Emerging from a state of nature to historically contextualize the present, eccentricity multifariously contesting its conditions, authenticity, percolating its plight, poetic instances of curious introspective creativity contentiously enraging the callous, cruelty and innocence sociopathically and lovingly coexisting, tricks, cancellations, balanced asymmetrical genders, beetles and dress-ups and birds, the conformist's intention to ignore, in Frauke Finsterwalder's Finsterworld, a dynamic open-ended multigenerational cross-section, microscopically invested, with macroscopic instigations.
Interpretively dependent.
Spoiler alert.
World War II's legacy haunts the film and difference, while uplifting it to an aesthetic celestial syntax, in various ways, is often contemptuously reprimanded.
The ethnic school teacher who takes his students on a trip to a concentration camp, focussing on its abhorrence, ends up in jail after rescuing a student who's been brutally pranked, giving in to his perverted instincts in the process.
The African character found in the film's final moments is listless and primitive, as seen when a documentary filmmaker ironically visits Africa in search of the authentic, ironic because her visit's based on the recommendation of her policeperson partner, whom she rejects after he reveals he's a genuine furry.
The other german men who salute difference include a pedicurist who takes the dead skin from his clients and then bakes it into cookies which he eventually serves to them as a treat. When one client admits her love for him, he reveals his secret, which is naturally met with ghastliness, although they do end up together.
A school boy who poetically and comically talks to beetles and puppets made out of his hand, reminiscent of Thomas Törless, is assaulted by a wealthy SUV renting tough guy, after possibly viewing his wife relieving herself at the side of the road. The three become quite friendly, when the man who lives in the woods and has just had his dwelling vandalized and bird friend killed starts firing shots from a bridge at the passing traffic, one of them fatally wounding the boy; as if to say that this young Törless's future would unfortunately resemble that of the humble forest dweller, who has therefore spared him a life of loneliness.
The death and incarceration of these two characters (the forest dweller ends up in jail), as well as the rejection of the furry, are perhaps vindicated by the pedicurist's romance, as an elderly german matron embraces difference, perhaps paving the way for a more inclusive cultural frame.
Perhaps Germany is quite inclusive at the moment, I'm just interpreting the evidence provided by this film.
The younger generation's sociopathic rep who doesn't want to accept World War II's legacy and doesn't speak up to save the ethnic school teacher, even though he was the prankster in question, while torturing his helpless victim further in the aftermath by insulting her intelligence, casts doubt on this possibility.
Which makes for a well-rounded albeit bleak conclusion.
To a depressingly thoughtful and brilliant reflexivity.
Outstandingly controversial film.
Friday, September 12, 2014
Tuesday, September 9, 2014
The Captive
Generally I find ambiguity enables scripts to reflect a higher degree of realistic contemplation, for it aptly accentuates the diversity of competing/cooperating points-of-view/interpretations/motivations/. . . that compose a multidimensional cosmopolitan filmscape, internally creating open-ended multifaceted polarized exteriorizations, thereby encouraging constructive debate.
But sometimes it's nice to simply watch good versus evil, a basic opposition of hero and villain, which is why I see so many action and western films.
The best of these usually have an ambiguous dimension; while it's clear who is good and who is evil, the protagonist often has several peculiar shortcomings (quick to anger, likes drinking, is never home), and the villains often seem honourable, or at least are quite appealing.
Obviously enough.
The villains in Atom Egoyan's The Captive are not honourable or appealing.
Nor should they be.
They are revolting monstrosities to be loathed and vilified in each and every instance.
Their monstrosity causes the heroes to act violently towards one another, as historical patterns and dead-ends necessitate the investigation of particularly volatile potentialities.
There's no room for ambiguity in The Captive's case, and its greatest shortcoming could perhaps be that it didn't make its villains even more disgusting.
The controversial subject matter is perhaps too watered down to adequately reflect its wickedness, but there isn't much choice when creating works which examine these realities.
Otherwise they would be impossible to sit through.
But sometimes it's nice to simply watch good versus evil, a basic opposition of hero and villain, which is why I see so many action and western films.
The best of these usually have an ambiguous dimension; while it's clear who is good and who is evil, the protagonist often has several peculiar shortcomings (quick to anger, likes drinking, is never home), and the villains often seem honourable, or at least are quite appealing.
Obviously enough.
The villains in Atom Egoyan's The Captive are not honourable or appealing.
Nor should they be.
They are revolting monstrosities to be loathed and vilified in each and every instance.
Their monstrosity causes the heroes to act violently towards one another, as historical patterns and dead-ends necessitate the investigation of particularly volatile potentialities.
There's no room for ambiguity in The Captive's case, and its greatest shortcoming could perhaps be that it didn't make its villains even more disgusting.
The controversial subject matter is perhaps too watered down to adequately reflect its wickedness, but there isn't much choice when creating works which examine these realities.
Otherwise they would be impossible to sit through.
Friday, September 5, 2014
Noruwei no mori (Norwegian Wood)
A poetically crafted romantically frayed conversationally reflexive vibrato, wherein loyalty and trust intellectually intermingle with opportunity's libido, eternal springs caressing the depressed, spirited infatuation inquisitively cascading, limitless potential blossoming in flux, the radiance of rapture, sorrow's devastation, Tran Anh Hung's Noruwei no mori (Norwegian Wood) sees young adults exploring the logistics of desire, fervidly fletched with nature's aromatic ineffability, like poignant, durable, pirouettes.
Exceptionally well-written characters enhanced via situational rationality and environmental temperamentality, exclaim raw spiritual secular synergies, and a defined sense of purpose, strengthened through relational ambiguities.
Some of the most beautiful moments I've seen in a film recently, Toru (Ken'ichi Matsuyama) and Naoko (Rinko Kikuchi) romancing on a windy day in the countryside, an impromptu performance of the titular Beatles's song (one of my favourites), Proust's Captive condensed into a short much less comic rendition of suffering, every scene featuring Midori (Kiko Mizuhara), the seasons changing, a waterfall.
Hyper-reactive withdrawn contemplative driven supportive devotion.
Amorphous amorous schematics.
Billowing wisps encrust.
Integrated imagination.
Substantial.
Exceptionally well-written characters enhanced via situational rationality and environmental temperamentality, exclaim raw spiritual secular synergies, and a defined sense of purpose, strengthened through relational ambiguities.
Some of the most beautiful moments I've seen in a film recently, Toru (Ken'ichi Matsuyama) and Naoko (Rinko Kikuchi) romancing on a windy day in the countryside, an impromptu performance of the titular Beatles's song (one of my favourites), Proust's Captive condensed into a short much less comic rendition of suffering, every scene featuring Midori (Kiko Mizuhara), the seasons changing, a waterfall.
Hyper-reactive withdrawn contemplative driven supportive devotion.
Amorphous amorous schematics.
Billowing wisps encrust.
Integrated imagination.
Substantial.
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Bai ri yan huo (Black Coal, Thin Ice)
Yi'nan Diao's Bai ri yan huo (Black Coal, Thin Ice) seems like his first shot at reimagining classic American film noir.
It's dark. Haunting. There's a sense of helplessness on both sides of the law. Wu Zhizhen (Lun Mei Gwei) necessarily seduces. The underground is diversified. Innocence liaises with crime. The investigator (Fan Liao as Zhang Zili) is committed to justice but otherwise an alcoholic sexually aggressive flake. Anxiety persists. Ambiguity laments.
But it's lacking a cultivated heightened sense of permanent desperate byzantine betrayal, the overt narrative shallow and sober when compared to The Big Sleep, The Maltese Falcon, or Trance, too disciplined, too formulaic, to visceralize a dismal atemporal malaise.
Multiplicity's the key.
Multiple egocentric prevaricating convoluted treacherous miscreants, sardonically conceiving obfuscated cul-de-sacs, clues within clues postulating neglect, perseverance sustained, adherence, maligned.
Bai ri yan huo is a solid debut demonstrating Diao's gifts ala cheek, crass, and cluster.
Several main characters speak, but don't play direct roles in the obscurity.
There isn't much collateral damage.
Solid film nonetheless.
It's dark. Haunting. There's a sense of helplessness on both sides of the law. Wu Zhizhen (Lun Mei Gwei) necessarily seduces. The underground is diversified. Innocence liaises with crime. The investigator (Fan Liao as Zhang Zili) is committed to justice but otherwise an alcoholic sexually aggressive flake. Anxiety persists. Ambiguity laments.
But it's lacking a cultivated heightened sense of permanent desperate byzantine betrayal, the overt narrative shallow and sober when compared to The Big Sleep, The Maltese Falcon, or Trance, too disciplined, too formulaic, to visceralize a dismal atemporal malaise.
Multiplicity's the key.
Multiple egocentric prevaricating convoluted treacherous miscreants, sardonically conceiving obfuscated cul-de-sacs, clues within clues postulating neglect, perseverance sustained, adherence, maligned.
Bai ri yan huo is a solid debut demonstrating Diao's gifts ala cheek, crass, and cluster.
Several main characters speak, but don't play direct roles in the obscurity.
There isn't much collateral damage.
Solid film nonetheless.
Saturday, August 30, 2014
Salaud, on t'aime (We Love You, Bastard)
The loveable bastard.
Gifted beyond reason, in touch with his emotions, loving, caring, accomplished.
But a total and complete cad when it comes to his dealings with the opposite sex.
Apart from his daughters.
4 with 4 different partners.
Whom he devotedly loves.
Salaud, on t'aime (We Love You, Bastard) is like going to a gift-shop in a bustling small mountain town.
Naturalistic beauty fastens its frames to adorable pristine picturesque attunements, romantically stressed, to vivify anew.
It does come across as somewhat too neat and tidy however, too picture perfect, all of the typical methods of gradually building tension remaining largely absent, all saved-up, for one startling traumatic release.
Stunning photography.
Loved the eagle. Would love to have a pet eagle. The eagle is awesome. But Claude Lelouch overdoes it a bit with the eagle.
Legitimate grievances.
Legitimate love.
Love spending time in the mountains.
Gifted beyond reason, in touch with his emotions, loving, caring, accomplished.
But a total and complete cad when it comes to his dealings with the opposite sex.
Apart from his daughters.
4 with 4 different partners.
Whom he devotedly loves.
Salaud, on t'aime (We Love You, Bastard) is like going to a gift-shop in a bustling small mountain town.
Naturalistic beauty fastens its frames to adorable pristine picturesque attunements, romantically stressed, to vivify anew.
It does come across as somewhat too neat and tidy however, too picture perfect, all of the typical methods of gradually building tension remaining largely absent, all saved-up, for one startling traumatic release.
Stunning photography.
Loved the eagle. Would love to have a pet eagle. The eagle is awesome. But Claude Lelouch overdoes it a bit with the eagle.
Legitimate grievances.
Legitimate love.
Love spending time in the mountains.
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
Closer to the Moon
A rebellious blend of frustration and boredom brought about by systematic degradations leads a group of former World War II freedom fighters to commit crimes against the Romanian state, in Nae Caranfil's Closer to the Moon, a lively comic recklessly bold statement, on the entrenchment of hypocrisy, exclusively settling in.
The dark side of socialism, permanent socialism existing outside the boundaries established by regular democratic elections, interminably demanding that everyone conform to a specific set of established principles, which serve to lavishly support the chosen incorruptible few.
Closer to the Moon's bank robbers were all members of the elite, but as the state took an antisemitic turn, even though Jewish people had played an integral role in its construction, their privileges and freedoms were gradually stripped away.
Left to flounder, they choose to enact political drama, which is quickly hushed-up, until the officials can attach a propagandistic lynchpin.
The gang plays along, revelling in the irreverently ironic freedoms brought about by being condemned to death.
They're full of life, overflowing with intensity, applying their wit to embellish each precept, gleefully gesticulating, to maximize their resolve.
The film itself functions in the same way, a spirited salute to freedom, chuckling and plucking away, emphasizing group strength as opposed to authoritative coercion.
Seen through the eyes of a starstruck youth.
The dark side of socialism, permanent socialism existing outside the boundaries established by regular democratic elections, interminably demanding that everyone conform to a specific set of established principles, which serve to lavishly support the chosen incorruptible few.
Closer to the Moon's bank robbers were all members of the elite, but as the state took an antisemitic turn, even though Jewish people had played an integral role in its construction, their privileges and freedoms were gradually stripped away.
Left to flounder, they choose to enact political drama, which is quickly hushed-up, until the officials can attach a propagandistic lynchpin.
The gang plays along, revelling in the irreverently ironic freedoms brought about by being condemned to death.
They're full of life, overflowing with intensity, applying their wit to embellish each precept, gleefully gesticulating, to maximize their resolve.
The film itself functions in the same way, a spirited salute to freedom, chuckling and plucking away, emphasizing group strength as opposed to authoritative coercion.
Seen through the eyes of a starstruck youth.
Sunday, August 24, 2014
Healing
Feel-good regenerative character building assignments can sternly yet sympathetically rehabilitate both inmate and injured bird alike, according to Craig Monahan's Healing, a family friendly sentimental melodrama.
Respectful, school-of-hard-knocksy, and well-rounded, with several strongly developed primary and secondary (somewhat one-dimensional) characters, it generically yet comprehensively annotates its subject matter, polarities within polarities structuring the altercations, emphasizing forgiveness and zoo therapy, and that no one can be left alone.
If you like animals, notably birds, there's a feast of endearing schmaltzy scenes within, the raptor Yasmin often used to transition, his facial expressions commenting on the action.
There's also a strong egalitarian dimension, Healing's principle character being an Iranian convict who was convicted for murder (Don Hany as Viktor Khadem), its narrative featuring his strengths and weaknesses as an individual, not as a member of a specific ethnicity, while still exploring aspects of his culture to indicate difference without effacing opportunity, giving both him and his Australian cohabitants an equal chance for release.
There are the odd ethnocentric slurs but they're residual, distastefully expressed.
The conflict within the polarities gives the story a gritty character which adds a real-world dimension to its ethics.
I still would have cut down the length by about 15 minutes, the cutesiness dulling its edge as too much time passes.
Respectful, school-of-hard-knocksy, and well-rounded, with several strongly developed primary and secondary (somewhat one-dimensional) characters, it generically yet comprehensively annotates its subject matter, polarities within polarities structuring the altercations, emphasizing forgiveness and zoo therapy, and that no one can be left alone.
If you like animals, notably birds, there's a feast of endearing schmaltzy scenes within, the raptor Yasmin often used to transition, his facial expressions commenting on the action.
There's also a strong egalitarian dimension, Healing's principle character being an Iranian convict who was convicted for murder (Don Hany as Viktor Khadem), its narrative featuring his strengths and weaknesses as an individual, not as a member of a specific ethnicity, while still exploring aspects of his culture to indicate difference without effacing opportunity, giving both him and his Australian cohabitants an equal chance for release.
There are the odd ethnocentric slurs but they're residual, distastefully expressed.
The conflict within the polarities gives the story a gritty character which adds a real-world dimension to its ethics.
I still would have cut down the length by about 15 minutes, the cutesiness dulling its edge as too much time passes.
Friday, August 22, 2014
Magic in the Moonlight
Cold disbelieving hallowed critical reservations cynically socialize themselves in Woody Allen's Magic in the Moonlight, intent on exposing the genuine article, whose youthful pluck, ravishingly portends.
It's scientific reason versus supernatural serendipity, the influence of the latter, interventioning mischievous universals.
With lunar exactitude.
Stanley Crawford (Colin Firth) is difficult to take as he asserts his cantankerous incredulity, as smug as he is exceptional, it's still fun to watch his stubborn transitions, his development of feelings, which can't be rationally explained.
Thanks to Sophie Baker (Emma Stone).
I've encountered too many startling coincidences to categorically deny the existence of the supernatural.
Just the other day, I changed an ______ online for the first time in years, and then, less than 2 hours later, I see my old _______, who was associated with the ___ ______, for the first time since then, casually walking by.
I'm _______ in the middle of nowhere and suddenly I see someone from the town where I grew up, we head out later, and s/he's reading _______ while I've just rented the movie.
It could have been an elaborate joke.
Strange though.
But the number of times nothing exceptionally coincidental takes place far outweighs the number of times something does, meaning that attempts to clarify the seemingly supernatural and base economic and/or political forecasts upon them can be thought of as being somewhat nutso, scientific reason reigning in these domains being of paramount importance, as long as it doesn't attempt to eliminate its spiritual competition.
Not Woody Allen's best, but Magic in the Moonlight does warmly call into question the practice of reasoning, deducing to high jink, which causes love to seem more beautiful.
Clever, quaint, obtuse, and restrained, it caresses and cuddles the curmudgeony, to clarify why some friendships last a lifetime.
It's scientific reason versus supernatural serendipity, the influence of the latter, interventioning mischievous universals.
With lunar exactitude.
Stanley Crawford (Colin Firth) is difficult to take as he asserts his cantankerous incredulity, as smug as he is exceptional, it's still fun to watch his stubborn transitions, his development of feelings, which can't be rationally explained.
Thanks to Sophie Baker (Emma Stone).
I've encountered too many startling coincidences to categorically deny the existence of the supernatural.
Just the other day, I changed an ______ online for the first time in years, and then, less than 2 hours later, I see my old _______, who was associated with the ___ ______, for the first time since then, casually walking by.
I'm _______ in the middle of nowhere and suddenly I see someone from the town where I grew up, we head out later, and s/he's reading _______ while I've just rented the movie.
It could have been an elaborate joke.
Strange though.
But the number of times nothing exceptionally coincidental takes place far outweighs the number of times something does, meaning that attempts to clarify the seemingly supernatural and base economic and/or political forecasts upon them can be thought of as being somewhat nutso, scientific reason reigning in these domains being of paramount importance, as long as it doesn't attempt to eliminate its spiritual competition.
Not Woody Allen's best, but Magic in the Moonlight does warmly call into question the practice of reasoning, deducing to high jink, which causes love to seem more beautiful.
Clever, quaint, obtuse, and restrained, it caresses and cuddles the curmudgeony, to clarify why some friendships last a lifetime.
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
Escalating like a tepid uninspired frantic boil, the new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles film never hesitates to nunchaku an identity of its own.
Formulaic without circumventing its conventions, accelerated at the expense of conscious depth, maudlin where it could have been instructive, taking its love of cheese pizza, far, far to far, it's kind of cool if you grew up with the characters, like a sand duned mediocrity, or going to a beach where you can't swim, but its secrets are revealed much too quickly, leaving no room for theories or suppositions, just blatant banal facts.
Perhaps I'm being too hard on the film.
It's obviously made for children under the age of 10.
Like a preparatory film designed to familiarize pre-adolescent audiences with the filmic structures they'll comprehend more elastically as their parents allow them to see films like The Avengers.
But, if I'm not mistaken, this same age group likely saw The Avengers, and were likely therefore prepared in advance for something with more depth, something with more than just a funny elevator scene.
April's (Megan Fox) a strong character, so is Vernon (Will Arnett), their interactions driving the narrative for viewing parents, Vernon's troubles time-honoured and tragic, April's pursuits, dedicated and commendable.
But still, I mean, wouldn't an 8-year-old know that her attempts to sell a tale about humanoid vigilante turtles to her boss without indisputable evidence would quickly be characterized as narcotic induced quackery, even if they're noble in their ingenuous search for the truth?
I suppose they would identify with April as their parents regularly dismiss the truths uncovered during their own sleuthful explorations.
I don't know.
Formulaic without circumventing its conventions, accelerated at the expense of conscious depth, maudlin where it could have been instructive, taking its love of cheese pizza, far, far to far, it's kind of cool if you grew up with the characters, like a sand duned mediocrity, or going to a beach where you can't swim, but its secrets are revealed much too quickly, leaving no room for theories or suppositions, just blatant banal facts.
Perhaps I'm being too hard on the film.
It's obviously made for children under the age of 10.
Like a preparatory film designed to familiarize pre-adolescent audiences with the filmic structures they'll comprehend more elastically as their parents allow them to see films like The Avengers.
But, if I'm not mistaken, this same age group likely saw The Avengers, and were likely therefore prepared in advance for something with more depth, something with more than just a funny elevator scene.
April's (Megan Fox) a strong character, so is Vernon (Will Arnett), their interactions driving the narrative for viewing parents, Vernon's troubles time-honoured and tragic, April's pursuits, dedicated and commendable.
But still, I mean, wouldn't an 8-year-old know that her attempts to sell a tale about humanoid vigilante turtles to her boss without indisputable evidence would quickly be characterized as narcotic induced quackery, even if they're noble in their ingenuous search for the truth?
I suppose they would identify with April as their parents regularly dismiss the truths uncovered during their own sleuthful explorations.
I don't know.
Friday, August 15, 2014
1987
Unwrinkling elaborated transformative identifiers, situated within familial, amicable, and relational pastimes, expressing frustration, fighting the system, striving to charismatically diversify, with neither recourse nor eligibility, Ricardo Trogi's 1987, operating offline yet still delivering value-added information, interrogates the injustices associated with being 17, starting-out on the bottom, while eagerly seeking amusement.
Ricardo Trogi (Jean-Carl Boucher) must confront the pressures of applying for his first loan, succeeding at his first job, to joyride, or not to joyride?, and answering questions associated with sex, all the while trying to maintain his own sense of purpose, imaginatively genuine, cast out into the real.
It's easy to relate, as you remember your own youthful application of television's guidance to the capitalistic structures faced when first entering the working world, as cruel and dismissive as they could be, eventually elevating with the passage of time.
Trogi hits a low point when his complaints cause him to lash out at his caring yet somewhat clueless father (Claudio Colangelo), who's doing his best to support him, without thoughtfully taking his point of view into consideration.
The film struggles when Trogi's friends fade into the background.
It's set-up like it will focus on their dynamics primarily, but Trogi's family and relationship woes come to occupy the forefront.
Which does lead to some entertaining sequences.
But the dynamics move from the exhilarating to the pontificating, and hilarious though the pontificating may be, especially when you're thinking about the film afterwards, it lacks the wild unrehearsed group dynamics of youth struggling to age.
Although most of the interactions Trogi has with his family and partner are wild and unrehearsed as well.
Ah, the omnipresent authorities are boldly counteracted.
From daydream to ambush.
Consequences abound.
Ricardo Trogi (Jean-Carl Boucher) must confront the pressures of applying for his first loan, succeeding at his first job, to joyride, or not to joyride?, and answering questions associated with sex, all the while trying to maintain his own sense of purpose, imaginatively genuine, cast out into the real.
It's easy to relate, as you remember your own youthful application of television's guidance to the capitalistic structures faced when first entering the working world, as cruel and dismissive as they could be, eventually elevating with the passage of time.
Trogi hits a low point when his complaints cause him to lash out at his caring yet somewhat clueless father (Claudio Colangelo), who's doing his best to support him, without thoughtfully taking his point of view into consideration.
The film struggles when Trogi's friends fade into the background.
It's set-up like it will focus on their dynamics primarily, but Trogi's family and relationship woes come to occupy the forefront.
Which does lead to some entertaining sequences.
But the dynamics move from the exhilarating to the pontificating, and hilarious though the pontificating may be, especially when you're thinking about the film afterwards, it lacks the wild unrehearsed group dynamics of youth struggling to age.
Although most of the interactions Trogi has with his family and partner are wild and unrehearsed as well.
Ah, the omnipresent authorities are boldly counteracted.
From daydream to ambush.
Consequences abound.
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
Guardians of the Galaxy
Penetrating deep within the lighthearted ventricles of fashionable intergalactic cysts, reflexive agility accommodating both the hunting of bounties and the wisecracking elite, plans projected then prorated, the deviants atomically deified, internal struggles, deconstructive precision, posterity balancing the incision of the blade, a rabble, a rabble arousing, athletic unexpected altruistic instance, for serenity's stringent spawn, the edification of the miscue, teamwork, trust, in tune.
Peter Quill (Chris Pratt) accidentally assembles a formidable team.
They have no choice but to restore order to the galaxy.
Well, not galaxy, more like the region of space they happen to be occupying.
She's green (Zoe Saldana as Gamora). Like on Star Trek.
The film intertextually plays with Star Wars as well, respecting, not glorifying, to hyperdrive into its own interplanetary perspectives.
And a characters says, "there's too many of them."
Searched for a YouTube collage but couldn't find one.
Classic.
I thoroughly enjoyed watching this band of misfits unite to attempt to thwart a fanatical genocidal dick, self-sustaining in their independence, stronger fighting as one.
Cheesy at times, but still raw, resplendent, and finicky.
Can't wait until they save the Avengers.
That must be coming up at some point.
Although, if the frequency of these films increases, curtailed earth shattering attempts to subjugate entire planets are going to start to seem humdrum, unless they continue striving for excellence.
Peter Quill saves Tony Stark, then gives him the finger.
On down the road.
Peter Quill (Chris Pratt) accidentally assembles a formidable team.
They have no choice but to restore order to the galaxy.
Well, not galaxy, more like the region of space they happen to be occupying.
She's green (Zoe Saldana as Gamora). Like on Star Trek.
The film intertextually plays with Star Wars as well, respecting, not glorifying, to hyperdrive into its own interplanetary perspectives.
And a characters says, "there's too many of them."
Searched for a YouTube collage but couldn't find one.
Classic.
I thoroughly enjoyed watching this band of misfits unite to attempt to thwart a fanatical genocidal dick, self-sustaining in their independence, stronger fighting as one.
Cheesy at times, but still raw, resplendent, and finicky.
Can't wait until they save the Avengers.
That must be coming up at some point.
Although, if the frequency of these films increases, curtailed earth shattering attempts to subjugate entire planets are going to start to seem humdrum, unless they continue striving for excellence.
Peter Quill saves Tony Stark, then gives him the finger.
On down the road.
Friday, August 8, 2014
O Lobo atrás da Porta (A Wolf at the Door)
Desire's stability taunts the victim of a brutish man's lust in Fernando Coimbra's O Lobo atrás da Porta (A Wolf at the Door), consuming her unworldly trusting desperation, a locked-latched-and-lesioned barricade, jaded withdrawn innocence, enraged, and vindictive.
Love for the transgressed.
Unforgivable abuse.
Atrocity begetting atrocity.
Wherein recoils the unleashed.
Oddly light, considering its subject matter, O Lobo atrás da Porta emphasizes contemplation as opposed to emotion while exfoliating an affair, a detective's blind recourse, to the facts, judiciously partaken.
The film's madness is kept hidden beneath a cloak of reason, its insulating logistics, perhaps too cerebral for its conditioning.
The score highlights this tension, erupting in intermittent bursts, reminiscent of Ennio Morricone's from The Thing (1982), striking yet transitory, harrowingly subdued.
Seduction.
Seclusion.
Possession.
Crime.
Love for the transgressed.
Unforgivable abuse.
Atrocity begetting atrocity.
Wherein recoils the unleashed.
Oddly light, considering its subject matter, O Lobo atrás da Porta emphasizes contemplation as opposed to emotion while exfoliating an affair, a detective's blind recourse, to the facts, judiciously partaken.
The film's madness is kept hidden beneath a cloak of reason, its insulating logistics, perhaps too cerebral for its conditioning.
The score highlights this tension, erupting in intermittent bursts, reminiscent of Ennio Morricone's from The Thing (1982), striking yet transitory, harrowingly subdued.
Seduction.
Seclusion.
Possession.
Crime.
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
Dawn of the Planet of the Apes
A community of apes is flourishing in the forests north of San Francisco, organized and thrifty endowed reactive brawn.
Humans must appease them to acquire a power source they need to continue growing and expanding, a power source lying within the ape's domain, war being an unpalatable option.
Unpalatable though it may be, both sides prepare for battle, while diplomatic agents attempt to harness cooperative wisdom, to the framework of a mutually beneficial future.
Peace and harmony reign for at least a solid three hours.
Before treachery incites.
Born of impenitent vengeance.
The film necessarily struggles to find its identity, as hostilities and passions obstruct the empowerment of conscience.
Perhaps it's too ape-centred for me, the wild productivity of the forest dominating the film's urban concentrations.
It points out that patience and understanding reside within the art of diplomacy, while focusing on how easily its designs are upset by spiteful infringements, the totality of objectification.
Which unleashes the violence of bedlam.
Crushing the foundation of dreams.
Humans must appease them to acquire a power source they need to continue growing and expanding, a power source lying within the ape's domain, war being an unpalatable option.
Unpalatable though it may be, both sides prepare for battle, while diplomatic agents attempt to harness cooperative wisdom, to the framework of a mutually beneficial future.
Peace and harmony reign for at least a solid three hours.
Before treachery incites.
Born of impenitent vengeance.
The film necessarily struggles to find its identity, as hostilities and passions obstruct the empowerment of conscience.
Perhaps it's too ape-centred for me, the wild productivity of the forest dominating the film's urban concentrations.
It points out that patience and understanding reside within the art of diplomacy, while focusing on how easily its designs are upset by spiteful infringements, the totality of objectification.
Which unleashes the violence of bedlam.
Crushing the foundation of dreams.
Thursday, July 31, 2014
Boyhood
Cradling incalculable creative mismatched fluencies, irregularly dispatched as an artist comes into being, Richard Linklater's Boyhood follows a struggling family's progressive course for more than a decade, intermingling climactic catalysts and laid-back observations to serialize the traumatic and the beautiful, the courageous and the chill, helpless free-flowing resilient tenacity, a pervasive sense of wonder, enlightened, eiderdown.
Nice to see an asshole who isn't loveable.
What a strong mother (Patricia Arquette).
Responsibility and teaching are major factors, the children living with their mother, spending weekends with their father, encountering caring facilitators of learning along the way.
Dad (Ethan Hawke) steals a lot of scenes because he has less responsibility and can therefore spend more time being cool, but mom commands more respect, having to make extremely difficult choices as her stable partners turn into beasts.
I liked how the film's divided into different sections as the children age without seeming like it's divided at all; Boyhood has a seamless continuous flow which maturely reflects the passing of the years by not choosing to focus too intently on significant events, while still unreeling cogently enough to recognize their developmental importance.
This style also allows Linklater's characters to smoothly change and grow without constant reminders that they are changing and growing, which may have become tiresome.
Nice to see an asshole who isn't loveable.
What a strong mother (Patricia Arquette).
Responsibility and teaching are major factors, the children living with their mother, spending weekends with their father, encountering caring facilitators of learning along the way.
Dad (Ethan Hawke) steals a lot of scenes because he has less responsibility and can therefore spend more time being cool, but mom commands more respect, having to make extremely difficult choices as her stable partners turn into beasts.
I liked how the film's divided into different sections as the children age without seeming like it's divided at all; Boyhood has a seamless continuous flow which maturely reflects the passing of the years by not choosing to focus too intently on significant events, while still unreeling cogently enough to recognize their developmental importance.
This style also allows Linklater's characters to smoothly change and grow without constant reminders that they are changing and growing, which may have become tiresome.
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
Chef
Don't know what to make of Jon Favreau's Chef.
It has all the ingredients to be a great film, strong cast, relatable situation, strong characters, heartwarming familial pains, a professional individual's difficulties maintaining a sane work/life balance, artistic expression versus profit-based-strategies, cool tattoo, emphasis on resiliency, neat way to move forward, chill sophisticated artistry sustaining a team, acclimatizations to contemporary phenomenons (social networking issues), crisis, tenacity, rebirth, economic realities respected in terms of friendship, change, coming together, growth, it inspires its audience to diversify their outputs, family friendly yet not picture perfect, imbroglios, composure.
I like all of these things.
But Chef just wasn't my style.
Ah well.
It has all the ingredients to be a great film, strong cast, relatable situation, strong characters, heartwarming familial pains, a professional individual's difficulties maintaining a sane work/life balance, artistic expression versus profit-based-strategies, cool tattoo, emphasis on resiliency, neat way to move forward, chill sophisticated artistry sustaining a team, acclimatizations to contemporary phenomenons (social networking issues), crisis, tenacity, rebirth, economic realities respected in terms of friendship, change, coming together, growth, it inspires its audience to diversify their outputs, family friendly yet not picture perfect, imbroglios, composure.
I like all of these things.
But Chef just wasn't my style.
Ah well.
Friday, July 25, 2014
Snowpiercer
The ravages of global warming have accidentally imprisoned the last surviving members of humanity on an invincible super train, Sheldon Cooper's purist blast of ecstasy, which travels the entire globe over the span of a year, codifying condensed calisthenics, perpetual in its autarkic motions.
Built to function as an enviropolitical scientist's incendiary trench-line, if they like quenching sensationally instructive transistors, a fierce class struggle has erupted within, its boiling point having been reactively reached, crisis, calamity, infraction, the oppressed rebelliously coming into being, extinction, be concisely damned.
It comes down to the food supply.
Mixed in with spatial limitations.
Unprepared perplexing stamina.
Jackass authoritative guidelines.
Why the train's supreme ruler chose to employ an oppressive model to govern his domain after the potential for continuous expansion was obliterated, speaks to the ridiculousness of his model itself, as well as the preponderance of its all-encompassing indoctrinations.
The price of a ticket bears consequences eternal.
The population would have to be controlled, but why one section lives in luxury while the other has to resort to cannibalism makes no sense.
The torches made me think of Plato's cave.
The key is solutions precipitated by a lack of preparation.
John Hurt (Gilliam) is showing up in everything cool these days.
Sheldon Cooper would probably have serious issues with the train.
It would be a great lecture.
At least one other species survives.
Built to function as an enviropolitical scientist's incendiary trench-line, if they like quenching sensationally instructive transistors, a fierce class struggle has erupted within, its boiling point having been reactively reached, crisis, calamity, infraction, the oppressed rebelliously coming into being, extinction, be concisely damned.
It comes down to the food supply.
Mixed in with spatial limitations.
Unprepared perplexing stamina.
Jackass authoritative guidelines.
Why the train's supreme ruler chose to employ an oppressive model to govern his domain after the potential for continuous expansion was obliterated, speaks to the ridiculousness of his model itself, as well as the preponderance of its all-encompassing indoctrinations.
The price of a ticket bears consequences eternal.
The population would have to be controlled, but why one section lives in luxury while the other has to resort to cannibalism makes no sense.
The torches made me think of Plato's cave.
The key is solutions precipitated by a lack of preparation.
John Hurt (Gilliam) is showing up in everything cool these days.
Sheldon Cooper would probably have serious issues with the train.
It would be a great lecture.
At least one other species survives.
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
My Sweet Pepper Land
In a remote section of the land of the Kurds, in a remote section, of, Kurdistan, a raw independent audacious subject, committed above all else to upholding law and order, a hero to his people, fearless of the unknown, begins to confront village crime, directly, stubbornly, and effectively, dedicated instinctual calculated improvisation, challenge discovered, in the interests of nation building.
Also living in the village, attempting to teach its uneducated school children, is a feisty strong-willed educator, who also has trouble handling entrenched corruption, refusing to marry at the request of her brothers (who live elsewhere), subverting what they consider to be their lawful authority, majestically playing the hang drum.
Discovered the name of her instrument from Jordan Hoffman's research.
I think of the film as having two main thrusts, Baran's (Korkmaz Arslan) attempts to install a sense of justice in the region, and the coming together of Baran and Govend (Golshifteh Farahani).
It has elements of the classic American Western but its budget prevents it from convincingly executing in this domain.
However, Baran and Govend's relationship forges a very convincing kinetic bond, reminding me more of Bollywood than Hollywood, tumultuously holding the film together.
Hiner Saleem's My Sweet Pepper Land is no minor film in terms of what he sets out to do (have to discuss the ending here).
With the fall of Saddam Hussein, the Kurds have achieved a degree of independence.
My Sweet Pepper Land asks what can be done with this newfound independence, how should our nation be built?
Patriarchal authority is strong in the film, counterbalanced, however, by both Govend and a group of female guerrilla fighters.
Both Baran and Govend are interested in nation building, through governance and education respectively, yet resist familial pressures to marry someone for whom they have no feelings.
It's more of a Western model.
It seemed like Saleem was saying that if Kurdistan is to come into being, it should be guided by a strong sense of morality (Baran's law upholding), yet, Govend and Baran's union indicates that he believes that that strong sense of morality should be influenced by substantial individual freedoms.
My Sweet Pepper Land's brilliant move comes near the end when Govend firmly resists the demands of her brothers.
I was expecting Baran to show up to assist, but he doesn't, she resists on her own.
The ending sees them calling out to one another in the wilderness, searching for the other's embrace. The credits role before they find one another, thereby suggesting that the possibility for substantial individual freedoms as well as equal opportunity regardless of gender exist within Kurdistan's developing autonomy, and it's up to progressively minded Kurdish people, to bring Govend and Baran together.
Hoping the soundtrack becomes available.
Saleem does make the most of his budget, peppering his filmscape with nature's beauty, capturing a hawk in flight (think it's a hawk), or the moon and the mountains in the background as Govend approaches the camera's eye.
Also living in the village, attempting to teach its uneducated school children, is a feisty strong-willed educator, who also has trouble handling entrenched corruption, refusing to marry at the request of her brothers (who live elsewhere), subverting what they consider to be their lawful authority, majestically playing the hang drum.
Discovered the name of her instrument from Jordan Hoffman's research.
I think of the film as having two main thrusts, Baran's (Korkmaz Arslan) attempts to install a sense of justice in the region, and the coming together of Baran and Govend (Golshifteh Farahani).
It has elements of the classic American Western but its budget prevents it from convincingly executing in this domain.
However, Baran and Govend's relationship forges a very convincing kinetic bond, reminding me more of Bollywood than Hollywood, tumultuously holding the film together.
Hiner Saleem's My Sweet Pepper Land is no minor film in terms of what he sets out to do (have to discuss the ending here).
With the fall of Saddam Hussein, the Kurds have achieved a degree of independence.
My Sweet Pepper Land asks what can be done with this newfound independence, how should our nation be built?
Patriarchal authority is strong in the film, counterbalanced, however, by both Govend and a group of female guerrilla fighters.
Both Baran and Govend are interested in nation building, through governance and education respectively, yet resist familial pressures to marry someone for whom they have no feelings.
It's more of a Western model.
It seemed like Saleem was saying that if Kurdistan is to come into being, it should be guided by a strong sense of morality (Baran's law upholding), yet, Govend and Baran's union indicates that he believes that that strong sense of morality should be influenced by substantial individual freedoms.
My Sweet Pepper Land's brilliant move comes near the end when Govend firmly resists the demands of her brothers.
I was expecting Baran to show up to assist, but he doesn't, she resists on her own.
The ending sees them calling out to one another in the wilderness, searching for the other's embrace. The credits role before they find one another, thereby suggesting that the possibility for substantial individual freedoms as well as equal opportunity regardless of gender exist within Kurdistan's developing autonomy, and it's up to progressively minded Kurdish people, to bring Govend and Baran together.
Hoping the soundtrack becomes available.
Saleem does make the most of his budget, peppering his filmscape with nature's beauty, capturing a hawk in flight (think it's a hawk), or the moon and the mountains in the background as Govend approaches the camera's eye.
Friday, July 18, 2014
Tammy
Crushed by the impact of three significant life altering events, young Tammy (Melissa McCarthy) hits the road with Grandma (Susan Sarandon), destination, Niagara Falls, fuel intake, anything containing alcohol, issues, several issues present themselves, confidence, emphatic, invective, and sworn, tested through the pertinence of picturesque pit-stops, cavorted, as night descends, and the juniper flushes its aromatic cones.
Lessons learned.
Hold-ups congenialized.
Hydrosonic viking burials.
The modest and the mouthpiece.
Fashionably fermenting a fetching frisky fawn, mobilizing jail-time while standardizing the getaway, Tammy transitions both its tempers and its testaments, to lampoon highs in earnest, while pinpointing the pressures, of barometric bonds.
Co-written by McCarthy (also written by director Ben Falcone), I think she can do better.
It's alright, but a long way from Anchorman 2.
I was searching for a feel-good slightly raunchy twirl-a-whirl summertime swing, and Tammy synchronously delivered.
That's what it did.
Was thinking of my favourite films of Summer earlier that day and The Great Outdoors popped into my head, which fit well.
Thought more could have been done with Gary Cole.
Another Brady Bunch sequel?
Written by Ms. McCarthy?
There's got to be a market for another Brady Bunch film.
From the White House, to Alaska.
Or, Kansas.
Down on the farm.
Lessons learned.
Hold-ups congenialized.
Hydrosonic viking burials.
The modest and the mouthpiece.
Fashionably fermenting a fetching frisky fawn, mobilizing jail-time while standardizing the getaway, Tammy transitions both its tempers and its testaments, to lampoon highs in earnest, while pinpointing the pressures, of barometric bonds.
Co-written by McCarthy (also written by director Ben Falcone), I think she can do better.
It's alright, but a long way from Anchorman 2.
I was searching for a feel-good slightly raunchy twirl-a-whirl summertime swing, and Tammy synchronously delivered.
That's what it did.
Was thinking of my favourite films of Summer earlier that day and The Great Outdoors popped into my head, which fit well.
Thought more could have been done with Gary Cole.
Another Brady Bunch sequel?
Written by Ms. McCarthy?
There's got to be a market for another Brady Bunch film.
From the White House, to Alaska.
Or, Kansas.
Down on the farm.
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
Ida
Diametrically opposed feminine caricatures, each possessing their own semantic strengths, volatile penitence, the vixen's splurge, contextualize their continuum within Ida's scene, after and during their first unexpected meeting.
They're related.
One is about to take her vows.
The other struggles with her political legacy.
The younger seeks to discover the whereabouts of her dead parents, killed during World War II, her aunt is able to assist, they set out to interrogate 20th century Polish history, stylizing their familial cross-section, with upbeat moving jazzy consolidations.
Existentializing the saxophone.
As blunt, bellicose, and bitchin' as it is chaste and resigned, Pawel Pawlikowski's Ida solemnly soars through perceptible heights, contemporary fusions stern and frolicked, olives, rye bread, beemsters, or a fast with a glass of Soplica.
Unassailable friction diffused in check.
Begets temptation.
An hourglass.
For a crucible's chime.
Perfect companion piece for Robert Bresson's Diary of a Country Priest.
They're related.
One is about to take her vows.
The other struggles with her political legacy.
The younger seeks to discover the whereabouts of her dead parents, killed during World War II, her aunt is able to assist, they set out to interrogate 20th century Polish history, stylizing their familial cross-section, with upbeat moving jazzy consolidations.
Existentializing the saxophone.
As blunt, bellicose, and bitchin' as it is chaste and resigned, Pawel Pawlikowski's Ida solemnly soars through perceptible heights, contemporary fusions stern and frolicked, olives, rye bread, beemsters, or a fast with a glass of Soplica.
Unassailable friction diffused in check.
Begets temptation.
An hourglass.
For a crucible's chime.
Perfect companion piece for Robert Bresson's Diary of a Country Priest.
Monday, July 14, 2014
Borgman
The bourgeois patriarchy finds unconditional support in Alex van Warmerdam's Borgman, a poignantly pointless florescent canker, rifle at the ready, red alert middle-class aesthetics.
While viewing, you may find yourself considering at least two questions, the first, why in hell would anyone make something like this?, the second, is this the pinnacle of paranoid stereotyped fabled uncensored grit, the beast aimlessly targeting the beauty, the arrogance of a stifled hypodermic, unreeling like a Criterion in the making?
The only film to ever remind me of Jerzy Skolimowski's The Shout.
It could have been an after school special direly warning teens not to hitchhike.
Or a film where a plane crashes in Alaska and wolves communally hunt down the survivors.
Instead, suburban peace and tranquility is infiltrated by a troupe of travelling possibly demonic psychopaths, who, in this instance, seek employment in order to use the tools at their disposal to create a platform upon which they intend to put on a show, the couple's wife residing in their grip, the husband, completely oblivious.
Discontent is sewn.
I'm assuming Warmerdam has worked a Dutch fairy tale or legend of some kind into his script, the film seeming as if it's a crisp contemporary take on a medieval horror, with cars and cellphones, although the fact that it seemed that way to me is based on my assumption.
Off they go, into the forest.
If there were still bears in the Netherlands, keeping with the fairy tale hypothesis, they would be on the lookout.
Bears were obviously guardians of the forest in Dutch fairy tales/legends.
I know nothing about the Netherlands.
While viewing, you may find yourself considering at least two questions, the first, why in hell would anyone make something like this?, the second, is this the pinnacle of paranoid stereotyped fabled uncensored grit, the beast aimlessly targeting the beauty, the arrogance of a stifled hypodermic, unreeling like a Criterion in the making?
The only film to ever remind me of Jerzy Skolimowski's The Shout.
It could have been an after school special direly warning teens not to hitchhike.
Or a film where a plane crashes in Alaska and wolves communally hunt down the survivors.
Instead, suburban peace and tranquility is infiltrated by a troupe of travelling possibly demonic psychopaths, who, in this instance, seek employment in order to use the tools at their disposal to create a platform upon which they intend to put on a show, the couple's wife residing in their grip, the husband, completely oblivious.
Discontent is sewn.
I'm assuming Warmerdam has worked a Dutch fairy tale or legend of some kind into his script, the film seeming as if it's a crisp contemporary take on a medieval horror, with cars and cellphones, although the fact that it seemed that way to me is based on my assumption.
Off they go, into the forest.
If there were still bears in the Netherlands, keeping with the fairy tale hypothesis, they would be on the lookout.
Bears were obviously guardians of the forest in Dutch fairy tales/legends.
I know nothing about the Netherlands.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
La Vénus à la fourrure (Venus in Fur)
Ceremoniously shifting from breaking wave to breaking wave, cast adrift to buoyantly submerge, the surf submissively dominating, an exacting cyclical shock, one young playwright, fascinated by insubordination, jostling the erotically profane, is interrupted, is, slowly, commodified, undeniably secure in his misplacements, subdued emphatic gusts, assured of their tidal pertinence, to enact the derailment of triumph.
On its own terms.
Ambiguity/ambivalence beguilingly solemnizes the dialectic, the exchange, a protracted piecemeal purge, sensuously persuasive, overpoweringly contained.
As the page turns.
A reading.
Precision.
Opportunity.
Mesmerizing mythical lambasted seduction generously vouchsafes its domineering obsequiousness, in Roman Polanski's crippling La Vénus à la fourrure (Venus in Furs), existentialism be damned, fiesta.
My favourite filmic adaptation of a play with a small cast and minimal setting is Sidney Lumet's Long Day's Journey into Night, but La Vénus à la fourrure now firmly occupies second place in my thoughts, due to Emmanuelle Seigner and Mathieu Amalric's powerful performances.
Opulently humble.
The ending was a surprise since it makes a definitive suggestion, although ambiguity remains, only a vestige however.
I would have faded with him tied to the cactus.
There must have been passionate arguments here.
Perhaps the definitive suggestion makes for a stronger ending.
I admit to being a sucker for critical controversy.
Not that there isn't plenty of critical controversy in the film.
You could argue that it's about the aesthetics of critical controversies themselves.
The whole night through.
On its own terms.
Ambiguity/ambivalence beguilingly solemnizes the dialectic, the exchange, a protracted piecemeal purge, sensuously persuasive, overpoweringly contained.
As the page turns.
A reading.
Precision.
Opportunity.
Mesmerizing mythical lambasted seduction generously vouchsafes its domineering obsequiousness, in Roman Polanski's crippling La Vénus à la fourrure (Venus in Furs), existentialism be damned, fiesta.
My favourite filmic adaptation of a play with a small cast and minimal setting is Sidney Lumet's Long Day's Journey into Night, but La Vénus à la fourrure now firmly occupies second place in my thoughts, due to Emmanuelle Seigner and Mathieu Amalric's powerful performances.
Opulently humble.
The ending was a surprise since it makes a definitive suggestion, although ambiguity remains, only a vestige however.
I would have faded with him tied to the cactus.
There must have been passionate arguments here.
Perhaps the definitive suggestion makes for a stronger ending.
I admit to being a sucker for critical controversy.
Not that there isn't plenty of critical controversy in the film.
You could argue that it's about the aesthetics of critical controversies themselves.
The whole night through.
Saturday, July 5, 2014
Transformers: Age of Extinction
Humanity has forsaken and betrayed the Autobots in the latest Transformers sequel, forcing them to strategically dissimulate in order to avoid detection.
An intergalactic jailer by the name of Lockdown (Mark Ryan) seeks to imprison Optimus Prime (Peter Cullen), punishing him for disobeying his creators, uniformly inhibiting his hard-fought freedom fighting.
Megatron's brain has been harvested and the technological secrets residing within have led brilliant scientist Joshua Joyce (Stanley Tucci) to believe that the power of the Transformer can be governed by Homo sapiens.
A new generation of Transformer is therefore created, to be used as military drones, the Autobots having become obsolete.
Fortunately a feisty independent struggling inventor has discovered the whereabouts of Mr. Prime, and he remembers the sacrifices he made, improvisationally fighting by his side.
Scolding his young daughter all the while.
The resulting combat, wherein the American individual boldly teams up with the abandoned to challenge the forces of oppression, is ingeniously summed up in the film's best scene, which sees Mr. Joyce cowering in a Hong Kong elevator, a momentary respite, from the cataclysmic confrontations.
Anyone notice the apartment complexes in Hong Kong?
Wow.
The act of creation unites the converging storylines, along with issues of operational control, to thematically cap the series's 4th instalment.
Convincingly hypothesizing a new set of sociotechnological indicators, while economically aligning them for the film's terrestrial inhabitants, earning a living subconsciously contends with manufacturing a soul, to experimentally produce a sensationally revelled playing field.
Because Age of Extinction is so long, the introduction of the Dinobots seems somewhat tacked-on.
However, the introduction of the Dinobots, is, awesome.
The President doesn't make an appearance and I'm betting when he or she does it turns out to be one of the members of Dark of the Moon's most disputatious romantic couplings.
Their presence was missing from Age of Extinction.
But the anticipation is something to look forward to.
An intergalactic jailer by the name of Lockdown (Mark Ryan) seeks to imprison Optimus Prime (Peter Cullen), punishing him for disobeying his creators, uniformly inhibiting his hard-fought freedom fighting.
Megatron's brain has been harvested and the technological secrets residing within have led brilliant scientist Joshua Joyce (Stanley Tucci) to believe that the power of the Transformer can be governed by Homo sapiens.
A new generation of Transformer is therefore created, to be used as military drones, the Autobots having become obsolete.
Fortunately a feisty independent struggling inventor has discovered the whereabouts of Mr. Prime, and he remembers the sacrifices he made, improvisationally fighting by his side.
Scolding his young daughter all the while.
The resulting combat, wherein the American individual boldly teams up with the abandoned to challenge the forces of oppression, is ingeniously summed up in the film's best scene, which sees Mr. Joyce cowering in a Hong Kong elevator, a momentary respite, from the cataclysmic confrontations.
Anyone notice the apartment complexes in Hong Kong?
Wow.
The act of creation unites the converging storylines, along with issues of operational control, to thematically cap the series's 4th instalment.
Convincingly hypothesizing a new set of sociotechnological indicators, while economically aligning them for the film's terrestrial inhabitants, earning a living subconsciously contends with manufacturing a soul, to experimentally produce a sensationally revelled playing field.
Because Age of Extinction is so long, the introduction of the Dinobots seems somewhat tacked-on.
However, the introduction of the Dinobots, is, awesome.
The President doesn't make an appearance and I'm betting when he or she does it turns out to be one of the members of Dark of the Moon's most disputatious romantic couplings.
Their presence was missing from Age of Extinction.
But the anticipation is something to look forward to.
Saturday, June 28, 2014
22 Jump Street
Unrepentantly unashamed of its recycled ripple effect, yet excelling where Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me did not, 22 Jump Street revisits 21 Jump Street's plot, counting on the strength of its reflexes to convincingly entertain, Hill (Schmidt) and Tatum (Jenko) demonstrating that they've still got it, poetry, football, college, weak on plot but undeniably hilarious, their humouristic confidence reliably overpowering the need to expand, not that they don't bromantically exemplify, how to sustain a flexible working partnership.
The bromance, introduced at the outset with a comparative illustration of both yin, and yang, holds the film together, breaking away to adhesively unite, strategizing football connections in the meantime, relationships, parenting, age.
Giving minor characters from the first film a larger role in the second can work, and it works well in 22 Jump Street, Ice Cube (Captain Dickson) furiously losing it at one point, Tatum's additions to the motif, a side-splitting shining moment.
Hill's best scene comes in the form of an improv slam poetry reaction.
I'm wondering if they wrote his poem beforehand, in which case he should be applauded for his ability to believably pretend to be improving, or, in the case that he did improv his poem, he should be seriously applauded for delivering some successful semantic syllabic breakdowns, immediate and inferential, confident and spry.
Either way, he makes a bold fashion statement.
Is 22 Jump Street a left wing film?
The yin seems to be represented by the more sensitive thoughtful Schmidt, Jenko representing the yang.
But equating sensitivity with the left and aggression with the right is somewhat stereotypical, an organized left often functioning highly combatively, the right seeming quite timid when living outside its comfort zone for extended periods.
What I've just described somewhat reflects Jenko's role in the film, as he is quite timid when interacting with the more intellectually gifted Schmidt, yet, when it comes to applying what he's learned in his human sexuality course, he isn't afraid to defend groups traditionally ignored by the right, making a great point about the problems associated with silence, such actions breaking him away from his social comfort zone, which I would be guilty of examining stereotypically if I thought it didn't support Jenko's actions, it doesn't come up but Jenko does start searching for something more, what he's missing being the fire enflamed through his arguments with Schmidt, that fire enabling them to cohesively function highly combatively, as long as they remain organized, which they do as time goes by.
The Colleges of the United States of America may wish to explore the issue further.
Having Peter Stormare (The Ghost) complain about how things were better in the 90s was a nice touch.
Has he ever been in a Woody Allen movie?
Libraries are unfairly examined.
It's a funny plot device.
But nothing beats having the physical book in-hand.
The bromance, introduced at the outset with a comparative illustration of both yin, and yang, holds the film together, breaking away to adhesively unite, strategizing football connections in the meantime, relationships, parenting, age.
Giving minor characters from the first film a larger role in the second can work, and it works well in 22 Jump Street, Ice Cube (Captain Dickson) furiously losing it at one point, Tatum's additions to the motif, a side-splitting shining moment.
Hill's best scene comes in the form of an improv slam poetry reaction.
I'm wondering if they wrote his poem beforehand, in which case he should be applauded for his ability to believably pretend to be improving, or, in the case that he did improv his poem, he should be seriously applauded for delivering some successful semantic syllabic breakdowns, immediate and inferential, confident and spry.
Either way, he makes a bold fashion statement.
Is 22 Jump Street a left wing film?
The yin seems to be represented by the more sensitive thoughtful Schmidt, Jenko representing the yang.
But equating sensitivity with the left and aggression with the right is somewhat stereotypical, an organized left often functioning highly combatively, the right seeming quite timid when living outside its comfort zone for extended periods.
What I've just described somewhat reflects Jenko's role in the film, as he is quite timid when interacting with the more intellectually gifted Schmidt, yet, when it comes to applying what he's learned in his human sexuality course, he isn't afraid to defend groups traditionally ignored by the right, making a great point about the problems associated with silence, such actions breaking him away from his social comfort zone, which I would be guilty of examining stereotypically if I thought it didn't support Jenko's actions, it doesn't come up but Jenko does start searching for something more, what he's missing being the fire enflamed through his arguments with Schmidt, that fire enabling them to cohesively function highly combatively, as long as they remain organized, which they do as time goes by.
The Colleges of the United States of America may wish to explore the issue further.
Having Peter Stormare (The Ghost) complain about how things were better in the 90s was a nice touch.
Has he ever been in a Woody Allen movie?
Libraries are unfairly examined.
It's a funny plot device.
But nothing beats having the physical book in-hand.
Friday, June 27, 2014
Maleficent
Two kingdoms bordering one another, although kingdoms is the wrong choice of word, for although one is certainly the domain of a king, the other has no definitive ruler.
The other's strongest is respected, however, due to her extraordinary abilities, and her application of them, to the art of realm protection.
An act of charity sparks a romantic flame between occupants of the divergent lands, but whereas a magical aura of egalitarian majesty permeates the one, greed and covetousness rule the other, the relationship's male component residing in the later, not that such couples need be composed of both males and females, a fact the filmmakers use to circuitously cultivate their filmscape.
He craves more power.
And ignominiously betrays.
His betrayal has consequences for both the victim and the beast, as darkness reluctantly descends, to clarify his inestimable wickedness.
The couple comes of age.
And a child is born.
Regally recalling and extending Snow White and the Huntsman's proverbial special effects, comically synthesizing the free and the dependent, ravenously adjudicating a curse's immutability, while cloistering the innocent in an ominous crown of thorns, Maleficent tacitly tracks the course of the fairy tale, abiding by while transgressing, its traditional fantastic forms.
Beautifully stipulated and tragically adorned, it presents insights and prohibitions regarding love's cautious stealth, preferring loyalty to might, the incandescent, to the miser.
The other's strongest is respected, however, due to her extraordinary abilities, and her application of them, to the art of realm protection.
An act of charity sparks a romantic flame between occupants of the divergent lands, but whereas a magical aura of egalitarian majesty permeates the one, greed and covetousness rule the other, the relationship's male component residing in the later, not that such couples need be composed of both males and females, a fact the filmmakers use to circuitously cultivate their filmscape.
He craves more power.
And ignominiously betrays.
His betrayal has consequences for both the victim and the beast, as darkness reluctantly descends, to clarify his inestimable wickedness.
The couple comes of age.
And a child is born.
Regally recalling and extending Snow White and the Huntsman's proverbial special effects, comically synthesizing the free and the dependent, ravenously adjudicating a curse's immutability, while cloistering the innocent in an ominous crown of thorns, Maleficent tacitly tracks the course of the fairy tale, abiding by while transgressing, its traditional fantastic forms.
Beautifully stipulated and tragically adorned, it presents insights and prohibitions regarding love's cautious stealth, preferring loyalty to might, the incandescent, to the miser.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Jeune & jolie (Young & Beautiful)
A cold stark excessively gratuitous portrait of a teenage sociopath, François Ozon's Jeune & jolie (Young and Beautiful) casts a chilling unresponsive gaze at bourgeois stability's apathetic spectre.
It's bare bones.
Or helplessly destructive.
Suddenly nothing interests Isabelle (Marine Vacth) besides pleasure, and she decides to search for this pleasure while earning a comfortable income.
It might be an experiment.
It's as if she can't recognize the danger, or lasciviously profits from its vicious prospects.
Ordinary or traditional forms of social interaction, rich in diverse variations on manifold themes themselves, relationships, poetry, familial warmth, simply hold no interest, a wild rebellious ingénue, blindly and recklessly courting the dark side.
The film's naked manuscript can't adequately capture the depth of her mother's sense of abandonment, but this inherent emotional vapidity augments Isabelle's carnality.
Like Belle du jour without the consequences, Jeune & jolie's bland calculated immature desire precipitates a baleful hush, violently curtailing the flowering of youth, its empty excesses, pathologizing discourses of the beautiful.
It's bare bones.
Or helplessly destructive.
Suddenly nothing interests Isabelle (Marine Vacth) besides pleasure, and she decides to search for this pleasure while earning a comfortable income.
It might be an experiment.
It's as if she can't recognize the danger, or lasciviously profits from its vicious prospects.
Ordinary or traditional forms of social interaction, rich in diverse variations on manifold themes themselves, relationships, poetry, familial warmth, simply hold no interest, a wild rebellious ingénue, blindly and recklessly courting the dark side.
The film's naked manuscript can't adequately capture the depth of her mother's sense of abandonment, but this inherent emotional vapidity augments Isabelle's carnality.
Like Belle du jour without the consequences, Jeune & jolie's bland calculated immature desire precipitates a baleful hush, violently curtailing the flowering of youth, its empty excesses, pathologizing discourses of the beautiful.
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
A Million Ways to Die in the West
A Million Ways to Die in the West's opening credits make it clear that nothing within is to be taken seriously.
They playfully ambush a stunning solar-powered sight, calling its dynamism into question, while mischievously reinforcing it at the same time.
Within this ambush lies MacFarlane's gambit, can his wise-cracking intertextual self-aware stir-crazy sense of humour be applied to a Western filmscape, in 1882, the setting wild and untamed, the middle-class, struggling to define itself?
It's a bold move. Apart from Blazing Saddles, Westerns generally lack this kind of exposure. In the spirit of the wild west MacFarlane explores new ground, faces up to the challenge, diversifies, drills, prospects, but the booty accumulated, unfortunately, fails to impress.
The blend's too sour.
That could be the point.
It's not that his chemistry with Anna (Charlize Theron) isn't soluble, or that I didn't love seeing intelligent book smarts talk their way out of multiple gunfights.
The jokes just aren't very sustainable.
Take the moustache song, brilliant idea, but it falls flat, like having nothing but the option of straight whiskey, there's contentment in the availability, but stomach pain in the habituation.
Doc Brown's (Christopher Lloyd) cameo distills what I mean, this device having worked for MacFarlane ad infinitum in his other works, but it just seems bland in A Million Ways's context.
But there is another Back to the Future reference, a bit a subtle foreshadowing, in the form of the old prospector, played by the loveable Matt Clark.
With his lil' dog Plugger.
The subtlety of this reference was more powerful, relating directly to the difficulties Albert's (Seth MacFarlane) having asserting himself in the desert, the Doc Brown reference functioning like the response he generally receives from his neighbours, within the film's meta-formalities.
Correct.
That's correct.
They playfully ambush a stunning solar-powered sight, calling its dynamism into question, while mischievously reinforcing it at the same time.
Within this ambush lies MacFarlane's gambit, can his wise-cracking intertextual self-aware stir-crazy sense of humour be applied to a Western filmscape, in 1882, the setting wild and untamed, the middle-class, struggling to define itself?
It's a bold move. Apart from Blazing Saddles, Westerns generally lack this kind of exposure. In the spirit of the wild west MacFarlane explores new ground, faces up to the challenge, diversifies, drills, prospects, but the booty accumulated, unfortunately, fails to impress.
The blend's too sour.
That could be the point.
It's not that his chemistry with Anna (Charlize Theron) isn't soluble, or that I didn't love seeing intelligent book smarts talk their way out of multiple gunfights.
The jokes just aren't very sustainable.
Take the moustache song, brilliant idea, but it falls flat, like having nothing but the option of straight whiskey, there's contentment in the availability, but stomach pain in the habituation.
Doc Brown's (Christopher Lloyd) cameo distills what I mean, this device having worked for MacFarlane ad infinitum in his other works, but it just seems bland in A Million Ways's context.
But there is another Back to the Future reference, a bit a subtle foreshadowing, in the form of the old prospector, played by the loveable Matt Clark.
With his lil' dog Plugger.
The subtlety of this reference was more powerful, relating directly to the difficulties Albert's (Seth MacFarlane) having asserting himself in the desert, the Doc Brown reference functioning like the response he generally receives from his neighbours, within the film's meta-formalities.
Correct.
That's correct.
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
Tracks
I've always enjoyed a good hike.
Set off into the woods, seek, explore, discover.
After a solid hour-and-a-half to two hours though, 4 hours in British Columbia, I've usually decided it's time to head home, or to a café, either way, to drink coffee, and reflect upon sights seen.
Tracks's Robyn Davidson (Mia Wasikowska) approaches hiking quite differently.
Tired of her predictable daily routine, she decides to hike across Australia's Western desert, departing from Alice Springs with her playful dog, an adventure similar to one which her father embarked upon in Africa decades previously, her goal, to reach the Indian Ocean.
She digs-in and grinds.
Problem.
She needs camels.
Solution.
She works hands-deep-in-the-grit with camel herders until she's learned how to train and lead them, during which time she's ripped-off by a cantankerous old jackass, which only strengthens her resolve.
She eventually receives enough funding to begin with the help of a National Geographic photographer (Adam Driver as Rick Smolan) with whom she begrudgingly strikes up a romance, which intensifies the film's risk-fuelled desert induced heat.
Tracks is still family friendly and Davidson's ultimate hiking is condensed into a series of mis/adventures, plenty of material presented, at a fast energetic pace.
Obviously with a hike such as this, especially considering all the snakes in Australia (Canada only has rattlesnakes scattered here and there throughout the country [it's too cold for poisonous snakes {I can't prove that}]), much can go wrong.
But Davidson takes the setbacks in stride, always focused and determined, unyieldingly pursuing her sweltering objective.
There's a sequence near the end where Alexandre de Franceschi's editing aptly pressurizes Davidson's delirium, intertwining disorienting shots of character and landscape, to accentuate both the length and strain of her quest.
Tragedy strikes here as well, which was somewhat unexpected, since at other points balms are provided to ease the tension, shade provided for her dog for instance.
Intermixing the stubborn, the dedicated, the supportive, and the persevering, to concisely celebrate a triumphant human spirit, Tracks is a seductive struggle that can be constructively accessed by diverse audiences.
Don't think I'll ever be able to hike for longer than 4 hours myself.
How do you pack that many sandwiches?
An extended North-South trek through Patagonia would be fun some day though.
Searching for spectacled bears.
(Which don't live there I'm told).
Set off into the woods, seek, explore, discover.
After a solid hour-and-a-half to two hours though, 4 hours in British Columbia, I've usually decided it's time to head home, or to a café, either way, to drink coffee, and reflect upon sights seen.
Tracks's Robyn Davidson (Mia Wasikowska) approaches hiking quite differently.
Tired of her predictable daily routine, she decides to hike across Australia's Western desert, departing from Alice Springs with her playful dog, an adventure similar to one which her father embarked upon in Africa decades previously, her goal, to reach the Indian Ocean.
She digs-in and grinds.
Problem.
She needs camels.
Solution.
She works hands-deep-in-the-grit with camel herders until she's learned how to train and lead them, during which time she's ripped-off by a cantankerous old jackass, which only strengthens her resolve.
She eventually receives enough funding to begin with the help of a National Geographic photographer (Adam Driver as Rick Smolan) with whom she begrudgingly strikes up a romance, which intensifies the film's risk-fuelled desert induced heat.
Tracks is still family friendly and Davidson's ultimate hiking is condensed into a series of mis/adventures, plenty of material presented, at a fast energetic pace.
Obviously with a hike such as this, especially considering all the snakes in Australia (Canada only has rattlesnakes scattered here and there throughout the country [it's too cold for poisonous snakes {I can't prove that}]), much can go wrong.
But Davidson takes the setbacks in stride, always focused and determined, unyieldingly pursuing her sweltering objective.
There's a sequence near the end where Alexandre de Franceschi's editing aptly pressurizes Davidson's delirium, intertwining disorienting shots of character and landscape, to accentuate both the length and strain of her quest.
Tragedy strikes here as well, which was somewhat unexpected, since at other points balms are provided to ease the tension, shade provided for her dog for instance.
Intermixing the stubborn, the dedicated, the supportive, and the persevering, to concisely celebrate a triumphant human spirit, Tracks is a seductive struggle that can be constructively accessed by diverse audiences.
Don't think I'll ever be able to hike for longer than 4 hours myself.
How do you pack that many sandwiches?
An extended North-South trek through Patagonia would be fun some day though.
Searching for spectacled bears.
(Which don't live there I'm told).
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Wakolda (The German Doctor)
An ingratiatingly intelligent financially secure monstrosity suavely earns the trust of an unsuspecting family in Lucía Puenzo's Wakolda (The German Doctor), a Nazi war criminal having fled to Patagonia to continue conducting his medical experiments, preying on local families, and their innocent children.
Lilith (Florencia Bado) instinctively trusts the doctor, who is in possession of experimental knowledge that can help her grow.
She's growing at a much slower pace than the other children at school, and they've taken to bullying her as a consequence.
Her father refuses to allow the treatment, thinking, "who is this person who shows up out of nowhere, with neither references nor credentials, saying he can help my daughter, with medicine that the local doctors have never heard of"?
There's no cross reference.
Josef Mengele (Àlex Brendemühl) proceeds nonetheless, pursuing his perverted conception of science on the available human resources.
But his presence is detected.
The film's focus on Lilith and her beautiful curious wondrous spirit, seeking friendship, ignoring her tormentors, using the library, adds additional depth to the repugnance of the Nazi, to whom she's simply a T to be crossed, a doll to be played with.
The film doesn't directly condemn, rather, it uses character, setting and confidence to vilify the doctoral aberration, suffusing viewers with an idyllic subconscious revulsion, to passionately overcome the ambivalence.
There have been films in recent years highlighting the fact that many German citizens were themselves caught up in the Nazi's terror, during which time they felt like they had no choice but to follow the party line.
Wakolda's ambiguity acknowledges this, while using emotion to appeal to the intellect, to present a compelling exemplar of the guilty.
They only care for the individuality of the exceptional.
For everyone else, there are no exceptions.
Lilith (Florencia Bado) instinctively trusts the doctor, who is in possession of experimental knowledge that can help her grow.
She's growing at a much slower pace than the other children at school, and they've taken to bullying her as a consequence.
Her father refuses to allow the treatment, thinking, "who is this person who shows up out of nowhere, with neither references nor credentials, saying he can help my daughter, with medicine that the local doctors have never heard of"?
There's no cross reference.
Josef Mengele (Àlex Brendemühl) proceeds nonetheless, pursuing his perverted conception of science on the available human resources.
But his presence is detected.
The film's focus on Lilith and her beautiful curious wondrous spirit, seeking friendship, ignoring her tormentors, using the library, adds additional depth to the repugnance of the Nazi, to whom she's simply a T to be crossed, a doll to be played with.
The film doesn't directly condemn, rather, it uses character, setting and confidence to vilify the doctoral aberration, suffusing viewers with an idyllic subconscious revulsion, to passionately overcome the ambivalence.
There have been films in recent years highlighting the fact that many German citizens were themselves caught up in the Nazi's terror, during which time they felt like they had no choice but to follow the party line.
Wakolda's ambiguity acknowledges this, while using emotion to appeal to the intellect, to present a compelling exemplar of the guilty.
They only care for the individuality of the exceptional.
For everyone else, there are no exceptions.
Saturday, June 7, 2014
Fading Gigolo
Financial fissures beget liaising insurances while potential clients attract attentive patrolpersons in John Turturro's Fading Gigolo, wherein the world's oldest profession brings good fortune to Murray (Woody Allen) and Fioravante (John Turturro), suddenly caught-up in an historical vortex, secularly lucrative, religiously blasphemed.
The film unreels pleasantly enough, risks taken, rewards cashed-in, comical awkwardness syncopating charm, Midnight Cowboy's lighter side.
Fioravante is a strong character, mild-manneredly reflexive, sensitive yet powerful, equanimously conscious.
His love for Avigal (Vanessa Paradis) isn't tragic or heartbreaking, more like a mature delicate yet robust scintillating red wine, caressed then invested, with lucid modest elegance.
About 50 minutes in I thought, is it starting to drag?, but then Avigal appeared again, and I was immediately reminded of my nightly glass of red wine, and then knew that it wasn't starting to drag at all.
Ancient religious practices follow, a ridiculous patriarchal kerfuffle, chillingly yet playfully impassing an ancient contemporary dialectic.
The negative side of prostitution, apart from a requisite ethical dilemma, is totally absent from the film, but it is a lighthearted comedy, presenting issues of race/ethnicity, identity, and community from a temperately confrontational perspective.
Apart from the nut with the baseball bat.
Not sure if I'm reading too much into some of Woody Allen's introductory lines, but from an off-the-wall point of view, it's as if he's handing off his reins to Mr. Turturro, either sincerely or mischievously, who proves he could be a worthy successor.
There's a volatile scene near the beginning involving a traffic accident.
Minor characters feud to introduce Dovi (Liev Schreiber).
More scenes like this one throughout, not necessarily volatile, just ones which interject cameos to inquisitively motivate the action, work well.
Highlighting the multidimensional nature of the world at large.
Thereby romanticizing the role of individuals within it.
He sort of does this with Murry's kids, but they have a direct relationship to a major character, which lessens their impact.
The film unreels pleasantly enough, risks taken, rewards cashed-in, comical awkwardness syncopating charm, Midnight Cowboy's lighter side.
Fioravante is a strong character, mild-manneredly reflexive, sensitive yet powerful, equanimously conscious.
His love for Avigal (Vanessa Paradis) isn't tragic or heartbreaking, more like a mature delicate yet robust scintillating red wine, caressed then invested, with lucid modest elegance.
About 50 minutes in I thought, is it starting to drag?, but then Avigal appeared again, and I was immediately reminded of my nightly glass of red wine, and then knew that it wasn't starting to drag at all.
Ancient religious practices follow, a ridiculous patriarchal kerfuffle, chillingly yet playfully impassing an ancient contemporary dialectic.
The negative side of prostitution, apart from a requisite ethical dilemma, is totally absent from the film, but it is a lighthearted comedy, presenting issues of race/ethnicity, identity, and community from a temperately confrontational perspective.
Apart from the nut with the baseball bat.
Not sure if I'm reading too much into some of Woody Allen's introductory lines, but from an off-the-wall point of view, it's as if he's handing off his reins to Mr. Turturro, either sincerely or mischievously, who proves he could be a worthy successor.
There's a volatile scene near the beginning involving a traffic accident.
Minor characters feud to introduce Dovi (Liev Schreiber).
More scenes like this one throughout, not necessarily volatile, just ones which interject cameos to inquisitively motivate the action, work well.
Highlighting the multidimensional nature of the world at large.
Thereby romanticizing the role of individuals within it.
He sort of does this with Murry's kids, but they have a direct relationship to a major character, which lessens their impact.
Friday, June 6, 2014
Under the Skin
A complacent harvest of unsuspecting trust, seduced, submerged, packaged, preserved in an hallowed solution, embryonic bliss, conscious of the terror, mesmerizing intake, dangling, merged, afloat, neither here nor there, masqueraded glacial transience, luminescent molecules, directions, paste, a ride, seraphic insulation, enraptured salutation, like a liquified libidinal glaze, slowly processed, then drained.
This film really does get under your skin.
It's patiently moving along, odd and peculiar yet generally non-threatening, light creepy apathetic bursts, then suddenly the horror, no build-up, no preparation, just there on a beach, one after the other, cold heartless calculated observation, purpose and intent, its goal indisputable.
And the next scene just follows, back at it, more of the same, manufacturing a costume, objective, driven.
But a fog descends and the comfort zone vanishes.
Curiosity's necessitated by the conditions.
Habituated disbelief.
A monster.
Jonathan Glazer's Under the Skin isn't like typical horror/sci-fi, its apathetic presentation leaving a much deeper impression than the most maniacal rampage to be found in a well-crafted slasher flick.
Its non-sensational unconcerned impact doesn't fade with the following week's routine.
It's still there.
Haunting.
This film really does get under your skin.
It's patiently moving along, odd and peculiar yet generally non-threatening, light creepy apathetic bursts, then suddenly the horror, no build-up, no preparation, just there on a beach, one after the other, cold heartless calculated observation, purpose and intent, its goal indisputable.
And the next scene just follows, back at it, more of the same, manufacturing a costume, objective, driven.
But a fog descends and the comfort zone vanishes.
Curiosity's necessitated by the conditions.
Habituated disbelief.
A monster.
Jonathan Glazer's Under the Skin isn't like typical horror/sci-fi, its apathetic presentation leaving a much deeper impression than the most maniacal rampage to be found in a well-crafted slasher flick.
Its non-sensational unconcerned impact doesn't fade with the following week's routine.
It's still there.
Haunting.
Saturday, May 31, 2014
Godzilla
The presence of two gigantic destructive monsters competitively reawakens the mighty Godzilla, perviously resting in his or her oceanic layer, content and comfortable, in its overflowing radioactive abundance.
Secrets have been kept from the people of Japan, and one man's overwhelming quest to ecolocute them, sets his son on the path to heroic indentation.
Project Monarch has known about the existence of these ancient beasts for decades and has been assiduously researching their origins, attempting to understanding what might be their purpose.
When it becomes clear that aspects of said purpose threaten the longevity of prosperous American cities, the characters hear the kitschy call.
Pinnacled to pressure.
If at one time in your life you found yourself watching every Godzilla film you could find, Gareth Edwards's Godzilla doesn't disappoint.
It's, pretty awful, intermixing enough cheesy sentimentality to settle anyone's disputes concerning the hyperactivity of microwaved plutonics.
But this is what's to be expected from a film respectfully paying homage to its amusingly light predecessors, like a refreshing glass of chilled mountain dew, stricken yet satisfying, all the way through.
Dr. Ishiro Serizawa (Ken Watanabe) impresses.
Some of the best deliveries I've heard in a blockbuster for a while.
How I looked forward to his next line with unfiltered anticipation.
The scene where the troops skydive into San Francisco is incredible.
Secrets have been kept from the people of Japan, and one man's overwhelming quest to ecolocute them, sets his son on the path to heroic indentation.
Project Monarch has known about the existence of these ancient beasts for decades and has been assiduously researching their origins, attempting to understanding what might be their purpose.
When it becomes clear that aspects of said purpose threaten the longevity of prosperous American cities, the characters hear the kitschy call.
Pinnacled to pressure.
If at one time in your life you found yourself watching every Godzilla film you could find, Gareth Edwards's Godzilla doesn't disappoint.
It's, pretty awful, intermixing enough cheesy sentimentality to settle anyone's disputes concerning the hyperactivity of microwaved plutonics.
But this is what's to be expected from a film respectfully paying homage to its amusingly light predecessors, like a refreshing glass of chilled mountain dew, stricken yet satisfying, all the way through.
Dr. Ishiro Serizawa (Ken Watanabe) impresses.
Some of the best deliveries I've heard in a blockbuster for a while.
How I looked forward to his next line with unfiltered anticipation.
The scene where the troops skydive into San Francisco is incredible.
Friday, May 30, 2014
X-Men: Days of Future Past
Evidently, cause and effect temporally deducing, internal philosophical differences debating an approach, the struggle to survive polarizing its parameters, the fact remains that a choice was made, its destructive consequences perspiring an end game, a solution transporting a stabilized atrophy, back to the source, to realign its origins.
Smoothly and shockingly aspiring to First Class, X-Men: Days of Future Past rivetingly integrates their two timelines, flexibly intertwining the old with the new, investing the best of both worlds with Wolverine (Hugh Jackman).
Harnessing irrepressible elasticities.
Magneto's (Michael Fassbender/Ian McKellen) might-is-right response continues to rebel against Professor X's (James McAvoy/Patrick Stewart) republic, as both are given ample contraceptives, their ideals tumultuously tested, by acts of genocidal supervillainy.
Perceived threats, prejudiced itineraries, Magneto's malignment, Professor X's stand.
Why difference has to often negatively preoccupy powers-that-be doesn't make sense.
Such attitudes can turn potentially productive community members into bitter antagonists, generations of Magnetos, time after time after time.
A cultural framework open to alternatives multiplies the conditions through which it can innovate and progress.
Infinite combinations and constructions.
Limitlessly inducing.
The film's really well done.
What a beginning.
Smoothly and shockingly aspiring to First Class, X-Men: Days of Future Past rivetingly integrates their two timelines, flexibly intertwining the old with the new, investing the best of both worlds with Wolverine (Hugh Jackman).
Harnessing irrepressible elasticities.
Magneto's (Michael Fassbender/Ian McKellen) might-is-right response continues to rebel against Professor X's (James McAvoy/Patrick Stewart) republic, as both are given ample contraceptives, their ideals tumultuously tested, by acts of genocidal supervillainy.
Perceived threats, prejudiced itineraries, Magneto's malignment, Professor X's stand.
Why difference has to often negatively preoccupy powers-that-be doesn't make sense.
Such attitudes can turn potentially productive community members into bitter antagonists, generations of Magnetos, time after time after time.
A cultural framework open to alternatives multiplies the conditions through which it can innovate and progress.
Infinite combinations and constructions.
Limitlessly inducing.
The film's really well done.
What a beginning.
Saturday, May 24, 2014
Neighbours
The questions of how loud one can party is tempered by bourgeois infiltrations as a rowdy fraternity moves in next door to a married couple in Nicholas Stoller's Neighbours.
The fraternity is well versed in the Dionysian arts.
Their goal is to throw a brazen bash nutso enough to ensure their enshrinement on their wall of fame.
Their neighbours, the Radners, are not impressed.
Engaged in the practice of child-rearing, and hoping to maximize what they can of a good night's sleep, they utilize logic and persuasion in an attempt to famish the insatiability.
Their plan backfires however, leading them to employ alternative methods to achieve their sought after repose.
What follows is a diabolical exchange of quintessential quid pro quo, devious in its conceptual understatements, wherein the past congenitally confronts history.
Robust and adroitly wound.
This isn't a typical frat-boy romp.
Residing in its reels are unexpected lessons regarding the cultivation of one's career and the absurdity of dipsomanic progressions.
Teams frat and bourgeois are therefore divided into the successful and the stumbling, as the mayhem imbues.
Neighbours is somewhat tame in its gambits, but these tame gambits lay a reasonably ecstatic foundation, upon which multiple avenues of inquiry merge, to simultaneously question while enabling.
Embligmatic clues.
It's difficult to say who's having more fun.
The fraternity is well versed in the Dionysian arts.
Their goal is to throw a brazen bash nutso enough to ensure their enshrinement on their wall of fame.
Their neighbours, the Radners, are not impressed.
Engaged in the practice of child-rearing, and hoping to maximize what they can of a good night's sleep, they utilize logic and persuasion in an attempt to famish the insatiability.
Their plan backfires however, leading them to employ alternative methods to achieve their sought after repose.
What follows is a diabolical exchange of quintessential quid pro quo, devious in its conceptual understatements, wherein the past congenitally confronts history.
Robust and adroitly wound.
This isn't a typical frat-boy romp.
Residing in its reels are unexpected lessons regarding the cultivation of one's career and the absurdity of dipsomanic progressions.
Teams frat and bourgeois are therefore divided into the successful and the stumbling, as the mayhem imbues.
Neighbours is somewhat tame in its gambits, but these tame gambits lay a reasonably ecstatic foundation, upon which multiple avenues of inquiry merge, to simultaneously question while enabling.
Embligmatic clues.
It's difficult to say who's having more fun.
Le règne de la beauté (An Eye for Beauty)
With the passing of the years, conjugal ecstasies having become strictly formal, extracurricular assignations suddenly appear enlightening, to two young architects tectonically seeking closure.
Life goes on afterwards, routines residing in recreational parlance, sports celebrating individual merits receiving spectacular extensions, taking on constitutional communal attributes, as the seasons change.
Denys Arcand's Le règne de la beauté (An Eye for Beauty) is a mature film, shrewdly exercising the interrelationship between stability and desire, focusing primarily on a couple living North of Québec City, the incredible beauty of their surrounding landscape, and the traditions of lifelong friends and family.
Do English Canadians really seem that pretentious?
They certainly aren't eating chicken wings.
People don't shop at IKEA?
How much money do you have to have not to shop there?
The film thematically picks up where L'âge des ténèbres left off, Toronto and rural Québec functioning as counterpoints, reservedly climactic events taking place in Québec City.
There's a chilling moment when Luc Sauvageau (Éric Bruneau) meets Lindsay Walker (Melanie Merkosky) there while his wife Stéphanie (Mélanie Thierry) considers suicide back home for unrelated reasons, trickery in the foreshadow, smashing insomniatic guilt, divine connections abstractly suggested thereafter.
A sub/conscious account of individuality, critiquing while elevating bourgeois attainments, Le règne de la beauté matriculates a reasonable desire, subjugates caution, then exculpates.
Life goes on afterwards, routines residing in recreational parlance, sports celebrating individual merits receiving spectacular extensions, taking on constitutional communal attributes, as the seasons change.
Denys Arcand's Le règne de la beauté (An Eye for Beauty) is a mature film, shrewdly exercising the interrelationship between stability and desire, focusing primarily on a couple living North of Québec City, the incredible beauty of their surrounding landscape, and the traditions of lifelong friends and family.
Do English Canadians really seem that pretentious?
They certainly aren't eating chicken wings.
People don't shop at IKEA?
How much money do you have to have not to shop there?
The film thematically picks up where L'âge des ténèbres left off, Toronto and rural Québec functioning as counterpoints, reservedly climactic events taking place in Québec City.
There's a chilling moment when Luc Sauvageau (Éric Bruneau) meets Lindsay Walker (Melanie Merkosky) there while his wife Stéphanie (Mélanie Thierry) considers suicide back home for unrelated reasons, trickery in the foreshadow, smashing insomniatic guilt, divine connections abstractly suggested thereafter.
A sub/conscious account of individuality, critiquing while elevating bourgeois attainments, Le règne de la beauté matriculates a reasonable desire, subjugates caution, then exculpates.
Friday, May 23, 2014
La Danza de la Realidad
Alejandro Jodorowsky revisits his childhood in La Danza de la Realidad, where the imagination selectively sways and protectively converges, inconclusive conflict coordinating innocent essentials, a Stalinesque father (Brontis Jodorowsky) bringing the pain, familial embarrassment and shame aggrandizing his persecution, little Alejandro (Jeremias Herskovits) responding with ardour, confusing projections of the masculine violently suppressing his sense of wonder, various community members avuncularly interacting, his poetic mother (Pamela Flores), nurturing his ability to relate.
Like weirdsville on steroids, the poetic and pugilistic merge to forge one of the greatest filmmakers of all time, as he crafts his first film in over two decades, fantasy fascinatingly swathing, the concrete, cruel, and confiscated.
His mother only sings.
Communism is comedically yet fatalistically skewered.
Superpowers are enlisted to fight fascism.
Between these extremes, individuality speaks up, as the feminine attempts to nest her husband's flight from himself.
Natal helpless inquisitive comedic old-world zealous tragedy permeates the film's practical ideology, as politics and religion challenge a commitment to child-rearing, the application of a big picture cause to a singular immigrant family entices, its contradictions featuring its humanism, creativity conversed as its fulcrum.
Difficult times at points for young Alejandro.
What a survivor.
Like weirdsville on steroids, the poetic and pugilistic merge to forge one of the greatest filmmakers of all time, as he crafts his first film in over two decades, fantasy fascinatingly swathing, the concrete, cruel, and confiscated.
His mother only sings.
Communism is comedically yet fatalistically skewered.
Superpowers are enlisted to fight fascism.
Between these extremes, individuality speaks up, as the feminine attempts to nest her husband's flight from himself.
Natal helpless inquisitive comedic old-world zealous tragedy permeates the film's practical ideology, as politics and religion challenge a commitment to child-rearing, the application of a big picture cause to a singular immigrant family entices, its contradictions featuring its humanism, creativity conversed as its fulcrum.
Difficult times at points for young Alejandro.
What a survivor.
Friday, May 16, 2014
The Railway Man
Insurmountable trauma, disturbingly deconstructing any stable sense of self, recurring, regenerating, relapsing, biding its time, crocodiling in crucible, beyond sublimatic recourse, entrenched and ravenous, purloined to renew, its helpless, caustic, blight.
Eric Lomax (Colin Firth/Jeremy Irvine) survived systematic torture in a Japanese prisoner of war camp during World War II to return to Britain a free man, yet the horrific memories have left him sealed and solitary.
Love's invigorating warmth can't help him overcome, and his desperate wife Patti (Nicole Kidman) seeks the aid of his comrades of war to find a sustainable solution.
As luck would have it, the whereabouts of one of his assaulter's accomplices have been discovered, such knowledge providing him with the potential to pursue a just cause.
Hesitant and confused, The Railway Man struggles with this burden, before submitting to the inevitable, and retributively withstanding.
It jumps between the present and the past, the length of the wartime scenes compounding Mr. Lomax's illness, suggesting that he is capable of circumventing its madness for a time, before its destabilizing will pathologically lurches.
I prefer it when filmmakers regularly intercut psychologically debilitating lesions but Jonathan Teplitzky's method speaks to Mr. Lomax's strength, and brilliance.
The Railway Man is a rational film, examining the affects of war on a highly logical mind.
It therefore lacks the emotional depth I'm used to seeing in films exploring the aftershocks of war, triumphing in its temperance, resolving through reason.
Eric Lomax (Colin Firth/Jeremy Irvine) survived systematic torture in a Japanese prisoner of war camp during World War II to return to Britain a free man, yet the horrific memories have left him sealed and solitary.
Love's invigorating warmth can't help him overcome, and his desperate wife Patti (Nicole Kidman) seeks the aid of his comrades of war to find a sustainable solution.
As luck would have it, the whereabouts of one of his assaulter's accomplices have been discovered, such knowledge providing him with the potential to pursue a just cause.
Hesitant and confused, The Railway Man struggles with this burden, before submitting to the inevitable, and retributively withstanding.
It jumps between the present and the past, the length of the wartime scenes compounding Mr. Lomax's illness, suggesting that he is capable of circumventing its madness for a time, before its destabilizing will pathologically lurches.
I prefer it when filmmakers regularly intercut psychologically debilitating lesions but Jonathan Teplitzky's method speaks to Mr. Lomax's strength, and brilliance.
The Railway Man is a rational film, examining the affects of war on a highly logical mind.
It therefore lacks the emotional depth I'm used to seeing in films exploring the aftershocks of war, triumphing in its temperance, resolving through reason.
Transcendence
Transcendence is kind of a flop.
But it is fun to think about what happens in the film.
It explores the possibilities of uploading one's consciousness online and then existing cyberexistentially.
Dr. Will Caster (Johnny Depp) and his wife Evelyn (Rebecca Hall) are conducting the research.
An underground organization fears their pursuits and launches a strike with the goal of obliterating them.
They hit Mr. Caster with a poisonous bullet which will kill him if he can't find a way to put said research into action.
Which he does, uploading himself, becoming a socially conscious superbeing thereafter.
His might, strength, reach and power then alarm law enforcement agencies previously dedicated to preserving his life.
Identity becomes an issue: is this superbeing Will Caster or a different person altogether?
Law enforcement reps begin to work with the still determined underground organization to break through the impregnable infrastructure Caster has created.
He's found a way to use nanotechnology to both regenerate physical material almost immediately after its bombardment/disintegration and save the lives of terminally ill individuals.
Whose minds he then enters and whose bodies he can then control, turning them into his loyal zombie soldiers.
Loyal zombie soldiers are his undoing; he never should have interfered with his patient's abilities to think and act freely.
He does though, and doesn't bother to share his plans to use his power to solve manifold environmental issues, an objective brought about by his love for Evelyn, who feels guilty for having worked with the resistance after discovering this fact, and its unfortunate benevolent despotism.
Transcendence suggests that unlimited secretive superpower may unite institutional and rebellious forces since they will likely both be frightened by its omnipresence, and will therefore, try to stop it.
There are a lot of great ideas in the film, and some great lines, but this one's a definite rental, that can be paused from time to time to acquire additional snacks.
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
Only Lovers Left Alive
Utilizing a peculiar rhetorical strategy, Jim Jarmusch romanticizes cynicism and satisfaction through naturalistic, artistic, appetitive, and historical entanglements, engendered and coded by the discussions of an aged vampire couple, a perennially rebellious scamp, and a literary legend, the men weary and woeful, the women full of life, united in their unyielding craving, for fresh, universal, blood.
Living in Tangiers, L.A., and Detroit.
Exploring the depths of sundry melodic intersections for centuries while observing disenchanting impacted awakenings have led Adam (Tom Hiddleston) to orchestrate various funeral arrangements, thereby expressing his enduring distaste, intravenously harmonizing his scrutiny.
Partner Eve (Tilda Swinton) remains more upbeat, still observing the world with an urbane reconnaissance, versatile and prim, eruditely beaming.
One's resounding disaffection materializes the novel, while the other's fascination with the unexpected, the appearance of a skunk for instance, impresses it more literally.
More could have been done with Ava's (Mia Wasikowska) character.
The script interrogates pretension by calling into question time's passing to the point where ego and redirection become facets of a limitlessly cloyed perpetuity.
Brothering a thrust.
With recourse to the enviable.
Living in Tangiers, L.A., and Detroit.
Exploring the depths of sundry melodic intersections for centuries while observing disenchanting impacted awakenings have led Adam (Tom Hiddleston) to orchestrate various funeral arrangements, thereby expressing his enduring distaste, intravenously harmonizing his scrutiny.
Partner Eve (Tilda Swinton) remains more upbeat, still observing the world with an urbane reconnaissance, versatile and prim, eruditely beaming.
One's resounding disaffection materializes the novel, while the other's fascination with the unexpected, the appearance of a skunk for instance, impresses it more literally.
More could have been done with Ava's (Mia Wasikowska) character.
The script interrogates pretension by calling into question time's passing to the point where ego and redirection become facets of a limitlessly cloyed perpetuity.
Brothering a thrust.
With recourse to the enviable.
Monday, May 5, 2014
Uvanga
A single mother and her son travel from Montréal to Igloolik, Nunavut, after the passing of his father, so that young Tomas (Lukasi Forrest) can meet said father's extended family for the first time.
The midnight sun illuminates their visit as familial expansiveness and jealous grudges acquaint him with a different set of cultural codes.
He's curious and chill, open-minded and active, these factors enabling a productive immersion in the North's différence, supportively kindled by his loving relatives.
And problematized by hostile trouble makers.
Uvanga frankly blends the harsh with the heartwarming, synthesizing the fearful and the awestruck in a diverse communal intergenerational resiliency.
Tomas's father's death is a subject of controversy.
His mom's (Marianne Farley as Anna) decision to leave is questioned.
Her return instigates adversarial purges.
A curative step, for the advancement of healing.
At first, I thought the scenes were passing-by too quickly, but this technique allows Marie-Hélène Cousineau and Madeline Ivalu to densely pack their multifaceted narrative with a varied cast from different walks of life, motivations and realities resultantly receiving accentuated depth, thereby directly rebuking any claims of oversimplification.
Situating a mother's grief and a son's acculturations within a lively mosaic of piquant reach.
To-the-point easy to comprehend consistently sharp conversation.
That's not so easy to pull off.
The midnight sun illuminates their visit as familial expansiveness and jealous grudges acquaint him with a different set of cultural codes.
He's curious and chill, open-minded and active, these factors enabling a productive immersion in the North's différence, supportively kindled by his loving relatives.
And problematized by hostile trouble makers.
Uvanga frankly blends the harsh with the heartwarming, synthesizing the fearful and the awestruck in a diverse communal intergenerational resiliency.
Tomas's father's death is a subject of controversy.
His mom's (Marianne Farley as Anna) decision to leave is questioned.
Her return instigates adversarial purges.
A curative step, for the advancement of healing.
At first, I thought the scenes were passing-by too quickly, but this technique allows Marie-Hélène Cousineau and Madeline Ivalu to densely pack their multifaceted narrative with a varied cast from different walks of life, motivations and realities resultantly receiving accentuated depth, thereby directly rebuking any claims of oversimplification.
Situating a mother's grief and a son's acculturations within a lively mosaic of piquant reach.
To-the-point easy to comprehend consistently sharp conversation.
That's not so easy to pull off.
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
Trailer Park Boys: Don't Legalize It
New plans.
New destinations.
New living arrangements.
Classic Trailer Park Boys.
Going back to the show's roots, writers Mike Clattenburg and Mike O'Neill craft an hilarious instalment, with some of the series's best lines, and enough fresh material to keep things going for the foreseeable future.
Some of the absurdities that drive the narrative, notably how often the boys end up in jail, are playfully referred to, which adds a touch of the gritty galvanized real, a fablelike finesse, and a modest cheeky awareness.
At the same time, said absurdities pleasantly abound, the drive from Moncton to Montréal passing-by rather quickly, Bubbles (Mike Smith) having spent 2 years living under J-Roc's (Jonathan Torrens) porch, Julian's (John Paul Tremblay) latest money making scheme soaked and surgical, Lahey's (John Dunsworth) rampage, beyond anything seen before.
Touching moments subtly romanticize the film, Ricky (Robb Wells) breaking down as Bubbles considers moving to Kingston, the tear Randy (Patrick Roach) sheds for Lahey augmenting their torn troubled trust.
Bubbles's struggles hold the film together.
He's usually the level-headed moral knot tying things together, but he's fallen on tough times, and his friends don't know what to do, because he's the one who normally solves these kinds of problems.
Great plot device.
Dean Soltys's editing reminded me why I fell in love with the show over a decade ago, perfectly timed cocky commentaries acting like sharp snarky visceral strikes.
I wasn't sure if they'd be able to pull-off a road trip far to the West, but they do, and they do it so well.
Outrageous.
New destinations.
New living arrangements.
Classic Trailer Park Boys.
Going back to the show's roots, writers Mike Clattenburg and Mike O'Neill craft an hilarious instalment, with some of the series's best lines, and enough fresh material to keep things going for the foreseeable future.
Some of the absurdities that drive the narrative, notably how often the boys end up in jail, are playfully referred to, which adds a touch of the gritty galvanized real, a fablelike finesse, and a modest cheeky awareness.
At the same time, said absurdities pleasantly abound, the drive from Moncton to Montréal passing-by rather quickly, Bubbles (Mike Smith) having spent 2 years living under J-Roc's (Jonathan Torrens) porch, Julian's (John Paul Tremblay) latest money making scheme soaked and surgical, Lahey's (John Dunsworth) rampage, beyond anything seen before.
Touching moments subtly romanticize the film, Ricky (Robb Wells) breaking down as Bubbles considers moving to Kingston, the tear Randy (Patrick Roach) sheds for Lahey augmenting their torn troubled trust.
Bubbles's struggles hold the film together.
He's usually the level-headed moral knot tying things together, but he's fallen on tough times, and his friends don't know what to do, because he's the one who normally solves these kinds of problems.
Great plot device.
Dean Soltys's editing reminded me why I fell in love with the show over a decade ago, perfectly timed cocky commentaries acting like sharp snarky visceral strikes.
I wasn't sure if they'd be able to pull-off a road trip far to the West, but they do, and they do it so well.
Outrageous.
Friday, April 25, 2014
Enemy
Well, if David Lynch is frustratingly not going to make films anymore, I suppose other directors may as well work within his domain, expanding its carnal lethally chipper metamorphosis to absolve instinctive claims, encouraging their characters to experimentally confront themselves as curative acts of regenerative p/haze, immersively diversifying degenerative converse sights, for the love of a beautiful woman, for the transience of a femme fatale.
Denis Villeneuve prospers.
Enemy is too stark for direct comparisons with Lynch's work, but penetrating transverse inveteracies still construct its obsessed will, a trembling fearful confrontation with an other,
forsaken withdrawal, fey iron amplitudes.
Isabella Rossellini (Mother) inhabits.
Sarah Gadon (Helen) resembles Patricia Arquette.
A clandestine group internally promotes coveted exclusive performances.
Identity crises clarify.
Challenging co-existence.
The reality the protagonist cohorts ambiguously disdains its materialistic shell, swapping seductions for synergies, intimately, with standing.
A web based conjugal convection rallies Adam (Jake Gyllenhaal) to the next internment, the closing credits befouling his rise, follow the sentient bread crumbs, to unlock a foresighted rendez-vous.
In plume.
Denis Villeneuve prospers.
Enemy is too stark for direct comparisons with Lynch's work, but penetrating transverse inveteracies still construct its obsessed will, a trembling fearful confrontation with an other,
forsaken withdrawal, fey iron amplitudes.
Isabella Rossellini (Mother) inhabits.
Sarah Gadon (Helen) resembles Patricia Arquette.
A clandestine group internally promotes coveted exclusive performances.
Identity crises clarify.
Challenging co-existence.
The reality the protagonist cohorts ambiguously disdains its materialistic shell, swapping seductions for synergies, intimately, with standing.
A web based conjugal convection rallies Adam (Jake Gyllenhaal) to the next internment, the closing credits befouling his rise, follow the sentient bread crumbs, to unlock a foresighted rendez-vous.
In plume.
Thursday, April 24, 2014
Tom à la ferme (Tom at the Farm)
The importance of observing traditional checks and balances can be psychotically nurtured if oppressive horrific novelties ironically pasteurize love's volatile abandon.
To tenderly sympathize with incarnate cruelty is to harvest oneself a baleful dereliction.
A surprise can self-awarely compromise a narrative's prim and proper puerility if its imaginary facts have not been uniformly concentrated.
Awkward evasive perplexities.
Undisciplined counterstrikes, will be willfully punished even if their unexpected serenities instigate lasting calm.
Assuredly.
The madness associated with a cultural code's disavowed diversions creates sickeningly compelling bonds of trust in Xavier Dolan's brilliantly disturbing Tom à la ferme (Tom at the Farm), awestruck incredulous bereft terror, to submit, penalize, collapse, love's dedicated time honoured insurgencies, incomparably construct an orderly trespass.
There's no need to introduce his face firsthand, just driven concrete crazed malevolency.
Violently obscuring.
Before the resurrection of sound.
Editing by Xavier Dolan.
To tenderly sympathize with incarnate cruelty is to harvest oneself a baleful dereliction.
A surprise can self-awarely compromise a narrative's prim and proper puerility if its imaginary facts have not been uniformly concentrated.
Awkward evasive perplexities.
Undisciplined counterstrikes, will be willfully punished even if their unexpected serenities instigate lasting calm.
Assuredly.
The madness associated with a cultural code's disavowed diversions creates sickeningly compelling bonds of trust in Xavier Dolan's brilliantly disturbing Tom à la ferme (Tom at the Farm), awestruck incredulous bereft terror, to submit, penalize, collapse, love's dedicated time honoured insurgencies, incomparably construct an orderly trespass.
There's no need to introduce his face firsthand, just driven concrete crazed malevolency.
Violently obscuring.
Before the resurrection of sound.
Editing by Xavier Dolan.
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
Bears
Ebulliently emerging from their cavernous Winter's den, finding themselves scampering behind their ardent Mother, Sky, Scout and Amber, born atop an imposing majestic mountain, must quickly learn what it means to bear, to survive the threatening upcoming months, and ensure that they're fit for their next torpid slumber.
While trying to have a little fun along the way.
Imitating mom is well within their natural dexterities, but precisely duplicating her actions proves difficult, seeing how they may be having a better time revelling in their mischief, adorably exploring this and that, coming to terms with their brief bounding youth.
Sky does her best, nevertheless (Amber's more aware of the danger), teaching them the ancient ways of Alaskan grizzlykind, patient, observant, nurturing, ready to protect at all costs, doing everything she can, to stimulate their growth.
While food is scarce, tensions run high, and finding what would otherwise be a colossal seasonal feast, is fraught with competitive angst, those not possessing the requisite weight impounded, forced to keep searching, until Valhalla dawns.
Disneynature's Bears offers family friendly insights into the lives of young grizzlies, not without moments that may cause you to think not another Bambi, this is the harsh world of bears, beautifully euphemized, alluringly prohibitive.
The film's primary focus is, correct, bears, and it predominantly examines bearkind, which is both a strength and a weakness, clearly evidencing a variety of behaviours for curious audiences, while perhaps not focusing enough attention on surrounding flora and fauna.
I'm curious to know if the filmmakers had a plan for the Bambi scenario?
Mandatory viewing for jurisdictions considering hosting a Spring bear hunt.
How many Scouts and Ambers end up orphaned every year because of such hunts?
How many?
Narrated by John C. Reilly.
Hoping there's a sequel.
While trying to have a little fun along the way.
Imitating mom is well within their natural dexterities, but precisely duplicating her actions proves difficult, seeing how they may be having a better time revelling in their mischief, adorably exploring this and that, coming to terms with their brief bounding youth.
Sky does her best, nevertheless (Amber's more aware of the danger), teaching them the ancient ways of Alaskan grizzlykind, patient, observant, nurturing, ready to protect at all costs, doing everything she can, to stimulate their growth.
While food is scarce, tensions run high, and finding what would otherwise be a colossal seasonal feast, is fraught with competitive angst, those not possessing the requisite weight impounded, forced to keep searching, until Valhalla dawns.
Disneynature's Bears offers family friendly insights into the lives of young grizzlies, not without moments that may cause you to think not another Bambi, this is the harsh world of bears, beautifully euphemized, alluringly prohibitive.
The film's primary focus is, correct, bears, and it predominantly examines bearkind, which is both a strength and a weakness, clearly evidencing a variety of behaviours for curious audiences, while perhaps not focusing enough attention on surrounding flora and fauna.
I'm curious to know if the filmmakers had a plan for the Bambi scenario?
Mandatory viewing for jurisdictions considering hosting a Spring bear hunt.
How many Scouts and Ambers end up orphaned every year because of such hunts?
How many?
Narrated by John C. Reilly.
Hoping there's a sequel.
Thursday, April 17, 2014
Captain America: The Winter Soldier
In/directly contextualizing striking pre-emptive phenomenons, Captain America: The Winter Soldier bravely condenses controversial polarities, from which it extracts a democratic essence, sentimentally sublime in its naiveté.
Perhaps beating Transcendence to the punch.
The issue of brilliant Nazi war criminals finding sanctuary in the United States after World War II is acknowledged, diabolical agents of HYDRA having nested themselves within S.H.I.E.L.D, whose limitless technological resources have given them free reign to menace.
They hope to take out millions of enemies in one extremely precise swoop, the ultimate pre-emptive strike, internationally derailing syndications of law and order, egregiously ignoring the global human factor.
The infiltration of S.H.I.E.L.D partially vindicates Eric Snowden and Julian Assange as their methods are proactively defended by Natasha Romanoff (Scarlett Johansson).
Radiantly representing today's youth.
The key to the relationship between these plot threads and the film's subconscious depiction of America's current identity lies in the Winter Soldier (Sebastian Stan) himself, who has no identity, who was revived to serve HYDRA and serve HYDRA alone, the memory of who he once was having been shattered into oblivion.
He is recognized by Captain America (Chris Evans), however, who is also having identity issues, yet he remembers why America (and Canada) fought during the second World War, thereby earning the trust of Nick Fury (Samuel L. Jackson).
Like Thor: The Dark World, Winter Soldier struggles to find itself during its first 40 minutes or so, although in this case such disappointments fit perfectly.
It's important to remember that when great actors aren't performing at the top of their game, it's okay to ask them to do additional takes.
I don't know how you'd go about doing this.
Just don't go Godard on them (see Richard Brody's Everything is Cinema: The Working Life of Jean-Luc Godard).
What follows is a thrilling politicized retrocrazed rush, Steve Rodgers outshining Themistocles, another captivating Marvel film, oh what a world what a world.
Perhaps beating Transcendence to the punch.
The issue of brilliant Nazi war criminals finding sanctuary in the United States after World War II is acknowledged, diabolical agents of HYDRA having nested themselves within S.H.I.E.L.D, whose limitless technological resources have given them free reign to menace.
They hope to take out millions of enemies in one extremely precise swoop, the ultimate pre-emptive strike, internationally derailing syndications of law and order, egregiously ignoring the global human factor.
The infiltration of S.H.I.E.L.D partially vindicates Eric Snowden and Julian Assange as their methods are proactively defended by Natasha Romanoff (Scarlett Johansson).
Radiantly representing today's youth.
The key to the relationship between these plot threads and the film's subconscious depiction of America's current identity lies in the Winter Soldier (Sebastian Stan) himself, who has no identity, who was revived to serve HYDRA and serve HYDRA alone, the memory of who he once was having been shattered into oblivion.
He is recognized by Captain America (Chris Evans), however, who is also having identity issues, yet he remembers why America (and Canada) fought during the second World War, thereby earning the trust of Nick Fury (Samuel L. Jackson).
Like Thor: The Dark World, Winter Soldier struggles to find itself during its first 40 minutes or so, although in this case such disappointments fit perfectly.
It's important to remember that when great actors aren't performing at the top of their game, it's okay to ask them to do additional takes.
I don't know how you'd go about doing this.
Just don't go Godard on them (see Richard Brody's Everything is Cinema: The Working Life of Jean-Luc Godard).
What follows is a thrilling politicized retrocrazed rush, Steve Rodgers outshining Themistocles, another captivating Marvel film, oh what a world what a world.
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
Dabba (The Lunchbox)
The hearty provision of delicious nourishment slowly melts Saajan's (Irrfan Khan) frozen exterior in Ritesh Batra's Dabba (The Lunchbox), Ila (Nimrat Kaur) enraptured as someone finally takes note, Shaikh (Nawazuddin Siddiqui) benefitting from the frosty fallout.
As depicted in the film, Indian lunch delivery is a complicated procedure, providing employment for many, their services applauded by Harvard.
Lunch, potentially homemade, is cooked, picked-up, dropped-off at a central location, then distributed to hungry workers, as the day's labour approaches its extended period of rest.
In Ila's case, the lunch she prepares for her husband is delivered to the wrong person.
Curmudgeony Saajan revels in his good fortune even if his bouncy inquisitive replacement (he's retiring) Shaikh continuously annoys him with his enthusiastic go-getting.
Ila discovers that her husband isn't receiving his lunch and begins sending Saajan letters, the two slowly developing a fledgling romance thereafter, Saajan gently mending her broken heart.
Hesitantly yet tenderly unreeling, Dabba quotidianly explores the thoughts of two modest upstanding hard working subjects, their difficulties with the im/moral dimension of their love lettering, or the joys/hardships associated with transgressing cultural codes.
The film required something else to hold it together, and Shaikh's presence, youth contending with age, adds flavourful ingredients to its recipe, rounding out its amorous intentions with related thoughts concerning integrity, friendship, and saturated job markets.
Ila's relationship with her Auntie (Bharati Achrekar) achieves similar ends albeit from a domestic standpoint.
The lotus.
As depicted in the film, Indian lunch delivery is a complicated procedure, providing employment for many, their services applauded by Harvard.
Lunch, potentially homemade, is cooked, picked-up, dropped-off at a central location, then distributed to hungry workers, as the day's labour approaches its extended period of rest.
In Ila's case, the lunch she prepares for her husband is delivered to the wrong person.
Curmudgeony Saajan revels in his good fortune even if his bouncy inquisitive replacement (he's retiring) Shaikh continuously annoys him with his enthusiastic go-getting.
Ila discovers that her husband isn't receiving his lunch and begins sending Saajan letters, the two slowly developing a fledgling romance thereafter, Saajan gently mending her broken heart.
Hesitantly yet tenderly unreeling, Dabba quotidianly explores the thoughts of two modest upstanding hard working subjects, their difficulties with the im/moral dimension of their love lettering, or the joys/hardships associated with transgressing cultural codes.
The film required something else to hold it together, and Shaikh's presence, youth contending with age, adds flavourful ingredients to its recipe, rounding out its amorous intentions with related thoughts concerning integrity, friendship, and saturated job markets.
Ila's relationship with her Auntie (Bharati Achrekar) achieves similar ends albeit from a domestic standpoint.
The lotus.
Monday, April 14, 2014
Jodorowsky's Dune
A filmmaker possessing the highest possible artistic intentions, for whom film is a sub/conscious pyrotechnic visceral emulsion, wildly jettisoning extracted reified ideological peaks, capable of concretely delineating multilaterally deconstructive minutia, their testaments clasping your hands and mine, distinct explosive intraoperative trysts, persuasive incipient confounding strips, Alejandro Jodorowsky almost made Dune, and his crushing curtailment still resonates to this day.
The cast and crew he assembled would have possibly been the coolest ever.
That voice which obsesses about disabling degrees of practicality was non-existent, pure unabashed committed expansive insurgence, unconcerned with what actually takes place in the novel which he hadn't even read before embracing it as his next project, motivated by perceived interpretive fortuitous pacts, the universe having opened-up and provided him with chance integral reprieved constituents, like an intergalactic curvaceous onslaught, or the ultimate Proustian daydream.
The Blueberry.
Not that his dreams weren't practical, if anything, they represented the apotheosis of practicality, a spiritual conception of teamwork seeking superlative aesthetic collegial partnerships who were to be given hands-off inspirational direction, united in their pursuit of memorializing a trance, abstraction, attraction, refraction.
Jodorowsky's son Brontis trained intensively for 2 years with a martial arts master to prepare to play Paul Atreides.
Salvadore Dalí may have made 100,000 a minute to play Shaddam Corrino IV.
Orson Welles could have gorged himself ad infinitum.
I don't want to say too much about the film, it's better if you see Jodorowsky and companions explain it themselves, the Dan O'Bannon recording fitting perfectly.
Possibly the most influential film never made, transisting semantic transcendence.
Jodorowsky envisioned a groundbreaking universal consciousness expanding waking delirium.
Too much for one film alone, its manifold parts have arguably become greater than those initially conceived.
Still like aspects of David Lynch's version.
The cast and crew he assembled would have possibly been the coolest ever.
That voice which obsesses about disabling degrees of practicality was non-existent, pure unabashed committed expansive insurgence, unconcerned with what actually takes place in the novel which he hadn't even read before embracing it as his next project, motivated by perceived interpretive fortuitous pacts, the universe having opened-up and provided him with chance integral reprieved constituents, like an intergalactic curvaceous onslaught, or the ultimate Proustian daydream.
The Blueberry.
Not that his dreams weren't practical, if anything, they represented the apotheosis of practicality, a spiritual conception of teamwork seeking superlative aesthetic collegial partnerships who were to be given hands-off inspirational direction, united in their pursuit of memorializing a trance, abstraction, attraction, refraction.
Jodorowsky's son Brontis trained intensively for 2 years with a martial arts master to prepare to play Paul Atreides.
Salvadore Dalí may have made 100,000 a minute to play Shaddam Corrino IV.
Orson Welles could have gorged himself ad infinitum.
I don't want to say too much about the film, it's better if you see Jodorowsky and companions explain it themselves, the Dan O'Bannon recording fitting perfectly.
Possibly the most influential film never made, transisting semantic transcendence.
Jodorowsky envisioned a groundbreaking universal consciousness expanding waking delirium.
Too much for one film alone, its manifold parts have arguably become greater than those initially conceived.
Still like aspects of David Lynch's version.
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
Meetings with a Young Poet
A gifted writer's successful poetic publication emboldens his desire to meet his favourite author, Samuel Beckett (Stephen McHattie), and a letter is sent, a reply is crafted, the two meeting thereafter to see if they can keep collegial compatibility in check, incandescentally enacting a enduring competitive discussion throughout, which gradually foments a spry friendship.
A gifted performing artists seeks the rights to stage one of Beckett's plays, the rights belonging to the poet, hoping to modify an aspect which some consider prescribed, her illuminated life-force agilely advocating.
Their dialogues actively overcome an empty silence whose initial poetic flourish debilitatingly became a literal reality (his love of Beckett prevented him from writing for many years).
Meetings with a Young Poet troubled me.
At points its pretensions made me feel ill while at others I was humbly affected to the teardrop, like reading Mr. Dickens, or a poem lacking rhyme and/or rhythm which still vindicates delicate ethereal reminiscences, simultaneously jealous of Paul Susser's (Vincent Hoss-Desmarais) good fortune and cognizant of why Beckett recommended to run from Proust and Joyce, his obvious love for people and the lighter side of life crushing me like waxed ephemeral wicker, two sides of the haughty intellectualized niche contending, one bound to a forlorn pincushion, the other overflowing with grace.
Carole Thomas's (Maria de Medeiros) role, her constantly revitalized cascading flora, this presence generously transmitted to her subjects of desire, thereby simultaneously transferring to them what they need to reboot while obtaining her sought after intention, infuses the film with a bounding effervescence, every bubble's balance beneficially accrued.
Character driven.
A gifted performing artists seeks the rights to stage one of Beckett's plays, the rights belonging to the poet, hoping to modify an aspect which some consider prescribed, her illuminated life-force agilely advocating.
Their dialogues actively overcome an empty silence whose initial poetic flourish debilitatingly became a literal reality (his love of Beckett prevented him from writing for many years).
Meetings with a Young Poet troubled me.
At points its pretensions made me feel ill while at others I was humbly affected to the teardrop, like reading Mr. Dickens, or a poem lacking rhyme and/or rhythm which still vindicates delicate ethereal reminiscences, simultaneously jealous of Paul Susser's (Vincent Hoss-Desmarais) good fortune and cognizant of why Beckett recommended to run from Proust and Joyce, his obvious love for people and the lighter side of life crushing me like waxed ephemeral wicker, two sides of the haughty intellectualized niche contending, one bound to a forlorn pincushion, the other overflowing with grace.
Carole Thomas's (Maria de Medeiros) role, her constantly revitalized cascading flora, this presence generously transmitted to her subjects of desire, thereby simultaneously transferring to them what they need to reboot while obtaining her sought after intention, infuses the film with a bounding effervescence, every bubble's balance beneficially accrued.
Character driven.
Thursday, April 3, 2014
The Grand Budapest Hotel
One of the most well-written/presented films I've seen, Wes Anderson's The Grand Budapest Hotel eclectically and photogenically entices his audiences to cerebrally strap themselves in, inexhaustibly affixing literary liaisons to his rambunctious gentleman's club, scriptual guardrails, amphetamines, and incisors distilled then disseminated, meticulously tidy and neat, lead character and director functioning as one, the details, the details, the details, affluence aplombed, in a duty-bound celestial amazement.
To serve is to rectify.
Young love, friendship, greed devotion admiration jealousy deflection prison-breaks swathed in a flame forsworn to its adversaries.
Retreat.
Contours convened on a swollen strap eased into vertical environed retinal eschews.
Pause.
Consented entrapping pursuant cavalcades.
Mentors and mendicants flossed in the grip.
Critical high-level catered expenditures.
Horizons harassed and danubed.
Treachery, intransigence, vertigo.
Withstanding any attempts to halt its progression, The Grand Budapest Hotel epitomizes g(u)ilded prestige, hostages lacking ransom, taste without snobbery.
Envisioned, exercised, and executed, I hesitate to say, it's my favourite Wes Anderson film yet.
To serve is to rectify.
Young love, friendship, greed devotion admiration jealousy deflection prison-breaks swathed in a flame forsworn to its adversaries.
Retreat.
Contours convened on a swollen strap eased into vertical environed retinal eschews.
Pause.
Consented entrapping pursuant cavalcades.
Mentors and mendicants flossed in the grip.
Critical high-level catered expenditures.
Horizons harassed and danubed.
Treachery, intransigence, vertigo.
Withstanding any attempts to halt its progression, The Grand Budapest Hotel epitomizes g(u)ilded prestige, hostages lacking ransom, taste without snobbery.
Envisioned, exercised, and executed, I hesitate to say, it's my favourite Wes Anderson film yet.
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Bad Words
Goals.
Objectives.
Means.
The will to live.
Guy Trilby (Jason Bateman) must be crowned national spelling bee champion at age 40 in order for his unerring orthographical prowess to be forthrightly recognized, his youthful competitors and their parents somewhat infuriated by his choice, the drive to accelerate concocting regardless, asinine assiduity acrimoniously idealized, congruent considering, the rules of the game.
Friendship and romance are cumbersomely nuanced with playful degrees of sharp insouciant admissibility, jaded alcoholic weariness slowly transforming into infinitesimal merriment, as trashy transgressions legitimate their inclusivity.
Bad Words is a solid mix of pejorative eccentricity and misanthropic mirth.
The friendship between Guy and young Chaitanya Chopra (Rohan Chand) tenderly transitions the tempered tailspin.
Was going to use some of the challenging words from the film in this review but they're simply too much.
It's subtly hilarious when some of the irate parents can't hide how impressed they are with Guy.
Rollin' with the punches.
Spelt infinitesimal wrong while writing this out.
Loved the spelling bee antics.
Wonder if writer Andrew Dodge (great script), who at least justifies his use of the stubborn ass, ever saw the episode of Get a Life where Chris Peterson (Chris Elliott) discovers he's a genius after consuming toxic waste and then decides to win as many spelling bees as he can, episode 9, season 2, Chris' Brain Starts Working.
Objectives.
Means.
The will to live.
Guy Trilby (Jason Bateman) must be crowned national spelling bee champion at age 40 in order for his unerring orthographical prowess to be forthrightly recognized, his youthful competitors and their parents somewhat infuriated by his choice, the drive to accelerate concocting regardless, asinine assiduity acrimoniously idealized, congruent considering, the rules of the game.
Friendship and romance are cumbersomely nuanced with playful degrees of sharp insouciant admissibility, jaded alcoholic weariness slowly transforming into infinitesimal merriment, as trashy transgressions legitimate their inclusivity.
Bad Words is a solid mix of pejorative eccentricity and misanthropic mirth.
The friendship between Guy and young Chaitanya Chopra (Rohan Chand) tenderly transitions the tempered tailspin.
Was going to use some of the challenging words from the film in this review but they're simply too much.
It's subtly hilarious when some of the irate parents can't hide how impressed they are with Guy.
Rollin' with the punches.
Spelt infinitesimal wrong while writing this out.
Loved the spelling bee antics.
Wonder if writer Andrew Dodge (great script), who at least justifies his use of the stubborn ass, ever saw the episode of Get a Life where Chris Peterson (Chris Elliott) discovers he's a genius after consuming toxic waste and then decides to win as many spelling bees as he can, episode 9, season 2, Chris' Brain Starts Working.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Maïna
Intertribal relations bellicosely deteriorate as a restless megalomaniac seeks control of his clan, the Nearly Wolves, the aftermath of his ambush of the Men of the Land of Ice leaving Maïna caught between Innu and Inuit worlds, wherein misunderstandings and revelations communally mingle, devastatingly enlightening in turn, chasing the wind, in the land without trees.
The unknown presents an invigorating sense of bewilderment as Maïna (Roseanne Supernault), daughter of the Nearly Wolves's Chief Mishtenapeu (Graham Greene), protecting young Nipki (Uapshkuss Thernish), must join a group of Inuit travellers on their voyage home, one of them, bold Natak (Ipellie Ootoova), known to Maïna through her dreams, a new language, new customs, new lands, viscerally vivifying, as she adventurously comes of age.
Natak and Maïna fall in love but challenges face their union as she acquaints her new neighbours with the traditions of the Innu.
At a critical moment, her continuing survival having been jeopardized, Nanook embodies the unknown's extreme malevolency, understanding and support being required to integratively overcome the hunger, and peacefully initiate the flowering of difference.
Maïna comprehensively blooms love's emotional omniscience, artfully blending the confrontational with the mesmerizing, navigating clasped distances, flourishingly mused.
Petulance and prejudice challenge its tumultuous tranquility, as Maïna demonstrates that she too can hunt, and Natak must balance divergence and docility.
Cinematography by Allen Smith.
The unknown presents an invigorating sense of bewilderment as Maïna (Roseanne Supernault), daughter of the Nearly Wolves's Chief Mishtenapeu (Graham Greene), protecting young Nipki (Uapshkuss Thernish), must join a group of Inuit travellers on their voyage home, one of them, bold Natak (Ipellie Ootoova), known to Maïna through her dreams, a new language, new customs, new lands, viscerally vivifying, as she adventurously comes of age.
Natak and Maïna fall in love but challenges face their union as she acquaints her new neighbours with the traditions of the Innu.
At a critical moment, her continuing survival having been jeopardized, Nanook embodies the unknown's extreme malevolency, understanding and support being required to integratively overcome the hunger, and peacefully initiate the flowering of difference.
Maïna comprehensively blooms love's emotional omniscience, artfully blending the confrontational with the mesmerizing, navigating clasped distances, flourishingly mused.
Petulance and prejudice challenge its tumultuous tranquility, as Maïna demonstrates that she too can hunt, and Natak must balance divergence and docility.
Cinematography by Allen Smith.
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