As love's vitalistic harmonies musically surge, ecstatically flourishing for the curious young couple, condescending and encouraging conceptions cut-off and receive their rapturous transmissions, best interests taking shape in both evaluations, the scurrilous and the sanctified, amorously pressured.
To imagine that someone would attempt to prevent something as beautiful as Gabrielle (Gabrielle Marion-Rivard) and Martin's (Alexandre Landry) feelings for one another from joyously entrancing is beyond me, as if love is solely reserved for the prescient and the punctual, rather than for anyone caught up in its (initial) emancipating embrace.
Louise Archambault's Gabrielle does visually and pensively craft several scenes which explore the dangers facing Gabrielle should she choose to live on her own, practically and remorsefully nuancing their breadths, while nurturing her bold explorations.
Better to seek than to writhe.
Love's highly impractical anyways, regularly striking at inopportune moments, to which the application of hindsight can strive to sear logic, and succour an empirical spirituality.
Gabrielle and Martin cogently access their mutually supportive luminescent crunch, the unfortunately partially transgressive aspect of their unity only serving to further strengthen their resolve.
The film's progressively cautious competing rationalities motivate a conjugal oscillation, an illustrative illumination, stabilized through bliss.
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Yi dai zong shi (The Grandmaster)
Reluctantly impenetrable, hesitant yet incomparable, Wing Chun Grandmaster Ip Man (Tony Leung Chiu Wai) invincibly materializes his compact modest integrity, within, flexibly counterpoised, internationally driven.
Kar Wai Wong's Yi dai zong shi (The Grandmaster) celebrates his life, highlighting both monumental challenges and athletic altercations, some likely coaxed from oral and written records of his legend, complexly diversifying the phenomenon of martial arts, woefully positioning a seductive feminine element.
The film's temperament complements his psyche as an invasion commandeers his financial resources and he's forced to relocate to Hong Kong, having refused to collaborate.
Confident, reticent, and didactic, it unreels as if silent while biographically contending.
His post-invasion love interest forges the film's romantic counterbalance as her tragic commensurable conception of honour unwittingly tantalizes.
A Master of the martial arts herself (Xingyi and Bagua), her farsighted father having permitted her to train, thereby breaking with tradition, her devotion to her admirable related vow therefore remains a point of principled controversy, unable to release her desire, celestially sustained.
Yi dai zong shi's final message reflects a pluralistic pedagogical ideal, one which emphasizes study and traditional fluctuation, without betraying one's sense of concrete socioindividualism.
An action-packed wise accessible film, poignant without reference to the austere, insurmountable and unfathomable, tenaciously breaking through the ages.
Kar Wai Wong's Yi dai zong shi (The Grandmaster) celebrates his life, highlighting both monumental challenges and athletic altercations, some likely coaxed from oral and written records of his legend, complexly diversifying the phenomenon of martial arts, woefully positioning a seductive feminine element.
The film's temperament complements his psyche as an invasion commandeers his financial resources and he's forced to relocate to Hong Kong, having refused to collaborate.
Confident, reticent, and didactic, it unreels as if silent while biographically contending.
His post-invasion love interest forges the film's romantic counterbalance as her tragic commensurable conception of honour unwittingly tantalizes.
A Master of the martial arts herself (Xingyi and Bagua), her farsighted father having permitted her to train, thereby breaking with tradition, her devotion to her admirable related vow therefore remains a point of principled controversy, unable to release her desire, celestially sustained.
Yi dai zong shi's final message reflects a pluralistic pedagogical ideal, one which emphasizes study and traditional fluctuation, without betraying one's sense of concrete socioindividualism.
An action-packed wise accessible film, poignant without reference to the austere, insurmountable and unfathomable, tenaciously breaking through the ages.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Camille Claudel 1915
Attaching a strictly temporal dimension to the passage of time, wherein a brilliant delicate artist's psychological sentence is thought to be perennially relapsing, her in/direct encampment in the Real having seared an ominous dread, intransigent incarnate interference, a burning flame shrouded in darkness, no companions, no recourse, no distinctions, hospitable exclusion, reclusively aligned.
She can't break free.
Powerful performance by Juliette Binoche (Camille Claudel).
She is provided with the chance to convalesce and her ability to reason traumatically cloisters logical probabilities whose unrequited lesions awoke excessively paranoid delusions.
Her loved ones remain condemnatory, acting in accordance with principles which they consider to be charitably Christian, imprisoning her for life in an asylum, proudly refusing to listen.
The authoritative sanctioned madness is regally revealed as two differently abled persons are rebuked for not rehearsing their play with the requisite depth of emotion.
Mme Claudel is obviously disturbed, not possessed, and may have benefitted from more suitable surroundings, pharmaceutical aids, and/or an understanding listener.
That's not to say pharmaceuticals should have definitely been administered.
If pharmaceutical companies are run like a business who seeks to see revenues increase every quarter, and they rely upon people being diagnosed with particular characteristics in order for their products to be sold, a rather disreputable culture could resultantly emerge, if specific diagnoses are not cross-referenced.
Pharmaceuticals may not have been required in Camille's case as her self-diagnosis indicates, her hypothesized cure seeming reasonable enough, affable, sane.
A different time; Camille Claudel 1915 examines a different set of historical rationalities.
A patient, helpless, conspicuous film, judiciously stark, the sound and the fury.
She can't break free.
Powerful performance by Juliette Binoche (Camille Claudel).
She is provided with the chance to convalesce and her ability to reason traumatically cloisters logical probabilities whose unrequited lesions awoke excessively paranoid delusions.
Her loved ones remain condemnatory, acting in accordance with principles which they consider to be charitably Christian, imprisoning her for life in an asylum, proudly refusing to listen.
The authoritative sanctioned madness is regally revealed as two differently abled persons are rebuked for not rehearsing their play with the requisite depth of emotion.
Mme Claudel is obviously disturbed, not possessed, and may have benefitted from more suitable surroundings, pharmaceutical aids, and/or an understanding listener.
That's not to say pharmaceuticals should have definitely been administered.
If pharmaceutical companies are run like a business who seeks to see revenues increase every quarter, and they rely upon people being diagnosed with particular characteristics in order for their products to be sold, a rather disreputable culture could resultantly emerge, if specific diagnoses are not cross-referenced.
Pharmaceuticals may not have been required in Camille's case as her self-diagnosis indicates, her hypothesized cure seeming reasonable enough, affable, sane.
A different time; Camille Claudel 1915 examines a different set of historical rationalities.
A patient, helpless, conspicuous film, judiciously stark, the sound and the fury.
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Ekstra
Taking a humanistic approach to the production of soap operas, focusing primarily on the arduous routines followed by their hope-filled extras, digging in real deep, opportunity jostling with obsolescence, divas, directors, and delays, a rigid overworked tawdry hierarchical continuity graciously swoons to sycophantically accommodate, while viciously displacing its retributive wrath.
The extras take the heat for egocentric conceits, yet flexibly flow in bleached toiled caprice.
Irony abounds as the stars and high ranking members of the crew act like precious progenitors of substantial stakes while creating horrendous gaudy cylindrical refuse.
The cigarette burn improvisation.
A tasteless product placement.
The insertion of an automobile.
Cinematically fell for Loida Malabanan (Vilma Santos) as she attempts to breakthrough, her roles functioning as metafictional realistic vindications as she fantastically battles the wicked, heartbreakingly symbolic, cold, and unforgiving.
Ekstra is also filled with congenial moments of accidental amicable trust, tightrope walking starstruck stalking vests, multiple different angles, competing operational perspectives.
On the fly.
The extras take the heat for egocentric conceits, yet flexibly flow in bleached toiled caprice.
Irony abounds as the stars and high ranking members of the crew act like precious progenitors of substantial stakes while creating horrendous gaudy cylindrical refuse.
The cigarette burn improvisation.
A tasteless product placement.
The insertion of an automobile.
Cinematically fell for Loida Malabanan (Vilma Santos) as she attempts to breakthrough, her roles functioning as metafictional realistic vindications as she fantastically battles the wicked, heartbreakingly symbolic, cold, and unforgiving.
Ekstra is also filled with congenial moments of accidental amicable trust, tightrope walking starstruck stalking vests, multiple different angles, competing operational perspectives.
On the fly.
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Vic et Flo ont vu un ours (Vic and Flo Saw a Bear)
Callous direct confrontational cheek infused with rehabilitated romantic longing curiously cohabitates with its surrounding community, comfortably nestled in a formerly saccharine sugar shack, problems with those they encounter, there are problems with those they encounter, in Vic et Flo ont vu un ours (Vic and Flo Saw a Bear), wherein an elderly ex-con whose formative years were likely filled with anger, the film being unconcerned with historical details, an emancipated secluded parareactive present, reunites with her luscious love interest, whose fermenting fugacious boundless wanderlust, delicately soothes, and traumatically glistens.
There are those who are seeking revenge.
Those who vitriolically interact.
The sedate, the facilitative, the confused.
And trusty, tight-lipped, do-gooding Guillaume (Marc-André Grondin).
The sequence where he takes Vic (Pierrette Robitaille) and Flo (Romane Bohringer) to the aquarium and the museum is invaluable.
The film's form itself mischievously mirrors Vic and Flo's grizzled disregard, their justifiable frustrations with their roles in the order of things, as displayed by the rapid fire hyperactive opening credits, overflowing with kinetic energy, setting up a cerebral symphony, as if Denis Cȏté is saying, "yes, I could have done more, but isn't what I have done enough to still warrant critical acclaim, which doesn't concern me anyways, je m'en fous?"
I've only seen Vic et Flo ont vu un ours and it's good enough to make me want to rent the rest of his films, quickly full-speed ahead, this guy is awesome.
The same applies to Guillaume Sylvestre.
They don't actually see a bear but the moment where you're thinking, hey, maybe the title isn't metaphorical, couldn't be more dysfunctionally discomforting.
Jackie (Marie Brassard) looks a bit like Wild at Heart's Juana Durango (Grace Zabriskie) at one point.
Pourquoi? Pourquoi!
There are those who are seeking revenge.
Those who vitriolically interact.
The sedate, the facilitative, the confused.
And trusty, tight-lipped, do-gooding Guillaume (Marc-André Grondin).
The sequence where he takes Vic (Pierrette Robitaille) and Flo (Romane Bohringer) to the aquarium and the museum is invaluable.
The film's form itself mischievously mirrors Vic and Flo's grizzled disregard, their justifiable frustrations with their roles in the order of things, as displayed by the rapid fire hyperactive opening credits, overflowing with kinetic energy, setting up a cerebral symphony, as if Denis Cȏté is saying, "yes, I could have done more, but isn't what I have done enough to still warrant critical acclaim, which doesn't concern me anyways, je m'en fous?"
I've only seen Vic et Flo ont vu un ours and it's good enough to make me want to rent the rest of his films, quickly full-speed ahead, this guy is awesome.
The same applies to Guillaume Sylvestre.
They don't actually see a bear but the moment where you're thinking, hey, maybe the title isn't metaphorical, couldn't be more dysfunctionally discomforting.
Jackie (Marie Brassard) looks a bit like Wild at Heart's Juana Durango (Grace Zabriskie) at one point.
Pourquoi? Pourquoi!
Riddick
After a lengthy hiatus, Riddick (Vin Diesel) returns, once again stuck on a desolate hostile planet, forced to battle and befriend to survive.
The film appeared to be a rip off to me in the previews, The Chronicles of Riddick having ended with Riddick sitting atop the Necromonger hierarchy, having vengefully transitioned from irrepressible individual to potentially influential figurehead, but I thought I would ignore Riddick's retrograde decision (and bland title) to focus more intently on Pitch Black, worrying about what could have been created seeming futile, wasteful, and unproductive, Riddick still featuring Riddick, iconic bad ass, incontrovertible anti-soldier, that being okay.
But Riddick does explain how he came to be isolated once again and the explanation lacks credibility, considering how easily he consistently outsmarts his adversaries, and the obviousness of the trap he falls into, although he does acknowledge his moment of weakness through narration, and was dealing with quixotically clever foes.
Still, how did he fall into that one, seriously, come on?
Also, when he transmits his presence on the planet to the universe at large why didn't the Necromongers come after him? If he's still alive, he's technically still the Lord Marshal, and should have therefore been cravenously or ceremoniously sought after, by those with an interest in logistical legitimacy. Perhaps they wanted to wait and see if someone else could handle their mess for them, but if anyone knows how agile Riddick is, it's the Necromongers, meaning they likely would have wanted to settle the score personally, as the crow flies.
S'pose this sets up the next sequel though, fingers crossed.
At one point during Riddick, I thought he might quickly outmaneuver the two sets of Mercs intent on his capture and escape to reinstate himself within Necromonger lore, but as it became apparent that this would not happen, I begrudgingly acquiesced.
There are some classic Riddick moments, some classic Riddick lines, some classic Riddick obstructions, and the beginning which focuses on his survival tactics is arguably the film's best feature.
Some key developmental diagnostics flaccidly fluctuate, however, leaving a strong, explosive, crystalline character searching for better material, a fitting ending for this film, now that I think about it.
Really loved the edited version of The Chronicles of Riddick. Waited for this film for years.
The film appeared to be a rip off to me in the previews, The Chronicles of Riddick having ended with Riddick sitting atop the Necromonger hierarchy, having vengefully transitioned from irrepressible individual to potentially influential figurehead, but I thought I would ignore Riddick's retrograde decision (and bland title) to focus more intently on Pitch Black, worrying about what could have been created seeming futile, wasteful, and unproductive, Riddick still featuring Riddick, iconic bad ass, incontrovertible anti-soldier, that being okay.
But Riddick does explain how he came to be isolated once again and the explanation lacks credibility, considering how easily he consistently outsmarts his adversaries, and the obviousness of the trap he falls into, although he does acknowledge his moment of weakness through narration, and was dealing with quixotically clever foes.
Still, how did he fall into that one, seriously, come on?
Also, when he transmits his presence on the planet to the universe at large why didn't the Necromongers come after him? If he's still alive, he's technically still the Lord Marshal, and should have therefore been cravenously or ceremoniously sought after, by those with an interest in logistical legitimacy. Perhaps they wanted to wait and see if someone else could handle their mess for them, but if anyone knows how agile Riddick is, it's the Necromongers, meaning they likely would have wanted to settle the score personally, as the crow flies.
S'pose this sets up the next sequel though, fingers crossed.
At one point during Riddick, I thought he might quickly outmaneuver the two sets of Mercs intent on his capture and escape to reinstate himself within Necromonger lore, but as it became apparent that this would not happen, I begrudgingly acquiesced.
There are some classic Riddick moments, some classic Riddick lines, some classic Riddick obstructions, and the beginning which focuses on his survival tactics is arguably the film's best feature.
Some key developmental diagnostics flaccidly fluctuate, however, leaving a strong, explosive, crystalline character searching for better material, a fitting ending for this film, now that I think about it.
Really loved the edited version of The Chronicles of Riddick. Waited for this film for years.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
The World's End
12 pubs.
12 pints.
5 friends.
Grievances.
A youthful night of rambunctious drinking whose objectives were not achieved is revisited later on in life after 4 of 5 friends have embraced occupational stability, its chaotic contours representing the other friend's liveliest memory, after a lifetime of nurturing mind-altering nullifications.
The goal is to finish The Golden Mile, drinking a pint at each of Newton Haven's 12 pubs, sticking together as a team, revitalizing a wayward sense of indestructibility.
Gary King (Simon Pegg and Thomas Law) somehow manages to quickly convince his old friends to join him, once being the leader of the pack, compassion, pity, and camaraderie functioning as motivating factors, the beast gassed up and ready to flux capacity.
But a paradigm shift has occurred in peaceful Newton Haven, and although familiar faces remain, things are no longer quite what they seemed.
A challenge to the evening's nostalgic embroileries unravels a sinister intergalactic plot to colonize the Earth and eat organic food, against which the 5 friends must then contend, while continuing to pursue their dipsomanic agenda.
To the World's End.
Is The World's End a diabolical delusion taking place solely within the demented mind of Mr. King, or have people indeed been replaced with glad handing automata, in search of healthier lifestyles?
The improbability suggests the answer is a simple yes, but the film's extracurricular exhibitionism begs the question, if this is merely obstetric, why does it revel so collegially within its confines?
It does function as a response to Hot Fuzz, Simon Pegg and Edgar Wright examining their own encounters with the aging process.
Functions too similarly to Hot Fuzz.
Contemporary kings they may be, I didn't see This is the End, and don't want to compare them to anyone else, my intuition transmitting that these comedic constabularies have intercepted an apocalyptic discourse.
Smart script though, the situations themselves often funnier than what takes place within them, which, I suppose in my case, is also a sign of age.
I would probably only be able to drink 8 pints.
If I didn't have to work for the next two days.
And had several cans of minestrone soup available at home.
12 pints.
5 friends.
Grievances.
A youthful night of rambunctious drinking whose objectives were not achieved is revisited later on in life after 4 of 5 friends have embraced occupational stability, its chaotic contours representing the other friend's liveliest memory, after a lifetime of nurturing mind-altering nullifications.
The goal is to finish The Golden Mile, drinking a pint at each of Newton Haven's 12 pubs, sticking together as a team, revitalizing a wayward sense of indestructibility.
Gary King (Simon Pegg and Thomas Law) somehow manages to quickly convince his old friends to join him, once being the leader of the pack, compassion, pity, and camaraderie functioning as motivating factors, the beast gassed up and ready to flux capacity.
But a paradigm shift has occurred in peaceful Newton Haven, and although familiar faces remain, things are no longer quite what they seemed.
A challenge to the evening's nostalgic embroileries unravels a sinister intergalactic plot to colonize the Earth and eat organic food, against which the 5 friends must then contend, while continuing to pursue their dipsomanic agenda.
To the World's End.
Is The World's End a diabolical delusion taking place solely within the demented mind of Mr. King, or have people indeed been replaced with glad handing automata, in search of healthier lifestyles?
The improbability suggests the answer is a simple yes, but the film's extracurricular exhibitionism begs the question, if this is merely obstetric, why does it revel so collegially within its confines?
It does function as a response to Hot Fuzz, Simon Pegg and Edgar Wright examining their own encounters with the aging process.
Functions too similarly to Hot Fuzz.
Contemporary kings they may be, I didn't see This is the End, and don't want to compare them to anyone else, my intuition transmitting that these comedic constabularies have intercepted an apocalyptic discourse.
Smart script though, the situations themselves often funnier than what takes place within them, which, I suppose in my case, is also a sign of age.
I would probably only be able to drink 8 pints.
If I didn't have to work for the next two days.
And had several cans of minestrone soup available at home.
Saturday, September 7, 2013
La vie domestique
What a prick of a day.
The bourgeois baggage bumptiously builds up in this one, as 4 housewives reflexively mold their materiality.
A picture perfect life, complete with good schools, automobiles, and giant houses has been secured, yet aging has reintroduced theoretically antiquated distinctions between feminine and masculine, whose casual unconscious biases and restrained level-headed counterbalances (the dialogue keeps a cool reserved yet provocative head) suggest that La vie domestique can be thought of as a prolonged micromanifested scream, each of its nanofrustrations minimalistically implicated in the stifling restrictions of gender based economically reinforced comments, along with the gut wrenching crunch of ostensible opportunity.
The aforementioned predominantly applies to Juliette (Emmanuelle Devos) as she struggles in her role of supportive wife and mother, providing extracurricular guidance to underprivileged youth while trying to find work in the publishing industry.
She's strong, confident, capable, and aware that time lacks its former robust capacities, alarming amplifications assiduously absorbed.
Her husband (Laurent Poitrenaux as Thomas) tries to comprehend at times but keeps saying the wrong things, seeking to control rather than comprehend, turning domineering near the end.
The ass at the beginning directly establishes the rage.
The rest multilaterally multiplies it.
The bourgeois baggage bumptiously builds up in this one, as 4 housewives reflexively mold their materiality.
A picture perfect life, complete with good schools, automobiles, and giant houses has been secured, yet aging has reintroduced theoretically antiquated distinctions between feminine and masculine, whose casual unconscious biases and restrained level-headed counterbalances (the dialogue keeps a cool reserved yet provocative head) suggest that La vie domestique can be thought of as a prolonged micromanifested scream, each of its nanofrustrations minimalistically implicated in the stifling restrictions of gender based economically reinforced comments, along with the gut wrenching crunch of ostensible opportunity.
The aforementioned predominantly applies to Juliette (Emmanuelle Devos) as she struggles in her role of supportive wife and mother, providing extracurricular guidance to underprivileged youth while trying to find work in the publishing industry.
She's strong, confident, capable, and aware that time lacks its former robust capacities, alarming amplifications assiduously absorbed.
Her husband (Laurent Poitrenaux as Thomas) tries to comprehend at times but keeps saying the wrong things, seeking to control rather than comprehend, turning domineering near the end.
The ass at the beginning directly establishes the rage.
The rest multilaterally multiplies it.
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