Spoiler Alert.
A family attends a local carnival in Summer, and as the father claims a winning prize, his daughter blindly wanders off.
She takes in the sights and sounds with quaint innocent wonder, before finding herself on the beach, approaching a mysterious funhouse.
Undaunted by her lack of adult accompaniment, and curious to see what amusingly jests inside, she boldly enters comma one two three, then delights in both razzle and dazzle.
Yet, ominously awaiting in the house of mirrors, as unaware of its fateful reckoning as its unsuspecting daylit lifeblood, is a startled provocative doppelgänger, who's never known true warmth or joy.
What happens next is concealed as time travels to the present day.
Upon which a family has returned to the same destination, without concern for its treacherous echoes.
Which they have often done, it appears they have often travelled there before, Jordan Peele's Us revelling in auspicious tradition, overflowing with romance embalmed.
People are somewhat happy.
There's cheer, mirth, goodwill, adventure.
They often get along well with one another.
A community, a pact.
A team.
But what if every inhabitant of the Earth, rich or poor, black, white, Asian, First Nations, in fact had a covetous doppelgänger, and they didn't exist in an imperceptible alternative dimension, but lived somewhere deep within the Earth indeed?
And what if the delineations demarcating the ontological zones dematerialized in chaotic rupture, and being became inherently combative, as neither group attempted to understand the other?
Us examines this dilemma through the lens of sedate horror, macroscopically manifested in stark haunting menace, improbability rationalized through dismal absurdity, disquieting comforts, confrontationally invested.
Like Star Trek's Mirror, Mirror if it was somewhat zombie.
More cerebral than it is terrifying, it still harrowingly gestates mayhem.
But without reasons explaining its dire conceit, apart from the mention of abandoned networks of tunnels at the beginning, sparse dialogue, clunky conversation, its narrative is somewhat comic, although the film isn't really that funny.
It's well-crafted nevertheless, and doesn't rely on sensation to tell its tale.
But its apocalyptic ambient cunning falls short of Get Out's daring shocks, a gripping tale in the moment no less, but not something I can't wait to see again.
Friday, April 19, 2019
Tuesday, April 16, 2019
The Mustang
Why people have to round up wild horses is something I don't understand?
Aren't they just chillin' in wide open unoccupied plains, doin' their own thing, not worryin' 'bout other people's business?
Does someone own the grass they eat?
Are they trespassing in the middle of nowhere?
Must they all be tamed and forced to work, to quietly perform without as much as a recalcitrant neigh, as they're rewarded for doing tricks they can't possibly comprehend, when they could have simply been roaming the forgotten wilderness, wild and unconcerned, harnessed to unbridled freedom?
I don't disapprove of The Mustang's horse rearing program, inasmuch as it exists after the fact.
It's actually a brilliant stroke of enlightened rehabilitation, that teaches hardened criminals genuine kindness, love, and compassionate understanding.
The remarkable benefits of animal therapy can easily be found online, which leads me to think that if prisoners were given stray cats and dogs to care for, things might lighten up in some tense environments.
Training a frisky rebellious stallion certainly helps The Mustang's Roman (Matthias Schoenaerts) to feel again, for after years of unmanageable self-imposed isolation, he suddenly opens up to his gentle daughter (Gideon Adlon as Martha).
Soon after he enters the program.
He doesn't take to it so well at first though.
He's so tightly wound he can't listen to anyone other than himself, even when people freely share valued helpful information.
But why is he so tightly wound?
Where does his obstinacy come from?
It could have perhaps been generated by an all-too-encompassing psychological focus on the individual, a shocking inability to calmly listen to an other.
Anyone else, it's as if he's adopted a god-like persona that fails to heed any alternative viewpoint that doesn't match his predetermined will.
His predetermined will alone.
He's likely encountered wicked tricks, people who claimed camaraderie but only sought to cheat him.
But that doesn't mean there aren't others out there providing judicious counsel, lively inspiring goodwill, or that everyone you meet is trying to screw you.
Just have to give a little.
Be willing to let others in.
The Mustang slips up at times and probably could have left out a lot of the violence, and Roman certainly convalesces rather quickly, but it still presents a caring heart that truly seeks honest redemption, after having given up on everything it loved, after having succumbed to total silence.
If the horses can't run free why not train them with similar initiatives?
But I don't see why they can't run free.
They aren't hurting anyone.
And they make nature all the more wild.
Indubitably.
Aren't they just chillin' in wide open unoccupied plains, doin' their own thing, not worryin' 'bout other people's business?
Does someone own the grass they eat?
Are they trespassing in the middle of nowhere?
Must they all be tamed and forced to work, to quietly perform without as much as a recalcitrant neigh, as they're rewarded for doing tricks they can't possibly comprehend, when they could have simply been roaming the forgotten wilderness, wild and unconcerned, harnessed to unbridled freedom?
I don't disapprove of The Mustang's horse rearing program, inasmuch as it exists after the fact.
It's actually a brilliant stroke of enlightened rehabilitation, that teaches hardened criminals genuine kindness, love, and compassionate understanding.
The remarkable benefits of animal therapy can easily be found online, which leads me to think that if prisoners were given stray cats and dogs to care for, things might lighten up in some tense environments.
Training a frisky rebellious stallion certainly helps The Mustang's Roman (Matthias Schoenaerts) to feel again, for after years of unmanageable self-imposed isolation, he suddenly opens up to his gentle daughter (Gideon Adlon as Martha).
Soon after he enters the program.
He doesn't take to it so well at first though.
He's so tightly wound he can't listen to anyone other than himself, even when people freely share valued helpful information.
But why is he so tightly wound?
Where does his obstinacy come from?
It could have perhaps been generated by an all-too-encompassing psychological focus on the individual, a shocking inability to calmly listen to an other.
Anyone else, it's as if he's adopted a god-like persona that fails to heed any alternative viewpoint that doesn't match his predetermined will.
His predetermined will alone.
He's likely encountered wicked tricks, people who claimed camaraderie but only sought to cheat him.
But that doesn't mean there aren't others out there providing judicious counsel, lively inspiring goodwill, or that everyone you meet is trying to screw you.
Just have to give a little.
Be willing to let others in.
The Mustang slips up at times and probably could have left out a lot of the violence, and Roman certainly convalesces rather quickly, but it still presents a caring heart that truly seeks honest redemption, after having given up on everything it loved, after having succumbed to total silence.
If the horses can't run free why not train them with similar initiatives?
But I don't see why they can't run free.
They aren't hurting anyone.
And they make nature all the more wild.
Indubitably.
Friday, April 12, 2019
The Hummingbird Project
Cantankerous competition, bitterly motivating high-stakes vitriol, necessitating vast fluid resources whose liquidity lubricates mass, encouraging dynamic cerebral calculations the practicalities of which harness synergy, theoretical computations duelling in concrete enterprise, boldly navigating luscious landscapes in hard-driven entrepreneurial schism, ingenious thought desperately relied upon as if novelty could be canonically conjured, and instantaneously set in motion, to quickly generate multi-millions.
The improbabilities surrounding Vincent (Jesse Eisenberg) and Anton's (Alexander Skarsgård) attempts to drill a thousand-mile tunnel between the New York Stock Exchange and Kansas, within which they plan to lay fibre-optic cable that will outperform their former employer's minions, are astounding and truly incredible, especially considering Anton has yet to figure out how to save the plutocratic millisecond, and mountains, malcontents, miscues, and maladies lie mischievously waiting, before they ecstatically break ground.
The confidence required to move forward with such a plan is mind-boggling to say the least, yet Vincent's undaunted and inspiring enthusiasm still persuades financial managers to invest.
Mark Vega (Michael Mando) and many others sign on to build the tunnel, their subterranean expertise as lively as their adventurous spirits.
But Eva Torres (Salma Hayek) unleashes pure fury after Anton quits, and boldly sets about to ignominiously destroy him.
With vast resources at her enraged disposal, and an alternative theory which Anton disputed, she sets out with devoted crews, to disenchant his blind flexible resolution.
It's as if Kim Nguyen's Hummingbird Project takes ludicrous Marvel heroics, rationally exclaimed in their own fantastic realm, and practically applies them to the world at large, a more fragile world wherein which failure is a possibility, superpowers are strictly relative, you do have to consult people, and the opposition isn't quite so evil.
Most of the time.
In fact, Anton and Vincent were doing rather well when they worked for Torres, not millionaire well, but well enough, regardless.
Nevertheless, Vincent emphatically believes in his enviable idea as if he possesses bold superpowers, and willfully embraces godlike responsibility with the daring conceit of courageous miracle.
It's a solid film, complete with the coolest chase scene I've seen in a while, and it wouldn't have been nearly as chill if Vincent had been questioned more critically in the beginning, if doubts had disabled his radical undertaking.
Legalistic and tunnelling superheroics combatively abound within, with no sincere guarantees, no legends, no magic, no assurance.
Cultivating the great beyond.
Great cast.
Realistic enough.
The improbabilities surrounding Vincent (Jesse Eisenberg) and Anton's (Alexander Skarsgård) attempts to drill a thousand-mile tunnel between the New York Stock Exchange and Kansas, within which they plan to lay fibre-optic cable that will outperform their former employer's minions, are astounding and truly incredible, especially considering Anton has yet to figure out how to save the plutocratic millisecond, and mountains, malcontents, miscues, and maladies lie mischievously waiting, before they ecstatically break ground.
The confidence required to move forward with such a plan is mind-boggling to say the least, yet Vincent's undaunted and inspiring enthusiasm still persuades financial managers to invest.
Mark Vega (Michael Mando) and many others sign on to build the tunnel, their subterranean expertise as lively as their adventurous spirits.
But Eva Torres (Salma Hayek) unleashes pure fury after Anton quits, and boldly sets about to ignominiously destroy him.
With vast resources at her enraged disposal, and an alternative theory which Anton disputed, she sets out with devoted crews, to disenchant his blind flexible resolution.
It's as if Kim Nguyen's Hummingbird Project takes ludicrous Marvel heroics, rationally exclaimed in their own fantastic realm, and practically applies them to the world at large, a more fragile world wherein which failure is a possibility, superpowers are strictly relative, you do have to consult people, and the opposition isn't quite so evil.
Most of the time.
In fact, Anton and Vincent were doing rather well when they worked for Torres, not millionaire well, but well enough, regardless.
Nevertheless, Vincent emphatically believes in his enviable idea as if he possesses bold superpowers, and willfully embraces godlike responsibility with the daring conceit of courageous miracle.
It's a solid film, complete with the coolest chase scene I've seen in a while, and it wouldn't have been nearly as chill if Vincent had been questioned more critically in the beginning, if doubts had disabled his radical undertaking.
Legalistic and tunnelling superheroics combatively abound within, with no sincere guarantees, no legends, no magic, no assurance.
Cultivating the great beyond.
Great cast.
Realistic enough.
Tuesday, April 9, 2019
Through Black Spruce
A family grieves the disappearance of a loved one, as a distraught daring twin sister (Tanaya Beatty as Annie) heads to Toronto in search of answers.
Uncertain if she'll find anything, and proceeding without much to go on, she follows her only leads, and soon meets her sister's last contacts.
Last known contacts.
Back home her caring uncle (Brandon Oakes as Will) has problems, for he's angered a group of thugs who tend to express themselves viciously.
He's trying to unobtrusively get by, but finds himself branded a person of interest.
He's soon hiding out on a remote island, while his niece runs into troubles of her own.
Rough, gruelling, dire anxious realities, jurisprudently stitched, in tragic combative song.
The characters in Don McKellar's Through Black Spruce find themselves living in contrasting environments, one chill and peaceful, the other harsh and violent.
Living within them tragically bewilders, as conflicts which they had nothing to do with assault wholesome fun initiatives.
An act of healing, a gentle harmless letter sent off to put minds at ease, provokes extreme tension, and disrupts otherwise blooming friendships.
And a career.
The film athletically unreels with hard-edged sophistication, presenting diverse accessible scenes with a tough gritty concerned sensibility.
A fireside chat in Toronto, hunting together in James Bay, introductions to the art world, with specific takes on the discipline of photography.
For instance.
The blend of the two storylines could have been smoother though, as extended time intervals separate the tales from one another.
But since one storyline's urban and the other's set far away, the different paces, the different immersions, may have produced unsought after shocks, had they been edited and merged more consistently.
The lengthy immersions do creatively pull you into different aspects of Indigenous life, notably the non-toxic bug spray, and the extended time gives each of them their own lifeforce, lifeforces which may not have blossomed had they been cut more regularly.
It's nice to see long patient scenes.
And stories about First Nations people that aren't filled with violence.
What happened to Annie's twin remains a mystery, another sad story in an extreme crisis that effects all of Canada and elsewhere.
If the same percentage of woman of European descent disappeared or were murdered as often as their First Nations Canadian sisters, I imagine governments would enlist armies to find a solution to the problem.
To the extreme crisis.
This is no exaggeration.
The statistics are plain as day.
There needs to be a strong will to make Canada safe for these women.
The racist realities of which should be considered.
Good film.
Love Brandon Oakes.
Uncertain if she'll find anything, and proceeding without much to go on, she follows her only leads, and soon meets her sister's last contacts.
Last known contacts.
Back home her caring uncle (Brandon Oakes as Will) has problems, for he's angered a group of thugs who tend to express themselves viciously.
He's trying to unobtrusively get by, but finds himself branded a person of interest.
He's soon hiding out on a remote island, while his niece runs into troubles of her own.
Rough, gruelling, dire anxious realities, jurisprudently stitched, in tragic combative song.
The characters in Don McKellar's Through Black Spruce find themselves living in contrasting environments, one chill and peaceful, the other harsh and violent.
Living within them tragically bewilders, as conflicts which they had nothing to do with assault wholesome fun initiatives.
An act of healing, a gentle harmless letter sent off to put minds at ease, provokes extreme tension, and disrupts otherwise blooming friendships.
And a career.
The film athletically unreels with hard-edged sophistication, presenting diverse accessible scenes with a tough gritty concerned sensibility.
A fireside chat in Toronto, hunting together in James Bay, introductions to the art world, with specific takes on the discipline of photography.
For instance.
The blend of the two storylines could have been smoother though, as extended time intervals separate the tales from one another.
But since one storyline's urban and the other's set far away, the different paces, the different immersions, may have produced unsought after shocks, had they been edited and merged more consistently.
The lengthy immersions do creatively pull you into different aspects of Indigenous life, notably the non-toxic bug spray, and the extended time gives each of them their own lifeforce, lifeforces which may not have blossomed had they been cut more regularly.
It's nice to see long patient scenes.
And stories about First Nations people that aren't filled with violence.
What happened to Annie's twin remains a mystery, another sad story in an extreme crisis that effects all of Canada and elsewhere.
If the same percentage of woman of European descent disappeared or were murdered as often as their First Nations Canadian sisters, I imagine governments would enlist armies to find a solution to the problem.
To the extreme crisis.
This is no exaggeration.
The statistics are plain as day.
There needs to be a strong will to make Canada safe for these women.
The racist realities of which should be considered.
Good film.
Love Brandon Oakes.
Friday, April 5, 2019
Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse
Alternative dimensions, co-existing in immaterial symbiosis, parallel narratives unconsciously confabulating interdimensional repartee, no first contact, no apparent links, nothing organically orchestrating symphonic resonance, yet conceptual substance fantastically resides, even though manifold possibilities disenchant synthetic theses, corresponding primordial corporealities existing in fluid gurgle, perhaps by accident, perhaps extrajudicially, although their ontological synergies suggest otherwise, as if they're ethereally co-dependent envirosketches.
They're clearly independent inasmuch as each realm reverberates with distinct novelty, complimentary orthodoxies stretched out like multilateral scripture, naturalistic pretensions conflicting in universal bewilderment, as dogmas that seem tried and true are virtually lost in emancipating infinities.
Multivariability.
Emphatically groomed.
But they're clearly dependent insofar as each distillation is characterized by the same peculiarities, compelling factors from each resembling one another, even though their matrices may be innately avant-garde, from the outside looking in, they're still inhabited by the same constituents, still constructed with the same schematics.
What incorporeally organic material binds them?
What's responsible for their biodiverse resolve?
Star Trek examines the concept from different angles, Inception taking a more introspective approach.
If people hear voices who's to say they weren't multilaterally conceived by invisible ecological beings whom they're capable of phantasmagorically translating?
As if physical constructs like iron could be spread like Nutella, as if they could see and transform matter with tectonic credulity, crafting portals out of thin air with geological finesse, like aged astronomical alchemists, intergalactically demure yet cheeky.
Vortex.
Multiple alternative dimensions wildly present themselves in Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse, some of them demanding their own agile features, in unacknowledged tantalizing Grindhouse.
And as one Spider-Person perishes, another must heed the call, although he's somewhat shy and bluntly nervous, and distrusting of his coveted newfound gifts.
Spider-Peeps make for a rambunctious roll call, as diabolical technological largesse seeks to cheat mortal temporality.
Paradigms of popularity dynastically converge in the superheroic postmodern, grating the spice mélange, blending ye olde everything.
So so love film noir Spider-Man.
Plus anime Spider-Woman.
And jaded middle-aged Spider-Man.
A cool collection of Spider-People.
*Still no Mirai no Mirai.
They're clearly independent inasmuch as each realm reverberates with distinct novelty, complimentary orthodoxies stretched out like multilateral scripture, naturalistic pretensions conflicting in universal bewilderment, as dogmas that seem tried and true are virtually lost in emancipating infinities.
Multivariability.
Emphatically groomed.
But they're clearly dependent insofar as each distillation is characterized by the same peculiarities, compelling factors from each resembling one another, even though their matrices may be innately avant-garde, from the outside looking in, they're still inhabited by the same constituents, still constructed with the same schematics.
What incorporeally organic material binds them?
What's responsible for their biodiverse resolve?
Star Trek examines the concept from different angles, Inception taking a more introspective approach.
If people hear voices who's to say they weren't multilaterally conceived by invisible ecological beings whom they're capable of phantasmagorically translating?
As if physical constructs like iron could be spread like Nutella, as if they could see and transform matter with tectonic credulity, crafting portals out of thin air with geological finesse, like aged astronomical alchemists, intergalactically demure yet cheeky.
Vortex.
Multiple alternative dimensions wildly present themselves in Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse, some of them demanding their own agile features, in unacknowledged tantalizing Grindhouse.
And as one Spider-Person perishes, another must heed the call, although he's somewhat shy and bluntly nervous, and distrusting of his coveted newfound gifts.
Spider-Peeps make for a rambunctious roll call, as diabolical technological largesse seeks to cheat mortal temporality.
Paradigms of popularity dynastically converge in the superheroic postmodern, grating the spice mélange, blending ye olde everything.
So so love film noir Spider-Man.
Plus anime Spider-Woman.
And jaded middle-aged Spider-Man.
A cool collection of Spider-People.
*Still no Mirai no Mirai.
Tuesday, April 2, 2019
Mirai no Mirai
An imaginative cloister at rest or at play sharply asserts itself in aggrieved upright tantrum.
For the solitary world within which he was ensconced has been definitively altered by the presence of another.
Attention that was once solely centred on him must now be shared with a sister, and even if she's somewhat adorable, he still can't fraternally conduct.
Strange forces align within his domestic playground to provide him with familial aid, and soon, through recourse to animated historical visuals, he's swathed in verbose fluent didact.
But he still may be too young to absorb his interactive lessons, and whether or not he can accept little Mirai (Victoria Grace) remains truly and innocently uncertain.
As dad (John Cho) learns the domestic arts.
And mom (Rebecca Hall) settles back in at work.
The child (Jaden Waldman) creatively explores pasts and presents to embrace Mirai no Mirai, the film excelling at presenting tactile evidence while he struggles to grasp and comprehend.
A wonderful film, rich with effervescent showcase, abounding with nimble tutelage, proceeds to generously foil and viscerally cascade, like windswept rains intermittently drenching the tropics in inclusive instructive echo, it proceeds with a friendly light heart playfully immersed in soothing reprimand.
Revelations must be hidden in order to avoid conflict as mom and dad wonder what's happening in their unassuming nondescript back garden.
As Kun embarks on journey after journey, it's as if luminescence has been seamlessly disseminated, the film's insouciance mysteriously matriculating, in nurtured inculcated frisk.
Deconstructing disillusions of age.
Enveloping unpasteurized wonder.
The scenes aren't boring or risk-fuelled or death-defying or controversial, they're way more chill, like they aren't working within a systematic production slyly cultivating grass-is-greener ideologies.
Thus, with intergenerational independence and particularized unique charm, they offer alternatives overflowing with paradigmatic initiative, laidback, like childhood storytime.
Categorically unconcerned.
You try to keep your eyes open as you age so you don't miss life passing by, like Ferris Bueller, and from time to time you still notice something novel for which you're totally unprepared.
It's like Mirai no Mirai harnesses this outlook in narrativized jazzy melody, which it thoughtfully focuses on itself, to compose something calm and collective.
A must see.
For the solitary world within which he was ensconced has been definitively altered by the presence of another.
Attention that was once solely centred on him must now be shared with a sister, and even if she's somewhat adorable, he still can't fraternally conduct.
Strange forces align within his domestic playground to provide him with familial aid, and soon, through recourse to animated historical visuals, he's swathed in verbose fluent didact.
But he still may be too young to absorb his interactive lessons, and whether or not he can accept little Mirai (Victoria Grace) remains truly and innocently uncertain.
As dad (John Cho) learns the domestic arts.
And mom (Rebecca Hall) settles back in at work.
The child (Jaden Waldman) creatively explores pasts and presents to embrace Mirai no Mirai, the film excelling at presenting tactile evidence while he struggles to grasp and comprehend.
A wonderful film, rich with effervescent showcase, abounding with nimble tutelage, proceeds to generously foil and viscerally cascade, like windswept rains intermittently drenching the tropics in inclusive instructive echo, it proceeds with a friendly light heart playfully immersed in soothing reprimand.
Revelations must be hidden in order to avoid conflict as mom and dad wonder what's happening in their unassuming nondescript back garden.
As Kun embarks on journey after journey, it's as if luminescence has been seamlessly disseminated, the film's insouciance mysteriously matriculating, in nurtured inculcated frisk.
Deconstructing disillusions of age.
Enveloping unpasteurized wonder.
The scenes aren't boring or risk-fuelled or death-defying or controversial, they're way more chill, like they aren't working within a systematic production slyly cultivating grass-is-greener ideologies.
Thus, with intergenerational independence and particularized unique charm, they offer alternatives overflowing with paradigmatic initiative, laidback, like childhood storytime.
Categorically unconcerned.
You try to keep your eyes open as you age so you don't miss life passing by, like Ferris Bueller, and from time to time you still notice something novel for which you're totally unprepared.
It's like Mirai no Mirai harnesses this outlook in narrativized jazzy melody, which it thoughtfully focuses on itself, to compose something calm and collective.
A must see.
Friday, March 29, 2019
Five Feet Apart
Cloistered away in diagnostic retention, family and friends stopping by at times, the caring staff warmly dedicated to promoting cheer, the world wide web providing paramount community.
Emotions locked-down as intimate contact is forbidden, the sublimation of imaginative desires creates fantastic legend.
Fortunately she's no Obscurus, the desires unattainable but not maligned, and she responds with sprightly do-gooding, which acutely marks chill observation.
Others similarly afflicted become reliable confidants, their convivial theses and humorous charm laying the congenial groundwork for inclusive mischief.
But as fate would have it, or perhaps, lo and behold, one day the enigmatic emerges and cannot be idiosyncratically arrayed.
This bad boy of intensive care (Cole Sprouse as Will) ruffles feathers in strict amorous revel, and even though she's highly critical, Stella (Haley Lu Richardson) can't tear herself away.
The two forging a palliative dynamic.
That's as convalescent as it is ecstatic.
Hearts strung out like time-lapsed supernovas, they must remain Five Feet Apart at all times, a romantic interpretation of the convention, their budding awe saturated with robust feeling, their hesitation, as adorable as panda cupcakes.
The film isn't so bad.
It looked after-school-specially in the previews but I swear it's cinematically legit.
Perhaps they do break the rules somewhat foolishly, but they rarely do so while going too far.
With one ridiculous situation near the end, it would have been stronger with a less melodramatic climax.
Something less mortal.
More genuine.
Poe's (Moises Arias) character could have been treated differently too, for wouldn't it have been ironic to not focus on death in a film about young adults striving to live, wouldn't it have been fortuitous to celebrate joy without consequence in a film latently flush with sanguine grief?
It still celebrates joy nevertheless, and that's why it's so worth seeing, even if it slips up a bit, even if it could have been less dependent.
As Stella and Will fall in love at the hospital, slowly coming to terms with their eccentricities, it's as timid as it is unorthodox, like trying something new when you don't know what you're doing.
As tenderhearted as a mama bear, and as loving as ballroom impertinence, Five Feet Apart keeps the melodrama at bay, while crafting something coy and wonderful.
Death-defying romance.
Out of this world.
Emotions locked-down as intimate contact is forbidden, the sublimation of imaginative desires creates fantastic legend.
Fortunately she's no Obscurus, the desires unattainable but not maligned, and she responds with sprightly do-gooding, which acutely marks chill observation.
Others similarly afflicted become reliable confidants, their convivial theses and humorous charm laying the congenial groundwork for inclusive mischief.
But as fate would have it, or perhaps, lo and behold, one day the enigmatic emerges and cannot be idiosyncratically arrayed.
This bad boy of intensive care (Cole Sprouse as Will) ruffles feathers in strict amorous revel, and even though she's highly critical, Stella (Haley Lu Richardson) can't tear herself away.
The two forging a palliative dynamic.
That's as convalescent as it is ecstatic.
Hearts strung out like time-lapsed supernovas, they must remain Five Feet Apart at all times, a romantic interpretation of the convention, their budding awe saturated with robust feeling, their hesitation, as adorable as panda cupcakes.
The film isn't so bad.
It looked after-school-specially in the previews but I swear it's cinematically legit.
Perhaps they do break the rules somewhat foolishly, but they rarely do so while going too far.
With one ridiculous situation near the end, it would have been stronger with a less melodramatic climax.
Something less mortal.
More genuine.
Poe's (Moises Arias) character could have been treated differently too, for wouldn't it have been ironic to not focus on death in a film about young adults striving to live, wouldn't it have been fortuitous to celebrate joy without consequence in a film latently flush with sanguine grief?
It still celebrates joy nevertheless, and that's why it's so worth seeing, even if it slips up a bit, even if it could have been less dependent.
As Stella and Will fall in love at the hospital, slowly coming to terms with their eccentricities, it's as timid as it is unorthodox, like trying something new when you don't know what you're doing.
As tenderhearted as a mama bear, and as loving as ballroom impertinence, Five Feet Apart keeps the melodrama at bay, while crafting something coy and wonderful.
Death-defying romance.
Out of this world.
Tuesday, March 26, 2019
Captive State
Chaos descends as aliens invade and overwhelm Earth's defences.
Possessing unassailable strength and intergalactically advanced technology, the planet succumbs to their rule, and must dismally embrace monstrous will.
Only a scant few escape extreme poverty, and they're self-destructively tasked with brainstorming their own ruin.
The aliens seek to extract everything the Earth has to offer, every last microbe they can voraciously steal, and what happens to its inhabitants in the meantime, is indeed of little concern.
In the opening moments, a family seeks escape, but is cut down immediately after breaking through local improvised defences.
Captive State unreels years later, the children having grown up meanwhile, each day a struggle to survive, every moment despairing combat.
The police manage relations between organic and extraterrestrial life and find themselves in a miserable position.
But William Mulligan (John Goodman) does his best to look out for troubled Gabriel (Ashton Sanders), whose father was once his partner, before everything drastically changed.
The result is first rate sci-fi, with an ending that brought me to tears.
How do you make cutting edge realistic science-fiction that doesn't heavily rely on special effects?
You contact Rupert Wyatt and his crew after synthesizing Captive State's distillations.
There are no moments in its present where you feel at ease, where there's a break from the rotting tension.
And without the visual effects, the aesthetic acrimony, knowledge of interstellar hubris, a focus on messianic maestros, the film tills biodiverse grassroots, and produces authentic desperation.
Not without hope.
Nothing utopian or grotesque or supernatural, just hope that the aliens can be defeated, or at least held in check or at bay.
Strictly confined.
It's unclear what happens in the end.
Even without the special effects, the budget's bigger than a lot of independent sci-fi, but the money was well spent on realistic settings, which augment the film's resourceless ambience.
The ending's brilliant and heartbreaking, a masterstroke of revelatory storytelling.
Takes Cloverfield up a notch.
A couple of notches.
A bunch of notches.
With Vera Farmiga (Jane Doe).
And Mr. Alan Ruck (Charles Rittenhouse).
Possessing unassailable strength and intergalactically advanced technology, the planet succumbs to their rule, and must dismally embrace monstrous will.
Only a scant few escape extreme poverty, and they're self-destructively tasked with brainstorming their own ruin.
The aliens seek to extract everything the Earth has to offer, every last microbe they can voraciously steal, and what happens to its inhabitants in the meantime, is indeed of little concern.
In the opening moments, a family seeks escape, but is cut down immediately after breaking through local improvised defences.
Captive State unreels years later, the children having grown up meanwhile, each day a struggle to survive, every moment despairing combat.
The police manage relations between organic and extraterrestrial life and find themselves in a miserable position.
But William Mulligan (John Goodman) does his best to look out for troubled Gabriel (Ashton Sanders), whose father was once his partner, before everything drastically changed.
The result is first rate sci-fi, with an ending that brought me to tears.
How do you make cutting edge realistic science-fiction that doesn't heavily rely on special effects?
You contact Rupert Wyatt and his crew after synthesizing Captive State's distillations.
There are no moments in its present where you feel at ease, where there's a break from the rotting tension.
And without the visual effects, the aesthetic acrimony, knowledge of interstellar hubris, a focus on messianic maestros, the film tills biodiverse grassroots, and produces authentic desperation.
Not without hope.
Nothing utopian or grotesque or supernatural, just hope that the aliens can be defeated, or at least held in check or at bay.
Strictly confined.
It's unclear what happens in the end.
Even without the special effects, the budget's bigger than a lot of independent sci-fi, but the money was well spent on realistic settings, which augment the film's resourceless ambience.
The ending's brilliant and heartbreaking, a masterstroke of revelatory storytelling.
Takes Cloverfield up a notch.
A couple of notches.
A bunch of notches.
With Vera Farmiga (Jane Doe).
And Mr. Alan Ruck (Charles Rittenhouse).
Friday, March 22, 2019
Todos lo saben
A wedding brings a family together to exalt in celebration, the festivities overflowing with spirit, inhibitions let loose to praise.
But as guards are let down and passions erupt, covetous malfeasance clandestinely violates.
Soon it is known that kidnapping is afoot, and the identity of the perpetrator remains a bitter mystery.
Old school social relations call motives into question, as despondent candour joylessly obscures lucid trust.
Financial responsibility dismally beckons, a lifetime of hard work hauntingly underlying stoic sacrifice.
The past interrogatively echoes.
As the present crumbles astray.
Emergent futures contend in Todos lo saben indeed, as disturbing essentials anxiously prognosticate.
Hives of activity maddeningly posture before settling down with forlorn resignation.
Its characters are strong, compassionate, resilient, loving.
They don't only care for their immediate family, but seek the prosperity of their workforce as well.
Like a versatile community.
The film excels at presenting passionate logic, the overwhelming emotions that characterize sincere distress rationally generated with sober feeling.
Everything's understood with astute enough composure.
It matures like the vines its reels cultivate, coming of age in the mid-afternoon sun.
Storms may disrupt its smooth delicate maturation, but not without augmenting rough unique compelling flavour.
It examines religion without preaching, infidelities without scorn, science without authentication, loyalty forbidding dependence.
Even though characters seek just outcomes, it doesn't mean it's easy, and even though they have resources they can access, it doesn't mean alternative solutions are shelved.
Suspicions bluntly arise.
Level heads contemplatively acquiesce.
Like culture under seige.
Todos lo saben peacefully reckons.
But as guards are let down and passions erupt, covetous malfeasance clandestinely violates.
Soon it is known that kidnapping is afoot, and the identity of the perpetrator remains a bitter mystery.
Old school social relations call motives into question, as despondent candour joylessly obscures lucid trust.
Financial responsibility dismally beckons, a lifetime of hard work hauntingly underlying stoic sacrifice.
The past interrogatively echoes.
As the present crumbles astray.
Emergent futures contend in Todos lo saben indeed, as disturbing essentials anxiously prognosticate.
Hives of activity maddeningly posture before settling down with forlorn resignation.
Its characters are strong, compassionate, resilient, loving.
They don't only care for their immediate family, but seek the prosperity of their workforce as well.
Like a versatile community.
The film excels at presenting passionate logic, the overwhelming emotions that characterize sincere distress rationally generated with sober feeling.
Everything's understood with astute enough composure.
It matures like the vines its reels cultivate, coming of age in the mid-afternoon sun.
Storms may disrupt its smooth delicate maturation, but not without augmenting rough unique compelling flavour.
It examines religion without preaching, infidelities without scorn, science without authentication, loyalty forbidding dependence.
Even though characters seek just outcomes, it doesn't mean it's easy, and even though they have resources they can access, it doesn't mean alternative solutions are shelved.
Suspicions bluntly arise.
Level heads contemplatively acquiesce.
Like culture under seige.
Todos lo saben peacefully reckons.
Tuesday, March 19, 2019
Werk ohne Autor (Never Look Away)
An artist creates to define then reimagine himself in post-war Germany, extremist ideology having devastated his country.
His countries.
But it's not a psychological film, it doesn't examine Kurt Barnert's (Tom Schilling/Oskar Müller/Cai Cohrs) sadness in agonizing detail, preferring to focus on his development as an artist, and his relationship with Ellie Seeband (Paula Beer).
Differing post-war socioeconomic and sociopolitical realities which each require flexible attitudes regarding the ways in which a jurisdiction manages its resources comment within, as the two make their way, their world more of a complex fluid multifaceted mixture of traditional and unorthodox realizations, the application of such terms depending on one's point of view, than that which proliferates in East Germany after the end of the Second World War.
They're certainly full of life, of spirit, of vigour, of adventure, as Werk ohne Autor (Never Look Away) celebrates creation.
If someone chooses to make art that corresponds to a specific philosophy, and that choice corresponds to his or her creative gifts, I see nothing wrong with that, as long as they don't try to make everyone else do the same thing.
That's how I understand social democracy.
It creates an open space wherein everyone can create whatever they want, as long as they don't force others to create what they prefer in their own free time.
Who would want to see reality reflected everywhere?
It's a compelling vital crucial discipline to be sure, but so are fantasy and science-fiction, romantic comedy and fictional drama.
If one art form is given leverage over all the others, it does the arts themselves a great disservice, and the solemnity of its ethos risks transforming into farce, if not chaos, or oblivion.
I think Netflix gets this.
I hope so, anyways.
There's so much more to be written about this film than what I've shared here.
It presents its demons without dwelling on them, belittling tyranny in the face of inspiration.
Isn't it so much easier to love?
And isn't life more worth living if so much of it remains unpredictable?
Carefree.
Outside of work.
Beyond race or creed or ethnicity?
Beyond violence?
*I've written about the affirmation of life in this review. This does not mean that I am supporting the pro-life movement. I support a woman's right to choose and should she choose to have an abortion I support her decision. However, when a child is born I support her or his right to grow up in safety in a culture where equal opportunity exists. And for them to enjoy the lives they live. Free from war and tyranny.
His countries.
But it's not a psychological film, it doesn't examine Kurt Barnert's (Tom Schilling/Oskar Müller/Cai Cohrs) sadness in agonizing detail, preferring to focus on his development as an artist, and his relationship with Ellie Seeband (Paula Beer).
Differing post-war socioeconomic and sociopolitical realities which each require flexible attitudes regarding the ways in which a jurisdiction manages its resources comment within, as the two make their way, their world more of a complex fluid multifaceted mixture of traditional and unorthodox realizations, the application of such terms depending on one's point of view, than that which proliferates in East Germany after the end of the Second World War.
They're certainly full of life, of spirit, of vigour, of adventure, as Werk ohne Autor (Never Look Away) celebrates creation.
If someone chooses to make art that corresponds to a specific philosophy, and that choice corresponds to his or her creative gifts, I see nothing wrong with that, as long as they don't try to make everyone else do the same thing.
That's how I understand social democracy.
It creates an open space wherein everyone can create whatever they want, as long as they don't force others to create what they prefer in their own free time.
Who would want to see reality reflected everywhere?
It's a compelling vital crucial discipline to be sure, but so are fantasy and science-fiction, romantic comedy and fictional drama.
If one art form is given leverage over all the others, it does the arts themselves a great disservice, and the solemnity of its ethos risks transforming into farce, if not chaos, or oblivion.
I think Netflix gets this.
I hope so, anyways.
There's so much more to be written about this film than what I've shared here.
It presents its demons without dwelling on them, belittling tyranny in the face of inspiration.
Isn't it so much easier to love?
And isn't life more worth living if so much of it remains unpredictable?
Carefree.
Outside of work.
Beyond race or creed or ethnicity?
Beyond violence?
*I've written about the affirmation of life in this review. This does not mean that I am supporting the pro-life movement. I support a woman's right to choose and should she choose to have an abortion I support her decision. However, when a child is born I support her or his right to grow up in safety in a culture where equal opportunity exists. And for them to enjoy the lives they live. Free from war and tyranny.
Friday, March 15, 2019
Captain Marvel
Spoiler Alert.
There was another time, dynamically transisting not long after the synthesized age, during which new technologies arose and alternative art forms flourished, perhaps lacking the clarity of its legendary progenitor, it still effortlessly distinguished itself in unsung awestruck parallel, and racism wasn't tolerated, and collectives were still ontologically featured, working people still telling their tales, which were told with honour and integrity.
Captain Marvel unreels in such a frame, and its characters find sanctuary within.
Although conflict and peril do bellicosely present themselves, and the keys to the past lie dormant in shielded oblivion.
Representatives of a colonialist empire come covetously calling after a pocket of resistance fighters escapes with one of their soldiers.
As resourceful as she is unyielding, Carol Danvers (Brie Larson) sets out upon Earth to discover truths dissimulated.
She is aided in her pursuits by feisty Agent Fury (Samuel L. Jackson), who is still somewhat green, and unaware of extraterrestrial life.
Thus, even though Captain Marvel excels at cultivating the new, it's also an origins story, the tantalizing mélange simultaneously revelatory on at least two distinct temporal levels.
Spatially pontooned.
It starts out slow, not that the action isn't constant, but it takes awhile to find its footing, as Danvers gradually learns more about her former self.
Or at least how to go about learning more about that self.
But it gets better as it proceeds, its overt focus on identity transformation skilfully worked into its cinematic ecology.
It uses comedy but isn't flip, takes things seriously to break them down, works in some Indiana Jones, and creatively plays with cyberspatial time difference.
Time differentials.
It may be my favourite Marvel film, inasmuch as it vigorously stands out on its own.
Great acting all around, but Lashana Lynch (Maria Rambeau) steals several scenes, she totally makes the most of her role, and perhaps delivers the best Marvel supporting performance to date.
Cool soundtrack too.
There's a surprising twist you don't often find in these films as well.
Oddly, even though I don't believe that aliens taught the ancient Egyptians anything, but rather that their geniuses created pyramids etc. while ours built hydrogen fuel cells, and the internet, the genius of a particular time, any given time, even caveperson time, making the most of the materials at her or his disposal, crafting ingenious artifacts/theories/structures/. . . accordingly, while modifying them at times as he or she sees fit, I still entertained the notion that cats had been brought here by aliens one day, because the ancient Egyptians worshipped them, so I've heard, and, so far, it hasn't been possible to domesticate large raccoon populations, and I was discussing this with a friend one day, and I turned to look and saw his cat staring at me intently, with an otherworldly look on his face.
It's utterly ridiculous of course, but I still appreciate the mystery, and unless Robert E. Kahn and Vint Cerf (the internet guys according to wikipedia) turn out to have really come from space, or to have taken orders from alien rulers, I'll lean heavily towards the terrestrial origins of cats, until substantially proven otherwise.
Those little cuties.
😜
There was another time, dynamically transisting not long after the synthesized age, during which new technologies arose and alternative art forms flourished, perhaps lacking the clarity of its legendary progenitor, it still effortlessly distinguished itself in unsung awestruck parallel, and racism wasn't tolerated, and collectives were still ontologically featured, working people still telling their tales, which were told with honour and integrity.
Captain Marvel unreels in such a frame, and its characters find sanctuary within.
Although conflict and peril do bellicosely present themselves, and the keys to the past lie dormant in shielded oblivion.
Representatives of a colonialist empire come covetously calling after a pocket of resistance fighters escapes with one of their soldiers.
As resourceful as she is unyielding, Carol Danvers (Brie Larson) sets out upon Earth to discover truths dissimulated.
She is aided in her pursuits by feisty Agent Fury (Samuel L. Jackson), who is still somewhat green, and unaware of extraterrestrial life.
Thus, even though Captain Marvel excels at cultivating the new, it's also an origins story, the tantalizing mélange simultaneously revelatory on at least two distinct temporal levels.
Spatially pontooned.
It starts out slow, not that the action isn't constant, but it takes awhile to find its footing, as Danvers gradually learns more about her former self.
Or at least how to go about learning more about that self.
But it gets better as it proceeds, its overt focus on identity transformation skilfully worked into its cinematic ecology.
It uses comedy but isn't flip, takes things seriously to break them down, works in some Indiana Jones, and creatively plays with cyberspatial time difference.
Time differentials.
It may be my favourite Marvel film, inasmuch as it vigorously stands out on its own.
Great acting all around, but Lashana Lynch (Maria Rambeau) steals several scenes, she totally makes the most of her role, and perhaps delivers the best Marvel supporting performance to date.
Cool soundtrack too.
There's a surprising twist you don't often find in these films as well.
Oddly, even though I don't believe that aliens taught the ancient Egyptians anything, but rather that their geniuses created pyramids etc. while ours built hydrogen fuel cells, and the internet, the genius of a particular time, any given time, even caveperson time, making the most of the materials at her or his disposal, crafting ingenious artifacts/theories/structures/. . . accordingly, while modifying them at times as he or she sees fit, I still entertained the notion that cats had been brought here by aliens one day, because the ancient Egyptians worshipped them, so I've heard, and, so far, it hasn't been possible to domesticate large raccoon populations, and I was discussing this with a friend one day, and I turned to look and saw his cat staring at me intently, with an otherworldly look on his face.
It's utterly ridiculous of course, but I still appreciate the mystery, and unless Robert E. Kahn and Vint Cerf (the internet guys according to wikipedia) turn out to have really come from space, or to have taken orders from alien rulers, I'll lean heavily towards the terrestrial origins of cats, until substantially proven otherwise.
Those little cuties.
😜
Tuesday, March 12, 2019
Escape Room
Love the new escape room phenom.
Not the sadistic life or death adrenaline pumping puzzles presented in Adam Robitel's film so much, not that they aren't thoughtfully crafted, but I imagine their less punishing brainiac counterparts would make for some practical team based orchestrations, with incumbent inclusive broadly themed variable melodies perhaps juking catchy lyrics downsized?
As provocative as they are tantalizing, do professional sports teams and debating clubs use them to build trust amongst team members, in order to make dependency upon one another seem less forbidding, more fancy free, even if trivial minutiae may indeed be universal or paramount?
The defence could study an opposing team's strikers and then try to break free from several related escape rooms every Wednesday night before upcoming games.
Wide receivers could outmanoeuvre secondary hypotheses.
Pitchers and catchers could set up a semiotic home base.
Third and fourth lines could grind their way out of the box.
A versatile bench could adjudicate appellate courts.
Improvised polemics could disputatiously prorogue.
Perfect for the offseason.
Or for offices where no one plays sports.
If escape room team building exercises haven't already become blasé, there are still at least 18 months before they fade into commercial oblivion.
Even though they seem theoretically sound.
Proof.
What a job for arts majors.
Eat your heart out crossword puzzles.
Nevertheless, Escape Room, apart from its clever escape rooms themselves, provides a pretty standard entertaining distraction.
It was easy to guess who would bite it first, highly probable who the first three to die would be, somewhat tricky to discern which of the final two males would be first to go, until hindsight provided a populist frame within which it came down to the less imposing.
Bad attitude.
At the same time, to its credit, Escape Room doesn't feature jaw dropping aesthetics, relying more on brains than sensual embellishments, a cool aspect materially conceptualized.
Perhaps, as ______ (______ _______) and ______ (______ ______) discuss their plans in the end, populism takes on more scholarly responsibilities, in preparation for the upcoming sequel.
I never saw any of the Saw films so I don't know if Escape Room is the new Saw.
If you ever find yourself thinking the word "quintessential" is supercilious, Escape Room might fundamentally challenge your point of view.
Or not.
Popcorn is essential.
But is butter quintessential?
Real butter?
Think about it.
😧
Not the sadistic life or death adrenaline pumping puzzles presented in Adam Robitel's film so much, not that they aren't thoughtfully crafted, but I imagine their less punishing brainiac counterparts would make for some practical team based orchestrations, with incumbent inclusive broadly themed variable melodies perhaps juking catchy lyrics downsized?
As provocative as they are tantalizing, do professional sports teams and debating clubs use them to build trust amongst team members, in order to make dependency upon one another seem less forbidding, more fancy free, even if trivial minutiae may indeed be universal or paramount?
The defence could study an opposing team's strikers and then try to break free from several related escape rooms every Wednesday night before upcoming games.
Wide receivers could outmanoeuvre secondary hypotheses.
Pitchers and catchers could set up a semiotic home base.
Third and fourth lines could grind their way out of the box.
A versatile bench could adjudicate appellate courts.
Improvised polemics could disputatiously prorogue.
Perfect for the offseason.
Or for offices where no one plays sports.
If escape room team building exercises haven't already become blasé, there are still at least 18 months before they fade into commercial oblivion.
Even though they seem theoretically sound.
Proof.
What a job for arts majors.
Eat your heart out crossword puzzles.
Nevertheless, Escape Room, apart from its clever escape rooms themselves, provides a pretty standard entertaining distraction.
It was easy to guess who would bite it first, highly probable who the first three to die would be, somewhat tricky to discern which of the final two males would be first to go, until hindsight provided a populist frame within which it came down to the less imposing.
Bad attitude.
At the same time, to its credit, Escape Room doesn't feature jaw dropping aesthetics, relying more on brains than sensual embellishments, a cool aspect materially conceptualized.
Perhaps, as ______ (______ _______) and ______ (______ ______) discuss their plans in the end, populism takes on more scholarly responsibilities, in preparation for the upcoming sequel.
I never saw any of the Saw films so I don't know if Escape Room is the new Saw.
If you ever find yourself thinking the word "quintessential" is supercilious, Escape Room might fundamentally challenge your point of view.
Or not.
Popcorn is essential.
But is butter quintessential?
Real butter?
Think about it.
😧
Friday, March 8, 2019
Ramen Teh
A young man, longing to prove himself, sets off from Japan to visit his mother's family in Singapore.
His father was a celebrated chef who settled in a small town to the delight of its local residents.
Widely renowned he may have been, but easy going (like my dad) he was not, and although he sought to diversify fundamentals, he never shared his knowledge with his respectful son (Takumi Saito as Masato).
After his passing, his son Masato discovers a suitcase full of memorabilia which poses a treasure trove of questions he's ill-equipped to answer.
Yet they lead him to Singapore and its own tempting culinary traditions.
Sleuthing in a foreign country, and overflowing with purposeful examination, his friendly uncle lends a hand, although he can't appease his hostile grandmother.
For his parents married against her will in the aftermath of World War II, their budding love and youthful devotion then overlooked forever after.
She can't forgive.
Even after all this time.
But Masato's full of endearing pluck.
And won't yield to the hardhearted flutter.
Dramatic family drama.
Soothed by gastronomic arts.
Ramen Teh takes one part stubborn and another openminded, blends them intergenerationally, then prepares a multifaceted feast.
The narrative generally follows a linear recipe, but there's enough scenic spice to atemporally tantalize.
It wouldn't have been easy to forgive after the war, and I can understand if some people simply won't/wouldn't.
Watch the videos, the documentaries, Schindler's List, teach yourself about how cruel and horrifying World War II really was.
It's not a humorous subject, not something to be taken lightly, not something to be romanticized, it was systematic abject terror.
Tenderly, in the war's long reaching wake, Ramen Teh uses food to harmonize different peoples.
I'd wager it's impossible to emerge from watching it without a new found respect for Asian cooking, and a strong desire to head out and try something new posthaste.
Ramen noodles for me.
Sitting back and enjoying a meal is something peoples everywhere love to do, and the simple act of enjoying food with friends and/or loved ones unconsciously unites the globe in wonder.
Ramen Teh excels at bringing people together without sermon or sentiment, through the simple act of modestly preparing something.
Compromise leads to reconciliation.
Listening promotes curiosity.
Some of the time anyways.
Some of the best of times.
His father was a celebrated chef who settled in a small town to the delight of its local residents.
Widely renowned he may have been, but easy going (like my dad) he was not, and although he sought to diversify fundamentals, he never shared his knowledge with his respectful son (Takumi Saito as Masato).
After his passing, his son Masato discovers a suitcase full of memorabilia which poses a treasure trove of questions he's ill-equipped to answer.
Yet they lead him to Singapore and its own tempting culinary traditions.
Sleuthing in a foreign country, and overflowing with purposeful examination, his friendly uncle lends a hand, although he can't appease his hostile grandmother.
For his parents married against her will in the aftermath of World War II, their budding love and youthful devotion then overlooked forever after.
She can't forgive.
Even after all this time.
But Masato's full of endearing pluck.
And won't yield to the hardhearted flutter.
Dramatic family drama.
Soothed by gastronomic arts.
Ramen Teh takes one part stubborn and another openminded, blends them intergenerationally, then prepares a multifaceted feast.
The narrative generally follows a linear recipe, but there's enough scenic spice to atemporally tantalize.
It wouldn't have been easy to forgive after the war, and I can understand if some people simply won't/wouldn't.
Watch the videos, the documentaries, Schindler's List, teach yourself about how cruel and horrifying World War II really was.
It's not a humorous subject, not something to be taken lightly, not something to be romanticized, it was systematic abject terror.
Tenderly, in the war's long reaching wake, Ramen Teh uses food to harmonize different peoples.
I'd wager it's impossible to emerge from watching it without a new found respect for Asian cooking, and a strong desire to head out and try something new posthaste.
Ramen noodles for me.
Sitting back and enjoying a meal is something peoples everywhere love to do, and the simple act of enjoying food with friends and/or loved ones unconsciously unites the globe in wonder.
Ramen Teh excels at bringing people together without sermon or sentiment, through the simple act of modestly preparing something.
Compromise leads to reconciliation.
Listening promotes curiosity.
Some of the time anyways.
Some of the best of times.
Tuesday, March 5, 2019
Edmond
The thrill of having nothing prepared as a deadline beckons.
The improvised full-throttle immediate fledgling flight spontaneously soaring 'cross luscious intuitive biodiverse leafy greens, sporadically to avoid reckless comment, sardonically to uplift brave spirit.
Randomly plucked floral variability instinctually sewn in fecund pulpy reverie, overflowing verbose unedited botanicals regally inspiring embowered substance.
Fertilized on the go.
Specific social serene bewilderments forging intricate romantic unconscious endowments, as accidental liaisons and inarticulate flourishes beget ill-disposed classifications, tradition and novelty subterraneanly disputing henceforth and ever after, flush comedic unresolved discombobulated tension, bubbling up, frothing forth, with vigorous effervescent itinerant dis/simulation.
The budding lifeforce.
Hearty pulsation.
Worked up worked through worked out, discredited on the fly, aggrandized parched momentum.
This Edmond.
Based on Edmond Rostand (Thomas Solivérès).
As he wrote Cyrano de Bergerac.
And didn't finish 'til opening night.
I'd say the film's somewhat too sheepish if it didn't revel in risk-fuelled agglomeration.
I'd say it lacks delicate nuance if that wasn't beside the point.
I'd say it's far too sure of itself, indeed, if it didn't extol extemporaneity.
I'd say it's just far too dreamy if it didn't relish in hands on burden.
It's quite mainstream, a studio celebration of independence, which doesn't shy away from romanticizing hardship, or embellishing means with exceptional ends.
I like hope though, and Edmond abounds with that innocent hope which has told so many inspiring stories without focusing too intently on catastrophe.
There are catastrophes of course, setbacks, misfortunes, banishments, but they're all caught up in a Disneyesque current that makes them seem less cumbersome than they indubitably must have been.
Perpetual motion.
Ceaseless activity.
I got caught up in Edmond's hope-fuelled excitement.
It was a million to one shot.
That still hits the mark to this day.
So I've heard.
The improvised full-throttle immediate fledgling flight spontaneously soaring 'cross luscious intuitive biodiverse leafy greens, sporadically to avoid reckless comment, sardonically to uplift brave spirit.
Randomly plucked floral variability instinctually sewn in fecund pulpy reverie, overflowing verbose unedited botanicals regally inspiring embowered substance.
Fertilized on the go.
Specific social serene bewilderments forging intricate romantic unconscious endowments, as accidental liaisons and inarticulate flourishes beget ill-disposed classifications, tradition and novelty subterraneanly disputing henceforth and ever after, flush comedic unresolved discombobulated tension, bubbling up, frothing forth, with vigorous effervescent itinerant dis/simulation.
The budding lifeforce.
Hearty pulsation.
Worked up worked through worked out, discredited on the fly, aggrandized parched momentum.
This Edmond.
Based on Edmond Rostand (Thomas Solivérès).
As he wrote Cyrano de Bergerac.
And didn't finish 'til opening night.
I'd say the film's somewhat too sheepish if it didn't revel in risk-fuelled agglomeration.
I'd say it lacks delicate nuance if that wasn't beside the point.
I'd say it's far too sure of itself, indeed, if it didn't extol extemporaneity.
I'd say it's just far too dreamy if it didn't relish in hands on burden.
It's quite mainstream, a studio celebration of independence, which doesn't shy away from romanticizing hardship, or embellishing means with exceptional ends.
I like hope though, and Edmond abounds with that innocent hope which has told so many inspiring stories without focusing too intently on catastrophe.
There are catastrophes of course, setbacks, misfortunes, banishments, but they're all caught up in a Disneyesque current that makes them seem less cumbersome than they indubitably must have been.
Perpetual motion.
Ceaseless activity.
I got caught up in Edmond's hope-fuelled excitement.
It was a million to one shot.
That still hits the mark to this day.
So I've heard.
Friday, March 1, 2019
Arctic
Lost in a frozen wilderness, textbook survival skills sustainably applied.
Waiting patiently at his fortunate crash site, there's little to do but sit back and be rescued.
Well-attuned to nature and the forbidding crux of its bounty, he agilely lives off fish calmly hooked in a lake nearby.
He's been there some time, although we're not sure how long, when a helicopter appears with ample room for one more.
But the winds are treacherous and they fiercely express themselves, the helicopter soon blindly forsaken upon the cold disingenuous unforgiving snow below.
There's one survivor (Maria Thelma Smáradóttir as The Survivor).
And her health's declining.
A trusty map leads the way to a destination.
Not too far away.
Alternative logic computes.
And they set out to make direct contact.
Spring is readily approaching in Joe Penna's wild Arctic, as defiance rigorously scorns stark obstinacy.
The rules are followed, Overgård (Mads Mikkelsen) has strictly abided by tried and true methods, yet he still must embrace calculated risk, eventually, to save a life almost lost saving his.
Trying to save his.
It makes for a less reckless survival film, or one that first demonstrates what you should do if you've come to be lost, before finding a compelling reason to justify cinematic extravagance.
Extravagance is an unfair word.
Arctic is much more clever.
Since Spring is approaching, it makes sense that the snow isn't reliable, and that polar bears are foraging inland.
It can be dangerous to take refuge in a cave in such regions, I imagine, so the bear's appearance isn't as melodramatic as it sounds.
Plus the bear's been hanging around for a while.
When a storm sets in, Overgård builds a snow fort, or shelter, which is exactly what you should do, as far as I know.
You should never leave the crash sight, but if there is a potential refuge not that far away, and you have a map, and one of your party is dying, it makes sense to break with tradition, and head out into the bleak unknown.
And while the existence of maps that specify details of highly remote regions is a triumph of cartographical craftspersonship, whether or not every single detail has been meticulously recorded is a matter for geographical dispute.
Plus we don't know anything about Overgård, not even his name really, the film doesn't waste time introducing him and the meeting he's theoretically late for and the family he hypothetically misses, we just meet him after he's crash landed in the arctic, and has engaged in blunt death-defying survival.
Penna clearly asked himself, "how do I make a survival film that has cinematic appeal but isn't fantastic or maudlin or cheesy or sensational?", and the result is the best winter survival film I've seen.
Clear headed rational excitement.
Literary in a way.
Breathtaking.
Waiting patiently at his fortunate crash site, there's little to do but sit back and be rescued.
Well-attuned to nature and the forbidding crux of its bounty, he agilely lives off fish calmly hooked in a lake nearby.
He's been there some time, although we're not sure how long, when a helicopter appears with ample room for one more.
But the winds are treacherous and they fiercely express themselves, the helicopter soon blindly forsaken upon the cold disingenuous unforgiving snow below.
There's one survivor (Maria Thelma Smáradóttir as The Survivor).
And her health's declining.
A trusty map leads the way to a destination.
Not too far away.
Alternative logic computes.
And they set out to make direct contact.
Spring is readily approaching in Joe Penna's wild Arctic, as defiance rigorously scorns stark obstinacy.
The rules are followed, Overgård (Mads Mikkelsen) has strictly abided by tried and true methods, yet he still must embrace calculated risk, eventually, to save a life almost lost saving his.
Trying to save his.
It makes for a less reckless survival film, or one that first demonstrates what you should do if you've come to be lost, before finding a compelling reason to justify cinematic extravagance.
Extravagance is an unfair word.
Arctic is much more clever.
Since Spring is approaching, it makes sense that the snow isn't reliable, and that polar bears are foraging inland.
It can be dangerous to take refuge in a cave in such regions, I imagine, so the bear's appearance isn't as melodramatic as it sounds.
Plus the bear's been hanging around for a while.
When a storm sets in, Overgård builds a snow fort, or shelter, which is exactly what you should do, as far as I know.
You should never leave the crash sight, but if there is a potential refuge not that far away, and you have a map, and one of your party is dying, it makes sense to break with tradition, and head out into the bleak unknown.
And while the existence of maps that specify details of highly remote regions is a triumph of cartographical craftspersonship, whether or not every single detail has been meticulously recorded is a matter for geographical dispute.
Plus we don't know anything about Overgård, not even his name really, the film doesn't waste time introducing him and the meeting he's theoretically late for and the family he hypothetically misses, we just meet him after he's crash landed in the arctic, and has engaged in blunt death-defying survival.
Penna clearly asked himself, "how do I make a survival film that has cinematic appeal but isn't fantastic or maudlin or cheesy or sensational?", and the result is the best winter survival film I've seen.
Clear headed rational excitement.
Literary in a way.
Breathtaking.
Tuesday, February 26, 2019
Capharnaüm
An angry mature child boldly fights against Lebanese injustice, his sharp shrewd awareness driving his impoverished family mad.
Their poverty is severe and opportunity is non-existent.
Without public education, healthcare, a social safety net, or any knowledge of birth control, they rely solely on religious teachings for strength, while others take advantage of their suffering.
Yet public institutions, collective means through which to sustain a community, don't necessarily exist in opposition to religious practices.
If I'm not mistaken, they're in fact the product of such practices, religious practices secularly upheld.
People in Europe and elsewhere came together some time ago and forged resilient groups that recognized they were stronger united as one, had more bargaining power, more clout, that recognized that every child could have access to education and healthcare if democratically elected political representatives sought to dynamically change socioeconomic conditions which promoted a neverending cycle of poverty, and they then elected political reps who did indeed make such changes.
The changes were by no means perfect, are not perfect, although they seek perfection, but they did lift millions of people out of poverty and at least taught them to read and write while promoting healthy productive and contraceptive lifestyles.
This isn't a Western thing, a European thing, it's a humanistic sociopolitical development that was rationally created by a sociocultural adherence to a respected scientific method.
Take an illness like measles.
Measles used to detrimentally effect millions of children in Europe and elsewhere but scientists studied the disease and found a cure and now it only rarely emerges when people don't vaccinate their children.
The anti-vac movement is one of the most shortsighted cultural developments on record, and would see millions of children suffering from diseases brilliant women and men more or less eradicated if it was ever taken seriously.
I ask you, would God not promote science? Would God not promote a world where we teach ourselves to humanistically take care of people rather than relying on his or her benevolence?
I imagine millions of people prayed that their children wouldn't get measles, but still millions and millions of children got measles, and then scientists found a cure, a cure for measles, thereby answering the prayers of millions of parents and enabling a world where parents didn't have to pray their children wouldn't get it.
Capharnaüm isn't about measles.
It's about poverty and lack of opportunity.
The situation's bleak and the non-existent opportunities heartbreakingly chronicle millions of prayers left unanswered.
Non-violent collective action in many countries led to situations where opportunity was at least possible and education was indeed probable.
It wasn't easy.
But the results are somewhat miraculous.
It's not about one child getting an identity card because he tenaciously fights powers that be.
It's about that child forming groups that promote public education and healthcare and the creation of a social safety net which effectively fights poverty.
That scientifically and secularly applies age old religious principles.
With actual concrete results.
That dynamically challenge and change things.
Like the horrendous happenings in this film.
It's not for the lighthearted.
But tells a tale you'll find nowhere else.
Powerful filmmaking.
Gifted storytelling.
A light.
A crucible.
Their poverty is severe and opportunity is non-existent.
Without public education, healthcare, a social safety net, or any knowledge of birth control, they rely solely on religious teachings for strength, while others take advantage of their suffering.
Yet public institutions, collective means through which to sustain a community, don't necessarily exist in opposition to religious practices.
If I'm not mistaken, they're in fact the product of such practices, religious practices secularly upheld.
People in Europe and elsewhere came together some time ago and forged resilient groups that recognized they were stronger united as one, had more bargaining power, more clout, that recognized that every child could have access to education and healthcare if democratically elected political representatives sought to dynamically change socioeconomic conditions which promoted a neverending cycle of poverty, and they then elected political reps who did indeed make such changes.
The changes were by no means perfect, are not perfect, although they seek perfection, but they did lift millions of people out of poverty and at least taught them to read and write while promoting healthy productive and contraceptive lifestyles.
This isn't a Western thing, a European thing, it's a humanistic sociopolitical development that was rationally created by a sociocultural adherence to a respected scientific method.
Take an illness like measles.
Measles used to detrimentally effect millions of children in Europe and elsewhere but scientists studied the disease and found a cure and now it only rarely emerges when people don't vaccinate their children.
The anti-vac movement is one of the most shortsighted cultural developments on record, and would see millions of children suffering from diseases brilliant women and men more or less eradicated if it was ever taken seriously.
I ask you, would God not promote science? Would God not promote a world where we teach ourselves to humanistically take care of people rather than relying on his or her benevolence?
I imagine millions of people prayed that their children wouldn't get measles, but still millions and millions of children got measles, and then scientists found a cure, a cure for measles, thereby answering the prayers of millions of parents and enabling a world where parents didn't have to pray their children wouldn't get it.
Capharnaüm isn't about measles.
It's about poverty and lack of opportunity.
The situation's bleak and the non-existent opportunities heartbreakingly chronicle millions of prayers left unanswered.
Non-violent collective action in many countries led to situations where opportunity was at least possible and education was indeed probable.
It wasn't easy.
But the results are somewhat miraculous.
It's not about one child getting an identity card because he tenaciously fights powers that be.
It's about that child forming groups that promote public education and healthcare and the creation of a social safety net which effectively fights poverty.
That scientifically and secularly applies age old religious principles.
With actual concrete results.
That dynamically challenge and change things.
Like the horrendous happenings in this film.
It's not for the lighthearted.
But tells a tale you'll find nowhere else.
Powerful filmmaking.
Gifted storytelling.
A light.
A crucible.
Friday, February 22, 2019
Serenity
Something strange, something not quite right, in Serenity's opening moments.
Throughout the first half of the film.
There's a vague concealed derelict somnambulistic longing haunting social relations in the beginning, like a prolonged robot hangover that's been nauseously programmed.
Disaffection, I kept thinking, I'm bound to hear the word "surreal" used to describe this film, as if its otherworldliness is a product of subconscious reckoning, as opposed to a McFlurry saturated with kalúha.
That sounds good.
But you could use the word surreal to describe it, as it progresses, in the commercial sense,
like you would use it if you were still caught up in the mainstream, still unfamiliar with less traditional surrealistic applications.
Boldly crafting alternative traditions of their own.
The surrealism becomes more pronounced and less McDreamy after down-on-his-luck fisherperson Baker Dill (Matthew McConaughey) is tasked with murdering his ex-wife's (Anne Hathaway as Karen Zariakas) utterly loathsome new husband (Jason Clarke as Frank Zariakas) to the tune of a vindictive 10 million.
It's not just that though, there's something else, something more subtle, more puzzling, more disorienting, more real.
Or surreal I suppose. 😉
A salesperson (Jeremy Strong as Reid Miller) shows up with the kind of clarification that doesn't prove or explain anything yet still shuffles the narrative off to different directions, a clever intriguingly frustrating device often used on shows like Twin Peaks or The X-Files, that keeps you genuinely desiring more even if the obscurity leaves you wanting.
The resultant delirium is quite surreal as an identity transformation bewilderingly transcends without any loss of the hermetic I.
The anxiety harrowingly increases at both conscious and unconscious levels as Baker continues to act under extreme existential duress.
The film's uninspiring first half is justified as an experimental work in progress, whose author was still crafting his own remarkable tensions, the film as a whole perhaps meant to metaphorically present a film lover's growth, as they start looking beyond commercial horizons to something less pronounced and material.
It's a strong synthesis of the blasé and the risk-fuelled that comments upon these concepts without saying anything, a mind-meld of the traditional and the experimental that effectively synergizes hesitant abandon.
Looking forward to seeing more of what Steven Knight has to offer.
I'm reminded of Tarsem Singh.
Not sure as to why.
Throughout the first half of the film.
There's a vague concealed derelict somnambulistic longing haunting social relations in the beginning, like a prolonged robot hangover that's been nauseously programmed.
Disaffection, I kept thinking, I'm bound to hear the word "surreal" used to describe this film, as if its otherworldliness is a product of subconscious reckoning, as opposed to a McFlurry saturated with kalúha.
That sounds good.
But you could use the word surreal to describe it, as it progresses, in the commercial sense,
like you would use it if you were still caught up in the mainstream, still unfamiliar with less traditional surrealistic applications.
Boldly crafting alternative traditions of their own.
The surrealism becomes more pronounced and less McDreamy after down-on-his-luck fisherperson Baker Dill (Matthew McConaughey) is tasked with murdering his ex-wife's (Anne Hathaway as Karen Zariakas) utterly loathsome new husband (Jason Clarke as Frank Zariakas) to the tune of a vindictive 10 million.
It's not just that though, there's something else, something more subtle, more puzzling, more disorienting, more real.
Or surreal I suppose. 😉
A salesperson (Jeremy Strong as Reid Miller) shows up with the kind of clarification that doesn't prove or explain anything yet still shuffles the narrative off to different directions, a clever intriguingly frustrating device often used on shows like Twin Peaks or The X-Files, that keeps you genuinely desiring more even if the obscurity leaves you wanting.
The resultant delirium is quite surreal as an identity transformation bewilderingly transcends without any loss of the hermetic I.
The anxiety harrowingly increases at both conscious and unconscious levels as Baker continues to act under extreme existential duress.
The film's uninspiring first half is justified as an experimental work in progress, whose author was still crafting his own remarkable tensions, the film as a whole perhaps meant to metaphorically present a film lover's growth, as they start looking beyond commercial horizons to something less pronounced and material.
It's a strong synthesis of the blasé and the risk-fuelled that comments upon these concepts without saying anything, a mind-meld of the traditional and the experimental that effectively synergizes hesitant abandon.
Looking forward to seeing more of what Steven Knight has to offer.
I'm reminded of Tarsem Singh.
Not sure as to why.
Tuesday, February 19, 2019
Liu Lang Di Qiu
In the not too distant future, our sun can support terrestrial life no longer.
Seeking to avoid humanity's extinction, countries around the world internationally forge the United Earth Government.
And it is decided that a new sun must be sought in the Alpha Centauri system, and that Earth must be propelled there by gigantic fusion powered thrusters strategically located around the imperilled globe.
As the Earth's rotation ceases, after the jets are turned on, colossal tidal waves shock the surface dwelling population, many others eventually finding refuge beneath its inhospitable crust.
These subterranean cities bravely incubate civilization and boldly rear the next generation with feisty underground enterprise.
But Earth's path leads it too close to miserly Jupiter, whose cruel and voracious gravity gravely threaten interstellar propulsion.
Fortunately, two mischievous youths, a brother and sister no less, have recklessly made their way to the frozen surface, strict punishment swiftly awaiting, as massive earthquakes malign worldwide.
Little did they know, when they set out that day, that they would become integral leaders in a wild improvised effort to reignite the disabled thrusters and break free from Jupiter's clutches.
The world desperately requiring resolve.
The planet galactically inducing their reckoning.
Frant Gwo's Liu Lang Di Qiu takes sci-fi to another level, courageously imagining the most distraught of extremes, then audaciously presenting them with enriched hope-fuelled probability.
Manifold variables are symphonically strung as tumultuous dispersals chaotically sizzle.
Catastrophe strikes with dependable fidelity as constant threats harken cold glacial stark entropy.
Team-based integrity internationally coalesced accentuates cooperative benefits that unleash instincts eternal.
Identity politics challenge concepts of belonging as shortsighted prejudices are critiqued and exposed.
The world, faced with an overwhelming discombobulating uprooting discourteous challenge, comes together to thwart impossibility, ensuring continuous life thereby, plus innovative infused prosperity.
As it should to combat global warming.
In an unprecedented aware multilateral interconnected age.
It would have been cool if there had been more animals in the underground cities.
A planetary meow.
An altruistic bark.
Seeking to avoid humanity's extinction, countries around the world internationally forge the United Earth Government.
And it is decided that a new sun must be sought in the Alpha Centauri system, and that Earth must be propelled there by gigantic fusion powered thrusters strategically located around the imperilled globe.
As the Earth's rotation ceases, after the jets are turned on, colossal tidal waves shock the surface dwelling population, many others eventually finding refuge beneath its inhospitable crust.
These subterranean cities bravely incubate civilization and boldly rear the next generation with feisty underground enterprise.
But Earth's path leads it too close to miserly Jupiter, whose cruel and voracious gravity gravely threaten interstellar propulsion.
Fortunately, two mischievous youths, a brother and sister no less, have recklessly made their way to the frozen surface, strict punishment swiftly awaiting, as massive earthquakes malign worldwide.
Little did they know, when they set out that day, that they would become integral leaders in a wild improvised effort to reignite the disabled thrusters and break free from Jupiter's clutches.
The world desperately requiring resolve.
The planet galactically inducing their reckoning.
Frant Gwo's Liu Lang Di Qiu takes sci-fi to another level, courageously imagining the most distraught of extremes, then audaciously presenting them with enriched hope-fuelled probability.
Manifold variables are symphonically strung as tumultuous dispersals chaotically sizzle.
Catastrophe strikes with dependable fidelity as constant threats harken cold glacial stark entropy.
Team-based integrity internationally coalesced accentuates cooperative benefits that unleash instincts eternal.
Identity politics challenge concepts of belonging as shortsighted prejudices are critiqued and exposed.
The world, faced with an overwhelming discombobulating uprooting discourteous challenge, comes together to thwart impossibility, ensuring continuous life thereby, plus innovative infused prosperity.
As it should to combat global warming.
In an unprecedented aware multilateral interconnected age.
It would have been cool if there had been more animals in the underground cities.
A planetary meow.
An altruistic bark.
Friday, February 15, 2019
Free Solo
It's simply incredible, what some people can do.
You look up at the mountains sometimes when you're visiting or living in mountainous regions, and wonder how in the hell people climb straight up them?, what drives them to take such risks?, on cliffs so sheer they redefine verticality, many of them climbing without gear, free soloing I believe it's called, totally dependent on their mastery of the elements, completely reliant on their will, and their will alone.
Incredible.
Exceptionally distinct athleticism.
I could never get into it, I was more into reading myself, reading thick books that built your vocabulary and challenged your mind in a different way, laidback reclining or chillin' on the métro, out in a field somewhere in Summer, always ready to pull out some impacting book, before watching films or television later on in the relaxing evening.
It's not even close to being slightly comparable to free soloing, but reading books is a lot like working out, working your mind out, indubitably.
After taking an extended break from Proust for instance, the first time I pick up The Search it's slow going, but if I make sure to read twenty pages, and then read twenty pages again each day for weeks then months I eventually find myself flying through the text, as if I've gone from lifting 80 to 200 pounds.
I hate weightlifting.
I was asked to do it once but after my friend saw the look on my face when he suggested it he never asked again.
But climbing mountains without gear, on rock faces which inspire fear in nimble surefooted mountain goats, death a real and imposing possibility, it's something I can't quite get my head around.
In this technological age, where it seems like web design is becoming the most stunning art form, video games are played by thousands of people forming international teams online, and coding is clearly the most valuable second or third language anyone can learn, I'm serious, public and private schools should be teaching coding starting in grade 1 and then all the way through to University, other countries already understand this and may excel accordingly in decades to come, people are still driven by raw primordial caveperson ingenuity to take nothing but a bit of chalk and some clothing, and mock impossibility with galant courageous alarm.
That's what Alex Honnold does in Free Solo, a documentary that follows him for some time as he prepares to climb Yosemite's El Capitan Wall, which no one has ever free soloed before.
The bravest most elite climbers in the world shiver when contemplating its danger, yet Mr. Honnold approaches like it's just another haughty cliff amongst many.
His partner Sanni is less lighthearted about his chosen career path and their relationship cultivates additional layers which add even more endearing amour to an inherently romantic film.
Blunt though it may be.
I had vertigo just watching from my seat in the theatre, totally blown away by Honnold's superlative athletic endeavours.
How many athletes can say they've done that?
An incredible film incredibly capturing feats that are purely incredible, Free Solo freely excels at reaching unique unparalleled heights.
It's not about asking why? or spending time pondering existence.
It's about action, raw caveperson action.
Like charting the Australian desert (In a Sunburned Country, Bill Bryson).
Intense highly specialized exposure.
You look up at the mountains sometimes when you're visiting or living in mountainous regions, and wonder how in the hell people climb straight up them?, what drives them to take such risks?, on cliffs so sheer they redefine verticality, many of them climbing without gear, free soloing I believe it's called, totally dependent on their mastery of the elements, completely reliant on their will, and their will alone.
Incredible.
Exceptionally distinct athleticism.
I could never get into it, I was more into reading myself, reading thick books that built your vocabulary and challenged your mind in a different way, laidback reclining or chillin' on the métro, out in a field somewhere in Summer, always ready to pull out some impacting book, before watching films or television later on in the relaxing evening.
It's not even close to being slightly comparable to free soloing, but reading books is a lot like working out, working your mind out, indubitably.
After taking an extended break from Proust for instance, the first time I pick up The Search it's slow going, but if I make sure to read twenty pages, and then read twenty pages again each day for weeks then months I eventually find myself flying through the text, as if I've gone from lifting 80 to 200 pounds.
I hate weightlifting.
I was asked to do it once but after my friend saw the look on my face when he suggested it he never asked again.
But climbing mountains without gear, on rock faces which inspire fear in nimble surefooted mountain goats, death a real and imposing possibility, it's something I can't quite get my head around.
In this technological age, where it seems like web design is becoming the most stunning art form, video games are played by thousands of people forming international teams online, and coding is clearly the most valuable second or third language anyone can learn, I'm serious, public and private schools should be teaching coding starting in grade 1 and then all the way through to University, other countries already understand this and may excel accordingly in decades to come, people are still driven by raw primordial caveperson ingenuity to take nothing but a bit of chalk and some clothing, and mock impossibility with galant courageous alarm.
That's what Alex Honnold does in Free Solo, a documentary that follows him for some time as he prepares to climb Yosemite's El Capitan Wall, which no one has ever free soloed before.
The bravest most elite climbers in the world shiver when contemplating its danger, yet Mr. Honnold approaches like it's just another haughty cliff amongst many.
His partner Sanni is less lighthearted about his chosen career path and their relationship cultivates additional layers which add even more endearing amour to an inherently romantic film.
Blunt though it may be.
I had vertigo just watching from my seat in the theatre, totally blown away by Honnold's superlative athletic endeavours.
How many athletes can say they've done that?
An incredible film incredibly capturing feats that are purely incredible, Free Solo freely excels at reaching unique unparalleled heights.
It's not about asking why? or spending time pondering existence.
It's about action, raw caveperson action.
Like charting the Australian desert (In a Sunburned Country, Bill Bryson).
Intense highly specialized exposure.
Tuesday, February 12, 2019
Merveilles des mers (Wonders of the Sea)
Merveilles des mers (Wonders of the Sea) takes an alternative approach to combing oceanic depths, one which primarily explores coral and species living within, as opposed to more flashy larger creatures such as dolphins, seals, or whales.
Fascinated by lifeforms that have perhaps never been the focus of a nature documentary, Jean-Michel Cousteau and his family patiently showcase stunning submerged ecosystems overflowing with incredible diversity.
If you're looking for a nature documentary that doesn't concentrate on traditional forms of aquatic character, Merveilles des mers surpasses expectations, its delicate caring enthusiastic cinematography nimbly capturing vital enriching expanses, in miniature, in select underwater habitats around the Aquarian globe.
From octopi to giant clams to shrimp to barnacles, Cousteau revels in seabed scintillation, his 3-D film beautifully exhibiting his discoveries, with inspiring interest in curious exotic life.
However, the narration is somewhat puzzling, perhaps due to its English translation.
It's certainly written for children aged 5 to 8 but still includes jokes that assume its audience is familiar with The Terminator.
It presents miraculous examples of life in various unheralded forms but rather oddly emphasizes its cold predatory nature.
Especially the coral, the coral is definitely not presented as if it's aesthetically appealing resplendent ambient decoration, no no no, the fact that it's a living breathing famished deadly carnivoresque entity is emphasized several times, as Cousteau, and Arnold Schwarzenegger (does he speak French in the French version?), exchange provocative comments with absorbed adolescent abandon, as if they're mischievously trying to frighten children, or perhaps had had a bit too much champagne on the old buoyant yachtski.
The dialogue and narration likely sounds more authentic in French, but when it was translated into English it appears that a Native English speaker (or Xavier Dolan) wasn't consulted to edit the final draft, and the result is rather clunky, a bit too general, even for young children (conversation's completely different, it's okay to make mistakes in conversation unless you're a spy, but this is a film that's trying to find an English audience, I suggest using subtitles if you're not confident with your translation, it's okay if subtitles sound cheesy).
David Suzuki clearly wasn't consulted.
I imagine Mr. Schwarzenegger could have rewritten many of his lines.
Nevertheless, the 3-D imagery is astounding and I applaud the film's focus on unsung mysteries of the depths.
Merveilles des mers celebrates life in its most remarkable unfamiliar forms throughout, and captures invaluable scenes that will undoubtably foster future investigations of what furtively lies beneath.
Hopefully, as we clean up the seas.
Shocking images of polluted waters around the globe as presented in Merveilles des mers are posted online every day.
It's not that hard to dispose of your waste in the proper receptacle.
It only takes an extra 2 to 3 seconds to recycle and it is not complicated.
The reward is a world that isn't covered in garbage.
It's that simple.
It really truly is.
Fascinated by lifeforms that have perhaps never been the focus of a nature documentary, Jean-Michel Cousteau and his family patiently showcase stunning submerged ecosystems overflowing with incredible diversity.
If you're looking for a nature documentary that doesn't concentrate on traditional forms of aquatic character, Merveilles des mers surpasses expectations, its delicate caring enthusiastic cinematography nimbly capturing vital enriching expanses, in miniature, in select underwater habitats around the Aquarian globe.
From octopi to giant clams to shrimp to barnacles, Cousteau revels in seabed scintillation, his 3-D film beautifully exhibiting his discoveries, with inspiring interest in curious exotic life.
However, the narration is somewhat puzzling, perhaps due to its English translation.
It's certainly written for children aged 5 to 8 but still includes jokes that assume its audience is familiar with The Terminator.
It presents miraculous examples of life in various unheralded forms but rather oddly emphasizes its cold predatory nature.
Especially the coral, the coral is definitely not presented as if it's aesthetically appealing resplendent ambient decoration, no no no, the fact that it's a living breathing famished deadly carnivoresque entity is emphasized several times, as Cousteau, and Arnold Schwarzenegger (does he speak French in the French version?), exchange provocative comments with absorbed adolescent abandon, as if they're mischievously trying to frighten children, or perhaps had had a bit too much champagne on the old buoyant yachtski.
The dialogue and narration likely sounds more authentic in French, but when it was translated into English it appears that a Native English speaker (or Xavier Dolan) wasn't consulted to edit the final draft, and the result is rather clunky, a bit too general, even for young children (conversation's completely different, it's okay to make mistakes in conversation unless you're a spy, but this is a film that's trying to find an English audience, I suggest using subtitles if you're not confident with your translation, it's okay if subtitles sound cheesy).
David Suzuki clearly wasn't consulted.
I imagine Mr. Schwarzenegger could have rewritten many of his lines.
Nevertheless, the 3-D imagery is astounding and I applaud the film's focus on unsung mysteries of the depths.
Merveilles des mers celebrates life in its most remarkable unfamiliar forms throughout, and captures invaluable scenes that will undoubtably foster future investigations of what furtively lies beneath.
Hopefully, as we clean up the seas.
Shocking images of polluted waters around the globe as presented in Merveilles des mers are posted online every day.
It's not that hard to dispose of your waste in the proper receptacle.
It only takes an extra 2 to 3 seconds to recycle and it is not complicated.
The reward is a world that isn't covered in garbage.
It's that simple.
It really truly is.
Friday, February 8, 2019
BlacKkKlansman
Do you remember when you were really young and differences between peoples weren't emphasized, criticized, aggrandized, socialized, when everyone you met was just someone you were meeting and there weren't any ridiculous stereotypes ruining cultural communications?
Before small-minded misperceptions with hateful agendas attempted to dismally attach specific labels to races and ethnicities, when things were rather peaceful and calm, when there weren't any differences between peoples?
I attended an anti-racism seminar years ago and its facilitator emphasized this point along with many others that logically broke down hate fuelled ideologies.
It's still absolutely clear to me, no matter what the racists try to claim, that there are no specific differences amongst peoples themselves, just alternative cultural traditions, which both enrich one's life when curiously explored, and celebrate the constructivity of intellect across the globe.
You can educate yourselves about them online or at your local library or by attending various cultural events, there's an infinite number of positive community-building materials freely available for curious minds, in a variety of different formats, the constructive peaceful materials themselves functioning like a chill multicultural spirit, which enlivens and emancipates minds with carefree convivial charm.
The world can be quite cruel of course and many conflicts are so complex finding solutions for them is a herculean task as long as both sides won't lay down their weapons.
Spike Lee's BlacKkKlansman examines both sides of the African/European American racial or ethnocentric divide to shed sombre light on how divided many black and white peoples living within the same community are in the United States.
An intelligent caring African American individual (John David Washington as Ron Stallworth) joins the local police force within, and soon finds himself working covert operations.
He sees what the world could be like if racial and ethnocentric stereotypes didn't divide so many peoples, and agilely walks the razor's edge to promote less confrontational ways of living.
He's aided on the force by a brave cop named Flip Zimmerman (Adam Driver), who infiltrates the Ku Klux Klan in order to find out what they're up to.
They're assisted by a multicultural team dedicated to both preventing violence and promoting sustainable living, even if some members of the force don't see it that way.
I know the police often act foolishly because people often catch them acting foolishly in videos posted online.
But don't forget that there are many cops out there who are dedicated to both preventing violence and promoting sustainable living as well, and they're there to serve and protect regardless of race or ethnicity or sexuality.
Why would police promote a violent world when it's their lives that are on the line when violence erupts?
It doesn't make sense.
Doesn't make any sense at all.
Spike Lee emphasizes this in BlacKkKlansman, an edgy film that lampoons the KKK and celebrates strong individuals dedicated to fighting racism.
Perhaps too light for subject matter this volatile, it still takes the reckless, thoughtless, unethical comedy that's erupted in the U.S in recent years and turns it on its head to formally deconstruct it.
I don't know how many people will understand that that's what he's doing, or even if that was his intention, I'm not Spike Lee, but in the final moments it's clear that BlacKkKlansman is meant to be taken seriously.
Extremists take peaceful inclinations and use fear to transform them into paranoid disillusion.
The key is to simply stop listening.
And focus on continuing to cultivate communities where their nonsense need never apply.
Period.
Before small-minded misperceptions with hateful agendas attempted to dismally attach specific labels to races and ethnicities, when things were rather peaceful and calm, when there weren't any differences between peoples?
I attended an anti-racism seminar years ago and its facilitator emphasized this point along with many others that logically broke down hate fuelled ideologies.
It's still absolutely clear to me, no matter what the racists try to claim, that there are no specific differences amongst peoples themselves, just alternative cultural traditions, which both enrich one's life when curiously explored, and celebrate the constructivity of intellect across the globe.
You can educate yourselves about them online or at your local library or by attending various cultural events, there's an infinite number of positive community-building materials freely available for curious minds, in a variety of different formats, the constructive peaceful materials themselves functioning like a chill multicultural spirit, which enlivens and emancipates minds with carefree convivial charm.
The world can be quite cruel of course and many conflicts are so complex finding solutions for them is a herculean task as long as both sides won't lay down their weapons.
Spike Lee's BlacKkKlansman examines both sides of the African/European American racial or ethnocentric divide to shed sombre light on how divided many black and white peoples living within the same community are in the United States.
An intelligent caring African American individual (John David Washington as Ron Stallworth) joins the local police force within, and soon finds himself working covert operations.
He sees what the world could be like if racial and ethnocentric stereotypes didn't divide so many peoples, and agilely walks the razor's edge to promote less confrontational ways of living.
He's aided on the force by a brave cop named Flip Zimmerman (Adam Driver), who infiltrates the Ku Klux Klan in order to find out what they're up to.
They're assisted by a multicultural team dedicated to both preventing violence and promoting sustainable living, even if some members of the force don't see it that way.
I know the police often act foolishly because people often catch them acting foolishly in videos posted online.
But don't forget that there are many cops out there who are dedicated to both preventing violence and promoting sustainable living as well, and they're there to serve and protect regardless of race or ethnicity or sexuality.
Why would police promote a violent world when it's their lives that are on the line when violence erupts?
It doesn't make sense.
Doesn't make any sense at all.
Spike Lee emphasizes this in BlacKkKlansman, an edgy film that lampoons the KKK and celebrates strong individuals dedicated to fighting racism.
Perhaps too light for subject matter this volatile, it still takes the reckless, thoughtless, unethical comedy that's erupted in the U.S in recent years and turns it on its head to formally deconstruct it.
I don't know how many people will understand that that's what he's doing, or even if that was his intention, I'm not Spike Lee, but in the final moments it's clear that BlacKkKlansman is meant to be taken seriously.
Extremists take peaceful inclinations and use fear to transform them into paranoid disillusion.
The key is to simply stop listening.
And focus on continuing to cultivate communities where their nonsense need never apply.
Period.
Tuesday, February 5, 2019
Destroyer
Overwhelmingly consumed by guilt and vengeance, a forlorn detective wearily trudges on.
Notoriously dishevelled, she struggles to deal while attempting to advise her restless daughter.
Having once infiltrated a heist prone entity, she lost everything after she failed to act.
And the individual who's haunted her for 16 years has finally resurfaced, within her reckless domain, his sights set on lucrative crime, boldly flaunting arrogant tension.
She continues to break the rules she's never followed to desperately gain an edge, and accidentally finds herself mired in steep misfortune.
Spiralling swiftly down.
Wildly reckoning sincere uncertainty.
Destroyer flexes gritty wayward concrete confrontation to adjudicate chaotic perception.
From flesh wound to break to hemorrhage to paralysis, it scoops up the lugubrity in piles of distraught doom.
Aptly succeeding at presenting direst woe, it's a little too blunt for my tastes, the intervening scenes lacking the visceral nuances that hold films like To Live and Die in L.A. or French Connection together, shocking violence erupting like periodic head shots every 8 minutes or so, or body checks in a hockey game, except that after each check the play stops and doesn't resume again, and then it suddenly starts back up and there's another check shortly thereafter before it stops again, this pattern repeating until the film's solid ending.
It's obvious that the filmmakers are capable of crafting something more subtle and nuanced and steady and memorable, something less discontinuous, or something that artistically cultivates discontinuity, but perhaps budget constraints got in the way or Destroyer's an initial offering from a fledgling craftperson, still learning to brew something less pulpy and generic.
It does function as an effective warning against both corruption and revenge however, Erin Bell's (Nicole Kidman) dismal distillation a potent reminder to let things go, no matter your gender, to move forward at some point after a period of grieving, and apply yourself with resurgent vigour to whatever tasks eventually present themselves.
Books and films and paintings and television provide limitless options to promote either contemporary or retro lifestyles.
As do sports and the daily news.
Even if even The Guardian is remarkably grim these days.
That used to be the advantage it held over The New York Times for me. It wasn't so grim. And didn't focus on the United States so much.
It's nice when you meet people who are also living in the present regardless.
A present that isn't consumed with grasses greener.
Where resilient people make the most of their present means.
And occasionally sit back chillin'.
When all their work is done.
Notoriously dishevelled, she struggles to deal while attempting to advise her restless daughter.
Having once infiltrated a heist prone entity, she lost everything after she failed to act.
And the individual who's haunted her for 16 years has finally resurfaced, within her reckless domain, his sights set on lucrative crime, boldly flaunting arrogant tension.
She continues to break the rules she's never followed to desperately gain an edge, and accidentally finds herself mired in steep misfortune.
Spiralling swiftly down.
Wildly reckoning sincere uncertainty.
Destroyer flexes gritty wayward concrete confrontation to adjudicate chaotic perception.
From flesh wound to break to hemorrhage to paralysis, it scoops up the lugubrity in piles of distraught doom.
Aptly succeeding at presenting direst woe, it's a little too blunt for my tastes, the intervening scenes lacking the visceral nuances that hold films like To Live and Die in L.A. or French Connection together, shocking violence erupting like periodic head shots every 8 minutes or so, or body checks in a hockey game, except that after each check the play stops and doesn't resume again, and then it suddenly starts back up and there's another check shortly thereafter before it stops again, this pattern repeating until the film's solid ending.
It's obvious that the filmmakers are capable of crafting something more subtle and nuanced and steady and memorable, something less discontinuous, or something that artistically cultivates discontinuity, but perhaps budget constraints got in the way or Destroyer's an initial offering from a fledgling craftperson, still learning to brew something less pulpy and generic.
It does function as an effective warning against both corruption and revenge however, Erin Bell's (Nicole Kidman) dismal distillation a potent reminder to let things go, no matter your gender, to move forward at some point after a period of grieving, and apply yourself with resurgent vigour to whatever tasks eventually present themselves.
Books and films and paintings and television provide limitless options to promote either contemporary or retro lifestyles.
As do sports and the daily news.
Even if even The Guardian is remarkably grim these days.
That used to be the advantage it held over The New York Times for me. It wasn't so grim. And didn't focus on the United States so much.
It's nice when you meet people who are also living in the present regardless.
A present that isn't consumed with grasses greener.
Where resilient people make the most of their present means.
And occasionally sit back chillin'.
When all their work is done.
Friday, February 1, 2019
On the Basis of Sex
The law is so diverse and complex that it's almost like an inorganic cerebral ecosystem of sorts, wherein which manifold species symbiotically seek food, shelter, warmth.
Taken as a whole it's rather labyrinthine, like trying to clarify all the species in an unknown jungle, at first. You study taxonomic reasoning for years and then one day set foot in the jungle, pitch a tent, set up camp, begin recording the flora and fauna as well as their relationships with one another. As the sun slowly fades and night descends you observe different botanical phenomena displaying alternative characteristics until your research can definitively suggest they possess specific behavioural traits, thereby setting precedents of sorts which promote further discovery.
But you can only do so much research in a jungle and most research is somewhat specialized (philosophically undertaken according to specific criteria) and eventually you depart, coming back at another time perhaps to advance your research further.
Meanwhile other scientists investigate the same region to verify or contradict your findings while making several new ones of their own.
Rational observations upheld by the reasonable discourse of the day slowly create a world of precedents delineating a civil code unto themselves.
But the code itself is so vast and delicately nuanced and the amount of time spent studying it so slim that the overarching exhaustive narrative remains tantalizing out of touch, always encouraging further study.
If the lawyers, judges, and legal aids who make up a judicial framework are closely studied you find patterns upon which you can base predictions regarding the outcomes of specific cases and the individuals responsible for making them, judging them, commentating upon them, facilitating them.
You would think they wouldn't be determinate inasmuch as different facts and alternative circumstances make each case unique, and that the outcome of one extortion trial should be different from another, but the patterns do persist with a remarkable lack of variation, which is perhaps an unfortunate byproduct of undisclosed political motives.
But variability persists as well and honest judges and lawyers can be swayed by exceptional arguments crafted by reasonable individuals cutting their way through the maze.
As they are by Ruth Bader Ginsburg (Felicity Jones) in Mimi Leder's On the Basis of Sex.
Unlike the instinctual nature of the jungle, which is instinctive inasmuch as we can't communicate with it, logically, in spite of visceral fluencies, the imaginative nature of the law, the application of abstract thought, no matter how practical it might be, cleverly cultivates alternative paths by introducing new classifications, new precedents, disciplines, many of which have little to do with people wandering around aimlessly thousands of years ago, and scientifically reflect the evolutionary nature of communal intellect.
Like the second or third or fourth or fifth scientist who visits the previously undiscovered jungle and discovers new facts that contradict the findings of his or her predecessors, new law branches emerge which develop their own previously uncategorized traditions themselves equally rich in judicial diversity.
As alternative traditions make their claims based upon different precedents the undeniable sure thing becomes much less invariable.
But the patterns still persist and the political motivations that define them persistently seek to elucidate a manufactured master narrative, regardless of facts presented, in attempts to make the world reflect a theoretical natural conception.
The jungle itself without the ability to analyze itself is natural, and rational attempts to define its nature definitively through the application of self-aware reflection based upon observed conditionals which change according to the narratives established by their observers, different conclusions reached, competing rationalities cohabiting, reflects the nature of thought or imagination, a nature which is in/organic if you will.
On the Basis of Sex operates within an in/organic labyrinth and follows the brilliant Ruth Bader Ginsburg as she begins to shine a light through.
Ignorantly dismissed at first and later on because of her gender, even though she graduated with exceptional grades, she finally gets a chance and rationally makes the most of it.
In feisty Denver.
Precedents and patterns and preconceptions and prejudice confront her all the way, but her loving husband (Armie Hammer) and children (Cailee Spaeny, Callum Shoniker) back her up, and support her with the utmost respect (within teenaged reason).
The film's an engaging accessible account of a remarkable individual's first trek through the wilderness, and the path she cultivated along the way.
Through foresight, pluck, logic, and determination, she helped heal aspects of a system that unfortunately is neither broken nor fixed.
If you think the system's broken, if you give up and stop fighting, then a system that has never been and never will be perfect falls into a blind state of disarray.
Remember people like Ruth Bader Ginsburg and the light they've helped shine throughout their lives if you find yourself thinking everything's hopeless.
Because there are millions if not billions of people out there just like her, who care, and are making a difference.
Fighting for true democracy.
Or at least a fair shake most of the time.
Taken as a whole it's rather labyrinthine, like trying to clarify all the species in an unknown jungle, at first. You study taxonomic reasoning for years and then one day set foot in the jungle, pitch a tent, set up camp, begin recording the flora and fauna as well as their relationships with one another. As the sun slowly fades and night descends you observe different botanical phenomena displaying alternative characteristics until your research can definitively suggest they possess specific behavioural traits, thereby setting precedents of sorts which promote further discovery.
But you can only do so much research in a jungle and most research is somewhat specialized (philosophically undertaken according to specific criteria) and eventually you depart, coming back at another time perhaps to advance your research further.
Meanwhile other scientists investigate the same region to verify or contradict your findings while making several new ones of their own.
Rational observations upheld by the reasonable discourse of the day slowly create a world of precedents delineating a civil code unto themselves.
But the code itself is so vast and delicately nuanced and the amount of time spent studying it so slim that the overarching exhaustive narrative remains tantalizing out of touch, always encouraging further study.
If the lawyers, judges, and legal aids who make up a judicial framework are closely studied you find patterns upon which you can base predictions regarding the outcomes of specific cases and the individuals responsible for making them, judging them, commentating upon them, facilitating them.
You would think they wouldn't be determinate inasmuch as different facts and alternative circumstances make each case unique, and that the outcome of one extortion trial should be different from another, but the patterns do persist with a remarkable lack of variation, which is perhaps an unfortunate byproduct of undisclosed political motives.
But variability persists as well and honest judges and lawyers can be swayed by exceptional arguments crafted by reasonable individuals cutting their way through the maze.
As they are by Ruth Bader Ginsburg (Felicity Jones) in Mimi Leder's On the Basis of Sex.
Unlike the instinctual nature of the jungle, which is instinctive inasmuch as we can't communicate with it, logically, in spite of visceral fluencies, the imaginative nature of the law, the application of abstract thought, no matter how practical it might be, cleverly cultivates alternative paths by introducing new classifications, new precedents, disciplines, many of which have little to do with people wandering around aimlessly thousands of years ago, and scientifically reflect the evolutionary nature of communal intellect.
Like the second or third or fourth or fifth scientist who visits the previously undiscovered jungle and discovers new facts that contradict the findings of his or her predecessors, new law branches emerge which develop their own previously uncategorized traditions themselves equally rich in judicial diversity.
As alternative traditions make their claims based upon different precedents the undeniable sure thing becomes much less invariable.
But the patterns still persist and the political motivations that define them persistently seek to elucidate a manufactured master narrative, regardless of facts presented, in attempts to make the world reflect a theoretical natural conception.
The jungle itself without the ability to analyze itself is natural, and rational attempts to define its nature definitively through the application of self-aware reflection based upon observed conditionals which change according to the narratives established by their observers, different conclusions reached, competing rationalities cohabiting, reflects the nature of thought or imagination, a nature which is in/organic if you will.
On the Basis of Sex operates within an in/organic labyrinth and follows the brilliant Ruth Bader Ginsburg as she begins to shine a light through.
Ignorantly dismissed at first and later on because of her gender, even though she graduated with exceptional grades, she finally gets a chance and rationally makes the most of it.
In feisty Denver.
Precedents and patterns and preconceptions and prejudice confront her all the way, but her loving husband (Armie Hammer) and children (Cailee Spaeny, Callum Shoniker) back her up, and support her with the utmost respect (within teenaged reason).
The film's an engaging accessible account of a remarkable individual's first trek through the wilderness, and the path she cultivated along the way.
Through foresight, pluck, logic, and determination, she helped heal aspects of a system that unfortunately is neither broken nor fixed.
If you think the system's broken, if you give up and stop fighting, then a system that has never been and never will be perfect falls into a blind state of disarray.
Remember people like Ruth Bader Ginsburg and the light they've helped shine throughout their lives if you find yourself thinking everything's hopeless.
Because there are millions if not billions of people out there just like her, who care, and are making a difference.
Fighting for true democracy.
Or at least a fair shake most of the time.
Tuesday, January 29, 2019
Glass
Mystery Men aside, I imagine superhero films would be less compelling (or less profitable) if they focused on the lives of people who don't defy scientific law, even if random acts of kindness or diligent commitments to stable routines also aptly reflect agile superheroics, in their own more modest less celebrated ways, inasmuch as many routines lack regular confrontations with mindblowing exceptions.
I remember briefly watching at work one day while a team of three people carried an awkwardly shaped new countertop up a narrow awkward flight of stairs, for instance, and an hour later I noticed they were still working.
In my foolish mind I thought, "why aren't they finished yet, it doesn't look that complicated," before reprimanding myself for assholism and listening in on their conversation.
They were patiently and rationally discussing how to move the heavy object up the stairs carefully to avoid injury, which of course made sense, and explained why they were taking so long.
It's rare when I move large heavy objects so when I do so I carelessly don't worry about injury.
But if you move them around for 40 hours a week for 10 to 40 years and you don't take your time to patiently think about what you're doing, you likely will sustain injury, and therefore it makes sense to proceed cautiously and think things through.
Always.
Nothing you learn in your youth really prepares you for middle-age and the routines you find yourself cultivating at times.
I'm lucky to have a lot of variability in my life and to work with cool people, as I have been for the last decade or so, but middle-age still isn't like school, you don't progressively pass from one grade to the next and have your whole life reimagined each year based upon pedagogic and biological transformations, different stages, it's more like a big 40 year block of time, an extended megastage that's full of change and diversity but at times is somewhat predictable.
But it's precisely the lack of exception that makes it exceptional once you figure that out, the ability to endure sure and steady predictability from one day to the next, to handle different variations while maintaining a reliable theme, and to do it for an incredibly long period of time.
Little things making a phenomenal difference.
Whether it's a film, a new type of hot sauce, a new dress, or ordering the same thing off the menu every time, it doesn't get old if you don't let it, if you let disaffection age you.
Everyone understands there's a big difference between carrying something up a flight of stairs and being a neurosurgeon, or a politician, but sometimes I think neurosurgeons and politicians forget how difficult it can be to carry awkward things up flights of stairs, for years, although I'm sure it's by no means endemic.
The end of Glass celebrates superheroics gone viral online, attempts to suppress them having been outmasterminded.
True, David Dunn (Bruce Willis) and Keven/Patricia/Hedwig/The Beast etc. (James McAvoy) do have otherworldly abilities, and it would have been cool if Dunn had turned out to be his/her father, but the ending's so like the genesis of Twitter and YouTube that I couldn't help thinking they were standing in for magical unrehearsed postmodern superheroics, randomly disseminated upon the worldwide net.
It's another superhero film that contemplates the nature of superheroics and therefore adds more philosophical finesse to the genre, with hints of The Secret History of 'Twin Peaks', Under the Silver Lake, and Iron Man peppered throughout, and nimbly unreels like a full-on indy.
I liked the characters and the plot and the ways in which Unbreakable has found a way to situate itself within the post-Iron Man maelstrom, and McAvoy's outstanding, but it was the ending and its Twitteresque reflections that I enjoyed the most, and seeing Bruce Willis and Samuel L. Jackson (Elijah Price) at it again I suppose.
So many things you never would have heard about thirty years ago pop up on Twitter and YouTube every day.
It's a fascinating worldwide change.
As accessible as your local library.
Stable, steady, unpredictable variation.
Is there a project out there that's codifying YouTube?
Who's writing that book?
Could you finish a page without becoming obsolete?
Like you need a multicultural team of librarians working full-time around the globe just to capture Tuesday, March 8th, 2016.
Categorically driven inherent impossibility.
Infinity conceptualized.
There's nothing quite like it.
I remember briefly watching at work one day while a team of three people carried an awkwardly shaped new countertop up a narrow awkward flight of stairs, for instance, and an hour later I noticed they were still working.
In my foolish mind I thought, "why aren't they finished yet, it doesn't look that complicated," before reprimanding myself for assholism and listening in on their conversation.
They were patiently and rationally discussing how to move the heavy object up the stairs carefully to avoid injury, which of course made sense, and explained why they were taking so long.
It's rare when I move large heavy objects so when I do so I carelessly don't worry about injury.
But if you move them around for 40 hours a week for 10 to 40 years and you don't take your time to patiently think about what you're doing, you likely will sustain injury, and therefore it makes sense to proceed cautiously and think things through.
Always.
Nothing you learn in your youth really prepares you for middle-age and the routines you find yourself cultivating at times.
I'm lucky to have a lot of variability in my life and to work with cool people, as I have been for the last decade or so, but middle-age still isn't like school, you don't progressively pass from one grade to the next and have your whole life reimagined each year based upon pedagogic and biological transformations, different stages, it's more like a big 40 year block of time, an extended megastage that's full of change and diversity but at times is somewhat predictable.
But it's precisely the lack of exception that makes it exceptional once you figure that out, the ability to endure sure and steady predictability from one day to the next, to handle different variations while maintaining a reliable theme, and to do it for an incredibly long period of time.
Little things making a phenomenal difference.
Whether it's a film, a new type of hot sauce, a new dress, or ordering the same thing off the menu every time, it doesn't get old if you don't let it, if you let disaffection age you.
Everyone understands there's a big difference between carrying something up a flight of stairs and being a neurosurgeon, or a politician, but sometimes I think neurosurgeons and politicians forget how difficult it can be to carry awkward things up flights of stairs, for years, although I'm sure it's by no means endemic.
The end of Glass celebrates superheroics gone viral online, attempts to suppress them having been outmasterminded.
True, David Dunn (Bruce Willis) and Keven/Patricia/Hedwig/The Beast etc. (James McAvoy) do have otherworldly abilities, and it would have been cool if Dunn had turned out to be his/her father, but the ending's so like the genesis of Twitter and YouTube that I couldn't help thinking they were standing in for magical unrehearsed postmodern superheroics, randomly disseminated upon the worldwide net.
It's another superhero film that contemplates the nature of superheroics and therefore adds more philosophical finesse to the genre, with hints of The Secret History of 'Twin Peaks', Under the Silver Lake, and Iron Man peppered throughout, and nimbly unreels like a full-on indy.
I liked the characters and the plot and the ways in which Unbreakable has found a way to situate itself within the post-Iron Man maelstrom, and McAvoy's outstanding, but it was the ending and its Twitteresque reflections that I enjoyed the most, and seeing Bruce Willis and Samuel L. Jackson (Elijah Price) at it again I suppose.
So many things you never would have heard about thirty years ago pop up on Twitter and YouTube every day.
It's a fascinating worldwide change.
As accessible as your local library.
Stable, steady, unpredictable variation.
Is there a project out there that's codifying YouTube?
Who's writing that book?
Could you finish a page without becoming obsolete?
Like you need a multicultural team of librarians working full-time around the globe just to capture Tuesday, March 8th, 2016.
Categorically driven inherent impossibility.
Infinity conceptualized.
There's nothing quite like it.
Friday, January 25, 2019
Vice
Why make a movie about Dick Cheney (Christian Bale) of all people?
Why?
Why do I have to write about this film?
Why!
With all the charismatic influential inspiring dynamic leaders out there, why choose to make a film about him, even if, in bizarro plutocrat lingo, those adjectives strangely apply?
The filmmakers admit they have little to go on yet revel in proceeding blindly nonetheless, and although they couldn't find much information about Cheney, they still stuck to that which they found, rather than creating a more balanced narrative, wherein which the speculative film, which they admit to making, takes imaginative precedence over headlined gossip and likelihood.
I'm not saying avoid what's supposed to be true or replace it with alternative fact, I mean that if you're imagining much of what took place anyways, imagine a more compelling film that narratively ties his different motivations together.
See so many Steven Spielberg films.
Vice is more like, "we know he did this, and it's believed he did that, and this is all we really have to go on, so we'll make the rest up but emphasize what we do know, or believe, even if the information we have writes a clunky story."
Not that it's a bad film, it's alright, and it's better than a lot of films that follow an individual's career over the course of a lifetime, but Cheney's just not such a bad guy for so much of it, in fact he's primarily depicted as a respectable family man who played by the rules for most of his career, and then suddenly he's this power mad mendacity prone borderline authoritarian, it's not that the facts aren't commercially presented, it's just that Vice hasn't much of a foreshadow.
If you admit you're making speculative pseudo-non-fiction why play your cards so close to your chest?, The Big Short certainly didn't and it made a more stunning impact.
As it stands, Vice isn't sure if Dick Cheney was a monster or just a fortunate hardworking man of self-made means.
It emphasizes that the second Iraq war was likely caused by him for self-centred reasons, but still goes out of its way to make him seem loving and kind, with prim bipolar whitewash, comedically applied.
It does explain where political obsessions with executive authority come from, and in the last scene Cheney appears like Khan in Star Trek into Darkness, boldly stating that many others would have done the same.
But many others wouldn't have done the same, and the bold speech at the end, which may win an Oscar, encourages stubborn self-obsessed self-aggrandizement regardless of communal consequence, and it's unclear if McKay is being critical of Cheney's ambition or trying to make it seem as wholesome as pumpkin pie.
He certainly makes his character sympathetic.
Spending more time coddling than criticizing him.
Why?
Why do I have to write about this film?
Why!
With all the charismatic influential inspiring dynamic leaders out there, why choose to make a film about him, even if, in bizarro plutocrat lingo, those adjectives strangely apply?
The filmmakers admit they have little to go on yet revel in proceeding blindly nonetheless, and although they couldn't find much information about Cheney, they still stuck to that which they found, rather than creating a more balanced narrative, wherein which the speculative film, which they admit to making, takes imaginative precedence over headlined gossip and likelihood.
I'm not saying avoid what's supposed to be true or replace it with alternative fact, I mean that if you're imagining much of what took place anyways, imagine a more compelling film that narratively ties his different motivations together.
See so many Steven Spielberg films.
Vice is more like, "we know he did this, and it's believed he did that, and this is all we really have to go on, so we'll make the rest up but emphasize what we do know, or believe, even if the information we have writes a clunky story."
Not that it's a bad film, it's alright, and it's better than a lot of films that follow an individual's career over the course of a lifetime, but Cheney's just not such a bad guy for so much of it, in fact he's primarily depicted as a respectable family man who played by the rules for most of his career, and then suddenly he's this power mad mendacity prone borderline authoritarian, it's not that the facts aren't commercially presented, it's just that Vice hasn't much of a foreshadow.
If you admit you're making speculative pseudo-non-fiction why play your cards so close to your chest?, The Big Short certainly didn't and it made a more stunning impact.
As it stands, Vice isn't sure if Dick Cheney was a monster or just a fortunate hardworking man of self-made means.
It emphasizes that the second Iraq war was likely caused by him for self-centred reasons, but still goes out of its way to make him seem loving and kind, with prim bipolar whitewash, comedically applied.
It does explain where political obsessions with executive authority come from, and in the last scene Cheney appears like Khan in Star Trek into Darkness, boldly stating that many others would have done the same.
But many others wouldn't have done the same, and the bold speech at the end, which may win an Oscar, encourages stubborn self-obsessed self-aggrandizement regardless of communal consequence, and it's unclear if McKay is being critical of Cheney's ambition or trying to make it seem as wholesome as pumpkin pie.
He certainly makes his character sympathetic.
Spending more time coddling than criticizing him.
Tuesday, January 22, 2019
Bumblebee
At the transformative heart of Travis Knight's Bumblebee rests polarized misperception glacially endowed.
Cybertron is lost and the Autobots have fled, B-127 (Bumblebee [Dylan O'Brien]) tasked with finding them sanctuary, wherefrom they can regroup and plan, whereupon they'll be cloaked and hidden.
But the Decepticons have followed, three in fact, eventually, one at first, and if they're able to report their findings, his mission will end in failure.
He has landed upon Earth during its most exceptional decade, even if he's greeted none too kindly, even if he then forgets all.
The internet has yet to revolutionize everything planet wide, however, Cypertron correspondingly suffering from a lack of technological advancement, for even though the Decepticons know he is hiding on Earth, they cannot easily transmit this discovery.
As if Cypbertron and Earth are unconsciously linked through intergalactic evolution, and what happens on one planet contemporaneously takes place on the other, technologically speaking, even if humanity does not explore space.
Bumblebee is found by a defiant young adult (Hailee Steinfeld as Charlie) who is dismissive of her stepfather (Stephen Schneider as Ron) and seeks her own car.
Little does she know that her unassuming angst-ridden pursuits have opened a gateway to starstruck conflict, and that her newfound friend and confidant is sought after by mature disaffection.
The concern of her parents is augmented by the military's presence, everyone eventually rallying to her side, in tune with the spirit of the times.
Although the romantic dreamer within (John Ortiz as Dr. Powell) is depicted as a do-gooding lump, tough-as-nails Agent Burns (John Cena) standing out in sharp contrast, yet as the plot unravels the dialectic pretensions of the Transformers cause both individuals to reconsider, Powell realizing he should never have trusted Shatter (Angela Bassett) and Dropkick (Justin Theroux), Burns accepting he was mistaken about Bumblebee.
Charlie also learns she was wrong to malign her stepfather's goodwill, for even though he promotes compassion, he can still drive like Satan himself.
Functioning like a stern loving synthesis of sorts.
Thus, within this humble Bumblebee we find rudimentary political philosophy reduced to democratic elements, as predetermined judgment is actively critiqued by withdrawn yet impacting middle-ground motivations.
Perhaps not the best transformers film, but that doesn't mean the music and legend of a long past fabled epoch can't still ensure good times, or at least make up for the film's overstated grumblings.
Too much of the, "let's shoot before asking questions and make the guy who asks questions look like a fool" though.
Possibly the best soundtrack ever.
Cybertron is lost and the Autobots have fled, B-127 (Bumblebee [Dylan O'Brien]) tasked with finding them sanctuary, wherefrom they can regroup and plan, whereupon they'll be cloaked and hidden.
But the Decepticons have followed, three in fact, eventually, one at first, and if they're able to report their findings, his mission will end in failure.
He has landed upon Earth during its most exceptional decade, even if he's greeted none too kindly, even if he then forgets all.
The internet has yet to revolutionize everything planet wide, however, Cypertron correspondingly suffering from a lack of technological advancement, for even though the Decepticons know he is hiding on Earth, they cannot easily transmit this discovery.
As if Cypbertron and Earth are unconsciously linked through intergalactic evolution, and what happens on one planet contemporaneously takes place on the other, technologically speaking, even if humanity does not explore space.
Bumblebee is found by a defiant young adult (Hailee Steinfeld as Charlie) who is dismissive of her stepfather (Stephen Schneider as Ron) and seeks her own car.
Little does she know that her unassuming angst-ridden pursuits have opened a gateway to starstruck conflict, and that her newfound friend and confidant is sought after by mature disaffection.
The concern of her parents is augmented by the military's presence, everyone eventually rallying to her side, in tune with the spirit of the times.
Although the romantic dreamer within (John Ortiz as Dr. Powell) is depicted as a do-gooding lump, tough-as-nails Agent Burns (John Cena) standing out in sharp contrast, yet as the plot unravels the dialectic pretensions of the Transformers cause both individuals to reconsider, Powell realizing he should never have trusted Shatter (Angela Bassett) and Dropkick (Justin Theroux), Burns accepting he was mistaken about Bumblebee.
Charlie also learns she was wrong to malign her stepfather's goodwill, for even though he promotes compassion, he can still drive like Satan himself.
Functioning like a stern loving synthesis of sorts.
Thus, within this humble Bumblebee we find rudimentary political philosophy reduced to democratic elements, as predetermined judgment is actively critiqued by withdrawn yet impacting middle-ground motivations.
Perhaps not the best transformers film, but that doesn't mean the music and legend of a long past fabled epoch can't still ensure good times, or at least make up for the film's overstated grumblings.
Too much of the, "let's shoot before asking questions and make the guy who asks questions look like a fool" though.
Possibly the best soundtrack ever.
Friday, January 18, 2019
If Beale Street Could Talk
A young expectant mother celebrating the dawn of life encounters setbacks as she embraces riled uncertainty.
Her decision isn't an easy one to make and she's initially faced with righteous criticism.
Unfortunately, the father's (Stephan James as Alonzo Hunt) in prison after having been falsely accused of a monstrous crime, the victim having returned to her home country after suffering extreme indecency.
It's a disastrous situation that's rather difficult to discuss with the victim (Emily Rios as Victoria Rogers), although Tish's (KiKi Layne) mom (Regina King as Sharon Rivers) does her best to make contact and work things out.
Alonzo takes a plea.
Tish strives onwards, patiently waiting for his release.
A confident man, a resilient woman, a versatile couple, an engaging family.
Prejudice accosts them within and without.
But through self-sacrificing commitment, they holistically persevere.
Barry Jenkins's If Beale Street Could Talk laments cold realities by presenting resigned innocence forced to hustle, brand, and stray.
It deals in unsettling sociological facts the harsh conditions of which require sincere systemic change.
A different way of thinking.
A young couple's racial or ethnic background shouldn't effect their entire existence, I've met and worked with plenty of male, female, black, white, Jewish, Arab, European, South American, First Nations, East Indian, gay, straight and Asian people, and none of them were thieves or cons or zealots, and everyone worked hard and didn't put up much of a fuss.
If racial or ethnic stereotypes had pervaded these environments it would have been impossible to work efficiently, and otherwise composed diligent routines would have collapsed beneath the weight of ripe malice.
People didn't judge each other based on shortsighted stereotypical notions, but preferred to evaluate the quality and quantity of one's work, equal opportunity abounding for all, but they had to make sure to get the job done.
If you think the situation's hopeless it becomes hopeless pretty quickly.
You can't expect things to happen overnight, you need patience, endurance, tenacity.
Tish and Alonzo have all these things in If Beale Street Could Talk and because of stereotypical perceptions they come close to losing everything, yet they still dig deep and buckle down.
The film bluntly examines what's left unsaid and although it's somewhat overly emotional at times, it is presenting volatile subject matter, and its heart's definitely in the right place.
Cool sculptures too.
Her decision isn't an easy one to make and she's initially faced with righteous criticism.
Unfortunately, the father's (Stephan James as Alonzo Hunt) in prison after having been falsely accused of a monstrous crime, the victim having returned to her home country after suffering extreme indecency.
It's a disastrous situation that's rather difficult to discuss with the victim (Emily Rios as Victoria Rogers), although Tish's (KiKi Layne) mom (Regina King as Sharon Rivers) does her best to make contact and work things out.
Alonzo takes a plea.
Tish strives onwards, patiently waiting for his release.
A confident man, a resilient woman, a versatile couple, an engaging family.
Prejudice accosts them within and without.
But through self-sacrificing commitment, they holistically persevere.
Barry Jenkins's If Beale Street Could Talk laments cold realities by presenting resigned innocence forced to hustle, brand, and stray.
It deals in unsettling sociological facts the harsh conditions of which require sincere systemic change.
A different way of thinking.
A young couple's racial or ethnic background shouldn't effect their entire existence, I've met and worked with plenty of male, female, black, white, Jewish, Arab, European, South American, First Nations, East Indian, gay, straight and Asian people, and none of them were thieves or cons or zealots, and everyone worked hard and didn't put up much of a fuss.
If racial or ethnic stereotypes had pervaded these environments it would have been impossible to work efficiently, and otherwise composed diligent routines would have collapsed beneath the weight of ripe malice.
People didn't judge each other based on shortsighted stereotypical notions, but preferred to evaluate the quality and quantity of one's work, equal opportunity abounding for all, but they had to make sure to get the job done.
If you think the situation's hopeless it becomes hopeless pretty quickly.
You can't expect things to happen overnight, you need patience, endurance, tenacity.
Tish and Alonzo have all these things in If Beale Street Could Talk and because of stereotypical perceptions they come close to losing everything, yet they still dig deep and buckle down.
The film bluntly examines what's left unsaid and although it's somewhat overly emotional at times, it is presenting volatile subject matter, and its heart's definitely in the right place.
Cool sculptures too.
Tuesday, January 15, 2019
Vox Lux
Brady Corbet's Vox Lux wildly envisions tumultuous reasonability clad in disputatious aggrieved apotheosis facilitating chaotic calm.
Beware what transpires within, for it's a most uninhibited tale, executively brandishing dysfunction, perilously prophesizing unimpaired.
Like all stories, it begins, a school in a small town no less, where a distraught child assaults his classmates and takes many innocent lives.
It's appalling that lawmakers aren't taking measures to prevent such atrocities, especially after so many brave American young adults have appealed for political conviction.
So many years after Bowling for Columbine, these shootings still take place with horrifying regularity.
Mass school shootings or mass shootings of any kind are so obviously not acceptable and arming teachers to stop them is sheer utter madness, total insanity, extreme irresponsibility, just nuts, such events don't simply happen, they're the product of blind mismanagement, and legal steps should have been taken to prevent them many many many years ago.
Celeste (Natalie Portman/Raffey Cassidy) survives the shooting at her school and writes a song to express her grief, a song which capture's a grieving nation's attention, superstardom awaiting thereafter.
But with superstardom comes unexpected pressure, Vox Lux necessitating improvisation as the unanticipated interrogatively fluxes.
How to diplomatically respond?
When even her most humble words provoke sensation?
It's unhinged and perplexing and preposterous and disorienting when you think about it afterwards, Vox Lux's argumentative acrobatics and substance abuse fuelled rhetoric leaving a byzantine trail of grandiose unorthodoxy in their wake, realities so disconnected and otherworldly it's like they orbit the heart of an imperial pulsar, which radiates untethered brilliance partout, and neglects consequence with refrained spry spectacle.
Yet it's so real, the film seems so plausible, so concrete, so distinct, passionately yet prohibitively brought to life by Natalie Portman and Jude Law (The Manager), like a down to earth fairy tale that's as ludicrous as it is homemade, like a supernatural cookie cutter incarnated in mortal shade.
Bafflingly improbable yet so irrefutably sincere, Vox Lux resonates with raw animation as if a misfit god has awoken from eternal slumber, and what a performance she gives in the end, this former child star who's been nurtured by shock and scandal.
Exhilaratingly conjuring.
In visceral artistic balm.
Approach Vox Lux with caution.
Outstanding alternative mind*&%^ cinema.
Beware what transpires within, for it's a most uninhibited tale, executively brandishing dysfunction, perilously prophesizing unimpaired.
Like all stories, it begins, a school in a small town no less, where a distraught child assaults his classmates and takes many innocent lives.
It's appalling that lawmakers aren't taking measures to prevent such atrocities, especially after so many brave American young adults have appealed for political conviction.
So many years after Bowling for Columbine, these shootings still take place with horrifying regularity.
Mass school shootings or mass shootings of any kind are so obviously not acceptable and arming teachers to stop them is sheer utter madness, total insanity, extreme irresponsibility, just nuts, such events don't simply happen, they're the product of blind mismanagement, and legal steps should have been taken to prevent them many many many years ago.
Celeste (Natalie Portman/Raffey Cassidy) survives the shooting at her school and writes a song to express her grief, a song which capture's a grieving nation's attention, superstardom awaiting thereafter.
But with superstardom comes unexpected pressure, Vox Lux necessitating improvisation as the unanticipated interrogatively fluxes.
How to diplomatically respond?
When even her most humble words provoke sensation?
It's unhinged and perplexing and preposterous and disorienting when you think about it afterwards, Vox Lux's argumentative acrobatics and substance abuse fuelled rhetoric leaving a byzantine trail of grandiose unorthodoxy in their wake, realities so disconnected and otherworldly it's like they orbit the heart of an imperial pulsar, which radiates untethered brilliance partout, and neglects consequence with refrained spry spectacle.
Yet it's so real, the film seems so plausible, so concrete, so distinct, passionately yet prohibitively brought to life by Natalie Portman and Jude Law (The Manager), like a down to earth fairy tale that's as ludicrous as it is homemade, like a supernatural cookie cutter incarnated in mortal shade.
Bafflingly improbable yet so irrefutably sincere, Vox Lux resonates with raw animation as if a misfit god has awoken from eternal slumber, and what a performance she gives in the end, this former child star who's been nurtured by shock and scandal.
Exhilaratingly conjuring.
In visceral artistic balm.
Approach Vox Lux with caution.
Outstanding alternative mind*&%^ cinema.
Friday, January 11, 2019
Roma
I don't think I've ever seen a film with so many long scenes depicting active lives lived enriched with such vivid detail.
They aren't as multifaceted as those found at the beginning of Truffaut's La Nuit Américaine or Robert Altman's The Player or Orson Welles's Touch of Evil, but they continue to illustrate throughout the entire film and create a visually stunning communal aesthetic thereby, without moving, without moving hardly at all.
It's like Roma has thought provoking characters but they're secondary to the scene, the setting, the environment, like they're a part of a larger world, something much more subtle than that they're enveloped within, subtle yet pervasive, its predicaments and accidents adding pronounced depth without diagnosing psychology, as if their personalities are changing and growing within a fluid diverse realm whose endemic features encourage comment sans judgment, like the world's too vast to be analytically classified, and laissez-faire semantics breach like relaxed ontologies.
Living within.
Held together by a family's nanny (Yalitza Aparicio as Cleo) and the difficulties that arise after she discovers she's pregnant, a support network securely in place which is severely contrasted by blunt negligence, Roma follows her as she takes care of a family while trying to start one of her own, chaotic embodiments of structure ignoring her gentle inquiries.
The urge to classify, to make definitive political sense of life so that one can practically attach theoretical logic to their behaviour and be consequently rewarded or punished, depending on how virtuously they're deemed to have acted, functions like haunting destructive shackles within, inasmuch as it's speculatively associated with dogma, dogma which attempts to clarify, curtail, and control, violently, rather than existing symbiotically in peace.
Cleo's love interest Fermín (Jorge Antonio Guerrero) is therefore given an extended self-absorbed scene where he demonstrates his prowess, its stark lack of detail, its animated ferocious thrusts, bluntly contrasting the otherwise curious more robust less volatile shots, as if to intimate shocking austere extremities.
It's not the codes themselves that ironically produce chaos, it's the rigid discriminate attempts to puritanically follow them, even in situations where they clearly don't fit, and make others follow them, or classify others who don't follow them as undesirable, monitoring everyone at all times to make sure they're following them, bellicosely asserting them when faced with opposition, that make extremist variations on composed ethical themes like the ones found in Roma so terrifying.
Roma's a patient thoughtfully cultivated poised undulating ethos, whose undefined compassionate caresses humbly lament tragic imagination.
Calmly blending the search for meaning with unrehearsed existence, it finds purpose through improvisation, and critiques determinate codes.
Reminded me of Solaris.
They aren't as multifaceted as those found at the beginning of Truffaut's La Nuit Américaine or Robert Altman's The Player or Orson Welles's Touch of Evil, but they continue to illustrate throughout the entire film and create a visually stunning communal aesthetic thereby, without moving, without moving hardly at all.
It's like Roma has thought provoking characters but they're secondary to the scene, the setting, the environment, like they're a part of a larger world, something much more subtle than that they're enveloped within, subtle yet pervasive, its predicaments and accidents adding pronounced depth without diagnosing psychology, as if their personalities are changing and growing within a fluid diverse realm whose endemic features encourage comment sans judgment, like the world's too vast to be analytically classified, and laissez-faire semantics breach like relaxed ontologies.
Living within.
Held together by a family's nanny (Yalitza Aparicio as Cleo) and the difficulties that arise after she discovers she's pregnant, a support network securely in place which is severely contrasted by blunt negligence, Roma follows her as she takes care of a family while trying to start one of her own, chaotic embodiments of structure ignoring her gentle inquiries.
The urge to classify, to make definitive political sense of life so that one can practically attach theoretical logic to their behaviour and be consequently rewarded or punished, depending on how virtuously they're deemed to have acted, functions like haunting destructive shackles within, inasmuch as it's speculatively associated with dogma, dogma which attempts to clarify, curtail, and control, violently, rather than existing symbiotically in peace.
Cleo's love interest Fermín (Jorge Antonio Guerrero) is therefore given an extended self-absorbed scene where he demonstrates his prowess, its stark lack of detail, its animated ferocious thrusts, bluntly contrasting the otherwise curious more robust less volatile shots, as if to intimate shocking austere extremities.
It's not the codes themselves that ironically produce chaos, it's the rigid discriminate attempts to puritanically follow them, even in situations where they clearly don't fit, and make others follow them, or classify others who don't follow them as undesirable, monitoring everyone at all times to make sure they're following them, bellicosely asserting them when faced with opposition, that make extremist variations on composed ethical themes like the ones found in Roma so terrifying.
Roma's a patient thoughtfully cultivated poised undulating ethos, whose undefined compassionate caresses humbly lament tragic imagination.
Calmly blending the search for meaning with unrehearsed existence, it finds purpose through improvisation, and critiques determinate codes.
Reminded me of Solaris.
Tuesday, January 8, 2019
The Favourite
Intrigue covetously schemes while fortune miraculously hounds, the enthused generosity of an imposing caregiver insolently betrayed by dissolute ambition, a lack of opportunity blended with flogged discourtesy no doubt encouraging rank desperation, and as circumstances ameliorate postures tempt then beckon, botanical connaissance herbaceously imploring, as Yorgos Lanthimos embroils The Favourite.
An odd mixture of innocence and ferocity emerges, Queen Anne's (Olivia Colman) impulses potently distracted, Lady Sarah (Rachel Weisz) guiding them with discreet intention, Abigail Hill (Emma Stone) recognizing habitual laidback verse.
To rest at play with one's rabbits on sunny afternoons as thrush critique, bray, and scold, evenings, inopportune.
What's overlooked?
What seeks cultivation?
What is she ignoring?
Devoutly genuine dissimulation.
Dark motivations speculate as calculation courts royal favour.
Ingratiation husked, unsettled.
Gratification crudely extolling.
Nevertheless, The Favourite seems to dismiss base flattery to uphold honest criticism, even if Duchess Marlborough (Weisz) isn't contentiously disposed.
In fact she blends blunt observation with composed praise in skillfully threaded admonishing coddles, poignantly yet starkly depicting stately decorum, ironically lost in assured security.
She's heavily relied upon, and has become somewhat stern, Abigail cunningly enacting a playful counterpoint, the Queen falling for her carefree license.
Who's to say, honestly, some people flatter to solely promote themselves, others have an agenda, some seek altruistic goals, some like to revel but still respect their obligations.
And personalities change over time and in different situations (Foucauldian Power).
The Favourite excels at providing mischievous illustrations of the upper echelons at play, presenting political duty more like an afterthought, or something someone considers when writing about such things.
For subject matter this multifaceted I would have preferred a larger cast, even if it's primarily focused on Marlborough and Abigail's rivalry, its political backdrop still lacks exploratory depth, for which we aren't adroitly compensated.
Lanthimos has created his own otherworldly tragic comedic bizarro aesthetic that brightly resonates with thoughtful disillusion.
But as profoundly melancholic as The Favourite may be, it still promotes poised bewilderment.
I'm assuming it's safe to say, "goal, achieved."
Brashly articulated.
An odd mixture of innocence and ferocity emerges, Queen Anne's (Olivia Colman) impulses potently distracted, Lady Sarah (Rachel Weisz) guiding them with discreet intention, Abigail Hill (Emma Stone) recognizing habitual laidback verse.
To rest at play with one's rabbits on sunny afternoons as thrush critique, bray, and scold, evenings, inopportune.
What's overlooked?
What seeks cultivation?
What is she ignoring?
Devoutly genuine dissimulation.
Dark motivations speculate as calculation courts royal favour.
Ingratiation husked, unsettled.
Gratification crudely extolling.
Nevertheless, The Favourite seems to dismiss base flattery to uphold honest criticism, even if Duchess Marlborough (Weisz) isn't contentiously disposed.
In fact she blends blunt observation with composed praise in skillfully threaded admonishing coddles, poignantly yet starkly depicting stately decorum, ironically lost in assured security.
She's heavily relied upon, and has become somewhat stern, Abigail cunningly enacting a playful counterpoint, the Queen falling for her carefree license.
Who's to say, honestly, some people flatter to solely promote themselves, others have an agenda, some seek altruistic goals, some like to revel but still respect their obligations.
And personalities change over time and in different situations (Foucauldian Power).
The Favourite excels at providing mischievous illustrations of the upper echelons at play, presenting political duty more like an afterthought, or something someone considers when writing about such things.
For subject matter this multifaceted I would have preferred a larger cast, even if it's primarily focused on Marlborough and Abigail's rivalry, its political backdrop still lacks exploratory depth, for which we aren't adroitly compensated.
Lanthimos has created his own otherworldly tragic comedic bizarro aesthetic that brightly resonates with thoughtful disillusion.
But as profoundly melancholic as The Favourite may be, it still promotes poised bewilderment.
I'm assuming it's safe to say, "goal, achieved."
Brashly articulated.
Friday, January 4, 2019
Mary Poppins Returns
Fitting that Mary Poppins (Emily Blunt) should return in an age where access to independent art has expanded exponentially.
The options everyone has to express him or herself locally/regionally/nationally/globally, free of charge, have perhaps clouded the master narrative's unconscious lucidity, and made alternative forms of peaceful expression more readily agreeable.
Notably animal videos.
Plus everything's accessible from a magical little device that fits in your pocket and is connected to the world at large.
True, because of this device you can be tracked by who knows who wherever you go, and you may be missing out on a lot of cool real world phenomena if you never lift your head up, but it's also like a cool informative instructive multifaceted tricorder, and if you like brainy stuff too, trust me, there's more than one app for that.
Mary Poppins Returns takes place in the pre-technological era, however, yet still provides fascinating insights into how creative people used to entertain.
Poetic or artistic inspiration isn't limited to the night sky or raccoon encounters you know, it's everywhere you look everywhere you go, as Poppins and Jack (Lin-Manuel Miranda) illuminate, and if you don't forget to observe whatever it is you happen to be caught up in, as you did when you were younger, you can turn a bowl discovered at a thrift shop into Ulysses, or a pinecone into Lost in Translation.
And you can share your observations on Instagram or Twitter or other forms of social media usually without having to make much of an effort.
Like the whole world's gone Barbapapa.
Nevertheless, I was worried when I heard they were making a new Mary Poppins film because the first one was universally adored by so so many, and it's always risky to make a sequel to such cynosures, even 54 years later, unless you dig in quite deep and draft exceptionally well crafted flumes.
Which is what Rob Marshall and his crew have fortunately done.
Mary Poppins Returns is phenomenal, a total must see, even if you don't have children, a celebration of creative minds and the positive effects of imagination, which also critiques zealous desires to foreclose, and lauds the symphonic harmonies of robust labour.
I may actually buy a copy.
Lin-Manuel Miranda and Emily Blunt are outstanding.
It collectively unites song and dance in a coruscating choreographed multidimensional cascading cloudburst, sensually exporting remarkably vivid exceptions while suggesting it's what anyone can do.
Just gotta keep those eyes open.
Draw a parallel.
Infuse.
Juggle.
The options everyone has to express him or herself locally/regionally/nationally/globally, free of charge, have perhaps clouded the master narrative's unconscious lucidity, and made alternative forms of peaceful expression more readily agreeable.
Notably animal videos.
Plus everything's accessible from a magical little device that fits in your pocket and is connected to the world at large.
True, because of this device you can be tracked by who knows who wherever you go, and you may be missing out on a lot of cool real world phenomena if you never lift your head up, but it's also like a cool informative instructive multifaceted tricorder, and if you like brainy stuff too, trust me, there's more than one app for that.
Mary Poppins Returns takes place in the pre-technological era, however, yet still provides fascinating insights into how creative people used to entertain.
Poetic or artistic inspiration isn't limited to the night sky or raccoon encounters you know, it's everywhere you look everywhere you go, as Poppins and Jack (Lin-Manuel Miranda) illuminate, and if you don't forget to observe whatever it is you happen to be caught up in, as you did when you were younger, you can turn a bowl discovered at a thrift shop into Ulysses, or a pinecone into Lost in Translation.
And you can share your observations on Instagram or Twitter or other forms of social media usually without having to make much of an effort.
Like the whole world's gone Barbapapa.
Nevertheless, I was worried when I heard they were making a new Mary Poppins film because the first one was universally adored by so so many, and it's always risky to make a sequel to such cynosures, even 54 years later, unless you dig in quite deep and draft exceptionally well crafted flumes.
Which is what Rob Marshall and his crew have fortunately done.
Mary Poppins Returns is phenomenal, a total must see, even if you don't have children, a celebration of creative minds and the positive effects of imagination, which also critiques zealous desires to foreclose, and lauds the symphonic harmonies of robust labour.
I may actually buy a copy.
Lin-Manuel Miranda and Emily Blunt are outstanding.
It collectively unites song and dance in a coruscating choreographed multidimensional cascading cloudburst, sensually exporting remarkably vivid exceptions while suggesting it's what anyone can do.
Just gotta keep those eyes open.
Draw a parallel.
Infuse.
Juggle.
Tuesday, January 1, 2019
Aquaman
Unbeknownst to surface dwellers who recklessly pollute its august fathoms, deep within the ocean reside 7 ancient civilizations.
Swathed in utmost secrecy, they flourish in blissful dissimulation.
Yet one king (Patrick Wilson as King Orm) has grown weary of land lubbing largesse, and madly seeks to start a war with the peoples above.
He requires the loyalty of 3 free realms to bellicosely embark, however, realms which have little interest in non-aquatic regal affairs.
But not all of his subjects believe his plan is conceptually sound, two of them hoping to challenge his legitimacy within reasonable lawful bounds (Amber Heard as Princess Mera and Willem Dafoe as Vulko), for a brother has he who was raised on land yet still commands creatures of the deep, and even though Aquaman (Jason Momoa) has never embraced his submerged heritage, they feel that he may, if he learns of its dire ambitions.
And that only he can thwart them.
His lighthouse keeping father (Temuera Morrison as Tom Curry) still awaits the return of his beloved Queen Atlanna (Nicole Kidman), each and every evening, and has since the day she was taken from him, and forced to marry against her will.
Aquaman can't remember her.
Although he's heard of her brilliant legend.
But his customs are not those of the aristocracy, in fact Aquaman playfully intertwines old and new world pretensions as it supernaturally decodes the throne.
With wild self-sacrificing purpose.
The seven realms could have each represented different philosophies more astutely had their lore been given more detailed narrativizations.
But Aquaman resists the urge to become overly complicated like Dune, even if it's still quite complex, its protagonist like a Paul Atreides who was raised amongst the Fremen, his charming rough adventurous spirit boldly holding the film together.
You don't have to suspend your disbelief to love Aquaman, you simply have to imagine you've never believed in anything before.
And let yourself be immersed in a chaotic world overflowing with innocence and curiosity.
The underwater worlds are incredible and it was soothing to imagine myself within them.
Swimming away.
Aspects of Aquaman may be so improbable that a degree of cynicism may surface.
But it's also saturated with ingenuous goodwill, reluctance and cheek diversifying its depths, uncertain outcomes delineating its contrariety, with objectives as lofty as they are foretold.
A choral cascade.
A mirthful maelstrom.
Swathed in utmost secrecy, they flourish in blissful dissimulation.
Yet one king (Patrick Wilson as King Orm) has grown weary of land lubbing largesse, and madly seeks to start a war with the peoples above.
He requires the loyalty of 3 free realms to bellicosely embark, however, realms which have little interest in non-aquatic regal affairs.
But not all of his subjects believe his plan is conceptually sound, two of them hoping to challenge his legitimacy within reasonable lawful bounds (Amber Heard as Princess Mera and Willem Dafoe as Vulko), for a brother has he who was raised on land yet still commands creatures of the deep, and even though Aquaman (Jason Momoa) has never embraced his submerged heritage, they feel that he may, if he learns of its dire ambitions.
And that only he can thwart them.
His lighthouse keeping father (Temuera Morrison as Tom Curry) still awaits the return of his beloved Queen Atlanna (Nicole Kidman), each and every evening, and has since the day she was taken from him, and forced to marry against her will.
Aquaman can't remember her.
Although he's heard of her brilliant legend.
But his customs are not those of the aristocracy, in fact Aquaman playfully intertwines old and new world pretensions as it supernaturally decodes the throne.
With wild self-sacrificing purpose.
The seven realms could have each represented different philosophies more astutely had their lore been given more detailed narrativizations.
But Aquaman resists the urge to become overly complicated like Dune, even if it's still quite complex, its protagonist like a Paul Atreides who was raised amongst the Fremen, his charming rough adventurous spirit boldly holding the film together.
You don't have to suspend your disbelief to love Aquaman, you simply have to imagine you've never believed in anything before.
And let yourself be immersed in a chaotic world overflowing with innocence and curiosity.
The underwater worlds are incredible and it was soothing to imagine myself within them.
Swimming away.
Aspects of Aquaman may be so improbable that a degree of cynicism may surface.
But it's also saturated with ingenuous goodwill, reluctance and cheek diversifying its depths, uncertain outcomes delineating its contrariety, with objectives as lofty as they are foretold.
A choral cascade.
A mirthful maelstrom.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)