Extreme deception bluntly orchestrating maddeningly corrupt initiatives, coldly addressing severe characteristics with the flippant admiration of vanity in bloom.
Emaciated modus operandi, secretively adjusted objectives, flirtatiously plummeting pirouettes, applauding emotionless utilitarianism.
Innate degeneracy opulently upholding volatile foundations meticulously irradiated.
Occupational hazards phantasmagorically posturing with the resigned duplicitous elegance of nouveau riche ostentation, spread so delicately thin that one's senses aspirationally swoon with treacherous wonder.
Dissimulated.
Prevaricated.
If you can figure out what lies beneath a question's seeming innocuous simplicity as it's delivered with clumsy sincerity by someone who has no respect for you, it's easy to lie and give them the answer they expect to hear, the poorly concealed sarcastic nuances of their tone having betrayed their vicious intentions, their misguided readymade conclusion (along with what they intend to do with it), and after providing the answer for which they search which is easy enough to detect, you'll hopefully never hear from them again, calico.
Red Sparrow.
Wherein incomparable poise is wounded then theoretically transformed into a solicitous unimaginative reflection exalting spirited disillusion, commandeered to effortlessly seduce while never questioning executive artifice.
She does seduce effortlessly and you wonder how an undercover operative could have let his guard down so obliviously, but it does save time in a film that's already considerably lengthy.
For good reason.
It patiently follows resourceful Dominika Egorova (Jennifer Lawrence) from career ending catastrophe to harrowing rebirth, accentuating her helplessness piecemeal before considering an alternative only awkwardly presented hitherto, thus enabling multidimensional character development within the strictest confines.
Pigs at the trough beware, Egorova is comin' to get 'cha.
The Americans are generally presented as trustworthy agents while the Russians betray their government with cause, a comment on the price of bearing petty grudges, one disloyal American voraciously bisecting the cultural stereotypes.
Not as intricate as some spy films, but Lawrence's stark brutal portrayal of a coerced fledgling homegrown psychopath still brazenly holding on to her innocence, as accompanied by a feisty Nate Nash (Joel Edgerton), a reserved General Korchnoi (Jeremy Irons), and a fierce Matron (Charlotte Rampling), situated within a clever direct script whose subject matter is uncannily relevant if Icarus and Russia's other international relations woes are interwoven, still helps Red Sparrow stand out, the groundwork for an outstanding sequel having been provocatively laid.
Perfect February release.
Mind-bogglingly coincidental.
Showing posts with label Seduction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Seduction. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 3, 2018
Friday, May 15, 2015
Ex Machina
Secluded conscious regalia, decrypted, impounded, coming into being, a prison designed to shelter and educate, to analyze, upgrade, the introduction of an independent perishable, ethical, unfamiliar, clever, to administer a test, to discover life incarnate, artfully manipulated by both subject and architect, forced to come to a conclusion, to discover where the truth resides.
Ava (Alicia Vikander) seeks to escape.
Her creator conceals both lock and key.
It's like he's an incorrigible misogynist, intent on designing a beautiful female companion intelligent enough to converse with yet still subservient to his every command.
He creates model after model in search of perfection, but finds a lack of free will too boring, and too much despicable.
Like the seducer who moves from conquest to conquest, when his interest fades, he falls for another, searching for the one, who chooses to freely serve.
An idealist.
A scoundrel.
His genius has nurtured thoughts of divinity which his unwitting protégé finds distasteful.
Thoroughly seduced.
He boldly acts.
Ex Machina philosophically examines artificial intelligence and cyberconsciousness while blending instinct and abstraction to harvest a technological state of nature.
It forges a strong balance between the basic and the exceptional, like advanced computational ergonomics, interweaving narcissism and psychosis, to hauntingly contemporize freedom.
Why treat a brilliant companion like a pet?
Love involves sacrifice, to commit one must let go.
Pygmalion pouncing in the darkness.
Candide suffering the blows.
It should have ended with Caleb (Domhnall Gleeson) pounding on the glass.
Ava (Alicia Vikander) seeks to escape.
Her creator conceals both lock and key.
It's like he's an incorrigible misogynist, intent on designing a beautiful female companion intelligent enough to converse with yet still subservient to his every command.
He creates model after model in search of perfection, but finds a lack of free will too boring, and too much despicable.
Like the seducer who moves from conquest to conquest, when his interest fades, he falls for another, searching for the one, who chooses to freely serve.
An idealist.
A scoundrel.
His genius has nurtured thoughts of divinity which his unwitting protégé finds distasteful.
Thoroughly seduced.
He boldly acts.
Ex Machina philosophically examines artificial intelligence and cyberconsciousness while blending instinct and abstraction to harvest a technological state of nature.
It forges a strong balance between the basic and the exceptional, like advanced computational ergonomics, interweaving narcissism and psychosis, to hauntingly contemporize freedom.
Why treat a brilliant companion like a pet?
Love involves sacrifice, to commit one must let go.
Pygmalion pouncing in the darkness.
Candide suffering the blows.
It should have ended with Caleb (Domhnall Gleeson) pounding on the glass.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
La Vénus à la fourrure (Venus in Fur)
Ceremoniously shifting from breaking wave to breaking wave, cast adrift to buoyantly submerge, the surf submissively dominating, an exacting cyclical shock, one young playwright, fascinated by insubordination, jostling the erotically profane, is interrupted, is, slowly, commodified, undeniably secure in his misplacements, subdued emphatic gusts, assured of their tidal pertinence, to enact the derailment of triumph.
On its own terms.
Ambiguity/ambivalence beguilingly solemnizes the dialectic, the exchange, a protracted piecemeal purge, sensuously persuasive, overpoweringly contained.
As the page turns.
A reading.
Precision.
Opportunity.
Mesmerizing mythical lambasted seduction generously vouchsafes its domineering obsequiousness, in Roman Polanski's crippling La Vénus à la fourrure (Venus in Furs), existentialism be damned, fiesta.
My favourite filmic adaptation of a play with a small cast and minimal setting is Sidney Lumet's Long Day's Journey into Night, but La Vénus à la fourrure now firmly occupies second place in my thoughts, due to Emmanuelle Seigner and Mathieu Amalric's powerful performances.
Opulently humble.
The ending was a surprise since it makes a definitive suggestion, although ambiguity remains, only a vestige however.
I would have faded with him tied to the cactus.
There must have been passionate arguments here.
Perhaps the definitive suggestion makes for a stronger ending.
I admit to being a sucker for critical controversy.
Not that there isn't plenty of critical controversy in the film.
You could argue that it's about the aesthetics of critical controversies themselves.
The whole night through.
On its own terms.
Ambiguity/ambivalence beguilingly solemnizes the dialectic, the exchange, a protracted piecemeal purge, sensuously persuasive, overpoweringly contained.
As the page turns.
A reading.
Precision.
Opportunity.
Mesmerizing mythical lambasted seduction generously vouchsafes its domineering obsequiousness, in Roman Polanski's crippling La Vénus à la fourrure (Venus in Furs), existentialism be damned, fiesta.
My favourite filmic adaptation of a play with a small cast and minimal setting is Sidney Lumet's Long Day's Journey into Night, but La Vénus à la fourrure now firmly occupies second place in my thoughts, due to Emmanuelle Seigner and Mathieu Amalric's powerful performances.
Opulently humble.
The ending was a surprise since it makes a definitive suggestion, although ambiguity remains, only a vestige however.
I would have faded with him tied to the cactus.
There must have been passionate arguments here.
Perhaps the definitive suggestion makes for a stronger ending.
I admit to being a sucker for critical controversy.
Not that there isn't plenty of critical controversy in the film.
You could argue that it's about the aesthetics of critical controversies themselves.
The whole night through.
Friday, June 6, 2014
Under the Skin
A complacent harvest of unsuspecting trust, seduced, submerged, packaged, preserved in an hallowed solution, embryonic bliss, conscious of the terror, mesmerizing intake, dangling, merged, afloat, neither here nor there, masqueraded glacial transience, luminescent molecules, directions, paste, a ride, seraphic insulation, enraptured salutation, like a liquified libidinal glaze, slowly processed, then drained.
This film really does get under your skin.
It's patiently moving along, odd and peculiar yet generally non-threatening, light creepy apathetic bursts, then suddenly the horror, no build-up, no preparation, just there on a beach, one after the other, cold heartless calculated observation, purpose and intent, its goal indisputable.
And the next scene just follows, back at it, more of the same, manufacturing a costume, objective, driven.
But a fog descends and the comfort zone vanishes.
Curiosity's necessitated by the conditions.
Habituated disbelief.
A monster.
Jonathan Glazer's Under the Skin isn't like typical horror/sci-fi, its apathetic presentation leaving a much deeper impression than the most maniacal rampage to be found in a well-crafted slasher flick.
Its non-sensational unconcerned impact doesn't fade with the following week's routine.
It's still there.
Haunting.
This film really does get under your skin.
It's patiently moving along, odd and peculiar yet generally non-threatening, light creepy apathetic bursts, then suddenly the horror, no build-up, no preparation, just there on a beach, one after the other, cold heartless calculated observation, purpose and intent, its goal indisputable.
And the next scene just follows, back at it, more of the same, manufacturing a costume, objective, driven.
But a fog descends and the comfort zone vanishes.
Curiosity's necessitated by the conditions.
Habituated disbelief.
A monster.
Jonathan Glazer's Under the Skin isn't like typical horror/sci-fi, its apathetic presentation leaving a much deeper impression than the most maniacal rampage to be found in a well-crafted slasher flick.
Its non-sensational unconcerned impact doesn't fade with the following week's routine.
It's still there.
Haunting.
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
Meetings with a Young Poet
A gifted writer's successful poetic publication emboldens his desire to meet his favourite author, Samuel Beckett (Stephen McHattie), and a letter is sent, a reply is crafted, the two meeting thereafter to see if they can keep collegial compatibility in check, incandescentally enacting a enduring competitive discussion throughout, which gradually foments a spry friendship.
A gifted performing artists seeks the rights to stage one of Beckett's plays, the rights belonging to the poet, hoping to modify an aspect which some consider prescribed, her illuminated life-force agilely advocating.
Their dialogues actively overcome an empty silence whose initial poetic flourish debilitatingly became a literal reality (his love of Beckett prevented him from writing for many years).
Meetings with a Young Poet troubled me.
At points its pretensions made me feel ill while at others I was humbly affected to the teardrop, like reading Mr. Dickens, or a poem lacking rhyme and/or rhythm which still vindicates delicate ethereal reminiscences, simultaneously jealous of Paul Susser's (Vincent Hoss-Desmarais) good fortune and cognizant of why Beckett recommended to run from Proust and Joyce, his obvious love for people and the lighter side of life crushing me like waxed ephemeral wicker, two sides of the haughty intellectualized niche contending, one bound to a forlorn pincushion, the other overflowing with grace.
Carole Thomas's (Maria de Medeiros) role, her constantly revitalized cascading flora, this presence generously transmitted to her subjects of desire, thereby simultaneously transferring to them what they need to reboot while obtaining her sought after intention, infuses the film with a bounding effervescence, every bubble's balance beneficially accrued.
Character driven.
A gifted performing artists seeks the rights to stage one of Beckett's plays, the rights belonging to the poet, hoping to modify an aspect which some consider prescribed, her illuminated life-force agilely advocating.
Their dialogues actively overcome an empty silence whose initial poetic flourish debilitatingly became a literal reality (his love of Beckett prevented him from writing for many years).
Meetings with a Young Poet troubled me.
At points its pretensions made me feel ill while at others I was humbly affected to the teardrop, like reading Mr. Dickens, or a poem lacking rhyme and/or rhythm which still vindicates delicate ethereal reminiscences, simultaneously jealous of Paul Susser's (Vincent Hoss-Desmarais) good fortune and cognizant of why Beckett recommended to run from Proust and Joyce, his obvious love for people and the lighter side of life crushing me like waxed ephemeral wicker, two sides of the haughty intellectualized niche contending, one bound to a forlorn pincushion, the other overflowing with grace.
Carole Thomas's (Maria de Medeiros) role, her constantly revitalized cascading flora, this presence generously transmitted to her subjects of desire, thereby simultaneously transferring to them what they need to reboot while obtaining her sought after intention, infuses the film with a bounding effervescence, every bubble's balance beneficially accrued.
Character driven.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Shame
Consumed and dominated by uncontrollable sexual desires which demand constant strategic salacious improvisations, Brandon Sullivan's (Michael Fassbender) unquenchable thirst for carnal pleasures is disproportionately interrupted by a visit from his little sister (Carey Mulligan as Sissy Sullivan).
Who, as it turns out, has no where else to go.
His private carnivalesque prurient pursuits must now adjust themselves to the potential impact of familial judgment and the threat of patronizing restraint. As it becomes clear that Sissy's economic circumstances are by no means self-sufficient, the resultant limitations psychologically materialize a contemptuous backlash which leads to a breakdown in their sustainable relations.
And a resurgent unfettered libidinous conflagration.
Shame works as an emotionless stark rigid character study which sociologically examines localized affects of satyriasis. Michael Fassbender's focused distant unattached self-absorbed performance seductively infuses Mr. Sullivan with a wantonly calculated individualistic purpose. Carey Mulligan's struggling confused desperate counterpoint functions as an effective curve.
Responsibilities bear their consequences in jolting destructive strikes whose unleashed immediate pressures instantaneously distill a sense of belonging.
Consequent reactions determine semantic interpretations incorporating previously manifested patterns built into historical socio-foundations established in relation to a kaleidoscopic point of view.
Director Steve McQueen's direct approach attempts to resist the interpretative labyrinth.
In so doing we're given the cold hard narrow unforgiving facts.
Which themselves impose additional limits on Brandon Sullivan's freedom.
Who, as it turns out, has no where else to go.
His private carnivalesque prurient pursuits must now adjust themselves to the potential impact of familial judgment and the threat of patronizing restraint. As it becomes clear that Sissy's economic circumstances are by no means self-sufficient, the resultant limitations psychologically materialize a contemptuous backlash which leads to a breakdown in their sustainable relations.
And a resurgent unfettered libidinous conflagration.
Shame works as an emotionless stark rigid character study which sociologically examines localized affects of satyriasis. Michael Fassbender's focused distant unattached self-absorbed performance seductively infuses Mr. Sullivan with a wantonly calculated individualistic purpose. Carey Mulligan's struggling confused desperate counterpoint functions as an effective curve.
Responsibilities bear their consequences in jolting destructive strikes whose unleashed immediate pressures instantaneously distill a sense of belonging.
Consequent reactions determine semantic interpretations incorporating previously manifested patterns built into historical socio-foundations established in relation to a kaleidoscopic point of view.
Director Steve McQueen's direct approach attempts to resist the interpretative labyrinth.
In so doing we're given the cold hard narrow unforgiving facts.
Which themselves impose additional limits on Brandon Sullivan's freedom.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
My Week with Marilyn
Suddenly thrust into an accelerated kinetic critical creative complexity wherein two distinct approaches to acting clash on their way towards cinematic seduction, the youthful Colin Clark (Eddie Redmayne) finds himself balancing myriad egotistical dexterities while trying to maintain his liturgical nerve.
And pacify the deployments of irrepressible temptations.
Marilyn Monroe (Michelle Williams) has an undeniably perplexing presence whose improvised flexible non-linear magnetism has trouble adhering itself to Laurence Olivier's (Kenneth Branagh) by-the-book routine.
Olivier isn't the most forgiving figure either and Marilyn struggles with his disdain. She also misinterprets some of her husband's writing which accentuates her sense of ineptitude.
But as established unflattering men futilely attempt to control her, she combats their derision with a burgeoning youthful laissez-faire methodology which aesthetically appeals to the young and energetic Colin.
Whose working on his first film.
My Week with Marilyn studies the convoluted diversions and rewarding excursions to whose preponderant inconsistencies young professionals must rationally respond. Colin's seamless integration and exceptional ability to smoothly fluctuate perhaps doesn't offer the most transferable set of relatable interactive qualifications, but his success and good fortune can generate abundant ambitious daydreams, from whose integrated prosperous peaks one can fleetingly unearth kernels of truth.
After placing them within a poetic context and analyzing the resultant metaphorical flow.
And pacify the deployments of irrepressible temptations.
Marilyn Monroe (Michelle Williams) has an undeniably perplexing presence whose improvised flexible non-linear magnetism has trouble adhering itself to Laurence Olivier's (Kenneth Branagh) by-the-book routine.
Olivier isn't the most forgiving figure either and Marilyn struggles with his disdain. She also misinterprets some of her husband's writing which accentuates her sense of ineptitude.
But as established unflattering men futilely attempt to control her, she combats their derision with a burgeoning youthful laissez-faire methodology which aesthetically appeals to the young and energetic Colin.
Whose working on his first film.
My Week with Marilyn studies the convoluted diversions and rewarding excursions to whose preponderant inconsistencies young professionals must rationally respond. Colin's seamless integration and exceptional ability to smoothly fluctuate perhaps doesn't offer the most transferable set of relatable interactive qualifications, but his success and good fortune can generate abundant ambitious daydreams, from whose integrated prosperous peaks one can fleetingly unearth kernels of truth.
After placing them within a poetic context and analyzing the resultant metaphorical flow.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Nadja
Pleasantly awkward ridiculous dialogue effectively normalized and elegantly delivered, in scene after scene, as if an electromagnetic butterfly is quietly lamenting its misshapen cocoon, delicately fluttering from one petal to the next, breathing in the air, analyzing the moisture, multiple seductive themes variegating its flight, the wind's benevolent seniority quaintly clarifying its path, Michael Almereyda's Nadja revitalizes Bram Stoker's Dracula through sheer complacence and subterranean muses, voluptuously illustrated, magnanimously debated, by a multidisciplinary soundtrack, a haunting, viscidly structured purpose, a metamorphosis incarnated, a resurrection infuriated, mesmerizing, juicy tidbits lusciously lounging within your consciousness, united, shattered, synthesized, compartmentalized, with no particular goal, no definite objective, besides a sister's love for her brother, a husband's undying devotion, a nurse's attentive care, and a hardwired eccentric romantic. Like Nathalie Parentau's paintings, Nadja's subjects are surreal, affectionate, verbose, and dynamic, uttering convulsive resurgent facts, determining sundry, fervid pronouncements, observing dreamlike, rustic reverberations, and organic, felicitous statements. Immediate and everlasting, it gently settles in the underbrush, and shivers.
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