Girl with Green Eyes

Who knows how to orchestrate equanimous relations amongst the genders, perhaps the hottest topic throughout multidisciplinary millennia, although I have my suspicions that if you're thinking about it you've missed the gregarious point, successful couples finding a steady routine, which generally dismisses such questions. 

Although I suppose that's just best case, I don't have real world marriage stats to consult, and I usually only see couples on festive occasions, when they're theoretically much less disposed to argument.

Nevertheless, the constructive ebb and flow of power relations and the means of production, seem to prosper when listening is encouraged and both parties reasonably yield, yin and yang harmoniously hypothesizing as heartstrings harken holistic, while some things remain immutable, lucidity of paramount import.

Although seeing things clearly can infuriate at times, mistakes and rash decisions, even impromptu reckoning, encouraging excitement and irrational versatility (romance).

The cultural codes Kate Brady (Rita Tushingham) rebels against are much too bland and dishonourably restrictive, you can see why so many women are furious when immersed within such environments. 

Every aspect of her entire life is to be controlled and managed by men, and should she attempt to stray from the path dire convictions warrant sincere distress.

She embraces manifest courage and makes a break for it into the void, wherein which she encounters reasonability of a flexible nature and appealing uncertainty. 

There's no doubt that her initial circumstances are severe and unsustainable, and that it's cruel to imprison anyone within such a bona fide panopticon. 

Not to suggest there should be no boundaries upholding stable regenerative consistency, unless two or more people fortuitously meet who can resourcefully function without guide or structure, but when such boundaries stiltedly stifle latent creativity and flourishing imagination, they should indubitably face passionate scrutiny, in order to encourage interactive athleticism. 

Brady learns difficult lessons through tantamount trial and exacting error, and seems much more naturally resilient thanks to her experimental resolve.

It's difficult to imagine how intolerant things must have been way off way back when.

She doesn't even set out to be rebellious.

Glad there's much more freedom these days. 

I, Tonya

Piecing together an identity can be laborious work, requiring years of dedicated research and a mastery of sundry source materials, a striking caricature then struck from the resultant reams of research that hopefully captivates both lay and expert viewers or readers alike, with its traditional exceptions, critical controversies exemplified notwithstanding, how does one classify an individual?, I'm still not certain, but can loosely stitch different economic realities together, if so tasked, or perhaps, commissioned.

Some worlds within worlds, however, the figure skating world as it's depicted in I, Tonya for instance, delicately existing within the unpredictable rambunctious buck of wild hardworking American egalitarian miscellany, prefer such narratives to eagerly adopt a prim presentation, as they're inspirationally and influentially disseminated to curious fans, exceptions to the rules obdurately punished for their lack of eloquence, even if, like Tonya Harding (Margot Robbie/McKenna Grace/Maizie Smith), they're one of the greatest representatives the sport has ever seen.

In the U.S even, where a versatile hardboiled lack of gentility has long been its cultural calling card.

More research required.

But you would think that in a culture which also prides itself on athletic achievement, funds would have been made available to assist young Tonya in acquiring the expensive outfits she couldn't buy, especially after she became the first American female figure skater to land the triple Axel, it wasn't the case though, according to I, Tonya, and instead her sartorial ingenuity often resulted in belittling judicial penalties.

Not that goodwill would have saved her.

Eventually, her foolish abusive shitbag husband's (Sebastian Stan as Jeff Gillooly) Cro-Magnon friend (Paul Walter Hauser as Shawn) ruined her career by facilitating an act so loathsomely stupid it still occupies a prominent place in the halls of true idiocy.

True infamy.

Strange film.

The music and mockumentarially realistic interviews set it up like a rip-roarin' homebrewed good time, but then you watch as Tonya's constantly abused from the age of 4 like director Craig Gillespie found a way to incarnate hair on the dog, and it's disconcerting.

You bought it.

Even with all that national attention she still had nowhere else to go, and the people whom you'd think would offer support, the aristos of the figure skating enclave, seem to have given her the crystal clear finger, perhaps hoping her unsuitable image would then quickly fade.

She was tough though, didn't back down, kept fighting until her supporting cast fucked shit up irreconcilably, an iconic American.

The film's really well done if it isn't disturbing.

Frightening.

Don't know where the truth's to be dug out of it but it certainly does facilitate some sincere craziness.

General sobriety's a good thing if you're competing internationally.

I'm not saying the world of figure skating should be like a monster truck rally, although that might make a funny tv movie, but perhaps it could be more sympathetic.

Seems like Ms. Harding should have had a lot more support anyways.

More research required.

As it stands, I, Tonya's an American tragedy.

Always great to see Bobby Cannavale (Martin Maddox).

Der Amerikanische Freund (The American Friend)

Playful deceit with murderous intent wickedly tricks resigned desperation into committing uncharacteristic crimes in Wim Wenders's Der Amerikanische Freund (The American Friend), the lucrative potential payoff producing imaginative cures for dissembled diagnoses, beforehand, while innocence still tenderizes, while conscience remains impenitent, while a child acknowledges fraternity, while a wife willingly confides, the sudden possibility, the imposing tactile ease, inherent obscurities coaxing refined obsolescence, disappearing into the fold, in possession of purist panacea.

Concurrently, a fraudulent easel facilitates brushstrokes which comfortably pay the bills for both facsimilator and procurer, a man of the world always eager to make new friends, his kaleidoscopic contacts adroitly brimming with opportunistic fervour.

Begrudged meetings of minds.

Corruption classed exclusive.

The film's mix of grizzled despondent frightened action and curious childlike malevolent pause maliciously meows with tantalizing solemnity, like you've been dating a cool partner for a while and have run out of ideas, your whiskers rustling with uncertainty as you acquiesce to their control.

Cat style, things are still rather loose knit and unconcerned but the spontaneous bursts of profound inspiration startlingly ignite uncharted expeditionary crazes.

Visceral emotions.

Subconscious realization.

Like the ingredients for grandma's seductive shepherd's pie, Der Amerikanische Freund reflexively socializes with clandestine variability, each mouthful uniquely pronounced, the devouring of morsels plain yet sublime.

Taken in its entirety, it timorously yet nonchalantly plays dangerous games as it heuristically high jumps, surprisingly settled with enterprising leaps and bounds, intuitively melding cautious authenticity with bold improvisation, it angelically clasps demons, in cloaks of aspen rue.