Blithe Spirit

A pleasant writer eager to diversify festively flirts with paranormal benediction (Rex Harrison as Charles Condomine), inviting a celebrated medium to his estate to engage in freelance séance (Margaret Rutherford as Madame Arcati).

Scientific objectivity and spiritual curiosity conversationally mingle meanwhile, as his second wife prepares for potential skepticism (Constance Cummings as Ruth Condomine), from the close friends they're sincerely hosting. 

The séance begins and things seem a bit odd as they often do when undertakings lack precedent, and when it suddenly ends humdrum happenstance seems to have been reconstituted. 

But Charles is hearing voices that no one else perceives, his first wife having accidentally etherealized (Kay Hammond as Elvira Condomine), and since he's the only one who can indubitably see her, doting Ruth erupts in fury at the loss of his creative mind.

But even if Elvira can't be seen she can still move objects with physical impertinence, and soon Ruth can't deny her presence, or the resultant distraught envy.

Charles is clever and easy going and does his best to hospitably accommodate, although his diplomatic discernment is cajolingly critiqued as both wives crave attention.

Mortality is habitually embittered as Elvira seeks a self-indulged conclusion.

But Ruth falls into the trap.

Eventually returning to assert predominance. 

The intangible substantially elucidates in David Lean's enigmatic Blithe Spirit, wherein which supernatural composure acculturates through mystical reflection.

The urge to forge consensus irascibly flounders as stalwarts inveigh, monogamy championed in the distracted afterlife, expediency heartily obstructed.

The script's a resounding brain feast for film lovers contesting somnambulistic oblivion, Noël Coward delivering literary liaisons conjugally cultivated through cerebral import.

A comic situation which has likely occurred to some erratically estimating generalized quintessentials, as logical improbability reasonably articulates through grand realistic fiction.

Whether or not there's anything to it I admit to keeping an open mind, as long as it doesn't cost more than 5 or 6 bucks, and an elaborate plot can't be detected. 

I was born predisposed to the otherworldly until science started to make much more sense.

Of course there are so many things it still can't explain.

Yet likely will.

Through the passage of time.

Annihilation

A temporal psychological symbiotic extraterrestrial expanse embraces the American West Coast in Alex Garland's Annihilation, those who pass through its translucent iridescence finding themselves immersed within a conscious environment, which absorbs and transforms everything residing within, to fluidly engender biological impossibility.

Imagine you could take a dialectical creation and lay it out horizontally, every line of the text stretching across the floor.

The gridiron.

Then take thousands of other such creations and randomly lay them out beside, on top of, across, within the original line of argumentation, the resulting accumulated mass united by a common method, like a planet's indigenous gene pool, yet continuously birthing previously unconsidered parallels, blends, synergies, oppositions, microanalytics experimenting with infinite, their purpose to remain curious, purely synthesizing theory and practice.

But then imagine the extraterrestrial zone was mashing and recombining genes in a similar way, physical genes plus incorporeal thoughts, thought and speech forming biological components of its transformed lifeforms, not only the thoughts of humans, but those of plants and animals as well.

The poetic mind.

Ceaselessly creating.

Like in so many films investigating the inexplicable, heavily armed personnel are soon sent in, but there's no real physical threat to face, the enemy is more like a lack of civility, dismissals of the unfamiliar, an inability to holistically adapt, psychologically and physically, within manifested spirit, as bewilderment anticipates.

Did the bear get it?

The crocodile?

Herbaceous exponents mesmerizingly fertilizing vast deserts of composed meticulously orchestrated routine.

Habituated happenstance reconceptualizing imagination as if the northern lights were the organic lifeblood of imperceptible ubiquitous transmutation.

Sit back for awhile.

In the woods.

Parc Jean-Drapeau.

Soak it in.

Steep it.

Feel it.

Annihilation moves past devoting yourself to another and anomalously conjures multicultural mystification.

As if it were searching for something it hoped it would never find.

As would an artist.

A detective.