Tragedy strikes, and an orphaned youth (Owen Vaccaro as Lewis Barnavelt) must move to his estranged uncle's, an eccentric man (Jack Black as Jonathon Barnavelt) whose specialized gifts were vilified by his once adoring family, although his devoted sister truly never stopped loving him.
His house is somewhat peculiar, and as young Lewis settles in, manifold bewitching anthropomorphized elements poetically particularize at random, his uncle and encyclopaedic neighbour (Cate Blanchett as Florence Zimmerman) living distinctly spellbound lives, Lewis's own attuned well-defined semantic inquiries suggesting he will make an apt pupil indeed, they forge an enchanting inclusive didactic openminded consensus, freely uplifting curious minds, unstructured tutelage impacting at play, fantastically composed, like any local library.
Perhaps Lewis may have benefitted from more guidance, however, for soon, in an effort to make friends, he's broken his uncle's only rule, and an evil warlock (Kyle MacLachlan as Isaac Izard) has returned from the grave.
Hellbent on destroying the world which nonetheless seems intent on self-destructing, his spirit crushed after fighting in World War II, he moves back to his once joyous abode, unleashing mayhem despotically thereafter.
Crimson glade.
The House with a Clock in its Walls could have been so much more.
Does every fantasy film have to prevent the destruction of the world these days, or has it simply always been a fundamental aspect?
Is anyone making independent hip artsy fantasy films that aren't animated?
Here we have a wonderful film rich with artful eccentricity overflowing with creative synergies still blindly focused on the end of the world.
Can't fantasy concentrate on creating narratives that are a bit less prone to armageddon, because it really just seems tacked on to this one?
Does the end of the world in fact symbolize the end of one's youth, and is that why fantastic heroes must nimbly face it?
Still though, every time?
Instead of Lewis developing a friendship that's diversified throughout with sympathetic Rose Rita Pottinger (Vanessa Anne Williams), it doesn't happen until the film's final moments.
Instead of Lewis spending at least 7 minutes inspecting his new home by himself, replete with tension and bewilderment and frights and disbelief, a sequence which emphasizes that he's just moved to a new house in a new town following a tragic event, he simply looks around a bit, and freaks when he discovers magic's real.
Denying the auspices of the forbidden.
Clock in its Walls is too blunt, everything happens too quickly, there aren't any build-ups/questions that-go-unanswered/jigsaws/mysteries, it's much too obvious for a film that celebrates originality and never even really decoratively surpasses Pee-wee's Playhouse, even with all its technological expertise.
Why doesn't Florence have a memorable moment where she resplendently shines and figuratively pays back her tyrannical oppressors?
It would have been so #metoo!
Why is the only serious obstacle the trio faces a patch of vicious pumpkins near the end?
Details!
A film as appealing as this one would have benefitted from at least 78 more details/references to cleverly expand upon its traditional yet compelling premise.
The seeds are sewn but don't take root.
Isn't it blasé to make everything so global in the age of globalization?
Another 40 minutes would have been great.
A fun film to watch that misses out on incredible opportunities.
Friday, October 5, 2018
Tuesday, October 2, 2018
Don't Worry, He Won't Get Far on Foot
I suppose I write about pastis, or red wine, or craft beer, from time to time.
This may give the wrong impression.
Do I enjoy drinking the exceptional craft beer brewed in Québec and elsewhere?
Yes, many of them are quite good.
Red wine and pastis, also quite good.
But, after one too many parties 15-20 years ago, I found ways to generally limit my drinking that enabled me to actually enjoy what I drink, instead of just drinking whatever.
Moving to a city where English isn't the primary means of communication and having to find work helped, as does having to start work between 5 and 6:30am most of the time.
The most important rule: stay away from the hard stuff.
Just one if there's a brand you particularly like, and enjoy it slowly after a hard week of dedicated work.
Plus never drink if you're sad or you feel like you have to, and take your time while you have a drink, take it easy, orinoco flow.
If you feel like you really have to have a drink try drinking something non-alcoholic like soda or orange juice or something with pineapple. Drink 4 or 5 of them. Keep your thirst occupied.
It's way less expensive than alcohol.
And can be healthy in some instances.
There's also non-alcoholic beer.
But come on.
That's disgusting.
Gus Van Sant's Don't Worry, He Won't Get Far on Foot looks at several lives destroyed by alcoholism, focusing primarily on a quadriplegic cartoonist named John Callahan (Joaquin Phoenix).
He hit the hard stuff full-speed-ahead one night and wound up immobilized for life.
He's super mischievous though, he doesn't let the misfortune get him too down, zipping through town on his motorized wheelchair like it's a Lamborghini, finding artistic ways to express himself and a corresponding job at a local paper.
It helps that he finds a cool partner (Rooney Mara as Annu), and an Alcoholics Anonymous group whose grizzly empathy helps him tone it down a notch or two.
Strange film
Tough fucker.
It defies expectations inasmuch as you'd expect it to depict John suffering intensely, despair pervading throughout in order to function as a solemn indictment.
It's still gloomy, Callahan's confined to a wheelchair and can hardly move, and he does break down at times, but Van Sant showcases his inspiring resilience as well, like an odd blend of the Le scaphandre et le papillon and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, with hints of Almodóvar.
Well-acted, directed, perhaps too light considering the gravity of the situation, but there are some heartfelt moments of acknowledged bitter regret too.
And teams.
Teamwork.
The cartoons are funny but remember making light of the intense suffering of others can have horrendous consequences if it's applied politically.
If you can't come up with something else that's funny, it's possible that, you suck.
Or are extremely lazy.
A glass of wine and then bed for me.
I swear cultural osmosis has taught me a French secret.
I also spend more freely than I used to.
And still like going out from time to time.
This may give the wrong impression.
Do I enjoy drinking the exceptional craft beer brewed in Québec and elsewhere?
Yes, many of them are quite good.
Red wine and pastis, also quite good.
But, after one too many parties 15-20 years ago, I found ways to generally limit my drinking that enabled me to actually enjoy what I drink, instead of just drinking whatever.
Moving to a city where English isn't the primary means of communication and having to find work helped, as does having to start work between 5 and 6:30am most of the time.
The most important rule: stay away from the hard stuff.
Just one if there's a brand you particularly like, and enjoy it slowly after a hard week of dedicated work.
Plus never drink if you're sad or you feel like you have to, and take your time while you have a drink, take it easy, orinoco flow.
If you feel like you really have to have a drink try drinking something non-alcoholic like soda or orange juice or something with pineapple. Drink 4 or 5 of them. Keep your thirst occupied.
It's way less expensive than alcohol.
And can be healthy in some instances.
There's also non-alcoholic beer.
But come on.
That's disgusting.
Gus Van Sant's Don't Worry, He Won't Get Far on Foot looks at several lives destroyed by alcoholism, focusing primarily on a quadriplegic cartoonist named John Callahan (Joaquin Phoenix).
He hit the hard stuff full-speed-ahead one night and wound up immobilized for life.
He's super mischievous though, he doesn't let the misfortune get him too down, zipping through town on his motorized wheelchair like it's a Lamborghini, finding artistic ways to express himself and a corresponding job at a local paper.
It helps that he finds a cool partner (Rooney Mara as Annu), and an Alcoholics Anonymous group whose grizzly empathy helps him tone it down a notch or two.
Strange film
Tough fucker.
It defies expectations inasmuch as you'd expect it to depict John suffering intensely, despair pervading throughout in order to function as a solemn indictment.
It's still gloomy, Callahan's confined to a wheelchair and can hardly move, and he does break down at times, but Van Sant showcases his inspiring resilience as well, like an odd blend of the Le scaphandre et le papillon and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, with hints of Almodóvar.
Well-acted, directed, perhaps too light considering the gravity of the situation, but there are some heartfelt moments of acknowledged bitter regret too.
And teams.
Teamwork.
The cartoons are funny but remember making light of the intense suffering of others can have horrendous consequences if it's applied politically.
If you can't come up with something else that's funny, it's possible that, you suck.
Or are extremely lazy.
A glass of wine and then bed for me.
I swear cultural osmosis has taught me a French secret.
I also spend more freely than I used to.
And still like going out from time to time.
Friday, September 28, 2018
Madeline's Madeline
Raw inimitable frothing exuberant talent exasperated within deductive convention extemporaneously seething through.
Misunderstandings contraceptively disputing improvised codes maladroitly enfeebling eruptive creative scripture, diminutive tisane steeped in self-doubt ominous reckless outbursts wildly stricken angst.
No rules.
No mentor.
Consuming instinct cognizant of its gravity elementally composing ephemeral truths, the art of reflecting a god's experimental impulses editing in universal flux, objectives unrecognized ceaseless mismatched byproducts tempering environmental exfoliation; arboreal glimpses sowing conscious splash.
Climatology.
Raindrops.
She's phenomenal.
Constant motion excavating incorporeal archaeological feeling clasped in whisked conjecture verifiably asymmetrically drawn.
Random impulse subconsciously sleuthing bare recalcitrants embroiled revealed.
Ethereal alma mater intuitively grasped like love blindly struck with congenital nuisance empiric moisture foam.
Mama lynx still a kit feisty mews mystified matriculating.
Exotic overtures.
Prone discomfort.
Abstruse grammar attuned not specialized boldly stoked constrained gusts briskly pounced moans rosetta.
Obscene exhaustion retail shock.
Peace of mind on stage.
Constituent convalescence.
Emotional infinities planetary permutations feline fluctuation omniscient ceremony.
Bertha dans la zone.
It's like performance anxiety is strictly material as Madeline (Helena Howard) disconcertingly asserts stratos.
Duelling with classification.
Alternatives strictly conceived.
Misunderstandings contraceptively disputing improvised codes maladroitly enfeebling eruptive creative scripture, diminutive tisane steeped in self-doubt ominous reckless outbursts wildly stricken angst.
No rules.
No mentor.
Consuming instinct cognizant of its gravity elementally composing ephemeral truths, the art of reflecting a god's experimental impulses editing in universal flux, objectives unrecognized ceaseless mismatched byproducts tempering environmental exfoliation; arboreal glimpses sowing conscious splash.
Climatology.
Raindrops.
She's phenomenal.
Constant motion excavating incorporeal archaeological feeling clasped in whisked conjecture verifiably asymmetrically drawn.
Random impulse subconsciously sleuthing bare recalcitrants embroiled revealed.
Ethereal alma mater intuitively grasped like love blindly struck with congenital nuisance empiric moisture foam.
Mama lynx still a kit feisty mews mystified matriculating.
Exotic overtures.
Prone discomfort.
Abstruse grammar attuned not specialized boldly stoked constrained gusts briskly pounced moans rosetta.
Obscene exhaustion retail shock.
Peace of mind on stage.
Constituent convalescence.
Emotional infinities planetary permutations feline fluctuation omniscient ceremony.
Bertha dans la zone.
It's like performance anxiety is strictly material as Madeline (Helena Howard) disconcertingly asserts stratos.
Duelling with classification.
Alternatives strictly conceived.
Tuesday, September 25, 2018
Juliet, Naked
A long-term relationship, once overflowing with amorous bounty, has fallen into a state of blind extraction, one partner remaining guiltless as the other pans and prospects, crass dismissive routine having disenchanted glib absorption.
Duncan Thomson (Chris O'Dowd) is quite successful for someone who's become even more enamoured with the music of his youth as he's aged, a rare highly-specialized peculiarity who's found both stimulating employment and an irresistible mate without having to adjust his lifestyle, at all, like an uncompromised established radical nerd god I suppose, who may have been diagnosed autistic if he hadn't learned to tame distracting obsessions, level-headed if not unique, examining non-Dickensian media pedagogically throughout the day.
Annie Platt (Rose Byrne) is also a success yet puts up with more bullshit than most women I know would for five minutes. She's spent too many years acquiescing and it's unfortunately resulted in stalemate.
When suddenly, as if a rival divinity decided to mystify his or her earthly spiritual contemporaries, she writes a critical review of the artist Duncan fetishizes, and shortly thereafter, that very same singer/songwriter, one Tucker Crowe (Ethan Hawke), makes first intuitive contact.
Crowe's soon visiting town after attending an hospitable family reunion close by (he's from the States and Annie lives in Britain), and the two hit it off even though/because they're both rather charmingly unsure of themselves.
Multiple characters offering myriad commentaries accompany them as they exchange goods, stewing an atypical bourgeois pot roast of sorts which narratively generates free-flowing conceptual sustenance.
From Annie's worldly lesbian sister (Lily Brazier as Ros Platt) to her town's mayoral sensation (Phil Davis as Mayor Terry Barton) to the subject of an old school photograph (Ninette Finch) to Tucker's thoughtful son Jackson (Azhy Robertson), an active international urbanely pastoral assertive inoffensive multigenerational cluster thoughtfully protrudes, constant flux radiating concerted solitude, domestic clutches loosening vows seized.
Unmarried vows.
Whatever.
The main characters aren't one-dimensional pin-ups either, evolving crises and resurgent settlements interrogatively finagling initial semantic outlines, as a matter of psychological flexibility openly conciliated, in spite of pretence recalled.
Tucker Crowe isn't ideal or anything, but he's changed and is much more responsible than he used to be.
Breakdowns still regularly accompany his daily regimen, often brought on by legitimate grievances cunningly wielded by jaded yet prosperous former lovers.
Wives, partners, fans.
Children he's never met.
Duncan is a bit of a douche but you still feel for him when Crowe bluntly and insensitively ignores his questions, even if from Crowe's point of view he's that guy.
Juliet, Naked is a laidback multilayered serious comedic piece of exceptional screenwriting (Evgenia Peretz, Jim Taylor, and Tamara Jenkins), convincing personalities innocently/frankly/charitably/maturely/helplessly/judiciously observing otherworldly circumstances, while remaining committed to personal affairs which romanticize anaesthetic sensation.
Dozens of cool little ideas and points of view expertly weaved into a funny unconcerned profound teacup tapestry.
It doesn't acknowledge how ridiculous it all sounds.
Adroitly so.
I'll keep coming back to the hospital scene again and again, which was much too short.
Perfectly timed ending though.
Duncan Thomson (Chris O'Dowd) is quite successful for someone who's become even more enamoured with the music of his youth as he's aged, a rare highly-specialized peculiarity who's found both stimulating employment and an irresistible mate without having to adjust his lifestyle, at all, like an uncompromised established radical nerd god I suppose, who may have been diagnosed autistic if he hadn't learned to tame distracting obsessions, level-headed if not unique, examining non-Dickensian media pedagogically throughout the day.
Annie Platt (Rose Byrne) is also a success yet puts up with more bullshit than most women I know would for five minutes. She's spent too many years acquiescing and it's unfortunately resulted in stalemate.
When suddenly, as if a rival divinity decided to mystify his or her earthly spiritual contemporaries, she writes a critical review of the artist Duncan fetishizes, and shortly thereafter, that very same singer/songwriter, one Tucker Crowe (Ethan Hawke), makes first intuitive contact.
Crowe's soon visiting town after attending an hospitable family reunion close by (he's from the States and Annie lives in Britain), and the two hit it off even though/because they're both rather charmingly unsure of themselves.
Multiple characters offering myriad commentaries accompany them as they exchange goods, stewing an atypical bourgeois pot roast of sorts which narratively generates free-flowing conceptual sustenance.
From Annie's worldly lesbian sister (Lily Brazier as Ros Platt) to her town's mayoral sensation (Phil Davis as Mayor Terry Barton) to the subject of an old school photograph (Ninette Finch) to Tucker's thoughtful son Jackson (Azhy Robertson), an active international urbanely pastoral assertive inoffensive multigenerational cluster thoughtfully protrudes, constant flux radiating concerted solitude, domestic clutches loosening vows seized.
Unmarried vows.
Whatever.
The main characters aren't one-dimensional pin-ups either, evolving crises and resurgent settlements interrogatively finagling initial semantic outlines, as a matter of psychological flexibility openly conciliated, in spite of pretence recalled.
Tucker Crowe isn't ideal or anything, but he's changed and is much more responsible than he used to be.
Breakdowns still regularly accompany his daily regimen, often brought on by legitimate grievances cunningly wielded by jaded yet prosperous former lovers.
Wives, partners, fans.
Children he's never met.
Duncan is a bit of a douche but you still feel for him when Crowe bluntly and insensitively ignores his questions, even if from Crowe's point of view he's that guy.
Juliet, Naked is a laidback multilayered serious comedic piece of exceptional screenwriting (Evgenia Peretz, Jim Taylor, and Tamara Jenkins), convincing personalities innocently/frankly/charitably/maturely/helplessly/judiciously observing otherworldly circumstances, while remaining committed to personal affairs which romanticize anaesthetic sensation.
Dozens of cool little ideas and points of view expertly weaved into a funny unconcerned profound teacup tapestry.
It doesn't acknowledge how ridiculous it all sounds.
Adroitly so.
I'll keep coming back to the hospital scene again and again, which was much too short.
Perfectly timed ending though.
Friday, September 21, 2018
1991
An unanticipated spontaneous exotic academic excursion adventurously unravels in sarsaparillic miniature, lighthearted yet fascinating inchoate escapades, romantically acculturated with pioneered social pause, randomly convivializing spades, hearts, haze, clubbing not focused upon although zesty quaffs do saturate several scenes, Ricardo Trogi's 1991 playfully depicting spirited leisure studies in autodidactic swoon, as Jean-Carl Boucher (Ricardo Trogi) recalls familial legends, and mischievously departs for his ancestral patria.
Could Ireland have been worked in?
Yes, definitely, and I'm puzzled as to why the Emerald Isle, in its everlasting effervescent temperate ginger majesty, was left out, although perhaps a less circuitous focus on Italy and France was more apt, even if such evocations overlooked Europe's authentic heartland.
Jean-Carl proceeds through the unknown cultural wilderness, meeting spry eclectic denizens along the way, transported by train across sundry frontiers, regionally speaking, elastically compiling histoires robust and brittle.
In search of truest love.
Studiously awaiting in Italy.
Troji's funny, clever, charmingly observant sojourn overseas presents ambassadorial serendipity in rugged improvisational catalyst.
Mom (Sandrine Bisson) and dad (Claudio Colangelo) still adorably co-ordinate conjugal theatrics, and the aforementioned legends add a touch of outlandish dynamism.
A series of imaginative encounters between Troji and love interest Marie-Ève Bernard (Juliette Gosselin) are particularly appealing, like you're magnetically transported into mock-Antonioniesque dire pragmatism.
It'd be cool to see them crafted into a feature length emulsion (just make sure it's better than Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid [which I may have been too young for when I saw it {and probably has nothing to do with Italian cinema]).
Troji's gifts for creating cool relatable yet quirky characters are cheerfully pronounced as he showcases interpersonal invention by briskly interweaving lost, ambitious, established, curious, and defined souls.
I'd love to see him hit le Saguenay.
With some Tante Tricotante.
And a night out in Tadoussac.
*Not as good as 1987.
Could Ireland have been worked in?
Yes, definitely, and I'm puzzled as to why the Emerald Isle, in its everlasting effervescent temperate ginger majesty, was left out, although perhaps a less circuitous focus on Italy and France was more apt, even if such evocations overlooked Europe's authentic heartland.
Jean-Carl proceeds through the unknown cultural wilderness, meeting spry eclectic denizens along the way, transported by train across sundry frontiers, regionally speaking, elastically compiling histoires robust and brittle.
In search of truest love.
Studiously awaiting in Italy.
Troji's funny, clever, charmingly observant sojourn overseas presents ambassadorial serendipity in rugged improvisational catalyst.
Mom (Sandrine Bisson) and dad (Claudio Colangelo) still adorably co-ordinate conjugal theatrics, and the aforementioned legends add a touch of outlandish dynamism.
A series of imaginative encounters between Troji and love interest Marie-Ève Bernard (Juliette Gosselin) are particularly appealing, like you're magnetically transported into mock-Antonioniesque dire pragmatism.
It'd be cool to see them crafted into a feature length emulsion (just make sure it's better than Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid [which I may have been too young for when I saw it {and probably has nothing to do with Italian cinema]).
Troji's gifts for creating cool relatable yet quirky characters are cheerfully pronounced as he showcases interpersonal invention by briskly interweaving lost, ambitious, established, curious, and defined souls.
I'd love to see him hit le Saguenay.
With some Tante Tricotante.
And a night out in Tadoussac.
*Not as good as 1987.
Tuesday, September 18, 2018
La Tenerezza (Tenderness)
Stubbornness and pride abound in Gianni Amelio's La Tenerezza, as a widower takes a shine to a family next door, while continuing to neglect his own middle-aged offspring, who shamelessly covet their litigious inheritance.
His extramarital appetites produced profound resentment in his young, and his unwillingness to accept responsibility have fostered distraught enmities.
The young family is energetic and full of life, curiosity boundlessly blooming as mother and little ones inspect undiscovered surroundings.
Lorenzo (Renato Carpentieri) finds himself offering fatherly advice and even develops kind friendships with both partners, sharing observations grumpily withheld from daughter and son with his unknown endearing impulsive new neighbours.
Something's not quite right though, Fabio (Elio Germano) often sharing awkward sad thoughts to which Lorenzo responds with empathy.
And as the joy from Amélie is pathologically reconceptualized, La Tenerezza admonishes adventurous spirits, the ramifications of settling with mindsets unsound, obtusely effecting tenants newfound, while those grown accustomed to habitual means, pay full price for taxing soirées indiscreet.
Redemption is sought however misplaced temperate reckonings bearing choice succulent fruits.
The film rhetorically narrativizes clashes between longstanding and recently confirmed residents to examine belonging and community from less romantic social ordeals.
Tenderness breaks through but as a cold heart convalesces psychological precedents confound poised rebirths.
Depicting a less cheerful array of realistic sentiments, losses disparaged erupt with molten inadmissibility.
Its mistrust of male refugees isn't counterbalanced by dependable claimants, even if said mistrust is ostensibly the byproduct of Lorenzo's infidelities, childhood trauma effecting his daughter Elena's (Giovanna Mezzogiorno) professional and personal lives, her inability to trust men perhaps resulting in cynical isolation.
Xenophobia's still xenophobia even when it's intellectually contextualized.
Leaving audiences to sift through clues presented to clarify semantic stresses may ambiguously impress, but effects still hauntingly linger long after characters heal from hard fought lessons.
His extramarital appetites produced profound resentment in his young, and his unwillingness to accept responsibility have fostered distraught enmities.
The young family is energetic and full of life, curiosity boundlessly blooming as mother and little ones inspect undiscovered surroundings.
Lorenzo (Renato Carpentieri) finds himself offering fatherly advice and even develops kind friendships with both partners, sharing observations grumpily withheld from daughter and son with his unknown endearing impulsive new neighbours.
Something's not quite right though, Fabio (Elio Germano) often sharing awkward sad thoughts to which Lorenzo responds with empathy.
And as the joy from Amélie is pathologically reconceptualized, La Tenerezza admonishes adventurous spirits, the ramifications of settling with mindsets unsound, obtusely effecting tenants newfound, while those grown accustomed to habitual means, pay full price for taxing soirées indiscreet.
Redemption is sought however misplaced temperate reckonings bearing choice succulent fruits.
The film rhetorically narrativizes clashes between longstanding and recently confirmed residents to examine belonging and community from less romantic social ordeals.
Tenderness breaks through but as a cold heart convalesces psychological precedents confound poised rebirths.
Depicting a less cheerful array of realistic sentiments, losses disparaged erupt with molten inadmissibility.
Its mistrust of male refugees isn't counterbalanced by dependable claimants, even if said mistrust is ostensibly the byproduct of Lorenzo's infidelities, childhood trauma effecting his daughter Elena's (Giovanna Mezzogiorno) professional and personal lives, her inability to trust men perhaps resulting in cynical isolation.
Xenophobia's still xenophobia even when it's intellectually contextualized.
Leaving audiences to sift through clues presented to clarify semantic stresses may ambiguously impress, but effects still hauntingly linger long after characters heal from hard fought lessons.
Friday, September 14, 2018
Puzzle
You've played the video game thousands of times.
You're good at it.
You know the secrets for every level.
But you've played it over and over and over again to the point where it seems like you're stuck on an easy level forever, with no hope of playing something more challenging or diversifying your agile technique 'til the unforeseeable corked end of time.
Others don't seem to understand.
They like their levels.
They don't mind the routine.
But one day an unexpected diversion suddenly reignites cognitive passions which then exhilaratingly intensify an otherwise typical afternoon.
The predictable structure which has been forlornly upheld for what seems like eons finds itself briefly reinvigorated with novel motivational amelioration.
Harmless enough, additional challenges are sought the pursuit of which reveals hidden wonders complexly layered with alternative options, the new game's design possessing limitless imagination stretched across borderless frontiers inhabited by seemingly infinite individualities stressing nothing indistinct in particular.
The thrilling rush of discovery.
Invaluably articulated.
Marc Turtletaub's Puzzle adventurously fitting these pieces together to modestly celebrate romantic parentheses, each partner a redefined wilderness slowly homesteading unfurnished habitations.
Inexhaustible permutations.
Storylines, respect abounding and although some characters could be less rigid, none of them are presented angelically or monstrously.
Choice is vindicated, Puzzle's like an innocent investigation of manifold worlds the characteristics of which envelope varying degrees of boredom or fascination while taking factors like mood, time, compatibility, and eccentricity into account, leaving abundant room for interrogative developments, catalysts and breadcrumbs, Easter eggs and fireworks atmospherically blending, what's different today?, what can be creatively stitched and spooled?
With a brilliant ending.
Emerging in timeless craft.
You're good at it.
You know the secrets for every level.
But you've played it over and over and over again to the point where it seems like you're stuck on an easy level forever, with no hope of playing something more challenging or diversifying your agile technique 'til the unforeseeable corked end of time.
Others don't seem to understand.
They like their levels.
They don't mind the routine.
But one day an unexpected diversion suddenly reignites cognitive passions which then exhilaratingly intensify an otherwise typical afternoon.
The predictable structure which has been forlornly upheld for what seems like eons finds itself briefly reinvigorated with novel motivational amelioration.
Harmless enough, additional challenges are sought the pursuit of which reveals hidden wonders complexly layered with alternative options, the new game's design possessing limitless imagination stretched across borderless frontiers inhabited by seemingly infinite individualities stressing nothing indistinct in particular.
The thrilling rush of discovery.
Invaluably articulated.
Marc Turtletaub's Puzzle adventurously fitting these pieces together to modestly celebrate romantic parentheses, each partner a redefined wilderness slowly homesteading unfurnished habitations.
Inexhaustible permutations.
Storylines, respect abounding and although some characters could be less rigid, none of them are presented angelically or monstrously.
Choice is vindicated, Puzzle's like an innocent investigation of manifold worlds the characteristics of which envelope varying degrees of boredom or fascination while taking factors like mood, time, compatibility, and eccentricity into account, leaving abundant room for interrogative developments, catalysts and breadcrumbs, Easter eggs and fireworks atmospherically blending, what's different today?, what can be creatively stitched and spooled?
With a brilliant ending.
Emerging in timeless craft.
Tuesday, September 11, 2018
Papillon
Entrenched plutocrats, none too pleased with having been fooled, frame a specialized romantic thief with most scandalous murder.
As lucrative sums casually discern culpability, a bright future slowly fades into unimaginative oblivion.
Banished from France and sent to live in an isolated penal colony, Henri 'Papillon' Charrière (Charlie Hunnam) sets his aggrieved broken heart on escaping.
Fellow less pugilistic prisoner Louis Dega (Rami Malek) provides financial backing in exchange for loyal security, having been rightfully convicted for counterfeiting, the proceeds of which he's partially brought along.
But careless plans, foolish declarations, inclement weather, and treacherous saviours incrementally spoil their impromptu soliloquies, extended time in solitary confinement awaiting, for as long as an excruciating non-negotiable 5 years.
Many spent in total darkness.
Yet Papillon will not forget his cherished homeland (or Québec perhaps [it doesn't come up {would it have been that hard to include a scene where he considers settling in Montréal?}]) nor curtail his efforts to one day return.
As stubborn and incorrigible as he is death-defying, he embraces the unknown with devout frenzied reverence.
If only a love of nature had been inculcated at a young age, the jungles of French Guiana no doubt would have overflowed with tropical sustenance.
But as things would have it, or rather as this somewhat bland account would present them, Papillon continues to trust the small closely-knit members of his colonialist enclave's upper echelons, rather than the bounty of the forbidden wild, only to see severe punishments increase as time lugubriously passes by.
Papillon's somewhat too light for such grave subject matter, too bare, too superficial.
I wanted to learn more about its fascinating characters and listen as they plotted while getting to know one another, but the film only develops one individual diminutively, and it's not even Papillon, the resultant blunt dialogues leaving little room to manoeuvre, even though for decades they must have had nothing but conversation to console themselves.
The crafty Rami Malek effortlessly steals every scene he's in, adding multifaceted flourishes throughout which prove his voice would extoll first rate animation.
But he's like the gold particles in a dull textbook slab of cinematic ore, brilliantly shining through before fading as it's lit up explicitly.
With possibly the least surreal dream sequence I've ever seen.
Hardened inmates innocently greeting one another like they're at Summer camp.
Hardly any time spent actually planning their escapes.
Even less considering the outside world.
Papillon's much more like a caterpillar, covering far too long a period without managing to produce much depth.
Lots of fighting though, nobility of spirit versus basic instinct and such, and even if they dependably relied on one another, it still seems as if they were simply chugging along.
Shizam.
As lucrative sums casually discern culpability, a bright future slowly fades into unimaginative oblivion.
Banished from France and sent to live in an isolated penal colony, Henri 'Papillon' Charrière (Charlie Hunnam) sets his aggrieved broken heart on escaping.
Fellow less pugilistic prisoner Louis Dega (Rami Malek) provides financial backing in exchange for loyal security, having been rightfully convicted for counterfeiting, the proceeds of which he's partially brought along.
But careless plans, foolish declarations, inclement weather, and treacherous saviours incrementally spoil their impromptu soliloquies, extended time in solitary confinement awaiting, for as long as an excruciating non-negotiable 5 years.
Many spent in total darkness.
Yet Papillon will not forget his cherished homeland (or Québec perhaps [it doesn't come up {would it have been that hard to include a scene where he considers settling in Montréal?}]) nor curtail his efforts to one day return.
As stubborn and incorrigible as he is death-defying, he embraces the unknown with devout frenzied reverence.
If only a love of nature had been inculcated at a young age, the jungles of French Guiana no doubt would have overflowed with tropical sustenance.
But as things would have it, or rather as this somewhat bland account would present them, Papillon continues to trust the small closely-knit members of his colonialist enclave's upper echelons, rather than the bounty of the forbidden wild, only to see severe punishments increase as time lugubriously passes by.
Papillon's somewhat too light for such grave subject matter, too bare, too superficial.
I wanted to learn more about its fascinating characters and listen as they plotted while getting to know one another, but the film only develops one individual diminutively, and it's not even Papillon, the resultant blunt dialogues leaving little room to manoeuvre, even though for decades they must have had nothing but conversation to console themselves.
The crafty Rami Malek effortlessly steals every scene he's in, adding multifaceted flourishes throughout which prove his voice would extoll first rate animation.
But he's like the gold particles in a dull textbook slab of cinematic ore, brilliantly shining through before fading as it's lit up explicitly.
With possibly the least surreal dream sequence I've ever seen.
Hardened inmates innocently greeting one another like they're at Summer camp.
Hardly any time spent actually planning their escapes.
Even less considering the outside world.
Papillon's much more like a caterpillar, covering far too long a period without managing to produce much depth.
Lots of fighting though, nobility of spirit versus basic instinct and such, and even if they dependably relied on one another, it still seems as if they were simply chugging along.
Shizam.
Friday, September 7, 2018
A Room with A View
Sometimes it's important to make decisions when you lack knowledge and comprehension.
Contemplating exponential hypotheticals may only serve to sterilize raw emotions unpredictably cascading themselves as the unexpected taxonomically qualifies spontaneity.
Trying to make sense of them may result in an otherwise splendid evening stifled, presumption and preconception phantasmagorically belittling the experimental as if romance (or science) were something to be categorically disillusioned, prior to making first contact without ever having trusted irresponsibly.
Vacations during which you encounter individuals possessing alternative viewpoints semantically nurtured beyond localized frontiers can have rapturous effects, as they do in James Ivory's A Room with a View, as studious Lucy Honeychurch (Helena Bonham Carter) meets daring George Emerson (Julian Sands) and potentialities previously merely conceptualized suddenly invoke unconsidered epistemic senses.
Practically so.
Even if less emotional interactions are to be found in relationships forthcoming, the memories of those fleeting moments may effervescently characterize the dependably conjugal with adventurous imaginatively epic allegories, narratively liaised in intricate domestic reverie.
Unless the thrilling distraction should appear back home at a point in time before you find yourself wed.
At which point the exotic and the classified bewilderingly synthesize in quizzical exclamatory periodic pulsation, hyperbole nor mischief nor heartache notwithstanding.
An awkwardly crafted deeply moving carefree sober exoneration of wills un/tamed, A Room with a View celebrates the impulsive and the accidental while showcasing traditional lives lived.
Blunt forms of journalistic expression masterfully serenade literary proprieties in conjunction, the amorphous blend innocently concocted consequently thoroughly mystifying the cherished theoretically adversarial methodologies apropos.
Dinner for two.
Tarte aux bleuets à la mode.
An all-star ensemble that wasn't commercially assembled to heart-throbbingly cash-in.
Acting, characters, in/discretion.
Flavour.
Is there an underlying self-deprecating cheeky layer of innocent extravagance lampooned, or was such an aspect ironically mixed-in to mockingly impress the interminably austere?
Something given to suppose.
Indubitably speaking.
Contemplating exponential hypotheticals may only serve to sterilize raw emotions unpredictably cascading themselves as the unexpected taxonomically qualifies spontaneity.
Trying to make sense of them may result in an otherwise splendid evening stifled, presumption and preconception phantasmagorically belittling the experimental as if romance (or science) were something to be categorically disillusioned, prior to making first contact without ever having trusted irresponsibly.
Vacations during which you encounter individuals possessing alternative viewpoints semantically nurtured beyond localized frontiers can have rapturous effects, as they do in James Ivory's A Room with a View, as studious Lucy Honeychurch (Helena Bonham Carter) meets daring George Emerson (Julian Sands) and potentialities previously merely conceptualized suddenly invoke unconsidered epistemic senses.
Practically so.
Even if less emotional interactions are to be found in relationships forthcoming, the memories of those fleeting moments may effervescently characterize the dependably conjugal with adventurous imaginatively epic allegories, narratively liaised in intricate domestic reverie.
Unless the thrilling distraction should appear back home at a point in time before you find yourself wed.
At which point the exotic and the classified bewilderingly synthesize in quizzical exclamatory periodic pulsation, hyperbole nor mischief nor heartache notwithstanding.
An awkwardly crafted deeply moving carefree sober exoneration of wills un/tamed, A Room with a View celebrates the impulsive and the accidental while showcasing traditional lives lived.
Blunt forms of journalistic expression masterfully serenade literary proprieties in conjunction, the amorphous blend innocently concocted consequently thoroughly mystifying the cherished theoretically adversarial methodologies apropos.
Dinner for two.
Tarte aux bleuets à la mode.
An all-star ensemble that wasn't commercially assembled to heart-throbbingly cash-in.
Acting, characters, in/discretion.
Flavour.
Is there an underlying self-deprecating cheeky layer of innocent extravagance lampooned, or was such an aspect ironically mixed-in to mockingly impress the interminably austere?
Something given to suppose.
Indubitably speaking.
Tuesday, September 4, 2018
Cielo
Universally coded limitless variation as amorphous as it is particular aloofly showcasing synthesized basking essentials with regard for neither commentary nor broadcast spread out plainly for the naked eye to see.
Infinitely structuring sanguine molecular diversity in puzzling transformative lexicographical serenade, like treasured atemporal ecoblueprints smugly cast aside to exalt sensation, still silently omnipresent awaiting less confrontational loci, delineating epics, as individualized as one two three.
Like everything that could have ever existed had always astrologically exclaimed its infinitesimal foundations transitionally excavated throughout neverending time.
Extraterrestrially organic, a transisted lifeforce speculatively attired, left to mischievously promote clarity and intimate concrete mathematical formulae, while remaining romantically unrequited, persistent concealed lucid revelation, rebelliously consistent illuminated compound pines.
Blinding.
You've found it if you weren't sure what to look for, especially if you were searching for nothing at all.
Misplaced like indirection.
Celestial wherewithal.
I was playing constellation recently, and, as usual, I began by searching for raccoon.
Unsure if I had located the stars I traditionally transform into constellation raccoon, I started to notice raccoon constellations partout.
The night sky was bustling with raccoon activity that evening indeed, as I shyly observed their narrative spontaneity.
If genetic codes or html exponents appeared as they sought delicious slices of chocolate or banana, I can't claim to have found their cyphers.
I did suddenly notice a turtle passing by underwater, however, his or her aquatic foraging briefly caught in faint exterior light.
It was good luck to see her or him, the odds of it passing by unnoticed greatly surpassing those that would lead to its detection, a sight almost lacking historical precedent entirely, if only it hadn't happened once or twice before.
A lil snapper, snapping away.
Symbiotically chillin'.
Snap snap.
Snap snap snap.
Snap snap.
Around 1am.
Infinitely structuring sanguine molecular diversity in puzzling transformative lexicographical serenade, like treasured atemporal ecoblueprints smugly cast aside to exalt sensation, still silently omnipresent awaiting less confrontational loci, delineating epics, as individualized as one two three.
Like everything that could have ever existed had always astrologically exclaimed its infinitesimal foundations transitionally excavated throughout neverending time.
Extraterrestrially organic, a transisted lifeforce speculatively attired, left to mischievously promote clarity and intimate concrete mathematical formulae, while remaining romantically unrequited, persistent concealed lucid revelation, rebelliously consistent illuminated compound pines.
Blinding.
You've found it if you weren't sure what to look for, especially if you were searching for nothing at all.
Misplaced like indirection.
Celestial wherewithal.
I was playing constellation recently, and, as usual, I began by searching for raccoon.
Unsure if I had located the stars I traditionally transform into constellation raccoon, I started to notice raccoon constellations partout.
The night sky was bustling with raccoon activity that evening indeed, as I shyly observed their narrative spontaneity.
If genetic codes or html exponents appeared as they sought delicious slices of chocolate or banana, I can't claim to have found their cyphers.
I did suddenly notice a turtle passing by underwater, however, his or her aquatic foraging briefly caught in faint exterior light.
It was good luck to see her or him, the odds of it passing by unnoticed greatly surpassing those that would lead to its detection, a sight almost lacking historical precedent entirely, if only it hadn't happened once or twice before.
A lil snapper, snapping away.
Symbiotically chillin'.
Snap snap.
Snap snap snap.
Snap snap.
Around 1am.
Friday, August 31, 2018
Blindspotting
Was really impressed with Blindspotting.
It's a tight hard-edged compassionate hands-on free-flowing intense look at strong characters making up for a lack of economic resources with innovative creative reflexive awe-inspiring initiative, their social capital worth millions in transferable commentaries, their general sobriety critically emancipating soul.
Daveed Diggs (Collin) and Rafael Casal (Miles) work exceptionally well together. They don't seem like actors, they seem like they are Collin and Miles and they're shooting a fictional documentary about their lives, so familiar with each other that they generate ultrareal cascading warp-driven synergies, which disperse practical blueprints for coping with traumatic situations.
Without being preachy.
Collin shouldn't have gone to prison but he did. He has three days of probation left when he witnesses a police officer shoot an unarmed African American multiple times.
If he says anything he may jeopardize his parole or just be chucked back in the slammer for an indefinite period of time.
Injustice haunts him as he jogs every morning yet he's composed enough to keep things calm, cool, and collected, most of the time, which reminded me of RBG.
Miles is more chaotic, a gifted salesperson who can't control his temper, gentrification unconsciously fuelling his rage. Collin looks out for him even though he causes trouble, their friendship enduring in spite of argumentative setbacks and controversial outbursts, the women in their lives doing what they can to cultivate a stable non-violent future (Janina Gavankar as Val and Jasmine Cephas Jones as Ashley).
They're clever.
The film's clever.
Practically every scene has relevant commentary that makes a thoughtful positive impact.
And it's not full of pity or sorrow.
It's rough at points, sensitive at others, a hardboiled blend of raw emotion and logical analysis skilfully woven into the script with expert timing that resonantly bleeds passion.
Making impacts on several fronts, from healthy living to reducing gun violence to making relationships work to listening to and challenging alternative points of view, it scorchingly boils international issues down to the local level, celebrating and criticizing Oakland to advocate change without ignoring how difficult change can be.
Unpasteurized sharp streetwise poetic honesty.
One of the best films I've seen this year.
It's a tight hard-edged compassionate hands-on free-flowing intense look at strong characters making up for a lack of economic resources with innovative creative reflexive awe-inspiring initiative, their social capital worth millions in transferable commentaries, their general sobriety critically emancipating soul.
Daveed Diggs (Collin) and Rafael Casal (Miles) work exceptionally well together. They don't seem like actors, they seem like they are Collin and Miles and they're shooting a fictional documentary about their lives, so familiar with each other that they generate ultrareal cascading warp-driven synergies, which disperse practical blueprints for coping with traumatic situations.
Without being preachy.
Collin shouldn't have gone to prison but he did. He has three days of probation left when he witnesses a police officer shoot an unarmed African American multiple times.
If he says anything he may jeopardize his parole or just be chucked back in the slammer for an indefinite period of time.
Injustice haunts him as he jogs every morning yet he's composed enough to keep things calm, cool, and collected, most of the time, which reminded me of RBG.
Miles is more chaotic, a gifted salesperson who can't control his temper, gentrification unconsciously fuelling his rage. Collin looks out for him even though he causes trouble, their friendship enduring in spite of argumentative setbacks and controversial outbursts, the women in their lives doing what they can to cultivate a stable non-violent future (Janina Gavankar as Val and Jasmine Cephas Jones as Ashley).
They're clever.
The film's clever.
Practically every scene has relevant commentary that makes a thoughtful positive impact.
And it's not full of pity or sorrow.
It's rough at points, sensitive at others, a hardboiled blend of raw emotion and logical analysis skilfully woven into the script with expert timing that resonantly bleeds passion.
Making impacts on several fronts, from healthy living to reducing gun violence to making relationships work to listening to and challenging alternative points of view, it scorchingly boils international issues down to the local level, celebrating and criticizing Oakland to advocate change without ignoring how difficult change can be.
Unpasteurized sharp streetwise poetic honesty.
One of the best films I've seen this year.
Tuesday, August 28, 2018
Eighth Grade
What an awkward age.
Shifting random indeterminate interests inflexibly regarded with the highest esteem, indubitably, hormonal fascinations, incrementally saturating fleeting eternal embraces with desire beyond expression, tantalizingly long for receptive semantic clarifications, lifelong emancipating/bewildering psychological points of reference in/judiciously establishing personalized sociological precedents, timid ostentation (class clowning) and flamboyant restraint (mystery) spontaneously mingling within structured boundaries, as rapid forward movements, fluidically conceptualize partout.
In Eighth Grade.
Kayla (Elsie Fisher) is a curious reticent contemplative eighth grader who reflects upon adolescent life online at night to try and overcome habitual daytime shyness.
She's a wonderful kid full of love and compassion who feels the pressure to act as if she's aged even though she clearly hasn't.
Awards given out at the end of the school year to the shyest individuals don't build-up her self-esteem, however, and her concerned confused father (Josh Hamilton as Mark Day) can't find a way to help her feel more at ease.
Possessing a logical nature, simply acting instinctually doesn't meld with her reasonable insights.
Self-obsessed boys do little to nurture a sense of genuine belonging consequently, one in particular representing a desperately loathsome approach to amorous interpersonal relations.
Another isn't much less vulgar.
Although Gabe (Jake Ryan) makes a pretty cool match.
Bo Burnham's Eighth Grade takes a comprehensive look at adolescence in flux which hauntingly approaches the dark side without obscuring lighter reflections.
A well-rounded articulate guide for both shy youths searching for ways to express themselves and worried parents trying to understand why their growing children have suddenly become so detached, it presents situations plausible enough to be qualified realistic, which leave you feeling sincerely invested with the knowledge that hope still abounds.
An empathetic film that doesn't hesitate to consider shocking unanticipated theories, it engineers a heartfelt current and doesn't dam up its inquisitive ebb and flow.
Heuristically exploring sought after challenging discoveries while still presenting tender innocent speculation, it doesn't worry too much about growing up in the end, which is why I suspect it'll never grow old.
Maintaining strong bonds with your parents throughout high school is an admirable thing if you can, sharing your thoughts and emotions with them as often as possible, even if that's totally uncool.
Maybe not all your thoughts.
Great film.
Shifting random indeterminate interests inflexibly regarded with the highest esteem, indubitably, hormonal fascinations, incrementally saturating fleeting eternal embraces with desire beyond expression, tantalizingly long for receptive semantic clarifications, lifelong emancipating/bewildering psychological points of reference in/judiciously establishing personalized sociological precedents, timid ostentation (class clowning) and flamboyant restraint (mystery) spontaneously mingling within structured boundaries, as rapid forward movements, fluidically conceptualize partout.
In Eighth Grade.
Kayla (Elsie Fisher) is a curious reticent contemplative eighth grader who reflects upon adolescent life online at night to try and overcome habitual daytime shyness.
She's a wonderful kid full of love and compassion who feels the pressure to act as if she's aged even though she clearly hasn't.
Awards given out at the end of the school year to the shyest individuals don't build-up her self-esteem, however, and her concerned confused father (Josh Hamilton as Mark Day) can't find a way to help her feel more at ease.
Possessing a logical nature, simply acting instinctually doesn't meld with her reasonable insights.
Self-obsessed boys do little to nurture a sense of genuine belonging consequently, one in particular representing a desperately loathsome approach to amorous interpersonal relations.
Another isn't much less vulgar.
Although Gabe (Jake Ryan) makes a pretty cool match.
Bo Burnham's Eighth Grade takes a comprehensive look at adolescence in flux which hauntingly approaches the dark side without obscuring lighter reflections.
A well-rounded articulate guide for both shy youths searching for ways to express themselves and worried parents trying to understand why their growing children have suddenly become so detached, it presents situations plausible enough to be qualified realistic, which leave you feeling sincerely invested with the knowledge that hope still abounds.
An empathetic film that doesn't hesitate to consider shocking unanticipated theories, it engineers a heartfelt current and doesn't dam up its inquisitive ebb and flow.
Heuristically exploring sought after challenging discoveries while still presenting tender innocent speculation, it doesn't worry too much about growing up in the end, which is why I suspect it'll never grow old.
Maintaining strong bonds with your parents throughout high school is an admirable thing if you can, sharing your thoughts and emotions with them as often as possible, even if that's totally uncool.
Maybe not all your thoughts.
Great film.
Friday, August 24, 2018
Christopher Robin
Christopher Robin (Ewan McGregor/Orton O'Brien), all grown up, suddenly finds himself forced to work overtime.
He has a good job and is somewhat of a success, but his wife (Hayley Atwell as Evelyn Robin) and daughter (Bronte Carmichael as Madeline Robin) miss him dearly, and they had plans to spend the weekend together in the country.
Evelyn aptly observes that it's been years since he laughed, he's constantly preoccupied, rarely attempts to have fun, and doesn't spend nearly enough time with little Madeline, even if bills are paid on time and the pantry's always full.
He tries to mansplain his way out of it and she harrumphingly backs down, but he knows his life is missing something, even if he's not aware what it is, can't quite put his finger on it, has lost touch with his fantastic imagination.
Which was incredibly bright in his youth.
After his family departs, an old friend magically appears, in possession of the innocent wondrous knowledge that once transcendently defined everything around him, a bear, a pooh bear, a pooh bear named Winnie the Pooh (Jim Cummings), who's in search of his closest most cherished friends, no doubt manifested as Mr. Robin lamented his gloomy relationship with Madeline, as real as the rising or setting sun, primed to start a commotion should anyone else accidentally glimpse his earnest candour, as curious as ever, as thoughtful as peach-lime-blossom.
Christopher listens as Pooh honestly philosophizes without ever having been familiar with the word, his witty unpasteurized conversation patiently reminding him of alternatives long past.
Forgotten, while navigating the world of business.
Obscured by tight occupational blinds.
It's easy to get caught up with the hustle and bustle.
To be so busy and concerned that the lighthearted in/graciously passes by unnoticed.
Sometimes you're so busy you work all night in your dreams too and there's nothing you can do to escape or get away from it.
But as Christopher Robin enchantingly reveals, keeping one's mind open to the fascinating world of unbridled youthful exploration can lead to professional innovations that worldly frustrations often fail to inspirationally consider.
If you have a family, or remain perennially youthful, you can tap into the unrestrained childish wisdom kids freely present every day, and perhaps conjure revelations that can redefine your career if you add that bit of unconcerned elementary enlightenment to your daily working life.
While making sure not to appear too silly or distracted.
The film's perhaps too mature for youngsters since it spends a lot of time dealing with the adult world.
It could be one that kids keep coming back to throughout their lives, however, consequently, as they search for new meaning every couple of years or so, without realizing it's keeping an unassailable part of them young.
Like a fountain of youth.
Like dreams everlasting.
He has a good job and is somewhat of a success, but his wife (Hayley Atwell as Evelyn Robin) and daughter (Bronte Carmichael as Madeline Robin) miss him dearly, and they had plans to spend the weekend together in the country.
Evelyn aptly observes that it's been years since he laughed, he's constantly preoccupied, rarely attempts to have fun, and doesn't spend nearly enough time with little Madeline, even if bills are paid on time and the pantry's always full.
He tries to mansplain his way out of it and she harrumphingly backs down, but he knows his life is missing something, even if he's not aware what it is, can't quite put his finger on it, has lost touch with his fantastic imagination.
Which was incredibly bright in his youth.
After his family departs, an old friend magically appears, in possession of the innocent wondrous knowledge that once transcendently defined everything around him, a bear, a pooh bear, a pooh bear named Winnie the Pooh (Jim Cummings), who's in search of his closest most cherished friends, no doubt manifested as Mr. Robin lamented his gloomy relationship with Madeline, as real as the rising or setting sun, primed to start a commotion should anyone else accidentally glimpse his earnest candour, as curious as ever, as thoughtful as peach-lime-blossom.
Christopher listens as Pooh honestly philosophizes without ever having been familiar with the word, his witty unpasteurized conversation patiently reminding him of alternatives long past.
Forgotten, while navigating the world of business.
Obscured by tight occupational blinds.
It's easy to get caught up with the hustle and bustle.
To be so busy and concerned that the lighthearted in/graciously passes by unnoticed.
Sometimes you're so busy you work all night in your dreams too and there's nothing you can do to escape or get away from it.
But as Christopher Robin enchantingly reveals, keeping one's mind open to the fascinating world of unbridled youthful exploration can lead to professional innovations that worldly frustrations often fail to inspirationally consider.
If you have a family, or remain perennially youthful, you can tap into the unrestrained childish wisdom kids freely present every day, and perhaps conjure revelations that can redefine your career if you add that bit of unconcerned elementary enlightenment to your daily working life.
While making sure not to appear too silly or distracted.
The film's perhaps too mature for youngsters since it spends a lot of time dealing with the adult world.
It could be one that kids keep coming back to throughout their lives, however, consequently, as they search for new meaning every couple of years or so, without realizing it's keeping an unassailable part of them young.
Like a fountain of youth.
Like dreams everlasting.
Tuesday, August 21, 2018
The Island
Team building.
An essential component of so many successful businesses, cooperatively flourishing when efficiently matched with loyalty, dependability, consistency, and flexibility, each abstract cornerstone upholding an ethically structured forward thinking impeccability, internal conflicts and romance adding literary jouissance, strong leaders incisively managing the productive tension with agile contemplative discernment, periodic collective excursions strengthening characterized bonds, transformative ventures into alternative realms testing collegial viability, as consent is granted, and the future beckons, ponders, attuned.
Operatic melodies conceptualized thereby, on occasion the unforeseen apocalyptically diversifies, and commercial philosophical insights must be replaced with instinctual backbone, survival skills in fact, when marooned in the clutches of the unknown.
In The Island's case, a giant meteor, the impact of which remains a point of contention, hurtles rapidly towards an unaccommodating Earth.
Coincidentally, the staff of a successful business departs for a unifying exercise in a reliable aquabus upon the vast unsuspecting ocean.
Shortly thereafter, the meteor crash-lands, and a massive tidal wave then spreads out far and wide.
Heading in their direction.
Both workers and executives wake to find themselves stranded upon a remote uninhabited Pacific island, alone, isolated, leaderless, and afraid.
They must come together to ensure their mortal continuity, yet divisions and conflicts compromise inclusive harmonies, as they struggle to cohesively acculturate, with no knowledge of the continental globe's comeuppance.
Random judgment from space.
Intergalactically disseminated.
Not necessarily the best film, but not lacking in enlivening spirit either, Bo Huang's The Island reimagines professional rank to populate wild terrain, comedically embracing the dire and the immiscible without descending into utter illicit chaos.
Always remember that should you find yourself marooned on an island at sea, you're surrounded by the most abundant food source on the planet (which is becoming much less abundant as our population and associated appetites expand), and should you be worried about finding something to eat, ancient forms of marine harvesting may indeed aptly suffice.
They find plenty of fish in The Island but don't do much fishing until they discover nets, yet technological innovations do facilitate thrilling wild beach parties, entertainment which distracts them from disputatious hardships encouraged by their new surroundings.
The film's a bit of a stretch, yet its realistic engagements are more serious than those found in The Meg, even though it's much more comedic at the same rambunctious time.
Will Ma Jin (Bo Huang) cash in his winning lottery ticket, win the love of dismissive Shan Shan (Shu Qi), and develop the confidence he needs to lead?
I can't answer these questions.
Ridiculousness abounds on a lost island in the Pacific, however, bookish learning contending with the experiential, intense improvisation syncopated by the sternest minds.
Eager ones too.
With a whale.
An essential component of so many successful businesses, cooperatively flourishing when efficiently matched with loyalty, dependability, consistency, and flexibility, each abstract cornerstone upholding an ethically structured forward thinking impeccability, internal conflicts and romance adding literary jouissance, strong leaders incisively managing the productive tension with agile contemplative discernment, periodic collective excursions strengthening characterized bonds, transformative ventures into alternative realms testing collegial viability, as consent is granted, and the future beckons, ponders, attuned.
Operatic melodies conceptualized thereby, on occasion the unforeseen apocalyptically diversifies, and commercial philosophical insights must be replaced with instinctual backbone, survival skills in fact, when marooned in the clutches of the unknown.
In The Island's case, a giant meteor, the impact of which remains a point of contention, hurtles rapidly towards an unaccommodating Earth.
Coincidentally, the staff of a successful business departs for a unifying exercise in a reliable aquabus upon the vast unsuspecting ocean.
Shortly thereafter, the meteor crash-lands, and a massive tidal wave then spreads out far and wide.
Heading in their direction.
Both workers and executives wake to find themselves stranded upon a remote uninhabited Pacific island, alone, isolated, leaderless, and afraid.
They must come together to ensure their mortal continuity, yet divisions and conflicts compromise inclusive harmonies, as they struggle to cohesively acculturate, with no knowledge of the continental globe's comeuppance.
Random judgment from space.
Intergalactically disseminated.
Not necessarily the best film, but not lacking in enlivening spirit either, Bo Huang's The Island reimagines professional rank to populate wild terrain, comedically embracing the dire and the immiscible without descending into utter illicit chaos.
Always remember that should you find yourself marooned on an island at sea, you're surrounded by the most abundant food source on the planet (which is becoming much less abundant as our population and associated appetites expand), and should you be worried about finding something to eat, ancient forms of marine harvesting may indeed aptly suffice.
They find plenty of fish in The Island but don't do much fishing until they discover nets, yet technological innovations do facilitate thrilling wild beach parties, entertainment which distracts them from disputatious hardships encouraged by their new surroundings.
The film's a bit of a stretch, yet its realistic engagements are more serious than those found in The Meg, even though it's much more comedic at the same rambunctious time.
Will Ma Jin (Bo Huang) cash in his winning lottery ticket, win the love of dismissive Shan Shan (Shu Qi), and develop the confidence he needs to lead?
I can't answer these questions.
Ridiculousness abounds on a lost island in the Pacific, however, bookish learning contending with the experiential, intense improvisation syncopated by the sternest minds.
Eager ones too.
With a whale.
Friday, August 17, 2018
The Meg
Deep within the fabled Mariana Trench lies a chilling thermocline, beneath which dwells a vast undiscovered ecosystem aquatically flourishing in nocturnal isolation.
Unaware of the limitless ocean above and possessing no knowledge of the research scientists strategically planning upon its surface, it has existed unclassified and uncatalogued for millions of years, endemic beasts prehistorically assembled confined.
Until that team of international scientists, brilliantly driven by innate information hunger, breaks through to observe within, attacked by an unknown shortly thereafter, and left helpless and motionless on the unforgiving ocean floor.
The depths of which are superlative indeed.
One of the ensuing versatile rescuers has previously operated under comparable conditions.
But this time while ascending a vent is ruptured by his craft upon that ocean floor which clears a warm path through said impassable thermocline, an insatiable giant freely emerging thereafter, to instinctually wreak havoc on the postmodern oceanic imagination.
Bombastically so.
For it truly will not stop preying.
The Meg's megalodon functions like Jurassic World's indominus rex, constantly ending unsuspecting marine lives without ever stopping to consume them.
Its illogic should be nautically fathomed.
Don't predators usually eat the animals they incapacitate, and wouldn't a giant squid or two whales (😢) feed a massive shark for three weeks or more?
If the megalodon attacks and kills with unrelenting ferocity, wouldn't everything existing beneath the thermocline have perished millions of years ago?
Additional peculiarities: investigating profound oceanic depths appeals to me, but would lights used to illuminate their environments not cause serious damage to their cloistered inhabitants who have never been lit up before?
Jonas Taylor (Jason Statham) is amazing, and I loved how he instantaneously took absurd risks throughout without question, but hadn't he been drunk for several years beforehand? He certainly gets it together quickly and resiliently never seems to want any more alcohol.
He was wisely sticking to beer and must have been secreting insane amounts of adrenaline but such a rapid turn around remains a fishy point of contention.
And wouldn't all the characters who had descended to the bottom of the Trench have suffered from the bends for some time after failing to adequately decompress after rapidly returning to the surface?
Quizzical.
The Meg's fast-paced implausibility is funny and endearingly ridiculous, and it sticks it to the shark fin soup industry and celebrates the majesty of whales, along with scientific and athletic heroics, childhood, friendship, teamwork, and new love in bloom, while criticizing ill-considered commercial endeavours, but several plot developments are somewhat too convenient nonetheless, and there are so many of them that the ridiculousness seems absurd (😉).
Not that I was searching for rational discourse from The Meg, I was looking for a ludicrous Summer blockbuster that doesn't make much sense and brings together a cool eclectic team to randomly deal with starboard chaos, perhaps making a criterion out of Jaws après ça.
From this angle it doesn't disappoint.
But it still keeps one foot too firmly lodged in the realistic to get away with its entertaining shenanigans scot-free.
Statham does a fantastic job.
And works really well with Bingbing Li (Suyin) and Shuya Sophia Cai (Meiying).
I was hoping the meg would pass after consuming twice its weight in ocean plastic.
That's not true, I just thought of that now.
Seriously though, ocean plastic is a huge problem.
And the situation can be rectified simply by properly disposing of your garbage and recyclables, and creating way more much cheaper biodegradable bottles, food wraps, and containers.
It's that easy.
*Is Rainn Wilson (Morris) the new Rick Ducommun?
Unaware of the limitless ocean above and possessing no knowledge of the research scientists strategically planning upon its surface, it has existed unclassified and uncatalogued for millions of years, endemic beasts prehistorically assembled confined.
Until that team of international scientists, brilliantly driven by innate information hunger, breaks through to observe within, attacked by an unknown shortly thereafter, and left helpless and motionless on the unforgiving ocean floor.
The depths of which are superlative indeed.
One of the ensuing versatile rescuers has previously operated under comparable conditions.
But this time while ascending a vent is ruptured by his craft upon that ocean floor which clears a warm path through said impassable thermocline, an insatiable giant freely emerging thereafter, to instinctually wreak havoc on the postmodern oceanic imagination.
Bombastically so.
For it truly will not stop preying.
The Meg's megalodon functions like Jurassic World's indominus rex, constantly ending unsuspecting marine lives without ever stopping to consume them.
Its illogic should be nautically fathomed.
Don't predators usually eat the animals they incapacitate, and wouldn't a giant squid or two whales (😢) feed a massive shark for three weeks or more?
If the megalodon attacks and kills with unrelenting ferocity, wouldn't everything existing beneath the thermocline have perished millions of years ago?
Additional peculiarities: investigating profound oceanic depths appeals to me, but would lights used to illuminate their environments not cause serious damage to their cloistered inhabitants who have never been lit up before?
Jonas Taylor (Jason Statham) is amazing, and I loved how he instantaneously took absurd risks throughout without question, but hadn't he been drunk for several years beforehand? He certainly gets it together quickly and resiliently never seems to want any more alcohol.
He was wisely sticking to beer and must have been secreting insane amounts of adrenaline but such a rapid turn around remains a fishy point of contention.
And wouldn't all the characters who had descended to the bottom of the Trench have suffered from the bends for some time after failing to adequately decompress after rapidly returning to the surface?
Quizzical.
The Meg's fast-paced implausibility is funny and endearingly ridiculous, and it sticks it to the shark fin soup industry and celebrates the majesty of whales, along with scientific and athletic heroics, childhood, friendship, teamwork, and new love in bloom, while criticizing ill-considered commercial endeavours, but several plot developments are somewhat too convenient nonetheless, and there are so many of them that the ridiculousness seems absurd (😉).
Not that I was searching for rational discourse from The Meg, I was looking for a ludicrous Summer blockbuster that doesn't make much sense and brings together a cool eclectic team to randomly deal with starboard chaos, perhaps making a criterion out of Jaws après ça.
From this angle it doesn't disappoint.
But it still keeps one foot too firmly lodged in the realistic to get away with its entertaining shenanigans scot-free.
Statham does a fantastic job.
And works really well with Bingbing Li (Suyin) and Shuya Sophia Cai (Meiying).
I was hoping the meg would pass after consuming twice its weight in ocean plastic.
That's not true, I just thought of that now.
Seriously though, ocean plastic is a huge problem.
And the situation can be rectified simply by properly disposing of your garbage and recyclables, and creating way more much cheaper biodegradable bottles, food wraps, and containers.
It's that easy.
*Is Rainn Wilson (Morris) the new Rick Ducommun?
Tuesday, August 14, 2018
Summer of 84
An innocent mind rationally filled with suspicion detects neighbourly crime in the Summer of 84.
With no condemnatory evidence, and only his teenage imagination to support his accusations, Davey Armstrong (Graham Verchere) must cleverly engage in covert ops, with a little help from his most trusted closest friends.
In an age synthetically flourishing (not) long before the world went viral, known to many as the most joyous wondrous adventurous decade in world history, complete with physical newspapers and programs regularly broadcast on television, the odd sensational headline grabbing everyone's critical attention, the foolhardy nature of which was lampooned by an aware North American public staunchly versed in peaceful collectivity, a Foucauldean analysis of the times notwithstanding, but things didn't seem so divisive back then, 4 teens set out to secretively prove wrongdoing, using (not so) ancient reliable methodologies such as activity based disguises (manhunt), maneuverable modes of transportation (bikes), non-electronic technologies (binoculars), and inclusive dialogues leaving behind no detectable trace (conversation), as investigatory aids.
The suspect: a police officer living alone within a suburban dwelling, highly respected by neighbourhood families, thought to be dependable for many untroubled yesteryears.
The love interest: in a plot development that's absolutely perfect, an older beautiful resident female (Tiera Skovbye as Nikki Kaszuba) takes a shine to inquisitive young Davey, who is eager to reciprocate her interrogatory mannerisms, much to the amazement of his incredulous retinue.
Classic nerd love (see Meatballs 3).
Conveniently introduced to defy expectations.
Throughout most of the film I was thinking, "okay, this is solid low-budget storytelling skillfully operating within realistically extraordinary circumstances supported by strong characters, music, plot developments, and historical fascinations, but where's the horror?, this seems much more like heavy teen crime drama than a horror film, or even a nail-biting thriller."
Note: ginger wasn't a widespread term in the 80s (in my neighbourhood anyways) and it wasn't so easy to watch a movie late at night in 1984 unless you actually had a VCR and were able to rent what you wanted to see at a local video store, which likely didn't own twenty to thirty copies, or it happened to be on television and your parents didn't mind you staying up to watch it.
But the horror kicks in big time near the end and its impact is much more terrifying due to the intensity of the unexpected shocks.
Actual frights as opposed to campy humour.
A local family also declares political support for a new candidate around the same time.
To learn more about additional related horrors, see Michael Moore's Capitalism: A Love Story.
Yikes!
With no condemnatory evidence, and only his teenage imagination to support his accusations, Davey Armstrong (Graham Verchere) must cleverly engage in covert ops, with a little help from his most trusted closest friends.
In an age synthetically flourishing (not) long before the world went viral, known to many as the most joyous wondrous adventurous decade in world history, complete with physical newspapers and programs regularly broadcast on television, the odd sensational headline grabbing everyone's critical attention, the foolhardy nature of which was lampooned by an aware North American public staunchly versed in peaceful collectivity, a Foucauldean analysis of the times notwithstanding, but things didn't seem so divisive back then, 4 teens set out to secretively prove wrongdoing, using (not so) ancient reliable methodologies such as activity based disguises (manhunt), maneuverable modes of transportation (bikes), non-electronic technologies (binoculars), and inclusive dialogues leaving behind no detectable trace (conversation), as investigatory aids.
The suspect: a police officer living alone within a suburban dwelling, highly respected by neighbourhood families, thought to be dependable for many untroubled yesteryears.
The love interest: in a plot development that's absolutely perfect, an older beautiful resident female (Tiera Skovbye as Nikki Kaszuba) takes a shine to inquisitive young Davey, who is eager to reciprocate her interrogatory mannerisms, much to the amazement of his incredulous retinue.
Classic nerd love (see Meatballs 3).
Conveniently introduced to defy expectations.
Throughout most of the film I was thinking, "okay, this is solid low-budget storytelling skillfully operating within realistically extraordinary circumstances supported by strong characters, music, plot developments, and historical fascinations, but where's the horror?, this seems much more like heavy teen crime drama than a horror film, or even a nail-biting thriller."
Note: ginger wasn't a widespread term in the 80s (in my neighbourhood anyways) and it wasn't so easy to watch a movie late at night in 1984 unless you actually had a VCR and were able to rent what you wanted to see at a local video store, which likely didn't own twenty to thirty copies, or it happened to be on television and your parents didn't mind you staying up to watch it.
But the horror kicks in big time near the end and its impact is much more terrifying due to the intensity of the unexpected shocks.
Actual frights as opposed to campy humour.
A local family also declares political support for a new candidate around the same time.
To learn more about additional related horrors, see Michael Moore's Capitalism: A Love Story.
Yikes!
Friday, August 10, 2018
Mission: Impossible - Fallout
The sacrifices Tom Cruise (Ethan Hunt) makes for his Mission: Impossible franchise add an authentic dimension to its outputs that ironically causes them to appear plausible even if they versatilely redefine the extraordinary.
The effort he puts into making these films is incredible.
If you watch a lot of action adventure movies there are times where some of their plots seem quite ridiculous, obviously enough, which is part of the fun assuming the laws of physics aren't utterly ignored, GoldenEye.
If they are utterly ignored you need strong supporting intelligent possibly wacky characters presenting theoretical justifications for the inaccuracies, numerous Star Trek episodes providing fitting instructive examples, man those shows must be fun to write.
But since Mr. Cruise does his own stunts, the impossible seems attainable, the ridiculousness appears rational, and if his character is thought to metaphorically represent high stakes success, however you choose to define it (a small business, exceptional narratives delivered during cruises, a butter tart that knows no equal, a pot of chili), the fact that he does his own stunts synthesizes the imaginary and the realistic in a compelling way that parallels Jackie Chan himself, who would make a wonderful addition to the franchise.
Fallout sees the return of Hunt's dependable team, Benji Dunn (Simon Pegg) and Luther Stickell (Ving Rhames [how can neighbours not recognize Ving Rhames?]) excelling at consistently delivering opposites-platonically-attract-interactions, their characters asking pertinent questions, performing exceptional feats, freely conceptualizing reliability, while indisputably materializing assured structural cool.
Alan Hunley (Alec Baldwin) and Ilsa Faust (Rebecca Ferguson) spicing things up as well.
Fallout presents a solid instalment complete with an intricate constantly evolving embrace of active efficient improvised deconstruction, new personalities (notably Henry Cavill as August Walker and Vanessa Kirby as the White Widow) chaotically introduced to the mayhem, a classic focus on nuclear weapons (fitting for contemporary times) fuelling the intensity, historical romance complicating mission prerogatives, traditional character traits present but not frustratingly exaggerated (a downfall of so many sequels), blunt seemingly foolish observations cloaking discerning intellects, improbable goals pursued regardless of demanding setbacks, level-heads tying everything together in a manner that isn't difficult to stomach (directed by Christopher McQuarrie), the sixth constituent of a franchise focusing too heavily on its own internal dynamics at times.
Make sure each instalment in a franchise simultaneously appeals to fans and people who have never heard of it and you're moving in a Wrath of Khan direction.
Mission: Impossible still hasn't had a Captain America: Civil War or Wrath of Khan moment, but there's still plenty of time.
Fallout's still a motivating thought provoking film that will likely appeal to eager fans along with new recruits unfamiliar with its unique style.
Voluminous aftershocks.
Realistic proofs.
Raw spontaneity.
Damned impressive.
If you want sincerity in an action film, Mission: Impossible distinctly delivers.
Back in the day I thought they'd stop making them after number III.
That was 12 years ago.
Crazy.
The effort he puts into making these films is incredible.
If you watch a lot of action adventure movies there are times where some of their plots seem quite ridiculous, obviously enough, which is part of the fun assuming the laws of physics aren't utterly ignored, GoldenEye.
If they are utterly ignored you need strong supporting intelligent possibly wacky characters presenting theoretical justifications for the inaccuracies, numerous Star Trek episodes providing fitting instructive examples, man those shows must be fun to write.
But since Mr. Cruise does his own stunts, the impossible seems attainable, the ridiculousness appears rational, and if his character is thought to metaphorically represent high stakes success, however you choose to define it (a small business, exceptional narratives delivered during cruises, a butter tart that knows no equal, a pot of chili), the fact that he does his own stunts synthesizes the imaginary and the realistic in a compelling way that parallels Jackie Chan himself, who would make a wonderful addition to the franchise.
Fallout sees the return of Hunt's dependable team, Benji Dunn (Simon Pegg) and Luther Stickell (Ving Rhames [how can neighbours not recognize Ving Rhames?]) excelling at consistently delivering opposites-platonically-attract-interactions, their characters asking pertinent questions, performing exceptional feats, freely conceptualizing reliability, while indisputably materializing assured structural cool.
Alan Hunley (Alec Baldwin) and Ilsa Faust (Rebecca Ferguson) spicing things up as well.
Fallout presents a solid instalment complete with an intricate constantly evolving embrace of active efficient improvised deconstruction, new personalities (notably Henry Cavill as August Walker and Vanessa Kirby as the White Widow) chaotically introduced to the mayhem, a classic focus on nuclear weapons (fitting for contemporary times) fuelling the intensity, historical romance complicating mission prerogatives, traditional character traits present but not frustratingly exaggerated (a downfall of so many sequels), blunt seemingly foolish observations cloaking discerning intellects, improbable goals pursued regardless of demanding setbacks, level-heads tying everything together in a manner that isn't difficult to stomach (directed by Christopher McQuarrie), the sixth constituent of a franchise focusing too heavily on its own internal dynamics at times.
Make sure each instalment in a franchise simultaneously appeals to fans and people who have never heard of it and you're moving in a Wrath of Khan direction.
Mission: Impossible still hasn't had a Captain America: Civil War or Wrath of Khan moment, but there's still plenty of time.
Fallout's still a motivating thought provoking film that will likely appeal to eager fans along with new recruits unfamiliar with its unique style.
Voluminous aftershocks.
Realistic proofs.
Raw spontaneity.
Damned impressive.
If you want sincerity in an action film, Mission: Impossible distinctly delivers.
Back in the day I thought they'd stop making them after number III.
That was 12 years ago.
Crazy.
Tuesday, August 7, 2018
Skyscraper
Whereas there are many international action films that seem like they're trying to capture an American aesthetic, while working within their own sociopolitical cultural regulations and/or guidelines, Rawson Marshall Thurber's Skyscraper comes across like an American action film attempting to capture that very same Americanized international aesthetic, if that makes any sense, a shout out to the burgeoning Chinese film industry perhaps, which must be releasing abundant raw materials.
Set in Hong Kong, English subtitles are frequently used as Chinese characters speak their mother tongue, which makes you feel like you're situated within an international filmscape as opposed to a global anglofied disco.
Whatevs!
When Chinese characters do speak English they do so to accommodate rather than flatter internationals.
Unreeling at a hectic pace, Will Sawyer's (Dwayne Johnson) character is developed well early on, a humble yet exceptional easy to relate to everyperson who's successfully bounced back from total and complete disaster.
He's so laidback yet competent, a wonderful guy, that I imagine anyone, apart from those who prefer authoritarian bluster,* would be able to place themselves in his shoes and wonder what they would have done in similar circumstances.
But the action starts quickly, rapidly replacing character development as it accelerates, and even though the skyscraper itself (The Pearl) is incredibly cool and a lot of the action sequences stunning, in Die Hard, which also takes place in a multi-storey building, you have lead and supporting characters who become more and more diverse as a flawed hero tries to save lives.
Character development is worked into the action.
Skyscraper's characters are pretty stock good and evil, I'm sayin' it, they're interesting, but not exactly overflowing with complications, a feature of international action films on occasion.
And some of them bite it just as they're beginning to assert themselves.
Take Mr. Pierce's (Noah Taylor) character.
After lounging in the background, he suddenly appears to talk to Sawyer's wife Sarah (Neve Campbell) as she attempts to escape a raging fire, at which point I thought, "great, he lures her and her kids upstairs and they become hostages for the rest of the film. All of their characters are diversified as Mr. Sawyer then desperately tries to save them. That's super Die Hardesque in terms of minor roles taking on major responsibilities"
But no, shortly thereafter Pierce has fallen into the flames, his character development cut radically short, as is that of hacker genius Skinny Hacker (Matt O'Leary), bodyguard Ajani Okeke (Adrian Holmes) and vengeful friend of Sawyer Ben (Pablo Schreiber).
Die Hard's all about supporting roles.
I'm not sure if that's a standard feature of international action films.
It should be.
Sarah does escape and faces a Bellatrix Lestrangey villain later on, the brilliant charitable successful mom taking out both the effeminate man and the headstrong woman (Hannah Quinlivan as Xia) in the process.
Stock stock stock stock stock.^
Hokey even, even if I was happy to see Neve Campbell again. I kept thinking, "who's the new Neve Campbell?", until it became apparent that it was in fact Neve Campbell, whom I haven't seen in anything for years.
She was fantastic in Wild Things.
Perhaps Skyscraper's creators were trying to maximize both domestic and international profits by embracing an aesthetic that respectfully works within global boundaries to generate a stateless hybrid, which is a cooler way to proceed inasmuch as it realistically respects local cultures and may ensure huge profits both at home and abroad.
It's sort of like an entertaining Summer blockbuster that's heavy on cultural respect and has some cool action scenes that could have accommodated alternative gender roles much more sympathetically.
Until you introduce the Die Hard factor and its associated higher expectations.
You situate highly motivated well financed terrorists within a skyscraper and no matter what happens, you're going to be compared to Die Hard.
Die Hard, Skyscraper, is not
Where's the constant improvisation? The mistakes? The personality conflicts? The personality?
It's far too precise.
And visual distractions don't effect auditory senses.
Shaking my head.
Note: Skyscraper's still much better than Die Hard 5.
I'm so worried about Die Hard 6.
Argyle.
*Fictional comedy films featuring stubborn fools who succeed are funny. Real international political events that wind up seeming like comedy films are horrifying.
^It was unbelievably cool in The Deathly Hallows though. I'm almost in tears thinking about how I was in tears when I read that scene so many Summers ago.
Set in Hong Kong, English subtitles are frequently used as Chinese characters speak their mother tongue, which makes you feel like you're situated within an international filmscape as opposed to a global anglofied disco.
Whatevs!
When Chinese characters do speak English they do so to accommodate rather than flatter internationals.
Unreeling at a hectic pace, Will Sawyer's (Dwayne Johnson) character is developed well early on, a humble yet exceptional easy to relate to everyperson who's successfully bounced back from total and complete disaster.
He's so laidback yet competent, a wonderful guy, that I imagine anyone, apart from those who prefer authoritarian bluster,* would be able to place themselves in his shoes and wonder what they would have done in similar circumstances.
But the action starts quickly, rapidly replacing character development as it accelerates, and even though the skyscraper itself (The Pearl) is incredibly cool and a lot of the action sequences stunning, in Die Hard, which also takes place in a multi-storey building, you have lead and supporting characters who become more and more diverse as a flawed hero tries to save lives.
Character development is worked into the action.
Skyscraper's characters are pretty stock good and evil, I'm sayin' it, they're interesting, but not exactly overflowing with complications, a feature of international action films on occasion.
And some of them bite it just as they're beginning to assert themselves.
Take Mr. Pierce's (Noah Taylor) character.
After lounging in the background, he suddenly appears to talk to Sawyer's wife Sarah (Neve Campbell) as she attempts to escape a raging fire, at which point I thought, "great, he lures her and her kids upstairs and they become hostages for the rest of the film. All of their characters are diversified as Mr. Sawyer then desperately tries to save them. That's super Die Hardesque in terms of minor roles taking on major responsibilities"
But no, shortly thereafter Pierce has fallen into the flames, his character development cut radically short, as is that of hacker genius Skinny Hacker (Matt O'Leary), bodyguard Ajani Okeke (Adrian Holmes) and vengeful friend of Sawyer Ben (Pablo Schreiber).
Die Hard's all about supporting roles.
I'm not sure if that's a standard feature of international action films.
It should be.
Sarah does escape and faces a Bellatrix Lestrangey villain later on, the brilliant charitable successful mom taking out both the effeminate man and the headstrong woman (Hannah Quinlivan as Xia) in the process.
Stock stock stock stock stock.^
Hokey even, even if I was happy to see Neve Campbell again. I kept thinking, "who's the new Neve Campbell?", until it became apparent that it was in fact Neve Campbell, whom I haven't seen in anything for years.
She was fantastic in Wild Things.
Perhaps Skyscraper's creators were trying to maximize both domestic and international profits by embracing an aesthetic that respectfully works within global boundaries to generate a stateless hybrid, which is a cooler way to proceed inasmuch as it realistically respects local cultures and may ensure huge profits both at home and abroad.
It's sort of like an entertaining Summer blockbuster that's heavy on cultural respect and has some cool action scenes that could have accommodated alternative gender roles much more sympathetically.
Until you introduce the Die Hard factor and its associated higher expectations.
You situate highly motivated well financed terrorists within a skyscraper and no matter what happens, you're going to be compared to Die Hard.
Die Hard, Skyscraper, is not
Where's the constant improvisation? The mistakes? The personality conflicts? The personality?
It's far too precise.
And visual distractions don't effect auditory senses.
Shaking my head.
Note: Skyscraper's still much better than Die Hard 5.
I'm so worried about Die Hard 6.
Argyle.
*Fictional comedy films featuring stubborn fools who succeed are funny. Real international political events that wind up seeming like comedy films are horrifying.
^It was unbelievably cool in The Deathly Hallows though. I'm almost in tears thinking about how I was in tears when I read that scene so many Summers ago.
Friday, August 3, 2018
L'école buissonnière (The School of Life)
A rowdy foul-mouthed Parisian orphan (Jean Scandel as Paul) is taken in by a charitable domestic (Valérie Karsenti as Célestine) and set loose on a forested estate one mischievous informative Summer.
Her husband's (Eric Elmosnino as Borel) tasked with managing the grounds and is less enamoured with the boy.
Trespassing is forbidden, and the existence of such wilds within a heavily populated realm tempts landless neighbours to secretively venture forth.
Since little Paul is free to scan and survey his new domain he meets a colourful cast of characters, their ingenuity providing him with playful imaginative recourse, cautiously balanced with the legal lay of the land.
Borel haplessly enforces while feisty Totoche (François Cluzet) outwits through innovation, his clever tricks ensuring modest plunder, cheeky testaments to individualistic invention.
Totoche and Paul forge an undefined team of sorts which excels at living freely, the bachelor and the orphan symbiotically coexisting within natural frontiers, amiable enough to avoid suspicion and crafty enough to brew memorable batches, good times generating familial emotions, cascading in hearty arrears.
A magical tale as realistic as it is fancy free.
Like Dickensian Thoreau subtly blended with Disney.
Friendships made.
L'école buissonnière.
Lighthearted and adventurous yet aware of rules and structure, Buissonnière presents mature mischief to cultivate austere lands.
Independent communities matched with age-old traditions, a public slowly materializes on the respectful inclusive horizon.
Some characters have much larger roles than others, and at times I thought it would have benefitted from more integration.
I wanted more gypsy.
But if you're in the mood for a heartwarming look at innocence emancipated, and wildlife left free to roam, L'école buissonnière offers a family friendly escape into vivacious inchoate wonder, toning down the menace, to focus intently on creativity.
Change.
I hope the forest persisted.
Extant forests must be like spiritual diamond mines in Europe, without the pollution.
Whatever Claire Denis.
Whatever!
Her husband's (Eric Elmosnino as Borel) tasked with managing the grounds and is less enamoured with the boy.
Trespassing is forbidden, and the existence of such wilds within a heavily populated realm tempts landless neighbours to secretively venture forth.
Since little Paul is free to scan and survey his new domain he meets a colourful cast of characters, their ingenuity providing him with playful imaginative recourse, cautiously balanced with the legal lay of the land.
Borel haplessly enforces while feisty Totoche (François Cluzet) outwits through innovation, his clever tricks ensuring modest plunder, cheeky testaments to individualistic invention.
Totoche and Paul forge an undefined team of sorts which excels at living freely, the bachelor and the orphan symbiotically coexisting within natural frontiers, amiable enough to avoid suspicion and crafty enough to brew memorable batches, good times generating familial emotions, cascading in hearty arrears.
A magical tale as realistic as it is fancy free.
Like Dickensian Thoreau subtly blended with Disney.
Friendships made.
L'école buissonnière.
Lighthearted and adventurous yet aware of rules and structure, Buissonnière presents mature mischief to cultivate austere lands.
Independent communities matched with age-old traditions, a public slowly materializes on the respectful inclusive horizon.
Some characters have much larger roles than others, and at times I thought it would have benefitted from more integration.
I wanted more gypsy.
But if you're in the mood for a heartwarming look at innocence emancipated, and wildlife left free to roam, L'école buissonnière offers a family friendly escape into vivacious inchoate wonder, toning down the menace, to focus intently on creativity.
Change.
I hope the forest persisted.
Extant forests must be like spiritual diamond mines in Europe, without the pollution.
Whatever Claire Denis.
Whatever!
Tuesday, July 31, 2018
Hotel Transylvania 3: Summer Vacation
A getaway.
A surprise.
A much less terrifying Drac (Adam Sandler) heads out for some rest and relaxation, a well-earned break from managing his infamous hotel.
His friends and family enthusiastically accompany him, adding communal comedic style to his travels similar to that found in A Muppet Family Christmas (1987).
It's not Christmas, not even Halloween, yet the cruise they find themselves upon does come equipped with stunning Summertime festivities, attractions, designed specifically for monsters, who are unaware it's a vengeful trap.
The Van Helsings (Jim Gaffigan as Van Helsing and Kathryn Hahn as Ericka) have sought to finish Dracula off for generations.
Without success.
But now their family has come up with their most diabolical scheme ever, and have successfully lured everyone into their exhaustive clutches.
An aspect that has never been considered may foil their antiseptic ambitions, however.
Known to both human and monster kind.
As unabashed true love.
Or zinging, as it's referred to in Hotel Transylvania 3: Summer Vacation, and it does perhaps generate the odd blush or two, as aged Drac comes to terms with his emotions.
Nevertheless, daughter Mavis (Selena Gomez [not Winona Ryder?]) stays focused, and detects peculiar behaviour as she monitors the actions of dad's commanding love interest.
With the help of her chill surfs-up! beatbox husband Johnny (Adam Samberg), they may just be able to dispel the leviathan.
It's a cruise after all.
Replete with Bermudan triangulations.
Some funny moments, some serious camaraderie, death-defyingly wicked yet convivially chummy and endearing, Hotel Transylvania 3 innocently blends mirth with the macabre to highlight collective curses, synthesizing Capulets and Montagues demonstrously, while adding myriad spicy flavours askew.
An odd narrative technique that didn't really work with me, it consistently focuses intently on one character at the end of a sequence and then pauses for dramatic effect.
I imagine I'm outside the targeted audience's age range, but I found the technique to be more sluggish than profound.
The kids in the theatre were laughing though, and seemed to have thoroughly enjoyed themselves as the credits rolled.
I did rather enjoy the ways in which so many characters were diminutively featured throughout nonetheless, especially Blobby (Genndy Tartakovsky), and lovestruck Drac in denial.
Plus the DJed dénouement.
Gremlin air.
The underwater volcano.
And the inherent ridiculousness of it all.
Nice.
A surprise.
A much less terrifying Drac (Adam Sandler) heads out for some rest and relaxation, a well-earned break from managing his infamous hotel.
His friends and family enthusiastically accompany him, adding communal comedic style to his travels similar to that found in A Muppet Family Christmas (1987).
It's not Christmas, not even Halloween, yet the cruise they find themselves upon does come equipped with stunning Summertime festivities, attractions, designed specifically for monsters, who are unaware it's a vengeful trap.
The Van Helsings (Jim Gaffigan as Van Helsing and Kathryn Hahn as Ericka) have sought to finish Dracula off for generations.
Without success.
But now their family has come up with their most diabolical scheme ever, and have successfully lured everyone into their exhaustive clutches.
An aspect that has never been considered may foil their antiseptic ambitions, however.
Known to both human and monster kind.
As unabashed true love.
Or zinging, as it's referred to in Hotel Transylvania 3: Summer Vacation, and it does perhaps generate the odd blush or two, as aged Drac comes to terms with his emotions.
Nevertheless, daughter Mavis (Selena Gomez [not Winona Ryder?]) stays focused, and detects peculiar behaviour as she monitors the actions of dad's commanding love interest.
With the help of her chill surfs-up! beatbox husband Johnny (Adam Samberg), they may just be able to dispel the leviathan.
It's a cruise after all.
Replete with Bermudan triangulations.
Some funny moments, some serious camaraderie, death-defyingly wicked yet convivially chummy and endearing, Hotel Transylvania 3 innocently blends mirth with the macabre to highlight collective curses, synthesizing Capulets and Montagues demonstrously, while adding myriad spicy flavours askew.
An odd narrative technique that didn't really work with me, it consistently focuses intently on one character at the end of a sequence and then pauses for dramatic effect.
I imagine I'm outside the targeted audience's age range, but I found the technique to be more sluggish than profound.
The kids in the theatre were laughing though, and seemed to have thoroughly enjoyed themselves as the credits rolled.
I did rather enjoy the ways in which so many characters were diminutively featured throughout nonetheless, especially Blobby (Genndy Tartakovsky), and lovestruck Drac in denial.
Plus the DJed dénouement.
Gremlin air.
The underwater volcano.
And the inherent ridiculousness of it all.
Nice.
Friday, July 27, 2018
Leave No Trace
A valiant soldier unable to adjust to civilian life.
Versatile and self-sufficient, he (Ben Foster as Will) makes a rustic home for his small family in a National Park.
His daughter (Thomasin McKenzie as Tom) is helpful and reliable and enjoys the alternative lifestyle her and her father are living.
But since their dwelling is technically illegal, after they're eventually discovered they have to abruptly adapt and make peace with the outside world, fortunately continuing to live together as one.
They're treated quite well, even provided with a home in the countryside plus ample work and schooling.
But the adjustment is still too much for Tom's father, and the sleeping and waking nightmares continue to destructively haunt him, and even though Tom likes living with others, one day they suddenly pack everything up and head back to the isolated wild.
A psychological tragedy.
Brought about by a lack of care.
Debra Granik's Leave No Trace presents a loving family striving to independently get by.
Their circumstances would be less extreme had more time and funding been available to assist Will after he returned home.
I find it's the people who promote and agitate wars who should be held to account after they're over, not the soldiers who fight them, many of whom likely believe the lies war mongering politicians tell them, and therefore shouldn't be condescendingly criticized in public themselves.
Unless they treated local populations savagely.
As many other people have written, stated, theorized, noted, the people who start the wars and sell the weapons to keep them going don't fight in them themselves, and take home profits that make Shangri-La look destitute.
Even if their own country's public debt skyrockets meanwhile (since their wealth is accumulated privately it's of no concern to them).
And they ask poor people to fight in their wars and those brave self-sacrificing people do fight in their wars, but after the war is finished and they've suffered extreme trauma that nothing can prepare anyone for, they're left to fend for themselves with a prescription for pills and the odd hour long chat, while the war mongers bank multi-millions, a scant fraction of which they spend helping those who earned them their profits recover.
Fighting in a war isn't a typical job, and those that do after mad fools start them deserve adequate care and compensation upon returning home.
No matter how long it takes.
A retreat in the countryside with no work and ample comfort for years on end perhaps.
Will walking into the forest on his own after leaving his daughter behind in a welcoming community should be a wake-up call for the civilian public service tasked with helping men and women like him rediscover peace of mind.
Or, more suitably, for politicians tasked with supplying such organizations with the necessary funds to do so, enormous amounts of public money spent on starting and fighting ludicrous wars, not enough spent helping honest veterans become contributing citizens after they've made unimaginable sacrifices.
Or, even more suitably, just ending gun violence permanently.
By making it much much much much much much much much harder to access a gun.
As Toronto's mayor John Tory suggested recently.
Or start wars.
A Middle-Eastern EU comes to mind.
That could work.
Versatile and self-sufficient, he (Ben Foster as Will) makes a rustic home for his small family in a National Park.
His daughter (Thomasin McKenzie as Tom) is helpful and reliable and enjoys the alternative lifestyle her and her father are living.
But since their dwelling is technically illegal, after they're eventually discovered they have to abruptly adapt and make peace with the outside world, fortunately continuing to live together as one.
They're treated quite well, even provided with a home in the countryside plus ample work and schooling.
But the adjustment is still too much for Tom's father, and the sleeping and waking nightmares continue to destructively haunt him, and even though Tom likes living with others, one day they suddenly pack everything up and head back to the isolated wild.
A psychological tragedy.
Brought about by a lack of care.
Debra Granik's Leave No Trace presents a loving family striving to independently get by.
Their circumstances would be less extreme had more time and funding been available to assist Will after he returned home.
I find it's the people who promote and agitate wars who should be held to account after they're over, not the soldiers who fight them, many of whom likely believe the lies war mongering politicians tell them, and therefore shouldn't be condescendingly criticized in public themselves.
Unless they treated local populations savagely.
As many other people have written, stated, theorized, noted, the people who start the wars and sell the weapons to keep them going don't fight in them themselves, and take home profits that make Shangri-La look destitute.
Even if their own country's public debt skyrockets meanwhile (since their wealth is accumulated privately it's of no concern to them).
And they ask poor people to fight in their wars and those brave self-sacrificing people do fight in their wars, but after the war is finished and they've suffered extreme trauma that nothing can prepare anyone for, they're left to fend for themselves with a prescription for pills and the odd hour long chat, while the war mongers bank multi-millions, a scant fraction of which they spend helping those who earned them their profits recover.
Fighting in a war isn't a typical job, and those that do after mad fools start them deserve adequate care and compensation upon returning home.
No matter how long it takes.
A retreat in the countryside with no work and ample comfort for years on end perhaps.
Will walking into the forest on his own after leaving his daughter behind in a welcoming community should be a wake-up call for the civilian public service tasked with helping men and women like him rediscover peace of mind.
Or, more suitably, for politicians tasked with supplying such organizations with the necessary funds to do so, enormous amounts of public money spent on starting and fighting ludicrous wars, not enough spent helping honest veterans become contributing citizens after they've made unimaginable sacrifices.
Or, even more suitably, just ending gun violence permanently.
By making it much much much much much much much much harder to access a gun.
As Toronto's mayor John Tory suggested recently.
Or start wars.
A Middle-Eastern EU comes to mind.
That could work.
Tuesday, July 24, 2018
Boundaries
Entrepreneurial ambitions complicate a straightforward road trip, as a mother (Vera Farmiga as Laura Jaconi) agrees to transport her mischievous father (Christopher Plummer as Jack Jaconi) to a location where his passions will be viewed less dismissively.
The next generation (Lewis MacDougall as Henry), having recently been expelled from school, curiously comes along, sort of eager to spend time with grandpa, unaware they'll be visiting his deadbeat dad (Bobby Cannavale as Leonard).
So many different paths to tread, so many ways in which they intertwine, a crash course in extracurricular enigmatic eccentricity mysteriously thrilling young Henry, as they travel from contact to contact, conjuring spells as pitstops confuse trusting mom.
She's truly wonderful.
Her magnanimous heart endears her to animals and she consistently comes to the aid of the lost and downtrodden.
Unfortunately this leads people to take advantage of her, some harmless, some cruel, all of them blind to the fact that they've encountered a resplendent sun, inside and out, who transforms tumbledown lots into palatial realms, worthy of uncompromised praise and adoration, if the self-obsessed would only think past craven impulse, and consider abundant rays down the road.
Shana Feste's Boundaries presents lighthearted mischief which is intense at times yet still wondrously illuminates candid impropriety.
As the tender loving embraces the devoutly incorrigible, multigenerational muses thoughtfully materialize.
Forbidden portraits.
Conjugal miscommunication.
Evergreen commerce.
Therapeutic theatrics.
If you don't simply fit there's freedom in the labyrinthine.
Constant flux may be tiring, but spontaneous adjustments create grand novelties.
Chaotic logic rationally intensifying.
Kafkaesque at times.
Nice to head out for ice cream.
Accept Boundaries as a clever comedic reflection upon individuals conceiving unique masternarratives, and embrace a steady flow of unexpected conditional ruses.
Full of existential craft.
And love scolding ever after.
Loved it.
The next generation (Lewis MacDougall as Henry), having recently been expelled from school, curiously comes along, sort of eager to spend time with grandpa, unaware they'll be visiting his deadbeat dad (Bobby Cannavale as Leonard).
So many different paths to tread, so many ways in which they intertwine, a crash course in extracurricular enigmatic eccentricity mysteriously thrilling young Henry, as they travel from contact to contact, conjuring spells as pitstops confuse trusting mom.
She's truly wonderful.
Her magnanimous heart endears her to animals and she consistently comes to the aid of the lost and downtrodden.
Unfortunately this leads people to take advantage of her, some harmless, some cruel, all of them blind to the fact that they've encountered a resplendent sun, inside and out, who transforms tumbledown lots into palatial realms, worthy of uncompromised praise and adoration, if the self-obsessed would only think past craven impulse, and consider abundant rays down the road.
Shana Feste's Boundaries presents lighthearted mischief which is intense at times yet still wondrously illuminates candid impropriety.
As the tender loving embraces the devoutly incorrigible, multigenerational muses thoughtfully materialize.
Forbidden portraits.
Conjugal miscommunication.
Evergreen commerce.
Therapeutic theatrics.
If you don't simply fit there's freedom in the labyrinthine.
Constant flux may be tiring, but spontaneous adjustments create grand novelties.
Chaotic logic rationally intensifying.
Kafkaesque at times.
Nice to head out for ice cream.
Accept Boundaries as a clever comedic reflection upon individuals conceiving unique masternarratives, and embrace a steady flow of unexpected conditional ruses.
Full of existential craft.
And love scolding ever after.
Loved it.
Friday, July 20, 2018
Ant-Man & the Wasp
The underground trade in highly specialized technological essentials leads unscrupulous entrepreneurs to discriminately rank indiscretions.
Their desperate contacts require the unique components to commence a maternal examination of the uncharted Quantum Realm.
To catalyze their investigation, the assistance of a frowned upon former colleague is required, even if at the moment he's structurally immured.
He's kept busy throughout his exile, however, taking care of his inquisitive daughter at times, while strategically assisting in the creation of a legitimate business.
His partners rely on his insights as deadlines frenetically approach, yet are still there to assist should the world invoke his diminutive fury.
Law enforcement agents lie ready to pounce as well.
As a dying paracorporeal phenomenon furtively monitors the proceedings, in/substantially hoping to acquire life preserving experimental medicine.
Writers Chris McKenna, Erik Sommers, Paul Rudd, Andrew Barrer, and Gabriel Ferrari keep these 7 threads tightly knit, thought provokingly interweaving them with nimble effective cause.
The result is one of the coolest Marvel films I've seen, a multidimensional triumph, haphazardly exceeding as egos prank and clash, resolutely imbibing as the minuscule basks macroscopic.
Difficult to meticulously seem so unconcerned.
To stitch together such a frenzied family friendly tableau.
To create such a thrilling clever memorable Summertime fusion, a huge varied cast is assembled, the film directly benefitting from the talents of Laurence Fishburne (Dr. Bill Foster), Bobby Cannavale (Paxton), Judy Greer (Maggie), Michael Peña (Luis), Walton Goggins (Sonny Burch), and Randall Park (Jimmy Woo), not to mention Hannah John-Kamen (Ava/Ghost) and Abby Ryder Fortson (Cassie), and mainstays Michael Douglas (dad), Evangeline Lily (the Wasp) and Ant-Man himself, Paul Rudd.
That's some solid diversity.
The film thinks globally through the use of microscopic illumination, its multiple well-developed characters (also including T.I. as Dave and David Dastmalchian as Kurt) clearly defining themselves at large, while cohesively electrifying piquant age old paradigms.
It's Trump's worst nightmare.
A family friendly film that everyone will see that has strong Latino, Black, Asian, ambiguously gay, and female characters, not to mention a Southern man foiled, and a traditional patriarch critiqued throughout, convincingly held together by humanistic self-sacrifice, even going so far as to metaphorically pull a feminine genius out of the clutches of extreme computational dismissal.
After having learned so much during her travels.
So many different walks of life narrativized.
The research scientists who critique the creation of commercial enterprise.
The professor who critiques their egos.
The criminal business that makes huge amounts of cash.
The small business created by ex-cons to legally scrape by.
In the beginning.
The new dad's always part of the picture.
The difficulties of making new friends outside work during one's professional life.
The ways in which online obsessions can lead to people missing extraordinarily realistic events taking place nearby (brilliant) (editing by Dan Lebental and Craig Wood).
The supernatural im/materialized.
Ontological office space.
Wings and blasters.
It's also really funny, I couldn't control my laughter at points, an expert blend of the serious and the comedic thoughtfully delivered like you're heading out to the ballgame.
Too adult focused?
I don't think so.
There's still enough action to keep the young ones focused I'd wager.
I might see this in theatres again.
First rate adventurous comedic romantic sci-fi action.
I can't think of an equally enrapturing comparison.
So well done.
Their desperate contacts require the unique components to commence a maternal examination of the uncharted Quantum Realm.
To catalyze their investigation, the assistance of a frowned upon former colleague is required, even if at the moment he's structurally immured.
He's kept busy throughout his exile, however, taking care of his inquisitive daughter at times, while strategically assisting in the creation of a legitimate business.
His partners rely on his insights as deadlines frenetically approach, yet are still there to assist should the world invoke his diminutive fury.
Law enforcement agents lie ready to pounce as well.
As a dying paracorporeal phenomenon furtively monitors the proceedings, in/substantially hoping to acquire life preserving experimental medicine.
Writers Chris McKenna, Erik Sommers, Paul Rudd, Andrew Barrer, and Gabriel Ferrari keep these 7 threads tightly knit, thought provokingly interweaving them with nimble effective cause.
The result is one of the coolest Marvel films I've seen, a multidimensional triumph, haphazardly exceeding as egos prank and clash, resolutely imbibing as the minuscule basks macroscopic.
Difficult to meticulously seem so unconcerned.
To stitch together such a frenzied family friendly tableau.
To create such a thrilling clever memorable Summertime fusion, a huge varied cast is assembled, the film directly benefitting from the talents of Laurence Fishburne (Dr. Bill Foster), Bobby Cannavale (Paxton), Judy Greer (Maggie), Michael Peña (Luis), Walton Goggins (Sonny Burch), and Randall Park (Jimmy Woo), not to mention Hannah John-Kamen (Ava/Ghost) and Abby Ryder Fortson (Cassie), and mainstays Michael Douglas (dad), Evangeline Lily (the Wasp) and Ant-Man himself, Paul Rudd.
That's some solid diversity.
The film thinks globally through the use of microscopic illumination, its multiple well-developed characters (also including T.I. as Dave and David Dastmalchian as Kurt) clearly defining themselves at large, while cohesively electrifying piquant age old paradigms.
It's Trump's worst nightmare.
A family friendly film that everyone will see that has strong Latino, Black, Asian, ambiguously gay, and female characters, not to mention a Southern man foiled, and a traditional patriarch critiqued throughout, convincingly held together by humanistic self-sacrifice, even going so far as to metaphorically pull a feminine genius out of the clutches of extreme computational dismissal.
After having learned so much during her travels.
So many different walks of life narrativized.
The research scientists who critique the creation of commercial enterprise.
The professor who critiques their egos.
The criminal business that makes huge amounts of cash.
The small business created by ex-cons to legally scrape by.
In the beginning.
The new dad's always part of the picture.
The difficulties of making new friends outside work during one's professional life.
The ways in which online obsessions can lead to people missing extraordinarily realistic events taking place nearby (brilliant) (editing by Dan Lebental and Craig Wood).
The supernatural im/materialized.
Ontological office space.
Wings and blasters.
It's also really funny, I couldn't control my laughter at points, an expert blend of the serious and the comedic thoughtfully delivered like you're heading out to the ballgame.
Too adult focused?
I don't think so.
There's still enough action to keep the young ones focused I'd wager.
I might see this in theatres again.
First rate adventurous comedic romantic sci-fi action.
I can't think of an equally enrapturing comparison.
So well done.
Tuesday, July 17, 2018
Uncle Drew
A legendary street side basketball tournament known as the Rucker Classic drives feisty shoesalesperson/coach Dax (Lil Rel Howery/Ashton Tyler) to envisage heartfelt impressions.
Yet after obnoxious rival Mookie (Nick Kroll) steals his best player, and then his partner, after she throws him out, wayward Dax must embrace paths followed unbidden.
But as despair begins to weaken his profound resilient temper, a potent force from decades past, still in possession of incomparable skill, suddenly appears ready to contend, if and only if he can reassemble his once duty-bound team.
A member of which remains aggrieved.
Begrudged impassioned youth.
Underscored divisively.
Charles Stone III's Uncle Drew innocently celebrates teamwork to strengthen multigenerational resolve.
Logic is magically reconceptualized within, to artistically metamorphisize concrete athletic biology.
At times it struggles.
Some vegetarian sandwiches need two to three times as much cheese, and even if do-gooding boldly asserts Uncle Drew's regenerative harmonies, it still undeniably serves up a thick multilayered footlong.
Chomp Chomp.
Friendships briefly reestablished to redeem themselves for having missed rare highly prized opportunities illuminate the backcourt.
Enchanting implausibility fuelling huggable lighthearted mysteries acrobatically sashay unconfused.
A healthy examination of sport and the ways in which it can positively impact one's community sharply attunes deeply connected obligation.
And a contemplative disputatious sad yet determined Kevin Hart/Eeyore hybrid enlivens the game with perplexed in/credulous jamméd excitability.
Rewards for versatility redefining alternative options strewn.
A bit o' basketball worked in.
With some loving romance too.
Transported from the bleachers to centre stage primetime, Uncle Drew innocently tenderizes as it renovates old school.
Not the most hard-hitting film, but not a shout out to the dark side either, it boldly cuts down sith with blunt octogenarian sabres, while shedding a little light, on respectful collective views.
Super chill.
Yet after obnoxious rival Mookie (Nick Kroll) steals his best player, and then his partner, after she throws him out, wayward Dax must embrace paths followed unbidden.
But as despair begins to weaken his profound resilient temper, a potent force from decades past, still in possession of incomparable skill, suddenly appears ready to contend, if and only if he can reassemble his once duty-bound team.
A member of which remains aggrieved.
Begrudged impassioned youth.
Underscored divisively.
Charles Stone III's Uncle Drew innocently celebrates teamwork to strengthen multigenerational resolve.
Logic is magically reconceptualized within, to artistically metamorphisize concrete athletic biology.
At times it struggles.
Some vegetarian sandwiches need two to three times as much cheese, and even if do-gooding boldly asserts Uncle Drew's regenerative harmonies, it still undeniably serves up a thick multilayered footlong.
Chomp Chomp.
Friendships briefly reestablished to redeem themselves for having missed rare highly prized opportunities illuminate the backcourt.
Enchanting implausibility fuelling huggable lighthearted mysteries acrobatically sashay unconfused.
A healthy examination of sport and the ways in which it can positively impact one's community sharply attunes deeply connected obligation.
And a contemplative disputatious sad yet determined Kevin Hart/Eeyore hybrid enlivens the game with perplexed in/credulous jamméd excitability.
Rewards for versatility redefining alternative options strewn.
A bit o' basketball worked in.
With some loving romance too.
Transported from the bleachers to centre stage primetime, Uncle Drew innocently tenderizes as it renovates old school.
Not the most hard-hitting film, but not a shout out to the dark side either, it boldly cuts down sith with blunt octogenarian sabres, while shedding a little light, on respectful collective views.
Super chill.
Friday, July 13, 2018
Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom
Jurassic World, back at it.
Dinosaur-related shenanigans, check.
Some dick trying to cash in on the genetically reincarnated beasties: you got it.
Those who care about preserving both the independence and integrity of dinosaur kind, primed, and ready to go.
Consistent death-defying escapes mixed in with a ludicrous plot that unravels like a particularly intriguing series of Bazooka Joe comics?
Yuppers.
Although the dinosaurs, as in the actual dinosaurs, having been left alone to exist freely on Isla Nublar, still make for a stunning cinematic extravaganza, their wild unpredictable prehistoric codes of conduct generating thrilling exceptional naturalistic exhilarations, that make the unrelenting poaching of elephants, rhinos, lions, tigers, bears, and others, seem even more horrendous, as even more are illegally deprived of life each day.
A UN army to stop them?
I'd greenlight that idea.
Yet, for the next Jurassic World sequel, might I suggest 25 minutes more pure dinosaur, and 25 minutes less human interaction?
Still include plenty of Zia Rodriguez (Daniella Pineda), Franklin Webb (Justice Smith), Owen Grady (Chris Pratt), Claire Deaning (Bryce Dallas Howard), Maisie Lockwood (Isabella Sermon), and Ian Malcolm (Jeff Goldblum), but take it easy on the maniacal conspiring.
Plus, the ending, spoiler alert, suggests dinosaurs will be proliferating partout in Jurassic World 3.
Considering how many were saved from the island, that's a bit ridiculous, unless all the dinosaurs who jumped off the cliff to freedom swam to land and survived, the numbers simply don't add up.
Not including those who can fly.
Methinks more time should be spent on the script for future instalments as well.
I was super happy to see James Cromwell (Benjamin Lockwood) but then he had to deliver the worst dialogue imaginable, over and over again.
He deserves so much better.
Even the first half of Ian Malcolm's speech isn't that tight, although his statements at the end of the film make an impact, as if they reserved the best writing for the last 2 minutes, hoping the rest would be overlooked as a consequence.
Even with the impact, they still make you think the world will be overrun with dinosaurs in the next movie, when those who were shipped off the island weren't exactly handpicked by Noah (I assume dinosaurs lay a bunch of eggs at a time, but how often do they breed and how closely do they watch their young? [elephant moms carry their young for 22 months{mama turtles lay then take off}]).
What happened to Lowery (Jake Johnson)?
He didn't die in the first/fourth film.
He was cool.
The Indoraptor may be a prototype, but it's also a highly refined predator bred to kill and kill.
And kill again.
I don't think turning the lights out would fool it.
Plus, the auction doesn't make much sense.
None of the dinosaurs they're selling apart from the Indoraptor prototype have been genetically conditioned to follow commands, and a bunch of them are herbivorous by nature.
How are you going to turn something that eats grass and plants all day and isn't violent into some strange breed of instinctual vegetarian mercenary?
And how could you trick elite arms dealers into thinking that's a great idea?
Even if it'd make a funny Will Ferrell movie.
And wouldn't one sniper bullet put a dinosaur mercenary out of commission?
If you could weaponize herbivores wouldn't a deer be more suitable option?
I can't believe I'm thinking about these things.
Plus, if Eli Mills (Rafe Spall) is managing the fortune that built Jurassic Park etc., why would he take so many idiotic risks to pick up what probably amounts to spare chump change?
The payouts he had to make after Jurassic World fell apart weren't astronomically high in speculative comparison.
A fun movie to watch lacking in structural cohesion, perhaps Fallen Kingdom's writers made internal and personal sacrifices to narratively lampoon the miserable ethical foundations of global weapons manufacturing, deliberately not thinking things through to sharply critique plutocratic ambitions, while betting on making a shit ton of money meanwhile?
The do-gooders are still awesome.
And the dinosaurs too.
My favourite dinosaur: the stegosaurus.
Always has been.
😌
Dinosaur-related shenanigans, check.
Some dick trying to cash in on the genetically reincarnated beasties: you got it.
Those who care about preserving both the independence and integrity of dinosaur kind, primed, and ready to go.
Consistent death-defying escapes mixed in with a ludicrous plot that unravels like a particularly intriguing series of Bazooka Joe comics?
Yuppers.
Although the dinosaurs, as in the actual dinosaurs, having been left alone to exist freely on Isla Nublar, still make for a stunning cinematic extravaganza, their wild unpredictable prehistoric codes of conduct generating thrilling exceptional naturalistic exhilarations, that make the unrelenting poaching of elephants, rhinos, lions, tigers, bears, and others, seem even more horrendous, as even more are illegally deprived of life each day.
A UN army to stop them?
I'd greenlight that idea.
Yet, for the next Jurassic World sequel, might I suggest 25 minutes more pure dinosaur, and 25 minutes less human interaction?
Still include plenty of Zia Rodriguez (Daniella Pineda), Franklin Webb (Justice Smith), Owen Grady (Chris Pratt), Claire Deaning (Bryce Dallas Howard), Maisie Lockwood (Isabella Sermon), and Ian Malcolm (Jeff Goldblum), but take it easy on the maniacal conspiring.
Plus, the ending, spoiler alert, suggests dinosaurs will be proliferating partout in Jurassic World 3.
Considering how many were saved from the island, that's a bit ridiculous, unless all the dinosaurs who jumped off the cliff to freedom swam to land and survived, the numbers simply don't add up.
Not including those who can fly.
Methinks more time should be spent on the script for future instalments as well.
I was super happy to see James Cromwell (Benjamin Lockwood) but then he had to deliver the worst dialogue imaginable, over and over again.
He deserves so much better.
Even the first half of Ian Malcolm's speech isn't that tight, although his statements at the end of the film make an impact, as if they reserved the best writing for the last 2 minutes, hoping the rest would be overlooked as a consequence.
Even with the impact, they still make you think the world will be overrun with dinosaurs in the next movie, when those who were shipped off the island weren't exactly handpicked by Noah (I assume dinosaurs lay a bunch of eggs at a time, but how often do they breed and how closely do they watch their young? [elephant moms carry their young for 22 months{mama turtles lay then take off}]).
What happened to Lowery (Jake Johnson)?
He didn't die in the first/fourth film.
He was cool.
The Indoraptor may be a prototype, but it's also a highly refined predator bred to kill and kill.
And kill again.
I don't think turning the lights out would fool it.
Plus, the auction doesn't make much sense.
None of the dinosaurs they're selling apart from the Indoraptor prototype have been genetically conditioned to follow commands, and a bunch of them are herbivorous by nature.
How are you going to turn something that eats grass and plants all day and isn't violent into some strange breed of instinctual vegetarian mercenary?
And how could you trick elite arms dealers into thinking that's a great idea?
Even if it'd make a funny Will Ferrell movie.
And wouldn't one sniper bullet put a dinosaur mercenary out of commission?
If you could weaponize herbivores wouldn't a deer be more suitable option?
I can't believe I'm thinking about these things.
Plus, if Eli Mills (Rafe Spall) is managing the fortune that built Jurassic Park etc., why would he take so many idiotic risks to pick up what probably amounts to spare chump change?
The payouts he had to make after Jurassic World fell apart weren't astronomically high in speculative comparison.
A fun movie to watch lacking in structural cohesion, perhaps Fallen Kingdom's writers made internal and personal sacrifices to narratively lampoon the miserable ethical foundations of global weapons manufacturing, deliberately not thinking things through to sharply critique plutocratic ambitions, while betting on making a shit ton of money meanwhile?
The do-gooders are still awesome.
And the dinosaurs too.
My favourite dinosaur: the stegosaurus.
Always has been.
😌
Tuesday, July 10, 2018
Un beau soleil intérieur (Let the Sunshine In)
A match.
Endurance.
Compatibility.
R & D.
Pastoral paradigms emanating golden harmonies rhetorically reverberating through multilateral millennia, joyfully narrativized like historical ambrosia, atemporally animated to mellifluously sing, unconditionally composed spry apian honeysuckle, youthfully absorbed then maturely articulated, with different methodologies, flexibly inscribed.
Passing years blending experiential summations curiously moving forward with impassioned conviction, truthful conception still tantalizingly motivates without ever asking why?
Enchantments, disappointments, routines, bewilderments, a scintillating literary array miscellaneously nuancing biodiverse auto/biography, sifting through the acquired knowledge like basking in metropolitan obscurity, multiplicities aligning quotients with commensurate psychological constituencies, strategic planning wondrously liaising with lampooned spontaneity, crème brûlée, a quiche, a grilled cheese, a bumptious timbit in Milan, a marigold scone brashly drenched in herbal tease.
Tisane.
Itinerant ecstasies dependable denominators express escapades mundane nebulae, a resonant echo still conceiving la clé labyrinthique, the maze itself intuitively reliable, as long as theoretical conclusions remain determinately uncertain.
Ephemeral clarifications auriferously constructing poetic periodicals classically mystifying formal assumption, jazzy rhythms alternating beats with inspired endemic hypothesis, comical complements relieving inquisitive bouts of suspicious vertigo, extraterrestrial revelations, steeping thematic controversy.
Doubts, delusions, denials.
Elasticity.
Sitting back later on, settled and sequestered, conceptually caressing canvases, a story takes shape.
Notwithstanding unclassified frontiers, the tumults and triumphs and testaments and temptations serendipitously characterize life alight anew.
Outcomes conspicuously serializing no less, theatrics exemplifying latent desires quotidian.
And while observing sundry orchestrations mischievizing relational aesthetics, communal romance applauds in tune.
Without ever coldly abandoning.
Free longings for something true.
Immaterial.
Blessed.
Starchy.
Endurance.
Compatibility.
R & D.
Pastoral paradigms emanating golden harmonies rhetorically reverberating through multilateral millennia, joyfully narrativized like historical ambrosia, atemporally animated to mellifluously sing, unconditionally composed spry apian honeysuckle, youthfully absorbed then maturely articulated, with different methodologies, flexibly inscribed.
Passing years blending experiential summations curiously moving forward with impassioned conviction, truthful conception still tantalizingly motivates without ever asking why?
Enchantments, disappointments, routines, bewilderments, a scintillating literary array miscellaneously nuancing biodiverse auto/biography, sifting through the acquired knowledge like basking in metropolitan obscurity, multiplicities aligning quotients with commensurate psychological constituencies, strategic planning wondrously liaising with lampooned spontaneity, crème brûlée, a quiche, a grilled cheese, a bumptious timbit in Milan, a marigold scone brashly drenched in herbal tease.
Tisane.
Itinerant ecstasies dependable denominators express escapades mundane nebulae, a resonant echo still conceiving la clé labyrinthique, the maze itself intuitively reliable, as long as theoretical conclusions remain determinately uncertain.
Ephemeral clarifications auriferously constructing poetic periodicals classically mystifying formal assumption, jazzy rhythms alternating beats with inspired endemic hypothesis, comical complements relieving inquisitive bouts of suspicious vertigo, extraterrestrial revelations, steeping thematic controversy.
Doubts, delusions, denials.
Elasticity.
Sitting back later on, settled and sequestered, conceptually caressing canvases, a story takes shape.
Notwithstanding unclassified frontiers, the tumults and triumphs and testaments and temptations serendipitously characterize life alight anew.
Outcomes conspicuously serializing no less, theatrics exemplifying latent desires quotidian.
And while observing sundry orchestrations mischievizing relational aesthetics, communal romance applauds in tune.
Without ever coldly abandoning.
Free longings for something true.
Immaterial.
Blessed.
Starchy.
Friday, July 6, 2018
Quand l'amour se creuse un trou (When Love Digs a Hole)
An undisciplined approach to scholastic endeavours leaves young Miron (Robert Naylor) locked-down in homeschool.
His reserved yet open-minded parents understand that teenagers like to experiment, but are still adamant that their boy should definitively finish high school.
Therefore, their family rents a home in the countryside where it is believed there will be less distractions, and Miron sits down with mom to soberly cast procrastination aside.
Things go well.
The plans seems to be working.
But little do mom and dad know that their son is cut from the purest romantic egalitarian inclusivity, and soon finds himself enamoured of their rebellious widowed neighbour next door.
Florence (France Castel/Emilie Carbonneau) is a daring freespirit who elastically makes ends meet, and while Miron's parents (Patrice Robitaille as David and Julie LeBreton as Thérèse) sympathize with such an approach, at the end of the day they're better acquainted with orderly inflexible routines.
They aren't ogres or anything, they're actually much cooler than many parental units depicted in romantic comedies, yet they still authoritarianly attempt to shut love the fuck down, which thoroughly annoys their son, who effortlessly finds it wherever he goes.
As a side effect, David's increasing strictness revitalizes his wife's latent passions, and their marriage is consequently saved.
Yet their son is much more resourceful than they think, and an idea is generated through pseudo-televisual leisure studies, which just might represent, the apotheosis of truest free love.
Excavated from the heart of despair.
It's been awhile since I've seen such a remarkable Québecois comedy, which outperforms its American counterparts with a scant fraction of their operating budgets.
No doubt because Excentris went under.
A well-written story vivaciously brought to life, cognizant of the ways in which utopian dreams must confront disengaging realities, yet illustrative of the ingenuity which enables them to variably thrive amongst different generations, Quand l'amour se creuse un trou (When Love Digs a Hole) beautifully celebrates love and living, from multiple philosophical perspectives argumentatively voiced and respected.
It ends with perfect timing.
It's important to strive for the utopian but you still have to live meanwhile.
The trick is to do so without becoming cynical, a mindset which dismally breeds decay, if it takes over one's unconscious.
Don't get me wrong, I think finishing high school (and university or college) is very important, especially when you're young and don't have to work all the time, and it does open up doors and lets you expand your mind with cool challenges that the real world rarely offers.
Quand l'amour se creuse un trou makes a stunning case for disorderly reckonings however, undoubtably mischievized after categorial rules were far too dismissively applied.
Digs in deep.
His reserved yet open-minded parents understand that teenagers like to experiment, but are still adamant that their boy should definitively finish high school.
Therefore, their family rents a home in the countryside where it is believed there will be less distractions, and Miron sits down with mom to soberly cast procrastination aside.
Things go well.
The plans seems to be working.
But little do mom and dad know that their son is cut from the purest romantic egalitarian inclusivity, and soon finds himself enamoured of their rebellious widowed neighbour next door.
Florence (France Castel/Emilie Carbonneau) is a daring freespirit who elastically makes ends meet, and while Miron's parents (Patrice Robitaille as David and Julie LeBreton as Thérèse) sympathize with such an approach, at the end of the day they're better acquainted with orderly inflexible routines.
They aren't ogres or anything, they're actually much cooler than many parental units depicted in romantic comedies, yet they still authoritarianly attempt to shut love the fuck down, which thoroughly annoys their son, who effortlessly finds it wherever he goes.
As a side effect, David's increasing strictness revitalizes his wife's latent passions, and their marriage is consequently saved.
Yet their son is much more resourceful than they think, and an idea is generated through pseudo-televisual leisure studies, which just might represent, the apotheosis of truest free love.
Excavated from the heart of despair.
It's been awhile since I've seen such a remarkable Québecois comedy, which outperforms its American counterparts with a scant fraction of their operating budgets.
No doubt because Excentris went under.
A well-written story vivaciously brought to life, cognizant of the ways in which utopian dreams must confront disengaging realities, yet illustrative of the ingenuity which enables them to variably thrive amongst different generations, Quand l'amour se creuse un trou (When Love Digs a Hole) beautifully celebrates love and living, from multiple philosophical perspectives argumentatively voiced and respected.
It ends with perfect timing.
It's important to strive for the utopian but you still have to live meanwhile.
The trick is to do so without becoming cynical, a mindset which dismally breeds decay, if it takes over one's unconscious.
Don't get me wrong, I think finishing high school (and university or college) is very important, especially when you're young and don't have to work all the time, and it does open up doors and lets you expand your mind with cool challenges that the real world rarely offers.
Quand l'amour se creuse un trou makes a stunning case for disorderly reckonings however, undoubtably mischievized after categorial rules were far too dismissively applied.
Digs in deep.
Tuesday, July 3, 2018
Hotel Artemis
High level underground healthcare, malfeasant exclusivity monopolizing bedside manners, a doctor whose son was lost surgically suturing round the clock, strict codes of conduct sustaining improbable decorum with the efficient composure of inoculated propriety, an indispensable service for those who require it, an oasis, a criminal miracle, aliases supplied sanctuary granted, personality condoned within but who's to say what'll happen on the outside, a father and son at odds, expertly timed assassignations, steadfast fraternal devotion, prescribed in/discriminate patience, getaways, gumption, gallantry and gunshot wounds, grotesquely favoured, securely synchronized, playfully humoured, abruptly inundated.
Riots raging in Los Angeles, the result of soulless ambitions to privatize water realized, ubiquitous disorder generating pandemonium, within which even the outlawed superelite feel helpless with nowhere to hide.
Forgotten past misdeeds ravenously salivating.
The drool an elixir.
The drip a commandant.
Escape through delirium manifested in the labyrinthine.
Plain sight stealth.
Unorthodox risk management.
Hotel Artemis has the makings of a cult classic perhaps dependent upon the preferences of a younger generation.
I enjoyed the film and the ways in which it openly orchestrates alternative subterranean postures, its imaginative non-compliance circumnavigating electroshocks, boisterously treading the turbulent mainstream, exuberantly bolting nutty necromance.
But I couldn't help wondering if I would have loved it thirty years ago, or if alternative alternative formats have unconsciously redefined the underground, with the same subtle corporate polish that led to so many unremarkable Johnny Depp films.
Have I simply grown older, or have statistical calculations transformed wild narratives into more family friendly pieces of civil disobedience, a sign of a more hesitant restrained contemporary artistic approach, saturated with widespread perennial job insecurity?
Perhaps the form of the underground films that hit theatres in the 80's have become the contents of similar early twenty-first century films, the form of the latter now representing the content of the former, to reflect how political engagements have changed due to a lack of progressive organization, dating from the unfortunate release of Mortdecai?
That makes more sense.
😌
Riots raging in Los Angeles, the result of soulless ambitions to privatize water realized, ubiquitous disorder generating pandemonium, within which even the outlawed superelite feel helpless with nowhere to hide.
Forgotten past misdeeds ravenously salivating.
The drool an elixir.
The drip a commandant.
Escape through delirium manifested in the labyrinthine.
Plain sight stealth.
Unorthodox risk management.
Hotel Artemis has the makings of a cult classic perhaps dependent upon the preferences of a younger generation.
I enjoyed the film and the ways in which it openly orchestrates alternative subterranean postures, its imaginative non-compliance circumnavigating electroshocks, boisterously treading the turbulent mainstream, exuberantly bolting nutty necromance.
But I couldn't help wondering if I would have loved it thirty years ago, or if alternative alternative formats have unconsciously redefined the underground, with the same subtle corporate polish that led to so many unremarkable Johnny Depp films.
Have I simply grown older, or have statistical calculations transformed wild narratives into more family friendly pieces of civil disobedience, a sign of a more hesitant restrained contemporary artistic approach, saturated with widespread perennial job insecurity?
Perhaps the form of the underground films that hit theatres in the 80's have become the contents of similar early twenty-first century films, the form of the latter now representing the content of the former, to reflect how political engagements have changed due to a lack of progressive organization, dating from the unfortunate release of Mortdecai?
That makes more sense.
😌
Friday, June 29, 2018
Incredibles 2
A family of adorable lovingly unique superheroes flexibly recommences its eternal struggle against evil, judiciously reimagining traditional gender roles along the way, as the older kids age, and the youngest multidimensionally explodes.
In Brad Bird's Incredibles 2.
Superheroics having been outlawed, a clever plan is hatched to see them jurisprudently reevaluated.
And as Elastigirl (Holly Hunter) steps up to bravely duel the wicked Screenslaver (Bill Wise), Mr. Incredible (Craig T. Nelson) learns that raising young is quite demanding indeed.
Violet (Sarah Vowell) hopes to date schoolmate Tony Rydinger (Michael Bird) for instance, yet said love interest's amorous memories have dis/enchantingly disappeared.
Little Dash (Huck Milner) is struggling with math in school, and the methodologies once used to solve standard problems have bewilderingly mutated, or so it seems, as Mr. Incredible digs deep to decode them.
And it's discovered that baby Jack-Jack (Eli Fucile) has more gifts than the entire family combined, and doesn't know how to cautiously control them, meaning that at any moment their roof might cave in, if order is not improvisationally substantiated.
As Elastigirl (is there anyone like her in Marvel?) spontaneously adjusts to Screenslaver's mesmerizing theatrics, balance reestablishes itself on the eccentric homefront.
Yet petty grudges against superhero kind continue to frustratingly manifest themselves, and an even more diabolical plan is revealed, one so insidious it maliciously promotes fastidious spectacular ruin.
Forever and ever.
Till the end of time.
Thus, extremist uncompromising villainy once again attempts to delegitimize the genuine, fantastic forces independently existing beyond its limits fuelling it as a matter of uptight principle.
Technology is employed to overcome naturalistic endowments as entrenched ne'er-do-wells continue to malign the do-gooding.
The Incredibles just want to modestly raise a family while thwarting genius crime, that's it, and since they're in possession of what it takes to lock down the ignominiously inclined, why not enable their enviable goals, while simultaneously encouraging a healthy bourgeoisie?
A middle-class?
An everglade?
An engine?
Conan.
A long time ago, when I was obsessed with the films I had been forbidden to view in my youth, one night I saw this cool looking cartoon called The Incredibles, and I rented it, and thoroughly enjoyed watching it.
I'm therefore happy to see Incredibles 2 released so many years later, and find that it fits well with postmodern superheroism.
It distinguishes itself by realistically yet humorously introducing a relatable familial dimension, thereby functioning like a Maverick doubling down within the heavens.
Like Switzerland.
Or the Toronto Blue Jays once they start winning.
Blue Jays.
Chirp chirp.
In Brad Bird's Incredibles 2.
Superheroics having been outlawed, a clever plan is hatched to see them jurisprudently reevaluated.
And as Elastigirl (Holly Hunter) steps up to bravely duel the wicked Screenslaver (Bill Wise), Mr. Incredible (Craig T. Nelson) learns that raising young is quite demanding indeed.
Violet (Sarah Vowell) hopes to date schoolmate Tony Rydinger (Michael Bird) for instance, yet said love interest's amorous memories have dis/enchantingly disappeared.
Little Dash (Huck Milner) is struggling with math in school, and the methodologies once used to solve standard problems have bewilderingly mutated, or so it seems, as Mr. Incredible digs deep to decode them.
And it's discovered that baby Jack-Jack (Eli Fucile) has more gifts than the entire family combined, and doesn't know how to cautiously control them, meaning that at any moment their roof might cave in, if order is not improvisationally substantiated.
As Elastigirl (is there anyone like her in Marvel?) spontaneously adjusts to Screenslaver's mesmerizing theatrics, balance reestablishes itself on the eccentric homefront.
Yet petty grudges against superhero kind continue to frustratingly manifest themselves, and an even more diabolical plan is revealed, one so insidious it maliciously promotes fastidious spectacular ruin.
Forever and ever.
Till the end of time.
Thus, extremist uncompromising villainy once again attempts to delegitimize the genuine, fantastic forces independently existing beyond its limits fuelling it as a matter of uptight principle.
Technology is employed to overcome naturalistic endowments as entrenched ne'er-do-wells continue to malign the do-gooding.
The Incredibles just want to modestly raise a family while thwarting genius crime, that's it, and since they're in possession of what it takes to lock down the ignominiously inclined, why not enable their enviable goals, while simultaneously encouraging a healthy bourgeoisie?
A middle-class?
An everglade?
An engine?
Conan.
A long time ago, when I was obsessed with the films I had been forbidden to view in my youth, one night I saw this cool looking cartoon called The Incredibles, and I rented it, and thoroughly enjoyed watching it.
I'm therefore happy to see Incredibles 2 released so many years later, and find that it fits well with postmodern superheroism.
It distinguishes itself by realistically yet humorously introducing a relatable familial dimension, thereby functioning like a Maverick doubling down within the heavens.
Like Switzerland.
Or the Toronto Blue Jays once they start winning.
Blue Jays.
Chirp chirp.
Tuesday, June 26, 2018
Beast
A bit lost, torn up, unsure of yourself, bored, appointments still kept, job held down, favourable impressions made, rules followed, suddenly an X-Factor chants out unassumingly, confident and determined to whisk you away, parental disapproval augments the intrigue, raw wild magnetism beckons, rugged unscripted romance unconsciously makes waves, formless indefinite turmoil, voluptuously forbidden.
Imaginative frontiers.
Realistically crushed.
Small town sociology, all nighters and country clubs, stratified daylight reckonings, prohibited ambiguity, tight collars buttoned down, assertive adolescent angst, high fives and pats on the back, phantasmagorically crossed streams, courting conspicuous challenge.
Once thought to be deconstructed.
Not that long ago.
Still are of course, there might even be someone conducting a widespread statistical analysis of global openminded sociopolitical economic constructs right now, more than one person, complementary tributaries crafting poems and plays, cartographies and lexicons, flourishing partout beyond one-dimensional obsessions, where youthful hearts still maturely animate wise non-violent pastures, radiating shifts accrued, soaking up the great beyond.
Just gotta look for it.
Beast contemplates in the intermediary zone, two lovers sticking together regardless of class based prejudices, their path fraught with judgemental blockades, and it still remains unclear if one of them is a vicious murderer.
Jessie Buckley (Moll) delivers a remarkable performance showcasing variable emotions with versatile authentic command. Multiple distinct scenarios enable her talent to luminescently blind, a raw spirit full of self-generated harnessed energy.
Sturdy yet flexible.
Calisthenically driven.
She's bluntly situated with Beast's cold narrative trauma, a member of an well-known family irresistibly drawn to a heartthrob with no name (Johnny Flynn as Pascal), one who doesn't mind the snobbery but won't back down either, a resilient freespirit who's been knocked around, both lovers mistrustful of codes, both reactive when confronting injustice.
Yet one remains level-headed and focuses their rage directly upon the foolish perpetrator in question (civilization), the other, unable to strike back at those who hurt them, takes their pain out randomly upon the world (madness).
A tragic comment on a class based state which gives no quarter to the unestablished.
In this case, however, they must be punished, the first two-thirds of the film unreeling like a profound psychological thriller, the rest descending into typical stereotypes high and low, a surprisingly stark ending, for an otherwise stunning film.
Imaginative frontiers.
Realistically crushed.
Small town sociology, all nighters and country clubs, stratified daylight reckonings, prohibited ambiguity, tight collars buttoned down, assertive adolescent angst, high fives and pats on the back, phantasmagorically crossed streams, courting conspicuous challenge.
Once thought to be deconstructed.
Not that long ago.
Still are of course, there might even be someone conducting a widespread statistical analysis of global openminded sociopolitical economic constructs right now, more than one person, complementary tributaries crafting poems and plays, cartographies and lexicons, flourishing partout beyond one-dimensional obsessions, where youthful hearts still maturely animate wise non-violent pastures, radiating shifts accrued, soaking up the great beyond.
Just gotta look for it.
Beast contemplates in the intermediary zone, two lovers sticking together regardless of class based prejudices, their path fraught with judgemental blockades, and it still remains unclear if one of them is a vicious murderer.
Jessie Buckley (Moll) delivers a remarkable performance showcasing variable emotions with versatile authentic command. Multiple distinct scenarios enable her talent to luminescently blind, a raw spirit full of self-generated harnessed energy.
Sturdy yet flexible.
Calisthenically driven.
She's bluntly situated with Beast's cold narrative trauma, a member of an well-known family irresistibly drawn to a heartthrob with no name (Johnny Flynn as Pascal), one who doesn't mind the snobbery but won't back down either, a resilient freespirit who's been knocked around, both lovers mistrustful of codes, both reactive when confronting injustice.
Yet one remains level-headed and focuses their rage directly upon the foolish perpetrator in question (civilization), the other, unable to strike back at those who hurt them, takes their pain out randomly upon the world (madness).
A tragic comment on a class based state which gives no quarter to the unestablished.
In this case, however, they must be punished, the first two-thirds of the film unreeling like a profound psychological thriller, the rest descending into typical stereotypes high and low, a surprisingly stark ending, for an otherwise stunning film.
Friday, June 22, 2018
Birthmarked
Two brilliant scientific lovebirds decide it's time to prove, once and for all, that the strategically planned nurturing of children can void natural dispositions, three unsuspecting young ones deliberately chosen for their experiment, unaware of their historical familial traits, ready to grow up embowered in predetermined invariability, secluded in the country far away from constant distraction, homeschooled with amorous calculation, in Emanuel Hoss-Desmarais's Birthmarked, wherein science observes with religious fervour.
A family blooms within the carefully constructed unabashed bucolic laboratory, as two brothers and a sister innocently contend with that which remains unknown, mom and dad stubbornly sticking to the prepped script, hilarity ensuing, as youth spontaneously intervenes.
Malheureusement, if the desired results are not obtained, Catherine (Toni Collette) and Ben (Matthew Goode) must reimburse their patron for every dollar he's spent financing them, and everything that's taken place has been meticulously recorded by live-in Nanny Samsonov's (Andreas Apergis) weekly summaries, and another family from Portugal seems close to publishing their comparable results first, thus, as the pressure exponentially aggrandizes, psychological stabilities contiguously implode.
Bizarro intellectual contraceptive schematics.
Yet also an endearing comedy.
Nourished in a state of nature.
Disciplined in/sincere curiosity.
The parents aren't horrible or anything, but they do use questionable methods as time runs out.
Raising someone in isolation doesn't prove anything anyways.
In regards to living, you have to let complex organisms develop immersed in the unexpected to obtain results that have even the remotest chance of being spread far and wide.
Or so I've thought.
A tiger is generally a ferocious animal.
If you remove it from the jungle and beat it mercilessly it will either die or start to perform tricks for you.
But if you monitor it in the jungle throughout its life you can obtain untainted results.
The tiger left alone to its own devices.
Natural and free.
Unencumbered by prediction or shock therapy.
Birthmarked isn't about tigers, it's about science gone wrong in its quest for objective truth.
Fortunately, it's generally okay if a scientific experiment doesn't achieve miraculous results.
It goes without saying that science is about the slow and steady application of generally agreed upon principles which are constantly scrutinized themselves in order to maximize the universal applicability of its discoveries.
Funding scientific experiments which must produce results is bullshit.
Birthmarked recognizes this and therefore doesn't seem insane while focusing too intently on the adults at the expense of the children.
Novel to see such a narrative reflected through a comedic lens which elevates independent scientific research with no strings attached, since its subject matter so easily applies itself to drama, fantasy, and horror.
Yet by proceeding comedically, the other three genres still generate critical combustions, as formal narrative diversification examines experimental contents.
Strange film.
A family blooms within the carefully constructed unabashed bucolic laboratory, as two brothers and a sister innocently contend with that which remains unknown, mom and dad stubbornly sticking to the prepped script, hilarity ensuing, as youth spontaneously intervenes.
Malheureusement, if the desired results are not obtained, Catherine (Toni Collette) and Ben (Matthew Goode) must reimburse their patron for every dollar he's spent financing them, and everything that's taken place has been meticulously recorded by live-in Nanny Samsonov's (Andreas Apergis) weekly summaries, and another family from Portugal seems close to publishing their comparable results first, thus, as the pressure exponentially aggrandizes, psychological stabilities contiguously implode.
Bizarro intellectual contraceptive schematics.
Yet also an endearing comedy.
Nourished in a state of nature.
Disciplined in/sincere curiosity.
The parents aren't horrible or anything, but they do use questionable methods as time runs out.
Raising someone in isolation doesn't prove anything anyways.
In regards to living, you have to let complex organisms develop immersed in the unexpected to obtain results that have even the remotest chance of being spread far and wide.
Or so I've thought.
A tiger is generally a ferocious animal.
If you remove it from the jungle and beat it mercilessly it will either die or start to perform tricks for you.
But if you monitor it in the jungle throughout its life you can obtain untainted results.
The tiger left alone to its own devices.
Natural and free.
Unencumbered by prediction or shock therapy.
Birthmarked isn't about tigers, it's about science gone wrong in its quest for objective truth.
Fortunately, it's generally okay if a scientific experiment doesn't achieve miraculous results.
It goes without saying that science is about the slow and steady application of generally agreed upon principles which are constantly scrutinized themselves in order to maximize the universal applicability of its discoveries.
Funding scientific experiments which must produce results is bullshit.
Birthmarked recognizes this and therefore doesn't seem insane while focusing too intently on the adults at the expense of the children.
Novel to see such a narrative reflected through a comedic lens which elevates independent scientific research with no strings attached, since its subject matter so easily applies itself to drama, fantasy, and horror.
Yet by proceeding comedically, the other three genres still generate critical combustions, as formal narrative diversification examines experimental contents.
Strange film.
Tuesday, June 19, 2018
Ocean's 8
Alone in prison, with nothing but time on her hands, Debbie Ocean (Sandra Bullock) masterminds a plan to steal over a hundred million in diamonds, immediately acted upon after her release, old and new contacts forging a daring team assembled, multiple components carefully coaxed and compacted, efficient intricate undaunted elasticity, subtly stretched to briskly bounce back, executing envisioned flawless features exfoliated, requiring patient expertise, and cultivated spurned suspicion.
She also plans to see her ex who betrayed her incarcerated for her crimes, her uncompromised love having been outrageously cast aside, her scorn left with abundant time to exhaustively scheme and cypher.
Meticulously so.
The team's an eclectic mix of independent spirits each existing beyond the clutches of patriarchy, thriving individually with highly specialized skills, collectively blended to secure legendary salutations.
As Debbie explains her plan.
Enormous risks taken to facilitate freespirited acclimations.
Proceeds to be evenly split amongst them.
Exacting details.
A group of friends.
Ocean's 8 takes this group of remarkably skilled individuals and lets them intelligently showcase with care.
Seductive they may be, but the film focuses on brains rather than beauty and doesn't sexualize its crafty heroines.
It's strictly business.
It moves at a fast pace as the plan dispassionately pursues its objectives, everything smoothly falling into place without much strain or fallout.
The plan's clever and it's fun to watch but if there had been more conflict throughout it would have been grittier and edgier, even if it's still appealing as it stands.
Could have used more Constance (Awkwafina) too.
She doesn't get much screentime.
Precise and polished yet somewhat too perfect, Ocean's 8 outwits expectations with crystalline charming tact.
Keeping a level head as it executively chills, it puts theory into practice with brilliant regenerative exclamation.
She also plans to see her ex who betrayed her incarcerated for her crimes, her uncompromised love having been outrageously cast aside, her scorn left with abundant time to exhaustively scheme and cypher.
Meticulously so.
The team's an eclectic mix of independent spirits each existing beyond the clutches of patriarchy, thriving individually with highly specialized skills, collectively blended to secure legendary salutations.
As Debbie explains her plan.
Enormous risks taken to facilitate freespirited acclimations.
Proceeds to be evenly split amongst them.
Exacting details.
A group of friends.
Ocean's 8 takes this group of remarkably skilled individuals and lets them intelligently showcase with care.
Seductive they may be, but the film focuses on brains rather than beauty and doesn't sexualize its crafty heroines.
It's strictly business.
It moves at a fast pace as the plan dispassionately pursues its objectives, everything smoothly falling into place without much strain or fallout.
The plan's clever and it's fun to watch but if there had been more conflict throughout it would have been grittier and edgier, even if it's still appealing as it stands.
Could have used more Constance (Awkwafina) too.
She doesn't get much screentime.
Precise and polished yet somewhat too perfect, Ocean's 8 outwits expectations with crystalline charming tact.
Keeping a level head as it executively chills, it puts theory into practice with brilliant regenerative exclamation.
Friday, June 15, 2018
The Seagull
I've never given much thought to creating new dramatic forms.
I figured I'd just keep going and if something remarkably different popped into my head one day I'd share it and see what happens.
The Seagull examines an eager son's desire to impress his dismissive mother whose highly regarded literary partner has fallen for a would-be ingenue.
Her son loves her as well but the world is set to injure.
He writes an innocent play involving animals and the devil and boasts of having created a revolutionary form which is ridiculed thereafter.
The daughter of the family who manages their farm loves him, although he never notices, and an enthusiastic yet dull schoolmaster loves her, and she could sincerely care less.
An admirable doctor and a wise aged uncle (Brian Dennehy as Sorin) provide colourful commentaries throughout the film, which is based on the play by Chekhov, and contains characters who are generally engaging even if they're somewhat hedged-in.
He's a cad, she's a diva, he's seen better days, she's a dreamer, he's optimistic, etc.
But most (or all) plays lack the thousands of pages Proust had to consider his characters as they grew over the course of a lifetime, so I can't categorically fault an artist for introducing individuals prone to one trait or another, especially when they have so many clever and passionate things to say during so many meaningful exchanges.
Imagine no one ever spoke their mind or shared their point of view, their silence an attempt to preserve a sense of authoritative detachment when observing a discussion held between friends and relatives (they aren't bored), which often expresses either a lack of courage or adventure, if they truly have something valuable to say.
Someone could write a play where a modest youth consistently presents novel insights and ideas while surrounded by established personalities who refute everything he or she says through recourse to stereotyped vitriol and name it after The Logical Song.
Or call it Canonized.
The Seagull tragically blends innocence and maturity to warn artistic youths to beware of popularity and its influence as it unconsciously recasts everything it can control in its own marketable image.
It promotes novelty and difference but situates them within a covetous frame that scathingly materializes naive spirited dreams.
To mock itself, perhaps.
Perhaps not.
I figured I'd just keep going and if something remarkably different popped into my head one day I'd share it and see what happens.
The Seagull examines an eager son's desire to impress his dismissive mother whose highly regarded literary partner has fallen for a would-be ingenue.
Her son loves her as well but the world is set to injure.
He writes an innocent play involving animals and the devil and boasts of having created a revolutionary form which is ridiculed thereafter.
The daughter of the family who manages their farm loves him, although he never notices, and an enthusiastic yet dull schoolmaster loves her, and she could sincerely care less.
An admirable doctor and a wise aged uncle (Brian Dennehy as Sorin) provide colourful commentaries throughout the film, which is based on the play by Chekhov, and contains characters who are generally engaging even if they're somewhat hedged-in.
He's a cad, she's a diva, he's seen better days, she's a dreamer, he's optimistic, etc.
But most (or all) plays lack the thousands of pages Proust had to consider his characters as they grew over the course of a lifetime, so I can't categorically fault an artist for introducing individuals prone to one trait or another, especially when they have so many clever and passionate things to say during so many meaningful exchanges.
Imagine no one ever spoke their mind or shared their point of view, their silence an attempt to preserve a sense of authoritative detachment when observing a discussion held between friends and relatives (they aren't bored), which often expresses either a lack of courage or adventure, if they truly have something valuable to say.
Someone could write a play where a modest youth consistently presents novel insights and ideas while surrounded by established personalities who refute everything he or she says through recourse to stereotyped vitriol and name it after The Logical Song.
Or call it Canonized.
The Seagull tragically blends innocence and maturity to warn artistic youths to beware of popularity and its influence as it unconsciously recasts everything it can control in its own marketable image.
It promotes novelty and difference but situates them within a covetous frame that scathingly materializes naive spirited dreams.
To mock itself, perhaps.
Perhaps not.
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