Cats

I hesitate to suggest that Tom Hooper's Cats produced its desired affects upon its audience, insofar as laughter was consistently generated within the theatre where I recently saw it, but that's not necessarily a bad thing if entertainment value is taken into account, for that very same audience no doubt foolhardily enjoyed themselves, even if their applause was critically attuned to camp as opposed to melodrama.

Is there a difference?

That would be a fun essay to write (in detail).

I would argue that Cats sets out to romantically investigate life on a thriving fringe, within a talented artistic community, independently predisposed.

It's a wonderful idea.

It introduces a variety of vigorous individuals who have taken the time to melodiously compose themselves, in preparation for a carnivalesque soirée, abounding with life and perhaps reincarnation.

A wicked cat who jealously seeks to live again nefariously disrupts the proceedings with cruel and covetous intent.

The historical social interactions of the innovative neighbourhood are observed by a fascinated newcomer who's introduced after emerging astray.

The songs are sung very well, there's no denying the musical talent, the robust sincere efficacious concerned camaraderie erupting with ecstatic charm.

But they rarely stop, there isn't much intermittent dialogue, and I'm afraid they're somewhat abstruse, or lack helpful points of clarification.

It's not that you can't figure out what's going on or find yourself lost within a byzantine delirium, but if you're not familiar with the story beforehand, you may find it somewhat obscured in the opening numbers, which are rather wordy if not longwinded, and lack sturdy lucid foundations.

Even if they are cats.

But they are cats, and there are a bunch of cool animated felines singing and dancing with paramount glamour, so if you aren't worried about what's actually going on, you have recourse to the wild absurdity.

Even though it's just a bit garrulous, I still wondered if it was primarily made for children, because the cat expressions employed fall flat throughout, but may appeal to the more innocently minded, if they're seeing a musical for the very first time.

The constant close-ups too, which seem like they're trying to generate wonder, but often cause people to burst out laughing, don't worry, the same thing happens to me.

So the melodrama's there, Cats at least approaches serious subjects with a touch that's light of heart, and leaves room for scandal and intrigue as it proceeds with the best intentions.

But if it's meant to be taken seriously, and I can't really see that happening, even if it improves as Ian McKellen (Gus the Theatre Cat) begins to sing, and there's a wonderful break where's there's no singing at all, just dancing, it may not universally succeed, although my hypothesis could be way off.

Nevertheless, films that are meant to be taken seriously which create serious comic appeal can be transformed into cherished camp, if the audience is there and willing.

The audience whom I watched Cats with was overflowing with playful cheer.

Is it always that way with melodrama?

To tell you the truth, I'm far from certain.

But people get angry if you don't take what they're taking seriously sometimes.

A matter of perspective, I try to keep quiet.

The Danish Girl

For a terse, inadequate, understated, rushed synopsis of Foucault's Madness & Civilization, one might write that qualitative evaluations, at any given moment, have specific psychological preferences, stereotypically spiritualized in what they consider to be rational, enticing, praiseworthy, while alternative dispositions which don't snuggly fit the definitions must still attempt to forthrightly applaud them, or fall prey to a legion of mental health authorities who make a living cultivating them, using various methods to diagnose and cure the afflicted who can't help but stand out in sharp contrast.

These definitions change, In Search of Lost Time's examination of the Dreyfus Affair highlighting malleable pretensions to culture, the Affair not relating to definitive mindsets particularly, but Proust's compellingly interminable investigation of its protagonists and arch-villains, themselves changing their positions depending on their analysis of the popular, thereby behaving politically, to parlour, antiquate, and esteem, demonstrates how madness and civilization dialectically contend, embrace, synthesize, in rhetorical applications of epistemological virtue.

There are people who seem to be lacking in reason, people who adamantly believe their pet guinea pigs are reincarnated Julio-Claudians for example, but The Danish Girl's Einar Wegener/Lili Elbe (Eddie Redmayne) is clearly sane, kind, gentle, yet has no means through which to access inadmissible components of his personality, and is therefore labelled undesirable.

He escapes curative clutches however, enduring minor experimental encumbrances but still maintaining his freedom, and, with the aid of his idyllic wife Gerda (Alicia Vikander), eventually finds a doctor who recognizes his sanity and wholeheartedly assists.

Before discovering this doctor you seem him struggling to animate, as he seeks out the compassion of the civil who misguidedly think him mad.

The film is a quiet timid exploratory illustration of gender identification which focuses more on Lili/Einar and Gerda's brilliant relationship, effervescently brought to life by Redmayne and Vikander, true compassion and understanding, than the horrors Einar/Lili faces as he transforms.

Illumination.

Trying to find markets for art complements Lili/Einar's discoveries, selling paintings like trying to invigorate public opinion, open up new worlds, and encourage sociocultural inclusivity.

Gerda's paintings are quite beautiful.

As is a world where difference is an integral strength.

Intimately unrecognized.

Les Misérables

And another film operating within an ethical economic matrix was released, whose focus is more generalized and critiques less gaudy, pursuing similar ends through divergent means, incorporating adherents of courage, wisdom, moderation and justice, religiously and managerially inundating the hardened prejudice of the absolute, with vibrant, comprehensive, itineraries, of conscience.

Also reducing a novel of considerable length to a lively cross-section, condensed further through the articulations of musical abbreviations, it, while lacking the artistic particularity of Anna Karenina, the meticulous style, still uses its harmonies to manufacture practical progressions, one of its most salient themes reminiscent of a concluding remark from Cloud Atlas.

The Master's logical mischievousness innkeeps, while Argo's spirit internally manifests.

Lengthy and full of purpose, Tom Hooper's Les Misérables chants out between two worlds, mercifully punishing criminal constabularies, while seeking to secure democratic law and order.

And another viewing of Lincoln. 

The King's Speech

Tom Hooper's The King's Speech unites commoner and King with a national goal as the threat of war becomes increasingly more palpable. Providing brief glimpses into the trials affecting representatives of both domains, the film trivializes neither while promoting the ways in which they complement one another. The Duke of York (Colin Firth) stammers and is a source of mild embarrassment for his family when compelled to deliver public addresses. None of the doctors to whom he has been sent has been able to ameliorate his situation which becomes increasingly pressurized as his chances of becoming King improve. Enter Lionel Logue (Geoffrey Rush), a speech therapist whose alternative methods have gained renown and censure within his profession's culture. A confident, bold, and successful practitioner, Logue isn't intimidated when The Duke seeks his help, conducting his experimental business as usual. But a relationship develops wherein the therapist finds himself navigating political currents with which his social histories are unfamiliar. As The Duke learns to speak, Logue learns to hold his tongue, which makes him a trusted advisor as he adjusts and redesigns the manner in which his advice is offered, making it less treasonous. As progress is made, the commoner becomes a friend, and their dynamic deconstructs class barriers as the inevitable clash with Germany approaches.

Of course these class barriers are deconstructed because this situation is exceptional and it's only after every possible traditional outlet is sought out in vain that a plebeian alternative is considered, which seems to be saying that only in exceptional circumstances can royalty mingle with the common person in order to find a working solution, which isn't exactly progressive. Entertaining film nonetheless which suggests that if it wasn't for the relationship established between King and commoner Britain would not have had an august figure to sustain its resolve throughout World War II. Some of the scenes are rushed, there's the occasional inappropriate piece of gaudy cinematic melodrama, and the Duke of York's personal troubles receive much more attention than those of Mr. Logue. But The King's Speech does champion experimental forms of professional conduct and the determined individuals who resolutely pursue them while providing the working person with dignity and humanizing the life of a King.

Nice to see Derek Jacobi looking like pesky old Claudius throughout, Hooper's tribute to the stammering Roman Emperor so brilliantly theorized by the 1976 BBC miniseries.