John Wick

A surprisingly well crafted visceral revenge flick, a frenzy attuned to instinctual reflexivity, just in time for Halloween, John Wick delivers a fast-paced sophisticated personalized bloodbath, continentally conceived with considerations for respect, an elite world of criminals, immaculately imploding.

Wick (Keanu Reeves) is a legendary assassin who retired to settle down with his wife who then died, leaving behind a small dog to remind him of her.

He goes for a drive in his automobile one day, and the son of a Russian gangster requests its sale.

He refuses and drives away.

The son then visits him in the middle of the night, beats him senseless with the help of his goons, _____ the dog, and steals the car.

Wick wakes up the next day composed yet enraged, in preparation for an insane rampage designed to express his dissastifaction.

It's a very basic plot, but the visuals, dialogue, music, acting, and combat scenes crystallize a uniform carnal indignant balance, almost Lynchean in terms of surreal elegance, comedy awkwardly yet cursively situated to allow the film to concentrate on internal affairs (the police aren't involved [editing by Elísabet Ronaldsdóttir]), the invincibility factor realistically deconstructed inasmuch as Wick almost bites it a number of times, saved here and there, by trustworthy old friends.

I think the cast and crew really took the making of this film seriously which could be why it stands out.

Casting by Jessica Kelly and Suzanne Smith.

Look for David Patrick Kelly.

Probably didn't have to be quite so violent.

Adieu au langage (Goodbye to Language)

Blessed burnished cinematic, obscurities, stylizing in/coherent poetic exemplars, compartments, of, of symbols fletched with ornamental reliance condoning visualized adherence to vague linguistic polarizers, of; of authoritative intrusions into burgeoning contentments inquisitively dictated like frozen morning dew; of frost and dusty book jackets intertextually precipitating sundry points of view, condensed and ephemeralized with aloof poignancy, crafted in jaded thematic miniature.

Concerned nonetheless.

With the capacity of purpose to historically deflect imaginative horrors subjugating the passions of one's youth.

With engendered protests libidinally interacting to stretch beyond predetermined boundaries and sustain notions of limitless conjugal impunity.

Of joy.

With animalistic contemplative assured responsive discipline, attempts to harangue, roll over, sit, fetch.

For cinema.

For history.

For classics.

If I were to canonize films many of Godard's would be considered.

I do prefer them when their narratives at least attempt to focus on a plot, however, more like narrative critical inquiry than philosophic filmic treatises.

Abstractly entertaining.

Dracula Untold

Dracula revisited, often portrayed as a vicious bloodthirsty tyrant, recast as a loving devoted father, husband, and ruler, willing to risk everything to secure the social prosperity of his dominion, brought up as a warrior, who excelled beyond limitation, against his will, trial by fire, impeccable excretions, having returned home a free man, to govern his people with wise, trustworthy gentility, through the art of thinking critically, and the continuous deployment of tribute.

Yet battle once again demands his obedience, a battle that can't be won through earthly means, and a pact is made with transcendent deviance, limitless power, for an insatiable thirst for blood.

Thus the iconic villain is torn, invincible at war, romantically condemned by his true love.

It's a different take on Dracula, Gary Shore's Dracula Untold, the latest vampiric franchise to tenderly and ravenously strike.

It's alright.

Somewhat cutesy at times, which is odd for a mass produced vampire film, making derelict lesions and hallowed imperfections seem direly quaint by comparison; however, its protagonist is rational and his love undying, his fidelity to the centuries, like twilight's eternal fountain.

Missed Jarmusch's Adam a bit while viewing, but it's unfair to compare the two visions.

Glad Jarmusch made that film.

Jodorowsky and vampires?

It's not too late.

Kill the Messenger

An instance where the opening credits are more seductive than the film itself, Kill the Messenger struggles to live up to its illuminatingly opaque origins.

These credits suggest an intense clandestine submersion into a frantic treacherous linguistic labyrinth by shyly presenting the cast and crew as if they're integrated non-factors in the film's journalistic fabric, integral to its action, but secondary to its impact, thereby foreshadowing a hectic clueless ambiguous submission, like The Insider, Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, or The Big Sleep, byzantine yet driven, augmenting competitive professional agencies.

The film's content contains such aspects.

Journalist Gary Webb's (Jeremy Renner) life becomes a paranoid misery after he writes a story about the Reagan Administration's possible flagrantly hypocritical role in its war on drugs, applauded and awarded at first before failing to gain traction due to its extremely controversial nature.

He's cast out.

The film's form doesn't match this content well, however, as it follows Webb's path too closely, making it too comfortable and accessible by streamlining its focus.

Had a number of scenes been introduced to take the emphasis away from Webb, in order to diversify its plot by complicating its narrative structure, thereby examining the film's politics, the film's deeper issues, more variably, Kill the Messenger would have been more captivating in my opinion.

Scenes on the ground examining the contemporary Nicaraguan situation, the results, perhaps.

There are some slight diversifications but they're too residual to effectively detach themselves from the storyline and create a compelling subconscious dialogue.

The subject matter they present is still important however.

Undeniably, Webb's life ended in tragedy after he pursued the truth with the highest possible goals.

This fact is emphasized in the film.

Which functions as both enlightened tragedy, and cautionary tale.

Hundraåringen som klev ut genom fönstret och försvann (The 100-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared)

A pinnacled piña colada, perchanced and periodized, passively strolls through an entire century, piercingly riding its waves, aloe primavera, alert gestations, blindly yet acutely detonating his trade, Forrest Gump's Benjamin Button teething Archer, hypnotic happenstance, turn that screw, Hundraåringen som klev ut genom fönstret och försvann (The 100-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared) flashes back to tumultuous times, with ironic blissful candour, serendipitized tailspins, explosively tiptoeing, from one cryptic epoch to the next.

After escaping from a retirement home to the fury of the underground's Never Again.

Friendships blossom.

A team is assembled.

A sentiment's thrust.

Through the coming of the ages.

Poetically refining what it means to blunder, the situations he finds himself within seem rigged with ideological dynamite.

Franco's saviour builds an atomic bomb to end the Second World War before sterilizing the Commies on his way to becoming a stayed bilateral messenger.

Destined for paradise.

This film has depth; it playfully reimagines twentieth-century carnage with the casual indifference of an essential tribal fluidity, unconscious forward motion, courting precise precious movements.

Impeccable comedy.

It's even family friendly, in the best possible way, like Amélie, with a loveable elephant.

Could have worked Ireland in somehow.

The Giver

Meticulously manicured impartial immersions, the plan, plans within plans within plans, permeating every existential aspect, monitoring, coordinating, harmonious atonal strategically serviced scripts, requirements, nothing out of the ordinary, pharmaceutical synchrony, burnished, witnessed, tanned, The Giver, kindred subjects of Landru, converses with The Third Man, sonic scientific sterility, empiric equilibrium, disciplined and unified, microscopically maintained.

Everything fits within a cohesive holistic whole.

But there's no longer any joy.

No exceptions to the rules.

History's legends have been assigned to one aged caretaker, who sacrifices his knowledge to uphold the new order.

But a protégé is chosen from the ranks of his culture's youth, to share in his burden, to preserve the memories of lost time.

Emotional bombardments proceed to alienate through shock as questions hitherto beyond reason maddeningly dare to forsake.

Exfoliate.

Threadbare.

A classic examination of totalitarian benevolence.

Maudlin yet sane.

Preferred The Third Man.

A Most Wanted Man

Characteristic candour gruffly composes a brilliantly crafted intricately strategized plan, its nascent dexterity depending on several delicately interconnected volatile fusions, frenetic feasibilities, orchestrated by a rough hands-on been-there-done-that fulcrum, A Most Wanted Man, time pressurizing each micromovement, immaculate manoeuvrability, necessarily set in motion.

Definitive coordinates.

Explosive potential.

Gut-wrenching grizzle.

Temporally repleted.

Günther Bachmann's (Philip Seymour Hoffman) team must expertly function, however, these spies are situated within a competitive international pride, lofty liaising lions, trust, an oppressive factor, guilt, too remote to consider.

Ripe with treachery.

And contention.

Easier to follow than Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, but not as astounding consequently, A Most Wanted Man provocatively sets the stage, then allows Philip Seymour Hoffman to prosper.

There aren't many diversified variables (surprises) after the operation's set in motion, it's very smooth, but Hoffman's performance supplies enough excruciating angst to augment the film's comfortability with bona fide substantial grit.

I've now seen Richard Burton, Gary Oldman, John Hurt, and Hoffman in film adaptations of John le Carré's novels, and would love to see another starring Daniel Day Lewis and Tom Hardy.

A Most Wanted Man's timing is perfect considering the continuing advances of ISIS.

The Skeleton Twins

Crippling depressions cope with mundane predictability as a brother and sister are reunited after an attempted suicide in Craig Johnson's The Skeleton Twins, mundane predicability in regards to the lives their leading, not in relation to the film, which is a sensitive reflective chill occasionally brash comment on the applicability of predetermined roles, the individuals who play them (wife, husband, actor, . . .), the results of their interactions, and the coming together of kindred spirits.

The sister, Maggie (Kristen Wiig), is married to a boring yet supportive excessively positive husband (Luke Wilson as Lance) who provides her with stability but strongly lacks an exhilarating thrill factor, which she finds with other men while taking different courses after work.

The brother, Milo (Bill Hader), has been struggling to find acting work in LA, and after drinking too much one night, decides to take his own life.

They meet up for the first time in 10 years shortly thereafter and Milo then decides to return to his hometown in upstate New York to live with Maggie while he recuperates.

They're both somewhat bipolar, and suicidal, so when they're getting along, we're treated to witty caustic unconcerned distracted deadpan takes on living, and when things break down, things often breaking down after something great happens, things turn ugly, vindictive and spiteful, each trying to play a parental role as the other screws up, historical controversies complicating things further.

Neither has had much guidance that has helped over the years, and both crave regular adventurous stimuli to transcend routine frustrations.

It's well-acted, well-written, and the best comedic drama I've seen since Stand Up Guys.

I don't think I've ever seen two former Saturday Night Live actors perform so well in a film this low key and striking.

They convincingly struggle with issues of life and death in a relatable way complete with thoughtful advice which isn't over the top or endearingly ridiculous.

Wilson's great too.

Casting by Avy Kaufman.

Fire in the Blood

It's hard to believe that medicine is available to alleviate the suffering of millions of impoverished global citizens, and, that due to associated prohibitive costs, they're left to die because they can't afford treatment.

According to Dylan Mohan Gray's Fire in the Blood, pharmaceutical companies are the most profitable in the world, but their obsession with increasing their profits primarily and treating the sick as an afterthought is disturbing; always thought curing illness was the primary function of discovering cures for illness, mistaken was I, holding on to a drug's patent so that you can monopolize its sale to people who have no alternative and then jack-up the price is the primary function, recently formalized by the WTO's adoption of TRIPS.

It's revolting.

The film is about the struggle of many African countries to receive access to antivirals which combat but don't cure AIDS, allowing people who contracted it to live a relatively normal life.

A brilliant doctor from India,Yusuf Hamied, created a generic alternative, produced and sold it for a fraction of his American competitor's price, but the sale of his drug was initially not permitted in many countries due to their governments acquiescence to the demands of patent holding pharmaceutical giants, whose stranglehold on the free market was more voraciously tightened by TRIPS.

Apparently these companies don't even spend much on research and development, the majority of R & D for new drugs being funded by the public sector. Why governments don't patent the drugs discovered through such research and then sell them at affordable prices is bizarre, such sales prolonging the lives of their tax payers, thereby increasing tax revenues.

In my opinion, religious organizations should be passionately defending the rights of poor people to have access to affordable medicine.

Isn't this issue profoundly more important than whether or not gay people can get married?

They're gay. They love each other. They want to get married. Who cares? Love doesn't know the difference.

Fire in the Blood mentions how the costs of potentially life saving drugs are becoming prohibitive for many Americans as well.

Prices keep going up, wages keep staying the same.

Another serious problem.