Colette

Lavish living, routinely enjoying the most sumptuous victuals to play the role your standing traditionally authenticates, variable inspired expenses infusing a literary aura with the carefree bravado of limitless production, malleability, ceremonial constants, presumed ostentation auriferously manifesting guilds, assumed impeccability unerringly suspecting intrigue, lashed foibles pronounced yet overlooked inasmuch as they characterize, at home amidst scandal and rumour, brash confidence supposed, instinctually attuned to grasped levitational predicament, brazen yet steadfast, polished yoke adjourned.

Suddenly married.

To a partner less docile than anticipated.

Eventually comprehending her worth, her value to the Parisian imagination, she challenges her freewheeling worldly spouse, who's become dependent on her novel individualism.

Wondering if the art's progress solely by chance or accident?

It seems that many well read erudite professionals reasonably publish that which they believe will profitably sustain them, their understanding of the arts being generally more reliable than a gambler's knowledge of cards or horse racing, and by reading public tastes or those of private audiences thereby, a cultural continuum emerges within which it's possible to earn a living.

Thus Willy (Dominic West) initially dismisses Colette's (Keira Knightley) first novel, thinking it won't tastefully fit the literate French spirit as he distills it, but as bills pile up and nothing appealing conveniently presents itself, he eventually pursues its publication, and it's an immediate success.

Who knows really?

J. K. Rowling, rejected.

Proust, rejected.

You can't assume novelty and experimentation will cultivate financial freedoms without worry, perhaps there are publishing houses who can with whom I'm unfamiliar, but regardless every so often that magical narrative seductively hits the shelves and its unique unbridled perfectly fitting plots, ideas, characters, and settings, impassion stoic readers who have otherwise succumbed to the piquant yet predictable.

Colette's novels sell with the unmitigated fury of an exclamatory tempest, generating revenues most sound for her foolish spendthrift husband.

She puts up with it for quite some time before finally bidding adieu and heading out on her own.

The film critiques M. Gauthier-Villars but not too severely, preferring to dis/harmoniously celebrate the times during which they excelled together to dwelling upon their inevitable break.

How could you go that far?

Such betrayal.

For a miserly pittance.

A lively entertaining clever examination of a voice which slowly learns to independently express itself, complete with a critical yet unpretentious account of conjugal versatility, straddling the upper stratosphere, agitating deals, drafts, dogmas.

Indoctrinations.

Mischievous celebratory circumnavigation afloat.

Disenchanting yet enticing.

Love Keira Knightley's outrage.

Still Alice

A high-functioning established warm caring multifaceted professional is confronted at the height of her career with the onset of Alzheimer's disease, and its effects quickly take hold.

She's a fighter, accomplished and strategic, boldly doctoring her plight, taking things in stride, coping, achieving, her family coming to her aid to help out wherever they can, together functioning as a cohesive unit, through strength, distress and helplessness increasing as time passes, slowly transforming into stoic acceptance, the acknowledgement of pain.

Still Alice maturely approaches illness from fruitful familial viewpoints, Alice Howland's (Julianne Moore) husband and children supporting while suffering to do what they can.

Julianne Moore delivers a career defining performance as she pluralizes her conception of identity, stunningly adding varicose variabilities.

There's a great scene where her new self communicates with a predecessor via a preprepared homemade video, a buoyant succinct butterfly.

Her alpha husband (Alec Baldwin as John Howland) convincing juggles his urge to dominate with his expressions of sympathy, respected by Alice through understanding, his attempts to hide his frustrated emotions callously manifested at times.

He has trouble halting his progression.

The children react as befits their personalities, aptly introduced through the art of conversation, the daughters featuring more prominently than the son.

The family's love holds back its depression although it could have been more sorrowful.

Hope in the darkness.

In tune.