, where two soldiers, bred for war, struggle to define their new perspectives, blossoming in their burdens, embracing difference for the first time, articulating miraculous parlays.

Coming into being.

The film's kitschy sci-fi with a prophetic edge whose juxtaposition of technology and the environment whirlwinds cataclysmic conclusions.

An examination of nothingness, of war, like the end game of 1984. 

With a badass druid.

Driven to succeed without any concept of success, a map is drawn.

Formulating plans on a need-to-know basis, they flatter a scourge, and prepare for the sequel.

Solid Lance Henriksen (Wydd).

Elephant Song

Dr. Toby Green (Bruce Greenwood) is ill-prepared for the devious manipulations of psychiatric patient Michael Aleen (Xavier Dolan), as he visits him for the first time on Christmas Eve, at his long term care facility.

Aleen, the unwanted son of a legendary opera singer, skilfully exploits Green's palliative expectations, expediently employing cunning and subterfuge, prevaricative expertise, with goals in mind.

Artfully engaged in indirect communication, they painstakingly proceed through a kaleidoscopic array of circumlocution, Dr. Green unconvincingly naive, unprofessionally struck by Aleen's dazzling intellect.

His disingenuous merit.

To which he cannot rhetorically respond.

It's the film's weakest point.

It's hard to believe someone that accomplished would fall for Aleen's tricks so quickly, so easily, even on Christmas Eve, and sincerely keep up the same level of trust for so long, having been so effortlessly duped from the outset.

Masterfully.

Why does he maintain the level of trust?

Frustratingly quilled yet mesmerizingly insouciant, Charles Binamé's Elephant Song still ambivalently deconstructs relational therapeutics, 2 steps forward, 2 steps back, patient bilateral supplications.

The application of learning.

To heartaching horizons.

*Dolan's that good in English too. Impresario.

**I'm not against employing clichés in writing, but they need to be worked in with carefully placed well-timed elasticity, to thrivingly live again.

***As the crow flies . . . ;)

Sin City: A Dame to Kill For

Barren.

Gut-wrenched and jagged like bitter metallic grist.

Seductive intransitive loyal strands besmirched in brazen castor.

She's in control.

He can't be beaten.

Youth and femininity seeking independence, suffering as their gifts intend.

Manipulation.

Honesty.

Power crushing its seamless outfoxed score, insurgent violence, brutally resigned.

Limits unextinguished.

Doctored dilettante adoring.

Lessons in lesions.

Just another day.

Its consequences sear its combatants with infernal fetching flames, talk, cheap, destined knees.

Full-scrapped and infiltrating, the cold calumny collapsing, its monstrous festered grip, clenching clasped constabularies.

Reactivity.

Its suffocations.

Its distance.

(I wonder if Christopher Lloyd's [Kroenig] performance was a tribute to that of Harry Dean Stanton in Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me).

Borgman

The bourgeois patriarchy finds unconditional support in Alex van Warmerdam's Borgman, a poignantly pointless florescent canker, rifle at the ready, red alert middle-class aesthetics.

While viewing, you may find yourself considering at least two questions, the first, why in hell would anyone make something like this?, the second, is this the pinnacle of paranoid stereotyped fabled uncensored grit, the beast aimlessly targeting the beauty, the arrogance of a stifled hypodermic, unreeling like a Criterion in the making?

The only film to ever remind me of Jerzy Skolimowski's The Shout.

It could have been an after school special direly warning teens not to hitchhike.

Or a film where a plane crashes in Alaska and wolves communally hunt down the survivors.

Instead, suburban peace and tranquility is infiltrated by a troupe of travelling possibly demonic psychopaths, who, in this instance, seek employment in order to use the tools at their disposal to create a platform upon which they intend to put on a show, the couple's wife residing in their grip, the husband, completely oblivious.

Discontent is sewn.

I'm assuming Warmerdam has worked a Dutch fairy tale or legend of some kind into his script, the film seeming as if it's a crisp contemporary take on a medieval horror, with cars and cellphones, although the fact that it seemed that way to me is based on my assumption.

Off they go, into the forest.

If there were still bears in the Netherlands, keeping with the fairy tale hypothesis, they would be on the lookout.

Bears were obviously guardians of the forest in Dutch fairy tales/legends.

I know nothing about the Netherlands.