Kathryn Bigelow's Detroit examines a horrific event from America's past that took place during the explosive Detroit riots.
As the twitterverse and the video technology built into postmodern cellphones vigilantly documents contemporary life, providing unburnished blueprints of power being abused, the prolonged illustration of police brutality found in the film seems shocking yet all too familiar.
How do you bring these two groups together, African American communities targeted by the police and the trustworthy police officers committed to treating them fairly?
If one group targets another for decades and becomes more like a bully than a protector, it's difficult for the victims to trust that group or assist them when their help is needed.
That targeted community deserves the same protection other communities enjoy and it would be terrifying to think that the very people hired to ensure public safety were in fact hostile and unwilling to assist.
The positive forces of progressive change are often overlooked within a sensationalized frame that predominantly focuses on violence.
They must be working together behind the scenes to fight both crime and police brutality, with stricter penalties for police officers who shoot first and ask questions later.
It must be difficult to trust if you see innocent members of your community killed by the police, and then the offending officer is set free with a slap on the wrist.
It must be difficult to trust if the authorities generally think you're troublemaking.
Decade after decade, no respite in sight.
Despair contending with animosity, historically nuanced to permeate strategic plans.
The African Americans I've worked with were first rate, working hard throughout the day while relaxing and having thoughtful and fun conversations during lunch and breaks, like the other people I've worked with over the years.
There's no difference unless you ignorantly approach the situation with destructive preconceived notions that turn a typical interaction into an eggshell extravaganza.
Detroit realistically and bluntly presents a racist tragedy perpetrated by those who blindly consider violence to be an effective tool.
Hemorrhaging and monstrous, it openly investigates that which remains unimagined, hopefully teaching confused individuals and communities just how horrendous miscommunication can be.
I suggest never pulling a prank on the police, rather, it's best practice to listen and do what they say.
Even if it makes no difference when they do that in Detroit.
There are thousands of police officers out there who care and are there to protect and serve.
Hopefully they can surely remove the racist motivations from the force, which encourage unrelenting tension, and replace trust and friendship with contempt and conflict.
Friday, August 18, 2017
Tuesday, August 15, 2017
The Big Sick
The one night stand that blossoms into something bountiful.
Lighthearted carefree revelling evoking humorous injunctions.
Pakistani and European Americans embracing mutually inclusive tactile artistry.
Fanciful floodgates flummoxing.
As exclusivity spoils the fun.
And traditions tumultuously tether.
The Big Sick was much better than I thought it would be.
I only went to see it because I had seen everything else besides The Emoji Movie.
It wasn’t generally wishy washy or trashy or ridiculous or tough to take, rather, it was a well thought out multifaceted intergenerational romantic comedic dramatic account (I’m not writing dramedy) of restless young adults credulously craving each other’s clutches, caught up in interstitial exuberance, with feverish judicious nourishing insatiable impress.
The wild.
The exhilarating.
But Kumail‘s (Kumail Nanjiani) age old customs complicate things and there’s a devastating break up around two-fifths of the way through.
The film struggles for 15-20 minutes afterwards as Emily (Zoe Kazan) falls into a non-related coma, but just as it seemed like it was turning into a write off, her parents Beth (Holly Hunter) and Terry (Ray Romano) show up, and as guilt ridden Kumail gets to know them, the film’s transported to a much deeper level of interpersonal awareness, their steadily shifting interactions developing themes from one perplexity to the next, notably as Kumail learns how many familial problems they had after they married, and how strong they had to be to fetchingly confront them.
Holly Hunter steals a bunch of scenes. I’ve never noticed her like this before. She owns the role with feisty delicacy and ponderous pluck and delivers a performance to recall.
Best supporting actress?
It’s still pretty early, but wow, I was thoroughly impressed enough to place her on the list, like Brad Pitt in Thelma and Louise or the late honourable Bill Paxton in Aliens.
Kumail keeps performing throughout and the conversations he has with his fellow comedians ir/reverently round things out.
It also respectfully examines classic intercultural exploration.
Culture and tradition are certainly important.
I don't care if people wish to live within their culture’s religious or secular guidelines.
Whatevs!
As long as the choice to mix and blend with other cultures still exists as well, to forge dynamic communal hybrids multigenerationally composed of differences from around the globe, to marry whomever the hell you want to marry, and if that choice is taken away, even if your family has lived somewhere for hundreds, thousands of years, I’m afraid that’s super lame, period.
It’s fun to date people from other cultures. You’re constantly learning new things.
Forgive yourself and ask for forgiveness if at times you learn a new cultural feature and happen to uncontrollably start laughing.
Sometimes traditions you’re not familiar with seem funny until you understand how important they are to the new person you’ve met.
If you love them, you’ll feel bad.
And if they love you, your punishment won’t be to dishevelling.
Blushy face.
*Nanjiani and Kazan work well together. I was thinking a sequel set in Brazil. I loved Ray Romano's "opened my mouth hoping something smart would come out" (paraphrase) line. The late at night sleepy conversations. "Tell me a story!" Oh man!
*Nanjiani and Kazan work well together. I was thinking a sequel set in Brazil. I loved Ray Romano's "opened my mouth hoping something smart would come out" (paraphrase) line. The late at night sleepy conversations. "Tell me a story!" Oh man!
Friday, August 11, 2017
Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets
A peaceful life, a planet in possession of an indigenous miracle, its inhabitants living harmoniously with their environment, excelling at sustaining life in symbiotic exhilaration, pure simplicity matched with subtle eloquence, resplendent tranquil nimble mores, Fiji!, Endor!, Pandora!, Europa?!, falls prey to expansionist greed, victimized to the brink of extinction, the memory of its free people quickly fading, into refined contested disputed intergalactic lore.
Adherences to historical records formally tricked into officially believing nothing happened, the survivors fittingly conceal themselves in emptiness, the possibility of their existence unconsciously haunting their betrayer, on a bustling multidimensional metropolis nestled in neurasthenic nevermore.
Whereupon young love is burgeoning, two youthful recruits risking everything to obtain mission objectives, competent and respected enough to brave seeking evidence that will condemn a superior officer, athletically gifted and intellectually endowed, capable of infinitesimally infiltrating while still pausing to appreciate art, a serendipitous synergy pursuing altruistic cardioaccruements, they generationally contend with that which is forbidden, mineralogically setting sail, into cyclones Vedic honed.
As a matter of conscience.
Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets heats up virtually, technologically, terrestrially, and subterraneanly inclined environments, metaphorically synthesizing a lifetime engaged ensemble, through the provocative art of proactive pioneer.
Within a multicultural conglomerate safely harbours species at risk, if they aren't systematically sought after, and can steadily remain undetected.
A compelling look at the evolution of social media, Valerian ascends to olympian symbolic heights while occasionally stalling on paths taken to reach them.
Recalling that fair solutions do present themselves when cultures negotiate in good faith, it celebrates youthful fair play backed up by regulatory checks and balances.
The naturalization of animosity grossly misrepresents cross-cultural social relations.
People often don't take comedic applications of glorified negligence seriously.
If they think about the situation.
Separate the sleaze from the discontinuity.
Adherences to historical records formally tricked into officially believing nothing happened, the survivors fittingly conceal themselves in emptiness, the possibility of their existence unconsciously haunting their betrayer, on a bustling multidimensional metropolis nestled in neurasthenic nevermore.
Whereupon young love is burgeoning, two youthful recruits risking everything to obtain mission objectives, competent and respected enough to brave seeking evidence that will condemn a superior officer, athletically gifted and intellectually endowed, capable of infinitesimally infiltrating while still pausing to appreciate art, a serendipitous synergy pursuing altruistic cardioaccruements, they generationally contend with that which is forbidden, mineralogically setting sail, into cyclones Vedic honed.
As a matter of conscience.
Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets heats up virtually, technologically, terrestrially, and subterraneanly inclined environments, metaphorically synthesizing a lifetime engaged ensemble, through the provocative art of proactive pioneer.
Within a multicultural conglomerate safely harbours species at risk, if they aren't systematically sought after, and can steadily remain undetected.
A compelling look at the evolution of social media, Valerian ascends to olympian symbolic heights while occasionally stalling on paths taken to reach them.
Recalling that fair solutions do present themselves when cultures negotiate in good faith, it celebrates youthful fair play backed up by regulatory checks and balances.
The naturalization of animosity grossly misrepresents cross-cultural social relations.
People often don't take comedic applications of glorified negligence seriously.
If they think about the situation.
Separate the sleaze from the discontinuity.
Tuesday, August 8, 2017
The Dark Tower
A monstrous evil, scurrilously preying on the gifts of the innocent, intent on unleashing a frenzy of chaos upon worlds existing within worlds, rigorously assaulting their towering quintessence, transporting between realms with exuberant malicious discontent to capture a child and exploit his powers thereby inaugurating bedlam's unconstrained malevolence, after he desperately escapes his minion's demonic clutches, landing in a western world thereafter wherein which hope still communally emancipates.
Like a University professor who tyrannically bends the wills of his or her grad students to her or his own, or a teacher conjured by a shrieking nightmarish Pink Floyd soundscape, the Man in Black (Matthew McConaughey) feverishly seeks young Jake (Tom Taylor), who fortunately manages to obtain aid through opposition (Idris Elba).
In the fantastic dominion of Mid-World.
By the light of a despondent Sun.
As crudely cavalier nauseous malcontents continue to flourish in Trump's grossly irresponsible political construct, The Dark Tower disseminates multilateral luminescence, illuminating paths upon which to sublimely tread, during the villainous nocturnal onslaught, and the promulgation of sheer stupidity.
While artists are abandoned within, violence is recreationally devoured, leaders remain isolated and drifting, and attacks wildly increase in ferocity, an undaunted team slowly assembles, afterwards casting utopian firmaments anew.
Not the best fantasy film I've seen this Summer (I'm wondering if that's why Spaghetti Week at the Magestic [or something like that] is advertised near the end [lol]), but still a cool entertaining traditional yet creative sci-fi western, even if I'm unsure how I would have reacted to it if I were 15, I certainly find it relevant enough these days to imagine that I would have loved it.
The magical power of rhetorical/literary/political/interdimensional/. . . metaphor gracefully comments and forecasts, providing young and aged minds alike with plenty of rationales to reify, while still bluntly emphasizing the truth of scientific fact.
Focusing on the good of the many.
As contrasted with unilateral obsessions.
Like a University professor who tyrannically bends the wills of his or her grad students to her or his own, or a teacher conjured by a shrieking nightmarish Pink Floyd soundscape, the Man in Black (Matthew McConaughey) feverishly seeks young Jake (Tom Taylor), who fortunately manages to obtain aid through opposition (Idris Elba).
In the fantastic dominion of Mid-World.
By the light of a despondent Sun.
As crudely cavalier nauseous malcontents continue to flourish in Trump's grossly irresponsible political construct, The Dark Tower disseminates multilateral luminescence, illuminating paths upon which to sublimely tread, during the villainous nocturnal onslaught, and the promulgation of sheer stupidity.
While artists are abandoned within, violence is recreationally devoured, leaders remain isolated and drifting, and attacks wildly increase in ferocity, an undaunted team slowly assembles, afterwards casting utopian firmaments anew.
Not the best fantasy film I've seen this Summer (I'm wondering if that's why Spaghetti Week at the Magestic [or something like that] is advertised near the end [lol]), but still a cool entertaining traditional yet creative sci-fi western, even if I'm unsure how I would have reacted to it if I were 15, I certainly find it relevant enough these days to imagine that I would have loved it.
The magical power of rhetorical/literary/political/interdimensional/. . . metaphor gracefully comments and forecasts, providing young and aged minds alike with plenty of rationales to reify, while still bluntly emphasizing the truth of scientific fact.
Focusing on the good of the many.
As contrasted with unilateral obsessions.
Friday, August 4, 2017
Manifesto
Sizzling with cerebral sanctified spunk, a crisp calisthenic collage of artistic movements (manifestos) comedically condensed and maniacally applied, a bit of witty amusing marcochotic minimalism, envisioned extrapolated bizarro encapsulations, diabolic discombobulation, ebullient disillusion, Julian Rosefeldt's Manifesto is the most intelligent film I’ve seen in years, but it’s not just an abstruse display of eviscerating conceit, it’s funny too, a rare gift, to transform material as serious as that which Rosefeldt creatively lampoons into a series of critical reflections upon the nature of active being in a manner that chuckles as it castigates and drizzles high and dry, isn’t that easy to do at such a high level, sort of like Monty Python on steroids contemporizing credulia with Žižekean cheek and Derridean poise, a deconstructive magnum opus whose only failing is inherent within its repetitive structure, still, if I was in school I’d like to write essays about it, that would be irresistible, or teach it I suppose, Malcontent Manifestos: The Embroiled Baker's Slather, may pick up a copy regardless, Cate Blanchett’s incredible.
I’d have given her the oscar nod although I’m not sure whether or not you can be nominated for 13 short distinct performances as opposed to one lengthy one.
If that’s an unwritten rule, it should have been rewritten.
As far as manifestos themselves go, I don’t really know what to make of them.
I’ve learned that people like to take part in movements, organizations, hierarchies, even highly independent people, I’ve even found great comfort within unabrasive hierarchies which gave me room to maneuver as long as I respected the levels myself, but in terms of directly following one creed exclusively and abiding by its principles unyieldingly, well, I find that to be quite difficult, unless they aren’t sadistic and I’m being paid an enormous sum that allows me to travel and own property.
It’s like I’m judiciously applying French civil law without a Napoleonic code while bearing in mind precedent based upon what I’ve experienced, read, heard, seen, and created, a lot of the time.
That makes its fun.
Ecstatic extracts.
Conciliatory conscience.
Beware the manifestos that promote violence. If things are despotic and millions are starving, that’s, starving, while an elite few flaunt their wealth that’s one thing, but revolutions often wind up with millions dead, that’s millions of dead people, and the new system often resembles the old eventually with different families occupying the same positions of power.
Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities is a must read for those with revolutionary sympathies.
Read it 'til the end!
Peaceful revolutions, quiet revolutions, can remarkably change things however, gradually creating a cooler state of affairs that makes daily life much less desperate for the impoverished.
Not a perfect solution by any means, but democratically moving forward step by step towards something more meaningful, something less cruel, for human and animal kind alike, manifests progressive change that doesn’t rely on monstrous bloodshed.
Keep the non-violent manifestos coming.
You couldn’t do better.
People like to follow things, get involved.
I like the idea of following things and getting involved.
Even do get involved from time to time.
Take part.
Tuesday, August 1, 2017
Atomic Blonde
If this is the mainstream cinematic age of fantasy and action, it’s fascinating to see how different directors are imagining themselves franchised in the genre(s), as they create hyperreactive propulsive enterprising incinerations which vehemently ponder conundrums cloaked in smarm.
Brainiac brawn.
Succulent seduction.
King Arthur: The Legend of the Sword, John Wick, and Atomic Blonde do this anyways, offering jousts and jinxes to challenge unconcerned juggernauts.
Atomic Blonde is borderline brilliant with its kinetic complications and extensive improvisations, multiple characters each playing integral roles as a beautiful deadly agent thrives on information hunger.
The cold war is about to end (that’s end!) but not before a coveted list of pejorative players appears for sale on clandestine markets which seek to see its content temporally manifested.
French, Russian, British and American operatives desperately clash to obtain it on the streets of a divided Berlin, double-crossing, combatting, entertaining, conjoining, keeping track of who’s in first simmering hardboiled whats and I-don’t-knows, as it becomes clear that everything’s obscured, and only those who can proportionally balance the incisive with the bellicose have a chance at emerging unscathed.
The judicious exchange of bodily fluids a portentous exemplar of trust notwithstanding.
Or slightly scathed.
Quite scathed perhaps.
I didn’t see Ghost in the Shell so this statement may be incorrect, but Lorraine Broughton's (Charlize Theron) altercations (perhaps) set a new standard for tenacious females furiously and potently defending themselves.
Cool title, cool action, cool interactions, icy wherewithal, David Leitch's upcoming films may be some of the best espionagesque cerebral thrillers to ever gladiatorally grace American cinemas, notably if he keeps working with Elísabet Ronaldsdóttir (editing) and Kurt Johnstad (screenplay).
The music’s fantastic too and creatively mixed with the action.
Not for the feint of heart but essential to establish glacial bearings, Atomic Blonde exfoliates in overdrive to romanticize tranquility.
And calm.
Leitch used to be a stuntperson apparently. Has a stuntperson ever gone on to direct before?
Friday, July 28, 2017
Weirdos
The striking underground comedic Canadian coming of age pseudo-road trip, nestled on cozy Cape Breton Island, with teenage conflicts to settle and communal sympathy to spare, a wide variety of soulful situations stitched together to explore desire, relationships, and family, as a young couple discuss the nature of their bond, both representatives confused and curious, as they head to a beach party revelling off the beaten track.
Weirdos focuses on identity inasmuch as it challenges gender based preconceptions.
Alice (Julia Sarah Stone) wants to be a police officer for instance and Kit (Dylan Authors) wants to move away from his father, who uses homophobic slurs.
They're not particularly weird though.
I didn't think they were that weird anyways.
Perhaps they were in 1973.
There was this dance I saw on Degrassi Junior High when I was a kid that presented a bunch of fellow youngsters from different backgrounds just having a good time dancing together.
It didn't seem weird.
In fact it seemed like a lot of fun.
I figured the title is more of a test, a challenge, do you actually think these characters are strange or are you missing the point if you can't see how normal they are?
If you ask me, there's really just being, living, wanting to do things and doing them.
If jerks won't let you try due to some shortsighted notion based upon a callous stereotype ignorantly generated by fear and hatred (how these rotten individuals are trying to make themselves seem like victims in the Trump era [as they recklessly bully]), screw 'em.
If you really want to do it, find another way, even if it can be incredibly difficult at times.
You may just find a lot of people believe in you.
Weirdos excels.
A light examination of difference that generates contentment and disappointment while gingerly transitioning from one scene to the next.
I didn't understand why Kit's mother (Molly Parker) received such harsh treatment though.
Artists criticizing artists for lacking social graces always confuses me.
She doesn't understand children well nor the impacts of the statements she makes.
But toss her into a mental hospital? Again?
Odd.
There's probably something I'm missing about the character, but I still wonder if the amount of money French cultures spend promoting the arts and artists is directly proportional to that which English cultures spend promoting pharmaceutical drugs and psychiatric hospitals.
I'd like to research that theory.
Going to see a French artist perform on French turf is quite remarkable. They have personality and they're there to entertainingly share that personality while performing to an audience who isn't only there to see them play music.
The audience wants to hear what the artist has to say.
When you hear French people discuss artists in conversation they do so with a degree of respect that I rarely note in conversations regarding the arts with English people.
Not all English people.
Obviously this isn't a critical reflection that exhaustively examines shortcomings etcetera, but these are features I've noticed about French culture in conversation.
A criticism of artists in English realms I've often heard is, "why did they talk so much between songs?"
I never understood that point.
Just experiential observations.
Things I've noticed.
Weirdos focuses on identity inasmuch as it challenges gender based preconceptions.
Alice (Julia Sarah Stone) wants to be a police officer for instance and Kit (Dylan Authors) wants to move away from his father, who uses homophobic slurs.
They're not particularly weird though.
I didn't think they were that weird anyways.
Perhaps they were in 1973.
There was this dance I saw on Degrassi Junior High when I was a kid that presented a bunch of fellow youngsters from different backgrounds just having a good time dancing together.
It didn't seem weird.
In fact it seemed like a lot of fun.
I figured the title is more of a test, a challenge, do you actually think these characters are strange or are you missing the point if you can't see how normal they are?
If you ask me, there's really just being, living, wanting to do things and doing them.
If jerks won't let you try due to some shortsighted notion based upon a callous stereotype ignorantly generated by fear and hatred (how these rotten individuals are trying to make themselves seem like victims in the Trump era [as they recklessly bully]), screw 'em.
If you really want to do it, find another way, even if it can be incredibly difficult at times.
You may just find a lot of people believe in you.
Weirdos excels.
A light examination of difference that generates contentment and disappointment while gingerly transitioning from one scene to the next.
I didn't understand why Kit's mother (Molly Parker) received such harsh treatment though.
Artists criticizing artists for lacking social graces always confuses me.
She doesn't understand children well nor the impacts of the statements she makes.
But toss her into a mental hospital? Again?
Odd.
There's probably something I'm missing about the character, but I still wonder if the amount of money French cultures spend promoting the arts and artists is directly proportional to that which English cultures spend promoting pharmaceutical drugs and psychiatric hospitals.
I'd like to research that theory.
Going to see a French artist perform on French turf is quite remarkable. They have personality and they're there to entertainingly share that personality while performing to an audience who isn't only there to see them play music.
The audience wants to hear what the artist has to say.
When you hear French people discuss artists in conversation they do so with a degree of respect that I rarely note in conversations regarding the arts with English people.
Not all English people.
Obviously this isn't a critical reflection that exhaustively examines shortcomings etcetera, but these are features I've noticed about French culture in conversation.
A criticism of artists in English realms I've often heard is, "why did they talk so much between songs?"
I never understood that point.
Just experiential observations.
Things I've noticed.
Tuesday, July 25, 2017
Dunkirk
Hedged-in and horrorstruck, 400,000 soldiers await evacuation from France to Britain.
The blitzkrieg having overwhelmed brave defences, sanctuary upon the continent is rapidly diminishing.
Those who avoided capture or weren't stuck fighting against maniacal odds, found themselves awaiting a rescue that was itself fraught with peril.
On a lonely beach in Dunkirk.
Nazi aircraft bombing them from the skies while u-boats viciously lurked beneath open waters, hope nevertheless still reigned, as the absurdity of their position encouraged resilient pluck.
And so a fleet of civilian boats left Britain's shores to dare save them.
In possession of nothing less than the will to endure that drives so many, they immediately dropped everything to boldly challenge Hitler's despotic ambition.
With resounding allied success.
Christopher Nolan's Dunkirk viscerally threads the line between despondency and fortitude as impossibility is flipped the bird by land, water, and sky.
Heroic acts undertaken by those calmly balancing risk with resolve, Nolan's script modestly yet courageously envisions the potent danger.
A well-edited film (Lee Smith) which patiently blends the restrained passions of men statically suturing on the ground, with those defending them above and approaching by sea, the staggering unnerving losses counterbalanced by fortifying victories, aeronautic adrenaline, nautical initiative, Dunkirk celebrates as it suffers, with unified tripartite tenacity, presenting inherent atrocities without sensationalizing the violence, crisp resolute solemnity as opposed to sadistic sanctimony, steady as she goes, into the great beyond.
The numbers don't add up but its genuine character far outweighs what visual enhancements would have offered.
The real crafted realistically.
It never ages.
The blitzkrieg having overwhelmed brave defences, sanctuary upon the continent is rapidly diminishing.
Those who avoided capture or weren't stuck fighting against maniacal odds, found themselves awaiting a rescue that was itself fraught with peril.
On a lonely beach in Dunkirk.
Nazi aircraft bombing them from the skies while u-boats viciously lurked beneath open waters, hope nevertheless still reigned, as the absurdity of their position encouraged resilient pluck.
And so a fleet of civilian boats left Britain's shores to dare save them.
In possession of nothing less than the will to endure that drives so many, they immediately dropped everything to boldly challenge Hitler's despotic ambition.
With resounding allied success.
Christopher Nolan's Dunkirk viscerally threads the line between despondency and fortitude as impossibility is flipped the bird by land, water, and sky.
Heroic acts undertaken by those calmly balancing risk with resolve, Nolan's script modestly yet courageously envisions the potent danger.
A well-edited film (Lee Smith) which patiently blends the restrained passions of men statically suturing on the ground, with those defending them above and approaching by sea, the staggering unnerving losses counterbalanced by fortifying victories, aeronautic adrenaline, nautical initiative, Dunkirk celebrates as it suffers, with unified tripartite tenacity, presenting inherent atrocities without sensationalizing the violence, crisp resolute solemnity as opposed to sadistic sanctimony, steady as she goes, into the great beyond.
The numbers don't add up but its genuine character far outweighs what visual enhancements would have offered.
The real crafted realistically.
It never ages.
Friday, July 21, 2017
Spider-Man: Homecoming
The bourgeoisie surreptitiously asserts itself in Marvel's new Spider-Man: Homecoming, as competing potential father figures sternly challenge wild teenage convictions.
Tony Stark (Robert Downey Jr.) offers fame and fortune.
He nurtures young Peter (Tom Holland) with august olympian tragedy, but isn't there to provide sought after guidance when the perplexities of crime fighting overwhelm as bewilderingly as they undermine.
His approach is school-of-hard-knocksy and Mr. Parker is none too amused.
Thus, he sees Mr. Stark's world and that of the Avengers as too ornate, too disassociated from that of the common person, and even though he wholeheartedly seeks to become an Avenger, like Henry Carpenter, he prefers to keep his feet on the ground, since he's unable to balance avenging rewards with communal sacrifices.
Adrian Toomes (Michael Keaton) on the other hand presents a successful self-made entrepreneurial gritty streetwise contrast to the illustrious Ironman.
He doesn't hobnob with politicians and plutocrats and geniuses and royalty.
He's an intelligent hands-on formerly honest businessperson who was forced into a life of crime by insensitive shortsighted unapologetic bureaucratic greed.
Choosing to keep his house and to save the jobs of the workers he employs, he adapts to his unfortunate circumstances and finds ways to controversially endure.
He's still a criminal though, and Peter's right to attempt to stop him from selling highly advanced weapons to bank robbers and thugs (he could have found other applications for his salvage), but when Peter sees the effects his actions have on his friends at school, he can't help but wonder if he's made the right decision.
He's caught between silver spoons and heavy metal, uncertain as to where he fits in, naturally gravitating towards Mr. Stark, who is a good person and can't be accused of being self-obsessed after the ballplaying actions he takes in Captain America: Civil War, but Pete still can't help but wonder if there's a dark side to his illuminated heroics, a dark side that leaves people like Toomes and his family stricken, as he prepares for another year of high school.
In hearty bourgeois style.
I doubt critics who lambasted the bourgeoisie for decades thoroughly contemplated a Western world where there was no bourgeoisie and a serious lack of honest professions for intelligent hard-working University grads.
Not me. J'aime mes emplois.
I may have done that too.
Before entering the real world.
The internet does provide ample opportunity to set up a business though.
Or your own newspaper.
It makes sense that traditional news outlets would vilify self-made electronically based independent journalism for trying to broadcast news online because they can realistically put them out of business, a threat major news sources didn't have 15 years ago.
Monopoly contested.
If they won't hire you, and you want to be a reporter, just keep reporting online while utilizing commensurate principles of honesty and integrity.
If they call your news fake afterwards, you'll know you've been noticed.
If you are just making stuff up out of thin air and not adding a humorous element that makes it obviously seem ludicrous, then major news sources are justified in labelling your outputs fake.
Oh man, too heavy.
Spider-Man: Homecoming is an entertaining thought provoking comedic yet solemn examination of contemporary American society crafted from hardy adolescently focused momentum.
Parker's struggles to fit in, to get Mr. Stark to listen, to prove himself avengefully, to impress the girl he likes (Laura Harrier as Liz), etcetera, aptly reflect the struggles of so many youthful reps, who likely also possess incomparable super powers.
Peter's friends and family, along with his teachers and adversaries, and Toomes and his squad, persuasively expand the Marvel universe's exceptionally diverse cast into cool and quizzical alternative realms, complete with the potential for amorous arch-villainy, possibly in a sequel that builds on Peter's conflicted yet contending earnest yet withdrawn middle-class symbolism.
With that theme in mind, the next Spider-Man film could rival Captain America: Civil War in terms of groundbreaking action-based sociopolitical commentary, streams crossed and minds melding, to keep things fresh and pyrotechnically strewn.
Perhaps Peter will be strong enough to hold the boat together in subsequent films?
That's what the middle-class does when it doesn't overstretch itself.
Steady as she goes.
Classic 20th Century Canada.
Tony Stark (Robert Downey Jr.) offers fame and fortune.
He nurtures young Peter (Tom Holland) with august olympian tragedy, but isn't there to provide sought after guidance when the perplexities of crime fighting overwhelm as bewilderingly as they undermine.
His approach is school-of-hard-knocksy and Mr. Parker is none too amused.
Thus, he sees Mr. Stark's world and that of the Avengers as too ornate, too disassociated from that of the common person, and even though he wholeheartedly seeks to become an Avenger, like Henry Carpenter, he prefers to keep his feet on the ground, since he's unable to balance avenging rewards with communal sacrifices.
Adrian Toomes (Michael Keaton) on the other hand presents a successful self-made entrepreneurial gritty streetwise contrast to the illustrious Ironman.
He doesn't hobnob with politicians and plutocrats and geniuses and royalty.
He's an intelligent hands-on formerly honest businessperson who was forced into a life of crime by insensitive shortsighted unapologetic bureaucratic greed.
Choosing to keep his house and to save the jobs of the workers he employs, he adapts to his unfortunate circumstances and finds ways to controversially endure.
He's still a criminal though, and Peter's right to attempt to stop him from selling highly advanced weapons to bank robbers and thugs (he could have found other applications for his salvage), but when Peter sees the effects his actions have on his friends at school, he can't help but wonder if he's made the right decision.
He's caught between silver spoons and heavy metal, uncertain as to where he fits in, naturally gravitating towards Mr. Stark, who is a good person and can't be accused of being self-obsessed after the ballplaying actions he takes in Captain America: Civil War, but Pete still can't help but wonder if there's a dark side to his illuminated heroics, a dark side that leaves people like Toomes and his family stricken, as he prepares for another year of high school.
In hearty bourgeois style.
I doubt critics who lambasted the bourgeoisie for decades thoroughly contemplated a Western world where there was no bourgeoisie and a serious lack of honest professions for intelligent hard-working University grads.
Not me. J'aime mes emplois.
I may have done that too.
Before entering the real world.
The internet does provide ample opportunity to set up a business though.
Or your own newspaper.
It makes sense that traditional news outlets would vilify self-made electronically based independent journalism for trying to broadcast news online because they can realistically put them out of business, a threat major news sources didn't have 15 years ago.
Monopoly contested.
If they won't hire you, and you want to be a reporter, just keep reporting online while utilizing commensurate principles of honesty and integrity.
If they call your news fake afterwards, you'll know you've been noticed.
If you are just making stuff up out of thin air and not adding a humorous element that makes it obviously seem ludicrous, then major news sources are justified in labelling your outputs fake.
Oh man, too heavy.
Spider-Man: Homecoming is an entertaining thought provoking comedic yet solemn examination of contemporary American society crafted from hardy adolescently focused momentum.
Parker's struggles to fit in, to get Mr. Stark to listen, to prove himself avengefully, to impress the girl he likes (Laura Harrier as Liz), etcetera, aptly reflect the struggles of so many youthful reps, who likely also possess incomparable super powers.
Peter's friends and family, along with his teachers and adversaries, and Toomes and his squad, persuasively expand the Marvel universe's exceptionally diverse cast into cool and quizzical alternative realms, complete with the potential for amorous arch-villainy, possibly in a sequel that builds on Peter's conflicted yet contending earnest yet withdrawn middle-class symbolism.
With that theme in mind, the next Spider-Man film could rival Captain America: Civil War in terms of groundbreaking action-based sociopolitical commentary, streams crossed and minds melding, to keep things fresh and pyrotechnically strewn.
Perhaps Peter will be strong enough to hold the boat together in subsequent films?
That's what the middle-class does when it doesn't overstretch itself.
Steady as she goes.
Classic 20th Century Canada.
Tuesday, July 18, 2017
The Beguiled
Lost and desperate, unable to move, in need of shelter, nourishment, warmth, comfort, convalescence, clinging and clutching, forlornly crutching, a young isolated soldier lies dying in the woods having survived to expire woebegone, patiently waiting to succumb to his injuries, consciousness slowly fading, as the days coldly pass by.
A haven, a sanctuary, a cloister, a dream, a school nestled in the forest delicately composed, full of sympathy and understanding, it miraculously takes him in, cares for him, coddles him, feeds him, talks to him, falls in love with him, the absence of men blended with Corporal McBurney's (Colin Farrell) charm and good looks leaves it tantalizingly taken and amorously affected, yet he can only respectfully choose one belle without slighting the others wholesale.
Like Paris of old yet disregarded by the gods, he grievously misjudges the situation and attempts to claim everyone for his own.
Perhaps he's not thinking clearly, due to his wounds, but he honestly believes his counsel can guarantee active lust, and proceeds to recklessly gorge with impulsive selfish gluttony.
Hold on, just let me explain . . .
Look, we're just . . .
Let's think about this logically . . .
I swear, it's not my fault!
Screwin' up big time, even if he would have screwed up less if he hadn't been so adamantly sought after, the palatial invokes the pernicious, a wanton craven eruption, infernally and retributively so.
It's a great film, painstakingly and provocatively crafted by Sofia Coppola, her clever well-written multileveled script and poetic title, composed with several compelling characters from different ages and regional backgrounds, presents a sound intricate knowledge of her controversial subject matter, and what otherwise could have been a raunchy sensational grotesque flash comes across as a cerebral elegantly fierce tale.
The feeling, the tranquil restful sensitive bucolic emotion stylizes an environmental awareness that's as curious as it is unconcerned.
Cinematography by Philippe le Sourd.
Nicole Kidman (Miss Martha) keeps getting better.
Pressing matters for the unrestrained, an optical host confined to disillusion.
Desire undoubtably blessed incarnate.
Rent in wonder dis/possessed of forthright loss.
I would have ended it right after he hit the floor.
A controversial metaphorical take on the American Civil War.
A haven, a sanctuary, a cloister, a dream, a school nestled in the forest delicately composed, full of sympathy and understanding, it miraculously takes him in, cares for him, coddles him, feeds him, talks to him, falls in love with him, the absence of men blended with Corporal McBurney's (Colin Farrell) charm and good looks leaves it tantalizingly taken and amorously affected, yet he can only respectfully choose one belle without slighting the others wholesale.
Like Paris of old yet disregarded by the gods, he grievously misjudges the situation and attempts to claim everyone for his own.
Perhaps he's not thinking clearly, due to his wounds, but he honestly believes his counsel can guarantee active lust, and proceeds to recklessly gorge with impulsive selfish gluttony.
Hold on, just let me explain . . .
Look, we're just . . .
Let's think about this logically . . .
I swear, it's not my fault!
Screwin' up big time, even if he would have screwed up less if he hadn't been so adamantly sought after, the palatial invokes the pernicious, a wanton craven eruption, infernally and retributively so.
It's a great film, painstakingly and provocatively crafted by Sofia Coppola, her clever well-written multileveled script and poetic title, composed with several compelling characters from different ages and regional backgrounds, presents a sound intricate knowledge of her controversial subject matter, and what otherwise could have been a raunchy sensational grotesque flash comes across as a cerebral elegantly fierce tale.
The feeling, the tranquil restful sensitive bucolic emotion stylizes an environmental awareness that's as curious as it is unconcerned.
Cinematography by Philippe le Sourd.
Nicole Kidman (Miss Martha) keeps getting better.
Pressing matters for the unrestrained, an optical host confined to disillusion.
Desire undoubtably blessed incarnate.
Rent in wonder dis/possessed of forthright loss.
I would have ended it right after he hit the floor.
A controversial metaphorical take on the American Civil War.
Friday, July 14, 2017
Transformers: The Last Knight
Can science, myth, religion, history, the aristocracy, the people, the British, Americans, the privileged, the self-made, the men, the women, humankind, and Autobots, be chaotically yet adventurously, ideologically yet practically, intergalactically yet locally, or quite simply extracurricularly brought together in a wild brainiacally styled jewelled Nile Summertime extravaganza, complete with a spellbinding mix of the brash and the delicate which epically unites risk, love, service and dedication, to thoroughly entertain while multilaterally seeking knowledge, like a trip to New York, or a voyage down under?
Yes.
I would say, "yes, yes they can."
"Affirmative" even.
A constructive ebb and flow.
It's always fun when the new Transformers films are released but I'll admit I've never enjoyed one as much as The Last Knight.
I mean, I'll actually watch this one again.
It's number 5 too.
So many metamorphic developments.
Plucky little Izabella (Isabela Moner), resiliently in search of friends and family.
The hyperreactive robotic butler (Jim Carter as Cogman), who flamboyantly yet earnestly adds neurotic inspirational spice.
Agent Simmons (Jon Turturro) is back, theorizing and analyzing his way to the heart of the narrative's conceit.
Sir Edmund Burton (Anthony Hopkins), youthfully and mischievously contemporizing more than a millennia of British legend.
England and the United States romantically come to terms?, the couple in question perhaps creating an invincible universal super being?
Plus secret entrances, spontaneous sushi, cheeky self-reflexive criticisms of blockbuster music, Cuba once again warmly featured in a 2017 American mainstream release, prophetic books preserved, getting-away-with-it explanations, scenarios, Bumblebee (Erik Aadahl), First Nations fluidity, Tony Hale (JPL Engineer), whales.
The wild script energetically shifts from sentiment to shock to certitude to sensation, manifold short scenes eclectically yet straightforwardly stitched together with (en)lightninglike speed and ornate dishevelled awareness.
Fascinated, 'twas I.
I've often thought these films don't focus enough on Transformers, but Last Knight presents a solid shapeshifting/organic blend, its biological proclivities overwhelming desires to see Transformers discursively deliberating, relevant contributing human factors, caught up in the thick of it, creating solutions intuitively their own.
In fact, the subplot involving Optimus Prime (Peter Cullen) was my least favourite part of the film.
The extraordinary examination of British History and its relationship to transforming-lifeforms-from-space easily made up for it though.
I'd love to see Stonehenge on the Summer Solstice during the witching hour.
How did they move those rocks?
They be pretty freakin' huge.
Yes.
I would say, "yes, yes they can."
"Affirmative" even.
A constructive ebb and flow.
It's always fun when the new Transformers films are released but I'll admit I've never enjoyed one as much as The Last Knight.
I mean, I'll actually watch this one again.
It's number 5 too.
So many metamorphic developments.
Plucky little Izabella (Isabela Moner), resiliently in search of friends and family.
The hyperreactive robotic butler (Jim Carter as Cogman), who flamboyantly yet earnestly adds neurotic inspirational spice.
Agent Simmons (Jon Turturro) is back, theorizing and analyzing his way to the heart of the narrative's conceit.
Sir Edmund Burton (Anthony Hopkins), youthfully and mischievously contemporizing more than a millennia of British legend.
England and the United States romantically come to terms?, the couple in question perhaps creating an invincible universal super being?
Plus secret entrances, spontaneous sushi, cheeky self-reflexive criticisms of blockbuster music, Cuba once again warmly featured in a 2017 American mainstream release, prophetic books preserved, getting-away-with-it explanations, scenarios, Bumblebee (Erik Aadahl), First Nations fluidity, Tony Hale (JPL Engineer), whales.
The wild script energetically shifts from sentiment to shock to certitude to sensation, manifold short scenes eclectically yet straightforwardly stitched together with (en)lightninglike speed and ornate dishevelled awareness.
Fascinated, 'twas I.
I've often thought these films don't focus enough on Transformers, but Last Knight presents a solid shapeshifting/organic blend, its biological proclivities overwhelming desires to see Transformers discursively deliberating, relevant contributing human factors, caught up in the thick of it, creating solutions intuitively their own.
In fact, the subplot involving Optimus Prime (Peter Cullen) was my least favourite part of the film.
The extraordinary examination of British History and its relationship to transforming-lifeforms-from-space easily made up for it though.
I'd love to see Stonehenge on the Summer Solstice during the witching hour.
How did they move those rocks?
They be pretty freakin' huge.
Tuesday, July 11, 2017
The House
An adorable loving cute-and-cuddly family suddenly finds itself violently managing a rowdy small town underground Casino in Andrew Jay Cohen's hit-and-miss The House, awkwardly refining streetwise bourgeois semantics thereby, while teaching their young daughter improvisational economic lessons learned.
Chug-a-lug-lug.
There would have been no need however a corrupt city councilperson embezzles the funds that would have paid young Alex's (Ryan Simpkins) college tuition, the Johansen's (Will Ferrell as Scott and Amy Poehler as Kate) unexpectedly finding themselves 250,000 dollars short afterwards, with no legitimate means to raise the cash required.
Enter their porn-afflicted deadbeat addiction-prone friend (Jason Mantzoukas as Frank) whose wife has just left him, but he's got an idea to win her back, and you've found a trendy sanctified sordid perky do-gooding sleazy debacle, complete with absurdly relevant relatable yet sensational stock (the mismanagement of government funds resulting in heavy taxes for small businesses?), weathering the wherewithal, manifesting latent complexes, hewing the graft, and exercising freewill.
It's a great idea for a comedy, glossing over serious defects in the American dream too lightly perhaps, but not unsympathetically, in its brazen hardy risk management.
How do people pay $50,000 for one year's tuition?
N-n-n-nutso.
That is one big bloody army.
Full-on crazy, this here historical epoch.
A great idea supersaturated with too much improbability that revels in its hypothesis without generating convincing conclusions, The House has its moments but some scenes are total amateur hour, even if they're naively treading the rambunctious deluge.
The script intends to blend the wild with the worldly in a bizarro multicultural cavalcade, but ironically leaves the parenting behind for too long, and focuses too intently on plain old thuggery.
It's true though, the film would have been stronger if they had cut back on the buffoonery a bit, even if Scott's 1970s-90s? cut-off hopeful progressive determined speech near the beginning suggests The House ain't that kind of film.
Butchin' and burnin'.
Is it really a comedic western?
Chug-a-lug-lug.
There would have been no need however a corrupt city councilperson embezzles the funds that would have paid young Alex's (Ryan Simpkins) college tuition, the Johansen's (Will Ferrell as Scott and Amy Poehler as Kate) unexpectedly finding themselves 250,000 dollars short afterwards, with no legitimate means to raise the cash required.
Enter their porn-afflicted deadbeat addiction-prone friend (Jason Mantzoukas as Frank) whose wife has just left him, but he's got an idea to win her back, and you've found a trendy sanctified sordid perky do-gooding sleazy debacle, complete with absurdly relevant relatable yet sensational stock (the mismanagement of government funds resulting in heavy taxes for small businesses?), weathering the wherewithal, manifesting latent complexes, hewing the graft, and exercising freewill.
It's a great idea for a comedy, glossing over serious defects in the American dream too lightly perhaps, but not unsympathetically, in its brazen hardy risk management.
How do people pay $50,000 for one year's tuition?
N-n-n-nutso.
That is one big bloody army.
Full-on crazy, this here historical epoch.
A great idea supersaturated with too much improbability that revels in its hypothesis without generating convincing conclusions, The House has its moments but some scenes are total amateur hour, even if they're naively treading the rambunctious deluge.
The script intends to blend the wild with the worldly in a bizarro multicultural cavalcade, but ironically leaves the parenting behind for too long, and focuses too intently on plain old thuggery.
It's true though, the film would have been stronger if they had cut back on the buffoonery a bit, even if Scott's 1970s-90s? cut-off hopeful progressive determined speech near the beginning suggests The House ain't that kind of film.
Butchin' and burnin'.
Is it really a comedic western?
Friday, July 7, 2017
Baby Driver
Split-second ingenious unassailable guiltless reflexes, instinctively classifying delicate improvisation, piquant extemporization, serpentine spontaneity, the driver, driving the getaway vehicle, atavistic awareness vigilantly circulating extractions, an unprecedented impresario envisioned in wild heartlands brake swerve accelerate, coordinate chaos with implicit clandestine credulity, pulsating pumping propulsive paved impertinence, irreducibly reacting, to unpredictable explosive larceny.
Mad skills.
Variably exercised.
Character driven.
Edgar Wright's Baby Driver's hilariously character driven, with Ansel Elgort (Baby), Lily James (Debora), Bats (Jamie Foxx), Buddy (Jon Hamm), Darling (Eiza González), Joseph (CJ Jones), Griff (Jon Bernthal), and Doc (Kevin Spacey) each chauffeuring full-throttle eccentricities that make said characters their own.
The well-thought-out creatively choreographed romantically comedic yet harrowingly hardboiled script (Wright) supplies them with ample maneuverability.
In fact I'd argue this is Wright's best film.
There are two notable oppositions within that reflect different intellectual styles.
Baby and Doc's youthful and aged conversations provide the film with an executive frame as they reticently interact, Doc's nephew Samm (Brogan Hall) brilliantly expanding one of their sequences, while Bats and Buddy concurrently represent clever tenacious earnest hard work, as they durably discuss various subjects between jobs.
Nice to see Jamie Foxx rockin' it again.
Doc heartbreakingly embraces romance in the end, risking everything to aid young Baby and Debora as they wildly set off to matriculate on the run.
I've been focusing on the criminal nature of the film but it's also a warmblooded romance.
Baby owes Doc a large sum of money that he's been slowly paying off for some time.
He meets Debora at the diner where his deceased mom used to work and they hit it off, young adult love at its most endearing, hesitantly tender and shyly enthusiastic.
Since he engages in illicit activities quite frequently, however, the nogoodniks eventually terrorize their sanctuary, especially after they craft plans to escape, which unconsciously precipitate embroiled maturations.
Excellent film that's patiently yet boisterously detailed, the dedicated caregiving, the musical artistry, the Mike Myers gag, the paradoxical sense of coerced altruism, the relaxed quiet dignity, the wanton perplexed angst.
Realistic reverberations.
Sweet sweet summertime.
Breezy.
Mad skills.
Variably exercised.
Character driven.
Edgar Wright's Baby Driver's hilariously character driven, with Ansel Elgort (Baby), Lily James (Debora), Bats (Jamie Foxx), Buddy (Jon Hamm), Darling (Eiza González), Joseph (CJ Jones), Griff (Jon Bernthal), and Doc (Kevin Spacey) each chauffeuring full-throttle eccentricities that make said characters their own.
The well-thought-out creatively choreographed romantically comedic yet harrowingly hardboiled script (Wright) supplies them with ample maneuverability.
In fact I'd argue this is Wright's best film.
There are two notable oppositions within that reflect different intellectual styles.
Baby and Doc's youthful and aged conversations provide the film with an executive frame as they reticently interact, Doc's nephew Samm (Brogan Hall) brilliantly expanding one of their sequences, while Bats and Buddy concurrently represent clever tenacious earnest hard work, as they durably discuss various subjects between jobs.
Nice to see Jamie Foxx rockin' it again.
Doc heartbreakingly embraces romance in the end, risking everything to aid young Baby and Debora as they wildly set off to matriculate on the run.
I've been focusing on the criminal nature of the film but it's also a warmblooded romance.
Baby owes Doc a large sum of money that he's been slowly paying off for some time.
He meets Debora at the diner where his deceased mom used to work and they hit it off, young adult love at its most endearing, hesitantly tender and shyly enthusiastic.
Since he engages in illicit activities quite frequently, however, the nogoodniks eventually terrorize their sanctuary, especially after they craft plans to escape, which unconsciously precipitate embroiled maturations.
Excellent film that's patiently yet boisterously detailed, the dedicated caregiving, the musical artistry, the Mike Myers gag, the paradoxical sense of coerced altruism, the relaxed quiet dignity, the wanton perplexed angst.
Realistic reverberations.
Sweet sweet summertime.
Breezy.
Tuesday, July 4, 2017
I, Daniel Blake
Like Going in Style's much grittier independent cousin, Ken Loach's I, Daniel Blake sympathetically examines poverty in Britain to find working solutions to bureaucratic prerogatives.
Daniel (Dave Johns) is a respectful hardworking individual who lives within his means and has never had to learn how to use computers.
He meets Katie (Hayley Squires) and her children one day at social services and responds reasonably to her criticisms of its harsh procedural dictates.
She's a young struggling single mother of two who wants to go back to school but can't afford to take care of her family at the same time.
Daniel helps out as much as he can, but has to spend 35 hours a week looking for a job that he has to refuse, should it be offered, because he can't physically return to work due to a recent heart attack.
He tried to tell this to a social services rep but potential heart failure wasn't an option on the questionnaire, which deemed him fit to return to work since he answered it truthfully.
He appealed but still had to abide by the initial ruling meanwhile.
A lot of time and planning goes into providing people living through hard times with financial assistance, but if there are no alternative options in place for the exceptions to the rules, as I, Daniel Blake sharply points out, the safety net needs to be adjusted in order to considerately accommodate.
For instance, as previously mentioned, Daniel can't use a computer, it's probable that other applicants can't use computers, it makes sense that a workshop should be created to help these individuals collectively learn computer basics, so that they can then access the services which can correspondingly assist them.
It's often just a matter of adding another question to a form, but it's surprising how hard it can be to change a form or how long it can take for the changes to be implemented after it's been approved by committee.
Daniel's feisty.
He gets along well with his neighbours but doesn't shy away from airing grievances.
It's a great film examining honest attempts to live honestly within a mistrustful situation.
Neither preachy nor sentimental, it's more like a realistic hypothetical investigation of unfortunate sets of circumstances, which for austere reasons can't be rationally resolved, than a poppy good natured heist.
Decent jobs with decent pay make a nation's reliance on social services much less taxing.
There's an interesting sidebar that examines how the internet can theoretically aid underemployed earnest entrepreneurs, who have physical jobs but lack full-time hours.
Strong performances, heartwarming community, heartbreaking realities, tenacious script, Ken Loach conscientiously examines postmodern day British poverty through a contemporary Dickensian lens to shed light on dark issues.
Do people still read him in Britain?
Seriously, it's worth building up the vocabulary.
I suppose the word grit may come from integrity.
Jeremy Corbyn.
In possession of both I imagine.
Daniel (Dave Johns) is a respectful hardworking individual who lives within his means and has never had to learn how to use computers.
He meets Katie (Hayley Squires) and her children one day at social services and responds reasonably to her criticisms of its harsh procedural dictates.
She's a young struggling single mother of two who wants to go back to school but can't afford to take care of her family at the same time.
Daniel helps out as much as he can, but has to spend 35 hours a week looking for a job that he has to refuse, should it be offered, because he can't physically return to work due to a recent heart attack.
He tried to tell this to a social services rep but potential heart failure wasn't an option on the questionnaire, which deemed him fit to return to work since he answered it truthfully.
He appealed but still had to abide by the initial ruling meanwhile.
A lot of time and planning goes into providing people living through hard times with financial assistance, but if there are no alternative options in place for the exceptions to the rules, as I, Daniel Blake sharply points out, the safety net needs to be adjusted in order to considerately accommodate.
For instance, as previously mentioned, Daniel can't use a computer, it's probable that other applicants can't use computers, it makes sense that a workshop should be created to help these individuals collectively learn computer basics, so that they can then access the services which can correspondingly assist them.
It's often just a matter of adding another question to a form, but it's surprising how hard it can be to change a form or how long it can take for the changes to be implemented after it's been approved by committee.
Daniel's feisty.
He gets along well with his neighbours but doesn't shy away from airing grievances.
It's a great film examining honest attempts to live honestly within a mistrustful situation.
Neither preachy nor sentimental, it's more like a realistic hypothetical investigation of unfortunate sets of circumstances, which for austere reasons can't be rationally resolved, than a poppy good natured heist.
Decent jobs with decent pay make a nation's reliance on social services much less taxing.
There's an interesting sidebar that examines how the internet can theoretically aid underemployed earnest entrepreneurs, who have physical jobs but lack full-time hours.
Strong performances, heartwarming community, heartbreaking realities, tenacious script, Ken Loach conscientiously examines postmodern day British poverty through a contemporary Dickensian lens to shed light on dark issues.
Do people still read him in Britain?
Seriously, it's worth building up the vocabulary.
I suppose the word grit may come from integrity.
Jeremy Corbyn.
In possession of both I imagine.
Friday, June 30, 2017
The Fate of the Furious
A mad evil genius, hellbent on disabling geopolitical individuality, captures Dom (Vin Diesel) in The Fate of the Furious, in a loathsome attempt to make his honourable good nature her own.
Having recently proven to the Cuban people that he can indeed be trusted, aligning repute with action in victory aflame, his team can't understand why he's betrayed them, as the clandestine Mr. Nobody (Kurt Russell) greenlights their cold pursuit.
The independence of so many reliable furiousae imminently threatened by sheer nuclear arithmetic, it's imperative that high octane risk potential variably triggers alarm.
The team still excels without its leader, while said maestro recalibrates slipstream, Cipher (Charlize Theron) exposing them to coerced extreme disorder, fraught with maniacal familial leverage.
They must assemble in accordance with the abilities that have enabled them to defy the blasé and the mediocre, a baker's half dozen all-pro renegades, continuously eclipsing radially refined exuberance, caught up in arch-villainous bluster, acrobatically shifting gears thermoclined.
Masterminds.
Bringin' it.
Expounding.
The ill-tempered quickly regain their composure to regally embrace destiny punch maximum overdrive within.
Searching for new ways to exhaustively entertain, they battle a submarine no less, and a legion of remotely controlled ghost cars.
If practically everything is technologically outfitted, in the future, even raking, will every upcoming detective film and television show revolve around how a seemingly secure system was hacked, driverless cars being potentially used to commit murder, every crime solved thereafter by a neuromantic cybersleuth, potentially named, Chevron Wikireseau?
Nanosyntheses.
Enjoyed The Fate of the Furious and definitely preferred it to part 7.
Dom's compelling blend of tenacity and tenderness is reconstituted au début, and the massive accompanying cast has an intricate role to play, minor and major denizens alike, notably the subplot involving Deckard (Jason Statham) and his mom (Helen Mirren)(if Judi Dench can rock Philomena, Helen Mirren bejewels Magdalene Shaw), new fast learning by-the-book toehead (initially) Little Nobody (Scott Eastwood), and a frustrated Roman (Tyrese Gibson) who's been disrespectfully seven/elevened.
There are so many characters to take into consideration when writing these scripts.
Plus an incarcerated Dwayne Johnson (Hobbs) of course.
Tej Parker (Ludacris) could have had a bigger moment.
Risky to play freebird with Interpol?
Fast, furious, frenetic, freewheeling.
If you don't like these films, why do you go see them?
Tough to top the submarine, the torpedo.
Can't wait to see what happens next.
I don't even drive. I ride the bus.
The entire world's after them but they sort of work for the government.
Is that 21st century?
High stakes heuristics.
Barrellin' on down.
Having recently proven to the Cuban people that he can indeed be trusted, aligning repute with action in victory aflame, his team can't understand why he's betrayed them, as the clandestine Mr. Nobody (Kurt Russell) greenlights their cold pursuit.
The independence of so many reliable furiousae imminently threatened by sheer nuclear arithmetic, it's imperative that high octane risk potential variably triggers alarm.
The team still excels without its leader, while said maestro recalibrates slipstream, Cipher (Charlize Theron) exposing them to coerced extreme disorder, fraught with maniacal familial leverage.
They must assemble in accordance with the abilities that have enabled them to defy the blasé and the mediocre, a baker's half dozen all-pro renegades, continuously eclipsing radially refined exuberance, caught up in arch-villainous bluster, acrobatically shifting gears thermoclined.
Masterminds.
Bringin' it.
Expounding.
The ill-tempered quickly regain their composure to regally embrace destiny punch maximum overdrive within.
Searching for new ways to exhaustively entertain, they battle a submarine no less, and a legion of remotely controlled ghost cars.
If practically everything is technologically outfitted, in the future, even raking, will every upcoming detective film and television show revolve around how a seemingly secure system was hacked, driverless cars being potentially used to commit murder, every crime solved thereafter by a neuromantic cybersleuth, potentially named, Chevron Wikireseau?
Nanosyntheses.
Enjoyed The Fate of the Furious and definitely preferred it to part 7.
Dom's compelling blend of tenacity and tenderness is reconstituted au début, and the massive accompanying cast has an intricate role to play, minor and major denizens alike, notably the subplot involving Deckard (Jason Statham) and his mom (Helen Mirren)(if Judi Dench can rock Philomena, Helen Mirren bejewels Magdalene Shaw), new fast learning by-the-book toehead (initially) Little Nobody (Scott Eastwood), and a frustrated Roman (Tyrese Gibson) who's been disrespectfully seven/elevened.
There are so many characters to take into consideration when writing these scripts.
Plus an incarcerated Dwayne Johnson (Hobbs) of course.
Tej Parker (Ludacris) could have had a bigger moment.
Risky to play freebird with Interpol?
Fast, furious, frenetic, freewheeling.
If you don't like these films, why do you go see them?
Tough to top the submarine, the torpedo.
Can't wait to see what happens next.
I don't even drive. I ride the bus.
The entire world's after them but they sort of work for the government.
Is that 21st century?
High stakes heuristics.
Barrellin' on down.
Tuesday, June 27, 2017
The Book of Henry
Analyzing, classifying, observing, planning strategically, effortlessly clarifying complicated commentaries with lucid logistics and rational rummaging, holistically heartstrung self-sacrificing harmonies configuring chisels, conundrums, reimb(o)ursements, just desserts, a boy 11-years-old with genius adult skills contemplating, growing with his community emancipated as one, desiring no exceptions, isolation, esteemed status resolute, living a quiet life with his mother and brother, chill, nonabrasive.
He's born witness to disgusting abuse involving an upstanding high ranking local official, however, and has recorded every detail collected in a condemnatory notebook, complete with pertinent verbal accompaniment.
He's sought to see the beast enchained but his pleas have been ignored by those he's been brought up to trust.
Will the sudden realization that he's seriously ill prevent justice from courageously awakening?
And can Henry's (Jaeden Lieberher) devoted mom (Naomi Watts) aid his covert endeavours, bravely commanding truthful woes compiled?
Recalcitrance.
Shouldn't you help single moms with children below-leave-raking-age rake their leaves if you're able and they clearly aren't doing it?
The Book of Henry tenderly yet incisively enlivens small town life from a caring youthful perspective intent on altruistically discovering.
Capable of multifacetedly adorning seemingly disparate variables with warm cohesive easy to understand expression, Henry immerses to nurture his home town's native strength.
Like Jessica Chastain in The Zookeeper's Wife, Naomi Watts demonstrates her profound versatility by dynamically bringing to life scenes which may have held less impact if they had been crafted with less patient conscience.
Not to say The Book of Henry doesn't present first rate storytelling.
The bright script, scintillating cinematography, sure and steady direction, and serious acting, impressionably blend to provoke both adolescent curiosity and age old thought.
Solid for youths and adults alike.
It portrays the big picture with heavy yet innocent brush strokes which lightly yet solemnly define an inclusive social aesthetic.
Hopeless cynicism fades in the wake of its proactive swathe.
Sleuthing hunches and intuitions, verifiably bold and confident.
He's born witness to disgusting abuse involving an upstanding high ranking local official, however, and has recorded every detail collected in a condemnatory notebook, complete with pertinent verbal accompaniment.
He's sought to see the beast enchained but his pleas have been ignored by those he's been brought up to trust.
Will the sudden realization that he's seriously ill prevent justice from courageously awakening?
And can Henry's (Jaeden Lieberher) devoted mom (Naomi Watts) aid his covert endeavours, bravely commanding truthful woes compiled?
Recalcitrance.
Shouldn't you help single moms with children below-leave-raking-age rake their leaves if you're able and they clearly aren't doing it?
The Book of Henry tenderly yet incisively enlivens small town life from a caring youthful perspective intent on altruistically discovering.
Capable of multifacetedly adorning seemingly disparate variables with warm cohesive easy to understand expression, Henry immerses to nurture his home town's native strength.
Like Jessica Chastain in The Zookeeper's Wife, Naomi Watts demonstrates her profound versatility by dynamically bringing to life scenes which may have held less impact if they had been crafted with less patient conscience.
Not to say The Book of Henry doesn't present first rate storytelling.
The bright script, scintillating cinematography, sure and steady direction, and serious acting, impressionably blend to provoke both adolescent curiosity and age old thought.
Solid for youths and adults alike.
It portrays the big picture with heavy yet innocent brush strokes which lightly yet solemnly define an inclusive social aesthetic.
Hopeless cynicism fades in the wake of its proactive swathe.
Sleuthing hunches and intuitions, verifiably bold and confident.
Friday, June 23, 2017
Baywatch
The perils and perplexions of illustriously lifeguarding are nautically fathomed in Seth Gordon's Baywatch.
Not only must leader Mitch Buchannon (Dwayne Johnson) ensure that the people frolicking upon his beach feel free to safely splish and splash, but he must also macroscopically contend with submerged monopolistic commerce intent on violently overwhelming the businesses in his local community.
One deep plunge at a time.
But his vigilant altruism is youthfully constrained as cocky new recruit and two time olympic gold medalist Matt Brody (Zac Efron) foolishly contradicts his discerning holistic guidance.
Not even the emotive real-time miniatures commentating within Buchannon's fish tanks can persuade young Brody to cast his cheek aside, and as his misguided undertow seditiously saturates reputations afloat, the rest of the team must unselfishly preserve.
Ronnie (Jon Bass) and CJ (Kelly Rohrbach) tenderly resurface.
While Summer (Alexandra Daddario) and Stephanie (Ilfenesh Hadera) boldly tread to thrive.
Periwinkle processions lathered in baleen, Baywatch cruises through coral to wind sweep serene.
Exalting teamwork thereby in athletic sea beds, marine life sleeps peacefully stretched out and spread.
But that could very same marine life in fact be sleeping more peacefully in an even more oceanic Baywatch 2?
One which takes on the worldwide problem of trolling the ocean with massive nets that wind up catching and killing far more than the sought after fish species?
While relating everything to protecting the beach?
Thousands of unwanted turtles, dolphins, octopi, sharks, and undesirable fish swim into these nets daily, a saddening loss of life that could be lessened by using smaller nets.
Could the Baywatch team arrest these clear-cutters of the sea by boisterously lambasting industrial bycatch?
That would be phenomenal.
With special guest Brigitte Bardot?
And a french lifeguard on exchange from La Rochelle who complicates Ronnie and CJ's relationship?
Plastic in the ocean is wreaking havoc on wildlife as well.
Not only must leader Mitch Buchannon (Dwayne Johnson) ensure that the people frolicking upon his beach feel free to safely splish and splash, but he must also macroscopically contend with submerged monopolistic commerce intent on violently overwhelming the businesses in his local community.
One deep plunge at a time.
But his vigilant altruism is youthfully constrained as cocky new recruit and two time olympic gold medalist Matt Brody (Zac Efron) foolishly contradicts his discerning holistic guidance.
Not even the emotive real-time miniatures commentating within Buchannon's fish tanks can persuade young Brody to cast his cheek aside, and as his misguided undertow seditiously saturates reputations afloat, the rest of the team must unselfishly preserve.
Ronnie (Jon Bass) and CJ (Kelly Rohrbach) tenderly resurface.
While Summer (Alexandra Daddario) and Stephanie (Ilfenesh Hadera) boldly tread to thrive.
Periwinkle processions lathered in baleen, Baywatch cruises through coral to wind sweep serene.
Exalting teamwork thereby in athletic sea beds, marine life sleeps peacefully stretched out and spread.
But that could very same marine life in fact be sleeping more peacefully in an even more oceanic Baywatch 2?
One which takes on the worldwide problem of trolling the ocean with massive nets that wind up catching and killing far more than the sought after fish species?
While relating everything to protecting the beach?
Thousands of unwanted turtles, dolphins, octopi, sharks, and undesirable fish swim into these nets daily, a saddening loss of life that could be lessened by using smaller nets.
Could the Baywatch team arrest these clear-cutters of the sea by boisterously lambasting industrial bycatch?
That would be phenomenal.
With special guest Brigitte Bardot?
And a french lifeguard on exchange from La Rochelle who complicates Ronnie and CJ's relationship?
Plastic in the ocean is wreaking havoc on wildlife as well.
Tuesday, June 20, 2017
KEDi
Ceyda Torun's KEDi playfully examines Istanbul's resident cat population, flexibly showcasing its rambunctious pluck while interviewing individuals who provide it with comfort and warmth.
Stray cats you see, thousands of stray cats reside in the ancient city, fearlessly revelling in spry independence, boldly invigorating the streets they call home.
Tough to apply The Messenger here.
I admit to having a strong affection for cats. They're often chill, moody, impulsive, distinct, content to sit back and do their own thing, they walk themselves, you don't have to pay attention to them so much, they keep things neat and tidy and excel at being ever so cute, even if they bite and scratch sometimes or wildly fight amongst one another.
That's my generic characterization of cat kind, but KEDi digs much deeper. Through its patient analysis of several Istanbulian felines, we're presented with a multivariable cross-section of pith and personality.
They most certainly are cats, but their differences defy attempts to define essential catness, which makes their sly semantics as purrmeable as they are mewnificent.
Meow meow.
Raccoons are like this too, but they're much more skittish around humans so it's more difficult to notice.
KEDi isn't just a documentary about adorable ingenuitive furballs however.
Its brilliance comes from the ways in which it presents the Arab citizens of Istanbul as well.
It's hard to imagine any of the kind, warmhearted, tender, laid-back cat loving Arabs found within engaging in acts of terror or violently trying to institutionalize something as loathsome as Sharia law.
They're as relaxed as any Joes portrayed in an American sitcom and as thoughtful as any concerned citizen starring in a French romance.
A lot of Arabs living in Europe and North America likely left their countries because they hated the extremist elements who were ruining things back home.
If you think many of them seek to live according to Sharia law in Europe or North America, ask yourself, how many Christians or Jewish people in those regions want to strictly abide by the 10 commandments?
Don't get me wrong.
I hate the terrorists. I want to see them obliterated, to see ISIL crushed, stop them, stop them, please stop them.
Yet if you isolate a group of people, the majority of which are non-violent, and treat them like rats, you risk turning thousands of them, who otherwise would have just gone to work and raised a family, into militarized zombies.
Innocent arabs don't like being depicted as terrorists due to the obvious fact that they, like so many, detest cruelty and tyranny and would rather tell jokes and play games with friends and family.
KEDi gingerly points this out without even trying to do so.
It's a wonderful film.
Full of sympathy, kindness, understanding, and curiosity.
Cinematography by Alp Korfali and Charlie Wuppermann.
Plus, the music is incredible. I admit it, I have a hard time getting into the music of the Middle East, but KEDi's Turkish sounds are so cool that I quickly realized I had been foolishly ignoring a talented region of the globe.
Fantastic.
Stray cats you see, thousands of stray cats reside in the ancient city, fearlessly revelling in spry independence, boldly invigorating the streets they call home.
Tough to apply The Messenger here.
I admit to having a strong affection for cats. They're often chill, moody, impulsive, distinct, content to sit back and do their own thing, they walk themselves, you don't have to pay attention to them so much, they keep things neat and tidy and excel at being ever so cute, even if they bite and scratch sometimes or wildly fight amongst one another.
That's my generic characterization of cat kind, but KEDi digs much deeper. Through its patient analysis of several Istanbulian felines, we're presented with a multivariable cross-section of pith and personality.
They most certainly are cats, but their differences defy attempts to define essential catness, which makes their sly semantics as purrmeable as they are mewnificent.
Meow meow.
Raccoons are like this too, but they're much more skittish around humans so it's more difficult to notice.
KEDi isn't just a documentary about adorable ingenuitive furballs however.
Its brilliance comes from the ways in which it presents the Arab citizens of Istanbul as well.
It's hard to imagine any of the kind, warmhearted, tender, laid-back cat loving Arabs found within engaging in acts of terror or violently trying to institutionalize something as loathsome as Sharia law.
They're as relaxed as any Joes portrayed in an American sitcom and as thoughtful as any concerned citizen starring in a French romance.
A lot of Arabs living in Europe and North America likely left their countries because they hated the extremist elements who were ruining things back home.
If you think many of them seek to live according to Sharia law in Europe or North America, ask yourself, how many Christians or Jewish people in those regions want to strictly abide by the 10 commandments?
Don't get me wrong.
I hate the terrorists. I want to see them obliterated, to see ISIL crushed, stop them, stop them, please stop them.
Yet if you isolate a group of people, the majority of which are non-violent, and treat them like rats, you risk turning thousands of them, who otherwise would have just gone to work and raised a family, into militarized zombies.
Innocent arabs don't like being depicted as terrorists due to the obvious fact that they, like so many, detest cruelty and tyranny and would rather tell jokes and play games with friends and family.
KEDi gingerly points this out without even trying to do so.
It's a wonderful film.
Full of sympathy, kindness, understanding, and curiosity.
Cinematography by Alp Korfali and Charlie Wuppermann.
Plus, the music is incredible. I admit it, I have a hard time getting into the music of the Middle East, but KEDi's Turkish sounds are so cool that I quickly realized I had been foolishly ignoring a talented region of the globe.
Fantastic.
Friday, June 16, 2017
Wonder Woman
Fearless Diana (Gal Gadot/Lilly Aspell/Emily Carey), inquisitively nestled within her disciplined Amazonian bower, an island apart eternally bound to its rigour, its logic, its tenacity, her information hunger - her desire to learn - overflowing with nimble versatility, her lessons strict and hands-on necessitating stealth until maternal permission is granted, her aptitude ingenious and multivariable like Marie Curie or Meryl Streep, cloistered indefatigable incisive honourable distinction, suddenly combatting the Kaiser's Germany, then slowly falling for a courageous spy.
The fated day when she would leave her home to battle the unsuspecting Ares having arrived, she departs for Allied Territory (London), remarkably smooth and safe sailing accelerating her journey, where she must learn to navigate the world of men, and balance the heroic and the hideous while embracing potent conflict.
An armistice is within reach but a mad officer still seeking German victory (Danny Huston as Ludendorff) facilitates the development of a doomsdayesque gas, the deployment of which could quickly subdue England.
Diana, Steve Trevor (Chris Prine), and their peerless team boldly set out to stop him.
They even schmooze at a decadent Teutonic soirée where the participants oddly converse in English.
But Ares has alternative plans.
And will confront Diana with knowledge dark and incapacitating.
Awaken.
Resiliently awaken doth she.
In one of the cheesiest diabolical clashes I've seen, which goes along well with the equally cheesy extremely reductive inclusion of Greek mythology, the DC films still lacking the provocative yet practical grit that distinguishes their Marvel but not Dark Universe competitors, focus on Christopher Nolan, not on the oft overlooked Darkman.
Diana's forthright innocence could save Wonder Woman from this criticism however, for the most compelling aspect of the film emanates from her agile altruistic vocal integrity, the ways in which she immediately finds real world solutions to devastating problems that have bureaucratically resulted in millions of deaths, as a matter of regal nerve.
Her dynamism is captured by the antics of the eventually faithful team which accompanies her into No Man's Land as well.
If the superhero in question possesses a noble and pure constructive brave simplicity, does it not make sense to surround them with diverse cheeses, their resulting actions producing exceptional melts, healthy sandwiches, and robust salads thereby?
That's not what I mean.
Diana's scenes in London are warm, funny, thoughtful, and assertive, i.e irresistible.
Etta's (Lucy Davis) super cool too.
Question: would the Amazons have chosen to dress like that?
Controversy?
The fated day when she would leave her home to battle the unsuspecting Ares having arrived, she departs for Allied Territory (London), remarkably smooth and safe sailing accelerating her journey, where she must learn to navigate the world of men, and balance the heroic and the hideous while embracing potent conflict.
An armistice is within reach but a mad officer still seeking German victory (Danny Huston as Ludendorff) facilitates the development of a doomsdayesque gas, the deployment of which could quickly subdue England.
Diana, Steve Trevor (Chris Prine), and their peerless team boldly set out to stop him.
They even schmooze at a decadent Teutonic soirée where the participants oddly converse in English.
But Ares has alternative plans.
And will confront Diana with knowledge dark and incapacitating.
Awaken.
Resiliently awaken doth she.
In one of the cheesiest diabolical clashes I've seen, which goes along well with the equally cheesy extremely reductive inclusion of Greek mythology, the DC films still lacking the provocative yet practical grit that distinguishes their Marvel but not Dark Universe competitors, focus on Christopher Nolan, not on the oft overlooked Darkman.
Diana's forthright innocence could save Wonder Woman from this criticism however, for the most compelling aspect of the film emanates from her agile altruistic vocal integrity, the ways in which she immediately finds real world solutions to devastating problems that have bureaucratically resulted in millions of deaths, as a matter of regal nerve.
Her dynamism is captured by the antics of the eventually faithful team which accompanies her into No Man's Land as well.
If the superhero in question possesses a noble and pure constructive brave simplicity, does it not make sense to surround them with diverse cheeses, their resulting actions producing exceptional melts, healthy sandwiches, and robust salads thereby?
That's not what I mean.
Diana's scenes in London are warm, funny, thoughtful, and assertive, i.e irresistible.
Etta's (Lucy Davis) super cool too.
Question: would the Amazons have chosen to dress like that?
Controversy?
Tuesday, June 13, 2017
The Mummy
Another supernatural sensation has covetously awoken, the flood, the hurricane, desperately seeking to tyrannically rule a flourishing hyperconnected globe, revelling in metropolitan indignity, suddenly clutched and bare, as unassuming adventurous treasure hunter Nick Morton (Tom Cruise) accidentally reanimates an immortal ancient Egyptian Mummy, whose evil was so vain she was painstakingly entombed a thousand miles away, in what postmodernly became the battlefields of Iraq.
She (Sofia Boutella) calls to him as he rests, claiming he is her "chosen", daring to devotedly adorn his theoretically apocalyptic side, to birth the Egyptian god of death within him (Set), unaware of millennial advances in laissez-faire ambition.
Is he so extraordinarily laid-back and exceptionally unconcerned that he can sublimate omniscience with characteristic North American middle-class composure?
That's so Tom Cruise.
Or will the dark universe univocally assume its rapacious dignity, capriciously toying with a world then driven by its commands?
With reckless authoritarian banality.
That's more of a question for the sequel, I'm jumping ahead a bit, overlooking The Mummy's historical embrace of British and Egyptian antiquity as synthesized and contemporized by the troubled Dr. Jekyll (Russell Crowe), whose jaded yet hopeful thoughts encourage critical extrapolations.
The film's sort of cool, not a solid competitor for the Iron Man, Captain America, or Avenger series, but still comfortable enough doing its own thing to hold your attention for 107 without blowing your mind.
The classic good-natured blonde versus hellspawn brunette.
A quick look around Dr. Jekyll's laboratory suggests spinoff after spinoff after spinoff.
Adventure to adventure even if you may not like what you find?
The internal struggle which defines or destroys so many conscientious men and women.
Even with the near absurd number of superhero/arch-villain films proliferating at the moment, it would still be nice to see highly dramatic renditions of Dracula and/or Frankenstein released for the Academy's consideration.
Come to think of it, it's the perfect time.
Frankenstein was one of the saddest most touching maddeningly atemporal i.e eternally applicable sociocultural novels I've ever read.
He was a remarkably caring sensitive curious loving soul before his appearance was reviled by others.
Is there a Frankenstein film that has ever brilliantly captured that aspect without simultaneously lusting after monstrous profits?
Fassbender as the doctor?
Eddie Redmayne as Frankenstein?
Friday, June 9, 2017
Bon Cop Bad Cop 2
Bon Cop Bad Cop 2 playfully revels in the aggrandized extravagance to be expected from an over-the-top sequel, the higher stakes like the going rate for energetic extrinsic jukes, personality charismatically fuelling covert operations, with enough clandestine viscosity to effervescently lubricate cool.
David Bouchard (Patrick Huard) and Martin Ward (Colm Feore) accidentally meet once again when Martin shows up one night to obliviously bust Bouchard's cover.
But spur of the moment strategization pugnaciously preserves David's stealth, and he's even able to infiltrate the underground more securely thereafter, or at least in the wild immediate aftermath.
Back at it again.
They're a bit too chummy throughout parts of the film though.
Bouchard's working undercover for Sȗreté du Québec while Ward monitors his activities for the RCMP, a situation that allows them to cleverly comment on Canadian Federal/Provincial relations, but they meet in person so frequently over the course of a few days that at times it seems more like a buddy comedy than serious cloak and dagger artifice.
But I'm missing the point here, for I did want to see these characters constructively and/or contentiously interact throughout, with a latent French/English cross-cultural subtext warmly characterizing their debates, so it was fun if not odd to see them start up new chats so regularly, inasmuch as it delivered what I was after.
A rowdy new character named MC (Mariana Mazza) adds a lot of synergistic technological spunk to their conversations as well.
Intergenerational acuity.
Hyperreactive charm.
Bon Cop Bad Cop 2 not only poses the question, "how can I be bonner and badasser than Bon Cop Bad Cop," but also asks if it can simultaneously lampoon sequels that ostentatiously rely on such a stratagem by incredibly taking things to supreme heroic levels which maximize the immaculacies of coy endearing pith!
Loved it.
I've never seen a Canadian/Québecois film go bigger, and I applaud similar initiatives to come, initiatives that even barely approach that which Bon Cop Bad Cop 2 has achieved, has accomplished, as international ambassadors of campy Northern wit.
Look for Jameson Kraemer (Middle Brook Police Officer 1).
He impressed with his scene on the bridge.
It's hilarious when Bouchard finds himself locked up in a small town American jail, the English/French Canadian fluencies from the first film enlightening Canadian/American diplomatic ties in the second.
Go big.
It would be hard to go much bigger.
But I would love to see them in space!
Trying to take down intergalactic warlords Xavier Dolan and Don McKellar?
Familial dynamics continue to codify a compellingly complicated filmscape.
David Bouchard (Patrick Huard) and Martin Ward (Colm Feore) accidentally meet once again when Martin shows up one night to obliviously bust Bouchard's cover.
But spur of the moment strategization pugnaciously preserves David's stealth, and he's even able to infiltrate the underground more securely thereafter, or at least in the wild immediate aftermath.
Back at it again.
They're a bit too chummy throughout parts of the film though.
Bouchard's working undercover for Sȗreté du Québec while Ward monitors his activities for the RCMP, a situation that allows them to cleverly comment on Canadian Federal/Provincial relations, but they meet in person so frequently over the course of a few days that at times it seems more like a buddy comedy than serious cloak and dagger artifice.
But I'm missing the point here, for I did want to see these characters constructively and/or contentiously interact throughout, with a latent French/English cross-cultural subtext warmly characterizing their debates, so it was fun if not odd to see them start up new chats so regularly, inasmuch as it delivered what I was after.
A rowdy new character named MC (Mariana Mazza) adds a lot of synergistic technological spunk to their conversations as well.
Intergenerational acuity.
Hyperreactive charm.
Bon Cop Bad Cop 2 not only poses the question, "how can I be bonner and badasser than Bon Cop Bad Cop," but also asks if it can simultaneously lampoon sequels that ostentatiously rely on such a stratagem by incredibly taking things to supreme heroic levels which maximize the immaculacies of coy endearing pith!
Loved it.
I've never seen a Canadian/Québecois film go bigger, and I applaud similar initiatives to come, initiatives that even barely approach that which Bon Cop Bad Cop 2 has achieved, has accomplished, as international ambassadors of campy Northern wit.
Look for Jameson Kraemer (Middle Brook Police Officer 1).
He impressed with his scene on the bridge.
It's hilarious when Bouchard finds himself locked up in a small town American jail, the English/French Canadian fluencies from the first film enlightening Canadian/American diplomatic ties in the second.
Go big.
It would be hard to go much bigger.
But I would love to see them in space!
Trying to take down intergalactic warlords Xavier Dolan and Don McKellar?
Familial dynamics continue to codify a compellingly complicated filmscape.
Tuesday, June 6, 2017
Alien: Covenant
An unexpected burst of flame urgently awakes a slumbering crew deep in space as their ship briskly travels towards an unknown far distant range.
Upon beginning their repairs, a beacon is detected on a nearby planet, the tantalizing nature of which leads their new captain to decide to investigate, the sage protests of his first mate notwithstanding.
Almost immediately after their arrival, a deadly spore which transmits a misty biological shiver into unsuspecting individuals (the colonization of the colonizers) infects two oblivious crew members, and as the organism gestates within them, their colleagues withstand plied mortal shocks.
Then as night falls and things seem extraordinarily bleak, a lone warrior appears in the wilderness.
Possessing knowledge, courage, agility, sanctuary, and fire power, he gracefully leads them to his haunting abode.
But does he plan to aid or sabotage their escape, and will his startled reflection acquiesce to his cold independence?
Lost and alone on an ancient world.
Intrinsically dependent.
Savagely skewed.
Alien: Covenant introduces acidic tyranny to the age of the superhero by blending the scientific with the biblical to castigate übermensch.
Taking technological insubordination to extremely sadistic levels, it intellectually yet spine-tinglingly reverberates by harrowingly theorizing creation.
Antiquation.
Devastation.
A solidly monstrous addition to the Alienverse, with an ending as cataclysmic as the direst recalcitrant lamentations, Alien: Covenant questions the elevation of artificial intelligence while agnosticating those who play god.
Attaching characteristic struggle to the exhilaration of adventure, it cynically yet resourcefully challenges to temper omniscient existence.
And dreams.
Upon beginning their repairs, a beacon is detected on a nearby planet, the tantalizing nature of which leads their new captain to decide to investigate, the sage protests of his first mate notwithstanding.
Almost immediately after their arrival, a deadly spore which transmits a misty biological shiver into unsuspecting individuals (the colonization of the colonizers) infects two oblivious crew members, and as the organism gestates within them, their colleagues withstand plied mortal shocks.
Then as night falls and things seem extraordinarily bleak, a lone warrior appears in the wilderness.
Possessing knowledge, courage, agility, sanctuary, and fire power, he gracefully leads them to his haunting abode.
But does he plan to aid or sabotage their escape, and will his startled reflection acquiesce to his cold independence?
Lost and alone on an ancient world.
Intrinsically dependent.
Savagely skewed.
Alien: Covenant introduces acidic tyranny to the age of the superhero by blending the scientific with the biblical to castigate übermensch.
Taking technological insubordination to extremely sadistic levels, it intellectually yet spine-tinglingly reverberates by harrowingly theorizing creation.
Antiquation.
Devastation.
A solidly monstrous addition to the Alienverse, with an ending as cataclysmic as the direst recalcitrant lamentations, Alien: Covenant questions the elevation of artificial intelligence while agnosticating those who play god.
Attaching characteristic struggle to the exhilaration of adventure, it cynically yet resourcefully challenges to temper omniscient existence.
And dreams.
Friday, June 2, 2017
Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales
Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales has some compelling ideas woven into its text.
There's a strong woman of science boldly using her brain to discover truths unbeknownst as of yet to humankind.
Astronomical insights are cartographically applied to exonerate the supernatural as a matter of practical paternal romance.
A comical misunderstanding of a highly technical term leads to jocular confusion blended with righteous incapacitation.
The mythological and the religious are conjugally contrasted, perhaps to subconsciously juxtapose alternative attitudes acculturatively adopted as one travels through youth to age.
The monkey's back.
So's Mr. Gibbs (Kevin McNally).
But Gibbs doesn't have the striking supportive role he endearingly cultivated in Dead Men's predecessors, as he's shortsightedly reduced to more of a decorative ornament.
It's much more comedic than the other films, the swashbuckling seriousness that held them together sacrificed for generally flat tomfoolery.
Henry Turner (Brenton Thwaites) and Carina Smyth (Kaya Scodelario) replace William Turner and Elizabeth Swann but they're no Keira Knightley and Orlando Bloom.
The action's steady and the confusing political threads that abstrusely adorned some of the sequels are absent, but don't let the barrage of buffoonery distract you from the fact that robust characters have transmutated into stock representations.
For instance, Jack's drinking has commandeered his wit and the mesmerizing incomparable lovingly brilliant captain is more like a bewildered wildebeest.
Johnny Depp should have won an oscar for his performance in The Curse of the Black Pearl. The apotheosis of his genius, which has recently fallen upon troubled times.
It may be my favourite performance ever, to appropriately apply an adolescent designation.
Did he ever make a film with Robert Downey Jr.? In a small town? Co-starring Emma Stone, Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson, and Ryan Reynolds?
Plus Mayor Orlando Bloom and Schoolmistress Keira Knightley?
It's actually a great idea, having a washed-up Jack Sparrow circumventing at the helm.
He has aged considerably while drinking recklessly, so toning him down a notch adds an instructive realistic touch.
However, to tone down Jack Sparrow, or to transform his cheeky inspiration into reflexive knee-jerk contractions is to forget why Pirates of the Caribbean films are so appealing, and made me think, this is definitely take 5.
With the classic "everything imaginable is perfect" ending, apart from a significant loss (although I imagine they may resurface for part 6).
Said and done, I almost shed tears to see them back together.
But the significance was still diluted by the humour.
A critique of postmodern sincerity?
There's a strong woman of science boldly using her brain to discover truths unbeknownst as of yet to humankind.
Astronomical insights are cartographically applied to exonerate the supernatural as a matter of practical paternal romance.
A comical misunderstanding of a highly technical term leads to jocular confusion blended with righteous incapacitation.
The mythological and the religious are conjugally contrasted, perhaps to subconsciously juxtapose alternative attitudes acculturatively adopted as one travels through youth to age.
The monkey's back.
So's Mr. Gibbs (Kevin McNally).
But Gibbs doesn't have the striking supportive role he endearingly cultivated in Dead Men's predecessors, as he's shortsightedly reduced to more of a decorative ornament.
It's much more comedic than the other films, the swashbuckling seriousness that held them together sacrificed for generally flat tomfoolery.
Henry Turner (Brenton Thwaites) and Carina Smyth (Kaya Scodelario) replace William Turner and Elizabeth Swann but they're no Keira Knightley and Orlando Bloom.
The action's steady and the confusing political threads that abstrusely adorned some of the sequels are absent, but don't let the barrage of buffoonery distract you from the fact that robust characters have transmutated into stock representations.
For instance, Jack's drinking has commandeered his wit and the mesmerizing incomparable lovingly brilliant captain is more like a bewildered wildebeest.
Johnny Depp should have won an oscar for his performance in The Curse of the Black Pearl. The apotheosis of his genius, which has recently fallen upon troubled times.
It may be my favourite performance ever, to appropriately apply an adolescent designation.
Did he ever make a film with Robert Downey Jr.? In a small town? Co-starring Emma Stone, Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson, and Ryan Reynolds?
Plus Mayor Orlando Bloom and Schoolmistress Keira Knightley?
It's actually a great idea, having a washed-up Jack Sparrow circumventing at the helm.
He has aged considerably while drinking recklessly, so toning him down a notch adds an instructive realistic touch.
However, to tone down Jack Sparrow, or to transform his cheeky inspiration into reflexive knee-jerk contractions is to forget why Pirates of the Caribbean films are so appealing, and made me think, this is definitely take 5.
With the classic "everything imaginable is perfect" ending, apart from a significant loss (although I imagine they may resurface for part 6).
Said and done, I almost shed tears to see them back together.
But the significance was still diluted by the humour.
A critique of postmodern sincerity?
Tuesday, May 30, 2017
Born in China
The difficulties of growing up wild in China's rugged wilderness heartbreakingly yet adorably weather punishing and relaxing seasonal variabilities, as young animals and their parents dare to exist in Chuan Lu's Born in China.
The ancient mating rituals of the bold discerning chiru suggest itinerant proclivities can indeed encourage the maturation of confident resourceful young.
Raising a litter of snow leopards proves daunting for a feisty mother, as covetous rival families scout her bountiful terrain.
Bumbling about his newfound home provides a mischievous panda with the competencies and skills required to arboreally come of age.
Strife and mayhem chaotically confuse a growing golden snub-nosed monkey, due to his family's sudden disregard, and the lonely life he leads amongst his fellow abandoned thereafter.
And noble red-crowned cranes regally frame the different narratives with embowering transitory grace, alighting dignity in flight, for all of China's nimble creatures.
Come for the camaraderie, comb with the cuddles, beware nature's harsh realities, and flourish off the beaten path.
To be in possession of these extant verdant luscious inspiring treasures is indubitably a grand historical responsibility.
Soulful stewardship of such vast antiquities makes one feel millennial in the present, humble yet starstruck, with nascent habitual awe.
Definitely worth seeing.
Intergenerationally expansive.
The ancient mating rituals of the bold discerning chiru suggest itinerant proclivities can indeed encourage the maturation of confident resourceful young.
Raising a litter of snow leopards proves daunting for a feisty mother, as covetous rival families scout her bountiful terrain.
Bumbling about his newfound home provides a mischievous panda with the competencies and skills required to arboreally come of age.
Strife and mayhem chaotically confuse a growing golden snub-nosed monkey, due to his family's sudden disregard, and the lonely life he leads amongst his fellow abandoned thereafter.
And noble red-crowned cranes regally frame the different narratives with embowering transitory grace, alighting dignity in flight, for all of China's nimble creatures.
Come for the camaraderie, comb with the cuddles, beware nature's harsh realities, and flourish off the beaten path.
To be in possession of these extant verdant luscious inspiring treasures is indubitably a grand historical responsibility.
Soulful stewardship of such vast antiquities makes one feel millennial in the present, humble yet starstruck, with nascent habitual awe.
Definitely worth seeing.
Intergenerationally expansive.
Friday, May 26, 2017
King Arthur: The Legend of the Sword
In an age flourishing long before the ascension of technocratic opalescence, wherein which the supernatural and the wayward majestically manifested authenticity, the gifted and the gaunt galavanting and genuflecting, magnificence reliant upon impunity, servility wavering mistrust, an honourable King was nefariously betrayed by his kin, his only son cast adrift with neither warmth nor privilege to suckle, then discovered, and nurtured, by the independent and the forthright, inductively instructed in brawn, conviviality, mischief, loving evaluated through sanctuary, costs wholesomely hyperconnected, impulsive riled frantic mores, one chance still remaining to reclaim his unknown throne, skittishly and jealously revealed, through treacherous enfeebled woe.
Muggles and mages peacefully coexisting in cheerful luminescent palm, until the balance is thrust asunder by those who do not share power.
Fidelity to the old ways survives nonetheless, a dedicated lot sagely educated in myth and legend.
Patiently awaiting.
August sublimity subsumed.
Guy Ritchie's King Arthur: the Legend of the Sword reimagines an English epic by blending the surreal and the sacrificial with athletic cinematic prose.
Through recourse to the bewitching, he shamanistically summons convergent forces, which subterraneanly sanctify a waking vision enchantingly his own.
Snakes aren't evil.
Nature is bold and relevant.
The music and the action and the emotion made me wish I was sitting in an inn in the 5th century constructed of stone with a giant cauldron of stew simmering over a communal fire, our ales robust, our bread hearty, and as the practical and the spiritual became more rapturously entwined, I could almost taste the feast, I could almost consume the vittles.
Young Arthur (Charlie Hunnam) reincarnates the Snatch/Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels aesthetic, as do his feisty companions as they resiliently battle both themselves and the supposed King.
It isn't about armies or sieges, preferring rather to laud cults of personality.
It revolves around Arthur, but there are more than enough well-developed characters to ensure he's part of an influential collective.
He doesn't seem to care much for ruling yet wants to progress as challenges and quests present themselves.
An homage to British First Nations?
To conscientious individuals?
An eclectic international incantation regardless, if not a concentric mysticization, or a definitive indissoluble divergence.
Quite different from contemporary action/fantasy films.
Estuary.
Muggles and mages peacefully coexisting in cheerful luminescent palm, until the balance is thrust asunder by those who do not share power.
Fidelity to the old ways survives nonetheless, a dedicated lot sagely educated in myth and legend.
Patiently awaiting.
August sublimity subsumed.
Guy Ritchie's King Arthur: the Legend of the Sword reimagines an English epic by blending the surreal and the sacrificial with athletic cinematic prose.
Through recourse to the bewitching, he shamanistically summons convergent forces, which subterraneanly sanctify a waking vision enchantingly his own.
Snakes aren't evil.
Nature is bold and relevant.
The music and the action and the emotion made me wish I was sitting in an inn in the 5th century constructed of stone with a giant cauldron of stew simmering over a communal fire, our ales robust, our bread hearty, and as the practical and the spiritual became more rapturously entwined, I could almost taste the feast, I could almost consume the vittles.
Young Arthur (Charlie Hunnam) reincarnates the Snatch/Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels aesthetic, as do his feisty companions as they resiliently battle both themselves and the supposed King.
It isn't about armies or sieges, preferring rather to laud cults of personality.
It revolves around Arthur, but there are more than enough well-developed characters to ensure he's part of an influential collective.
He doesn't seem to care much for ruling yet wants to progress as challenges and quests present themselves.
An homage to British First Nations?
To conscientious individuals?
An eclectic international incantation regardless, if not a concentric mysticization, or a definitive indissoluble divergence.
Quite different from contemporary action/fantasy films.
Estuary.
Tuesday, May 23, 2017
David Lynch: The Art Life
Jon Nguyen, Rick Barnes, and Olivia Neergaard-Holm present David Lynch in his own words, as he prolifically creates at home in California.
Better known for his films, David Lynch: The Art Life alternatively investigates his multidimensional paintings, while he tells the tales that led him to begin narrativizing canvasses in motion.
From his wholesome beginnings in Montana and Idaho, to his wild adolescent high school days in Virginia, Lynch constructs several transformative trestles and discusses time spent with both mom and dad.
His mom detected special abilities during his childhood and took comforting steps to lovingly cultivate them.
His father found his outputs to be somewhat too macabre while visiting him in Philadelphia however, after he had moved there to study painting and actively engage with distinct recalcitrant phenomena, and made some harsh recommendations the timing of which was ironically inappropriate.
It was classic feast and famine.
The feast.
He suddenly receives a grant to study film at the American Film Institute.
Famine: the creation of his masterpiece, Eraserhead, takes longer than expected, and he doesn't complete the film until after his father and brother show up to give him the, "you should start thinking seriously about life" talk, which shortsightedly reduces him to tears.
He obviously disregards their criticisms and goes on to become one of America's great directors, working in film, music, television and painting, notably forging a strong bond with Mark Frost.
It's happening again.
And Stanley Kubrick once stated (paraphrasing) that Eraserhead was the only film he ever wished he had directed.
I think that's in Michael Chion's David Lynch but I'm not certain.
Dark and sombre yet light and dreamy, his texts possess a mystic quotidian quality that defies sustained comparison.
The man himself showcased in The Art Life is down to earth yet provocative, humble and unique.
Listening to him modestly describe his formative years sounds like an extended free form boundless poem which patiently articulates all things clasped artistic.
Like Paterson after a few more decades.
What I gathered from his thoughts was that it was never a matter of stopping, or that creation is his life's work, just as others drive buses or cure the sick, it's just what he does, and he never had any inclination to do anything else.
A gifted storyteller and a remarkable artist, it's amazing that he never stopped working, and incredible that he continues to create to this day.
An honest to God/Buddha/Coyote blue rose.
In bloom.
Better known for his films, David Lynch: The Art Life alternatively investigates his multidimensional paintings, while he tells the tales that led him to begin narrativizing canvasses in motion.
From his wholesome beginnings in Montana and Idaho, to his wild adolescent high school days in Virginia, Lynch constructs several transformative trestles and discusses time spent with both mom and dad.
His mom detected special abilities during his childhood and took comforting steps to lovingly cultivate them.
His father found his outputs to be somewhat too macabre while visiting him in Philadelphia however, after he had moved there to study painting and actively engage with distinct recalcitrant phenomena, and made some harsh recommendations the timing of which was ironically inappropriate.
It was classic feast and famine.
The feast.
He suddenly receives a grant to study film at the American Film Institute.
Famine: the creation of his masterpiece, Eraserhead, takes longer than expected, and he doesn't complete the film until after his father and brother show up to give him the, "you should start thinking seriously about life" talk, which shortsightedly reduces him to tears.
He obviously disregards their criticisms and goes on to become one of America's great directors, working in film, music, television and painting, notably forging a strong bond with Mark Frost.
It's happening again.
And Stanley Kubrick once stated (paraphrasing) that Eraserhead was the only film he ever wished he had directed.
I think that's in Michael Chion's David Lynch but I'm not certain.
Dark and sombre yet light and dreamy, his texts possess a mystic quotidian quality that defies sustained comparison.
The man himself showcased in The Art Life is down to earth yet provocative, humble and unique.
Listening to him modestly describe his formative years sounds like an extended free form boundless poem which patiently articulates all things clasped artistic.
Like Paterson after a few more decades.
What I gathered from his thoughts was that it was never a matter of stopping, or that creation is his life's work, just as others drive buses or cure the sick, it's just what he does, and he never had any inclination to do anything else.
A gifted storyteller and a remarkable artist, it's amazing that he never stopped working, and incredible that he continues to create to this day.
An honest to God/Buddha/Coyote blue rose.
In bloom.
Friday, May 19, 2017
Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2
The characters have been introduced, and have come together to forge a resilient team.
Traits briefly developed in vol. 1 must now be convincingly expanded upon in order to keep generating cheeky sly endearingly rebellious momentum, even if the Guardian's antics are no longer officially outlawed.
Rocket (Bradley Cooper) screws up though, and, after saving a guilded race from a thick-skinned monster, he steals some of their precious batteries to profit on the side, and that very same none-too-amused excessively proud community decides to vengefully hunt the Guardians down consequently, which leaves them troubled and divided after Star-Lord (Chris Pratt) meets his father (Kurt Russell as Ego) who turns out to be an immortal Celestial.
For the first time.
Ego wants to destroy the galaxy but I've said too much already.
Nevertheless.
There's still more to be told.
Yondu (Michael Rooker) and Rocket wind up imprisoned after Yondu's crew mutinies and deprives him of his mellifluous arrow.
While imprisoned, Rocket begins to understand that perhaps he is somewhat abrasive, as he's critique by the rather unpolished Yondu, and referred to as "a professional asshole."
Sticking two assholes in prison together and having them play who's the severest was a great idea, and one that helped them tone it down a bit without spoiling their characteristic alarm.
A new empathic character named Mantis (Pom Klementieff) complicates Star-Lord and Gamora's (Zoe Saldana) relationship after revealing his true feelings, and they interrelate ala Sam and Diane of old afterwards as pride and improvisation delicately yet ruggedly blend.
Star-Lord must also relate to his newfound dad while Gamora contends with her psychotic sister (Karen Gillan as Nebula), the former becoming more estranged as the latter begin to bond.
The Guardians themselves are concerned with their collective identity and whether or not their wild unheralded intergalactic shenanigans have united them together as an im/penitent family?
Without acknowledging the unconscious focus of many of their conversations, they consider the nature of their beguiling consensus, while unravelling supervillainous plots and doing their best to universally grind.
Drax's (Dave Bautista) comments thematically reflect this Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 prerogative, as his colourful blunt wholesome yet provocative observations coddle and crucify the group as a whole.
Groot (Vin Diesel) assists as well.
It's a great sequel, multilaterally pondering life and why it's worth living without sugarcoating its contentions or shying away from its responsibilities from diametrically opposed perspectives.
Big time.
Complacency is structurally criticized as its warm and friendly formal aspects contradict its argumentative content, until the Guardians realize that if both its fuzzy and festive features are to continuously chill, or if Ego conversely gains the upper hand, their raison d'être, their status as Guardians of the Galaxy, will become somewhat mute, multivariably speaking.
The transformation accelerates around the time Star-Lord's walkman (walkperson) is destabilized.
If they didn't care, if they just embraced eternal isolated luxury, they would have gluttonously imploded.
Also visually stunning.
Tragic artistic melodramatic sci-fi?
Correct.
I'd say that designation is correct.
Yes I would.
Vermillion.
Traits briefly developed in vol. 1 must now be convincingly expanded upon in order to keep generating cheeky sly endearingly rebellious momentum, even if the Guardian's antics are no longer officially outlawed.
Rocket (Bradley Cooper) screws up though, and, after saving a guilded race from a thick-skinned monster, he steals some of their precious batteries to profit on the side, and that very same none-too-amused excessively proud community decides to vengefully hunt the Guardians down consequently, which leaves them troubled and divided after Star-Lord (Chris Pratt) meets his father (Kurt Russell as Ego) who turns out to be an immortal Celestial.
For the first time.
Ego wants to destroy the galaxy but I've said too much already.
Nevertheless.
There's still more to be told.
Yondu (Michael Rooker) and Rocket wind up imprisoned after Yondu's crew mutinies and deprives him of his mellifluous arrow.
While imprisoned, Rocket begins to understand that perhaps he is somewhat abrasive, as he's critique by the rather unpolished Yondu, and referred to as "a professional asshole."
Sticking two assholes in prison together and having them play who's the severest was a great idea, and one that helped them tone it down a bit without spoiling their characteristic alarm.
A new empathic character named Mantis (Pom Klementieff) complicates Star-Lord and Gamora's (Zoe Saldana) relationship after revealing his true feelings, and they interrelate ala Sam and Diane of old afterwards as pride and improvisation delicately yet ruggedly blend.
Star-Lord must also relate to his newfound dad while Gamora contends with her psychotic sister (Karen Gillan as Nebula), the former becoming more estranged as the latter begin to bond.
The Guardians themselves are concerned with their collective identity and whether or not their wild unheralded intergalactic shenanigans have united them together as an im/penitent family?
Without acknowledging the unconscious focus of many of their conversations, they consider the nature of their beguiling consensus, while unravelling supervillainous plots and doing their best to universally grind.
Drax's (Dave Bautista) comments thematically reflect this Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 prerogative, as his colourful blunt wholesome yet provocative observations coddle and crucify the group as a whole.
Groot (Vin Diesel) assists as well.
It's a great sequel, multilaterally pondering life and why it's worth living without sugarcoating its contentions or shying away from its responsibilities from diametrically opposed perspectives.
Big time.
Complacency is structurally criticized as its warm and friendly formal aspects contradict its argumentative content, until the Guardians realize that if both its fuzzy and festive features are to continuously chill, or if Ego conversely gains the upper hand, their raison d'être, their status as Guardians of the Galaxy, will become somewhat mute, multivariably speaking.
The transformation accelerates around the time Star-Lord's walkman (walkperson) is destabilized.
If they didn't care, if they just embraced eternal isolated luxury, they would have gluttonously imploded.
Also visually stunning.
Tragic artistic melodramatic sci-fi?
Correct.
I'd say that designation is correct.
Yes I would.
Vermillion.
Tuesday, May 16, 2017
Colossal
Sensational supernatural synergies conventionally disrupt earth's space/time continuum to coincide with the destruction of a young girl's diorama in the woeful Colossal, extracurricularly transporting her grief to South Korea, where unbeknownst to her, a giant monster covertly seeks vengeance.
But said vengeance is spatially and temporally dependent and the beastie does not return until decades later, when, still consumed with dioramic grief, attempts to self-medicate with alcohol and promiscuity having failed to appease her anguish, she heads back to the small town where she was raised, at which point the destructive culprit comes courting.
Instinctively.
He offers friendship, furniture, a job, free booze, but she still prefers his better looking friend, which drives his responsible sure and steady stamina into a state of pure psychosis, for he has once again entertained the forbidden.
A monster was created for him upon that fateful day also.
And after they discover they both wield giant indestructible surrogates, it's on bitches, in the heart of downtown Seoul.
The potential for an incredible film lies within Nacho Vigalondo's Colossal, but, unfortunately, it's more concerned with possession than comedy.
It's funny when you think about what happens, what transpires, and it's fun to talk about afterwards, not that dark comedic elements don't permeate throughout.
I've never spoken about this film with anyone.
Yet Colossal spends a lot of time just chillin' in a small town, while emphasizing that a hard working character is boring, or that spontaneous bombshells find him boring, which winds up being somewhat boring, and pyrotechnically awkward when he tries not to be boring, until the final moments which are worth the wait, as stoic disinterest unwittingly consumes him.
Let the Sirens be you fool, they know no allegiance, they have no sense of fair play.
Metaphorically speaking, diligence and responsibility are crushed by both self-generated righteous indignation and adventitious independent preferences for alcohol.
Just let things be.
As you approach 40, you may lose most of your interest altogether.
And settle into a general routine of regenerative composure.
Good food, good music and film.
An appreciation for synchronizations.
A cat.
A micropig.
But said vengeance is spatially and temporally dependent and the beastie does not return until decades later, when, still consumed with dioramic grief, attempts to self-medicate with alcohol and promiscuity having failed to appease her anguish, she heads back to the small town where she was raised, at which point the destructive culprit comes courting.
Instinctively.
He offers friendship, furniture, a job, free booze, but she still prefers his better looking friend, which drives his responsible sure and steady stamina into a state of pure psychosis, for he has once again entertained the forbidden.
A monster was created for him upon that fateful day also.
And after they discover they both wield giant indestructible surrogates, it's on bitches, in the heart of downtown Seoul.
The potential for an incredible film lies within Nacho Vigalondo's Colossal, but, unfortunately, it's more concerned with possession than comedy.
It's funny when you think about what happens, what transpires, and it's fun to talk about afterwards, not that dark comedic elements don't permeate throughout.
I've never spoken about this film with anyone.
Yet Colossal spends a lot of time just chillin' in a small town, while emphasizing that a hard working character is boring, or that spontaneous bombshells find him boring, which winds up being somewhat boring, and pyrotechnically awkward when he tries not to be boring, until the final moments which are worth the wait, as stoic disinterest unwittingly consumes him.
Let the Sirens be you fool, they know no allegiance, they have no sense of fair play.
Metaphorically speaking, diligence and responsibility are crushed by both self-generated righteous indignation and adventitious independent preferences for alcohol.
Just let things be.
As you approach 40, you may lose most of your interest altogether.
And settle into a general routine of regenerative composure.
Good food, good music and film.
An appreciation for synchronizations.
A cat.
A micropig.
Friday, May 12, 2017
Free Fire
There's something different about this pointless indolent thrashy debacle, an art to not caring at all that transcends the actual output and haphazardly generates an irradiating flame.
Like the rebellious walrus who spontaneously decides to find new lodgings, or the lackadaisical raccoon who still outwits grandpa every Sunday, Ben Wheatley's Free Fire accidentally harnesses that wild raw pulsating energy that is undeniably up to no good, yet still mercilessly elucidates congenital deviant awe.
Resignedly.
It's not really that funny, the points it makes aren't particularly profound, the action sequence/s lack hyper-reactively intricate multivariable momentum, and none of the characters possess enigmatic appeal.
It's sort of like riding the métro late at night and watching while someone who drank too much vomits, and then penitently slips and falls into that vomit while his or her friends recklessly cheer.
Or when you're sitting in class and someone farts and you can tell that they're embarrassed but it's a stinker and the stink doesn't fade and soon the teacher can smell it but they wind up counterintuitively smirking to the culprit's chagrin.
They may have been hoping their lack of a plan, their free fire, would extemporaneously implicate jarring vindicated chartreuse, correct, yet, instead, the backlash ends up courteously refining clumsy awkwardness astern, collegially asking their audience to digest pestilent penpersonship in order to stentoriously belch, gaseously unscrew, or squeamishly bellow, as a matter of loyalty to the director and cast under examination.
It's like a struggle, a struggle to achieve that which they never intended to accomplish, to not do anything, a nihilistic neologism necromantically jaded and spry.
As it succeeded at doing next to nothing blandly, I couldn't help but think its murky blend of flash and crash was more refreshing than similar more engaged comedies, form cacophonously duelling with content, to circuitously disappoint while chugging back another 6.
Tally-Ho.
Incendiary inanity.
Like the rebellious walrus who spontaneously decides to find new lodgings, or the lackadaisical raccoon who still outwits grandpa every Sunday, Ben Wheatley's Free Fire accidentally harnesses that wild raw pulsating energy that is undeniably up to no good, yet still mercilessly elucidates congenital deviant awe.
Resignedly.
It's not really that funny, the points it makes aren't particularly profound, the action sequence/s lack hyper-reactively intricate multivariable momentum, and none of the characters possess enigmatic appeal.
It's sort of like riding the métro late at night and watching while someone who drank too much vomits, and then penitently slips and falls into that vomit while his or her friends recklessly cheer.
Or when you're sitting in class and someone farts and you can tell that they're embarrassed but it's a stinker and the stink doesn't fade and soon the teacher can smell it but they wind up counterintuitively smirking to the culprit's chagrin.
They may have been hoping their lack of a plan, their free fire, would extemporaneously implicate jarring vindicated chartreuse, correct, yet, instead, the backlash ends up courteously refining clumsy awkwardness astern, collegially asking their audience to digest pestilent penpersonship in order to stentoriously belch, gaseously unscrew, or squeamishly bellow, as a matter of loyalty to the director and cast under examination.
It's like a struggle, a struggle to achieve that which they never intended to accomplish, to not do anything, a nihilistic neologism necromantically jaded and spry.
As it succeeded at doing next to nothing blandly, I couldn't help but think its murky blend of flash and crash was more refreshing than similar more engaged comedies, form cacophonously duelling with content, to circuitously disappoint while chugging back another 6.
Tally-Ho.
Incendiary inanity.
Tuesday, May 9, 2017
The Circle
Omnipresent technological observation, every detail from everyone's life infinitesimally revealed with omnibus macroscopic composure, the triumph of the public sphere, no more secrets, no more subterfuge, real time rhapsodic synergistic respiration sucking in surety and exhaling plots, sandlots, polka dots, buffets, aeronautic knowledge in plain microcosm, mountainous metaphoric immersive munchy meadows, cross-referenced cursive equations, auspices, permanent honesty.
The Circle seeks to reveal everything ever recorded, every piece of data historically accumulated, every whisper, every slight, while turning everyone's life into a networked primetime extravaganza, constant pervasive awareness, monitoring each and every aspect, like itsy-bitsy circus shows.
Prophetic in its potential, sage in its revelations, James Ponsoldt's The Circle critically examines the ways in which social media has significantly transformed human existence in less than ten years, like the printing press of old, exponentially exemplified.
Within the film, an employee's (Emma Watson as Mae) responsibilities gradually increase after she's hired by the aforementioned, an innovative business that has combined several popular online sites into one übercolossus, until she goes transparent and everyone begins following every moment of her life all day everyday as it happens online, and she suddenly finds herself with an unprecedented degree of influence.
She's chill though, cool, she's not really into all that sort of, in the film anyways, the film is quite different from the book, although she realizes she possesses a perky ability to monumentally game change.
She digs.
She excavates.
She constructs.
She reveals.
If everything about all and sundry was accessible online the world would certainly become a different place.
A lot of pricks would be forced not to be huge dicks, unless some kind of sadistic sensational saga prevailed, for a time.
It might end up being like true democracy, things like starvation and violent crime slowly (perhaps rapidly) disappearing, the exaltation of the ephemeral, new variations of Star Trek compellingly illuminating the variations, slavery ending, endangered animals given a fighting chance for survival.
Imagine the pizza.
The long weekends.
The orations.
But if a select group controlled it things likely wouldn't change much.
And it would be super hard on those who didn't want their lives to be transparent, not just the unscrupulous but regular people as well, unscrupulous regular people notwithstanding.
Seems to be heading in that direction regardless.
Not really sure if The Circle's prophetic or simply just a comment on the times.
Makes the art of creating genuine surprise all the more intriguing either way.
*Another film could be made based on the book that could offer deeper reflections.
The Circle seeks to reveal everything ever recorded, every piece of data historically accumulated, every whisper, every slight, while turning everyone's life into a networked primetime extravaganza, constant pervasive awareness, monitoring each and every aspect, like itsy-bitsy circus shows.
Prophetic in its potential, sage in its revelations, James Ponsoldt's The Circle critically examines the ways in which social media has significantly transformed human existence in less than ten years, like the printing press of old, exponentially exemplified.
Within the film, an employee's (Emma Watson as Mae) responsibilities gradually increase after she's hired by the aforementioned, an innovative business that has combined several popular online sites into one übercolossus, until she goes transparent and everyone begins following every moment of her life all day everyday as it happens online, and she suddenly finds herself with an unprecedented degree of influence.
She's chill though, cool, she's not really into all that sort of, in the film anyways, the film is quite different from the book, although she realizes she possesses a perky ability to monumentally game change.
She digs.
She excavates.
She constructs.
She reveals.
If everything about all and sundry was accessible online the world would certainly become a different place.
A lot of pricks would be forced not to be huge dicks, unless some kind of sadistic sensational saga prevailed, for a time.
It might end up being like true democracy, things like starvation and violent crime slowly (perhaps rapidly) disappearing, the exaltation of the ephemeral, new variations of Star Trek compellingly illuminating the variations, slavery ending, endangered animals given a fighting chance for survival.
Imagine the pizza.
The long weekends.
The orations.
But if a select group controlled it things likely wouldn't change much.
And it would be super hard on those who didn't want their lives to be transparent, not just the unscrupulous but regular people as well, unscrupulous regular people notwithstanding.
Seems to be heading in that direction regardless.
Not really sure if The Circle's prophetic or simply just a comment on the times.
Makes the art of creating genuine surprise all the more intriguing either way.
*Another film could be made based on the book that could offer deeper reflections.
Friday, May 5, 2017
The Lost City of Z
Driven by an irrepressible desire to advance and succeed, willing to assiduously acclimatize himself to arduous extremities, without uttering a single dismissive word of protest, the bold Percival Fawcett (Charlie Hunnam) sets out to map disputed South American realms, and learns of an ancient legend after earnestly departing down river.
The pursuit of that legend leads him to boisterously challenge the racial preconceptions of Britain's Royal Geographical Society after he achieves fame for his rigour and accolades for his gall.
Controversies cloud his subsequent expedition however as a colleague of a higher social rank (Angus Macfadyen as James Murray) signs up and cannot handle the hardships of the exploratory life.
After Fawcett judiciously grants him reprieve, he still slanders his reputation upon returning home.
Yet his resolve remains unencumbered (even during World War I) and his humble determination wins him the loyalty of his fellow explorers as well as that of local aboriginal tribes.
The long periods of time he spends away from his family leave them aggrieved nevertheless.
Atonements must be paid for cold sacrifices made.
James Gray's The Lost City of Z presents an adventurous life lived in nimble haunting miniature.
I've often written that biographical films such as Z proceed too quickly and only offer a scant realization of the subject of inquiry's remarkably inspiring accomplishments.
Yet Z has found a compelling balance between the burst and the burnish which cleverly captivates without seeming superficial or insufficient.
It isn't a poppy light conglomeration of exceptional details but rather a profound accumulation of brave characteristics which classically define an intrepid life.
Born to quest, and ruggedly equipped with the constitution to do so, Fawcett stoically sought the supposedly sensational in order to encyclopedically romance.
I imagine, as the internet mutates, hundreds of years from now cyberspatial explorers will pursue similar objectives by searching online for that which previous civilizations considered noteworthy.
The macroscopic transforms ultramicro.
The evolution of adventuring.
Piquant periodic paradigms.
Solid career move Robert Pattinson.
The pursuit of that legend leads him to boisterously challenge the racial preconceptions of Britain's Royal Geographical Society after he achieves fame for his rigour and accolades for his gall.
Controversies cloud his subsequent expedition however as a colleague of a higher social rank (Angus Macfadyen as James Murray) signs up and cannot handle the hardships of the exploratory life.
After Fawcett judiciously grants him reprieve, he still slanders his reputation upon returning home.
Yet his resolve remains unencumbered (even during World War I) and his humble determination wins him the loyalty of his fellow explorers as well as that of local aboriginal tribes.
The long periods of time he spends away from his family leave them aggrieved nevertheless.
Atonements must be paid for cold sacrifices made.
James Gray's The Lost City of Z presents an adventurous life lived in nimble haunting miniature.
I've often written that biographical films such as Z proceed too quickly and only offer a scant realization of the subject of inquiry's remarkably inspiring accomplishments.
Yet Z has found a compelling balance between the burst and the burnish which cleverly captivates without seeming superficial or insufficient.
It isn't a poppy light conglomeration of exceptional details but rather a profound accumulation of brave characteristics which classically define an intrepid life.
Born to quest, and ruggedly equipped with the constitution to do so, Fawcett stoically sought the supposedly sensational in order to encyclopedically romance.
I imagine, as the internet mutates, hundreds of years from now cyberspatial explorers will pursue similar objectives by searching online for that which previous civilizations considered noteworthy.
The macroscopic transforms ultramicro.
The evolution of adventuring.
Piquant periodic paradigms.
Solid career move Robert Pattinson.
Tuesday, May 2, 2017
Going in Style
Methinks there was a time when companies rewarded 40 years of hard work with a decent pension so their loyal workers could retire with dignity.
I suppose many companies still do assist dedicated workers after they've paid decades worth of dues, Michael Moore's Where to Invade Next and its cheerful examination of European generosity coming to mind, although I'm sure the practice isn't limited to Europe.
It's about community, family, friendship, trust, virtues which scurrilous executives working for the bad companies rapaciously exploit to line their own pockets with ill-gotten gains.
Dignity doesn't make any sense to them because they have none.
To put it bluntly.
Relatedly, I was thinking about Vancouver's housing market one day and the following thoughts came to mind. If someone lives in the community where he or she grows up and owns multiple properties which she or he rents out to his or her fellow citizens, it would be more difficult for them to exploit said citizens due to the strong communal bonds forged during a life worth living. I can't statistically verify the following, but I'm convinced this is why so many Québecois cities remain relatively affordable.
However, if the housing market was opened up to encourage international sales, wealthy foreigners who have no communal attachment to a city's people, unlike landed immigrants, could easily buy up property and start charging exorbitant rates because they have no cultural bonds with their renters.
It seems like if you ever want to own a house in Vancouver, you either have to earn a ballpark $250,000 a year, or hand your mortgage down to your children who would then eventually hand it down to their children and so on.
In other words, if you make 60K a year in Vancouver and buy a home, it's your grandchildren or great-grandchildren who will eventually pay off the debt, theoretically speaking, and some jerk from who knows where may have picked up a new jet meanwhile.
I know it's still hard to buy a house in Montréal but remember they are more affordable than those in Toronto or Vancouver. I haven't read a book covering this subject but I'm convinced it's because Québecers, begrudgingly or not, care more about one another collectively.
In Zach Braff's Going in Style, three elderly friends lose their pension and can no longer afford the rent or make mortgage payments as a result.
So they person-up and take ridiculous risks to make amends.
It's a bit too pom-pom and ding-dong for my tastes, but it does take a light look at the ways in which globalization is crushing some local communities.
While emphasizing the hopelessness of workers caught in such situations through recourse to absurd comedy.
And it's fun too watch agile screwed-over seniors rob a bank Robin Hood style, the same bank who grossly screwed them over.
Suppose it's not only international financial interests that buy up property and jack up the price so disposable incomes disappear.
There's still a local aspect to the global even if international agendas obscure regional concerns.
Has Christy Clark ever done anything to address Vancouver's housing crisis?
All I really know is that the killing of hundreds of wolves was authorized by someone in B.C while she was premier.
They'll be back.
I wonder if she cares about anything at all that isn't plus $250,000?
More often than once every 5 years.
Tragic.
I suppose many companies still do assist dedicated workers after they've paid decades worth of dues, Michael Moore's Where to Invade Next and its cheerful examination of European generosity coming to mind, although I'm sure the practice isn't limited to Europe.
It's about community, family, friendship, trust, virtues which scurrilous executives working for the bad companies rapaciously exploit to line their own pockets with ill-gotten gains.
Dignity doesn't make any sense to them because they have none.
To put it bluntly.
Relatedly, I was thinking about Vancouver's housing market one day and the following thoughts came to mind. If someone lives in the community where he or she grows up and owns multiple properties which she or he rents out to his or her fellow citizens, it would be more difficult for them to exploit said citizens due to the strong communal bonds forged during a life worth living. I can't statistically verify the following, but I'm convinced this is why so many Québecois cities remain relatively affordable.
However, if the housing market was opened up to encourage international sales, wealthy foreigners who have no communal attachment to a city's people, unlike landed immigrants, could easily buy up property and start charging exorbitant rates because they have no cultural bonds with their renters.
It seems like if you ever want to own a house in Vancouver, you either have to earn a ballpark $250,000 a year, or hand your mortgage down to your children who would then eventually hand it down to their children and so on.
In other words, if you make 60K a year in Vancouver and buy a home, it's your grandchildren or great-grandchildren who will eventually pay off the debt, theoretically speaking, and some jerk from who knows where may have picked up a new jet meanwhile.
I know it's still hard to buy a house in Montréal but remember they are more affordable than those in Toronto or Vancouver. I haven't read a book covering this subject but I'm convinced it's because Québecers, begrudgingly or not, care more about one another collectively.
In Zach Braff's Going in Style, three elderly friends lose their pension and can no longer afford the rent or make mortgage payments as a result.
So they person-up and take ridiculous risks to make amends.
It's a bit too pom-pom and ding-dong for my tastes, but it does take a light look at the ways in which globalization is crushing some local communities.
While emphasizing the hopelessness of workers caught in such situations through recourse to absurd comedy.
And it's fun too watch agile screwed-over seniors rob a bank Robin Hood style, the same bank who grossly screwed them over.
Suppose it's not only international financial interests that buy up property and jack up the price so disposable incomes disappear.
There's still a local aspect to the global even if international agendas obscure regional concerns.
Has Christy Clark ever done anything to address Vancouver's housing crisis?
All I really know is that the killing of hundreds of wolves was authorized by someone in B.C while she was premier.
They'll be back.
I wonder if she cares about anything at all that isn't plus $250,000?
More often than once every 5 years.
Tragic.
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