Notting Hill

Relaxed and calm a modest income something to do throughout the day, friends and family puttering close by refined chillaxed communal orchestration.

An amazing guy so easygoing so generally tolerant of diverse personality, capable of providing well-reasoned advice or simply listening with enthused sympathy.

No partner to speak of unfortunately his passivity perhaps sounding alarms, elaborate dreaming jocose imagination unaccustomed to the practical life.

But Notting Hill isn't actively critical of well-meaning culture and sublime compassion, William Thacker (Hugh Grant) isn't hiding a body in his basement nor is he consumed by some monstrous fetish.

In fact he's a genuine nice guy inhabiting a world that doesn't find this frightening, such an odd state of mature affairs wherein which the lighthearted aren't considered maniacal. 

How it goes at times, however, look for the signs, be prepared to move on, and if time passes and the familiar patterns don't reemerge, you know you've found something solid, durable.

William is surprised one afternoon when a startling lass takes a shine to his bookshop, they find themselves out on what is known as a date, and even seem to be enjoying each other's company (Julia Roberts as Anna Scott).

But she's a film star, a rather famous one at that, who's managed to avoid the paparazzi in London, as they amicably mosey throughout Notting Hill congenially disposed to romantic endeavours. 

Nevertheless, after Mr. Thacker's less discreet flatmate (Rhys Ifans as Spike) discovers _______ happens to be spending the night, he has something to discuss at the pub and the press come hounding the very next morn.

Uncertain as to why they've appeared Anna instinctually senses ambitious wrongdoing.

She's also rather shocked and embarrassed. 

World's collide, what can he do?

It's a light thought provoking illustration of convivial paradigmatic in/compatibility, practical realities spoiling the fun while patiently building rapports unprecedented. 

So long since I've seen Julia Roberts laugh universally celebrating something quirky (prefer it to Streep or Hepburn).

I loved Hugh Grant's line, "this is a very strange reality to be faced with".

The classic Anglo/American synthesis. 

Such interrelations are underexplored. 

My Cousin Rachel

A loyal adopted son, filled with impotent rage, blindly seeks closure concerning his father's sudden death as it relates to a mysterious relationship beguiled in the Italian countryside, forged with an enigmatic English belle, who had the strength to seduce proud misogyny.

He sets out seeking justice, never having had much interest in women either, but soon finds himself enraptured with the sought after murderess, his presumption quickly fading as her charms mellifluously sway, his fortune soon levitating at her disposal, all-encompassing infatuation contending with more worldly criticisms, is she friend or foe?, matron, or dominatrix?

Beyond classification.

Contraceptive indigo.

My Cousin Rachel commences soundly.

Its sophisticated introduction to character, historical period, familial severance, and exotic cataclysm, gingerly yet coercively narrated with bitter incisive pause, led me to think I had stumbled upon something otherworldly, something radiant, something timeless.

It's not that the rest of the film isn't worth watching, it is, but My Cousin Rachel's first 25 minutes or so lour you in with a compelling cinematic elegance that rarely showcases its distinct eloquent reticence.

There are no answers, no solutions, no conclusions, it's strict theory, strict conjecture, a mystery lacking a brilliant sleuth, wherein which contingencies construct discombobulating distractions that harrowingly question what has indeed come to pass, a man who knows nothing about women obsessed with a woman who knows everything about men, who's intent on achieving independence from stiflingly patriarchal codes of conduct, without ever asking for anything, or seeming as if she desires six pence.

Was Rachel (Rachel Weisz) the hapless generous victim of sexist preconceptions themselves incapable of trusting anything a woman says after having fallen in love, thereby sacrificing their former unconscious unilateral independence, their control, as a consequence, and winding up mad, or was she indubitably trying to poison both father and son in order to access their vast unencumbered fortune?

Can free unattached wealthy male loners ever listen to anything overtly uttered by their curious brilliant feminine correspondants without suspecting conspiracy and treachery, the magnitude of the duplicitous betrayal slowly intensifying as the bond between them grows tighter and tighter?

How would a brilliant woman without a fortune who seeks control over her own affairs ever achieve financial and personal independence without comment in a society dominated by men?

Would both characters have lived pleasant lives if homosexuality hadn't been culturally abhorred?

Sometimes narration works, sometimes it doesn't.

The narration was working in My Cousin Rachel, and I wished it had played a more prominent role throughout the majority of the film.