Unrepentantly unashamed of its recycled ripple effect, yet excelling where Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me did not, 22 Jump Street revisits 21 Jump Street's plot, counting on the strength of its reflexes to convincingly entertain, Hill (Schmidt) and Tatum (Jenko) demonstrating that they've still got it, poetry, football, college, weak on plot but undeniably hilarious, their humouristic confidence reliably overpowering the need to expand, not that they don't bromantically exemplify, how to sustain a flexible working partnership.
The bromance, introduced at the outset with a comparative illustration of both yin, and yang, holds the film together, breaking away to adhesively unite, strategizing football connections in the meantime, relationships, parenting, age.
Giving minor characters from the first film a larger role in the second can work, and it works well in 22 Jump Street, Ice Cube (Captain Dickson) furiously losing it at one point, Tatum's additions to the motif, a side-splitting shining moment.
Hill's best scene comes in the form of an improv slam poetry reaction.
I'm wondering if they wrote his poem beforehand, in which case he should be applauded for his ability to believably pretend to be improving, or, in the case that he did improv his poem, he should be seriously applauded for delivering some successful semantic syllabic breakdowns, immediate and inferential, confident and spry.
Either way, he makes a bold fashion statement.
Is 22 Jump Street a left wing film?
The yin seems to be represented by the more sensitive thoughtful Schmidt, Jenko representing the yang.
But equating sensitivity with the left and aggression with the right is somewhat stereotypical, an organized left often functioning highly combatively, the right seeming quite timid when living outside its comfort zone for extended periods.
What I've just described somewhat reflects Jenko's role in the film, as he is quite timid when interacting with the more intellectually gifted Schmidt, yet, when it comes to applying what he's learned in his human sexuality course, he isn't afraid to defend groups traditionally ignored by the right, making a great point about the problems associated with silence, such actions breaking him away from his social comfort zone, which I would be guilty of examining stereotypically if I thought it didn't support Jenko's actions, it doesn't come up but Jenko does start searching for something more, what he's missing being the fire enflamed through his arguments with Schmidt, that fire enabling them to cohesively function highly combatively, as long as they remain organized, which they do as time goes by.
The Colleges of the United States of America may wish to explore the issue further.
Having Peter Stormare (The Ghost) complain about how things were better in the 90s was a nice touch.
Has he ever been in a Woody Allen movie?
Libraries are unfairly examined.
It's a funny plot device.
But nothing beats having the physical book in-hand.
Saturday, June 28, 2014
Friday, June 27, 2014
Maleficent
Two kingdoms bordering one another, although kingdoms is the wrong choice of word, for although one is certainly the domain of a king, the other has no definitive ruler.
The other's strongest is respected, however, due to her extraordinary abilities, and her application of them, to the art of realm protection.
An act of charity sparks a romantic flame between occupants of the divergent lands, but whereas a magical aura of egalitarian majesty permeates the one, greed and covetousness rule the other, the relationship's male component residing in the later, not that such couples need be composed of both males and females, a fact the filmmakers use to circuitously cultivate their filmscape.
He craves more power.
And ignominiously betrays.
His betrayal has consequences for both the victim and the beast, as darkness reluctantly descends, to clarify his inestimable wickedness.
The couple comes of age.
And a child is born.
Regally recalling and extending Snow White and the Huntsman's proverbial special effects, comically synthesizing the free and the dependent, ravenously adjudicating a curse's immutability, while cloistering the innocent in an ominous crown of thorns, Maleficent tacitly tracks the course of the fairy tale, abiding by while transgressing, its traditional fantastic forms.
Beautifully stipulated and tragically adorned, it presents insights and prohibitions regarding love's cautious stealth, preferring loyalty to might, the incandescent, to the miser.
The other's strongest is respected, however, due to her extraordinary abilities, and her application of them, to the art of realm protection.
An act of charity sparks a romantic flame between occupants of the divergent lands, but whereas a magical aura of egalitarian majesty permeates the one, greed and covetousness rule the other, the relationship's male component residing in the later, not that such couples need be composed of both males and females, a fact the filmmakers use to circuitously cultivate their filmscape.
He craves more power.
And ignominiously betrays.
His betrayal has consequences for both the victim and the beast, as darkness reluctantly descends, to clarify his inestimable wickedness.
The couple comes of age.
And a child is born.
Regally recalling and extending Snow White and the Huntsman's proverbial special effects, comically synthesizing the free and the dependent, ravenously adjudicating a curse's immutability, while cloistering the innocent in an ominous crown of thorns, Maleficent tacitly tracks the course of the fairy tale, abiding by while transgressing, its traditional fantastic forms.
Beautifully stipulated and tragically adorned, it presents insights and prohibitions regarding love's cautious stealth, preferring loyalty to might, the incandescent, to the miser.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Jeune & jolie (Young & Beautiful)
A cold stark excessively gratuitous portrait of a teenage sociopath, François Ozon's Jeune & jolie (Young and Beautiful) casts a chilling unresponsive gaze at bourgeois stability's apathetic spectre.
It's bare bones.
Or helplessly destructive.
Suddenly nothing interests Isabelle (Marine Vacth) besides pleasure, and she decides to search for this pleasure while earning a comfortable income.
It might be an experiment.
It's as if she can't recognize the danger, or lasciviously profits from its vicious prospects.
Ordinary or traditional forms of social interaction, rich in diverse variations on manifold themes themselves, relationships, poetry, familial warmth, simply hold no interest, a wild rebellious ingénue, blindly and recklessly courting the dark side.
The film's naked manuscript can't adequately capture the depth of her mother's sense of abandonment, but this inherent emotional vapidity augments Isabelle's carnality.
Like Belle du jour without the consequences, Jeune & jolie's bland calculated immature desire precipitates a baleful hush, violently curtailing the flowering of youth, its empty excesses, pathologizing discourses of the beautiful.
It's bare bones.
Or helplessly destructive.
Suddenly nothing interests Isabelle (Marine Vacth) besides pleasure, and she decides to search for this pleasure while earning a comfortable income.
It might be an experiment.
It's as if she can't recognize the danger, or lasciviously profits from its vicious prospects.
Ordinary or traditional forms of social interaction, rich in diverse variations on manifold themes themselves, relationships, poetry, familial warmth, simply hold no interest, a wild rebellious ingénue, blindly and recklessly courting the dark side.
The film's naked manuscript can't adequately capture the depth of her mother's sense of abandonment, but this inherent emotional vapidity augments Isabelle's carnality.
Like Belle du jour without the consequences, Jeune & jolie's bland calculated immature desire precipitates a baleful hush, violently curtailing the flowering of youth, its empty excesses, pathologizing discourses of the beautiful.
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
A Million Ways to Die in the West
A Million Ways to Die in the West's opening credits make it clear that nothing within is to be taken seriously.
They playfully ambush a stunning solar-powered sight, calling its dynamism into question, while mischievously reinforcing it at the same time.
Within this ambush lies MacFarlane's gambit, can his wise-cracking intertextual self-aware stir-crazy sense of humour be applied to a Western filmscape, in 1882, the setting wild and untamed, the middle-class, struggling to define itself?
It's a bold move. Apart from Blazing Saddles, Westerns generally lack this kind of exposure. In the spirit of the wild west MacFarlane explores new ground, faces up to the challenge, diversifies, drills, prospects, but the booty accumulated, unfortunately, fails to impress.
The blend's too sour.
That could be the point.
It's not that his chemistry with Anna (Charlize Theron) isn't soluble, or that I didn't love seeing intelligent book smarts talk their way out of multiple gunfights.
The jokes just aren't very sustainable.
Take the moustache song, brilliant idea, but it falls flat, like having nothing but the option of straight whiskey, there's contentment in the availability, but stomach pain in the habituation.
Doc Brown's (Christopher Lloyd) cameo distills what I mean, this device having worked for MacFarlane ad infinitum in his other works, but it just seems bland in A Million Ways's context.
But there is another Back to the Future reference, a bit a subtle foreshadowing, in the form of the old prospector, played by the loveable Matt Clark.
With his lil' dog Plugger.
The subtlety of this reference was more powerful, relating directly to the difficulties Albert's (Seth MacFarlane) having asserting himself in the desert, the Doc Brown reference functioning like the response he generally receives from his neighbours, within the film's meta-formalities.
Correct.
That's correct.
They playfully ambush a stunning solar-powered sight, calling its dynamism into question, while mischievously reinforcing it at the same time.
Within this ambush lies MacFarlane's gambit, can his wise-cracking intertextual self-aware stir-crazy sense of humour be applied to a Western filmscape, in 1882, the setting wild and untamed, the middle-class, struggling to define itself?
It's a bold move. Apart from Blazing Saddles, Westerns generally lack this kind of exposure. In the spirit of the wild west MacFarlane explores new ground, faces up to the challenge, diversifies, drills, prospects, but the booty accumulated, unfortunately, fails to impress.
The blend's too sour.
That could be the point.
It's not that his chemistry with Anna (Charlize Theron) isn't soluble, or that I didn't love seeing intelligent book smarts talk their way out of multiple gunfights.
The jokes just aren't very sustainable.
Take the moustache song, brilliant idea, but it falls flat, like having nothing but the option of straight whiskey, there's contentment in the availability, but stomach pain in the habituation.
Doc Brown's (Christopher Lloyd) cameo distills what I mean, this device having worked for MacFarlane ad infinitum in his other works, but it just seems bland in A Million Ways's context.
But there is another Back to the Future reference, a bit a subtle foreshadowing, in the form of the old prospector, played by the loveable Matt Clark.
With his lil' dog Plugger.
The subtlety of this reference was more powerful, relating directly to the difficulties Albert's (Seth MacFarlane) having asserting himself in the desert, the Doc Brown reference functioning like the response he generally receives from his neighbours, within the film's meta-formalities.
Correct.
That's correct.
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
Tracks
I've always enjoyed a good hike.
Set off into the woods, seek, explore, discover.
After a solid hour-and-a-half to two hours though, 4 hours in British Columbia, I've usually decided it's time to head home, or to a café, either way, to drink coffee, and reflect upon sights seen.
Tracks's Robyn Davidson (Mia Wasikowska) approaches hiking quite differently.
Tired of her predictable daily routine, she decides to hike across Australia's Western desert, departing from Alice Springs with her playful dog, an adventure similar to one which her father embarked upon in Africa decades previously, her goal, to reach the Indian Ocean.
She digs-in and grinds.
Problem.
She needs camels.
Solution.
She works hands-deep-in-the-grit with camel herders until she's learned how to train and lead them, during which time she's ripped-off by a cantankerous old jackass, which only strengthens her resolve.
She eventually receives enough funding to begin with the help of a National Geographic photographer (Adam Driver as Rick Smolan) with whom she begrudgingly strikes up a romance, which intensifies the film's risk-fuelled desert induced heat.
Tracks is still family friendly and Davidson's ultimate hiking is condensed into a series of mis/adventures, plenty of material presented, at a fast energetic pace.
Obviously with a hike such as this, especially considering all the snakes in Australia (Canada only has rattlesnakes scattered here and there throughout the country [it's too cold for poisonous snakes {I can't prove that}]), much can go wrong.
But Davidson takes the setbacks in stride, always focused and determined, unyieldingly pursuing her sweltering objective.
There's a sequence near the end where Alexandre de Franceschi's editing aptly pressurizes Davidson's delirium, intertwining disorienting shots of character and landscape, to accentuate both the length and strain of her quest.
Tragedy strikes here as well, which was somewhat unexpected, since at other points balms are provided to ease the tension, shade provided for her dog for instance.
Intermixing the stubborn, the dedicated, the supportive, and the persevering, to concisely celebrate a triumphant human spirit, Tracks is a seductive struggle that can be constructively accessed by diverse audiences.
Don't think I'll ever be able to hike for longer than 4 hours myself.
How do you pack that many sandwiches?
An extended North-South trek through Patagonia would be fun some day though.
Searching for spectacled bears.
(Which don't live there I'm told).
Set off into the woods, seek, explore, discover.
After a solid hour-and-a-half to two hours though, 4 hours in British Columbia, I've usually decided it's time to head home, or to a café, either way, to drink coffee, and reflect upon sights seen.
Tracks's Robyn Davidson (Mia Wasikowska) approaches hiking quite differently.
Tired of her predictable daily routine, she decides to hike across Australia's Western desert, departing from Alice Springs with her playful dog, an adventure similar to one which her father embarked upon in Africa decades previously, her goal, to reach the Indian Ocean.
She digs-in and grinds.
Problem.
She needs camels.
Solution.
She works hands-deep-in-the-grit with camel herders until she's learned how to train and lead them, during which time she's ripped-off by a cantankerous old jackass, which only strengthens her resolve.
She eventually receives enough funding to begin with the help of a National Geographic photographer (Adam Driver as Rick Smolan) with whom she begrudgingly strikes up a romance, which intensifies the film's risk-fuelled desert induced heat.
Tracks is still family friendly and Davidson's ultimate hiking is condensed into a series of mis/adventures, plenty of material presented, at a fast energetic pace.
Obviously with a hike such as this, especially considering all the snakes in Australia (Canada only has rattlesnakes scattered here and there throughout the country [it's too cold for poisonous snakes {I can't prove that}]), much can go wrong.
But Davidson takes the setbacks in stride, always focused and determined, unyieldingly pursuing her sweltering objective.
There's a sequence near the end where Alexandre de Franceschi's editing aptly pressurizes Davidson's delirium, intertwining disorienting shots of character and landscape, to accentuate both the length and strain of her quest.
Tragedy strikes here as well, which was somewhat unexpected, since at other points balms are provided to ease the tension, shade provided for her dog for instance.
Intermixing the stubborn, the dedicated, the supportive, and the persevering, to concisely celebrate a triumphant human spirit, Tracks is a seductive struggle that can be constructively accessed by diverse audiences.
Don't think I'll ever be able to hike for longer than 4 hours myself.
How do you pack that many sandwiches?
An extended North-South trek through Patagonia would be fun some day though.
Searching for spectacled bears.
(Which don't live there I'm told).
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Wakolda (The German Doctor)
An ingratiatingly intelligent financially secure monstrosity suavely earns the trust of an unsuspecting family in Lucía Puenzo's Wakolda (The German Doctor), a Nazi war criminal having fled to Patagonia to continue conducting his medical experiments, preying on local families, and their innocent children.
Lilith (Florencia Bado) instinctively trusts the doctor, who is in possession of experimental knowledge that can help her grow.
She's growing at a much slower pace than the other children at school, and they've taken to bullying her as a consequence.
Her father refuses to allow the treatment, thinking, "who is this person who shows up out of nowhere, with neither references nor credentials, saying he can help my daughter, with medicine that the local doctors have never heard of"?
There's no cross reference.
Josef Mengele (Àlex Brendemühl) proceeds nonetheless, pursuing his perverted conception of science on the available human resources.
But his presence is detected.
The film's focus on Lilith and her beautiful curious wondrous spirit, seeking friendship, ignoring her tormentors, using the library, adds additional depth to the repugnance of the Nazi, to whom she's simply a T to be crossed, a doll to be played with.
The film doesn't directly condemn, rather, it uses character, setting and confidence to vilify the doctoral aberration, suffusing viewers with an idyllic subconscious revulsion, to passionately overcome the ambivalence.
There have been films in recent years highlighting the fact that many German citizens were themselves caught up in the Nazi's terror, during which time they felt like they had no choice but to follow the party line.
Wakolda's ambiguity acknowledges this, while using emotion to appeal to the intellect, to present a compelling exemplar of the guilty.
They only care for the individuality of the exceptional.
For everyone else, there are no exceptions.
Lilith (Florencia Bado) instinctively trusts the doctor, who is in possession of experimental knowledge that can help her grow.
She's growing at a much slower pace than the other children at school, and they've taken to bullying her as a consequence.
Her father refuses to allow the treatment, thinking, "who is this person who shows up out of nowhere, with neither references nor credentials, saying he can help my daughter, with medicine that the local doctors have never heard of"?
There's no cross reference.
Josef Mengele (Àlex Brendemühl) proceeds nonetheless, pursuing his perverted conception of science on the available human resources.
But his presence is detected.
The film's focus on Lilith and her beautiful curious wondrous spirit, seeking friendship, ignoring her tormentors, using the library, adds additional depth to the repugnance of the Nazi, to whom she's simply a T to be crossed, a doll to be played with.
The film doesn't directly condemn, rather, it uses character, setting and confidence to vilify the doctoral aberration, suffusing viewers with an idyllic subconscious revulsion, to passionately overcome the ambivalence.
There have been films in recent years highlighting the fact that many German citizens were themselves caught up in the Nazi's terror, during which time they felt like they had no choice but to follow the party line.
Wakolda's ambiguity acknowledges this, while using emotion to appeal to the intellect, to present a compelling exemplar of the guilty.
They only care for the individuality of the exceptional.
For everyone else, there are no exceptions.
Saturday, June 7, 2014
Fading Gigolo
Financial fissures beget liaising insurances while potential clients attract attentive patrolpersons in John Turturro's Fading Gigolo, wherein the world's oldest profession brings good fortune to Murray (Woody Allen) and Fioravante (John Turturro), suddenly caught-up in an historical vortex, secularly lucrative, religiously blasphemed.
The film unreels pleasantly enough, risks taken, rewards cashed-in, comical awkwardness syncopating charm, Midnight Cowboy's lighter side.
Fioravante is a strong character, mild-manneredly reflexive, sensitive yet powerful, equanimously conscious.
His love for Avigal (Vanessa Paradis) isn't tragic or heartbreaking, more like a mature delicate yet robust scintillating red wine, caressed then invested, with lucid modest elegance.
About 50 minutes in I thought, is it starting to drag?, but then Avigal appeared again, and I was immediately reminded of my nightly glass of red wine, and then knew that it wasn't starting to drag at all.
Ancient religious practices follow, a ridiculous patriarchal kerfuffle, chillingly yet playfully impassing an ancient contemporary dialectic.
The negative side of prostitution, apart from a requisite ethical dilemma, is totally absent from the film, but it is a lighthearted comedy, presenting issues of race/ethnicity, identity, and community from a temperately confrontational perspective.
Apart from the nut with the baseball bat.
Not sure if I'm reading too much into some of Woody Allen's introductory lines, but from an off-the-wall point of view, it's as if he's handing off his reins to Mr. Turturro, either sincerely or mischievously, who proves he could be a worthy successor.
There's a volatile scene near the beginning involving a traffic accident.
Minor characters feud to introduce Dovi (Liev Schreiber).
More scenes like this one throughout, not necessarily volatile, just ones which interject cameos to inquisitively motivate the action, work well.
Highlighting the multidimensional nature of the world at large.
Thereby romanticizing the role of individuals within it.
He sort of does this with Murry's kids, but they have a direct relationship to a major character, which lessens their impact.
The film unreels pleasantly enough, risks taken, rewards cashed-in, comical awkwardness syncopating charm, Midnight Cowboy's lighter side.
Fioravante is a strong character, mild-manneredly reflexive, sensitive yet powerful, equanimously conscious.
His love for Avigal (Vanessa Paradis) isn't tragic or heartbreaking, more like a mature delicate yet robust scintillating red wine, caressed then invested, with lucid modest elegance.
About 50 minutes in I thought, is it starting to drag?, but then Avigal appeared again, and I was immediately reminded of my nightly glass of red wine, and then knew that it wasn't starting to drag at all.
Ancient religious practices follow, a ridiculous patriarchal kerfuffle, chillingly yet playfully impassing an ancient contemporary dialectic.
The negative side of prostitution, apart from a requisite ethical dilemma, is totally absent from the film, but it is a lighthearted comedy, presenting issues of race/ethnicity, identity, and community from a temperately confrontational perspective.
Apart from the nut with the baseball bat.
Not sure if I'm reading too much into some of Woody Allen's introductory lines, but from an off-the-wall point of view, it's as if he's handing off his reins to Mr. Turturro, either sincerely or mischievously, who proves he could be a worthy successor.
There's a volatile scene near the beginning involving a traffic accident.
Minor characters feud to introduce Dovi (Liev Schreiber).
More scenes like this one throughout, not necessarily volatile, just ones which interject cameos to inquisitively motivate the action, work well.
Highlighting the multidimensional nature of the world at large.
Thereby romanticizing the role of individuals within it.
He sort of does this with Murry's kids, but they have a direct relationship to a major character, which lessens their impact.
Friday, June 6, 2014
Under the Skin
A complacent harvest of unsuspecting trust, seduced, submerged, packaged, preserved in an hallowed solution, embryonic bliss, conscious of the terror, mesmerizing intake, dangling, merged, afloat, neither here nor there, masqueraded glacial transience, luminescent molecules, directions, paste, a ride, seraphic insulation, enraptured salutation, like a liquified libidinal glaze, slowly processed, then drained.
This film really does get under your skin.
It's patiently moving along, odd and peculiar yet generally non-threatening, light creepy apathetic bursts, then suddenly the horror, no build-up, no preparation, just there on a beach, one after the other, cold heartless calculated observation, purpose and intent, its goal indisputable.
And the next scene just follows, back at it, more of the same, manufacturing a costume, objective, driven.
But a fog descends and the comfort zone vanishes.
Curiosity's necessitated by the conditions.
Habituated disbelief.
A monster.
Jonathan Glazer's Under the Skin isn't like typical horror/sci-fi, its apathetic presentation leaving a much deeper impression than the most maniacal rampage to be found in a well-crafted slasher flick.
Its non-sensational unconcerned impact doesn't fade with the following week's routine.
It's still there.
Haunting.
This film really does get under your skin.
It's patiently moving along, odd and peculiar yet generally non-threatening, light creepy apathetic bursts, then suddenly the horror, no build-up, no preparation, just there on a beach, one after the other, cold heartless calculated observation, purpose and intent, its goal indisputable.
And the next scene just follows, back at it, more of the same, manufacturing a costume, objective, driven.
But a fog descends and the comfort zone vanishes.
Curiosity's necessitated by the conditions.
Habituated disbelief.
A monster.
Jonathan Glazer's Under the Skin isn't like typical horror/sci-fi, its apathetic presentation leaving a much deeper impression than the most maniacal rampage to be found in a well-crafted slasher flick.
Its non-sensational unconcerned impact doesn't fade with the following week's routine.
It's still there.
Haunting.
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