Nanook of the North

I suppose there was a time when nature documentaries were something new, when there wasn't a plethora to choose from overflowing with the cute and cuddly?

The Nature of Things has always just kind of been there, chronicling away, but what were things like before the bold instructive multidisciplinary narratives of Suzuki?

There must be some cool books out there examining the history of naturalistic docs, it would be cool to have the chance to check them out some day.

If in existence, I wonder if any of them mention a nature documentary that predates Robert J. Flaherty's Nanook of the North (1922), with its adventurous bold endearing chill filmscapes?

It's not technically a nature documentary although it could be loosely classified as such, since it certainly presents a lot of critters, at home in their arctic environments.

The mighty walrus in its gargantuan splendour makes a thought provoking appearance, as does the lithe arctic fox, and the animate flip harp seal.

Unfortunately, the animals are being hunted, I imagine there was a different attitude concerning hunting in films back then, or that since it was likely something new, related armchair controversies had yet to develop, the subject inchoately generating previously unheard of sedate and shocked sensibilities, which must have opened up many critical heartlands, nevertheless, if you don't like hunting, beware.

I'm not a fan of watching animals being hunted but the Inuit live in a special set of circumstances. There is still an abundance of wildlife for them to hunt (lots of moose and deer elsewhere in Canada and Québec too) and why wouldn't you when a green pepper costs $8?

And it's a huge part of your ancient traditions?

Imagining what it must have been like to capture this independent footage is mind-boggling, inasmuch as they may have been filming in arctic conditions first hand at length without much to go on, with old school equipment that had to stand up to the elements, at a time when so much film was inherently experimental?

Was the equipment more durable back then?

Did they wear warmer gloves?

I imagine the film predates planned obsolescence by decades plus half a century.

Perhaps everything was built of sturdier stuff!

Or they just possessed more innate adventure?

Nanook of the North follows Nanook as he bravely hunts for his family, his vigorous spirit and inspiring good cheer promoting long-lasting effervescent wonders.

The soundtrack and intermittent silent narration add complementary uplifting currents, upon which the documentary glides, through wild unforgiving terrain.

I haven't seen many silent films but Nanook provides clear insights into the phenomenon, its cinematic awareness still relevant and captivating, as it bridges the divide between entertainment and instruction.

I loved watching them build their igloo from glacial disputatious scratch, then add farsighted clever home furnishings, there's no doubt they knew what they were doing.

Perhaps it's too happy-go-lucky considering the environmental extremes, but it still presents a spellbinding tale enriched through courageous endeavour.

I highly recommend it for film lovers in search of the pioneering documentary spirit.

It still radiates contemporary charm.

I'd argue it's truly timeless.

Domicile conjugal (Bed & Board)

A young married couple creatively engages with their community, who's as lively as they are entertaining, fluid interactive inquisitive high spirits.

The film's set in a chill inner-city neighbourhood wherein which personality abounds, and characters work in alternative disciplines, as nothing passes by unnoticed.

Everything's intriguingly unorthodox inasmuch as the characters aren't career oriented, and are still living active productive lives, rich in constantly shifting locomotion.

The story's focused on the young married couple and their struggles to continuously cohabitate, both partners verbosely articulated, capable of aptly uplifting what have you.

It's a remarkable script overflowing with compelling detail and multiple swift nuanced characters, it's so quick and thoughtful it commands your complete attention, critically assailing if you should ever turn away.

The subject matter's refreshing and captures flourishing discourse in motion (book titles, staircases, loans, parking tickets), comments and observations emphatically resound, with random pertinent reflective ebullient life, interlocked through versatile direction.

The plot does steer into sleaze at times and I think the film would have been stronger without the affair, but it seems like Truffaut sought to stultify infidelity, I'm not sure if the results are Me Too.

I wonder what it would have been like if there had been no controversial drama, no traditional plot elements, just communal reverberations?

Can't a multifaceted collection of comical characters and situations just co-exist without something drastic, working and conversing and living without serious game changing invention?

The thoughts and ideas can diversify themselves without having to alter their terrain.

They keep flowing perspicaciously throughout.

But slowly take on a specified logo.

Domicile conjugal (Bed & Board) isn't a grad school seminar, loosely based on a fluctuating theme, but I'd argue it starts out that way, and may have been more impressive if left unrestrained.

Perhaps having multiple conflicting yet complimentary points judiciously interspersed throughout dialogue in flux can make a more meaningful impact, insofar as so much expression cultivates serendipity, which can generate romantic syntax?

If having a predominant point is oft presumed as a crucial essential, when so much life unwinds at random, perhaps manifold eclipsed ideas reflect something more realistic, that boldly suggests je ne sais quoi?

It seems like so much life's a case study where you have to find the principal cause.

This is very important when developing vaccines.

But not as integral to the arts or cinema.

Domicile conjugal's still a masterpiece of urban intensity which brings an irresistible community to life.

Do filmmakers ever go one step further?

Slacker!

Slacker immediately comes to mind!

*Perhaps when developing vaccines you have to search for contemporaneous elements? I don't know much about vaccine development.

Tanin no kao (The Face of Another)

A man's face is badly disfigured in an accident at work, and no one can ease the pain he feels in the bitter shocking aftermath.

Both his wife and boss offer sympathy and paths to follow to attain new heights, but brutal depression sets in, and he won't freely listen to anyone.

He covers his face with bandages and proceeds forlorn and ornery, firm resolute disintegration, a total collapse of drive and will.

But he learns of a highly exceptional procedure that could supply him with a new face, a procedure to which he responds without doubt or hesitation or misgiving.

Delicate steps must be carefully taken to ensure surgical success, legal matters presuming a backdrop that codifies mistaken identity.

The doctor's quite idealistic and sees the potential for soulful growth, the cultivation of new beginnings, a miraculous second chance.

Meanwhile others with similar afflictions wander out and about throughout town, producing unfortunate Frankenstein effects, as they simply try to converse and observe.

I remember reading Frankenstein as a kid, it's a fascinating book, I recommend it.

What really struck me as I was reading it was how tender and loving Frankenstein initially is, as he observes humanity cautiously from afar, before they discover his startling appearance.

They may have had a scholar or a caregiver to help nurture and develop on their hands, if they hadn't reacted with fright, if they hadn't turned him into a monster.

I remember a time before shows like The Bachelor became popular, and the shock amongst my friends when they were first released, I understand that a lot of people love them, but do they not lack genuine depth?

Isn't there still something to be said for personality and conversation and the ways in which they can overcome aesthetic concerns, isn't it more important to be able to talk to someone than just to stare at them in bold excess?

The doctor in Tanin no kao (The Face of Another) doesn't let his grief overwhelm him, but when he discovers his patient wants to use his new face to seduce his wife, not the doctor's wife, it's somewhat of an ethical downer.

The film starkly examines basic instinct at an honest yet derelict level, preferring to directly interrogate desire rather than more profound applications of the intellect.

It's not that it misses the point or proceeds in error or wallows in emotional discord, rather it diagnoses unsettling social characteristics, and critiques them with morose candour.

I imagine people watching the film find the grim reality distressing, and perhaps see themselves somewhat determined to promote compassion afterwards.

It's bleak to be sure and doesn't offer much from the despondent view of its principal character.

Who's given an irresistible reprieve.

And still can't search for something higher.

Lone Wolf McQuade

Old school cinematic invincibility, the versatile hero clad in grizzled impeccability (Chuck Norris as Lone Wolf McQuade).

Working alone, doing what it takes to excel, concerned with honourable courageous forthright excellence, with an instinct for justice, and devout paramount jurisprudence.

He tried to be a family man but his lifestyle was too chaotic, and even though he now lives alone, he's still on good terms with his ex-wife (Sharon Farrell as Molly) and daughter (Dana Kimmell as Sally McQuade).

His style has earned criticisms from an irate distressed senator, who's trying to reign in Texas, to create a less independent image.

He's therefore tasked with a partner (Robert Beltran as Kayo), who will perhaps encourage more relatable ways, but he sees the intrusion as an unjust sanction, and does his best to emphatically resist.

As ne'er-do-wells secretly highjack shipments of government weapons, running the guns across the border, to be sold to the highest bidder.

McQuade's daughter and her fiancée (Robert Jordan as Bobby Drew) park near their machinations one evening, too close for villainous comfort, they're swiftly incapacitated.

But Sally survives and McQuade begins investigating.

Kayo making himself useful.

The FBI clearly disappointed.

It's a pioneering '80s action film that celebrates raw honest integrity, it's not that he's trying to bring it on, that's just how he gets the job done.

It may seem improbable at times, as he presents himself as an open target, for instance, and his adversaries miss with machine gun fire, but that was the type of unheralded hero, presented as a fearless over-the-top force of nature.

His house hasn't been cleaned in years and he doesn't consume much besides beer, but he isn't dismissive of significant others, as they introduce forbidden playful contradictions.

Eventually everyone involved realize they need to rely on his intuition, and even though he hasn't done much to convince them, they come round to his steadfast point of view.

Martial arts forge a tantalizing unconscious as audiences await manifested skills, one David Carradine (Rawley Wilkes) enlisted as nemesis, tension slowly building resolutely throughout.

Things are very direct and blunt, as if there's something crucial to say, as if James Bond were in fact from Texas, and was much more humble and modest and loving.

Some action films are more realistic and sometimes make more sense as a result, but that doesn't mean one should dismiss this style of storytelling, with its stoic hands-on caricatures.

I'm not sure how seriously you're supposed to take it, perhaps I'm not taking it seriously enough, but if you're looking for something cool that's a bit less polished, Lone Wolf McQuade provides an impacting punch.

Brilliant performance from Robert Beltran.

Carradine and Norris were the genuine article.

Chimes at Midnight

Courtly remonstrance august unflattering distaste, pejorative, authoritative, stately consequent nettle.

He doth resound with magnanimous impertinence irresistibly foiled salubrity, impenitent carefree rummaged spirits, rowdy improvised uncertain objectives.

Friendship inclusively abounds regardless of make or measure, oft depicted through random horseplay, yet not limited to sedate shenanigans.

Capable of suddenly stirring up a crowd with comic insubordinate intent, incapable of honest toil with constructive fruitful sustainability.

Unwary of boldly asserting he hath undertaken heroic deeds, in the presence of rank incredulity, with neither shame nor force of conscience.

Odd interminglings of duty bound recourse and ludic unconcerned pub fare, a future King navigating the discrepancies, a scorned romantic, a noble hare.

His friendship with Falstaff (Orson Welles) idealizes wayward youth, the heir to the throne wilfully led astray, even if he responds when indeed necessary, to the commands of lofty allegiance.

There's no synthesis therein forthcoming, Chimes at Midnight resonates disparately, a tragic forthright emergent declaration, divisive paramount telltale labours.

I feel for the hapless Falstaff, who thought he had won Prince Hal's (Keith Baxter) favour, if only he could have once tried to follow procedure, if only he could have toed the line.

After the coronation anyways, he should have assumed discretion, but such a lack of action would have never crossed his mind, a wild insouciant charismatic knight, far beyond austere pomp and propriety.

How he could have persisted for so very long without concern or trouble or worry, how could he have never assumed solemnity at any time throughout his life?

It's not that he isn't sincere.

Like Archie Rice in The Entertainer, he sincerely lives in the nimble moment, perhaps thinking loosely about the future, but never without much thought or care.

They both have goals to attain, projects in mind, hopes and dreams, but present ambitions generally obscure them, or lead to overwhelming bright temptations, spontaneous light merrymaking.

Their friends love them when they're performing and when they're not performing too, but can't reconcile their differences when the monthly rent is due.

Perhaps Henry the V can be accused of having led Falstaff on, of having encouraged a sense of entitlement the foolish knave should have never considered.

Did he not share so many mirthful years with Falstaff to at least not feel somewhat guilty when casting him aside?

I suppose they didn't make Ministers of Arts & Entertainment back then but Falstaff likely could have played the role.

Without much prep or training.

An irrefutable natural.

Gattaca

In the not too distant future, children are bioengineered through science, the most striking aspects of their parents' DNA meticulously cultivated to produce ideals.

But some children are still born the old fashioned way, without genetic enhancements or immaculate codes, known colloquially as "god's children", their entire existence diagnosed at birth.

Vincent (Ethan Hawke/Mason Gamble/Chad Christ) is a god child but his brother Anton (Loren Dean/Vincent Nielson/William Lee Scott) is not, the two competing vigorously in adolescence, little Vincent generally coming up short.

But he learns that to compete against impossibility he needs to embrace unorthodox methods, to contradict prognoses through will, to prove the less fortunate can indeed still challenge.

In the working world this is much more difficult since your biology determines your occupation (even if that's technically illegal), and Vincent wants to travel to space, a possibility reserved for the exponentially endowed.

He can purchase the requisite DNA, however, and follow a rigorous routine to ensure he's never discovered, urine tested daily for non-conforming imperfections, blood and hair and skin samples naturally necessitated.

Known as a "borrowed ladder", he finds a willing participant who can no longer walk (Jude Law as Jerome), no record of his troubles existing in America, he's lived in isolation ever since the accident.

Vincent borrows his ladder and is hired by an agency that eagerly explores space.

Everything goes smoothly as they outwit the system.

Until one of its directors turns up dead.

What I've always admired about the American system is that opportunities exist for people who aren't well off.

I don't know how many of such opportunities exist at the moment, quarantine aside, but it's always been a salient feature of American life.

I like that kids in rural Idaho or small town Missouri or neighbourhoods in New York or L.A or Denver can dream about becoming famous artists and athletes, and like to think such opportunities still exist, that there's still somewhat of a level playing field for American talent.

That's one aspect that makes the United States such a great country.

What differentiates it from so much of the world.

Please understand that I don't bear Harry and Meghan Markle any ill will, they're loved by millions around the world and I truly respect how Harry stood by his wife. I imagine they would likely generate huge blockbuster profits if they were successful in Hollywood, profits that could be used to make artistic films, and that's not necessarily a bad thing, actual quality of the films pending.

But I can't say I'm enamoured with former royals taking the place of kids from Washington or Kansas because they suddenly want to be film stars. It's far too easy for them from my perspective, not that the paparazzi aren't likely a huge pain.

I can't tell you if Vincent makes it to space but the last week of his preparations are by no means easy.

Although he does find love and romance (Uma Thurman as Irene).

And there's a good line too: "They've got you looking so hard for any flaw that after a while that's all you see."

It's always important to improve upon your work or game.

But losing sight of what you do well can be miserable.

That's no way to live.

I'll never understand self-manufactured mental illness.

The Entertainer

Archie Rice (Laurence Olivier), a struggling performer, the thrill of the stage, pressing forward ever onwards, hypothetical airtight integration, elastic dynamism salacious foothold.

Perpetual indulgence subjective omniscience fragile attachments paternal reprimands, constant motion deconstructing the breeze, leaving behind scattered remnants of ripe potential (he always knows what to say, or at least always says something).

Pressures paramount tactile gravity hands-on harkened hexed hashed haberdashery, innate insouciance magnetic pulse wayward rhythm irresistibility (people love him).

The hand that's dealt enriching bluff prevarication, smooth operation bewildering necessity (he's creative).

Extolled acquiescence resigned caricature agile concise persevering flexibility, dismissive of resonant embanked calculus, he'd be lost if he wasn't adrift (he's broke).

His inspired reactions lack sympathy for his loved ones, who've grown weary but haven't withdrawn.

Not one to dwell on the past or much besides the immediate moment, he tries to find revenue to launch his new show.

The moment dictates how he'll act and he can no longer write his own cheques.

But he'll do anything to secure independence, no matter what it might dutifully cost him.

Not that he isn't in fact independent, I'd argue he's never known fetter or chain, not that there aren't obligations he negotiates, he just always does so with purest freewill (not me).

In every conversation there's an anecdote or comparison, a reminiscence, a synthesis, a parallel, some truths requiring absurd empathy, as he pulls everyone into his sphere.

He's the kind of person who makes for great conservation and if things aren't too serious a reliable friend, especially if you happen to be in a pub, or heaping praise on his struggling show.

He's aware of responsibility and wants to be responsible but his fluctuating lifestyle makes it quite difficult, he has to create both audience and opportunity and build on whatever momentum's available.

If it's lavish, well then, he's responsible, and if not, fugaciously so.

Things haven't been lavish for some time and people have become rather critical.

But he's far too carefree for critiques, and does his best to verbosely withstand.

The Entertainer presents a showperson who's also a husband, father, and son, who isn't so far gone he's insufferable, but is still by no means sure and steady.

The attention to detail's incredible and it aptly entwines cerebral senses, less luscious conceptions of performance critiquing rowdier, gaudier ways.

Plenty of character, comedy, tragedy, inherent intrigue residual calm, a fascinating script by one John Osborne, that doesn't spare romance or conflict.

Laurence Olivier is once again outstanding (there's so much Olivier in this film) and presents another character who must be seen.

He was quite active for someone so talented (from a contemporary perspective) and played wonderfully unorthodox roles.

No wonder his fans never forgot him.

*This review is about Archie Rice in The Entertainer, who's struggling to keep performing on stage. His character's somewhat sympathetic if not conceited and there's no doubt he's a feisty cynosure. I don't know how the world moves forward from the President of the United States suggesting people inject disinfectants. It's beyond irresponsibility. It's a whole new level of recklessness all its own. Please don't inject disinfectants. Injecting disinfectants will probably kill you.

Bunny Lake is Missing

The routine act of registering a child in school is scandalously uprooted when it's discovered she's disappeared.

Her mother (Carol Lynley as Ann Lake) is confused when she finds out she's vanished, her brother (Keir Dullea as Steven Lake) offering support as they search the school.

The police are swiftly notified and an eccentric detective (Laurence Olivier as Superintendent Newhouse) takes the case, whose critical observations extend well beyond strict diagnoses.

Details are routinely compiled as the case becomes more and more disconcerting, an enigmatic school mistress offering her take (Martita Hunt as Ada Ford), a creepy landlord (Noël Coward as Horacio Wilson) a shoulder to cry on.

Bunny's things are missing too even after having been dropped off that morning, and the school never received their payment, and there's no record of her having entered England.

Her mother searches for tactile evidence as her brother castigates the police, who go about their sleuthing while ignoring vain caprice.

Deep ends derailed demonstrative vital ascertained stitched clues, alas the story preordains constituents bemused.

How anyone could have fabricated such a story leads to reasonable thought?

Which proves that logic's sometimes absent when discerning carnal plot.

The cogent disbelieving wildly plead and then persist.

But proof cannot be found that one dear Bunny Lake exists.

In terms of character, writing, cinematography, and otherworldliness, Bunny Lake is Missing mesmerizingly impresses.

If you like odd expressive moderately successful characters it's an essential tour de force.

The superintendent has dismissive or laudatory or bored or incisive comments for everything, and he'd be as easy going as a studio musician if he weren't investigating crime.

And you could put up with him.

The school mistress shares unorthodox yet keen views which upset those unfamiliar with her style, but don't mistake her candour for tomfoolery as she clarifies.

The scenes where she interacts with Olivier are priceless uncut gems, striding forth with striking brilliance that resplendently descends.

Then there's creepy Horacio Wilson, the pervy landlord who I thought was the inspiration for Repulsion, after concluding that Bunny Lake inspired Rosemary's Baby, but Lake and Repulsion were both released in the same year (1965).

I didn't check the months.

It's like you have bored yet vigorous intellectuals occupying non-traditional roles devoutly concerned with solving a crime that's preposterously conventional.

The mystery certainly drives the plot but it still abounds with striking detail (bus drivers, junket [yeah yeah], Welsh poetry, the Zombies, tips, book writing), what would working life be like without conversation that doesn't necessarily relate to the topic at hand?

It's like consequent absurdity that's as flamboyant as it is concrete, that demands you take it seriously while taunting you for doing so.

Outstanding writing (John & Penelope Mortimer and Ira Levin [adapted screenplay]) and sincere cinematography (Denys N. Coop) complement Otto Preminger's direction.

It's a bit creepy yet still a must see.

Olivier's range is mind-boggling.

Black Moon

If you're wondering how old school independent filmmakers used to envision alternative realities without computerized special effects, Louis Malle's Black Moon is a stunning working example.

Unless you want something lighter.

Cherished freedoms have been ravaged by fanatical elements violently spreading wanton destruction, as a terrified individual drives through the countryside intent on discovering sanctuary.

(I do not mean that the quarantine is something negative that is taking away freedoms. People are fighting a war in Black Moon. The quarantine is necessary to stop the spread of a virus that is killing thousands around the world. It's hard to spend so much time at home, but by staying at home you're saving lives).

To avoid the rage of trigger happy goons, she quickly swerves off the road, emerging in cloistered environs, fully-equipped with a grouchy unicorn.

Things seem real enough, or as if reality is traditionally composed, but as she spends more time freely exploring, things become more and more wild and creepy.

It's as if her perceptual awareness is attuned to the wrong potent frequency, unaccustomed to bizarro differences, which the residents clearly perceive.

She reacts with energetic confusion as she attempts to reasonably comprehend, acclimatizing to non-verbal communications, learning to speak with animals.

Perhaps Louis Malle rather disliked Disney's Alice in Wonderland, for Black Moon lacks its childish wonder, or at least depicts it somewhat obtusely, like it's been left outside in the cold.

Then again, perhaps Disney's Alice was frightening to many of the children who saw it, it does abound with inherent conflict, and phantasmagoric foundations.

From my middle-aged 21st century perspective, I don't find Black Moon that frightening, or at least not as haunting as Audition or Midsommar, it's not as intent on terrifying.

But if I had been raised in the fifties it may have indeed promoted despair, as Lily (Cathryn Harrison) encounters baleful beasties, and embraces disorientation.

I'm not sure if it should be classified as horror although the designation could snuggly fit, but it's perhaps beyond classification, as it transforms every time you view it.

It certainly lacks romance, or isn't enchantingly disposed, intertextual bedtime bedlam, like a fable without moral or lesson.

It tells its tale without ornate orchestration, without much statistical entitlements, creating unique innovations thereby, that leave a lasting impact.

With no concern for uplifting spirits, apart from an ethereal classical soirée, it by no means seeks happy endings, and seems to absurdly inter them.

Perfect for Halloween.

For considerations of low budget sci-fi.

Unorthodox strange elementals.

Acts of inspired independence.

The Lady from Shanghai

Trouble awaits a foolish hands-on dreamer after taking note of aesthetic charm while strollin' about one fateful evening.

From the way he speaks it's as if he's well-versed in hardboiled tactile role play, and his actions enliven romanticism recreation wit democracy.

But he's easily lured by the appeal of elegant things and dismissive of signs of betrayal, far too trusting for someone so seasoned, too caught up with enchanting ceremony.

The sharks rely on his innate good nature to proceed with nefarious intent, without even much of an effort, much persuasion, insistence, goading.

It's often fun to play games I suppose even if you're unsure of the rules, it's much less boring if they're harmless anyways, a bit of innocent light indiscretion.

Much more meaningful if they aren't too serious.

Non-threatening off hand amusement.

Like gambling, gambling's not so bad if you bet small sums and aren't upset if you eventually lose them, but if you're betting your entire pay cheque and your rent's due the instinctual thrill may be incapacitating.

Michael O'Hara's (Orson Welles) shark anecdote indicates he's a worldly man, but trips to the aquarium and the amusement park suggest he's not a serious gambler.

The destinations weren't self-generated but their applicability's by no means remote, yachting too suddenly comes to mind, sharp diversions from his not-so-steady routine.

Full-on agency he's certainly feisty and more than ready to share his opinion, but that doesn't change the fact that he's broke or single or trusting or hopeful.

I'm supposed to question whether or not it's a genre, but I think there's no doubt there's a film noir style, that filmmakers are aware of its loose narrative conventions, way more so far back in the day.

If Welles possessed such an awareness perhaps The Lady from Shanghai was a cheeky lampoon, much too subtle to emerge strictly comic, much too blunt to assume grand tragedy.

The aquarium and the fun-house suggest it's not taking itself seriously, unorthodox courtroom theatrics, an extended altercation, too many pills and it's off to Chinatown, just before the verdict descends.

If hapless film noir chumps notoriously can't piece things together, O'Hara is particularly obtuse considering his personal history.

The final shoot out's a bit far-fetched.

George Grisby's (Glenn Anders) character's ridiculous.

A wake up call perhaps that also laments such traditional dispositions, too good to be true and what have you, but who would have blamed him for trying?

Well worth it regardless of intrigue if not simply to dismiss what I'm saying, there are many great lines and scenarios, and I'd argue a love for the absurd.

The drifting labourer takes on men of means and falls for one of their wives.

Who's bashful enough to encourage him.

Distill blueprints ad infinitum.

Pépé le Moko

I was hoping for another 21 Days or Casablanca when I started to watch Pépé le Moko, my expectations leading to disappointment as it began to alternatively unreel.

But as I prepared to watch it a second time in the upcoming days I found myself eagerly anticipating Jean Gabin's (Pépé le Moko) performance, so determined yet carefree, so abounding with robust life.

The police are at their wits' end as to how to catch the infamous Pépé, who pulled off a serious heist two years ago, and found refuge in the labyrinthine Casbah.

They've tried to catch him deep within but have lost 5 officers for their troubles, the resolute Slimane (Lucas Gridoux) still unyielding, even if he's Pépé's friend.

Pépé's an admired celebrity in the Casbah (I am not Pépé le Moko) who's simultaneously loved and feared, his cohorts as loyal as honest zealots, his love interests awestruck and jealous.

The Casbah's a sanctuary for inter/national ne'er-do-wells who abide by the strictest code, 40,000 living in space built for 10, according to no tight design whatsoever.

Pépé's alright but only as long as he never leaves, and one day an ornate beauty comes a quaint and crisply calling.

His partners wonder why he isn't after the diamonds but something else has caught his eye, and he soon finds himself enamoured as they discuss days long gone by.

The film's a multilayered tapestry rich with jocose fused role play, close attention deftly required as it boldly tears and frays.

Far too blunt misgivings are critiqued while the aged lament less sophisticated pastimes, and youth proceeds unaware of danger, having grown tired of callous reprimands.

One character drifts through the eras to find solace in historical reprieve, the moment erupting with resurgent life on l'amour's rapturous melodious breeze.

Travellers seeking intrigue find notorious grand accommodation, even if within their innocent curiosity lies the portent of windswept doom.

Pépé and Slimane craft mature effervescence, as if one can't exist without the other, the absurdity of their friendship reasonably profound, both attuned to forgive not forget.

Pépé knows who's who, the score, and responds as smoothly as the situation contends, his love of gentle free-flowing elegance as sincere as his desire to follow through.

It's a shame he couldn't have invested in stratagems leading to less scandalous arrangements, where his innate charm could have effortlessly flourished upon wave after wave after wave.

But he forgets there are things people won't put up with, heartfelt dissonance animate envy, sacrifice recoiling sans reimbursement, overlooked passionate scars.

The degree of tragedy depends on your viewpoint, Pépé's certainly lost and adrift (I am not Pépé le Moko!), but what outcome would have been preferable to his spirited boundless synchronicities?

Immersed in tell-tale liberality.

Driven to sincerely love.

Intrepidly endearing.

The French Casablanca?

Tôkyô nagaremono (Tokyo Drifter)

The road to iron clad legitimacy is fraught with treacherous peril, for Tetsuya Hondo (Tetsuya Watari) in Tôkyô nagaremono (Tokyo Drifter), whose loyalty is beyond question.

His formerly criminal organization has invested in property to freely reform, but bitter rivals get word of the deal, and comport themselves bold retroactively.

Tetsuya is meek beforehand, out of respect for the honourable transaction, he takes his punishment glib disenchanted, as goons revel in unrestrained cheetah.

But as data fiercely transmits, and he must accept the rotten audacity, previous instincts hark and reckon, although he must refrain from combat.

His prowess is legendary however (not me - I'm a dork), and the wicked fear his volatile sanctions, and rest uneasy as he ably persists, notably after he sees them commit murder.

Soon he must sorrowfully withdraw, to wander distraught and alone, but his whereabouts are swiftly detected, wherever he woefully roams.

Loyalties offer safe passage, but allegiances ruefully construct both sides, the network remarkably well-integrated, cohesive, tight, interconnected.

He contemptuously dismisses another for living without a code, beyond hard-fought lovelocked fidelity, without teamwork, history, reliability.

Dependability. 

He soon encounters a reimagined schematic which challenges his strict resolve.

He's tragic but not inflexible.

With agile incredulous misgivings.

Tôkyô nagaremono emits angelic light as it chaotically discerns discrepancy, pop culture celestially bemusing as random outbursts shock and dismay.

The cultivation of foundations taunts and testifies, through the deconstruction of alliance, in touch with haunting self-sufficiencies, and acrimonious disbelief. 

Creativity pervades its reckonings as it constructs versatile truth and meaning, inspired low budget authenticity, the film itself somewhat like honest Tetsuya.

A lot of stuff just kind of happens.

It's fun to go with the flow.

Get caught up in the free-form productivity, the improvised so don't cha know? 

Perhaps seminal in terms of its influence, I imagine Tôkyô nagaremono motivated sundry filmmakers, to create not for prestige or money, but simply because there's a story to tell.

Find the crew, make it up on the fly, working with what's been established beforehand (scripts in process).

There's nothing quite like the spur of the moment.

Such raw magnetic intensity. 

Cactus Flower

Spoiler alert.

I wonder what the Me Too Movement would make of Gene Saks's Cactus Flower?

It examines a relationship forged between a middle-aged man and a younger woman. It's mutually consensual and he isn't married although he does fool around. However she thinks he is married and that whenever he heads out with another woman he's actually spending time with his wife. After she attempts suicide he decides it's time to marry her, but he needs to find someone to pretend to be his wife before she'll take him seriously. His older administrative assistant agrees to play the part but as the ruse unreels it becomes clear that she's in love with him. She's eventually had enough and tells her rival the truth, which relieves her of her burden, even if she's still in love. In the end, the doctor (Walter Matthau) realizes he's loved her all along and it's clear they're about to fall for each other. Meanwhile his old partner (Goldie Hawn as Toni Simmons) has found someone her own age with whom she seems compatible.

You could take that scenario and make whatever kind of movie but this version of Cactus Flower's a comedy, complete with loveable wayward cad.

He's living the carefree life of a freespirited duplicitous individualist but he adjusts his behaviour when the situation becomes grim, which doesn't justify the actions he took beforehand, but shows that he isn't devoid of thought or feeling.

Even though he generally proceeds as if nothing could go wrong, when something does he reacts quickly, a tarnished blemished conscience emerging from the depths of unbridled excess.

He gets together with the more mature Ms. Dickinson (Ingrid Bergman) in the final moments which suggests he's left youthful shenanigans behind, and Toni is happy with her newfound beau (Rick Lenz as Igor Sullivan [who reminded me of James Stewart]), and doesn't seem to harbour any resentment.

He's off the hook.

He wasn't a Weinstein, he wasn't forcing people to do things they'd rather not, but he was still behaving controversially without much respect for the opposite sex.

And even after his actions have dire consequences he still behaves deceitfully, yet he's still the champion of the narrative, even if it's a bit of a farce.

I imagine this is the type of narrative Me Too generally frowns upon, the good old boy proceeding sans repercussion, without hindrance, shock, or disgrace, everything still working out in the end.

As the women are written they love him, and it takes grotesque degrees of ridiculousness to engender change, he still shines forth as it happily concludes, nestled within comfortable paradigms.

I'd say it's an old style of narrative if I weren't convinced that just isn't so, As Good As it Gets a striking alternative, worth checking out if you haven't seen it.

I try not to prescribe what kind of narrative to write but Me Too's concerns are genuine.

It would be cool if they were creatively leveraged.

Could lead to compelling new ideas.

21 Days

Sometimes the clearest answer's too elemental to swiftly chime, 21 Days presenting guilt and innocence as one man reacts consumed, quixotic.

For a murder has been committed, and the wrong man could indeed be hung, guilt punishing the bona fide culprit, who decides to wait for the binding verdict.

He may be found innocent you see, and then everything's right as rain, Larry Durrant (Laurence Olivier) can marry his cherished belle (Vivien Leigh as Wanda), and perhaps raise a happy family.

He didn't mean to murder her husband, who was in fact a disreputable man, they just started fighting and he wound up dead, the intent to kill never crossed his mind.

He hides the body in an alley and it's discovered by a fallen priest (Hay Petrie as John Evan), who robs it and is caught red-handed, and presumed to be the murderer.

Durrant considers giving himself up but his brother (Leslie Banks) is a prominent lawyer, who's about to be promoted to judge, the slightest scandal would ruin his career, he begs young Larry to reconsider.

While the fallen priest stands trail for murder, Larry and Wanda have 21 days, which they spend in search of bliss, sparing no expense or liberty.

But gloom haunts their freespirited endeavours as the trial nears its catastrophic end, no family, no fantasy, no future, should erroneous guilt descend.

The fallen priest doesn't even mind.

He thinks he should be punished for his desperate action.

Thus you have a devilish comedy masquerading as sincerest drama, its amoral resonance discreetly echoing, its spirited candour dissembled code.

Not me, not this blog, 21 Days.

How could audiences have figured it out when they were having so much fun?, Laurence Olivier instinctually astounding, I see why older generations loved him so.

Its fast pace and irreverent script (Basil Dean, Graham Greene & John Galsworthy [The First and the Last]) (note the legal peeps discussing their light crimes over dinner) overflow with amorous and ethical wonder, a diabolical treat for the cheeky intellect, that leaves you feeling guilty for having appreciated it.

Don't think older generations were uniformly upright with stiff upper-lips, the cheek is always trying to break through, it's just a matter of style and timing.

Great lines nuance realistic situations with audacious unorthodox levity.

The joy of filmmaking. 😜

Also known as 21 Days Together.

Zardoz

Imagine COVID-19 as reflective of desires to keep demographics stratified, with no intermingling amongst different collectives, even though at the moment isolation is paramount.

The title sounded cool and it stars Sean Connery.

I imagine John Boorman didn't like ivory towers much.

Or the politics of the left in the early '70s.

Zardoz expresses such sentiments anyways with blunt instinctual derision.

It's absurd menacing political satire.

Confrontationally conceived.

In a hypothetical future, the elite have sealed themselves off within an impenetrable exclusive zone, where they live immortal lives of plenty, or at least with everything they need.

Outer regions know only chaos in maddening woebegone conflict.

The immortals have struggled to achieve enlightenment and have compiled vast repertoires of scientific knowledge, but some of them have grown restless, bored, tired of the limits of infinite perfection.

Fortunately for them, an enforcer stows away on the giant head that travels between realms, hiding beneath the grain, intent on acquiring wisdom (Sean Connery as Zed).

He introduces a unique element.

Curious carnal contrariety.

The immortals have cast off emotion you see, and live within stoic reasonable boundaries, with no children or families or nurturing, just rarefied rational discourse.

Subversive intentions plaque somnambulistic.

Those in control have qualified everything.

Gross exaggeration pervades the rigid Zardoz, but I still wonder how it was received at the time? I've certainly never heard anyone discuss it and don't recall it ever showing up in rerun.

I imagine it was cutting edge sci-fi for the '70s, at least some of the visuals are quite impressive, not the giant head itself so scandalous, but there are noteworthy technical features.

I still wonder if it was meant to be taken seriously, on some level I don't quite comprehend, but so much of it seems like solemn farce, like barbarians inside the gates.

But what seemed like solemn farce in recent memory is trying to transform reasonable debate these days, and what used to seem absurd is taken seriously, the public sphere in free-fall flux.

If people are currently worried that desires to function self-sufficiently are threatening the proliferation of the nuclear family, perhaps they were in the '70s (and long before then) as well, although I remain to be sure uncertain, even if I'm leaning towards "they definitely were".

A future where people suddenly want to stop breeding, generally, no matter what ideology predominates, seems highly unlikely to me, however.

There's just too much comfort in relaxed recreation.

With agency attached to the conjugally bold.

Nice that the opportunity to not have a family exists though, medieval pressures must have been stifling.

Can't say I recommend Zardoz.

Although it's certainly out of this world.

The Atomic Submarine

Imagine those fighting COVID-19 as the crew of the resolute USS Tigershark, boldly patrolling the Arctic Ocean, guarding against micromanaged wherewithal. In television and film.

Sometimes you don't need to worry so much about Olympian heights and infernal crevices, you can just adapt the golden narrative mean to whatever random idea happens to inspire you.

Sometimes editing gets in the way of the cultivation of free spirits, and naysayers and critical conjurors would have only ruined crafty good times.

Sometimes it's important to have multiple characters who are never really developed, yet keep keepin' on tried tested and true, to a formulaic instinct lock stock incandescent.

Sometimes you don't need bells and whistles, nooks and crannies, rhyme nor reason, you don't even have to use music to keep your film laidback, restless, thawed.

Sometimes questions or second takes only blind a unique vision, whose primordial circumspects would have never been sighted otherwise.

Sometimes when you're tasked with finding striking exemplars of independence, you need to look beyond considerations like applicability, to construct a more robust scenario.

Sometimes there's not much of a point but peeps find purpose in a lack of recognition, proceeding onwards sure and steady without projection, forecast, recall.

Sometimes you simply love somethin' that isn't overflowin' with shoulds and s'post'as, something that no one else seems to get but for you guarantees resolve.

Sometimes meaning isn't meant to be profound, it's more of a relaxed Sunday afternoon expression, perhaps achieving momentary awestruck ends, but without desires to influence or motivate.

Sometimes time is of the essence, so not much time is taken, yet something still comes together, with definitive shape and yield and texture.

Sometimes you need a little context, sometimes simply nothing at all, sometimes there's periodization, at others, essential breakdowns.

Sometimes not taking your time and advancing posthaste full-throttle, creates something larger than life, in the hearts and minds of curious imaginations.

Sometimes things seem so serious, so stressed out and commandeering, best to tune it all out and proceed without ever contemplating repercussion.

There have to be reasons why The Atomic Submarine is in the Criterion Collection, perhaps its total lack of assumption justifying free form collocation.

There's a certain charm no doubt that generates magnetism when you act without thinking.

And you still manage to pull it all off.

Preferred protracted transfers.

Tuff Turf

Imagine COVID-19 as a partner who refuses to let go, even though they still have plenty of options, and their love interest's already found someone new.

Difficulties arise, and a family decides to move, leaving Connecticut with bold momentum, to resettle in California.

Youngest son and borderline ne'er-do-well Mr. Hiller (James Spader) struggles to adjust, for even if he shies away from academics, he still has zero tolerance for blatant thuggery.

Soon he's after the underachieving love interest (Kim Richards as Frankie Croyden) of his new high school's most prominent goon (Paul Mones as Nick Hauser), who takes none too kindly to the intrusion, and responds with blunt distaste.

Warnings are given, followed by the infliction of punishment, but Hiller will not yield, the conflict becoming uncharacteristically intense, for the '80s films I'm familiar with, must have been too young for this one, Tuff Turf's rather super-violent, quite brutal, by no means prim or whitewashed, Hiller takes on a volatile gang, and deals with the harsh repercussions.

The film seems less threatening early on, as if the happy-go-lucky will prevail, but Hiller's not Chris Knight or Ferris Bueller, and he takes full-on shocking beatings.

Yet at other times Tuff Turf's so light of heart, like when Hiller's successful brother comes to visit, or he playfully crashes a country club buffet, plus the cool emphasis on all things bike.

Half the film's like a wild music video that's primarily concerned with advertising bands, the plot secondary to the electronic beats, the horn section, the bass, the guitar.

At times you wonder if they're even going to try to develop a plot, or just revel in melodious bedlam.

Then they do sort of develop a story which becomes incredibly dark and grim, like Pretty in Pink meets Scorsese, with a gashed and gripping head wound.

The principal is introduced to warn rebellious Hiller, but he never shows up again, school's practically left behind, less scholastic endeavour than even Twin Peaks.

Hiller is now in public school after having been thrown out of an elite prep college, but since his father (Matt Clark) lost his business, he wouldn't have been able to attend another one anyways.

The awkward. It's like someone who doesn't fit in keeps generating awkward tension throughout the entire film which becomes increasingly crazed and combative until it erupts in full-fledged frenzy.

With bands rockin' out and tacked on family values.

It's like director Fritz Kiersch didn't like '80s films and sought to release something countercultural, which couldn't have possibly been appealing, but seems to be focused on generating esteem.

There could be a sick sense of humour here that I'm glad I'm not getting.

Enter Seinfeld's bizarro world.

Kitschy immiscibility.

Dragonslayer

Perhaps imagine COVID-19 as a monstrous dragon, and the heroic medical staff battling it adventurers of old, their quest having been thrust upon them, inspirational responses extolled and trending.

An aged wizard's sage awareness awaits a quest forthcoming (Ralph Richardson as Ulrich), his bold apprentice bemused and fitful (Peter MacNicol as Galen), the faithful announce they have arrived.

They believe only he can vanquish a dragon who constantly threatens to terrorize their lands, its will merciless and unrelenting, yet appeased through maiden sacrifice.

Ulrich humbly grants them audience then agrees to forthrightly aid, setting forth that very same day, unconcerned yet frail and weary.

But a representative of the King (Peter Eyre) has followed them (John Hallam as Tyrian), and he does not believe in magic, requiring proof of Ulirch's prowess, a test which he's unfortunately doomed to fail.

His apprentice grieves undaunted, and clutches a spellbound amulet, which increases his powers tenfold, and provides him with spirited courage.

They depart to face the dragon and end his covetous tyrannical reign, but their goal is fraught with peril, and disastrous crypt uncertainty.

For if they are unsuccessful it will unleash diabolical fury.

Throughout the peaceful land.

Yet the situation remains intolerable.

And no one else is willing.

In an age when magic is fading from the world, having been supplanted by alternative spirituality, extant practitioners still heroically clash, to salute reckonings paradigmatic.

Royalty is not excluded, for the King's daughter (Chloe Salaman as Princess Elspeth) seeks not elite preference, a time when barriers between classes were being challenged, when the concept of fair play was something honourable.

While I believe Marvel Studios seeks to perfect age old narrative questing, and often does a remarkable job, its workforce perhaps raised on Superman and Dragonslayer, which urged them to vigorously diversify adventure, criticisms of their success akin to sour grapes, the opportunity to craft realistic drama pending, sometimes its heroes lack the unsung common touch, they're too ingenious and augustly endowed.

Although perhaps I'm being unfair, for we're introduced to Hawkeye's family, and Spider-Man's a kid from New York, and Star-Lord's a bit of a screw up (who still has his own ship).

It's still not the same.

It's almost cooler to see foolish Galen battle a dragon in the ramshackle Dragonslayer, making it up as he audaciously goes along, with neither team nor retinue, his friends helping him prepare and train.

He lacks wealth and cultural distinction yet still fights with transcendent courage.

Incredibly plying his trade.

Without recourse to vast enlightenment.

Setting forth day after day.

The Invisible Man

This review concerns a film where one partner is obsessed with controlling the other. That is what this review is about. I am not indirectly critiquing governments for introducing strict measures to combat the coronavirus. I think it is better to prevent the spread of the virus than to be in a situation where Canadian and Québecois or American or French medical staff are overwhelmed trying to fight it, and I therefore support strict measures which encourage more time spent at home working on projects and chillin' with loved ones, during these difficult times.

Relationship dynamics suffocate a partner's growth, their tight-knit bond overwhelmingly intensifying as she attempts to securely break free.

Cecilia (Elisabeth Moss) needs to conceal her whereabouts to avoid rage-fuelled repercussions, so she lies low at a friend's comfy pad, too frightened to venture past defined thresholds.

Before it's made known that he's suddenly passed and left her everything he possessed, a sense of calm then slowly regenerating, as she seeks work and amicable trust.

But something's not quite right as she tries to reestablish her steady routine, bizarre occurrences maladroitly dishevelling, which make no sense without supernatural recourse.

It becomes clear aggrieved reanimation is striving to drive her insane, but since evidence cannot be compiled, reasonability flounders defunct.

I've read articles equating break ups to alcohol or narcotics-based withdrawal, The Invisible Man investigating this phenomenon with gripping visceral bedlam.

It reminds me of Rosemary's Baby since its heroine struggles in aware isolation, as her support network distraughtly collapses, and she's left alone to forthrightly contend.

But it's not as fatalistic, not as hopeless or stifling, it leaves room for intact resolution, at time showcasing genuine frights.

Shocking downright frisked and freaky.

Mr. Griffen (Oliver Jackson-Cohen) is as extreme as he is obsessed, can't even begin to start contemplating letting go.

It's like maniacal withdrawal, unrestrained irrational concentration, people aren't like inanimate objects, if they don't want to date you they may never will.

I don't understand why people want to date people who don't like them that much, it seems like a cruel recipe for distress, isn't it preferable to spend that much time with someone you can be friendly with, so so much of your life isn't confrontationally composed?

Seems like the dark side to me, like you're surrounded by total negativity, with a logic totally its own, that only makes sense if you leap off the deep end, aren't there always new people to meet?

New interested individuals who can't wait to get to know you?

If you put yourself out there?

The Invisible Man doesn't present the most robust scenario but it makes the most of its chilling proposition, offering candid insights into ye olde independence, while aptly vilifying obsessive pretensions.

It's a solid thriller that doesn't overextend itself, excels within its particular domain, creating a shocking lifeforce all its own, invigorated by sincere performances.

Onward

I hope everyone's safe during these stressful times. I'll probably be focusing on movie rentals for the next couple of weeks but I did see a couple of films before things intensified.

Pixar's Onward presents a world wherein which fantasy has been replaced by modern convenience, elves and unicorns and cyclopses living suburban domestic lives, the thrill of questing overwhelmed by scientific adaptation, latent strengths subconsciously shimmering, unplanned adventure accounted for otherwise.

Two brothers playfully reckon within the alternative conception, one shy and focused on school, the other wild and reckless and daring.

Their mom (Julia Louis-Dreyfus as Laurel Lightfoot) has boldly raised them alone, since shortly after the birth of her second son, but she's found a new partner who helps out (Mel Rodriguez as Colt Bronco), the two forging a caretaking fluency.

Which is suddenly tested and challenged on Ian Lightfoot's (Tom Holland) 16th birthday, after he receives a gift left to him by his generous dad, a staff no less of wizarding renown, complete with a spell channelling reincarnation.

The elder Barley (Chris Pratt) seeks to wield its resiliency, for he's in touch with bygone days of yore, but he lacks verified authenticity, his spirit still ye olde die hard.

He's impressed when Ian the younger accidentally generates vision, but his sights fall short of reanimate goals, a quest necessitated sparked thereafter, the two departing with accents fateful.

And to hasten their destined good fortune, old school clues still commercially abound, a path purposefully and piquantly pinpointed, through cloaked coaxing postmodern realms.

Not this blog.

A puzzle at a Manticore's (Octavia Spencer) family restaurant.

The Manticore soon following in hot pursuit.

Accompanied by one concerned mom.

An imaginative synthesis of disparate epochs awaits in Onward's fraternal reels, as uncertain raw ambitions clash with preplanned determinate yields.

Reminiscent of long lost considerations concerning the cost of extant classics, their prices incongruously reflecting their contents, their value oft overlooked, disregarded.

Yet these classics still hold precious astral ascensions beheld by generations long passed, their texts emitting contemporary resonance distilled like essential tranquility.

Onward perhaps doesn't reach such a level but it still reverberates with atemporal antiquity, focused on vigorous concentrate, bizarro bewitching indiscretions.

Perhaps something's been lost in recent centuries as technology's progressed exponentially, as appliances ease once ubiquitous burdens, as knowledge globally and internationally expands.

But you can still find that primordial spirit should you have the will to seek it, as simple as a trip to Parc Jean-Drapeau, or restaurants chosen at random.

There are many ways to fill your life with unfiltered excitement, classic art, walks in the woods, and good food just the tip of the iceberg.

But we've more or less lost some ways that used to be quite destructive too, such as global conflict and fast spreading diseases.

So remember to proceed with caution.

In case you don't like what you find.

I'm looking at you coronavirus.

I support strong measures to prevent it from spreading.

The medical personnel who have to fight it are risking their lives.

Sorry We Missed You

I definitely prefer a cultural situation wherein which a strong middle-class encourages economic diversity abounding with difference and opportunity, to one where a small group of narrow-minded zealots attach binding negative moral judgments to everything that doesn't suit their personal beliefs, but I also don't mean to suggest that a culture with a strong middle-class is in itself problem free, Ken Loach's Sorry We Missed You providing striking examples of such stifling demotivating issues.

I don't recall another film that captures the struggles of a working family more poignantly, one that's more well-rounded or depth prone, as Ricky (Kris Hitchen) starts working his new job, and the long hours keep him far from home.

He's been steadily working hard at different jobs throughout his adult life, but none of them have generated much wealth, and even though his family is reasonably provided for, their debts have mounted over the years.

His new job offers a really high income (1200 pounds a week) even after subtracting the cost of the van, and if things work out would give his family a sought after leg up, the job he's been waiting for for many a year.

But it's 14 hour days sometimes 7 days a week, and mistakes will not be tolerated, there's no time off to deal with unexpected troubles and financial penalties if you make an exception.

He's a loving family man who sincerely misses his wife (Debbie Honeywood as Abbie) and children (Rhys Stone as Seb and Katie Proctor as Liza Jae), and his son Seb's been acting up and missing school, things becoming much worse after he takes the new job, and is no longer around to hang out and be there.

It becomes clear that he needs to be there after Seb's suspended from school and caught shoplifting, but his boss (Ross Brewster as Maloney) has zero tolerance for anything besides "yes, sir," and Ricky won't consider finding an alternative.

He's not even technically a boss, Ricky is supposed to have his own franchise, but he needs to find someone to work for him if he can't, and can't find anyone to sub for him unfortunately.

The fact that he won't quit even though he should heartbreakingly highlights his financial desperation, the enormous bounty of his culture's goods and services outside his economic grasp.

His family doesn't even seem like they want that much but they're still immersed in commercial ideals, and he wants them to have access to everything they desire, even if it means he has to work non-stop all the time.

First rate hardboiled realism.

A stunning critique of conflicting priorities.

I usually think it's better to live off credit than to live somewhere where credit isn't available and you have nothing, but I don't know what it's like to owe credit card companies tens of thousands and I'm not supporting a hungry family.

I've been in situations long long ago where I've dreamed about the job Ricky finds though, the financial stability, the extra cash, more or less managing your own working day, a crazy high income that will pay every bill.

If I had kids I would want to spend time with them though, especially on Saturday night, and for them to have all the things that they want, even if it meant racking up huge debts I'd do it, but I'd still be driven to pay those debts off.

That's perhaps the state Ricky finds himself within in Sorry We Missed You's hard-hitting final moments (it ends at the perfect time).

He's completely torn between work and family.

And at a loss to know what to do.

It's a wonderful family too, he's helped build something special after work.

And they totally miss having him around.

And are super worried about his health and safety.

If wages aren't going to keep up with inflation, or if wages stagnate while prices keep going up, and good jobs don't have sick days or sympathy anymore, isn't that a no win situation all around?, shouldn't prices stay the same or decrease if wages don't go up?

Doesn't the system collapse if there's too much general credit card debt?

Shouldn't goods and services and rent and cars be more affordable if wages aren't increasing?

How can there be a financial collapse after which prices stay the same?

Isn't capitalism supposed to adjust itself accordingly?

To take the burden off working families and the next generation?

So they don't have to work quite so much.

And there isn't another financial crisis?

Papicha

No culture holds a monopoly on dreams, and imagination flourishes partout.

The independent creative soul seeking expression in Papicha, hopes to hold a fashion show to entertain family and friends.

It sounds harmless, exciting even, the chance for blossoming ideas to vibrantly echo, encouraging innovation in a fluidic field, alternative takes celebrating life.

Papicha's (Lyna Khoudri) friends are supportive and helpful as she gathers materials and steadily creates, her unique approach to her cherished surroundings generating catchy sartorial yields.

Her school is hesitant to host the event due to rigid communal concerns, but spirited protests and resilient complaints eventually attain freeform prosperity.

If it were as simple as all that a happy tale would have no doubt been told, chronicling the trials of a determined artist as she vigorously strives and creates, ideas liberated in context under examination before emerging as works of art, perhaps a rival may have produced organic stress?, without seeking to spoil the show.

Does the suppression of diversity and alternatives not lead to the unconscious promotion of anguish, as there are no outlets for the maintenance of spirits who don't fit within specific contexts?

Does the encouragement of a modest spark of independence not lead to more thrilling variety, or at least much wider choice in terms of goods and services, for a culture's commercial life?

With a wider variety of goods and services (many of which are hopefully green one day) isn't an unconscious spirit of fun sustained, at least outside work's rigorous domain wherein which focus breeds success?

And if there are a wide variety of goods and services readily available to choose from, do people not want to succeed at work as well?, for greater working success may lead to higher incomes, with more money to spend on compelling variety.

I used to make lists of items to purchase on the completion of demanding contracts, and they helped me to focus and work as they facilitated growth potential.

How does a culture change and grow if youth aren't encouraged to creatively apply themselves, if there aren't outlets wherein which they can share and potentially generate new thought provoking synergies?

A thriving middle-class creates job opportunities and a spirited thrill for life, the resultant cultural diversity as baffling as it is compelling.

Papicha has an idea and she adamantly pursues it, perhaps recklessly considering her culture's extremes, but her determined pursuit still celebrates creative freedom, the unbridled enthusiasm for which can't be denied, a brave artist refusing to back down, diversity facilitating life.

Ordinary Love

Here's a subject I haven't encountered often at the cinema as of late, a married couple who still gets along well even though neither partner is submissively disposed.

Generally without complaint.

I've noted representations of successful marriages in recent years, but they usually abide by gender stereotypes, with the wife housekeeping and the husband breadwinning, often set in the past to naturalize the difference, as if the conjugal relations of yesteryear were generally characterized by formulaic harmonies, films challenging this perception at times, others revelling in the traditional preconception.

Ordinary Love's set in the present and the characters get along, and there's no volatile outrageous power struggle, as they live their lives in relative peace.

It's cool to watch even if the drama's somewhat sad.

For here we have a man who respects women, and doesn't just expect them to unconditionally abide, and a woman who respects men, and likes listening to what they have to say.

There's mutual respect flourishing and growing even if they're no longer up to much, and they like spending time together, can't imagine it any other way.

Their routine may be somewhat settled but they've found fascination in simple pleasures, like they both love playing chess yet neither contestant seeks victory, like they'd rather just curiously move their pieces around the board instead of immobilizing the opposite king.

Thus they have clever conversations which are neither sedate nor belittling, carving out pleasant yet challenging common ground, upon which to express themselves honestly.

They love to play.

It's like every day's a potential mystery the composition of which is slightly thrilling, and even though there may be recurrent themes, they're part of the reliable fun.

Things can become boring if you don't remain active and you're not committed to one another, but through unspoken active commitment so much novelty unwittingly refrains.

It's not about winning and losing as Joan (Lesley Manville) and Tom (Liam Neeson) demonstrate, but rather an inquiry that has no resolution and is therefore much more compelling.

Goals at work indubitably, if you're an athlete you should diversify your game, but letting go of power and statistics may lead to more imaginative marriages.

Such a marriage is perhaps more like the literary appreciation of slow moving resounding change, the pieces on the board strong and fierce, but not seeking to injure or harm.

Just have to love being in love I suppose, after youthful passions subside.

Stunning variations on a steady theme.

Past futures creatively reckoning.

The Assistant

The days go by, routine tasks, some like any other.

The assistant's (Julia Garner as Jane) glad to be working in the film industry but unaccustomed to what her fellows take for granted.

The days are long and peeps are on edge and even though it's never explicitly stated, hierarchy pervades each and every interaction.

Tensions suddenly lighten.

To whitewash something creepy.

Rats racing panopticon hashtag hydra disenchantment.

Will you be the one?

Can you appease the indignity?

It can't be like this in every environment but the Weinstein trial and the Me Too Movement bluntly state otherwise.

It's like Jane's motionless in a labyrinth and only the beast can facilitate movement, but it's so repellent that immobility's preferable inasmuch as it securely gestates.

You need to be focused upon to get anywhere but there's well-being if you're casually overlooked, as if the prize can't compensate for the anxiety unless you embrace ethical oblivion.

It seemed fascinating from the viewpoint of my youth to enter a working world wherein which there was professional respect for different cultures and genders, and I've worked in environments where this was the case (still do) and thoroughly enjoyed resultant routines.

I'm on my own (relatively) now which is amazing for travel and variety, but sometimes I miss seeing other people at work every day and the ways in which those stock conversations made me feel like part of a team.

You see Jane's quotidian confines slowly driving her nuts in The Assistant though, and I don't envy her position, how could it ever be appealing if you're on edge all the time?, with the prospect of stardom still a million to one shot?

There's peace of mind in bourgeois politesse.

The Assistant isn't the greatest film although its realism is frank and sincere. It pulls you into a harrowing reality where not much happens unfortunately. In reflecting upon the film I realize that it does a great job of making you feel Jane's struggles, living and breathing her shocks and fears as well as her courage and headstrong individualism. But for most of the film she cleans up or answers the phone or sends emails. It's too real, too boring, like I'm actually working instead of watching a film.

There's one scene that stands out, when she complains about the possible sexual assault of a new coworker, and it makes a strong albeit disheartening point as everyone else flippantly states nothing can be done.

I don't know what kind of narrative could actually generate change, I thought In the Company of Men would 23 years ago.

I find it's best to avoid relationships at work.

Seems like a potential solution to all this scandal.

I don't think that's how it works but it could work that way.

Perhaps social media's changing things.

Downhill

My apologies if Downhill was meant to be taken seriously, if it wasn't a clever attempt to make fun of itself for being so, um, unavailingly unorthodox. That's what it seemed like to me for a time but perhaps it wasn't meta-Will Ferrell (Pete) at all, perhaps it was a serious Will Ferrell film that was meant to be taken literally as a serious comedy? It seems like that at times. If so, I apologize for the misinterpretation. If I hadn't expected it to be purposely self-defeating after the scene where Pete and Billie (Julia Louis-Dreyfus) eat room service together early on, perhaps I would have been less likely to say anything positive, meaning if I did misinterpret the film that misinterpretation has lead to something more productive, not that much more productive, but I'll at least smooth out a silver-lined missed opportunity. It's like directors Nat Faxon and Jim Rash (two directors can be a bad sign) were trying to make a Will Ferrell film with an indie aesthetic that subtly lampooned Will Ferrell films generally while still making another Will Ferrell film, like they can't decide if this is a film making fun of Will Ferrell films or is in fact another one of his traditional films. For years I've been meaning to suggest that Ferrell should make a film about making a Will Ferrell film but haven't found the right moment. Downhill is something different yet still embodies that same spirit. It's like the directors know it struggles and they're making fun of that struggle (was a second director brought in to save it?) as suggested by the stock mountain images that keep showing up, accompanied by jaunty lighthearted doodles, as if their idea was to make an appealing comedy for mainstream audiences where a family vacations at an adult-oriented ski resort with non-traditional staff (perhaps traditional for the resort in question), but then realized their idea was much more independent and wouldn't catch on, leaving them caught in the crossfire as they sought to blend everything, and couldn't reasonably orient the resulting disharmonies. It becomes clear that Pete is a huge douche for multiple reasons so I started to think, wow, this is what Ferrell's usually like (or used to usually be like) in his films but he often has no responsibilities so it's kind of funny, but with the added responsibilities it seems grotesque, so it's like the film is trying to make older Will Ferrell films seem grotesque as he continues to act the same way even though he has a family, and it accomplishes this goal but then still seems like it's also making his predicament seem tragic, as if it's tragic that he's had to take on responsibilities, and can't continue to randomly drink, fight and fornicate whenever and with whomever the moment unwittingly presents. The key moment comes when Billie is propositioned by her ski instructor before she remembers her marital commitments and they head off on their separate ways. Meanwhile, Pete is getting drunk with a friend that he invited to meet him during their family holiday and revelling in the assumption that women still find him appealing, until he discovers he's been mistaken for another and then tries to punch him in a drunken stupor. If Billie had gone further, not much further but further, Downhill would have asserted itself as a master of just reckonings, and the ways in which it made fun of itself for being a bit lame would have become much more appealing. But she doesn't and Pete returns drunk to his family to have an awkward dinner where everyone's disappointed in him and he has trouble eating his red meat. Soon Billie finds a way to help him reestablish his respectability in his children's eyes (he bailed on them earlier during an avalanche and then engaged in critiqued horse play at a family-themed resort), and their marriage moves forward with Pete still regarded as patriarchal liege. For a moment it seems like Downhill really is sticking it to lifelong juvenile shenanigans, but in the end there's no consequence, even though it's clear there should be. Perhaps it's saying that the fact that there's no consequence is awful, and there should have been a consequence resolutely, but since there often aren't consequences for such behaviour in real life, they decided to mundanely lampoon this reality instead. But why go for the mundane lampoon? Why not have the strong female character assert herself instead? The answer lies in the response she's given after she complains about the avalanche: a man tells her, "it was done perfectly". So it's like Downhill uses the indie aesthetic to suggest there's something more while still giving juvenile shenanigans a free pass. Difficult to watch consequently and lacking the courage to go further, it falls flat in the face of Me Too, and leaves you wondering, why? For what purpose? Ding dong.

The Photograph

Nice to see a film that leaves you so relaxed and calm, afterwards, like life's serious yet still filled with wonder as thoughtful people seek a bit more spice.

No explosions, no bitterness, no grudges, no animosity, just moderately successful energetic joie de vivre experimentin' out and about without specific ends.

Potential though, the film contemplates potential, as if director Stella Meghie decided to concentrate more on possibility than proclamation to embrace how cool things can actually be.

As they develop.

Imagine a present wherein which innocence still hesitantly thrives, not that the professionals aren't struggling, bored, or challenged, they're just so active they don't focus on the negative, and harvest amicable yields accordingly.

There's the thrill of getting to know someone.

The enlivening sweet unknown.

That isn't trashy, jaded, or cynical.

But not cheesy or cookie cut either.

As if level-heads are still curiously engaged in soulful honest investigation, unconcerned with pasts or scores, or vainly trying to gain the upper hand.

Like the moment's just as invigorating as past endeavours or variable futures, because you like what you're doing and you're doing it, and there's no end to the novelty in sight (Place des Arts).

Perhaps Meghie asked herself if active spirits remain constantly refreshed, revitalized through curious engagement, because they're always seeking something new, even if they embrace steadfast traditions?

And decided to bring that idea to life through the art of romantic conversation?

There are so many cool scenes in The Photograph that celebrate the act of living, like learning about a partner's past relationships through an accidental conversation with his nieces, getting to know each other by discussing music, lighthearted pints to accompany different time zones, or mature agile professional understanding, contemplating difference, lamenting loss while generating renewal.

In a world often characterized through gloom and confrontation, The Photograph pushes it all aside to reimagine constructive life.

Productive R&D.

It's feel good but isn't ridiculous so the reasonability doesn't seem absurd, and the characters are making things work without grim ulterior motives.

A jewel of a romance that sharply contrasts so much that's out there, by introducing a bit of positivity, no expectations, no regrets.

Flowin' and growin'.

Perfect for mid-February.

Or any time of the year really.

It's like violence is completely absent from this film.

It'd be amazing if more filmmakers thought this way.

The Rhythm Section

Lost and alone overwhelmed by grief, a former A-list student struggles aimlessly to get by, no will, no drive, no purpose, no quarter, moribundly drifting through the years, until a Samaritan arrives.

He's familiar with her case and seeks to facilitate just closure, and at least has the means at his disposal to provide temporary soulful relief.

Coordinates and probabilities, nothing definitive, eager to learn, never having accepted the official account explaining what caused a fatal accident.

Soon her leads dry up though and she's back on the road researching further, eventually finding an ex-secret service agent, who still takes the time to work in the field.

He agrees to train her resolutely, her resolve quickly becoming an obsession, replete with fierce wherewithal, months later she's determined and ready.

She embarks naive yet feisty and soon takes on her first assignment.

Aware of possible limitations.

Seeking the truth regardless.

The Rhythm Section's quite primal, instinctual, reactive, brazen, there's little argument or variability, just raw unyielding focus.

It pulls you in with blunt alarm and keeps things rough and menaced, crazed and stressed, with striking backbeat discipline, it tenaciously accentuates.

But without the variability its plot's somewhat too thin, too reliant on what takes place considering not much happens.

When you see The Empire Strikes Back as a child you don't think that Luke is only trained by Yoda for a couple of days (is it even that long?) before he faces Vader.

But later you discover the Jedi were once educated from a very young age, for decades under the tutelage of masters, which would make Luke's emergence as a Jedi seem slightly absurd if he hadn't learned his profession under epic duress.

It's similar in The Rhythm Section inasmuch as there's too much improbability. It's a serious film so you're meant to take it seriously and the action's direct and grave so it doesn't promote generic misunderstanding.

At least for me.

I don't mean it would have been more probable if the lead had been a man. It just seems like anyone coming out of circumstances comparable to those The Rhythm Section's heroine finds herself within at the beginning, would have had quite the time suddenly transforming into an elite counterterrorist.

But whereas some films improve as you think about them after they've finished, The Rhythm Section seems more and more implausible, not that something similar couldn't have indeed taken place, but the odds of it actually happening are beyond me reasonable thresholds.

Of course good cinema excels as it takes you beyond such thresholds to present something different from typical life, but if it's meant to be persuasive, and goes out of its way to be grim and realistic, it becomes more difficult not to apply logic, the application of which doesn't aid The Rhythm Section (she fights someone who's breathing from a respirator?).

More characters and a more intricate script and it may have been more believable.

The novel's likely more gripping.

Others likely found it more appealing.

It's always a good idea to forge your own opinion.

Birds of Prey

A world wherein which consequence and repercussion have never been considered laments freewheelin' largesse as Harley Quinn (Margot Robbie) breaks up with the Joker.

Not a kind world by any means, as ill-composed as it is bellicose, supplying notions like wholesome and sentimental with animate vigour in their shocking absence.

She's sought after by many for different reasons artichoke, and must chaotically improvise to avoid painful brash comeuppance.

Yet she still visits local restaurants and chills at her trusty pad, having rescued a coveted pickpocket who's swallowed a precious diamond.

It contains instructions you see as to how to amass an enormous fortune, and crime boss Roman Sionis (horrible representation of gay people!) (Ewan McGregor) will pay 500 grand to get it.

So Quinn and others find themselves at odds with the irate extravagance, and the aggrieved forge a feisty clique as versatile as it is combat ready.

Those are structural facts although they're by no means determinate, the tale abounding with nuts and nuance intriguingly enunciated.

The clever albeit absurd script keeps at it with unnerving style, non-linear nimble necro accelerated cranked attire.

Not the place for guile or sympathy sorority notwithstanding, cruel worlds enraged colliding mistook madness high stakes shallows.

Necessitous individualism.

Nebulous crazed existence.

All goes well the first run through throughout the reckless merge, the alarming detonated detail shell-shocked, revealing, zesty.

Gotham's controlled by men whom the feminine contest not so shyly, exonerating tactile teamwork independent disputatious.

New characters abound so introductions are in order, the Canary (Jurnee Smollett-Bell), Renee Montoya (Rosie Perez), the Huntress (Mary Elizabeth Winstead), and Cassandra Cain (Ella Jay Basco), profiles crafted, futures fathomed.

DC is seriously impressing these days with Joker and now Birds of Prey, nothing that uplifting about either of the films, but they're still ironically well thought out comic book distractions.

Just need to work in the Justice League (or Deadpool) and maintain the creative style.

Birds of Prey keeps reinventing itself with observant discursive fury, right up 'til the traditional end, order out of groundless chaos, a bit repetitive but still compelling.

I hope the Birds have some more of their own films and don't just show up to aid the Batman.

Nice to see the change of pace.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Bad Boys for Life

Time has past and methods of fighting crime have adapted, yet Detective Mike Lowrey (Will Smith) still applies old school reckonings to the volatile realm within which he plays.

But he's been shot down by an unknown assailant who ballistically came calling during flippant carefree fun.

Distraught partner Marcus Burnett (Martin Lawrence) invokes divine intervention to aid his robust recovery, while settling into retired life, unsure of his stable routine.

And a new team lies in wait after Lowrey fully recovers, tech savvy yet lacking daring, led by precise pragmatic vision (Paola Nuñez as Rita).

Will the unstable mix of strategic planning and sheer impudence produce exclamatory results as the vengeful track and yearn?

Will Mr. Lowrey see something beyond the unattached ephemeral as his work with Rita progresses?

Will irresolvable speculation lead Mr. Burnett to once again contend, as clues manifest probabilities, and teamwork vests credulity?

Will Smith and Martin Lawrence irresistibly back at it and then some, bringing vocal spirits to the lively fore, after a considerably withdrawn hiatus.

They've still got it, that defiant spark from long ago, reciprocal mutually constructive disarray that contextualizes stark contention.

Lawrence's aggrieved summative evaluations add hyper-reactive humour, while Smith's intense driven presence keeps things seriously grounded, hewn.

It's like Martin and Fresh Prince still asserting themselves after all these years, a rare treat if you grew up watching both shows, still appealing to new audiences regardless.

The new recruits diversify its holdings and introduce less combative by-the-book character, not that they aren't ready to head out in the field, but their manners are much more reserved.

Unless provoked.

They even find remarkably well-integrated cover diggin' deep at local night clubs.

It's a solid 20th/21st century blend skilfully synthesized by Adil & Bilall.

It takes Lowrey and Burnett a long time to figure out who's oppressing them, and considering who's been shot their response time lacks speed, but the patient reflective struggle does build quite the crescendo (it's a cool ending), with a Vaderesque reversal, back before it all began.

Bad Boys for Life provides a fierce yet thoughtful narrative that reimagines age old themes, this variation as technologically infatuated as it is with mobile practice.

Okay, it's more infatuated with direct action which is certainly a good thing, a chillin' break from the cold calculation that qualifies so much daily life.

Judging by the responses of North American audiences there's still something to be said for interpersonal relations.

Technology may be astounding.

But it can't replace face-to-face conversation.

Dolittle

An eccentric doctor imprisoned by grief makes the most of his settled routine, taking care of an eclectic menagerie while managing a cloistered estate.

But his seclusion is to be interrupted as a royal patron beckons, she's fallen ill and can't find a cure and knows Dolittle's (Robert Downey Jr.) honest and true.

He's a gifted polyglot as it were who can speak with each and every animal, applying his unique talents to the inviolable veterinary, unravelling inextricable enlivening Beatrix.

Diplomatically assuaging instinct.

To facilitate communal fluencies.

Those who would dispose of the Queen (Jessie Buckley) are none too keen to see him enlisted, even if his quest is against all odds. It's been years since he's left his domain. But he proceeds with animate rigour.

They follow him anyway with villainous intent well-endowed with extraordinary resources, but he possesses adaptive extemporaneous finesse, and can make adjustments which variably avail.

Aided by another who also loves animal kind, they set forth with noble purpose, to break free from slack despondency, and seek robust unheralded virtues.

Clues have they which may lead to nimble fortune.

In defiance of time and tide.

As raccoons shift and sway.

Their voyage symbiotically commences.

The film excels at employing whale kind to assist with bold navigation, briefly granting services submerged to accelerate adventurous import.

Ravages wrought on fierce independence aren't overlooked or casually conveyed, for a tiger has been driven mad by his confinement, incarcerated in vengeful chains.

A cohesive group, gregarious gallantry, enables velveteen execution, a binding adherence to mutual respect reifying the superlative laissez-faire.

In surest action.

Melodiously disposed.

Avidly progressing from trial to predicament, the film perhaps revels in augmented haste, rarely pausing to rear and reflect, instantaneous unimpaired impacts.

Its target audience unperturbed by the steady alert quickening, direct meaning addressing identity, reactions brisk to untold considerations, Dolittle's less concerned with mature obfuscations, immersed in innocent wondrous candour.

Assured unbeknownst lackadaisical ingenuity, it may be easy to find faults, but would a 5-year-old care?

Cool animals.

Spirited goodwill.

Color Out of Space

A family bound together living far away from the closest town, goes about their habitual routines in a forest lush and haunting.

Lavinia (Madeleine Arthur) plays occultist, little Jack (Julian Hilliard) seeks clarification, Benny (Brendan Meyer) hides and smokes that reefer, while Mom and Dad (Joely Richardson as Theresa and Nicolas Cage as Nathan) sit back and dream.

As their idyllic bucolic hideaway suddenly receives a visitor from space, a giant meteor lighting up the heavens, remaining solid as it swiftly descends.

At first things seem quite ordinary, even if a local television crew comes calling, without much of a story to go on, apart from a comic lack of rehearsal.

But something's strangely spellbound and new flowers start to appear, the alpacas slightly on edge, their neighbour (Tommy Chong as Ezra) even more otherworldly.

For extraterrestrial entities have inhospitably stowed away, upon it, radiating inorganic rectitude, which mutates grassroots life.

Capable of transforming both solids and immaterials, without recourse to pattern or schematic, it virulently asserts conceited conflict, while transfusing spiritual venom.

Communications function no longer.

They're cut off from the outside world.

With only cohesivity to rely on.

As their family vouchsafes the nuclear.

I wonder what others thought of Richard Stanley's Color Out of Space?

I could only sort of get into it, I felt like it was missing something.

But I often don't get campy horror or fail to see what others cherish, their immersion in the genre more full-on, more attuned to shocking hysterics.

Perhaps I'm too old school, but I kept wishing the cast had been larger, that more characters had encountered the lifeforce, to be botanically decomposed.

John Carpenter's The Thing may have been released in 1982, but it's become somewhat of a classic, so it may be too early to be paying unacknowledged homage, its reverberations still starkly dishevelling.

I thought Ezra's first scene was all too short and brief, it didn't leave me hangin', wanting more, it left me frustrated that I'd have to wait.

For more.

It's clear they need to vacate as soon as humanly possible yet he crawls into the well? I'm thinking there was something cool there I didn't get, like most of Attack of the Killer Tomatoes, or Killer Klowns from Outer Space?

I did love Return of the Killer Tomatoes!

I was searching for some memorable lines chaotically delivered by an impassioned Nicolas Cage, too, which would have reminded me of old school Twin Peaks or even Q, but if they were there I didn't detect them, my loss, no doubt, to be certain.

Color Out of Space still appeared to be the genuine article, like bona fide midnight mayhem, my apologies for wandering adrift, I totally did not get it.

Even if I applaud the viral nature of its mysterious antagonist, like an enviroalien consciousness, like tangible biological thought, or the horrors of forever chemicals.

Toxic waste.

Fluorocarbons.

DEET.