Barefoot in the Park

A newlywed couple moves into their first apartment, freely intent on necessitously nest(l)ing.

Their dynamic is somewhat old school inasmuch as Corie (Jane Fonda) doesn't work, yet applies her industrious inclinations to recreation and home decor.

She excels at entertaining and embracing newfound pastimes, her open-minded inquisitive temperament wondrously courting jazzy vigour.

Mr. Bratter (Robert Redford) is a bit more cautious, much less improvisationally disposed, feeling safe within a steady paradigm wherein which everything fits trusted custom and precedent.

He's trying to advance his career or at least make a productive start of it, so he gets used to lively nights intermingling work and conjugal creation.

They live in a provocative building abounding with random curious character, one eccentric neighbour in particular full of vivacious lofty spirit (Charles Boyer as Victor Velasco). 

He invites them out on the town and Corie thinks he may make a good match for her mom (Mildred Natwick), the four of them heading out to a playful restaurant to sample tantalizing ethnic cuisine.

But Mr. Bratter proves less experimental than his enthusiastic wife anticipated, somewhat too sheltered by codes of conduct which don't permit enigmatic alternatives.

A dispute resultantly erupts back at home later on in the evening, which leads to passionate calls for divorce and general flustered mayhem.

It's an endearing amorous investigation of well-matched compassionate opposites, the congenial juxtaposition coaxing clash and conviviality. 

I usually love trying new things especially food from other countries, but I've found this can be just as off-putting as obstinate full-on unbridled dismissals.

I think it's because my traditional embrace of difference conflicts with gender based preconceptions equipped with historical complaint.

That is, it's more endearing to engage in standard arguments derived from habitual expectations, than to wholeheartedly agree on a course of action that doesn't involve varying degrees of intrigue.

I haven't had many relationships, but I've noticed that most people have been having them consistently throughout their lives, and that typical discussions regarding potential actions, are actually rooted in decades worth of stereotypical role play.

When Mr. Batter tries to move beyond his traditional role in Barefoot in the Park, the results are catastrophic, and since he lacks extemporaneous composure, distressing calamity sets in.

But they work things out and forge a consensus as rich with discord as it is cohesive.

A mischievous examination of married life.

Overflowing with constructive wherewithal. 

Bunny Lake is Missing

The routine act of registering a child in school is scandalously uprooted when it's discovered she's disappeared.

Her mother (Carol Lynley as Ann Lake) is confused when she finds out she's vanished, her brother (Keir Dullea as Steven Lake) offering support as they search the school.

The police are swiftly notified and an eccentric detective (Laurence Olivier as Superintendent Newhouse) takes the case, whose critical observations extend well beyond strict diagnoses.

Details are routinely compiled as the case becomes more and more disconcerting, an enigmatic school mistress offering her take (Martita Hunt as Ada Ford), a creepy landlord (Noël Coward as Horacio Wilson) a shoulder to cry on.

Bunny's things are missing too even after having been dropped off that morning, and the school never received their payment, and there's no record of her having entered England.

Her mother searches for tactile evidence as her brother castigates the police, who go about their sleuthing while ignoring vain caprice.

Deep ends derailed demonstrative vital ascertained stitched clues, alas the story preordains constituents bemused.

How anyone could have fabricated such a story leads to reasonable thought?

Which proves that logic's sometimes absent when discerning carnal plot.

The cogent disbelieving wildly plead and then persist.

But proof cannot be found that one dear Bunny Lake exists.

In terms of character, writing, cinematography, and otherworldliness, Bunny Lake is Missing mesmerizingly impresses.

If you like odd expressive moderately successful characters it's an essential tour de force.

The superintendent has dismissive or laudatory or bored or incisive comments for everything, and he'd be as easy going as a studio musician if he weren't investigating crime.

And you could put up with him.

The school mistress shares unorthodox yet keen views which upset those unfamiliar with her style, but don't mistake her candour for tomfoolery as she clarifies.

The scenes where she interacts with Olivier are priceless uncut gems, striding forth with striking brilliance that resplendently descends.

Then there's creepy Horacio Wilson, the pervy landlord who I thought was the inspiration for Repulsion, after concluding that Bunny Lake inspired Rosemary's Baby, but Lake and Repulsion were both released in the same year (1965).

I didn't check the months.

It's like you have bored yet vigorous intellectuals occupying non-traditional roles devoutly concerned with solving a crime that's preposterously conventional.

The mystery certainly drives the plot but it still abounds with striking detail (bus drivers, junket [yeah yeah], Welsh poetry, the Zombies, tips, book writing), what would working life be like without conversation that doesn't necessarily relate to the topic at hand?

It's like consequent absurdity that's as flamboyant as it is concrete, that demands you take it seriously while taunting you for doing so.

Outstanding writing (John & Penelope Mortimer and Ira Levin [adapted screenplay]) and sincere cinematography (Denys N. Coop) complement Otto Preminger's direction.

It's a bit creepy yet still a must see.

Olivier's range is mind-boggling.

A Vida Invisível (Invisible Life)

Tumultuous times await a romantic spirit after she's left behind with child and her family brusquely disowns her.

Or refuses to allow her to come home after she returns from her amorous adventure, alone with nowhere to go, having fallen prey to dishonest advances.

Made when she was ready to sacrifice everything.

Her sister's left unawares, has no idea what's transpired, and marries as the months and years pass, settling into domestic life.

But she never gives up her dream of playing the piano in Vienna, nor stops thinking about her missing sister, who communicates regularly in writing, her messages intercepted by a disapproving husband.

The oft irreconcilable relationship between emotion and principle forges an ethical current within, the husbands obsessed with how things appear, the wives sympathetic to concrete reality.

I can't understand how a parent could care more about a principle or social standing than the happiness of their child, or how they could disown him or her absolutely for doing something they may have once considered.

Themselves.

Some things lack prestige or appeal until you've reached a certain age, and it's difficult to imagine that one mistake made in the grips of youthful passion could ever prevent them from luminously radiating, for if principle isn't able to take what once seemed irrefutably endearing into aged spiritual account, are the thoughts and feelings of younger generations to perennially persist in ill-defined obscurity?

How could you know that your grandchild is being raised in a neighbourhood close by and that you've given his or her parents no assistance whatsoever to ease their emotional and financial distress?

How could you suddenly dismiss all the wonderful times cherished with your children as they grew, because they didn't follow a rigid rule to its stifling incapacitating letter?

Is it possible to love rules and regulations more than flourishing life?, to abide by stern codes and customs when surrounded by contemporary endeavour?

There's no doubt youth seeks to uphold what they've been taught to behold as rational, but to make sense of rational traditions when you're young overlooks the exuberance of life.

A Vida Invisível (Invisible Life) demonstrates how a young adult cast aside by her family digs in deep and vigorously strives.

And how that family suffers in her absence, how it would have prospered with her vital strength.

A sorrowful tale crafting knowledge woebegone, which contrasts domesticity with independence to challenge stubborn points of view, it exhales tragedy with forlorn breaths while encouraging compassion and understanding, as siblings long for the abandoned innocence that once so thoughtfully bloomed.

Is it not more shameful to abandon your child?

To leave them alone to dismally struggle?

I'm not encouraging reckless behaviour.

But mistakes require sympathy, not severe punishments.

Little Women

Sisters living together in old school bucolic surroundings, lively animate reckonings overshadowing speechless gloom.

A cross-section of formative events congenially pitched and harmonized, love and care guiding inquisitive actions, a mother providing lucid instruction.

Not necessarily gloomy, it just seems like it must have been that way, so locked down in one specific set of circumstances, without the internet lying in wait.

But Little Women emphasizes grassroots creativity, or wholesome bonds forged through familial endeavour, the theatre as tantalizing as postmodern film, perhaps predating phrases like the art of conversation.

If people had no technological distractions to prevent them from directly interacting with one another (I'm reinterpreting the phrase), and dialogue flourished throughout the course of the day, conversation may have seemed less like an art form, and more like something freeflowing and natural.

Discussing topics at length may not have been reserved just for soirées and seminars, and sundry nuances may have been eagerly explored, by loquacious lackadaisical candlelight.

Perhaps with less of an emphasis on making weak arguments appear strong, and more of a desire to encourage prosperous articulation, people actually making their own nightly narratives, and debating while casually observing.

I was monitoring the activity of a relative the other day, who overflowed with tenacious curiosity, and I was somewhat relieved when The Last Jedi caught his attention, and I could then worry less about inspired destruction.

But I checked myself for having such thoughts, and took to heart accusations of entropy, for I should have been eagerly engaged, and ready for every distinct counteraction.

As parents prior to television no doubt must have rigorously been, how much tighter family bonds perhaps were back then, how much more available people were to please, how much more time there might have been for tasks at hand.

I'd like to read essays and/or books comparing 21st and 19th century pastimes, and Little Women as well, to learn more from its compelling story.

Greta Gerwig's film's exciting to watch, and kept me captivated from beginning to end.

It focuses on goodwill and charity at times which pleasantly caught my attention, not just because I saw it during the Holiday Season, but also since I rarely encounter self-sacrifice in contemporary film.

Or conversation.

Good things happen when people commit to reducing poverty and make healthier green alternatives more accessible.

It seems like the cast had a lot of fun while making it, but still worked hard to create a good film, the kind of vigorous reliable teamwork that can be facilitated by an emphasis on cool.

Having fun off screen while sincerely delivering when it's time to work, Little Women's most impressive, like working in Montréal.

And I've found a fictional companion for Ethan Hawke in my personal filmic pantheon (in my head), the one and only Laura Dern (Marmee March), they both keep showing up in so many cool films.

They've been around a while too.

Sort of like Harry Dean Stanton but not the same.

Not that the rest of Gerwig's cast didn't impress.

Left the cinema feeling happy.

Postcards from the Edge

Constant motion, exceptional circumstances, wild indulgence, disorienting repercussions.

A blossoming actress well-versed in cinematic intrigue takes things multiple steps too far, and is sentenced to move back home.

She can therefore continue working after her overdose, even if incumbent oversight bewilders her resolve.

Things remain relatively calm, in Ms. Vale's (Meryl Streep) case anyways, but jealousy and deception neither flounder nor subside, as her mom (Shirley MacLaine) and newfound beau Jack Faulkner (Dennis Quaid) contend and philander respectively.

Explanations or reasons why disputatiously illuminate, as the struggling actress carries on.

Her strength is most impressive.

Her talent, undeniable.

Postcards from the Edge honestly presents a cerebral state of affairs.

Even though the situation's quite serious, lighthearted charm reveals resilient subtle character.

Blending in both sympathy and censure.

It resists impulses to sound too preachy and consequently doesn't infantalize.

It doesn't let anyone off the hook, but doesn't overflow with guilt or blame either.

I didn't know Carrie Fisher was such a good writer.

Postcards excels at offering versatile soul searching conversations between parent and young, examining the thought provoking envy that aggrandized their lives in show business.

But it's not simply envy, the envy's mixed with support and compassion, these beacons emitting clever conversational poise that tries not to offend as it resists temptation.

If it's blunt, it isn't overstated.

The conversations become more and more genuine as the film progresses, and director Mike Nichols gives them plenty of time to bloom as they patiently generate their own lifeforce.

Vale and Faulkner have some good arguments as well.

Some people who overdose don't get to return to work so shortly thereafter, so Postcards is a bit hands-on fairy tale.

But if forgiveness and mercy are to constructively abound, who's to critique such remarkable developments?

Cool film.

Wasn't on me radar way back when.

Lucy in the Sky

The mind-blowing levitations of supersonic space travel leave go-getting astronaut Lucy (Natalie Portman) high and dry.

Overwhelmed by joyous reckoning astronomically substantiated, she can't readjust to terrestrial tremens and slips up where she once shone.

Asked to join a prestigious club well-attuned to astral planes, she spares time she's never had for spontaneous acts forbidden.

Coaxed on by hulking brawn, which opportunistically sways euphoric, she soon embraces chance, deception, caught up with gracious praise.

Ill-equipped to negotiate raw emotion, while making snap judgments which make things worse, psychosis dawns and fiercely beckons, she's never lost, can't let go, recede.

He is a huge tool (Jon Hamm as Mark Goodwin) who must haven known something like this would happen.

Eventually.

A lot of people live this way though.

If it's not your style, best leave it alone.

Especially if you're prone to obsession.

Lucy's prone in Lucy in the Sky and the results are grim yet fascinating, the whole world innovating unaware, a moment's slack mind-melded menace.

It's like the film's critiquing drug abuse in a way, but rather than deride narcotics, it looks at post-ecstatic stress, if that's a thing, I've never heard of it.

Adulterous sensations reinvigorate the high, but then lead to stark addiction, that's destructive, by and by.

If the other's unresponsive.

Natalie Portman's revitalizing her career by portraying elite achievement recklessly abandoned, her roles rich with intense emotion as they wildly yearn and contemplate.

There's a mystical element in Lucy in the Sky that could have been explored with more depth, as if travelling in space gives Lucy superhuman power, its unknown effects increasing the tension, but it's left behind with vengeful cause.

Perhaps watching as she slowly developed superpowers would have been cheesier than seeing loss drive her mad, although not necessarily so, depending on narrative finesse (even an idea that seems fated to be incredibly cheesy may not turn out so if crafted with thought and care).

Sad to see such an accomplished woman self-destruct so, nevertheless.

A warning to stick to the path you've chosen.

And beware of sedate sensation.

*Of course, who knows, who knows what path to follow, perhaps best not to even consider it, honestly. I find that when change gradually occurs it's less disruptive in terms of serious things like relationships, unlike choosing a restaurant, or a film to go see.

**Bananas.

***Grapes.

Honeyland

In the remote wilds of Northern Macedonia, an innovative maiden makes endearing ends meet.

In touch with fickle nature, ensconced within her environs, she harvests nurturing honey, to swiftly sell to local merchants.

A true friend of bee kind, she takes no more than she requires, and shares that which she humbly consumes, with her industrious agile constituency.

Never guided by greed nor gluttony.

In harmony with rustic enrichment.

Not that she's making huge disposable sums, but she has something left over for a bit of fun, and is able to care for her loving mother, who lives with her in modest surroundings.

Itinerant neighbour farmers move in to harvest nutritious honey as well, but they lack Hatidze Muratova's knowledge, and proceed in error in search of profit.

Motivated to gather much larger quantities, they fail to consider the health of their bees, as a third party eggs them on, who's more concerned with sugar than soul.

Shouldn't one always care for their workforce?

Ensuring health to prolifically prosper.

While respecting local traditions.

And maintaining holistic balance.

Honeyland follows Hatidze and her new age neighbours as they employ different management strategies, one in touch with solemn longevity, the other breeding contempt in haste.

The honey looks so delicious.

Eaten right off the comb!

Abounding with innovative nutrients.

Synergistically savouring strength.

Honey's one of the most wonderful things and it's a miracle that it exists in nature, a vital juxtaposition provoking thought, inasmuch as something so sweet can critique so severely.

Bears love it.

I imagine other animals less immune to stinging do as well.

I find bees won't sting you as long as you remain calm. If one lands on you, don't move, rest immobile, patiently wait 'til it freely moves on.

Even if one lands on your lip.

Or your eyelid.

Bees.

Honeyland's also hardboiled and distinct, vividly capturing woes of hard living.

Difficulties of having to start work so young.

Without recourse to community or medicine.

The spirit of independence durably thrives within, vibrantly generating lush sustainability, through hardcore pluck and spry versatility, thoughtful observation, long-lasting care.

Hatidze Muratova's an individual like no other.

Her story brought to life by a documentary team.

A moving imaginative tale.

Overflowing with intense life.

Not to mention some harmless fun.

Laidback immersive simplicity.

Harrowingly disturbed.

Resourcefully contradicted.

Freaks

Spoiler alert.

Freaks presents a bleak sociopolitical scenario wherein which mutants are routinely hunted down and taken without reason or hesitation.

Its similarities to the The X-Men resonate with complimentary vibes, but even if the two visions are similar, it should be noted that The X-Men don't have a monopoly on this kind of narrative, as long as its characters aren't flatly duplicated.

Where's the hybridization otherwise?

The main difference between Freaks and The X-Men and Women is that The X-Men storyline is well-known, while Freaks keeps you guessing if you didn't read anything about it beforehand, besides that it's science-fiction and made in Canada, and somewhat provocatively titled.

It's like Magneto's worst nightmare.

The majority has designated anyone who doesn't fit a rather bland personality stereotype as a freak, and if différence is detected, it's wiped out with extreme prejudice.

The mutants are scattered and disorganized, forced to contend with the majority on a terrifying individual basis.

A father (Emile Hirsch as Dad), who doesn't understand the majority's conventions well, tries to teach them to his gifted daughter (Lexy Kolker as Chloe), who's unaware of their predicament, and uncertain as to how to proceed.

He's chosen to hide but can't make his daughter understand why, and as she ages she becomes more curious about the forbidden world outside.

A heavily armed reporter thinks she sympathizes, but the climate's so extreme any attempts to communicate are layered with panicky violent unacknowledged distrust, like the society you find in The Lobster, or what I imagine an atheist confronts if they live in a strict theocracy.

Freaks lacks alternative depth inasmuch as the mutants have no rights or recourse, but it does function as an effective critique of extreme governments, and the violence and prejudices they habitually nurture.

On the right extreme, the best and brightest and their goons use violence to force the majority to yield; on the left the moral majority banishes independent thought to languish in remote obscurity.

This is an oversimplified version of the polemic that doesn't do its myriad nuances justice, but works in relation to the context of the film.

In a well-rounded society the groups respectfully co-exist, the respect a cab driver has for a physicist for instance, due to the physicist's brilliant expertise, and the corresponding respect that same physicist has for the cab driver, extracted from the knowledge that they work extremely long hours, provide a helpful service, don't make much money, and have a remarkable knowledge of the city or town they work in.

It's only when the physicist derides the cab driver in anger for not possessing a similar degree of expertise, or the cab driver lashes out at the physicist for possessing lucrative knowledge, that a rather chill orderly structure breaks down, social relations then becoming more disagreeable.

Ask yourself which political parties support such a public sphere? and you may find yourself voting for good times this October.

For a culture that isn't super uptight all the time.

For a country that genuinely supports différence.

I can't stress how important it is to vote in the upcoming federal election. Voting is one of our most important freedoms as Canadian and Québecois citizens. It doesn't take that long and you can even take time off work to do it. Voting helps you be the change, it's one concrete way that you can in fact make a real difference.

This difference is magnified in a proportionally representative system.

Proportional Representation isn't radical change.

It's simply good governance.

Based solely on the numbers.

Bruce Dern (Mr. Snowcone) shines.

He has some great lines too.

Tonari no Totoro (My Neighbour Totoro)

A family moves far away to raise young in idyllic surroundings, the peaceful breeze a windswept melody, the silent nights a tranquil balm, even if living in the city can be equally mesmerizing, its rhythmic variations wondrous catalysts, its gritty flux dynamic grains, a different kind of symphonic swing, still in tune with seasonal contrarieties, the countryside presents more immediate environmental difference, the rays of the sun like molten fusion, a livid storm compressed surprise, it's good for restful relaxation, for decompressing from time to time, but can lack what you weren't expecting, if you don't dig deep, experiment, sleuth.

Look for animals.

Learn about different birds.

Make your own diverse mechanics, soaking up whims and signs, like the kids in My Neighbour Totoro, as they nimbly acclimatize.

Prudent planning was exercised in their locale, and patches of forest were left amongst the fields, the rice fields abounding but not all-encompassing, the children still finding lots of room to play.

Wherein which they discover a magical realm, bold immersed unrestrained imagination, a godlike creature with remarkable powers, exhaling induced exclamation.

Like an idea he can slip the mind, but concentration helps Totoro shine through, to perhaps summon the omniscient cat bus, or play music at the end of the day.

The film doesn't retail shock or ceremony.

It's as unobtrusive as it is inquisitive.

The exact opposite of a horror film in fact, you aren't filled with dread or anxiety afterwards.

It's like productive chill curious growth invigorated, as if you've just seen a badger or had dinner at a local restaurant, as if it's distilled that feeling you get when you're free of responsibility and have time to explore, blend, hypothesize, adventure, recall all those things you misplaced in the bustle, like a band you used to really like, or a view you haven't seen for awhile.

Everything's there in the city too, just have to keep your eyes open, like the girl I saw discover a caterpillar at Sainte-Catherine and Peel one day, or signs that look like animals. A wayward soccer ball in the park. Eating sushi as you walk down the street. A bottle dropped with conversational intent.

I missed the conversational intent of the bottle drop because I was too wrapped up in my own thoughts, and didn't realize I was supposed to pick it up, and that the person who had dropped it wanted to talk to me.

I believe the expression is, my bad.

Totoro's like all those things you never expected to see all decked out and rolled into one.

The divine chillaxed im/material.

Always present.

Never forgotten.

Where'd You Go, Bernadette?

Crushed by a devastating thoughtless blow, a brilliant artist can no longer create, and although she finds solace in her loving daughter, and aloof husband, her interactions with neighbours and local professionals perspire maladroit dysfunction, and as time passes, repressed creative impulses manifest scorn, imaginatively characterized and robustly contorted, then transformed into bitter confrontation.

An old colleague (Laurence Fishburne as Paul Jellinek) explains how she's become a menace to society, with a particularly astute caricature, which cleverly outwits diagnoses and accusations, hits the nail on the head as it incisively were sir, observant synopses, regenerative calm.

But her husband's taken a more traditional route, and enlisted the aid of mainstream psychiatry, which does produce effective results at times, but is unfortunately ill-equipped for his wife's distemper.

It's a shame that he resorts to seeking outside help considering how strong their marriage appears earlier on in the film.

They're mutually supportive, they pleasantly talk to one another, they're both full of love for their daughter, they seem like a conjugal success.

But they've lost touch deep down, as some playful editing emphasizes, and even though they consistently converse, they do so without saying anything.

If they had just been talking to each other in the concurrent scenes.

Elgie's (Billy Crudup) 20 years of constant work have left him blind to his wife's grief, caused him to forget what she gave up long ago, that she needs outlets, projects, challenges.

Work.

Thankfully the film's quite level-headed even as locales switch to Antarctica.

It's a charming adventurous warm and friendly soul search that concentrates on understanding as it's refined by insightful youth.

Listening.

Where'd You Go, Bernadette? does air grievances as it diversifies Ms. Fox's (Cate Blanchett) portfolio, her exchanges with superkeen PTA neighbour Audrey (Kirsten Wiig) bearing disputatious fruit, her sharp dismissal of a curious admirer suggesting she could be somewhat less anti-social.

But she's totally not PTA, she isn't interested in textbook trajectories, she could likely write a book that no one would understand, with the same ingenious mischievousness found in Ulysses.

Categorically beyond expression, she's still devoted to her loving family, her daughter Bee's (Emma Nelson) sincerest bestie, she's grounded yet requires initiative.

Projects.

Their daughter teaches them to listen and because they're chill they hear what she's saying, finding fun working solutions down the road, realized with core resiliency.

The penguins and sea lions are worked in well.

They just kind of show up and aren't focused on with adoration.

Cutting back the rug to find the sprout is impressive.

As is Bernadette and Audrey's rapprochement.

A feel good family film that isn't cheesy or gross, Where'd You Go, Bernadette? remodels mature compassion.

It's a lot of fun too.

Can't wait to see it again.

Would have chosen a flavour instead of naming the dog Ice Cream (Inception). 😉

With Judy Greer (Dr. Kurtz [mainstream solutions are like Bernadette's Heart of Darkness?] and David Paymer (Jay Ross).

Todos lo saben

A wedding brings a family together to exalt in celebration, the festivities overflowing with spirit, inhibitions let loose to praise.

But as guards are let down and passions erupt, covetous malfeasance clandestinely violates.

Soon it is known that kidnapping is afoot, and the identity of the perpetrator remains a bitter mystery.

Old school social relations call motives into question, as despondent candour joylessly obscures lucid trust.

Financial responsibility dismally beckons, a lifetime of hard work hauntingly underlying stoic sacrifice.

The past interrogatively echoes.

As the present crumbles astray.

Emergent futures contend in Todos lo saben indeed, as disturbing essentials anxiously prognosticate.

Hives of activity maddeningly posture before settling down with forlorn resignation.

Its characters are strong, compassionate, resilient, loving.

They don't only care for their immediate family, but seek the prosperity of their workforce as well.

Like a versatile community.

The film excels at presenting passionate logic, the overwhelming emotions that characterize sincere distress rationally generated with sober feeling.

Everything's understood with astute enough composure.

It matures like the vines its reels cultivate, coming of age in the mid-afternoon sun.

Storms may disrupt its smooth delicate maturation, but not without augmenting rough unique compelling flavour.

It examines religion without preaching, infidelities without scorn, science without authentication, loyalty forbidding dependence.

Even though characters seek just outcomes, it doesn't mean it's easy, and even though they have resources they can access, it doesn't mean alternative solutions are shelved.

Suspicions bluntly arise.

Level heads contemplatively acquiesce.

Like culture under seige.

Todos lo saben peacefully reckons.

Destroyer

Overwhelmingly consumed by guilt and vengeance, a forlorn detective wearily trudges on.

Notoriously dishevelled, she struggles to deal while attempting to advise her restless daughter.

Having once infiltrated a heist prone entity, she lost everything after she failed to act.

And the individual who's haunted her for 16 years has finally resurfaced, within her reckless domain, his sights set on lucrative crime, boldly flaunting arrogant tension.

She continues to break the rules she's never followed to desperately gain an edge, and accidentally finds herself mired in steep misfortune.

Spiralling swiftly down.

Wildly reckoning sincere uncertainty.

Destroyer flexes gritty wayward concrete confrontation to adjudicate chaotic perception.

From flesh wound to break to hemorrhage to paralysis, it scoops up the lugubrity in piles of distraught doom.

Aptly succeeding at presenting direst woe, it's a little too blunt for my tastes, the intervening scenes lacking the visceral nuances that hold films like To Live and Die in L.A. or French Connection together, shocking violence erupting like periodic head shots every 8 minutes or so, or body checks in a hockey game, except that after each check the play stops and doesn't resume again, and then it suddenly starts back up and there's another check shortly thereafter before it stops again, this pattern repeating until the film's solid ending.

It's obvious that the filmmakers are capable of crafting something more subtle and nuanced and steady and memorable, something less discontinuous, or something that artistically cultivates discontinuity, but perhaps budget constraints got in the way or Destroyer's an initial offering from a fledgling craftperson, still learning to brew something less pulpy and generic.

It does function as an effective warning against both corruption and revenge however, Erin Bell's (Nicole Kidman) dismal distillation a potent reminder to let things go, no matter your gender, to move forward at some point after a period of grieving, and apply yourself with resurgent vigour to whatever tasks eventually present themselves.

Books and films and paintings and television provide limitless options to promote either contemporary or retro lifestyles.

As do sports and the daily news.

Even if even The Guardian is remarkably grim these days.

That used to be the advantage it held over The New York Times for me.  It wasn't so grim. And didn't focus on the United States so much.

It's nice when you meet people who are also living in the present regardless.

A present that isn't consumed with grasses greener.

Where resilient people make the most of their present means.

And occasionally sit back chillin'.

When all their work is done.

On the Basis of Sex

The law is so diverse and complex that it's almost like an inorganic cerebral ecosystem of sorts, wherein which manifold species symbiotically seek food, shelter, warmth.

Taken as a whole it's rather labyrinthine, like trying to clarify all the species in an unknown jungle, at first. You study taxonomic reasoning for years and then one day set foot in the jungle, pitch a tent, set up camp, begin recording the flora and fauna as well as their relationships with one another. As the sun slowly fades and night descends you observe different botanical phenomena displaying alternative characteristics until your research can definitively suggest they possess specific behavioural traits, thereby setting precedents of sorts which promote further discovery.

But you can only do so much research in a jungle and most research is somewhat specialized (philosophically undertaken according to specific criteria) and eventually you depart, coming back at another time perhaps to advance your research further.

Meanwhile other scientists investigate the same region to verify or contradict your findings while making several new ones of their own.

Rational observations upheld by the reasonable discourse of the day slowly create a world of precedents delineating a civil code unto themselves.

But the code itself is so vast and delicately nuanced and the amount of time spent studying it so slim that the overarching exhaustive narrative remains tantalizing out of touch, always encouraging further study.

If the lawyers, judges, and legal aids who make up a judicial framework are closely studied you find patterns upon which you can base predictions regarding the outcomes of specific cases and the individuals responsible for making them, judging them, commentating upon them, facilitating them.

You would think they wouldn't be determinate inasmuch as different facts and alternative circumstances make each case unique, and that the outcome of one extortion trial should be different from another, but the patterns do persist with a remarkable lack of variation, which is perhaps an unfortunate byproduct of undisclosed political motives.

But variability persists as well and honest judges and lawyers can be swayed by exceptional arguments crafted by reasonable individuals cutting their way through the maze.

As they are by Ruth Bader Ginsburg (Felicity Jones) in Mimi Leder's On the Basis of Sex.

Unlike the instinctual nature of the jungle, which is instinctive inasmuch as we can't communicate with it, logically, in spite of visceral fluencies, the imaginative nature of the law, the application of abstract thought, no matter how practical it might be, cleverly cultivates alternative paths by introducing new classifications, new precedents, disciplines, many of which have little to do with people wandering around aimlessly thousands of years ago, and scientifically reflect the evolutionary nature of communal intellect.

Like the second or third or fourth or fifth scientist who visits the previously undiscovered jungle and discovers new facts that contradict the findings of his or her predecessors, new law branches emerge which develop their own previously uncategorized traditions themselves equally rich in judicial diversity.

As alternative traditions make their claims based upon different precedents the undeniable sure thing becomes much less invariable.

But the patterns still persist and the political motivations that define them persistently seek to elucidate a manufactured master narrative, regardless of facts presented, in attempts to make the world reflect a theoretical natural conception.

The jungle itself without the ability to analyze itself is natural, and rational attempts to define its nature definitively through the application of self-aware reflection based upon observed conditionals which change according to the narratives established by their observers, different conclusions reached, competing rationalities cohabiting, reflects the nature of thought or imagination, a nature which is in/organic if you will.

On the Basis of Sex operates within an in/organic labyrinth and follows the brilliant Ruth Bader Ginsburg as she begins to shine a light through.

Ignorantly dismissed at first and later on because of her gender, even though she graduated with exceptional grades, she finally gets a chance and rationally makes the most of it.

In feisty Denver.

Precedents and patterns and preconceptions and prejudice confront her all the way, but her loving husband (Armie Hammer) and children (Cailee Spaeny, Callum Shoniker) back her up, and support her with the utmost respect (within teenaged reason).

The film's an engaging accessible account of a remarkable individual's first trek through the wilderness, and the path she cultivated along the way.

Through foresight, pluck, logic, and determination, she helped heal aspects of a system that unfortunately is neither broken nor fixed.

If you think the system's broken, if you give up and stop fighting, then a system that has never been and never will be perfect falls into a blind state of disarray.

Remember people like Ruth Bader Ginsburg and the light they've helped shine throughout their lives if you find yourself thinking everything's hopeless.

Because there are millions if not billions of people out there just like her, who care, and are making a difference.

Fighting for true democracy.

Or at least a fair shake most of the time.

Vice

Why make a movie about Dick Cheney (Christian Bale) of all people?

Why?

Why do I have to write about this film?

Why!

With all the charismatic influential inspiring dynamic leaders out there, why choose to make a film about him, even if, in bizarro plutocrat lingo, those adjectives strangely apply?

The filmmakers admit they have little to go on yet revel in proceeding blindly nonetheless, and although they couldn't find much information about Cheney, they still stuck to that which they found, rather than creating a more balanced narrative, wherein which the speculative film, which they admit to making, takes imaginative precedence over headlined gossip and likelihood.

I'm not saying avoid what's supposed to be true or replace it with alternative fact, I mean that if you're imagining much of what took place anyways, imagine a more compelling film that narratively ties his different motivations together.

See so many Steven Spielberg films.

Vice is more like, "we know he did this, and it's believed he did that, and this is all we really have to go on, so we'll make the rest up but emphasize what we do know, or believe, even if the information we have writes a clunky story."

Not that it's a bad film, it's alright, and it's better than a lot of films that follow an individual's career over the course of a lifetime, but Cheney's just not such a bad guy for so much of it, in fact he's primarily depicted as a respectable family man who played by the rules for most of his career, and then suddenly he's this power mad mendacity prone borderline authoritarian, it's not that the facts aren't commercially presented, it's just that Vice hasn't much of a foreshadow.

If you admit you're making speculative pseudo-non-fiction why play your cards so close to your chest?, The Big Short certainly didn't and it made a more stunning impact.

As it stands, Vice isn't sure if Dick Cheney was a monster or just a fortunate hardworking man of self-made means.

It emphasizes that the second Iraq war was likely caused by him for self-centred reasons, but still goes out of its way to make him seem loving and kind, with prim bipolar whitewash, comedically applied.

It does explain where political obsessions with executive authority come from, and in the last scene Cheney appears like Khan in Star Trek into Darkness, boldly stating that many others would have done the same.

But many others wouldn't have done the same, and the bold speech at the end, which may win an Oscar, encourages stubborn self-obsessed self-aggrandizement regardless of communal consequence, and it's unclear if McKay is being critical of Cheney's ambition or trying to make it seem as wholesome as pumpkin pie.

He certainly makes his character sympathetic.

Spending more time coddling than criticizing him.

Vox Lux

Brady Corbet's Vox Lux wildly envisions tumultuous reasonability clad in disputatious aggrieved apotheosis facilitating chaotic calm.

Beware what transpires within, for it's a most uninhibited tale, executively brandishing dysfunction, perilously prophesizing unimpaired.

Like all stories, it begins, a school in a small town no less, where a distraught child assaults his classmates and takes many innocent lives.

It's appalling that lawmakers aren't taking measures to prevent such atrocities, especially after so many brave American young adults have appealed for political conviction.

So many years after Bowling for Columbine, these shootings still take place with horrifying regularity.

Mass school shootings or mass shootings of any kind are so obviously not acceptable and arming teachers to stop them is sheer utter madness, total insanity, extreme irresponsibility, just nuts, such events don't simply happen, they're the product of blind mismanagement, and legal steps should have been taken to prevent them many many many years ago.

Celeste (Natalie Portman/Raffey Cassidy) survives the shooting at her school and writes a song to express her grief, a song which capture's a grieving nation's attention, superstardom awaiting thereafter.

But with superstardom comes unexpected pressure, Vox Lux necessitating improvisation as the unanticipated interrogatively fluxes.

How to diplomatically respond?

When even her most humble words provoke sensation?

It's unhinged and perplexing and preposterous and disorienting when you think about it afterwards, Vox Lux's argumentative acrobatics and substance abuse fuelled rhetoric leaving a byzantine trail of grandiose unorthodoxy in their wake, realities so disconnected and otherworldly it's like they orbit the heart of an imperial pulsar, which radiates untethered brilliance partout, and neglects consequence with refrained spry spectacle.

Yet it's so real, the film seems so plausible, so concrete, so distinct, passionately yet prohibitively brought to life by Natalie Portman and Jude Law (The Manager), like a down to earth fairy tale that's as ludicrous as it is homemade, like a supernatural cookie cutter incarnated in mortal shade.

Bafflingly improbable yet so irrefutably sincere, Vox Lux resonates with raw animation as if a misfit god has awoken from eternal slumber, and what a performance she gives in the end, this former child star who's been nurtured by shock and scandal.

Exhilaratingly conjuring.

In visceral artistic balm.

Approach Vox Lux with caution.

Outstanding alternative mind*&%^ cinema.

Madeline's Madeline

Raw inimitable frothing exuberant talent exasperated within deductive convention extemporaneously seething through.

Misunderstandings contraceptively disputing improvised codes maladroitly enfeebling eruptive creative scripture, diminutive tisane steeped in self-doubt ominous reckless outbursts wildly stricken angst.

No rules.

No mentor.

Consuming instinct cognizant of its gravity elementally composing ephemeral truths, the art of reflecting a god's experimental impulses editing in universal flux, objectives unrecognized ceaseless mismatched byproducts tempering environmental exfoliation; arboreal glimpses sowing conscious splash.

Climatology.

Raindrops.

She's phenomenal.

Constant motion excavating incorporeal archaeological feeling clasped in whisked conjecture verifiably asymmetrically drawn.

Random impulse subconsciously sleuthing bare recalcitrants embroiled revealed.

Ethereal alma mater intuitively grasped like love blindly struck with congenital nuisance empiric moisture foam.

Mama lynx still a kit feisty mews mystified matriculating.

Exotic overtures.

Prone discomfort.

Abstruse grammar attuned not specialized boldly stoked constrained gusts briskly pounced moans rosetta.

Obscene exhaustion retail shock.

Peace of mind on stage.

Constituent convalescence.

Emotional infinities planetary permutations feline fluctuation omniscient ceremony.

Bertha dans la zone.

It's like performance anxiety is strictly material as Madeline (Helena Howard) disconcertingly asserts stratos.

Duelling with classification.

Alternatives strictly conceived.

A Room with A View

Sometimes it's important to make decisions when you lack knowledge and comprehension.

Contemplating exponential hypotheticals may only serve to sterilize raw emotions unpredictably cascading themselves as the unexpected taxonomically qualifies spontaneity.

Trying to make sense of them may result in an otherwise splendid evening stifled, presumption and preconception phantasmagorically belittling the experimental as if romance (or science) were something to be categorically disillusioned, prior to making first contact without ever having trusted irresponsibly.

Vacations during which you encounter individuals possessing alternative viewpoints semantically nurtured beyond localized frontiers can have rapturous effects, as they do in James Ivory's A Room with a View, as studious Lucy Honeychurch (Helena Bonham Carter) meets daring George Emerson (Julian Sands) and potentialities previously merely conceptualized suddenly invoke unconsidered epistemic senses.

Practically so.

Even if less emotional interactions are to be found in relationships forthcoming, the memories of those fleeting moments may effervescently characterize the dependably conjugal with adventurous imaginatively epic allegories, narratively liaised in intricate domestic reverie.

Unless the thrilling distraction should appear back home at a point in time before you find yourself wed.

At which point the exotic and the classified bewilderingly synthesize in quizzical exclamatory periodic pulsation, hyperbole nor mischief nor heartache notwithstanding.

An awkwardly crafted deeply moving carefree sober exoneration of wills un/tamed, A Room with a View celebrates the impulsive and the accidental while showcasing traditional lives lived.

Blunt forms of journalistic expression masterfully serenade literary proprieties in conjunction, the amorphous blend innocently concocted consequently thoroughly mystifying the cherished theoretically adversarial methodologies apropos.

Dinner for two.

Tarte aux bleuets à la mode.

An all-star ensemble that wasn't commercially assembled to heart-throbbingly cash-in.

Acting, characters, in/discretion.

Flavour.

Is there an underlying self-deprecating cheeky layer of innocent extravagance lampooned, or was such an aspect ironically mixed-in to mockingly impress the interminably austere?

Something given to suppose.

Indubitably speaking.

Hotel Artemis

High level underground healthcare, malfeasant exclusivity monopolizing bedside manners, a doctor whose son was lost surgically suturing round the clock, strict codes of conduct sustaining improbable decorum with the efficient composure of inoculated propriety, an indispensable service for those who require it, an oasis, a criminal miracle, aliases supplied sanctuary granted, personality condoned within but who's to say what'll happen on the outside, a father and son at odds, expertly timed assassignations, steadfast fraternal devotion, prescribed in/discriminate patience, getaways, gumption, gallantry and gunshot wounds, grotesquely favoured, securely synchronized, playfully humoured, abruptly inundated.

Riots raging in Los Angeles, the result of soulless ambitions to privatize water realized, ubiquitous disorder generating pandemonium, within which even the outlawed superelite feel helpless with nowhere to hide.

Forgotten past misdeeds ravenously salivating.

The drool an elixir.

The drip a commandant.

Escape through delirium manifested in the labyrinthine.

Plain sight stealth.

Unorthodox risk management.

Hotel Artemis has the makings of a cult classic perhaps dependent upon the preferences of a younger generation.

I enjoyed the film and the ways in which it openly orchestrates alternative subterranean postures, its imaginative non-compliance circumnavigating electroshocks, boisterously treading the turbulent mainstream, exuberantly bolting nutty necromance.

But I couldn't help wondering if I would have loved it thirty years ago, or if alternative alternative formats have unconsciously redefined the underground, with the same subtle corporate polish that led to so many unremarkable Johnny Depp films.

Have I simply grown older, or have statistical calculations transformed wild narratives into more family friendly pieces of civil disobedience, a sign of a more hesitant restrained contemporary artistic approach, saturated with widespread perennial job insecurity?

Perhaps the form of the underground films that hit theatres in the 80's have become the contents of similar early twenty-first century films, the form of the latter now representing the content of the former, to reflect how political engagements have changed due to a lack of progressive organization, dating from the unfortunate release of Mortdecai?

That makes more sense.

😌

Beast

A bit lost, torn up, unsure of yourself, bored, appointments still kept, job held down, favourable impressions made, rules followed, suddenly an X-Factor chants out unassumingly, confident and determined to whisk you away, parental disapproval augments the intrigue, raw wild magnetism beckons, rugged unscripted romance unconsciously makes waves, formless indefinite turmoil, voluptuously forbidden.

Imaginative frontiers.

Realistically crushed.

Small town sociology, all nighters and country clubs, stratified daylight reckonings, prohibited ambiguity, tight collars buttoned down, assertive adolescent angst, high fives and pats on the back, phantasmagorically crossed streams, courting conspicuous challenge.

Once thought to be deconstructed.

Not that long ago.

Still are of course, there might even be someone conducting a widespread statistical analysis of global openminded sociopolitical economic constructs right now, more than one person, complementary tributaries crafting poems and plays, cartographies and lexicons, flourishing partout beyond one-dimensional obsessions, where youthful hearts still maturely animate wise non-violent pastures, radiating shifts accrued, soaking up the great beyond.

Just gotta look for it.

Beast contemplates in the intermediary zone, two lovers sticking together regardless of class based prejudices, their path fraught with judgemental blockades, and it still remains unclear if one of them is a vicious murderer.

Jessie Buckley (Moll) delivers a remarkable performance showcasing variable emotions with versatile authentic command. Multiple distinct scenarios enable her talent to luminescently blind, a raw spirit full of self-generated harnessed energy.

Sturdy yet flexible.

Calisthenically driven.

She's bluntly situated with Beast's cold narrative trauma, a member of an well-known family irresistibly drawn to a heartthrob with no name (Johnny Flynn as Pascal), one who doesn't mind the snobbery but won't back down either, a resilient freespirit who's been knocked around, both lovers mistrustful of codes, both reactive when confronting injustice.

Yet one remains level-headed and focuses their rage directly upon the foolish perpetrator in question (civilization), the other, unable to strike back at those who hurt them, takes their pain out randomly upon the world (madness).

A tragic comment on a class based state which gives no quarter to the unestablished.

In this case, however, they must be punished, the first two-thirds of the film unreeling like a profound psychological thriller, the rest descending into typical stereotypes high and low, a surprisingly stark ending, for an otherwise stunning film.

La Bolduc

During tough economic times, a soulful voice emerges, writing hit pop singles like butter on toast, performing with a voice that streams as it schmoozes, transforming birch and bustle into jive and pith and pluck, abreast with no time to think about it, writin' it all down, exhaling rhythm with raw crisp feeling, instinctually creating carefree nimble blooms.

A different time characterized by traditional roles and religious sentiment, the resourceful Mary Travers-Bolduc (Debbie Lynch-White) didn't set out to become a musician.

She stayed home to raise a family while her husband worked, nurturing several children with scant means at her disposal, the strength of their bonds helping them through tough times, love flourishing amidst economic hardship as a result of unnerving trials.

They tried moving to the States, had to get groceries on credit, there wasn't much/any time for rest, and laws prevented women from voting or working.

Yet Mme. Travers-Bolduc suddenly found herself with a huge disposable income after her songs caught fire and she turned into a star.

Her sympathetic producer clarified a loophole which enabled her to hold on to her earnings, and her foolish husband, overcome by his reduced position in their household, and a lack of work, unfortunately turned to drink instead of celebrating their good fortune.

Their example highlights a peculiar feature of religion.

If God is monitoring the world (doubtful), and a woman suddenly finds herself enriched within a patriarchal cultural construction, isn't it God's will that that woman should be enriched, and isn't he or she saying that women should be able to work and support themselves just as reliably as men?

If a patriarchal conception dominates sociopolitical life and derives its authority from earthly conceptions of God, when a woman is successful within such a system isn't God trying to say that there's something wrong with strict patriarchal religious conceptions?

Does God's will only apply to men?

Rubbish.

Québec isn't like that anymore, and its current composition functions as an example for jurisdictions looking to redefine themselves after periods of restrictive patriarchal obsessions.

Mary Travers represents a strong female voice excelling within a male dominated society, even if she succumbed later in life to the logic she had been bombarded with since birth, and prevented her talented daughter (Laurence Deschênes and Rose-Marie Perreault as Denise Bolduc) from following her dreams.

After having experienced massive head trauma.