Aquarius

The daily plunge, nautical navigation, oceanic unknowns obliviously obscuring reverberating traumas in convalescent translucent harmony, beneath the waves, submerged in seclusion, to the left, eastwards, straight ahead, salty ephemeral centripetal wake, free flowing ideas practically pirouetting with piquant poetic resolve, cardiovascular shade, illuminated marrow, infinite variety routinely sweetening the starchy and the stale insofar as histories heuristically heartache, good eye, optical infusions, testimonial treasures, immersed in ontological sheen, insatiably and abstemiously, current.

Subconscious stamina.

Steady as she goes.

Clara (Sonia Braga/Barbara Colen) is as certain as she is stubborn, and outrightly refuses to sell her cherished apartment.

The interested buyers own every other unit in the building and want to tear it down to construct another.

It's her home, her family's oasis, where she's lived for decades and where she raised her children, she can't even consider living anywhere else, and will not sit down to lucratively negotiate.

Her opposition responds with contempt.

Friends and family question her decision.

She notes their views.

Fully aware of what they cannot understand.

In her urban homestead, an artist tenaciously upholds her rights in Kleber Mendonça Filho's Aquarius, never yielding her firm convictions to the prospects of financial gain.

The film examines her plight from multiple angles while slowly descending from sanity to chaos.

It picks up after about an hour and a half when Clara's children confront her about her decision.

What follows is a stunning array of inflammatory sequences that end in a chilling vibrato.

Just make sure you hang around for it.

The first hour and a half, unfortunately, while patiently developing character and plot, is like sitting in the waiting room at a hospital for hours knowing that your minor injury could be healed in under 15 minutes.

I would have cut 45 minutes from this film.

Still, in its present form, the ending is incredible.

Humpback Whales

I was lucky enough to go whale watching at a very young age in Massachusetts with my father who seemed just as interested as I was in spotting the giant cetaceans.

By the end of the day, we had fortunately seen 3 North Atlantic Right Whales, one of the rarest species of whale out there, but even more majestic was the emergence of a mother fin and her calf, right beside the boat, just as we were getting ready to turn back; I've still never seen anything so startling, so incredible, even if it only lasted for a mesmerizing matter of seconds.

Enduring evanescence.

Optically outfitted.

I still go whale watching whenever I can, but spend most of my time landlocked, malheureusement. I was hoping Greg MacGillivray's Humpback Whales would deliver a fun cinematic whale watching experience equipped with plenty of whale shenanigans for interested landlubbers, and am glad to report that it doesn't disappoint.

The film follows graceful humpbacks as they frolic, bubble net, breach, and sing, whether living apart as mischievous individuals or gathered together in picturesque pods, convivially capturing their unfathomable social interactions, intently observing their wild wondrous movements.

In-depth and circumspected, Ewan McGregor's narration provides educational commentary for young and old alike, attaching sound qualifications to the accompanying historical narrative while pleasantly advancing contemporary research.

They really are wonderful lifeforms, these whales, these humpback whales, living most of their lives swimming freely underwater, exploring, navigating, contemplating, dining, it would be fascinating to be able to communicate with them, to learn more about what it's like to spend almost an entire life beneath the waves, completely different global perspectives submerged, perhaps as inquisitive as you or I, still getting lost for prolonged periods, in the riveting oceanic orchestrations of their own devices.

Who knows!

I can clearly state, however, that whether you're interested in learning more about whales or simply want to sit back and watch whales being whales for a while, Humpback Whales makes a perfect fit, a first rate IMAX experience, offering brief glimpses into the lives of these agile behemoths, which may be enough to kindle a lifelong interest.

Tadoussac, Québec, is a great place to spot them.

Located a couple of hours north of Québec City.

In a stunning landscape.

That demands you come back once more.

Rogue One: A Star Wars Story

Perhaps releasing a new Star Wars movie every year is a good idea.

They're incredibly fun to watch even if they're not that great (I loved Rogue One), and, instead of waiting 2 or 3 more years to pull-in a gazillion dollars, you can confidently expect to make such an amount every freakin' year, sums that can efficiently facilitate all kinds of alternative endeavours, perhaps jumpstarting artistic revolts thereby.

Independent sci-fi, independent sci-fi!

Now's the time.

I always imagined that the rebels employed the utmost stealth when stealing the Death Star's secret blueprints, and although that isn't the case in Rogue One, the resultant space and land Jediesque battle does manage to rebelliously compensate.

They're not a rag tag bunch, these rogues, these freedom fighters, more of an eclectic cast of wild yet willing individuals collectively assembled to see what can be accomplished.

I thought Jyn Erso (Felicity Jones/Beau Gadsdon/Dolly Gadsdon), Cassian Andor (Diego Luna), Baze Malbus (Wen Jiang), K-2S0 (Alan Tudyk), and Saw Gerrera (Forest Whitaker) were some of the coolest Star Wars characters I've seen, Malbus redefining the force through sheer devotion, Gerrera exemplifying a less peppy aspect of the oft rather perky rebel alliance, K-2S0 is actually funny (outstanding), Andor makes a gripping speech about his commitment to the rebellion, and Jyn slowly yet boldly steps up and strides.

Have these characters been typecast to fit the Star Wars B realm because they have more personality than those brought to life in The Force Awakens?

I bet they could still be managers in California.

Since Rogue One's outcome is already known to all, discussing its internal dynamics seems fitting, dynamics which generally impressed, the Disneyesque opening moments (Jyn's sort of like Bambi) setting the familial stage, the heart wrenching space drama, the assembling of the crew strikingly youthful in its mouthy composure, so many familiar sights from A New Hope (even Dr. Cornelius Evazan and Ponda Baba[I'm still looking for my Walrusman figure]) perhaps endearingly distracting me, tragedy, brilliance, escape, tragedy, brilliance, escape, battle, it's cheesy at points but I thought the good far far outawayed the bad to create the best Star Wars film since Jedi, please never alter the music in one of these films again, or do so in a way that isn't so mediocre.

One point of interest: in a New Hope, Vader critiques General Motti, stating, "don't be too proud of this technological terror you've constructed. The ability to destroy a planet is insignificant next to the power of the force." If Motti constructed the Death Star, why was he left out of Rogue One?

Also, Grand Moff Tarkin isn't so aggressive in A New Hope. His computer animated replacement isn't quite as withdrawn yet commanding.

'Tis true.

Forest Whitaker delivers one of the best if not the best performance/s I've seen in a Star Wars film.

Some day, I'd like to know how many extra millions this film makes because they gave it the more search engine friendly title add-on, A Star Wars Story.

Just Rogue One is clearly the better title.

I'm betting they make an extra 237 million.

Office Christmas Party

Overwhelming pressures voraciously complicating the everyday affairs of a hardworking bunch at play, it soon becomes apparent that a lucrative deal must be struck in order to keep the sultry spice flowing, the troubling news being delivered in überScroogelike fashion, the high-end players responding with executive precision.

There's no other option.

It's time to party.

Festivities of epic proportions are therefore precipitated, the celebrations, ecstatically fuelled.

But as the good times roll, will Josh Parker (Jason Bateman), Clay Vanstone (T. J. Miller), and Tracey Hughes (Olivia Munn) be able to convince Walter Davis (Courtney B. Vance) that their research and development should move beyond the experimental phase?

Will Clay's uptight sister Carol (Jennifer Aniston) shut them down to right misperceived childhood wrongs?

Will human resources rep Mary (Kate McKinnon) engage in merrymaking regardless of penitent restrictions?

And will the prostitute (Abbey Lee as Savannah) Nate (Karan Soni) hires successfully pass as his supple theoretical girlfriend?

Before her psychotic pimp (Jillian Bell as Trina) shows up to destroy everything?

Wildly engaging in dishevelling shenanigans, Office Christmas Party educates as it embroils.

Through the magic of Christmas, Clay and Carol stop fighting and come together as a family, while several hilarious subordinates find the partner they've been so shyly seeking.

Lumps are taken, yet necessary risks ridiculously refine surefire stabilities, and remarkably steady technologies cyberspatially save the day.

Dionysian balance.

Brainiac mirth.

Certainly an adult themed Christmas film that sets a bizarro example, Office Christmas Party still excels at letting loose just in time for the holiday season.

Some scenes could have been cut, and a bit more time could have been spent editing the script, but the highs olympianly outweigh the lows, and it's definitely worth checking out.

With so many supporting voices delivering strong orations, it must have been tough for Jillian Bell to outshine them all.

But that's exactly what she does.

Second place going to Randall Park (Fred).

Rob Corddry (Jeremy) needs better material!

El hombre de las mil caras (Smoke and Mirrors)

Cast adrift by the Spanish secret service, disgraced Francisco Paesa (Eduard Fernández) must find other ways to earn a living, his reputation for profound cunning immersed in subterfuge still resonating however, as a crooked formal national police commissioner seeks his admonishing aid.

A plan.

A forecast.

Subordinate reliability a troubling factor, as indelicate months pass and pressures mount, every detail of the plan covertly constructed, contingencies classified with hypothetical clarity.

Interminable patience required by all players, Paesa's foreseen a possible outcome, that leaves him assuredly stacked in the black.

Yet he remains loyal, faithful, truthful, subservient, theoretically, resolute calm submerged and breaching, extrajudicial outcomes speculatively splayed, thatched, patched, acrobatic burlap, either way he's set free, unless he winds up in prison.

For the rest of his life.

Interstitial estuaries.

Comet and cupid.

Compacted nerve.

Expeditiously invigorating cerebral texts and phalanxes, Alberto Rodríguez's El hombre de las mil caras (Smoke and Mirrors) keeps things smooth and steady.

It masterfully pulls you in and then harkingly hails in lockdown.

Penetratingly equipped with pertinent plights enabled, multiple primary and secondary familial and professional plot threads fading then reappearing with expert cinematic timing, thereby effortlessly attaching sub/conscious depth to its politicoethical imbroglio, El hombre de las mil caras is far beyond most of what I've seen this year, another outstanding film from M. Rodríguez.

Immaculately composed.

That's/He's still so much fun to watch.

Verifiable.

*Was into Spanish music last week. Damn it!

The Eagle Huntress

As I've mentioned before, go out and work some brutal unforgiving high-paying do-it-yourself labour job with a bunch of women seeking to prove themselves and you'll surely find they can tough it out hardcore like any man.

And on the coldest harshest direst days you'll find just as many men seeking shelter as women.

I'm not saying the NFL will suddenly be flooded with female athletes or anything, but I'm sure they'd be welcome if they tried to make the cut.

In a different land, across the Pacific in rural Mongolia, a young girl named Aisholpan seeks to follow her family's traditions and hunt fox on horseback in winter with the aid of an eagle.

Her father is a kind man and agrees to train her even if the patriarchal fox hunting by eagle hierarchy is not amused.

What follows is another brilliant exploration of the strength of the feminine spirit, like the formidable Athena of old, of myth, boldly challenging dismissive conceits, narrated by Daisy Ridley.

I suppose if you live in the badlands with neither television nor internet or within a country that suppresses contradictory proofs, it's still possible to believe women aren't capable of succeeding when prohibitively constrained.

But if such conditions qualify or govern your life, and somehow you're still reading this, note that The Eagle Huntress provides exemplary non-fictional evidence of potentially subversive notions which are likely being stubbornly ignored.

It's quite a positive film that generally focuses on determination as opposed to discrimination, an uplifting story that's strict and to the point, doesn't drag, and generates genuine interest.

Worth seeing.

With excellent eagle-related cinematography by Simon Niblett (Director of Photography).

Felt bad for the foxes.

I'm assuming they thrive in abundance?

Arrival

Time shifts encoded rifts temporal gifts communication, a brilliant linguist (Amy Adams as Louise Banks) practically applying her knowledge to freelance first contact with an alien race, 12 mysterious ships having suddenly appeared across the globe, but no one knows why they've arrived and even though they haven't attacked or encouraged hostilities many fear the worst, for which they hysterically prepare.

The aliens write using extraordinarily complex symbols the deciphering of which requires the coordinated efforts of worldwide ingenious minds.

But as paranoid tensions continue to increase and the aliens share a sign which appears to mean weapon, the universal olive branch is sensationally shaken.

Fortunately Dr. Banks has the last word, her caring friendly curiosity refusing to abandon peaceful interstellar objectives.

In overdrive.

Another outstanding film from Denis Villeneuve, who's competently directing in different genres, Arrival rationally manages chaotic instincts to surgically fictionalize scientific translation.

Palindromic comprehension.

It flips typical sci-fi by placing understanding in the forefront and violence beneath the surface while still generating an exciting story with multiple ethicopolitical elements.

Bejewelled.

It also questions the nature of time and space to ontologically shiver epistemological certainties.

In relation to origins, to meaning, to the interrelations between the myriad signs presented to a subject every day and their potential interpretations, like an abstract grid infinitely connecting everything within existence with flexible stability, instinct, awareness, knowledge, corrections, detecting harmonies and juxtapositions with piquant patterns or unique exposés, messages, revelations, guides, the artist/mathematician/scientist/politician/welder/ . . . generating imaginative conditionals from such material to cure a disease or make an audience laugh, blending seemingly immiscible particulars to create something uniform, a node, a whorl, a beacon, something distinct, eventually subsiding into overwhelming euphorias fractionally reduced to the pristinely primal, at ease with one's environment, in conflict or judicial correspondence.

I got in trouble when I was young for thinking reincarnation was real, it just seemed obvious to me, which eventually transformed into the idea that perhaps there was no beginning, no ending, there was just being, which doesn't make much sense but there it is, foolishly matriculating.

I also saw the Star Trek: Voyager episode where Q claims the Q have always been years later.

He didn't explain whether or not human consciousness lives after physical death.

I also really loved swamp water when I was young. Once I discovered you were free to mix all the sodas together when fast food restaurants gave you your own cup to fill, it was straight to the swamp water.

Lol.

Sometimes it was rather tasty.

Delicious even.

Exponentially sound.

Like a library.

Rules Don't Apply

Sure and steady representatives of 1960s youth find themselves fetchingly employed in Warren Beatty's Rules Don't Apply, wherein an angelic songwriter with purist heart (Lily Collins as Marla Mabrey) and a loyal driver possessing patient ambition (Alden Ehrenreich as Frank Forbes) are caught between careers and courtships in the employment of Howard Hughes (Warren Beatty).

They're ever so cute.

Yet their employer, however so cunning in the face of adversity, however so adorable in his wild eccentricities, however so unpredictable in his unwavering caprice, however so devoted to reifying his dreams (eccentricity does not imply caprice!), even if he spends every waking nanosecond taking care of his responsibilities (wherein lies the eccentricity [when you work all the time suddenly an undeniable desire hits and you immediately must have that thing /often Denver Broncos related {this works better when you have employees who will bring you that thing |shopping online is changing this|}\]), can't be relied upon to simply do what's right, like a/n h/airline fracture, at critical moments, with destinies in overdrive, with futures notwithstanding.

That doesn't mean he doesn't remain endearing, as he's depicted in the film anyways, since he possesses an inextinguishable fancy free flame, which has come to be idealized in American cinema, with refined audacious tenacity.

Rules Don't Apply.

Young at heart, always.

I'm thinking about renting Cool Hand Luke.

Collins and Forbes romantically drill their way through Rules Don't Apply, frustrated in frenzy, synergistic straight shooters.

I can't say if the film's reminiscent of a cinematic golden age (I'm assuming many people associate such a phrase with the films of their youth and seeing it redefined is a matter of another generation reaching a specific age having made the right arguments), or trying to recapture the magic of watching movies (surprised this wasn't a Disney film), some ethics thrown in, a political struggle, a charismatic tycoon, Matthew Broderick (Levar Mathis), principles plucked im/pertinently, an appreciation for simple pleasures (burgers and fries), a story that could have seemed trite if left in less capable hands, with filmmakers who don't know how to both provoke and entertain, but it pulled me into its dazzling sashay with raw sincere wondrous precision, the split-second editing keeping things lively in the early going (Robin Gonsalves, Leslie Jones, F. Brian Scofield, Billy Weber), and even if it may not be one of my favourite films of the year, it still revitalized my love of going to the movies and writing about them more than any other.

There's a great sequence where the main characters are depicted doing something individually which simultaneously highlights their doubtful loneliness (content) as well as their sense of communal belonging (form), on the job, I suppose I'm a sucker for that kind of thing; poutine once a week you know; and the occasional root beer.

Manchester by the Sea

A brother's death brings an uncle home to the small coastal town where he grew up, mournful memories haunting him as he decides whether or not to become his nephew's guardian, and move back to live amongst old friends.

Disaster struck years ago and he's unsure if he can surround himself with sundry signs, sundry signs of his life that once was, sundry signs of his dreadful misfortune.

His 16 year old nephew (Lucas Hedges and Ben O'Brien as Patrick) has an active social life and does not want to move to Boston. He hasn't seen his mother for years. And his other close relatives live in Minnesota.

Lee (Casey Affleck) has trouble relating since he's completely withdrawn from the world and can't find peace in community.

Can't forgive himself.

Guilt-ridden ubiquity.

Immersed in potential salvation.

And loud ramshackle rumours.

A sorrowful well-acted well-written story which attempts to clear the dismal skies punishing a cocky guy's guy, Manchester by the Sea lightly examines psychological torment to baste and barbecue bucolic briskets.

Many scenes are elongated to pull you in, pull you into the narrative, to help Lee inhume the pain, scenes which encourage thoughtful consideration rather than rash judgment, formal composure, a cerebral chill cornerstone.

Loved the random dude with the whistle.

There's a lot of heart in Manchester by the Sea, a lot of caring.

You see it in the body language, the symbolic actions, as males unaccustomed to embracing emotion have to live with strong feelings in tight quarters.

One of the best films I've seen which soberly accounts for unacknowledged masculine emotion in awhile.

The controversial ending should promote debate.

Tough cross to bear.

Bewildering burden.

*Casey Affleck, Michelle Williams (Randi Chandler) and Lucas Hedges impressed. Casting by Douglas Aibel.

The Birth of a Nation

A young African American slave preacher responds biblically to his terrestrial owner's recidivistic change of heart as racial tensions vengefully explode in Nate Parker's Birth of a Nation.

Critical applications of dialectical divination, Nat (Nate Parker) and Samuel Turner (Armie Hammer) grow up playing together as friends, their friendship lasting long into adulthood until Sam begins seeking social prestige.

Alcoholism having clouded his judgment, no doubt the result of possessing a tender heart pounding within unjust lands, Sam reasserts himself as plantation ruler and loses the support of his lifelong pal.

Nat has been fortunate enough to receive a rudimentary education, and picks up on both the oppressive and the emancipatory dimensions of the bible as he applies his knowledge to his vicious surroundings.

His people dehumanized and suffering wherever he goes (he has to preach obedience to various plantations so that Sam can earn extra money), he decides their only recourse is full-on insurrection.

What would you have done?

Enslaved in such a hell.

Taught that it was righteous.

Bewitching carnal spells.

The Birth of a Nation celebrates courageous acts undertaken by voiceless desperate beaten down citizens, most of whom were never given the chance to scholastically or industriously define themselves.

Some of the acting isn't the greatest and like many films depicting slavery there's a gratuitous emphasis on the grotesque, which postmodern racists thoroughly enjoy watching, but it's still a solid début from controversial filmmaker Nate Parker, who skilfully if not sensationally demonstrates he could use more time and money.

Similar predicaments still persist in many nations worldwide, dedicated activists still working to spread the word.

A manageable work/life balance is always something to strive for.

Time worked to help businesses remain profitable.

Profits shared to help employees remain comfortable.

Equitable exchanges.

For international communities.

Loving

The daily special, a well trodden path, homemade blueberry pie, that stuff you're getting around to.

Almanacs.

Routine creature comforts, familiarity, trust, the Lovings plain and simply love one another, it's not deeper than that, there are no conditions, no excuses, no liaisons, no subterfuge, just a tradition in bloom as dependable as a grilled quarter pounder, step by step by step by step, a clock, outcrops, a home, that's all they truly wanted, ignoring what came to pass.

The law in their jurisdiction didn't take kindly to mixed race marriages at the time, and still held fast to bizarre justifications for its rules, no matter how innocently they happened to be contravened, no matter how strange they must have sounded to others.

You see, if you believe in God, or making laws based upon biblical texts, Adam and Eve were the father and mother of humanity, and, therefore, brought forth all the Asian, European, American, Australian, East-Indian and Island peoples of the world, and didn't establish strict covenants regarding their matrimonial segregation, naively overlooking demonic trajectories.

Not as simple as all that I reckon, once you work in history and economics and land and desire, but these passions didn't interest Mildred (Ruth Negga) and Richard (Joel Edgerton) Loving, they just wanted to work and raise a family, and didn't even attend when their case reached the Supreme Court, just carefully kept keepin' on meanwhile, setting an example, as dedicated civil rights lawyers strove on.

Jeff Nichols's Loving is a beautiful film which straightforwardly examines love, loyalty, kindness, and security.

It never lets things get out of hand.

In its unassuming bold humility.

It's patient, keeps things on the level, doesn't lose its head, a serious film without much drama.

A chill account, a bucolic masterpiece, Loving lovingly latches to assuredly settle, like down home democracy, romantically fused.

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them

Seemingly eccentric fey dissimulated nuances underscore the symphonically seminal seductive Newt Scamander (Eddie Redmayne), his offbeat orchestrations xylophonically zephyring crazed ritzy zigzags, since, you see, he's aware, he's aware, he's aware of woebegone wizarding wilt as stern and dismissive as ridden-stricked guilt, stilted passionless unyielding observant trusts, where difference remains shunned, locked-up in cuffs, hufflepuffed heart a beating in menagerie, secreting repleting so dissidently, to see attitudes change having decoded blunders, a transmuted sideline's reformed as a wonder!

In thunderous.

Zoology.

I doubt Queen Hatshepsut encountered such disdain.

And don't really know if he hopes to start a zoo. Or, a, magizoo.

Sigh.

Nonetheless, globe trotting in search of versed beasties, Scamander lands in New York heading west.

But his briefcase disappears, is accidentally switched with another, some of its residents escaping into feisty urban playgrounds.

He's also arrested by a disgraced auror (Katherine Waterston as Tina) with whom he eventually strikes up a friendship along with her nurturing sister Queenie (Alison Sudol) and a curious flabbergasted muggle (Dan Fogler as Kowalski).

Before he can stun the wizarding world with his dashing discoveries however, he must first find his tacit treasures and prevent a newfound obscurus (Ezra Miller as Credence Barebone)(a destructive force created when a magical child's gifts are violently suppressed) from joining forces with a wicked exclamation (Colin Farrell as Graves).

All the while NewYork's magical community manoeuvres to hide their existence from suspecting No-Mages (American muggles), who are afraid of their tremendous gifts, and hope to see them enervatingly exposed.

A bit of a pickle.

Spiked X-Men style.

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them impresses as it expands Harry Potter lore.

Demonstrating that Rowling and Yates can keep delivering fresh thoughtful and entertaining narratives which provide hungry fans with fertile feasts even if they don't involve Harry Potter, it enticingly develops new characters with innocent depth and capably composes multilevelled meritorious measures (ethics, politics, the individual, the general, the new, the newt . . .).

Apart from the ruminations regarding war between muggles and magicians.

That is way way X-Men and seemed somewhat too grandiose, too tacked-on for a story about Newt Scamander.

These are epic times!

And the collective mindwash is so Jupiter Ascending.

Eddie Redmayne may currently be my favourite actor, his commanding poise and dignity subtly electrifying animated eccentricities.

Undeniably.

Note: I would have added at least 10 minutes to the exploration of Scamander's domain and an additional cheesy scene near the end where he romantically shows Tina his life's work, possibly with Queenie and Kowalski courting within as well.

Probably being saved for a sequel.

I wanted more fantastic beasts, less armageddon!

Can someone cast the independent Newt Scamander American Honeyesque spell?

Quickly, before there are 6 more big budget end-of-the-world blowouts!

Is working at a University really that tumultuous?

For heaven's sake!

Juste la fin du monde (It's Only the End of the World)

A decade's shocks in wandering, discoveries, independence, success engrained skin dove, a career, applause, resentment, forgotten pastures, frigid climes, an author travels home for the first time in more than 10 years to visit his sheltered family, bewilderment and/or jealousy estranging their contentment, mom, sis, bro, conjugal aggression, imaginary constructs resonating with crisp tangible immediacy, actual conversations, evidence based yearning, but when people have been thinking about what to say for years they often do in fact say something, and if you're ill-prepared for their hypotheticals, your silence may seem bitterly bemused, like a question of authenticity, in an hypercritical emotional pound.

Lost at play.

Bullies betwitching.

Reminiscent of Tennessee Williams or Edward Albee but not quite there yet, although Xavier Dolan's touch makes Jean-Luc Lagarce's play (screenplay by Dolan) unreel like a lighter work of a criterion bound European composer, Juste la fin du monde (It's Only the End of the World) distances itself from Mommy et Tom à la ferme insofar as the potential for searing venomous outbursts wantonly branding like vehement scorched earth policies are stoically withheld till the end, as Louis (Gaspard Ulliel/William Boyce Blanchette/Emile Rondeau) theoretically transitions Dolan's texts into less sensational artistic realms.

The characteristic panic brought on by domineering feelings of inadequacy is still present, but rather than consistently disorienting throughout, it's patiently reserved for a wildly stubborn yet subdued expansion.

Each character has a private moment with Louis, loving tender cold reflective curious caustic revelatory pleading confused moments clad in nebulous joyful desperation, moving from obliviousness to uncertainty to understanding to contempt, Louis remaining frustratingly hesitant à la carte, wherein lies the film's brilliant delicacy.

No resolutions, no answers, less comment, not that they weren't there for the asking, there's just no way to get a word in edgewise.

Unfamiliarity.

Nerves.

Like a dishevelling enactment of acquiesced deterministic repression, Juste la fin keeps so much locked inside as its open wound penitently interpolate.

Driven to distraction and daydream.

Otherwise a pleasant afternoon.

HAMMER (Versus)

Tragedy strikes as petty jealousies potentially ruin the career of a self-sacrificing international mixed martial arts contender, but the love interest in question and an opportunistic manager make deals with that very same brat to save the career of their honourable true champion.

Yet the date of the sought after fight doesn't give him enough to heal, and one stiff blow could instantly kill him.

He bears this in mind and wilfully responds to the challenge, death in the ring being infinitely preferable than a lifetime passed having disappointed his fans.

His coach, trainer, and lover eventually accept his decision, having expressed their discontent, and realized their aid is paramount.

But the ring doesn't hold the Russian Hammer's (Aleksey Chadov) fiercest foe, as thugs try to force him to disreputably dive.

Egocentric extremities.

Illicit, unsound.

Patriots and psychotics perniciously square off to wield Russia's HAMMER (Versus), honesty and deception contending therewithin.

It's bare bones, built, direct, no pussyfooting around agendas with esoteric mumbo jumbo, just good guys stuck dealin' with wickedness, making the most of it, as a dedicated matter of principle.

It impeccably sticks to its straightforward format and actively achieves its combative goals.

I can't fault it for that.

But if Rocky's in Moscow, this film's still far east of the Urals, not to say writer Oleg Malovichko can't also reach such a goal, but it will take some time, more passion, deeper digging, and a laid-back blizzard stew.

Winter's coming.

Plenty of time to sit back and write.

*Original title, Versus.

Moonlight

Locked-down in isolation but technically free, young Little (Alex Hibbert/Ashton Sanders/Trevante Rhodes) moves between drug abusing mother (Naomie Harris) and violently dismissive classmates as gracefully as he can, finding refuge with a childless local dealer (Mahershala Ali as Juan) whose guilty conscience and ironical good nature suggest he accommodate the boy.

An oasis helplessly haunted, Little still attends school, and the bullies still bully as he ages, as he grows, as he matures.

One way to stop bullying is to fight back but they travel in packs in Barry Jenkins's Moonlight.

Cowardice.

Little (now Chiron) does bash the most vicious of them in one day with a chair after which the police take him away, suffer in silence or respond and go to prison, not much of a childhood for the peaceful gay fatherless African American kid.

Moonlight is a sad film, a resilient film, a crucial film, a sophisticated film.

A simple story on the surface which fluently presents coy critiques of cultural codes without recourse to sentiment while patiently blending in focus, asking why is difference so frightening?, why do so many instinctively suppress it?

Difference spices things up to add alternative flavours which merge and diverge with eye-opening wonder.

Adventure.

It's as simple as bread.

Different types of bread.

White bread tastes good but one day you might try brown, then rye, then pumpernickel, then multigrain.

Then you have 5 options rather than one for making a sandwich, and can experiment to find out what tastes best, for you, on each different type.

If you have to prove you're tough by forming a group to violently suppress another or an individual, you aren't tough, you're pathetic.

If you're afraid of difference ask yourself why?, and try something new, something startling, like blue cheese or a strawberry shake.

Overcoming fears is what Men and Women do.

Took me a while to start loving olives and hot peppers.

Now I eat them all the time.

A lot of the gay people I've met are chill with a great sense of humour.

It makes for good conversation.

Not many films make as serious an impact as Moonlight while just simply presenting a story.

It's profoundly chill considering the tale it's telling.

The highs and lows.

The emptiness.

Crack ruins communities, ruins lives, makes a sewer of superlatives, which otherwise may thrive.

There's no simple solution.

Besides giving up crack.

And refusing to sell it.

If that's the economy something's seriously wrong.

It does not have to be that way.

And takes courage to turn things around.

Bravery.

Dedication.

Understanding.

Will.

In the great wide open.

Moonlight states this without saying a word.

Blessed.

The Jungle Book

Deep in the heart of fabled India, drought threatens the health and well-being of a community of beasts, hearty individuals cognizant of the convivial, gathering together to fragilely frisk, like the Whos in Whoville, scarcity doesn't cause them alarm, preoccupations with preponderance secondary to the cultivation of conviction, yet the fiercest of them all, who defines himself through violence, refuses to allow a human child to live amongst them, Shere Khan (Idris Elba) arrogantly proclaiming that he will hunt down and kill young Mowgli (Neel Sethi), who must immediately seek charitable human shelter.

Bagheera (Ben Kingsley) assists, yet Khan swiftly separates them, Mowgli barely able to escape, before eventually finding a friend in Baloo (Bill Murray).

Does Baloo exploit Mowgli's labour?

I suppose he does ask the child to dangerously acquire a gargantuan supply of honey, but Mowgli is also free to indiscriminately gorge himself, and, seeing how he lives in the jungle, far away from the safety of labour codes and stable food supplies, he must fend for himself to survive. If said fending also benefits someone committed to protecting him, who doesn't horde everything, I'd say that doesn't qualify as grossly exploited child labour, rather as a mutually beneficial pact, accompanied by a character building challenge, that mischievously bears fruit.

Loved Jon Favreau's The Jungle Book.

There's nimble minor character development which fluidly moves the narrative along, providing comedic depth to veer and crest and make the film more appealing to family audiences.

Baloo is in fact a sloth bear!

I thought the elephants were used remarkably well. They're given a special role within the jungle's culture which provides their peaceful endeavours with distinction and respect as it should considering their size and intelligence.

Hopefully such a role will help convince people to stop poaching them.

Their slow reproductive tendencies cannot bounce back from the current rates at which they are being cruelly slaughtered.

The climax of the film is well thought out. You have two characters dividing the community, Shere Khan overtly and Mowgli in/directly.

The animals fear humanity's red flower (fire) because when poorly monitored it burns down their forest, their home. Yet Mowgli realizes he can use the red flower to defeat Khan and then challenges him with it. When Mowgli realizes he has alienated his community and proven Khan's anti-humanistic point by accidentally starting a fire with the red flower, he suddenly douses the flame, thereby rejoining his people by sacrificing his advantage.

They then bravely and unsuccessfully attempt to protect him, so he must use his mental agility rather than a weapon to challenge Khan.

Mowgli is like the ultimate environmentalist, constantly finding ways to establish a harmonious balance with nature through the art of lusciously landscaping, symbiotically swashbuckling his natural gifts in the same way that Baloo, Bagheera, and the other denizens use theirs.

I thought Kaa (Scarlett Johansson) would have had more screen time but her cameo does provide crucial insights into Mowgli's past.

I found it odd that Shere Khan stopped hunting Mowgli and decided to terrorize his wolf pack instead, thereby hoping to force him to return.

Why didn't he just keep hunting?

I suppose that may have made the film too dark.

Too dark for young families.

Also loved the Monkey Kingdom.

Need to see this again.

Embrasse-moi comme tu m'aimes (Kiss Me Like You Love It)

Like a warm Summer's eve nestled lakeside in the Laurentians, raccoons preparing to scavenge, beavers swimming by, loved ones relaxing as they digest a hearty meal, a classic novel open to page 1, vinous declarations, campfire considerations, children imaginatively inquiring, the bugs having disappeared in recent weeks, marshmallows bountifully beckoning, caught-up in your partner's loving gaze, loons distantly calling, owls preparing to emphatically hoot, neighbours tossing the frisbee, an ephemeral sense of joyful permanence, André Forcier's Embrasse-moi comme tu m'aimes (Kiss Me Like You Love It), awaiting inside, ready, for comedic consumption.

The film itself may be more dysfunctional than that, somewhat more chaotic, a Québec still governed by religious principles during World War II, as the seeds of the Quiet Revolution were tenaciously sewn.

Lampooning mass marketed attempts to glorify war efforts, happy-go-lucky affairs which grossly dilute apocalyptic inclinations, perhaps designed to critique homegrown racist discourses as well, the pure French race being mentioned several times, or to sweeten the tone of nationalist agendas, as if Québec was fighting two wars concurrently in the 40s, the film wildly habituates to freely state je ne sais quoi, phantasmagorically theorizing with ir/rational repose.

This is buried in a bizarro incestuous love story wherein which twins desperately desire one another yet can't express their forbidden lust.

It's as if the endearing flair for trouble making found in films like Vic + Flo ont vu un ours and 1er Amour found its way into another underground film that boldly reversed the polarities while imploding to create a bumbling campy romp which formally satirizes mass markets while seeming mainstream nevertheless, like you have a bowl of chilli in front of you and every time you eat a spoonful it tastes like something remarkably different, hash browns, apples, kimchee, carrots, whatever.

Perhaps Forcier never thought Embrasse-moi would catch on so he turned it into a mock-American mainstream debacle (complete with an all-star Québecois cast) to diabolically outwit its hypothetical predestination?

If so well done.

Heavy on the sleaze while remaining robustly solemn.

To laugh or cry?

Enigmatic emoting.

Historical mayhem.

Le Pacte des anges

Emancipating encounter, alternative exemplars of cyclically violent circumstances serendipitously clashing in conversations clipped enraged, experiential gruel fuelling uncaged frustrations ala coerced skittish getaway, recklessly bold, blends young, old, unscolded harsh penalties discussed, erupting, penitential precarious predicament, absolving on the run, conscience (quaint) in crucible, materialized beyond the grave, ironic peaceful relations, past lives sunlit shade.

Fates or fortunes fittingly exfoliating to strive lost in longing together for a few.

Mourning steeped in bitters.

Total feminine absence.

Stark cruel loneliness momentarily fades in Richard Angers's Le Pacte des anges, as a man's anger comes back to poetically assault him, surreal justice mischievously at play, a chance for redemption desperately diagnosing rigour, labour, pith, intent, ubiquitous laments, for regenerative heartache.

Grim and bleak origins gradually building towards something beyond destitute survival, materialism buckling under imaginative pressures which environmentally enliven a soul left for dead.

Ungulated indents.

Candlelit coyote.

It's a great film which tenderly examines impoverished spirits to enlighten lively reckonings with fleeting thermal grace.

The accidental and the predestined metaphorically aligning to shelter abstract thought, generations abashed to rebalance conceptions, dialogues taut and trending, traversing wild uncertainties.

Moose really are beautiful when they're dashing through the woods.

It looks like they might collapse with each outstretched hoof, but they know exactly where they're going and precisely where they've been.

I almost fell down the stairs today.

Not really.

Could of though, I suppose.

Smile.

The Nice Guys

I'm thinking there was a time when you wouldn't write a script where teenagers attend parties hosted by the porn industry and wind up having sexually explicit conversations while innocently searching for clues.

It's so daring . . . the novelty . . .

Maybe not.

I've never seen anything like this before anyways, presented like you're ordering a coffee or making a dinner reservation, just kind of chucked in there, like Bukowski got hold of Dora the Explorer and decided to attach mismatched detectives.

A United States Department of Justice official (Kim Basinger as Judith Kutner) wants to cause trouble for the porn industry so her daughter defiantly stars in an adult film.

Mom then hires thugs to kill her.

Prurient pageantry?

Not without my freedom!

I shouldn't critique a film solely because of its inappropriate salacious propensities, I guess, trying to play ball here, but The Nice Guys does flop consistently throughout, beginning slowly, never really generating any momentum, and then falling far short of a thrilling climax.

There's no chemistry between Russell Crowe (Jackson Healy) and Ryan Gosling (Holland March) who struggle to enliven the gravelly script and appear quite awkward in their attempts to do so.

They look for Kutner's daughter (Margaret Qualley as Amelia) and occasionally exploit some insightful sleuthing, but it's blind luck that obliviously moves everything forward and makes the film seem cheap and easy.

Healy's marriage is also introduced as a theme and then forgotten.

No one stands out besides March's daughter (Angourie Rice as Holly) and after seeing how the film uses her character you feel disgusted even mentioning that she's part of the film.

But if you like staggered not-so-well-thought-out jokes and critiques of ethical engagements which champion porno you may like the The Nice Guys notwithstanding.

How did Keith David (Older Guy) end up in this?

Wrenching.

American Pastoral

There are a lot of businesses out there with a socially constructive conscious, owners and workers labouring together as the decades pass to maintain a comfortable undiscriminatory atmosphere that is profitable for everyone involved.

Stereotyping every business as one which voraciously exploits workers is as shortsighted as dismissing a race or ethnicity based upon ridiculous fears that have no logical foundation.

If your country has a level playing field, equal opportunity for its citizens, available jobs, and workers and employers seeking social justice together, democracy can flourish, and health and well-being can intelligently prosper.

Communal affluence resulting from sure and steady productive will isn't some lofty unattainable goal to be cynically dismissed, American Pastoral familially examining this point to nurture its resiliency, its tenacity, even if it doesn't depict activists in the most flattering way.

I've never met activists like the ones in this film but perhaps they're out there.

Business owner Swede Levov (Ewan McGregor) does have a social conscious, is concerned about his multiracial workforce, and legitimately cares about their continuing prosperity, the kind of manager who constructively listens while making decisions.

His daughter rebels however, taking the side of the impoverished but taking things too far.

There's a stark difference between civil disobedience and terrorism and if your activist group doesn't understand this distinction it's best to forthrightly abandon them.

Merry Levov (Dakota Fanning) doesn't abandon them and her loving supportive network is crushed by her actions, too much emotion without enough thought, she had the opportunity to make the same difference her father had, had she been willing to listen to alternative points of view, rather than violently enraging people who perhaps would have listened.

American Pastoral isn't the greatest film but it does give a voice to the socially constructive aspect of responsible levelheaded capitalistic engagement that is often overlooked in mainstream cinema (with perhaps the worst casting of a domestic couple ever).

Creating a legit business that enables your family and your workforce to live comfortable lives is a beautiful thing, a wonderful thing, a democratic thing.

And who really knows what Trump will do.

He seems unpredictable and wild and vindictive but that could have just been a strategy he used to win votes, an odd strategy but one that worked alongside his hopes to bring prosperity back to America.

A lot of people are worried about how his irritable nature will diplomatically translate but all he really has to do to prove many of his critics wrong is sit back and be statespersonlike, listen to advisers when making decisions, and act prudently without flying off the handle.

That's not that difficult to do.

Especially if he isn't constantly provoked.

On the plus side he doesn't really owe anyone anything besides the people who voted him in. A lot of Republicans seem to hate him as much as the Democrats, he's insulted many, many big players on both sides, and doesn't seem bound by political dogma, at all. He doesn't have to scratch backs with paybacks and bivouacs. He has a blank slate and could really try to improve the lives of many impoverished Americans in a best case scenario.

He's the classic outsider, the stranger, the dark horse.

I don't know how else to look at it.

He may not sign the TPP.

He might genuinely care about finding good jobs for hardworking people.

I don't think stranger things have happened.

But maybe they will.

Into the unknown.

I'm hoping he shocks everyone by being boring.

Could have all been part of his plan.

Craziness.

*Did the Republicans create the anti-Republican Republican candidate to win back the Whitehouse? I wonder.

Doctor Strange

Mind and body.

Interrelations.

Descartes aside, the only real indication that my body has a source code independent of my mind is apparent every time I arrive home and have to use the washroom. I can be out for a while successfully holding back with mind over matter but once my body detects an outlet in close proximity it vehemently takes control of my upcoming accelerated actions.

With sharp immediacy.

And irrepressible distinction.

Turning this peculiar relationship into something spellbinding, into something interdimensional, requires a unique set of skills begrudgingly acquired by one Doctor Strange (Benedict Cumberbatch), which is more than just a rushed formulaic addition to the Marvel armada, don't get me wrong, I love the formula, it's a fun film to watch but doesn't measure up to Captain America: Civil War (with another 45 minutes it may have [Strange's conversion and training passes by too quickly and the intriguing practical applications of the supernatural are pinned-down by the action {too much brawn, not enough brain}]), it's also a metaphorical guide to the spiritual benefits of rigorously studying a subject or subjects that inspire you, whether they be sporting, artistic, scientific, or rhetorical, game tapes, books, experiments or debates imaginatively generating alternative realities for the eager student/teacher/coach/professional from which they can create agile plays, literary allegories, locked-down lightning strikes, or stunning arguments, synthetically, analytically, fictionally, environmentally, as do the Ancient One's (Tilda Swinton) pupils in Doctor Strange, with intergalactic active primrose.

The film metaimaginatively converses with technology to reflect upon spirit and multidimensionally interpose.

Macrodiscourses of empire and conquest having been thoroughly exhausted and replaced by micropastures of cerebral cyberspatialities, real world style, it seems that these are strange times indeed, which Marvel has entertainingly narrativized ad stock.

With the old school tradition of universal conquest still worked in.

Making millions off an American Honey style blockbuster.

That would be, philosophically humungous.

21st century style.

Loved the library.

*No Big Bang Theory cameos?

American Honey

Impoverished entrepreneurial acquisitive camaraderie, credulity, ebulliency, buoyantly wavering breezy undulations, leave it behind and quest curtsey Carolina, viscously reacting to consummate best practice, jousting Jack/Jill, expressly un/fulfilled, expedient liaisons assailing partnershipped fluencies like soul crushing levelling enraging surveillance, betrothals, portfolios, necessitous catalysts ephemerally veiling effacements, attainments, relaxing laid-back chill calm and spatial, their environment stoking anthropomorphic sage, beatific verse terrestrially scolded fleece, blanketed flair rustic resonance, periodic pillows of wind, a rest, jests, caressed tranquility, ecstatic existence, wool undershadowed mellow.

Films like this don't come around often.

Devices you'd find in so many just sort of there for the partaking, not concerned with generating a thought or emotion, more like evocative immediacy living day to day, explosive yet stoic, every 24 hour cycle rewriting codes in kinetic cuneiformed western wrestlin' peach, exotic mundane snuggly fitting docs, the natural world in ribbitting gentle whiles firebright.

I love what Shia LaBeouf(Jake) has done with his career.

Sasha Lane(Star) also impresses.

With poetic fever in erratic fathoms, American Honey plucks and pulsates like unpasteurized raw ambrosia, precepts, dusk till dawn.

Moonshine.

Self-perpetuating brisk momentum.

Quintessential cultural fuel.

Favourite film of 2016 so far.

Another gritty romance.

Ah-ga-ssi (The Handmaiden)

Islands of ancient salacious mystique, coveted opulence, irreverent revelations, strategic planning saracen starship, nomadic nomenclature, obsidian overtures spite notwithstanding, lovers leverage contend and lust, tantamount condesa consented trust, delicatessen, octopi, prosciutto, exclusive events held-up hog ties, serendipitous spies, orphans, lives spent in coerced carnal obsession belie wanderlust, trips at sea, unsaddled steeds, a maestro's mercurially manifested misgivings extemporaneously billowing with contemplative vague sorrowful passage, tacit knowledge shimmering in smoke, iridescent stardust stray, fastened.

Sook-Hee's (Kim Tae-ri) innocence ignites plans and projects pristine, poached and sincere passions, cleared tidings focal.

Pinpointed.

Through the breach within reach cloaked and steeped pressures vital.

A plan to steal an old man's fortune multigrainedly awry.

Epic in its orchestrations, Chan-wook Park's Ah-ga-ssi (The Handmaiden) made me think of Davids Lean and Lynch.

Within true love overwhelms calculation to rapturously materialize mint ethereal soul.

Secluded deep in forests green verdant luscious able.

Hauntingly accessible inject garlic gore.

Folklore.

Stationary.

Blair Witch

Disbelieving ingenuous pups curiously travel to the woods at play, bark bark, in search of a sister long lost in legend, guided by hoaxes on trial by fire, unaware of omnipresent psychotic denizens, gleefully clattering while setting up camp.

And what to make of the legend, of the menace, the malevolence, terrorizing the Black Hills Forest for centuries, misguided punishments generating extremes eternal, no reasoning, no guilt, just blind infinite pernicious ambition, for anyone who comes near, for everyone entering the forsaken domain?

Be good they say, well-mannered, tip-top.

Criticize they say, contradict, rise up.

Occupy middle ground, regard each encounter as a fresh set of downs, proceed seriously, jovially, mischievously, passively, formidably, keep that yap shut, freely express every thought, beware of unknown exhilarations of maniacal metaphorical interpretations of attired discourse, as you seek that coupling, that panoramic, as punishment after punishment punishes your unwilful disobedience, and the subjects you choose to stitch and braise.

And flay.

The weather.

It was nice today.

Talk more.

Revolting.

Why are you so quiet?

You must be a snob.

I suppose the film's alright.

Not much to it besides what's to be expected and a clash between locals and outsiders.

And drones.

Classic let's do it again and cash-in.

Contextually.

Indubitably.

Happy Halloween!

The Accountant

Uncontrollable utterances, aggressive paternal instruction, autistic militaristic brilliance, humanistically applied, intrepidly cast and driven.

Playing dangerous games with hardboiled foes, Christian Wolff (Ben Affleck) accounts for plutocratic transgressions, willing to humbly assist if lucratively cont(r)acted, able to respond if treacherously played.

The autonomous superlative conscientious individual, codified personal ethics guiding each decision, reified in action, materialized impactions, his giant heart herbaceously beating, his exhaustive knowledge saliently secreting.

He's badass just the facts can chillax everlasting.

Multicaring.

Wizarding throes.

The Accountant enlightens a thoughtful entertaining romantic intellectual thrilling combative gridiron, smoothly intertwining these elements without tritely enumerating sentimental calculi, logically rationalizing while artistically expressing, its quotient quotidianly qualified, with a healthy dose of algebraic leisure.

Guilt or innocence haunts the narrative with critically productive profusion, like an ambiguous circulatory system cloaked in polarized exhaust.

Gradations.

Laconic ledgers, chilling checks and balances.

Sure and steady.

Compacted.

In the black.

Extract.

React.

Counteract.

Subtract.

On track.

Syntax.

Two Lovers and a Bear

Isolated Northern ubiquitous unity, tumultuously tethered, erratically inundated, to immerse yourself in wills withstanding galavanting glacial inefficacious lugubrity, viscid amorous personal sacrifices stabilizing paramount im/permanent tidal proclivities, embraces pure and reckless harmonizing disputes like polished flagellated leather, seductively saddling sentimental sensations, buckled broncos buck, minus 30 below.

Inexhaustible lovers suddenly bitterly torn by news that one must head South, Roman (Dan DeHaan) derelict in distress, Lucy (Tatiana Maslany) aware of the agony.

Obscurity.

Frigid lunge frolic.

Kim Nguyen's Two Lovers and a Bear everlastingly exonerates to latch in longing, passionately deconstructing itinerancy, bashfully needleworking flukes.

She understands the terrain and smoothly works in several serious issues facing Northern communities without saccharinely besieging her wild poetic narrative.

Inflammatory psychiatry.

Testaments of true love.

Currently my favourite fictional act of love ever.

The past haunts them both.

Great things happening in English Canadian film.

It doesn't introduce you to the North or acclimatize you piecemeal, rather it farsightedly attunes the flight in distance, freeing the story from hewn explanations thereby.

Interiorized.

I would have handled the bear's introduction differently, his first scene with Roman anyways, a bit more time to groundwork the shock.

The abruptness integrates a cheese factor which fortunately melts as time passes.

Supernatural.

That's two romantic films I've loved this year.

That could be unprecedented.

Hearts hearthbeating.

The Girl on the Train

Woebegone coy wailing whispers, loves lost unavailing misters, crescents incoherent past, conjuring disclosed the tracks exacting causal punishments, the unignored passions hellbent mystery steeping pains in bellowed seemingly surficial celloed, instinct buried deep beneath each crushing dipsomanic beat, could she clue in expressly solve and vindicate romantic sprawls?

Wherewithal.

Consensual adulterous ramifications haunting Tom (Justin Theroux) and Anna's (Rebecca Ferguson) marriage, his ex-wife Rachel (Emily Blunt) obsessively views the putters of the wealthy suburb where she once happily lived as she passes by on the train every morning, like a saturated classics scholar trying to piece together the activities of an ancient civilization based solely upon tantalizingly loose scattered fragments, it soon becomes apparent that she has seen something, although it will take some fecund fogcutting to find out if she has indeed taken note.

Panoramic puzzling.

Cross worded deluge.

Tate Taylor's The Girl on the Train sounds comedic but is in fact deadly serious.

Tensions gradually increase as the baffled slowly fit the pieces together, jilted jigsawing jousts in stark rendition, autumnal auspicious reminiscence, engendered through firm resolve.

Acrimony.

Tenderness.

The film's well-structured, deftly integrating seemingly innocuous lives to suspensefully prepare you for myopic innocence with scenes that prevaricate in probability.

Multiple characters skilfully intertwined as Rachel's ride proceeds bush tag.

Hokey at points and Rachel's conclusion could have been lengthier.

Traditional comments on marital infidelity chimed.

Infatuated caprice.

Destructive blind ceremony.

Snowden

A brilliant patriotic mind finds himself indefatigably immersed within an exponentially expanding parapanopticon, unwarranted global surveillance having become authoritatively sacrosanct, his personal analysis of the phenomenon leading to a subversive conclusion, as he bears in mind the preservation of civil liberties, and takes steps to educate the unsuspecting public.

The clandestine nature of his work up until his point of departure causes problems for his relationship with partner Lindsay Mills (Shailene Woodley [she does good work]), who advocates for social justice and played a constructive role in his sociopolitical transformation.

Edward Snowden, postmodern day Prometheus, his gift of knowledge mythologically cybersecuring distinct praise agon.

If the rule of law inviolably guarantees an individual's right to privacy, which as far as I'm aware it generally does in democratic countries, Snowden hasn't really broken the law but has rather courageously defended it.

His gift shifts paradigms depending upon how seriously people worry about the indents of their online footprints, enlightening awareness as opposed to litigation, inasmuch as no government would ever give up such power.

Best to pretend like you believe them if they ever say they have however.

Good time to start marketing online security packages that block big brother, even if they'll never work!

If ubiquitous international cybersurveillance isn't going anywhere, it seems like a mistake to leave Snowden outside the equation when he could play a leading role in its positive applications.

Whether or not he's broken the law is up for debate, a contention that many have likely made which could controversially generate the trial of the century.

Imagine how annoying it must have been when neighbouring tribes could light fires or only elite members of tribes could light fires and you/rs unfortunately could not?

I doubt tribal times were that exclusive.

The film functions more like an important tool for raising public awareness, for refining critical consciousnesses, than a stunning work of tragic intrigue.

Stock characterizations and sentimental stylizations depreciate its value although such schematics make such a game changing narrative easier to evaluate, lighthearted mass exposure potentially less distasteful than explosive stunts.

Citizenfour's more detailed.

With I could travel to the year 4000 and find out how Snowden's remembered.

Inveterate flame!

Atavistic icon.

*Good subject for the next Presidential debate.

Sully

Bring along a hearty appetite and get ready for a film that plummets down to earth, as Clint Eastwood's Sully presents bread and butter filmmaking, toasted with a side of marmalade, that's as straight and narrow as a prairie turnpike and as hard-hitting as a goal line stand.

It humbly elevates the courageous work of brilliant pilot Chesley Sullenberger (Tom Hanks), whose resolute calm under mortal pressure reflexively saved the lives of 155 people by improvisationally landing his plane in the hostile Hudson River below.

But he didn't do it alone, he was eagerly assisted by his capable staff and all the rescue workers who quickly came to their aid.

A real time jazzy impeccable work of practical art, his methods were inevitably questioned then investigated by a legion of computational suspicions.

Bottom lines having been unprofitably effected, Sully has to prove his innocence and thereby revitalize the knowledge of the human factor.

The models his detractors create to analyze his decision lack the input of common sense even though dozens of people likely took part in their creation and execution.

Sully's input wasn't requested, even though he was there, reacting with stoic impeccability.

The film's alright, an accessible well-acted well-written everyperson film that's easy to follow and celebrates a well deserving team.

The reenactment of the plane's descent into the Hudson eats up a lot of screentime though, and, even though Eastwood takes time to briefly introduce some of the passengers, because we know their lives aren't in danger, and the depicted descent is smooth and uneventful, it's more like a textbook display than a mainstream artistic articulation, which, considering the risk factor lying at the heart of Sully's action, doesn't formally give enough credit to the heroic act itself, it's too stale, too abc.

If Sully had began with the passengers entering the airport only to descend into the Hudson shortly thereafter rather than sticking the extended scene in the middle, it would have made more of an impact, according to me, and they could have been seen at other points afterwards throughout as Sully clears his good name.

After the film explains what happened with a brief illustration of Sully's bold decision making and then turns into a cat and mouse insurers and airline reps versus competent workers game, the actual descent into the Hudson seemed unnecessary, and could have been captured instead in chill haunting flashbacks.

Perhaps I'm being too generic.

A competent 21st century David and Goliath tale that picturesquely promotes active rational immediacy, in flight, I sometimes wonder how much money companies lose trying to discredit their employees instead of simply listening to what they actually have to say.

Is there an app for that?

Trusts.

Burdens of proof.

Critical counterstrikes.

Decent filmmaking.

Glad to know pilots like that be surfin' the skies.

One flight at a time.

Les Innocentes

Cut off from secular temptations, living austere lives self-shunned isolation, religiously devout ascetic mothers having peacefully gathered together to worship, suddenly terrorized, in extreme desecration.

A young nurse working in a nearby town agrees to secretly assist, the worldly and corresponding earthen salts bilaterally balmed, rules and regulations complicating their work, chilling aftermaths incrementally materializing.

Patients, healing in harmony.

The practical and the ideological tenderly stride in Anne Fontaine's Les Innocentes, celestially handmade convivial collaboration, democratically uplifting charitable principles, proceeding piecemeal to care for new life.

It's not that the ideological doesn't present rational codes of conduct, different codes clashing depending on the frequency of contemporary rigidities, it's just that the world usually presents sundry contexts many of which are characterized by specific circumstances which don't snuggly fit within dogmatic prescriptions.

Les Innocentes demonstrates how a balanced approach to the application of rules can produce fruitful results without shying away from illustrating the dangers of straying far from the beaten path, which, consequently, justifies the path's well trodden existence.

By breaking down barriers without sentimentally structuring the narrative, the film exemplifies how principled persons can effectively manage competing dedications while maintaining strong identities in self-secured assurance.

Communal constitutions.

A love story's worked in, friendships develop, the clandestine scandalizes itself, Les Innocentes works on multiple levels.

It critiques without castigating, builds-up without beatifying.

Like an exemplar of composure, it handles delicate controversial material with level-headed poise and calm, as Hillary Clinton's been doing for decades debating in the public eye, and Trump can't seem to fake for half an afternoon.

If tragedy descends into comedy he's pure horror.

Selling it like he's a victim.

Making Stephen Harper look like Barbie.

The Age of Shadows

A Korean resistance movement viscerally dissimulates to conflagristically adjudicate Imperial Japanese rule, as a conflicted police captain chants out between two antagonistically united worlds, his identity in flux, his loyalties confessing, cyclonically circumnavigating leveraged windswept extractions, comforts and crucibles psychologically contesting dignity, the oppressors intent on trumping, freedom fighters contacting hillside.

Indigo.

The Age of Shadows sticks to the point.

Betrayals and trusts exfoliating allegiances, time generally isn't wasted discussing the sociopolitical.

Rigidly focused on the goals at hand, it pulls you into its sidewinding struggle unfortunately without blending additional layers of historical commentary.

Its explosive immediacy contentiously compensates, although further insights into its temporal dynamics would have levelled the terrain when it hit bumps in the road.

The chaotic action's well-timed and some of its characterizations stylize penchants of the authoritative and/or the emancipatory, but it drags at points which likely held more meaning for domestic audiences (familiarity with the cast etc.).

Was Lee-Jung-Chool (Kang-ho Song) a brilliant strategist or simply someone who could remain calm under excruciatingly stressful circumstances?

Asylum.

Guts react.

Serpentine suspicions.

Active truth.

Proof of tyranny would have built-up the resistance, although its leader Jung Chae-San (Byung-hun Lee) still offers compelling synchronistic insights.

Nothing breaks his spirit.

Warm blooded will.

Sweetly flowing.

The Magnificent Seven

Itinerant indicators reverently reconciling disputed claims to hegemonic fluidity, lethal voracity violently extinguishing, incriminating, decimating, on cue a feisty lass sets out in search of providential justice, fortunately then encountering a robust conscience unbound, who's also in search of restorative balsam, a regenerative surge, consultant of impoverished legend, unbeknownst heretofore.

A team is required, and recruits are sought after, testaments to old school social networking, eventually emancipating The Magnificent Seven.

Multiculturally enriching the destitute through discriminant codes of conduct, exacting rectitude, perspicacious pertinence, this gathering does not have much to say, but excels at prescribing succinct ontological defence.

As the raven confides, and the gold mine's owner makes a swift return, a legion in tow, the entire town prepares for battle, trepidatiously defending their laborious life blood.

Fighting for freedom as opposed to the bottom line, these settlers and their protectors ignite heraldic sentiments, ceremonial citizenship, congregated ebb and flow.

Modus vivendi.

Down home diplomacy.

Altruistic adrenaline.

No, other, choice.

Is the skilled professional fighting for what's right capable of so much more than the merciless hired goon?

Do psychotics reinterpret biblical messages to unequivocally promote themselves as capitalistic gods?

Will grassroots social democracy and its reunification with liberal biblical studies as theoretically envisioned by Bernie Sanders be effectively applied by a victorious Hillary Clinton?

Can the heroic fight of one small band of misfits leave a thought provoking lasting impression across a nation wide?

"Yes," I'm answering, "yes," to all these questions.

The Magnificent Seven's no Seven Samurai, but it's fun to watch, fun to take in.

Tons of intertextuality at play.

Irregulators!

And damned fine 21st century momentum.

Tally Ho.

Florence Foster Jenkins

Florence Foster Jenkins melodiously orchestrates the dedicated caring and understanding required to sustain true friendship.

It's a film that looks at the generosity and civility that kindly lifts up the arts to playfully generate elegance and authenticity.

The rowdier side also represents, but the same sense of communal sensitivity still pervades, raucously acknowledging a devoted patroness intently through saturated conciliations.

Cultivations.

The film's more concerned with the behind the scenes efforts required to sanctify a beautiful spirit than the performance that spirit delivers, savvy husband St. Clair Bayfield (Hugh Grant[Grant giving his best performance to date{I haven't seen all his films}, like a humble sprightly humanistic aristocratic gazelle gracefully commanding each effortless stride]) smoothly working critical crowds to achieve angelic objectives.

Thus, it inevitably examines criticism's human factor, feelings as opposed to frequencies, comprehending multiple levels of artistic endeavour advocating for myriad aesthetic principles, eccentricities, something beyond obsessions with novelty that rationally yet wantonly balances sociopolitical ethics to assert un/specific cultural insights and focus on the dynamic perennial exchange between the educational and the entertaining.

Easy to scathe at will.

Although people sometimes find constructive criticism just as scathing as vitriol because they flippantly equate the different styles.

It's an artistic Magellan, a simmering solubility, not a mathematical exercise.

Exponential.

A complicated controversial multilayered investment in the unanimously uplifting, Florence Foster Jenkins, for a bit of harmless play, that's how I viewed it anyways, presented with the outmost tact.

More to it than crushing egos.

Daring in its amicable enterprise.

Hell or High Water

Economic perfidy harvests Grapes of Wrath in David Mackenzie's Hell or High Water, a strikingly cold yet tender look at Texan socioeconomics.

Enchiladas.

Like films that portray Mexico as something other than a violent haven for international drug trafficking, Hell or High Water presents an alternative Texan portrait that cuts through stereotypes and humanistically offers a compelling down-to-earth confrontation.

It could have been a typical cops and robbers stomp but as brothers Toby (Chris Pine) and Tanner Howard (Ben Foster) hold-up banks for small untraceable sums to pay off a scandalous debt, and lawpersons Marcus Hamilton (Jeff Bridges) and Alberto Parker (Gil Birmingham) track them, the situations both pairs face add vital brazen relatable characteristics, multilaterally bustin' through the line, with non-negotiable cranked ethical consequences.

The awestrike.

Comanche.

What don't you want?

Inflamed ranching.

Don't rob a goddamn bank in our town.

The brothers forge a classic younger introverted older extroverted tandem, the introvert planning their activities, the extro ensuring they're executed.

Law and order is applied by a traditional pairing as well, the more experienced wiser officer consistently outwitting his go-getting partner, but Alberto is Aboriginal and has several thoughtful points to eventually shoot back regarding the ironic Indigenous state of impoverished regular Joe Americans.

Their relationship investigates the controversial nature of racist remarks exchanged between friendly co-workers.

Marcus consistently makes light of Alberto's Aboriginal heritage, and you can see that Alberto's pissed, but as time passes you also see that Marcus genuinely cares for him, especially when he starts to fight back, that Marcus isn't a heartless crude bigot, rather, he's an intelligent man who just expresses himself callously from time to time to controversially yet shortsightedly lighten the mood.

It's off-the-record professional reality.

Marcus insults Alberto because he doesn't fight back to get him to fight back because they live in a culture where many exchange insults rather than pleasantries without frequently chaotically bloodbathing (fighting back with superiors can still often lead to penalties if they can dish it but can't take it).

There's working to change cultural codes, and having to deal with them in order to eventually change them.

If you can't get into a position of authority where you have the power to instigate such changes by example, and if the people currently occupying such positions ain't changin' jackfuck, nothing's going to change, you have to frustratingly deal at points, or wait for them to die, even if it's conscientiously revolting.

Remember the distinction in the film though, Marcus is highly intelligent, does care, and is friends with Alberto.

He's not establishing death camps or refusing to hire specific ethnicities or races.

When racist or ethnocentric remarks are uttered they do often come from a spiteful place, and telling the difference between a Marcus and a Hitler isn't always so easy to do.

Hell or High Water isn't as cheesy as all this, it's wild and bold and bitchin' and swift, blustering as it caresses, surgically diagnosing endemic cultural ailments.

It's like an affluent way of life disappeared and was replaced with sweet fuck all.

Toby still lays low in the end after giving his kids the miraculous golden ticket.

Self-sacrificing.

May have been hasty in writing that Hell or High Water cuts through Texan stereotypes.

Perhaps stating that it takes those stereotypes and situates them within concrete contexts to narratively theorize why they exist and where they come from makes more sense.

Envisioned facts, fictional justification.

Honesty.

Excellent film.

Cinematographer Giles Nuttgens has an eye for natural beauty.

Deep.

Wiener-Dog

Questions asked.

Questions answered.

Romance blooming.

Pupils of film.

Granddaughter and Grandmother.

United, by wiener-dog.

Excessive sensitivity juxtaposed with sadists sincere, extreme disinterest expositionally generating love, scholastic rigour ridiculed reconstituted rescinded, the torments of a dying elderly woman in exacerbated psychotropical guilt.

Todd Solondz still excels at bluntly employing scatological strategies to sleuth sociological severance with miserable dis/ingenuous poignancy.

Although it's been so long since he released a film I briefly mistook him for Quentin Dupieux.

He hasn't lost his knack for satirizing master narratives which tend to explore similar themes with less oblique testimony, emerging to once again disseminate elite sadomasochistic observations which confess noteworthy cultural concessions that cripple as they catalyze to awkwardly lampoon obliviousness.

Even if Wiener-Dog elevates to disconcert by blending the tender loving with brutal flippancy, I still prefer John Waters.

Simultaneously admit uncontrollable bursts of laughter.

It's consistent the whole way through, although waiting 5 years for something this light as far as Solondz goes puzzles, as if he's disgusted with the possibility that someone may label this a comeback film.

Stronger than Café Society however.

You could say he loses sight of the story at times (little wiener-dog) but Wiener-Dog's more about extracting meaning from pointlessness than focusing on fluff, like engaged entropy that crushes the lives of wholesome loners.

Political correctness has changed so much recently this could be the new PC.

Archimedes.

Mr. Turner

Summits submerged then skewered sequestered, holland holistic immersed treasured method, polished in grizzled and gruff pirouettes, subsiding colliding opining subtexts, vertigo, vertiginous, response grounded encompassing consumed, independent refuge, disabled domestic docility, specialization, a willingness to extemporaneously compose candour spawn candlelight, candelabras, regenerative concessions superseding convalescent impecunity, harnessed tempestuous incidental asseveration, gravitational in flux, fluttering foundational finessed fossilized fulcrum, heavyweight prehensile sturgeon, immaculately dispersing, paramount proof of life.

Mr. Turner examines one J.M.W. Turner (Timothy Spall), a brilliant British painter from the 19th century.

Shackled to nothing besides his intuition's visceral duty, he devotedly worked to theorize imagination.

People like this can't live within bourgeois constraints, or can perhaps, with loose reigns.

I suppose such partners, due to the extraordinary success of their coveted loved ones, have difficulty sharing them with horns of plenty, jealousy maddeningly provoking feuds to compensate for feelings of worthlessness.

Outspoken.

Perhaps not, not really sure, that seems to happen in books and films and songs sometimes though, and from what I gather, you're supposed to unequivocally disavow such yearnings, if in a bohemian relationship.

Burnished in bedlam.

It's a great film, intelligently written, good thing I started reading Dickens again recently.

It covers neither too much nor too little, rather presenting finely crafted intellectual biospec sequences which blend the tragic and the critical, the penetrating and the porous.

Probably would have cut the last half hour.

There's a tendency in biographical films to elevate the principal character while reducing his contemporaries to trite one-dimensional cheerios.

The greeting.

Mr. Turner doesn't do this, but watch for it because it takes generally complex interconnected diverse personal/professional/romantic/. . . relationships and counterpointingly disembowels them, which, if you're trying to film something swift, leaves your viewer soberly cocktailed.

Mr. Turner's quite rough.

In sympathy.

War Dogs

Rowdy comedy director Todd Phillips attempts something more serious with War Dogs, but without his trusty asinine array of inebriated misfortunes, his reliable armada steers dismally off course.

Not to say he shouldn't continue trying to make serious films, War Dogs simply representing a transitional foray creatively lacking in displaced junkets, full of miscues that can be corrected, capsuled, correlated.

Boring.

It's like The Wolf of Wall Street's adolescent fanboy.

The structure's there, rambunctious young adult friends who grew up together illicitly earning a living, capital concerns trumping ethical endeavours, as they serendipitously cash in.

Cocaine is taken, incredible risks abound, women are exploited, consequences cursed, slowly leading to a predictable climax that highlights greed's lack of foresight with typical reckless contagion.

One of the friends does have a conscience that separates the films a bit.

But The Wolf, even if it also wasn't that great, still had a dynamic script with a robust cast showcased in fluid mischievous condemnation, that at least impressed for lengthy intervals.

War Dogs still makes a thoughtful point about supply and demand, capacities and so on, the fact that sometimes massive entities are the only ones who can skillfully martial all the requisite personnel to fill extraordinarily diverse orders, in manageable temporal allotments, but it's not enough.

Monopolies can theoretically drive up the price while crushing innovation if their unchallenged prowess grows stale with pomp and complacency.

But I really don't know much about them.

That isn't to say I don't want to make a lot of money.

Cashing-in big time would be pretty sweet.

Some sort of more durable necktie perhaps.

Wars aren't all about establishing markets for the sale of goods as War Dogs contends either, although many of them do seem as if such characteristics motivate their degenerative sensations.

There can be more than one.

Every year a new season begins, every 4 years a new President's elected.

In a country like Libya, if everyone fighting to be the next Gaddafi put down their arms and moved towards forging a working constitutional consensus general prosperity might indeed flourish.

Easier said, as violence unleashes violence, chaotic infinitum.

Unchecked butchers.

Gaddafi.

Hussein.

ISIS.

The soundtrack's a mess too. Good songs, but, barf.

Sausage Party

Sociological structural semantics b/romantically ameliorate as a raunchy yet go-getting cornucopia of conditionals recalibrate unquestioned universals for slumbering succulent psychosubjects.

And the rooster cock-a-doodle-doos.

Okay, there's no rooster, but wow Bob wow I wasn't expecting to see a sustained critique of unacknowledged cast aside postmodern religiopolitical discourses hilariously unleashed in this sultry Sausage Party.

I knew nothing beforehand, only saw it accidentally, and was shockingly blindsided within.

But don't take my forlorn abstruse clarifications ;) as abstract proof of its spluttering legitimacy, view the film and adjudicate adroitly, celestially, to discover whether or not you detect within its reels invaluable collective conscience with an average of 99%.

Could Middle-Eastern tensions be lightened by enlivening sexual experimentation?

Is conscientious awareness maturely elevated through recourse to the ostensibly juvenile?

Is there a dubious state of affairs awaiting those who can't find work within globalized _______ sectors?

Can spiritual dream quests enlighten in lassitude both the lugubrious and the illustrious through the reflection of a savannah's steamy brays?

Can't answer these questions myself, but the hot dog and the bun do hook-up in Sausage Party, as the malevolent douche attempts to scour their union.

Like a comedic genius political scientist ate acid and went 'a grocery shopping, Sausage Party brilliantly utilizes the seemingly mundane to offer a scathing critique cloaked in ludic scatology.

Relishing.

I'm.

Time Raiders

Infinitesimal odds adventurously bewitching, organic intemperate millennial immortality, slumbering throughout the ages in vengeful spurned insurgence, miraculously discovered at the moment of apocalyptic reckoning.

Environmental excavations.

Tomb raiding turbulence.

Historical extravagance.

Heuristically empirical.

Daniel Lee's Time Raiders proceeds Indiana Jonesingly to chromatically synthesize psychological dualities.

A terrestrial imagination is thereby crystallized to inadvertently advocate for biological diversity.

Immortality woebegone.

Botanical ingenuity having been overshadowed by industrial revolutions, a reminder of its potency, its majesty, counterstrikes within.

Even as discourses of the übermensch multilaterally disseminate, the environmental factor still symbiotically materializes.

Ecosystems in peril.

A gross antithetical imbalance.

The film's logic blockbusterly imposes ridiculous action and dialogue.

More rich in metaphor than script and execution, Time Raiders struggles to rationalize while allegorically exceeding.

Lo and Behold, Reveries of the Connected World

Baffling how seriously the internet has changed the world (feel odd using such terms) in a short period of time, revolutionizing global communications and culture and commerce in a relatively unobserved historical 100m dash, considering, like the invention of the plane or the automobile, the telephone or the television, hyperreactively interconnected, immediate inter/national accessibility, enticingly coaxing debate.

You don't even have to leave the house anymore really if you can find a job online and have your groceries delivered, even if nature still remains the internet's greatest competitor, there being no cybersubstitute for hiking around in unknown wilds.

Even if you can surf the net while doing so.

I suppose generations are now maturing in a world where they've never known what it's like to exist without the internet, growing up in a remarkably different social environment (I'll be that guy in 40 years if I quit smoking).

Could humans stop actually playing sports and replace athletic endeavour with virtual surrogates or robots slowly over the course of the next 500 years?

Could real world shops be completely replaced by online überboutiques wherein you can acquire whatever product you thematically desire?

Could shut-in-ism become as natural as strolling through the neighbourhood or visiting a local cinema or heading out for Indian food or browsing new selections provocatively presented at a local bookstore?

Schools function as a challenge to such possibilities because you actually have to leave the house to attend school and schools themselves provide opportunities to play sports and tactically engage with physical objects, thereby inculcating the love of travelling about searching for this or that, meeting new people (not always pleasant as an old friend hilariously mentioned the other day), physically experiencing the world at large.

But you could create online schools where teachers teach hundreds of students from home simultaneously while removing the intricate travelling to and fro from the curious lifestyles of postmodern children.

Is some internet term going to challenge postmodernism? Has that happened already? With a focus on Neuromancer?

Such an idea seems quite strange but the internet itself seemed like first rate science-fiction in the early 90s, and now I'm online almost every day, for extended periods, investigating, relaxing, reading, even when I happen to be on vacation.

My cellphone has even replaced my watch, alarm clock, calculator, dictionary (still have a giant Oxford), flashlight, compass (I don't use a compass), map, dictaphone, camera (still have a physical camera), stopwatch, and timer, to name just a few items available upon as free bonuses.

I can also communicate with people around the world face to face practically anywhere I happen to be even if the costs are sometimes prohibitive.

Nutso but natural for today's youth.

STNG's "The Game."

Perhaps things are moving too quickly, the Snowden factor having introduced legitimate cause for alarm, perhaps social interactions will become harsher if physical gatherings disappear and knowing someone only consists of virtually conversing, like characters in a video game, but people be chillin' partout in Montréal throughout the year, and I can't imagine all its energizing real world activities ever being usurped by electronic knickknacks, convivial though they may be, but I grew up before the internet went mainstream, and enjoy seeing people out and about even if I'm the worst at meeting them (this doesn't bother me).

Werner Herzog's Lo and Behold, Reveries of the Connected World presents a mixed bag of more thoughtful commentaries on the internet's impact on civilization (again, such a term is appropriate), accompanied by his endearing obnoxious cheek, like the kid who was always being disciplined in class picked up a camera to observe the people who graduated.

Definitely worth checking out.

There really is no substitute for nature you know.

You just need some time to sit there for days and listen to the sounds or the silence.

Such suggestions may seem futile on day 1 when you're still immersed in urban psychologies, but as the days pass and you slowly integrate, nature's humble orchestrations symphonically resound, like the motivational cheetah, or a glass of red wine.

So true.

*It helps if you're sitting there one day in the woods and a raccoon comes wandering up but doesn't notice you, and then, upon suddenly realizing you're there, bolts straight up the nearest tree. And you're like, whatevs raccoon, I'm just chillin', relax.

Pete's Dragon

A child's imagination can limitlessly prosper as it infinitely expands if pedagogically nurtured like a flourishing free spirit.

In David Lowery's Pete's Dragon, we find a young child (Oakes Fegley as Pete) who has been living in the woods for several years under the watchful eye of a caring dragon.

Elliot's the beastie's name.

His existence is undeniable in the film, but, if he is thought of as representing limitless imagination and Pete has developed limitless imagination while growing up on his own in the wild, then after he is discovered by humankind, what becomes of that imagination in terms of future potential?

In terms of the options available in town?

Two brothers are presented, one (Wes Bentley as Jack) who owns a logging company and abides by the law when extracting timber, and another (Karl Urban as Gavin) who manages the company on the ground and breaks those laws in order to earn higher profits.

Either way Pete's imagination will have to adapt to human civilization, since both options extract wood from the forest.

Jack takes Pete in while waiting to hear from child services, after Pete befriends his daughter Natalie (Oona Laurence), and for the first time since the fatal car accident in the film's opening moments, Pete is surrounded by and immersed within nourishing comforts, comforts that can lovingly engage his imagination.

Meanwhile Gavin, having learned of Elliot's existence, hunts down and viciously traps him, thereby attempting to turn Pete's imagination into an estranged exploited sideshow.

Cunning and ingenuity, no doubt the reflexive byproducts of that imagination, enable Pete and his friends to free tethered Elliot, who is then chased by his would be oppressor, and forced to unleash incendiary objections.

Foes defeated and stability secured, in the end we see Elliot and Pete reunited, Elliot having found companions as well, or Pete having developed an in/dependent artistic/commercial sensitivity, nurtured by a disposable income.

Perhaps not the most well rounded layer of metaphorical interactivity, but if relativity is applied to expand upon the definitions of stability and comfort, as it should be if Elliot is taken into consideration, and these definitions proliferate within the realm of free choice, it's possible that everyone could have their own community of dragons, loveable in their specialized elasticities, curious to energetically explore.

Why the heck not?

As Summer is applied to the upcoming scholastic year?

It's a wikithing.

I can be cheesier.