A Scandal in Paris

Career criminals stretch out laidback in prison, as a fortuitous cake emerges, celebrations encoding style.

Having escaped they seek anonymity upon the open road, yet lend their images to a portrait depicting extant legend.

Soon they're reunited with Emile Vernet's (Akim Tamiroff) large outlaw family, who fears for their hard fought freedom, and recommends they join the army.

False identities are procured and they set off to aid Napoleon, still noticing jewels along the way whose brilliance generates temptation.

Years later they've left the service yet still scorn an honest living, and find themselves sheltered in a lavish chateau, presided over by the Minister of Police (Alan Napier as Houdon de Pierremont). 

They decide to rob him anyway and enact an audacious plan, switching the location of the jewels through agnostic sleight of hand.

The Prefect of Police (Gene Lockhart) cannot discover them and is relieved of duty, but Eugéne Vidocq (George Sanders) knows their whereabouts and leads the Minister straight indubitably. 

For his exceptional deductive skill he's generously rewarded, and given the post of Prefect of Police, securing Vernet's relatives jobs thereafter, at the bustling Bank of Paris. 

But his identity remains known to at least 2 adoring love interests, who fortunately enjoy his company, and seek not his instant ruin.

A Scandal in Paris invests striking charm with bewitching clever schematics, which assuage freeform displacements as a matter of upright cause.

Taking things too seriously is not so subtly critiqued throughout, even if Vidocq must watch his back as he nimbly cascades clout.

It seems too farfetched to believe yet is at least partially verifiable, taken from Vidocq's very own memoirs, the validity of which I cannot speak to.

He understood people well no doubt, a master of effortless seduction, freely winning hearts and minds through open-minded grand induction.

Those lacking social graces or appealing fanned conceit, fell swiftly to his daring bold and animate spry feats.

There's a series here within these reels commanding grand detection, each episode a marigold shy intimate selection.

Why not engage a stunning sleuth who once lacked honest virtue, to come to terms with pachyderms investigate the Dooku?

A stunning tale lightly regaled the shocking fluent candour, a charméd life akin to strife concocting goose and gander. 

Flavour.

What a life. 

Paris Blues

Ram Bowen (Paul Newman) and Eddie Cook (Sidney Poitier) have smoothly settled in Paris, where they work as jazz musicians at a local club most working nights.

Their reputation's solid and they work hard to maintain it, routine practise honing creativity, regular performance hot damn experiment, the vibrant chill nightlife.

Bowen's interested in musical composition and Cook tries to help him write, consistently generating new ideas inordinate spirited bright material.

Their act's established, they're part of the scene, living the life in grooves composing, when two American tourists show up one night in search of improvised l'amour.

They're on a well-earned two week vacation and didn't know what to readily expect, but Ram and Eddie weren't prepared for them either, and their resonant domestic echo.

Different traditions contend as they converse, as they consider relationships long-lasting, sure and steady conjugal comportment, the cookie cut stuck out in the 'burbs.

It's a lot to give up but there's so much to gain but everything's happening so quickly, and Bowen's the leader of his nimble band and his fellow musicians rely on him heavily.

He looks out for them anyways and tries to steer them away from soulless excess, relying on them like a coach or trainer, who works for the same productive team.

Was that a regular thing in the '60s, the '50s, the '40s, whenever?

Professional musicians working the same club every night and wildly drawing them in?

Does it still happen in Paris and New York or somewhere in Montréal that I'm unaware of?, if not I'd argue something's been lost, something beyond commercial value.

Imagine what you'd create if you worked that hard, what you'd routinely exceptionally come up with, if you never stopped to rest on your laurels, if life was a constant improvised rhythm?

I think old school musicians were more concerned with sounding good than with not sounding bad, but that's just a casual observation that isn't supported by vigorous research (does the absence of working class vitality within artistic spheres lead to a general spirit that's more academic than artistic?).

Imagine there were several exceptional bands that regularly played the same clubs in Montréal, and you could see them any night of the week, and they never gave anything less than outstanding?

Imagine they still played their instruments too and sought to etherealize with mad reckless solos, or jam here and there at times, as the drive of their audience compelled them?

Paris Blues captures a rhythmic lifestyle caught up with domestic and political intrigue, and celebrates musician's lives without focusing intently on the negative.

The negative taunts in every domain and it's great to see a film that celebrates the artistic life.

Relationships tempt and tantalize.

Resolute competing responsibilities.  

*Duke Ellington's music's incredible and there's an amazing scene where Louis Armstrong (Wild Man Moore) stops by to jam.

The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind

A small village in rural Malawi struggles to make ends meet, farmers reliant on the yearly harvest to generate vital income.

The Kamkwambas have been working hard with the hopes of sending their son to school, they've even paid his initial deposit and purchased the requisite uniform.

William's (Maxwell Simba) eager to learn, to excel, but needs time to sit back and study, competing demands ensuring time management's a full-time strict priority.

As school progresses and routines conflict drought descends with stifling severity, and his family can't pay his remaining tuition and must subsist on meagre preserves. 

But his sister's dating his teacher so he thinks of a crafty plan, and gains access to his school's modest library keeping instructive books on hand.

He's quite adept at finding solutions for quizzical electronic conundrums, his practical fluency highly valued by friends and neighbours and family.

He finds books that teach him new things and give him ideas he never thought possible, including a way to irrigate crops during the lengthy hot dry season.

With this method his family and others can plan to grow crops throughout the year, the extra harvest a bountiful godsend scientifically engineered. 

But book learning's still highly suspect and his idea simply seems too radical, his father (Chiwetel Ejiofor) fearful of making things worse should it fail to produce as planned.

The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind celebrates bold dynamic learning, in an environment suffering from extreme hardship, without staples or resource to spare.

It's a shame the library within wasn't public and required so much wealth just to access it.

Creating public libraries can be rather difficult if there's little to tax, but communal initiative can spearhead exuberance to keep infrastructure intact.

The sharing of ideas the transmission of knowledge the transformative vast applications, await people seeking solutions to questions they may never have known how to ask.

Myriad subjects augment traditions with novel imaginative spice, skies opening up within reason as ingenuity serves to entice.

You can learn a lot through chill conversation while working on various projects, but sometimes the right book will present years worth of discussion in less than 200 pages.

William reads such a book and makes an incredible difference in his community.

Resiliently daring to dream.

Cultivating robust yields. 

With Joseph Marcell (Chief Wembe).

*Also, a great film directed by an actor (Chiwetel Ejiofor).

Cold Dog Soup

An uptight sheltered individual (Frank Whaley as Michael Latchmer) unaccustomed to the underground flow finds himself suddenly embracing l'amour in Alan Metter's Cold Dog Soup.

His flirting skills clock timidity and uncertainty regarding self-worth, yet an act of daring assertion generates shocking relational mirth.

He's soon out for dinner at a love interest's (Christine Harnos as Sarah Hughes) with residing inquisitive mom (Sheree North as Mrs. Hughes), but as they begin to pass around victuals the family dog acrobatically passes.

He's tasked with the objective of burial and sets forth to find a chill park, but the cab in which he accelerates suggests alternative dispositions.

It's piloted by affirmation inclusively metering knowledge freewheeling (Randy Quaid as Jack Cloud), the chauffeur believing a commercial exchange may be more apt than confidential interment. 

Latchmer is ill-at-ease with the proposed moribund scenario, yet lacks the backbone required to refuse and soon attempts to fetch a fair price.

He does briefly escape then swiftly return to Sarah's apartment, but Cloud frenetically follows and enthusiastically enlists her.

They travel together far and wide in search of an appealing price, even contacting the frisky afterlife, learning lessons along the way.

Cold Dog Soup presents a voyage of discovery improvisationally attired, pursuing unorthodox financial goals through the heart of robust intrigue.

Worry and courage conflict throughout as it critiques austere pretensions, or vast categorical dismissals in relation to free-flowing life.

(I recommend taking it easy on the free-flowing these days. The virus isn't disappearing. I'm masking up and remaining cautious).

You could easily replace "worry" with "prudence" and "courage" with "recklessness" at times, but to do so would spoil the fun, which celebrates jazzy absurdist meaning.

It does so well, you'll be surprised by the budget, there's so much going on in this film, the trick is to acknowledge the latent realism without being fully subsumed.

It's sort of like The Warriors but instead of a gang fighting its way back to Coney Island throughout the night, you have a trio attempting to conduct business with different clients till the wee hours.

It's much more clever than it initially seems, the overt ridiculousness cloaks sly observation, beyond predictable commercial conceptions, at wild interactive free play.

A must see if you like independent filmmaking and the joys of why-did-they-make-this? cinema.

So many hilarious scenes.

Lampooning traditional discourse.

Leningrad Cowboys Meet Moses

The Cowboys have fallen on hard times, down on their luck and stricken, forsaken, filiblustered.

They were once one of Mexico's most exhilarating acts, but after duelling with tequila incontestably, collapsed upon destitute ruin.

The band still exists however even if several of its members did not survive, those remaining somewhat revitalized after an invitation to play in New York.

But they've been tricked, hoodwinked, bamboozled, as they learn shortly after arrival, for Vladimir (Matti Pellonpää) their once loathsome manager turns out to have set up a ruse.

He seeks to once again rule them and lead them back to northern realms, and has awoken as a scandalous prophet who refers to himself as Moses.

The band is weary, downtrodden, aghast, and succumb to his ironclad will, which supplies a rickety motorboat for their journey across the Atlantic.

Meanwhile, he stays behind to chisel off spry Liberty's nose, before hitching a ride clasped and wingéd to the lonesome European coast.

They're reunited without much delay and are even joined by old school band members, and set off merrymaking homeward bound through less inhospitable continental climes.

But Vladimir hasn't failed to make headlines and he's become a wanted man.

And the law avails in hot pursuit as they actively gig hot damn.

Leningrad Cowboys Meet Moses adds significant layers and depth, to a narrative eclectically posturing with unyielding jocose inhibition.

A collection of wry self-reliant ideas intermittently staked uniformity notwithstanding, the story appealing to subsequent nodes which elucidate demonstrative beacon.

Sometimes the plot's surely secondary to verbose improvised momentum, providing adhesive broadened outlines which embrace reformed asymmetry.

For 'tis not argument Kaurismäki covets but rather offbeat ironic declension, messages bridled to slam dunk transparency as they softly sway in complement willow.

Enlivening inherent dimension through spatiotemporal interplay, it highlights disembodied ascension with aeronautic grassroots unconveyed.

A break from paramount logic resets and recasts judicious responsibility, inasmuch as too steady a jet stream cloys wise recourse clad indubitably.

Meet Moses takes its time to let loose but then settles to bewilder anew.

The Leningrad Cowboys are a real band apparently.

And still perform to this very day.

Leningrad Cowboys Go America

An unknown band communally flourishes in frozen northern realms, its upbeat traditional variety inspiring personal localized legend.

Yet their manager (Matti Pellonpää as Vladimir) has grown tired of just subsisting in grand obscurity, so he invites a well-known producer to evaluate offhand.

The results are by no means favourable although he provides constructive criticism, recommending a tour of America to showcase their zesty sound.

They've never left their cozy village and are unfamiliar with Western ways, yet they still seek widespread recognition and offbeat accolades.

Fortunately they learn swiftly and can make instantaneous adjustments, for their music doesn't inspire Manhattan and they're soon off for nimble Mexico.

Along the way they must jive and improvise according to regional preferences, for their finances lack exorbitance as they exercise in/congruity.

Their manager embraces capitalism and will not distribute that which they earn, their hunger erupting with molten fury as time slowly and thoughtfully passes.

They have learned the basics of English and can play anything they set their minds to, without ever rehearsing or even practising, acritical discursive maestros.

Yet they've been followed in spite of commands to the sincere vituperative contrary, the acolyte seeking a constructive role, aligned with indeterminate function.

Leningrad Cowboys Go America breaks things down to material instinct, while resilient spirits exuberantly chant, with extemporaneous unsung virtuosity.

And a Jim Jarmusch (Car Dealer) cameo.

Absurdity perhaps depicts the feisty subconscious of the aloud unspoken, but do such invigorations not surely emit down to earth realistic theatre?

If a dream is materially manifested and proceeds through spiritual trial and error, is comedy therefore strictly irrequisite to unpronounced disconsolate duty?

How else does the rational adroitly maintain well-reasoned logical dispassionate argument, if it hasn't been hewn by animate sacrifice born of consequent Kafkaesque rupture?

The Cowboys make their way South and forthrightly and freely excel, but if they had been an instant success, would they ever have even bothered?

Who knows?, it's difficult to say, we don't learn much about what they're thinking, just that they have a gig and they make it after versatile commiseration.

Presumably, so much is unsaid as potent difference decrees manifested.

At one point they present a resonant anthem.

Voltaic demonstrative poise.

Rancho Notorious

The future looks bright, overflowing with bounty, as a couple considers their upcoming marriage, happily thriving through steady employ, ensconced in blooming gleeful rapture.

Yet they live on the Western frontier and soon malevolence comes a' calling, the bride-to-be then passing on, her fiancé sworn to loyal vengeance.

He (Arthur Kennedy as Vern Haskell) sets off on the road following leads where he can engaging in bright conversation, or the eruption of bombast flourishing undaunted, should he ask the wrong person the right question.

He hears tales glamorous and bold deftly crafted through spry resignation, of a coveted socialite (Marlene Dietrich as Altar Keane) widely sought after who teamed up with a formidable gunman (Mel Ferrer as Fairmont).

Haskell discovers the whereabouts of the outlaw and ensures he winds up in the very same jail, soon accidentally aiding his escape, before setting out extrajudicially.

The identity of the killer he seeks still remains frustratingly mysterious, but he soon finds the locale wherein which he's supposed to unconscionably reside.

Alongside many others who have earned their livings through corrupt ill-gotten gains, Rancho Notorious revelling in shenanigans transformative vast illicit booty.

It's direct and hard-hitting like a Western bluntly concerned with irate justice, and works in elements of ye olde film noir, whose generic conventions command infatuated.

The femme fatale's by no means duplicitous and remains loosely hitched to the preeminent bandit, who's rather upright and honourable, as if Bonnie & Clyde had endured.

Haskell makes friends with the virtuous crook and seems like he might be at home casually robbing the odd bank (or stagecoach), but the sight of a striking brooch reminds him of goals which have not been forgotten.

The lines between good and evil are ambiguously forsaken as well-meaning townsfolk quickly back down, and no-good rapscallions ignite honest virtue, while vendettas reestablish antipodes.

Never thought I'd see Marlene Dietrich waxing light so home on the range, and didn't know Fritz Lang directed Westerns sans banal black and white refrains.

There's some minor character diversification but it generally sticks to its winning hand, more abundant less superficial interactions may still have cultivated grizzlier lands.

It excels when Haskell's sleuthing more so than when he hits the ranch, the flashbacks and their spirited horseplay generating crucial binding fragments.

There's a lively soundtrack that keeps things focused if not cleverly cloaking wry deception, Lang perhaps approaching generic overload and unable to keep sabotage at bay.

L'amour takes up much more time than hot pursuits or criminal gains.

Preponderantly peculiar.

Almost like comedic romance.

Blood on the Moon

Spoiler Alert.

Alone in the burgeoning West riding cautious 'cross rugged terrain, a new position lucratively awaiting within lands hitherto unknown.

The services required necessitate fearsome low combative life-threatening confrontation, and have never been offered by the unlucky rider, who thought he may as well help an old friend.

$10,000's available should he choose to abide by the deal's unsettling corrupt regulations, the work at hand just simple enough should he avoid the volatile conflict.

A large herd of cattle once earnestly thrived to provide beef to a local First Nation, but the contract's been lost through duplicitous means and they now must vacate the calm reservation.

A deadline's been set for their thorough removal and remains stern and non-negotiable; if John Lufton (Tom Tully) can't cross the river he'll be forced to sell to the highest bidder.

Local homesteaders don't want him to cross for they fear his herd will take up the best land, and the rider's (Robert Mitchum as Jim Garry) employer (Robert Preston as Tate Riling) has actively led them to make a formidable stand.

But Riling has no interest in farming, he hopes to buy Lufton's cows cheap if he has nowhere to go.

He'll then sell them back to the government at a significantly increased price.

Like a film noir hero, Garry possesses conscience and won't take things too far, he's forced to decide which side's more honourable to appease his critical will.

Not an easy decision to make.

Drifting alone along the ageless frontier.

The law's entirely absent apart from one character in charge of Indigenous affairs (Frank Faylen as Jake Pindalest) (there's no First Nation voice in this film), and the haunting prospect of the army, their dispute relies on strict honour and loyalty.

The outlaws are rather unorthodox for traditional western fare, inasmuch as they aren't robbing a bank or holding up lonesome forlorn stagecoaches.

They uphold ideals to clandestinely gain financial and territorial advantage, the appeal of which would have generated romance with less conniving illicit compunction.

No femme fatales in the mix so seductively contriving intrigue, in fact Amy (Barbara Bel Geddes) and Carol Lufton (Phyllis Thaxter) seek nothing more than just investigation.

A choice must be made but who's to make it beyond material considerations, when the stakes are tantalizingly high and the right thing bears no startling cash settlement?

If Blood on the Moon's a crafty noir it proceeds without poignant despondency.

Garry may struggle with gripping free choice.

But he's by no means utterly alone.

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

Spoiler Alert.

Tired of working for a prison's work farm, one inmate decides to play crazy, and winds up in a different sort of institution still strictly and coldly regulated.

He's rather aggressive and independent and quickly gains disputatious influence, realizing his wits are still intact and keen on promoting seismic change.

But the regulations are rather severe and there's no place for critical controversy; trouble abounds if you can't grow accustomed to the various binding slights.

R.P McMurphy (Jack Nicholson) has never been one to listen to anything besides his passionate emotion, and he goes about setting his brethren free, with oceanic amassed endeavour.

Nurse Ratched (Louise Fletcher) is sympathetic but also concerned with rigorous discipline, the film challenging psychiatric conventions used to theoretically promote sanity.

McMurphy's approach makes more sense for living or thoroughly enjoying undisciplined life, his wild contumelious hedonistic ontology the product of distaste for form and structure.

Nurse Ratched crafts strong workers who can function within a hierarchical structure, and pays less attention to thrilling desire than their productive work at hand.

McMurphy may have made complimentary inroads had he not been so thoroughly combative; life within the hospital may be dull but it's still aligned with reasonable thought.

He is rational or at least he reasons but he's not a trained psychiatrist.

He's well-versed in vibrant life but perhaps overly concerned with chaos.

He introduces fun and playful mischief to people unaccustomed to freedom, or to freely and confidently expressing themselves in order to obtain objectives.

The administration's goals and objectives promote sure and steady stability, but perhaps without considering happiness as it applies to daily life.

Nurse Ratched is often critiqued for being hard-hearted and stubborn, but McMurphy wantonly disrespects her even though she's trying to help.

He doesn't just make rude comments or eagerly disobey, he throws a party with booze and prostitutes and she's left with no choice but to punish him.

The punishment's grossly disproportionate and akin to tacit murder, if such methods are still used today we're clearly still quite a barbarous species.

Blending work and play with logical enjoyment seems like a rational goal to pursue.

I don't know how regulations can promote joy, but how do epicureans finance lavish lifestyles without ever having to work?

The balance is out there somewhere, hopefully emerging after vigorous investigation.

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest examines extremes, bellicosely jostling in stern opposition.

Casting by Jane Feinberg & Mike Fenton.

Drop Zone

I've always wondered what it'd be like to go skydiving?

Or wondered at least since I found out about the phenomenon.

It sounds pretty exciting.

Fly around for a while, take in the view, strap a parachute to your back, and jump the *&$( out of a plane.

Then revel in joyous plummeting and hope the rip cord works.

It's been a long time since I've considered doing it, and it looks like extracurricular activities are out this summer, damn it, but I think I'll add it to my bucket list, again, and maybe give it a shot in 2021.

I imagine it's less complicated than horseback riding.

Although who's to say what's more intense?

I imagine skydiving's more intense since you're jumping out of a plane, even if you're not adventuring through rugged wilderness, but you could perhaps skydive into rugged wilderness and then set about setting up camp, for a better than average reality show, immersed in independent camera work.

And local wildlife.

There's a lot of skydiving in Drop Zone, it's the primary focus beyond the plot, which asks itself, "how many scenes involving skydiving can we realize?", before setting them celestially in motion.

With Snipes and Busey.

Pete Nessip (Wesley Snipes) doesn't know how to skydive, but he's given ample opportunity to learn, as he tracks the elusive Ty Moncrief (Gary Busey), whose scenes are cut far too short.

If you're interested in skydiving or already thoroughly enjoy it, Drop Zone provides generous food for thought, or general aspects to be critically analyzed, while viewing peculiar takes on vitriol.

If it's a little too serious for its flight plan, fret not, no need to worry, soon they'll be wildly taking off then quickly diving towards earth once again.

Or the top of a building etc.

Skydiving shenanigans mischievize upon the ground as well, and there's even a character named Swoop (Kyle Secor) who works odd jobs between subsequent dives.

Grace Zabriskie's (Winona) given a role where she does more than lounge and vegetate, and she's teamed up with Corin Nemec (Selkirk) whose light heart imaginatively sessions.

It was nice to see an action film where characters aren't exceptionally endowed, making things work to the best of their abilities, with old school equipment and regular jobs.

The transitions from scene to scene are noteworthy and upbeat as well, with chill yet discerning guitar riffs announcing upcoming tasked transformations (music by Hans Zimmer).

Why not focus on the hands-on, at times, in cinema and literature, and celebrate feisty determined lives lived, regardless of status or income, in the multidisciplinary United States of America?

Canada too.

France, Ireland etc.

Snipes excels in the leading role and Malcolm-Jamal Warner's (Terry Nessip) airtight as his bro.

The plot may be somewhat direct.

But multiple characters still swiftly take flight.

Rain Man

Risk-fuelled high-stakes automotive accumulation is temporarily interrupted after the passing of a not-so-loved-one.

Charlie Babbitt (Tom Cruise) flies to Cincinnati to settle accounts without delay only to discover he had a brother whose existence shakes things up.

Babbitt's somewhat of an insensitive callous jerk, and is much less interested in his newfound bro (Dustin Hoffman as Raymond Babbitt) than the cash left in trust for his well-being.

He's been living at a psychiatric facility for almost his entire offbeat life, and has serious issues with communication although he's quite gifted at math.

Charlie decides it's time they get to know one another and kidnaps him from the institution, hoping to take him to L.A in order to strike a lavish deal.

But Raymond refuses to fly so they're forced to hit the road, the backroads 'cross vibrant country, since they're much less bland and noisy.

Partner Susanna (Valeria Golino) can't stand Charlie's motives so she leaves shortly after they depart, and gentle Raymond's left in the hands of someone lacking firm compassion.

But Charlie isn't strictly obtuse and can make sincere adjustments, which their trip demands at times as they travel throughout America.

There's a realistic edge to Rain Man which isn't dulled by hypotheticals, it may seem impractical or otherworldly but it still makes sense as they travel on.

It starts out swift and headstrong full of blind instinctual tenacity, but slowly transforms through the art of play as alternative arrangements challenge preconceptions.

At times you wonder how Charlie could be so thick as proof after proof readily presents itself, but without ever having been trained to care for the differently abled, it's not shocking that his confusion persists.

Raymond doesn't have a say in the matter but makes the most of the sudden change, loudly expressing discontent at times, at others curiously contracting.

They wondrously come together as an off-beat non-traditional team, embracing unexpected roadblocks with surprisingly adept efficiency.

The realism prevents the use of words like "smooth" or "understanding", as Rain Man frenetically flows while life mysteriously presents itself.

I thought the final moments made sense bearing in mind uncertain self-sufficiencies, heartbreaking though they were, the alternative may have been much worse.

Not that Charlie wouldn't have given it a shot, he's not so bad after putting in some effort.

It's nice to see a film that promotes change.

Instead of grim hard-hearted despondency.

The Hours

Three timelines incorporeally corresponding through the art of independent abstraction, drawing clever coherent parallels, as applied to married life.

Virginia Woolf (Nicole Kidman) struggles to find peace as she compellingly writes away, always desiring what she doesn't have even when possessing an idyllic life.

Laura Brown (Julianne Moore) looks after her husband (John C. Reilly as Dan Brown) who's just returned from World War II, but she's ill-suited to the lofty role traditionally assigned her gender.

Clarissa Vaughan (Meryl Streep) cares for a contemporary poet (Ed Harris as Richard Brown) who expresses gratitude with verbose criticism, their lives provocatively intertwined inasmuch as they seek individual expression.

Family provides creature comforts but they can't find solace in routine.

One husband admires his wife's gifts and provides everything to establish calm comforts, and desperately critiques itinerancy in declarations of hopeless l'amour.

Another remains unassuming in his picture perfect suburban life, blissfully unaware of her struggles to find something more compelling.

The third can't believe someone would love him and does everything he can to push her away.

Even after the awestruck age where desire imaginatively fades then vanishes.

A different world wherein which mobility is something less economically prohibitive, may have surmised novel alternatives to distract people from bland consistency.

If that's what they sought to escape, through inspiring enlivening motion.

I rather like public transit myself, and libraries and bookstores host so many wonders.

A strong network interconnecting dozens of cities and neighbourhoods provides all kinds of cultural know how, to be curiously explored at times without pattern or brochure or transcript.

But I don't know many people like me.

And there's often no relevant answer.

Sometimes honesty isn't an option if there's no outlet for resounding difference, and some people don't pick up on the signs if everything's going well for them.

Marriage is a wonderful institution that creates joys for sundry families, but it by no means works for everyone, and is perhaps too highly elevated at times.

Constant motion, always travelling, could perhaps provide a working remedy, you've just gotta find that job that facilitates working life.

The Hours presents strong heroines oppressed by guidelines demanding role play, who approach immersion from varying perspectives to express wholesome particularity.

Sometimes questions are more important than answers beyond practical working life.

Language learning can be invaluable.

If you're looking for instructive distraction.

Tommaso

A caring romantic versatile actor intuitively attempts to settle into middle-age (Willem Dafoe as Tommaso), living in Italy at the moment, with his wife Nikki (Cristina Chiriac) and infant daughter.

He's recovering from an adventurous youth and is more in touch with routine than spontaneity, but Nikki's much younger than he is, and in possession of bold free spirits.

His warmhearted personality and wide-ranging depth of learning still generate friendship and opportunity, as he teaches from time to time and pursues vigorous Italian studies.

There's no shortage of work nor lack of inspiration in his multifaceted intriguing realm, in fact I'd argue moving somewhere new revitalizes the artistic life (as many others do too).

But he's becoming a bit more rigid, a little more convinced there's a way things should be, and he's much more willing to express his discontent at least at home when he's moody and hungry.

His family's non-traditional inasmuch as its roles aren't strictly typecast, not that he's looking for something that definitive, but he's also grown tired of loose-knit structures.

He's sensitive and hates being left out even if no slight was intended.

He feels like he's grown accustomed to neglect.

And tries to do something about it.

It's a pretty chill film for the most part, cool people living independent lives, creativity blossoming in the moment, relaxed agile thought and feeling.

Like Domicile conjugal, nevertheless, it has to introduce provocative conflict (without the comedy), which unfortunately transforms the synergies into something much less romantic.

Does there have to be a power struggle, do people have to try to take control?, I've met married couples who respect each other's boundaries and the results are often super fun.

I suppose narrative conflict's fundamental, one of the first things you consider when writing a script, but does that mean such narratives are fundamentalist, even when they're exploring unorthodox lives?

It doesn't, although you could see it that way if you grow tired of watching artistic films which embrace cataclysm, not that every art film should be laissez-faire, but it'd still be cool if it happened more often.

Isn't there realism in the laissez-faire as well, inasmuch as a lot of life isn't one big power struggle, beyond corporate trial and error, like a random ice cream sundae?

Is everyone just angry with everyone else (the Trump effect) and is it up to auteurs to serialize that angst, or do Degrassiesque ontologies persist like blanketed communal Zit Remedies?

Tommaso's a solid film but I was disappointed with the ending.

Would still watch it again though.

Abel Ferrara's still got it.

L'Extraordinaire voyage de Marona

A bold and adventurous canine finds herself navigating capricious industry, as she moves amongst the humans, in L'Extraordinaire voyage de Marona.

Somewhat hardboiled for a children's fantasy, it still animates resilient life, as it critiques yet rests resigned, to dependence on constant flux.

Marona's (Lizzie Brocheré) tough, undaunted, full of observant pluck and tenacity, well aware of materialistic necessity, yet still abounding with versatile spirit.

She was born in a litter of 9, full of multifaceted depth of character, but alas they could not stay together, as quotidian confines swiftly closed in.

Her first owner was a lively acrobat seeking to make his own way on the stage, hardworking, dynamic, and flexible, determined to intensely make the grade.

She then moves on to the world of construction to embrace kind-hearted tectonic l'amour, but a new partner just doesn't like dogs, and she's let go cold insecure.

She finally finds a steady family after a youth discovers her alone in a park, and decides to adopt the role of caretaker, mom and grandpa's tolls permitting.

But as the years pass the youth grows older and has less time for lighthearted play.

Marona still follows her around bustling Paris.

Vehicular immobility notwithstanding.

Canine perspectives wisely evolve as the film reflects on eclectic pet ownership, things would have been simpler with a common language, and stronger desires to enliven understanding.

For longer periods of time.

Can dogs smell emotion?

Animals often seem to know what's up. Perhaps not the intricate details of abstract thought, but they seem well-attuned to food shelter and play.

Should you remember to care for your pets as you age?

I would argue, "most definitely".

They depend so much on your overflowing love, and something's lost if there's no time for essentials.

There's no doubt that Marona's full of love even if her candour's somewhat forlorn.

Owning pets is a wonderful thing and it's important to commit to their continuous care.

L'Extraordinaire voyage de Marona bizarrely blends innocence with consistent distress, to present an appealing realistic collage of witty variable situations and characters.

Writers Damian do a wonderful job theorizing life from a dog's point of view, working in generalities that are perhaps nondescript if they relate to nothing too wild in particular.

If you want a pet I recommend sticking with it, never letting them go in a park.

It must be so worth it to have them around.

Faithful companions.

Inveterate mischief.

Capital in the Twenty-First Century

Justin Pemberton's documentary Capital in the Twenty-First Century briefly examines striking differences between 19th, 20th, and 21st century economics, or the ways in which capital was or has been amassed during these periods according to remarkably different socioeconomic realities.

It emphasizes that after World War II the middle-classes in the Western World accumulated vast riches and became powerful political players, as their reach and influence expanded due to a much more level financial playing field.

Such wealth lead to significant political reforms (universal healthcare, public education, mass public transportation networks, retirement pensions, . . .) that sharply contrasted 19th century institutions, wherein which, as the film relates, a tiny fraction of the population possessed most of a country's wealth and power, and went about creating political systems that ensured they perennially held on to it.

The documentary suggests that the 21st century's economic realities thus far resemble the 19th's much more closely than the 20th's, insofar as tiny fractions of the population currently possess huge shares of their nations' wealth, as the power of related middle-classes has seriously declined in recent decades.

A contributing factor to this decline which the film examines is the current availability of tax resources.

I don't know how precise its figures are, documentaries are more like cool short essays than lengthy books, but it's clear from the data presented that a lot of international businesses that have arisen in recent years don't pay that much in tax, and if they did the public purse would have a lot more funds for roads, schools, transport, and hospitals.

The idea of healthy communities possessing disposable incomes to develop a wide variety of supplementary goods and services is an appealing one, inasmuch as a greater distribution of wealth and taxation leads to less poverty and crime.

Is it not preferable to sustain moderately happy employed communities wherein which there's a general sense of well-being, to networks of distressed fearful impoverished ones who can't afford to buy what you're trying to sell them?

Don't disposable incomes make the wealthy even more wealthy while keeping the rest of the population secure, so people don't have to worry about what neighbourhood they're in or hire private security?

Isn't a social sphere wherein which you can safely visit every neighbourhood or small town and see what creative things they have to offer preferable to avoiding certain towns and neighbourhoods while travelling around with heavily armed guards?

If manufacturing jobs return in abundance with reduced wages, don't prices have to decrease, to avoid economic collapses brought about by credit bubbles?

Doesn't the flourishing of well-financed public schools make for better general conversation and more stimulating books and films, as diverse multifaceted local voices find inquisitive global audiences?

Isn't curiosity preferable to contempt amongst different demographic groups?

The exchange of intriguing difference?

The development of more energy efficient technologies?

La Casa Lobo (The Wolf House)

A small village in the Chilean countryside produces honey while Pinochet reigns, every aspect of its communal existence preconceived and strictly monitored.

Membership is clad eternal, there's no straying from the austere flock, misunderstandings engendering punishment, belittling and quite severe.

Maria is independent and cares not for the steady routine, her daydreams encouraging sharp reprimands as she counterintuitively seeks expression.

One day she sets off into the forbidding forested horizon, determined to vigorously make it, her wits attuned to the luscious wilderness.

She locates an abandoned house wherein which emancipated pigs survive, who soon become her dearest friends, cherished reliant agreeable confidants.

But a wolf haunts the exterior terrain with fierce frightening ravenous omnipresence, their harmonious improvised alternative shyly persisting under hostile constraint.

They endure and emphatically matriculate.

Maria sharing her knowledge.

For a time it's quite idyllic.

Until provisions start to run out.

A chilling parable harrowingly composed to accentuate psychology torn asunder, La Casa Lobo (The Wolf House) smotheringly provokes consternation as it stifles difference.

A rigid blueprint rigorously scripted to ensure precise uncompromised obedience, with neither tolerance nor mediation written into its prescriptive views.

As individuality materializes it must be situated within specific limitations, to ensure no one is ever distracted from the necessary work at hand.

Maria loosens the fatalistic fastenings through the elevation of critical spirits, whose ethereal intangible substance slowly fades when faced with hunger.

The paranoia through which she's been nurtured then manifests itself in menace, deconstructing heartfelt amelioration with crazed drab bitter anxious conformity.

The pigs are no longer her friends.

They are trying to duplicitously subvert her.

She can no longer teach them new things.

She must adopt a less subversive role.

Aligning aggrieved spiritual discontent with physical unsettling pressures, La Casa Lobo presents totalitarianism to distressingly shock anew.

Imagining what things would be like if there was nowhere else to go, and you didn't fit in, it laments the loss of wonder as genius evokes in flower.

The most visually stunning film I've seen since Loving Vincent, its form brilliantly defies the wolf while its content solemnizes desperation.

One part distraught exposition, another typical of insular world views, it magnifies ideological indoctrination, with grim innocent startling despondency.

License to Drive

The unyielding desire to get out and drive, to head out on the road, to deck out your ride.

It motivates Les Anderson (Corey Haim) in Greg Beeman's License to Drive, who has yet to obtain his driver's license, yet boldly seeks to apply himself vehicularly, and then drive his eager friends around town.

A car is available should he pass the crucial test, and Mercedes Lane (Heather Graham) has agreed to date him, having just broken up with her conceited boyfriend (M.A Nickles as Paolo), whose chauvinism was rather enraging.

There's just one problem.

Perhaps several problems.

Les falls asleep during driver's ed class and fails to acquire vital tidbits of information, which leads to him failing the written portion of his exam, since he's unable to guess the right answers.

But as fate would have it, the computers suddenly break down, his results remaining unknown, and since his twin sister (Nina Siemaszko as Natalie Anderson) passed beforehand, he's given encouraging motivation.

He passes the in-car portion of the exam under unorthodox forbidding circumstances, and returns to the examination centre full of upbeat pluck and resolve.

But his written results have been retrieved, his newfound prosperity instantly nullified.

Yet he still has a date that evening.

And friends who rely upon him.

Trouble abounds after he steals his grandfather's (Parley Baer) Caddy and Mercedes drinks way too much.

But Corey Feldman and Charles (Michael Manasseri) show no hesitation: they're still up for a bombastic drive.

Ah well.

I was hoping for so much more from License to Drive. It didn't have much of a buzz when I was growing up, but there's so much from way back when that I'm sure I must have missed out on.

It's cool to see Corey Haim and Corey Feldman engaged in shenanigans again, and Heather Graham, Carol Kane (Mrs. Anderson), Richard Masur (Mr. Anderson), and James Avery (Les's DMV Examiner) make the most of it; there's no slouching in the face of spasticity.

It promotes driving and the urge to drive with driven adolescent wonder, and sets up a variety of traditional incidents which perhaps still widely resonate.

But protestors and activists are vilified, as are the minority boyfriends of its lasses, and drinking and driving is whitewashed, and I couldn't find a classic '80s moment.

Too high of an elevation of slacking, not enough respect for book smarts, it tries to take things to uninhibited extremes, without ever really kicking into gear.

The Etruscan Smile

Stubborn differences of opinion lead to a prolonged estrangement before a father embraces diplomacy in the grouchy Etruscan Smile.

Practically nothing could ever convince Rory MacNeil (Brian Cox) to leave his remote island home, but local doctors can't diagnose what ails him, and recommend he seek medical advice abroad.

His son Ian (JJ Feild) lives in San Francisco, across the pond in another dimension, with his wife Emily (Thora Birch) and infant son, where he pursues the culinary arts.

Rory's happy to meet his grandchild but isn't hip to new age parenting, or anything that doesn't snuggly fit within a rigid conception of manhood.

His son is moderately successful as is his resourceful wife, his father-in-law (Treat Williams as Frank Barron) offering him the opportunity to open his own chill restaurant.

But in order to so he must compromise, his newfound freedom clad in obedience, contesting tried and true dependable methods, which are highly suspicious of unheralded novelty.

His father is none too impressed with the deals that have to be made, and expresses himself to the contentious contrary, their age old argument flaring up, even after so many lost years.

Sometimes a simpler approach can clarify things or perhaps even save years of time, complicated procedures and multiple-egos standing in the way of unprecedented conception.

The Etruscan Smile celebrates direct communication within a prescriptive environment, all the while asking, "who's more uptight?", to generate critical sufferance.

Bucolic candour playfully contends as politesse loses its joyful direction, urban characters finding Rory endearing, since he isn't racist or vulgar or violent.

It's an innocent freespirited look at sharp alternatives begrudgingly blended, reminding peeps not to forget their roots, even in the midst of intense abstraction.

I don't know, if someone's willing to finance your own restaurant, you'd think you'd compromise a bit on the menu, until such a time as it's turning a profit, after which you could add unique spices.

But where to draw the line on compromise?, that's a tricky business.

I imagine success is more rewarding if you do things your own way, but how do you ever accomplish anything working on your own?

Rory never left his isolated island. Where he owned property and never had to change.

Where going to the pub sufficed.

And nothing passed by unnoticed.

His adventure to San Francisco is still enlivening and full of pluck, an elevation of blunt distinction that doesn't come across as reckless.

Too reckless. 😌

If unfiltered wild rapscallions can adjust so can upscale pride.

But they both have to be willing to adjust.

Perhaps Biden can make it happen.

With Rosanna Arquette (Claudia), Peter Coyote (the Professor), and Tim Matheson (Weiss).

A bit farfetched.

But held together well.

The Condor & The Eagle

It's a shame other ways can't be found to generate mass profits for businesses and people, the question being, why does oil and gas and mineral exploration generate so much cash, while so many other industries simply can't compare?

During the last Federal election campaign, Elizabeth May claimed there were hundreds if not thousands of decent green jobs waiting to be created, if I remember correctly, an idea stated by the Leap Manifesto as well I believe, I'd like to learn more about this potentiality if there are related books available, bustling economies are a wonderful thing, and if the potential for green economies is reasonable, why aren't politicians doing more to create them?

I'm not looking to replace the mineral resources sector with green economies until a genius comes along who can make dependable coffee makers out of fruits and vegetables, although reducing their environmental impacts is always a top priority, and I'm hoping that idea isn't as far-fetched as it sounds (hemp perhaps?), as we continue to find ways to combat global warming.

We're too heavily reliant on oil and metal to stop seeking new sources in the moment, and too many people's livelihoods depend on them to write them off without much forethought.

Oil's become much harder to extract, however, and vulnerable remote ecosystems are being heavily relied upon, with disastrous ecological effects, and none too comfy hard-edged working environments.

Far away from home.

And the remote locations are sometimes home to thousands of people who would rather not develop oil and gas resources.

If they say "no", it should mean "no".

Another location should be found.

But other locations aren't found and the issues interminably proliferate in the media, often reaching a dire conclusion, if objective fair play isn't judicially leveraged.

The Condor & The Eagle presents many activists fighting to save their lands on the combative frontlines.

Their stories are courageous and inspiring, as they fight back with neither time nor resources.

I've said it before, and others have too, how do you get a group of highly specialized academics or scientists to agree about anything, no matter how insignificant?, but even with all that compelling individuality, the vast majority of them firmly believe in climate change.

And have proof to back up their claims which so often fall on deaf ears.

You would think resource extraction would be more environmentally sound since they've had so much time to develop green methodologies, but nothing's as simple as these variable ideas relate.

If someone did find a way to mass market pure biotechnology, they'd probably be locked-up for life.

But it's clear that we need to transition away from oil and gas and likely should have started some time ago.

It goes without saying that it's dangerous to be so reliant on one energy source (so many "ages" came to an end).

We have the means to start transitioning.

Why don't oil and gas producers find a way to capitalize on them?

While decreasing highly dangerous and questionable expenditures?

The Out-of-Towners

Prospects are good.

A new job with a higher salary awaits George Kellerman (Jack Lemmon) in New York, if he can only get there for an early morning interview that's little more than a formality.

His company's booked a nice room for him and his wife Gwen (Sandy Dennis) at the Waldorf-Astoria, and dinner reservations have been made for something tasty at a well-known restaurant.

George is rather high strung and used to smooth procedures, and Gwen comfortably contributes as the moment tightly clarifies.

If things go well, or fine and dandy, it's coveted routine amelioration, complete with collegial rewards to animate prim neutrality.

They've been picket fenced for quite some time in a quiet and peaceful suburb, not that they aren't capable of jazzing things up, it's just been awhile since they've wildly departed.

Unfortunately, they can't land in New York and are rerouted to Boston after a lengthy delay (also a cool city [Montréal's cooler!]), circling the city aggrieved overhead, without even a cold cup of coffee.

There's a train they can take if they make it on time to ensure all's not lost in the shuffle, but they arrive just a wee bit too late without patience or tolerance or luggage.

Nerve though, they've got plenty of nerve, and where they're going they'll surely need it, what follows is a disastrous set of circumstances, dire perseverance firmly necessitated.

Your mood is bound to improve.

Like Planes, Trains & Automobiles without the light touch.

Neil Simon's script spares no indignity as the Kellerman's attempt to settle in, constant frustrating incredible discomfort constantly seeking haywire dysfunction.

An analysis of blood pressure resolutely surging and disbelief grimly wallowing unpronounced, proceeds unabashed and assuming sans relief disenchanting throughout.

There's the wolf joke from The Lobster that sees things through to wanton implosion, and then there's the entire script from The Out-of-Towners that presents supreme unadulterated disillusionment.

After viewing it the whole things sounds nuts but it's convincing and practical in the moment, every mishap leaving just the slightest thread of hope, to which they cling with begrudged disquietude.

Perfect role for the uptight Lemmon who proclaims with paramount dissonance, and Sandy Dennis impresses as well, as she becomes more and more disengaged.

I was hoping the virus would let up as nicer weather quietly blossomed, but things aren't improving that much, and it's difficult to know what not to be frustrated about.

The Out-of-Towners bluntly distracts from COVID-19's global grasp, nevertheless.

I highly recommend it.

For a bit of humorous distraction.

*The release of this review was postponed out of respect for #BlackLivesMatter, #BlackoutTuesday, #TheShowMustBePaused, and the peaceful George Floyd protests.

Vivre sa vie

The art of presenting freespirited conversation that seems genuinely inspired in rhythm, that isn't mad or crazed or nutso, nor inspired by the master narrative.

I believe they're called sweet nothings even if they're critically articulated beyond romance, motivating neither king nor country, so vivaciously juxtaposed.

Imagine dialogue beyond jurisprudence, without concern for cookie cut expenditures, as if random commentary indeed suffices, depending on mood and role play.

The bizarro theories you might hear at work, a spirited notion betwixt the pines (polarities), observations spontaneously stylizing offhand fleeting rootless import.

Meaning's often so ostentatious, so grandiose, so definitive, so prime, so concerned with cause and effect that it dishevels as it seeks to clarify.

I suppose during times like these serious messages are positive things, delivered from leading figures (Prime Ministers, Premiers, Mayors, Queens), even if they're super intense. The pandemic is super intense and it's nice to see politicians care. Vivre sa vie is for a different time. Even if its ending is rather acidic.

It's a shame she wanted the money and didn't possess greater situational awareness. But that's precisely what makes her so appealing (Anna Karina as Nana Kleinfrankenheim) as she inquisitively coasts through life.

Her comments evocatively disrupt stately bland quotidian decorum, not in a manner that's trite or scandalous, more like light thoughtful curious sleuthing.

Like she's asking questions that haven't been preconditioned to align themselves with historical baggage, beyond categorical boundaries, which practitioners often lament.

Not that the content of such boundaries doesn't change remarkably, but the form often remains the same, as it's characterized by different approaches to high-stakes protracted meaning.

It's nice to meet people who are unfamiliar with the codes and stratagems, their lives like waking dreams, assuming things aren't authoritarian, they're relatively bold and free.

They're appealing im/precisely because they don't make sense, and demand you consider new cogent classifications, to discover what they're trying to say, even if you have to improvise a context.

Don't be dismissive for too long, or that regenerative spark of peculiar novelty may transform into something less captivating, solidifying as time passes.

That's how you expand upon limitations and diversify semantic relevance, if you can't figure it out just chill, it may have already been forgotten.

Imagine books integral to a film that philosophizes as it zines, like a bird as it moves on the ground without flight, not that it doesn't freely soar through unique interactive heights, it just would have been more uplifting without the hardboiled recourse (or the prostitution).

A practical warning nonetheless that blends carefree thought with economic depression.

It could have been so much less drastic.

The library's free of charge.

Had no idea what it was about when I decided to watch it.

Was just another Godard I hadn't seen.

O slavnosti a hostech (A Report on the Party and Guests)

A group of freespirited observant individuals head out to relax unassuming, their picnic presenting a wide host of delectable goods, the conversation light yet piqued and thought provoking, friendship electrifying as time saunters on.

An important figure is celebrating a marriage in the same embowered locale, and for a while lets them rest undisturbed, before deciding to bluntly interrupt them.

They have no authority throughout the land and there's no one they can call to complain, since the authorities are causing the disturbance, for shits and giggles, or so it seems.

Lines are drawn in the pasteurized sanctuary which cannot be freely crossed, as a goon exercises lavish contempt, and asks questions with no apparent purpose.

Rebellion defies him and attempts to depart only to be challenged head on and resolutely, as others seek peaceful relations, and their captors slowly lose interest.

But then the figure makes an appearance and offers sympathetic glad hands at first, inviting them to take part in the festivities, which are about to get under way.

Some see opportunity knocking and their mild-manners are quickly rewarded, with dialogue and coveted seats, first hand insights into the ruling party.

But one of them secretly resents his cherished freedoms being taken away, and disappears when no one is watching, to the dismay of his newfound liege.

A political hallucination allegorically attired interrogates freedom within stark constraints, as O slavnosti a hostech (A Report on the Party and Guests) discerns eruditely, and characters adopt instinctual remonstrance.

Or sycophancy, or just plain curiosity, the situation tempts what's out of the ordinary, but only after order's established, and initial taunts are dressed up bemused.

How to best proceed can depend upon manifold factors, and trying to clarify which set you've encountered can unsettle 'til patterns accrue.

Like any job interview their caught unaware, yet hoping to make a good impression, displaying their wits and applicable abilities, with lively caution and cheerful goodwill.

But the allegory extends beyond work and independent thought will not be tolerated.

No passing by unnoticed.

Every movement a stockpiled brand.

Nice, anyways, when there's freedom to be had in the evening, and relativistic wonder romanticizes life.

How leading figures lose sight of this at times I'll never know, apart from COVID-19 measures, even if they must lay down the law.

Collective working days, individualistic nights, perhaps provide a working balance.

Constant adherence to everything disenchants so much endeavour.

Equinox

Good weather and the desire for companionship lead two carefree couples to picnic one afternoon, gathered together in the spirit of goodwill, prepared to taste nutritious treats, happy to be spending time with one another, chillin' full-on tranquil.

But the idyllic bright tranquility has been somewhat befouled, for an eccentric teacher's house no longer permits habitation, and a creepy ranger keeps presenting an off-putting watchful eye.

Soon they have descended deep within an imposing cave, wherein an elder has turned hysterical, and an ancient tome contracts forbidden.

Attempting to read the oldest school text proves taxing and disenchanting, since it's been multilinguistically composed, in languages which were never legibly conceived, even if clues can still be deciphered.

Pertaining to good and evil, corporeal spiritual metaphysics, distinct symbols demonically extrapolated, spellbound subtleties symptomatically stricken.

Giant monsters are soon detected.

Chaotically posturing at will.

And the ranger is in leagues with Satan.

Their prosperous futures have been jeopardized.

But bravery confrontationally materializes and the inspired romantics do fearsome battle, the monsters unaccustomed to spirited challenge, the ranger withdrawing in awestruck fright.

As Equinox strides and flexes.

Fully conscious of its ludicrous anxiety.

Not your typical underground comedy nor your harbinger of text forthcoming, Equinox proceeds with the utmost sincerity, even if it's inherently nuts.

Throw rocks. Get its attention.

At all times decisions are made with abounding assured confidence, yet consistency remains ephemeral, logical harmonies instinctually sashayed, it's pure distraughtest nutter.

But if confidence itself is a pancultural guarantor of reason, does Equinox's reflexive reckonings not uplift extemporaneous logic?

Does the fluid agile agency ascertained in its campy reels not reflect the social norms required to assert auras of authenticity?

I'm not certain although I won't deny humorous elevations of intuitive wisdom.

As delivered with tactile courage.

Intensified at play.

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.