Strange Brew

A TV show is granted to two playful brothers who take rest and relaxation beyond excessive limits, their habitual shenanigans still sincerely amusing and able to please a critical crowd.

They're tasked with creating a film which they proceed to do without much of a budget, or crew or script or plan they're loving fans are none too impressed.

Out of beer and without any money, they concoct a plan to trick the Beer Store, a mouse in a bottle furiously exchanged for serendipitous suds should things go well.

The irritated staff has no patience however and quickly sends them to the brewery, where they try the same scam without success yet somehow manage to secure new jobs.

Their friendly nature genuinely endears them to the cheerful staff once they're introduced, while their carefree mindsets accidentally ensure they wander at random throughout the brewery.

Where they eventually discover the Brewmeister's mad and intends to addict the world to his despotic lager.

A mind control drug having been infused.

Within a fresh batch headed for Oktoberfest. 

A different age, a less serious time, when alternative narratives found lithe animation, their absurd ideas not meant to cultivate political movements or autocratic agendas.

Rather ridiculous heroes were meant to outwit much more maniacal foes, and celebrate sloth and gluttony through lackadaisical nimble networks. 

Who would have thought that the people at Fox would see such narrative strategies as political gold, and effectively use them to convince the public that candidates like Trump were closet geniuses?

For decades they catered to audiences who preferred characters who didn't excel, or even moderately comprehend good governance instead they never stopped behaving like children.

And Trump emerged in the televisual vortex to provide these people with a Fox Network candidate, not someone who wanted to improve things but instead a self-obsessed vainglorious madman.

I don't deny finding these characters funny when ludicrously situated within a sitcom, but to see them unleashed as leaders of the free world is far too dangerous and full-on insane. 

Sigh.

That's why the people who should love me hate me and why those who shouldn't secretly adore me.

Too complicated for blunt storytelling.

Which for some reason holds American sway.  

The Fog

The bounteous coast rests undisturbed as a sleepy town's one-hundredth anniversary approaches, with celebrations planned and local dignitaries convivially extolling its historic virtues. 

Village life exuberantly proclaims distracting designations with robust levity, the festivities raising ebullient concerns regarding flights of furtive fancy.

Nevertheless, on the exultant eve a local priest embraces spirited whimsy, when a sudden shocking burst reveals a diary hidden within his walls.

The tale told within its pages describes scandal and betrayal, in terms of lucrative auriferous booty disillusionally constrained.

Best laid plans were thrown aside as a leprous colony was cruelly cheated, indeed instead of finding themselves a home their boat was led to crash upon the shore.

But the rocks didn't eternally tear the trusting ship forevermore asunder, its reconstitution phantominiously conveyed from the afterlife back to the ocean.

And on the very same date the town was founded it bitterly returns under cover of fog.

Contemporary inhabitants blissfully unaware.

A local DJ keeping them up to precarious speed.

Kind of nice when fog descends assuming you aren't travelling or working outside, the meteorological difference eccentrically billowing throughout the quizzical byzantine landscape.

Imagine the chaos if the definitive border dividing spiritual realms enigmatically decayed, and aggrieved spirits from far and wide universally re-materialized across the land.

Like the ending of Ghostbusters I suppose but trepidatiously globalized for postmodern import, the eclectic confusion and ahistorical equivalencies generating confounding limitless grievance.

It could be like a labyrinthine colossus of atemporal bewildered feuding, the manifold steps in the gothic epic as mesmerizing as any R.E.M spectacle. 

If there was time to chronicle the disputes the resultant absurdity may manifest calm.

A quiet regenerative cross-cultural splurge.

A lot of reading.

For something so dream-like.

*I've almost seen every John Carpenter movie.

Speedy

Perhaps one of the first exuberantly stately carefree yet stern comedic films, wherein which cherished productive pastimes feature prominently in the outlandish narrative.

It's 1928 and Babe Ruth's a playin' for the stalwart Yankees, whom Speedy (Harold Lloyd) zealously follows throughout the day while improvisationally engaged at a soda fountain.

The city has decided to create a vast network of interconnected streetcars, and has set about buying up the extant tracks currently owned by local entrepreneurs. 

Pop Dillon (Bert Woodruff) owns such a peculiarity but doesn't want to sell for paltry chump change, so the prospective buyers nefariously apply themselves to their lucrative ill-gotten banal dysfunction.

Speedy moves from job to job and provides quite the look at the old school city, while taking Jane Dillon (Ann Christy) out to Coney Island to sample practically everything it has to offer.

But one night he becomes aware of the dastardly plan to outwit grandpappy, hoping to start a chaotic dispute and destroy his streetcar in the process (not if the Civil War Vets have their say!).

He can only keep his track if said car runs at least once every 24 hours, thus the maintenance of his plucky vehicle remains eruditely paramount should he wish to stay.

Assistance is thus required and Speedy knows just whom to call.

Calamitous reckoning rambunctiously ensuing.

Age old cacophonous retro zounds. 

I like how films like Speedy take a shine to a particular town, and without being too preachy or pushy gingerly interweave many of its local highlights.

With historical change consistently duelling with resonant traditional ways and means, progress paradigmatically pigeon holes sundry specifics with vehement posture.

Tough to imagine individual tracks uniquely owned by different people throughout the city, who could work them as they saw fit at different times throughout the day.

Was it ever like that with trains as well at a time when perhaps many companies clashed, each seeking to lay down track more efficiently and efficaciously than its rivals?

You really see how the protests regarding the treatment of urban horses are necessary as they transport people around, it even looks like one is ready to collapse when it takes off down the street with a streetcar in tow. 

For a look at the roaring twenties Speedy mischievously delivers, providing practical playful glimpses into entertaining life.

Without overlooking old school definition to harmoniously serenade the future.

Perhaps somewhat too endearing.

But not without exspeedient charm. 

Fool's Paradise

A humble generally mute man unconcerned with popularity, is released from a mental hospital and finds himself living on the streets (Charlie Day as Latte Pronto). 

But as fate would have it, he's a dead ringer for a widely sought after Hollywood star, and a reputed producer accidentally takes note and asks if he'll take part in one of his films (Ray Liotta).

Neither fortunately nor awkwardly, the star he's replacing suddenly passes, and he finds himself moving in on his career, soon married in the confusing spotlight.

A down-on-his-luck casting agent soon befriends and seeks to represent him (Ken Jeong as the Publicist), and he sees neither reason to protest nor oblige as he doesn't particularly care about what's happening.

His career slowly spirals out of control since he really has no idea what's going on, but still shows up on set and at dinner parties to make obliviously sincere appearances.

He's somewhat like Chaplin's Little Tramp but without the rambunctious versatility, the intense perplexing permutations which make his films so entertaining. 

He's also kind of like Peter Sellers in ye olde Pink Panther classics, although without the bemusing repartee which leads to intuitive blundering captivation. 

Perhaps if they'd been born at a later date they would have been more concerned with sleaze, and less drawn to borderline wholesome clever family friendly endeavours.

Imagine Charlie Chaplin having matured watching generally uncensored prime time romps, would he have even bothered to pursue filmmaking, and if so, to what inspirational degrees?

A contact once pointed out the protruding mean-spirits in contemporary comedy, whereas there used to be a sense of congenial accord there's currently much more dispiriting sadism. 

Perhaps the same sentiments were there in the past but the tighter censors encouraged less carnage, or a more enthusiastic communal embrace, striving to disseminate respect and well-being. 

Not all the time, the insouciant management of integral cheek still startlingly manifest, where to establish the balance difficult to say with relative collegial im/precision.

Then again, Fool's Paradise may be making this very same point without having expressed it.

Could be taking an ironic swipe. 

Lamenting what's clearly missing. 

Melvin and Howard

Bewildering serendipitous authenticity remains a curious cultural phenomenon, as applied to stratified stereoscopic intersections which theoretically shouldn't muck everything up.

The level-playing field aside, I suppose if an important highly coveted legal document appears out of the blue, and the individual in related question hardly knew its eccentric author, whether or not it is indeed genuine becomes a pressing question, certainly if one man was worth hundreds of millions and the other struggling to get by.

But could it not be more sincerely American that a billionaire would leave millions to someone he hardly knew, due to the poetic nature of the declaration of independence in which every man (and woman) is created equal?

Thus, is that one random encounter which seems to have been divinely orchestrated, wherein which ignorance leads to conviviality and a general lack of uptight pretension, more valuable than a lifetime of stilted sycophancy as applied to thriving life, the retiring uncanny person in question desperately in search of lauded novelty?

Sounds classically American to me at least according to the films and television shows I used to watch, which seemed to cohesively suggest brother and sisterhood were warmly welcome.

When you consider that if Melvin (Paul Le Mat) had received such news in Britain he would have been swiftly and shockingly shot down, for having had the nerve to claim vigorous industry even though he lacked tact or title, it makes his lack of success in the states all the more depressing even if his attitude is honest and realistic, who knows, perhaps I'm way off base and such a development would have found more support 'cross the pond.

I suppose it depends on how various forces are aligned and how those alignments mutate as the phenomenon progresses, various alternative symphonic synergies culturally clashing ethically and politically. 

Consistent outcomes at times disillusioning still outmanoeuvred by integral hope.

Fatalistic reasoning's rather off-putting.

And generally contradicted through proactive study.

The Nice Guys

I'm thinking there was a time when you wouldn't write a script where teenagers attend parties hosted by the porn industry and wind up having sexually explicit conversations while innocently searching for clues.

It's so daring . . . the novelty . . .

Maybe not.

I've never seen anything like this before anyways, presented like you're ordering a coffee or making a dinner reservation, just kind of chucked in there, like Bukowski got hold of Dora the Explorer and decided to attach mismatched detectives.

A United States Department of Justice official (Kim Basinger as Judith Kutner) wants to cause trouble for the porn industry so her daughter defiantly stars in an adult film.

Mom then hires thugs to kill her.

Prurient pageantry?

Not without my freedom!

I shouldn't critique a film solely because of its inappropriate salacious propensities, I guess, trying to play ball here, but The Nice Guys does flop consistently throughout, beginning slowly, never really generating any momentum, and then falling far short of a thrilling climax.

There's no chemistry between Russell Crowe (Jackson Healy) and Ryan Gosling (Holland March) who struggle to enliven the gravelly script and appear quite awkward in their attempts to do so.

They look for Kutner's daughter (Margaret Qualley as Amelia) and occasionally exploit some insightful sleuthing, but it's blind luck that obliviously moves everything forward and makes the film seem cheap and easy.

Healy's marriage is also introduced as a theme and then forgotten.

No one stands out besides March's daughter (Angourie Rice as Holly) and after seeing how the film uses her character you feel disgusted even mentioning that she's part of the film.

But if you like staggered not-so-well-thought-out jokes and critiques of ethical engagements which champion porno you may like the The Nice Guys notwithstanding.

How did Keith David (Older Guy) end up in this?

Wrenching.

Hundraåringen som klev ut genom fönstret och försvann (The 100-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared)

A pinnacled piña colada, perchanced and periodized, passively strolls through an entire century, piercingly riding its waves, aloe primavera, alert gestations, blindly yet acutely detonating his trade, Forrest Gump's Benjamin Button teething Archer, hypnotic happenstance, turn that screw, Hundraåringen som klev ut genom fönstret och försvann (The 100-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared) flashes back to tumultuous times, with ironic blissful candour, serendipitized tailspins, explosively tiptoeing, from one cryptic epoch to the next.

After escaping from a retirement home to the fury of the underground's Never Again.

Friendships blossom.

A team is assembled.

A sentiment's thrust.

Through the coming of the ages.

Poetically refining what it means to blunder, the situations he finds himself within seem rigged with ideological dynamite.

Franco's saviour builds an atomic bomb to end the Second World War before sterilizing the Commies on his way to becoming a stayed bilateral messenger.

Destined for paradise.

This film has depth; it playfully reimagines twentieth-century carnage with the casual indifference of an essential tribal fluidity, unconscious forward motion, courting precise precious movements.

Impeccable comedy.

It's even family friendly, in the best possible way, like Amélie, with a loveable elephant.

Could have worked Ireland in somehow.

The Master

His personality trailing behind, obliviously, inquisitively and contendedly basking in the wake, quietly lounging in his own residual perpetual motion, with a sun he fails to see warmly beating down on his inebriated candour, Freddie Quell's (Joaquin Phoenix) proclivities for the peculiar lead to transformative miscues while the narrative which he inhabits, Paul Thomas Anderson's The Master, derisively lambastes its own nostalgic attachment to film's longing for nostalgic attachments (through its initial choice of music).

Mr. Quell's sense of buoyancy has been quasi-permanently kept afloat due to his wartime experience, as has his creative knack for improvisationally concocting alcoholic beverages.

He also seeks partnership.

Fortunately, he stows away on a ship by chance which has been rented by a carefree spirit (Philip Seymour Hoffman as Lancaster Dodd) and his followers, many of whom share his desire to circumvent sobriety.

They have taken things one step further, though, having devotedly conjured a flexible theoretical fundamental foundation, whose profits have secured a fantastic incorruptibility.

As these two tinkerers intersect, pseudoestablished faith-based charlatanism attempts to absorb obstinate itinerant (restrained, undirected, generally harmless) epicurean anarchy through a series of mind tricks, the confident modest inclusive yet principled performance expertly executed by Mr. Hoffman in their first obligatory interaction sophisticatedly counterbalanced by Joaquin Phoenix's focused resistant exactitude.

As Freddie is lured in, the film's structure attempts to grab hold of its audience's recalcitrance and transfer it deep within its hallucinatory consciousness, as if it's relying on the sheer conviction of its form alone, regardless of what form it takes, to transcribe potential transgressions of the post-modern through personal investments of hesitant, guilt-ridden trust, incipiently causing a cult to appear happy-go-lucky, and attempting to internally harness a distilled independent rationality.

The best American film I've seen so far this year.

Amy Adams puts in a great performance too.

Teddy Bear

A tough, trusting, reserved, youthful 38 year-old bodybuilder, unfamiliar with the feminine sex and generally unable to generate first contact, spontaneously departs to an undiscovered country, having no desire to insurrect a moral nemesis, or the wrath of dawn, where, too upright to cross the final frontier, he sticks to his game plan, hits the gym, and serendipitously discovers that for which he has been searching.

In Teddy Bear, the motion picture.

The film's a calm, patient, joyful, timorous study of a caring athlete, dedicated to his calling, possessing practically no knowledge of worldly affairs, coyly proceeding from one day to the next.

If you've no interest in celebrating a strong contemplative investigation of ageless dreams or oedipal blunders, you may find that Teddy Bear lacks the flexibility continuously recycled in many a phantasmagorical flick.

But if you desire to humbly enjoy a robust quotidien reflection which elevates the passive struggles of an underexplored muscular happenstance, or any of the other things I've already mentioned, it just might work out, with multiple rep potential, without making much of a stretch.