Dogman

A kind man.

An awkward man.

A shy man.

A loving man.

He loves animals and his daughter and works hard to impress them, grooming dogs throughout the day to earn money for rest and leisure.

He's done well for himself considering his coastal town's depressed jade, and has friends, clients, healthy relations, and respectability.

He gets by and isn't concerned with that much, but at least still keeps track of the score.

But there's a problem.

A huge problem.

A drug abusing violent bull who cheats and robs the whole neighbourhood takes advantage of his kindness (Edoardo Pesce as Simoncino), and due to his habitual timidity, he has trouble refusing his requests.

You can't negotiate with stark abomination.

And have to one day just strictly say "no".

And take the beating, as it inevitably approaches, Matteo Garrone's Dogman presenting one prick of a criminal abyss, jacked up on malevolent testosterone.

And amphetamines.

It's diabolical dispassionate juxtaposition, each favour just a little more ruthless, and even though each demand's grim and shocking, the door's never shut tight with resolve.

Take care of all things. No matter how brutal. Embrace as they bite, provide guidance they'll ignore.

Marcello (Marcello Fonte) likes being with people. It doesn't really matter who. He wants to fit in, play ball, take part, revel. Enjoy a long lunch. Play soccer in the morning.

But he's too friendly to know when to draw lines.

Seems more like the kind of guy who would read stories to sick kids at the hospital, or plant trees and gardens for his community on weekends.

But if such or similar opportunities exist, he has yet to seek them out or find them.

The film sharply blends innocence and contempt with dismal tragic scorn.

It's painful to watch as Marcello agrees, and is left direly scathed and scrounging.

In a community less saturated with toxic masculinity, he likely would have modestly bloomed, or would have had different options available, that may have encouraged less destructive reckonings.

Dogman makes quite the solemn impact, as lost as it is soul searching.

A world devoid of the feminine.

With good intentions pushed far far away.

Il racconto dei racconti (Tale of Tales)

August propitious enveloping cocoon, swath the embellished confiding ruckus in lavender pretence corresponding can do.

Zodiac.

A mockery.

A complete lack of concern wickedly blended with seditious witness guides Il racconto dei racconti (Tale of Tales) as it dismally lampoons heroic adventure with self-deprecating panache and oblivious tender.

Viscidly challenging you to care for its bland, boring, banal, and bumptious characters, it insolently reminds you that you still haven't left the theatre.

The cinematography's compelling enough (Peter Suschitzky), stating the natural beauty contained herewithin is abundantly more profound than anything these stories have to offer, yet we wrote narratives anyways to illuminate our genuine contempt, for you, asinine aperture, belittle the ebb and flow.

Care for nothing.

Salacious stasis.

The foundations for something more tantalizing laid waste by exasperating lassitude.

Do absolutely nothing, harvest excessive applause.

Galavanting circuitry, crusading camp.