Spiderhead

The pursuit of manufactured obedience follows the pharmaceutical path, as Spiderhead's solo unattached dismal warden despotically pursues reckless inactivity. 

Unsupervised with serious responsibility he develops several potential new drugs, and tests them on his prison's inmates every decision he makes of his own free will.

Fret not concerned enthused viewer, he wants to keep things friendly and fun, and even strikes up acquaintances with his test subjects while becoming addicted to the drugs himself.

They're far off so far away inimically isolated from spirited criticism, idyllic mad spontaneous digressions only provocatively questioned by one rogue assistant. 

Seeking to make billions on joy and happiness not to mention free form conversation, he still can't dishonour discreet somnambulism with soporific sequestered sedulity. 

Problem: to make sure the obedience drug works he needs to challenge ethical parameters, and see if people will do horrifying things simply because they've been recommended.

Thus, he convinces a test subject to administer his "paranoia" drug to another, but "paranoia" isn't really the right word, it rather encourages excessive terror. 

The subject's driven to suicide after the dose is accidentally augmented. 

But genuine guilt indeed manifests.

With the mass megalomania in jeopardy. 

Here we go again with the pursuit of hegemony unilaterally applied, attempting to accomplish sadistic ends to alarmingly overwhelm free choice and expression.

Odd how so many people spend so much time consuming arts and entertainment, while also cutting down creative synergies, the 1970s and David Bowie were miracles.

The irony let loose in Spiderhead is that independence itself seeks mindless automatons, who'll listen and follow the guidance of whomever no matter what the proactive cost.

Like the dreamy demagogue preaching equality who locks everything down after the revolution, Abnesti proceeds to definitively ensure no one else like him will ever co-exist. 

As others have likely suggested, is it not better to mal/adroitly attune, independent instincts to constructive endeavours to promote diversity and innovation?

Without such inherent expression does decay not metastasize with fetid impersonality, and prevent the development of sundry alternatives from multivariably delineating enchanted metamorphosis? 

Never stop writing poems just because you're convinced someone else is better. 

Keep writing absurdity ad infinitum. 

Who cares if no one else is interested?

Stillwater

A father whose tumultuous routine led to an awkward relationship with his struggling family (Matt Damon as William), is consumed with obsessive guilt several years later when his daughter's arrested (Abigail Breslin as Allison). 

She's found guilty of resonant murder and sent to prison near the coast of Marseille, her father visiting her there when he can, the flights expensive, work hard to find.

She emphatically proclaims her innocence and on his most recent visit reveals a clue, which gives him reemergent hope as he soon tries to get her case reopened. 

Obdurately blocked however by pressing realities within the law, he buckles-down and radically adjudicates by trying to find the suspect himself.

Problems: he doesn't speak French and is oblivious to local custom, he's also spent most of his life in the rural American mid-west and is generally uncertain as to how to proceed.

Moving forward nevertheless fate soon secures a definitive lead, and provides shelter and cultural refinement not to mention employment and domestic salvation. 

But to find the irascible murderer he may have to pay too high a price.

Caught between cultures and families. 

He instinctually reacts with western-style gusto. 

Expediently extemporary the ethical dilemmas contract and metastasize, no easy answers no glib illumination as a hard-boiled family deals with its own.

As newfound chances wholesomely radiate and enlivened parenthood intricately seasons, bad decisions still surreally occupy a bitter frustrated entombed consciousness. 

He's willing to risk everything he's gained on an assuréd probability which crosses the streams, if things work out, tout va bien toujours, if they fall apart, it's worse than worst case.

Not only that, it soon becomes apparent that his daughter's innocence is not that clear-cut, and that the investigation held in accordance may not have been led quite so far astray.

I wouldn't have taken such a risk new life's far too precious for improvised risk management, it does bring about the sought after ends, but they could have been achieved through less threatening means. 

In terms of a neo-western-film-noir mind*^*& Tom McCarthy's Stillwater internationally succeeds nonetheless.

Nothing quite like amoral gristle.

Destitute detritus.

Mid-winter mayhem. 

Creed III

Adonis Creed's (Michael B. Jordan) life moves on as he embraces family and responsibility, playing a more active managerial role after having given up professional fighting.

Things progress reasonably well on the home front and his marriage seems quite the success, his daughter needing his help however, as she fights back against bullies at school (Mila Davis-Kent). 

As life illustriously floats by an old close friend who went to prison is released, and comes a' callin' one adventurous morn to see how his old reliable chum is doing.

They went to a group home together and one fateful night all hell broke loose, and Majors (Damian Anderson) wound up with a lengthy prison sentence and lost his chance at becoming a heavy-weight champion.

He wants that chance again but doesn't want to wait for several more years, joining the circuit and punching his way up, he wants to become champ freakin' asap.

Unfortunately, this means the utilization of wicked aggressive unorthodox means, which may lead to a shot at the title, but lose the respect of his friend.

Adonis feels reasonably guilty and frustrated by what happened so many years ago.

But has to accept contemporary realities. 

And step back in the coveted ring.

I thought the new Creed film was solid and was impressed with Michael B. Jordan's directing, honestly sometimes when actors direct things go haywire, but that's not the case with Creed III.

It didn't seriously impress like Rocky Balboa which was such an incredible surprise sequel, but it's still a cool thrilling new movie that takes a thoughtful look at fame, fortune and family.

Jordan and Tessa Thompson really stand out at times as they discuss hard-hitting issues, I thought they had some memorable scenes which artistically enhanced deep meaningful strata.

I thought the added tension Creed has to face by confronting himself within the film, added a psychological dimension that was much more profound than just fighting the bad guy.

Majors has taken on underhanded means but Creed still feels responsible for his modus operandi, and sincerely cares about his old friend even though he has to fight him.

Majors takes on the Rocky/underdog role as well which re-establishes a familiar storyline.

They clearly just didn't want to make another sequel.

They thought this one through.

The hard work paid off.    

Le vent souffle où il veut (A Man Escaped)

A French resistance fighter is woefully captured during World War II, and sent to a brutal prison from which escape is notoriously challenging.

Not one to give up hope he correspondingly applies himself nevertheless, and goes about acquiring tools to help him furtively break free.

The rules within are rather strict so conversation remains quite limited, but he's still able to learn requisite facts from his locked down brethren through stealth and cunning.

Warnings abound regarding improbabilities and potential stool pigeons messing things up, most residents resigned to their fate yet still encouraged by the lieutenant's (François Leterrier) bravery.

His neighbour timorously worries that his escape plans will be detected, and the entire block punished for such ambitions, his fears brought upon by age.

Another prisoner attempts to escape but is unfortunately caught while attempting to do so, his maladroit efforts still supplying the officer with helpful intel regarding necessities.

There are still Nazis to fight and France needs him to secure liberation.

He continues to gradually progress.

Increasing his speed, when he's sentenced to death.

Patiently awaiting the miraculous day when he constructively frees himself from his prison, director Robert Bresson slowly builds up the tension as he meticulously choreographs each struggle.

The palpable concrete uncertainty drives the resonating raw desperation, as hope and logic still efficiently marshal remarkably high spirits considering the circumstances.

The painstaking steps the laborious plan effectively contravenes instantaneous postures, while the cold calculating inhuman pressures chaotically motivate exacting rigour.

Mixed with brief candid exchanges lies irrepressible undaunted light, resplendently illuminating inherent audacity through exoteric recourse to fathomless plight.

Attempts are made to rob prisoners of war of any desire to do anything but, simply follow a severe routine absolutely obscuring identity and purpose.

But the enlivening knowledge of the pervasive injustice recalibrates ethical strides and intuitively guides them.

A prison break film which follows a plan and authentically labours from dusk 'til dawn.

Memorable scenes clandestinely crafted.

Distinct deliberation.

Ecstatic pause.  

Modern Times

Charlie Chaplin films were often on television when I was very young, and they were just as entertaining then as they are this thoughtful day.

What an incredible entertainer who pioneered chill agile filmmaking, with innate atemporal intergenerational verve, he just set about tellin' cool stories, with remarkably awkward elasticity. 

Even though it's brilliantly evident that every nanosecond's been cleverly crafted, there's still an inherent nonchalance to his films, to Modern Times and ________ anyways, that makes them seem like real-time documentaries.

With saintly esteemed modesty he maladroitly maneuvers, without animosity or presumption with distilled existential innocence.

A character who tries but never fits in but still never loses that integral curiosity, always hoping to smoothly interact while humorously making a constructive haphazard mess of it.

It's like that when you don't fully understand how people generally coordinate their activities, and one mysterious circumstance after another inquisitively materializes offbeat caricatures. 

The golden rule doesn't seem to apply much anymore if it ever did who knows to be certain, rather irate misinterpretation and erroneous fabrication seem to often hinder communal progression.

Wasn't there a time not so long ago when meaningfully constructed well-reasoned arguments, were more politically and socioculturally appealing than fear-mongering and divisive posturing?

Aren't logic and reason internationally applied more communally applicable to environmental dilemmas, since pollution knows no specific geographic border and pestiferously pesters partout willy-nilly? 

It's like the world's trying to resoundingly change and has thoroughly announced widespread conducive reckoning, but rather than take the impetus of such healthy initiatives, the electoral map is redrawn and voting rights rescinded. 

If political parties can't effectively convince citizens to follow a specific course of action, and stubbornly refuse to adjust that course of action, and then try to prevent people from accessing their democratic voting rights to achieve victory, shouldn't they universally rethink how they act and and what they stand for, to actually become appealing, not just frightening, with less polemical leadership?

It's been utterly mind-blowing to see how stubborn politics have become in modern times. 

Stereotypically dishevelling. 

Ubiquitously volatile. 

Get Santa

Santa's travels have led him on many a wild-eyed adventurous path, perhaps none so ritualistically disastrous as that trod in the feisty Get Santa.

Within, after accidentally encountering a grounding immobilized malignant encumbrance, he finds himself struggling to locate his cherished reindeer who have erratically dispersed throughout byzantine London.

He seeks to enlist the aid of a troubled soul just released from prison, but his bewildering roundabout strategy sees him scandalously incarcerated instead.

Unaccustomed to prison life, he awkwardly attempts to be disconcerting, but his natural magnanimous innocence ethereally precludes any bellicose mischief.

Meanwhile, the ex-con on parole (Rafe Spall) must help the legend escape, and with the aid and encouragement of his loving son (Kit Connor as Tom), sets about trying to zero-in on the flatulent beasties.

It's a rather complicated procedure considering the number of laws they must violate, on his first day of parole no less, the authorities unsympathetic and unamused.

And just as they reach fabled Elf City and find a new sleigh to break Santa loose, he's suddenly placed back in his cell, and must prepare to be transferred to another prison.

How could such a sociocultural imbalance lead to so distressing an incongruity, as one globally revered for earnest generosity can't enchantingly negotiate spiritual quarter?

As if during that grouchy year the Christmas spirit plunged to unprecedented depths, leaving the habitually wondrous and animately endowed with little recourse for upbeat revelling.

Get Santa captures the inherent disillusionment with woebegone unimpressed adamant criticism, while mischievously celebrating improvised conjuring along with lithe constitutional forgiveness.

In terms of its comedic vocation, the grizzly gaseous go-daddy gallows, maddeningly matriculate maladroit mayhem, with a classic salute to prognostic defiance. 

Seriously, it makes it seem like Santa (Jim Broadbent) has no chance of escape whatsoever, and lays the impossibility on super thick, while still engaging in traditional shenanigans. 

I immediately spotted the Michael Corleone pastiche and thought perhaps it was somewhat ill-suited to the season (the actual scene hails intense violence and heralds the emergence of an intelligent yet ruthless survivalist), but how can I not be forgiving at times such as these, especially when Get Santa fits so well with the '90s.

Classic goodwill and exceptional endeavours oddly uphold this offbeat Christmas romp.

As convincingly touching as many Christmas classics.

High stakes hi-jinx, convivial distaste. 

Tango & Cash

Two exceptional cops pursuing justice in L.A, the press following their daring exploits, local ne'er do wells unimpressed.

They usually get-'er-done without relying on standard procedure, their results curtailing grand transgressions, their methods critiqued with aggrieved resolve.

They wind up causing so much commotion that they're targeted with cunning foresight, a crime boss thinking it foolish to murder them, preferring to see them locked up instead.

Tango (Sylvester Stallone) is prim and polished if not somewhat bold and reckless, employing formal codes of conduct in both random discussions and choice of attire.

Cash (Kurt Russell) pursues law and order with more passionate critical zeal, unconcerned with upper crust etiquette while expressing himself with enthused vitriol.

A disputatious team polemically and audaciously emerges, as they're both sent to a rowdy prison where they've crossed paths with many an inmate.

Unfortunately for them, the prison guards and much of the administration have been bought by the very same adversary, who was responsible for framing them beforehand, and even stops by to see them electrocuted (Jack Palance as Yves Perret).

Their only chance is escape back at it within the world at large. 

The force reluctant to rearrest them.

At least for 48 hours.

Stallone and Russell actively deliver a fast paced energetic vortex, like a hyperreactive embargo fluidly reverberating high stakes stasis.

From the way it's presented you'd think it's as lucid as hands-on practical exoteric reckoning, if something crazy didn't happen every five minutes to keep the wild plot counterpoising on.

Indeed I wondered if they were characters from a comic book I'd never heard of at times, the entertaining over-the-top scenarios innately fantastic phenomenonally spawned.

If it had been made in the 21st century it likely would have had multiple sequels, it's hard to imagine they didn't make another one, but it was released before the internet and Netflix.

Perhaps that's for the best since it does go way too far, in terms of cowboy cops using brazen violence to achieve jurisprudent ends.

At times anti-immigrant sentiment also bursts forth, and rehabilitative prison goals are directly scrutinized.

I'm afraid I'll have to argue that this one's too prone to discipline and punishment, take a couple of lines out and it's much improved, too sensational for its feigned reasonability.

Daring cop drama tainted by excessive force, lockdowns, and xenophobia, still cool to see Russell and Stallone at odds, they've made many chill films, this one's just too outrageous.