Napszállta (Sunset)

Dreamlike exploration observing radical tradition, patient determined movements discovering reticent clues, modest celebrity cultivating passage instinctual grace establishing ties, temperate precipitation intuitively encompassed, like Napszállta (Sunset)'s surreal backgammon, and curious Írisz Leiter (Juli Jakab) keeps rolling double sixes.

She would have been an heir to the Austro-Hungarian Empire's most prestigious millinery shop if grand misfortune hadn't necessitated alternative fortunes.

The new owner still supplies elegant hats to fashionable royals, and one of his resident artists will perhaps serve at court one day.

But it's not that simple, not quite so clear cut, so homely.

It's a different time, just before the outbreak of World War I, and the aristocracy and the people are expressing themselves confrontationally, neither group willing to accept the other's terms, destructive conflicts having arisen consequently.

The film and myriad other sources truthfully suggest the upper crust was none too kind to its workers of the day, and the people had no means to hold them to account.

Írisz's brother, in hiding and displeased with the corruption, has abandoned peaceful methods of persuasion; she's caught between his anger and the traditions of her artistic heritage.

She's just moved to Budapest and doesn't understand what's happening, wandering somnambulistically between the two parties, accessing highly secretive and exclusive realms without censure, maladroitly assured that peace is ecumenical.

Even though her family was well thought of, and her name is widely known and respected, it's still quite improbable that she would be able to proceed so freely, to go wherever she wants at whatever time.

Thus the dreamlike qualities of the narrative, the intense nightmarish revelations accentuated by obsessive close-ups.

Napszállta's more like grim realistic fantasy than lively magical realism, its chaotic combative testaments composed in dismal haunting fairy tale.

Mátyás Erdély's cinematography creates sombre phantasmagorical confusion that asymptotically incarnates horror, thereby reflecting the terrifying nature of the times, wherein which nothing seems concrete or stable.

But it's still loosely grounded inasmuch as you know where you are and what's transpiring, or at least know as much as Írisz, who knows close to nothing at all.

The total absence of concerned mediators intensifies the conscious anarchy, as does the lack of conversation or explanation, as if a child's on its own for the first time, lost and leading in Twin Peaks's Black Lodge.

Napszállta's bewildered sincerity magnetically draws you in, substituting nausea for lucidity with morose desperate conjecture.

The effect is nauseating at times so it's difficult to take the whole way through, but that doesn't mean its aesthetic isn't uniform, nor its ambivalence, inarticulate.

Bold filmmaking.

Grizzly style.

Alone in Berlin

A husband and wife, conscientious citizens who watched in silent horror as their culture madly lit jingoistic imperialist flames, once more, as their neighbours and compatriots became communally intoxicated with the blind xenophobic ambition of institutionalized megalomania (Trump?), politically isolated yet industrially integrated, morosely aware of the overwhelming tyrannical dogmas that have consumed their beloved Germany, quietly protest by writing critiques of Hitler's government on postcards and leaving them in public places throughout Nazi Berlin, their messages blunt and to the point, boldly castigating a movement that reduced their country to ash.

Long past the age when passionate inexperience habitually motivates romantic rebellious protest, for those lacking inexhaustible wealth, their logical engagement soberly revitalizes their youthful commitment, tenderly captured by director Vincent Perez with tender aged compassion.

A civil bureaucracy (a police force) believing it can independently operate outside Nazi jurisdiction is assigned their case, the intelligent objective inspector soon castrated by totalitarianism.

Individualized governments require general violence to rule.

General violence inherently encourages revolution.

Until such a time as cooler heads prevail.

And different cultures forge diverse unions.

Alone in Berlin modestly visualizes proactive labour in action, as it takes social democratic steps to subvert authoritarian cruelty, using intellect to promote sustainable security as opposed to sensationalized sanity (fascist psychiatry), capturing active conjugal middle-aged bliss meanwhile, as well as constabulary sympathy and inspired materialism.

If that scene didn't break your heart you've stiffened your lip too rigidly.

I wonder if the film would have been stronger if other protestors from Berlin had played secondary roles, the Quangels (Emma Thompson and Brendan Gleeson) still isolated but part of a bigger picture?

It's a very patient film that excels at slowly and soberly building tension and character (note how the wedded dialogue becomes lengthier as the film unreels), however, in order to reflect realistic independent engagement, a simplified upright form harmoniously working with diverse mature content, lessening its multilateral impact to focus its robust character.

Too many distractions may have spoiled it.

Light yet hard and penetrating, it humbly captures aspects of resistance that many more complicated narratives fail to realize.

Sincere.

Guibord s'en va-t-en guerre

It comes down to one man, his independence in jeopardy, democracy in motion, the deciding vote, will Canada or will Canada not go to war?, the Conservatives pro, the Liberals contra, local economic interests seeing opportunities both lush and lucrative, employment, outsiders, vehemently upholding ethical curricula, the pressure intensifying, he seems unconcerned.

Steve Guibord (Patrick Huard) that is, independent MP for a federal riding in Northern Québec, suddenly thrust into the limelight, suddenly given supreme authority.

It's a lighthearted comedy, Guibord s'en va-t-en guerre, heartwarmingly dealing with extraordinarily complex political issues with down home country charm, issues such as Aboriginal Rights, workers rights, big d Democracy, intergovernmental relations, ethical reporting, international sensations, war, and protesting, to name a few.

Haitian born Souverain (Irdens Exantus) endearingly humanizes these factors in an erudite salute to political philosophy.

Seriously contrasting Ego Trip's Sammy.

Obviously many of these issues are quite touchy, and they're momentarily resolved somewhat achingly, but the film does skilfully keep things local, perhaps accidentally addressing predetermined criticisms, by remaining blissfully aware.

Politically aware.

The geopolitics of the proposed war aren't really discussed, the in-depth analysis of war's impact out maneuvered by the prospects of economic growth, unfairly depicted protesters from Winnipeg failing to outwit, until Guibord's daughter's (Clémence Dufresne-Deslières as Lune) frustrated pleas begin to register.

I do find that many people I know are politically aware, but politics is a multidimensional continuum, especially in Québec where the dynamic is much more intense, and when you have a plethora of parties each advocating to specifically yet generally define political awareness, the concept sort of dematerializes, even if it's highly abstract to begin with.

Focus. Remain focused.

It's not that you can't expect an awareness of geopolitical agitations to be found in the North, but you can expect such realities to hold less weight than putting food on the table, on occasion, especially if a mine closes, government subsidies dry up, or tensions increase due to conflicting resource management agendas.

Guibord recognizes this, and playfully uses it to its advantage.

It's not just like that in the North.

But apart from its schmaltzy meandering, I really loved watching Guibord, being a part of the audience.

I didn't get some of the jokes, and didn't really like it, but, and the same thing happened while I was watching Ego Trip, the audience loved it and did get the jokes, and from their friendly laughter I found proof, more proof, that Québec really does have its own vibrant film industry, where citizens do really take their home-on-the-range domestic films seriously, a living breathing cultural conviviality, something that's missing from English Canada.

I haven't said that for years.

Did the Liberal party fund this film behind the scenes?

Questions.

*Who came up with the English title? Lame.

Cosmopolis

A brilliant young billionaire, having maintained his fortune by grammatically applying the mathematical rhythms of nature to the metaphorical constructs of his social interactions, something like that, philosophically travels throughout New York in his cork-lined limo, calmly discussing various subjects with his astute personnel, occasionally stopping to chat with his literary wife, protests pulsating outside, historical echoes allusively gyrating, definitive risks annihilating his wealth, the pursuit of pleasure conjugally detected, security forces requiring guidance, meaning, substantially, trying to break its way through.

On his way to have his hair cut.

Operating within a conscious surrealistic intellectual structure spatially adorned with sudden startlingly ephemeral enactments (momentary dreamlike logical displacements), wherein questions of tangibility become remarkably fluid before alternatively reverting to their previous states, David Cronenberg's Cosmopolis examines an individual's steady response to a shockingly increasing barrage of multilayered financial, cultural, and, derivatively, psychological derailments, whose consequent disruptions cannot be experientially sublimated.

Mr. Packer's (Robert Pattinson) unaffected emancipated solution attaches a horrific qualification to the concept of freedom.

Even when Cronenberg zeroes in on the cerebral, he can still find other ways of exemplifying his roots.