Trainwreck

Trainwreck provides an unconcerned look at players coming off the bench, of accompaniments, of value-added information.

The overt narrative kept losing me.

But throughout the film there are a remarkable number of scenes that suddenly pop-up and add unpretentious inappropriate callous cheeky depth, again and again, scenes which break through the tedium and nonchalantly confide, like writer Amy Schumer was aware that one component of a bipartisan entity (a relationship) sometimes finds romantic comedies unfulfilling, and cleverly came up with ways to keep them playfully amused.

Excalibur.

Enter LeBron James, who I thought performed well enough, commenting on this and that while exercising a pleasantly absurd frugality.

Brainstorming ideas for new articles at the office offers brief insights into minimalistic discourses of the hilarious.

Check out Daniel Radcliffe and Marisa Tomei.

Dianna's (Tilda Swinton) blunt obstinance proves fertile, like an egg pickled in stolichnaya.

And it's like these subtle snarky distractions are slowly building to a fever pitch, in the form of a well-played quasi-intervention, Matthew Broderick, LeBron, Chris Evert, and Marv Albert sitting in, expressing their interest while coveting the genuine, unexpected and well executed, a welcome late inning strike.

Reminiscent of Rance Mulliniks.

Asteroids.

Inherent Vice

Blistering pronounced enigmatic athleticism, neat and tidy obscurity, a question asked, a question, answered, competing forms of non-traditional rationalities searching for clues within a down and dirty faceless salute to comic cerebral lechery, with role playing, familiarity, pop-ups, explanations, free form investigative hallucinogenic heartache, golden plunders, an error, bows and arrows, cameolot, freewheeling receptive improvised incognitos, purpose, demand, facts and fictions fused to fornicate, to love, the ether, groundless fluctuating intuitive forward motion, possessed, indecisive, a partnership, sympathy, acquiring a foothold, intransigent brawn, a narrator's clarifications, grinding and gone.

Far gone.

It seems that America's great directors must now hear the call of the The Big Lebowski's pastiche of The Big Sleep to make misguided judgment hedonistically live again.

Insert pot smoke into the underground world of high-stakes narcotic reality.

Remain calm.

React.

It's more about potential and theory, ideas, than plot, although the plot is astounding.

Difficult to say if the events depicted are actually taking place or simply expiring in an exposed hemorrhaged zig-zagged amphetamine.

I didn't see any evidence for this however.

The cast reminded me of that which you often find in feel good comedies, Eric Roberts (Michael Z. Wolfmann) filling in for Sam J. Jones or Billy Idol.

Martin Short's (Dr. Rudy Blatnoyd, D.D.S.) still got it.

I'm buying some absinthe.