Dheepan

Homeless, landless, adrift, isolated, three Sri Lankan compatriots must take on roles to which they are unaccustomed and pretend to be a loving family while acculturating within a French ghetto.

Fortunate to have the jobs they do, ubiquitous crime and angst-ridden violence reminds them of the civil war they fled, as they take things one day at a time and do their best to productively integrate.

Husband, mother, child.

Suddenly existing as a distraughtly supportive family, trials test their ability to exemplify while Dheepan (Jesuthasan Antonythasan) remembers the leader he once was.

Forced to adapt while remaining conscientious, submission conflicts with engrained volatility, peace of mind seemingly unattainable, grating and rasping, exasperatingly askew.

Jacques Audiard's Dheepan presents a desperate situation replete with complicated necessities which solemnly challenge the will to live.

A supreme exercise in extreme sublimation, appearing calm to reflect the nascence, impossibility contends with the imaginative as competing visions of the sure and steady clash effecting labour, language, schooling and family.

Race isn't really an issue in the film, but it reminded me of an idea I had a while back.

It has to do with racist horrors and the problems minority groups face when trying to integrate within the dominant culture at large.

Whether you're from Asia, Africa, Europe, or the Americas, people share common characteristics differentiated by culture yet unified through struggle, through the struggle to obtain work, food and lodging.

If a group whose skin colour or ethnicity is different from another group's systematically prevents that group from being able to access meaningful employment, nutritious food, and spacious lodging, simply because they don't possess a specific skin colour or ethnicity, the oppressed group isn't going to accept such a state of affairs and will continue to want meaningful employment, nutritious food, and spacious lodging.

Films often tragically examine the plight of ethnic minorities as they attempt to assert themselves in the face of overwhelmingly dismissive racist cultural attitudes.

Dheepan showcases members of an ethnic minority group struggling to better their lives in order to live without the constant threat of violence, good people fed up with having to live in fear, capable of taking the risks required to change things for the better.

It uses members of a minority group to combat racist attitudes by demonstrating their desire for peace, for a good life, universal human desires, without focusing on race.

By taking race out of the equation it skilfully finds common ground for every race and ethnicity without sensationalizing its subject matter.

Thought provoking, well done.

A family blossoming in the unconscious.

Deadpool

Hardboiled athletic inviolable calamity constantly exercising rapid-fire witticisms with endearingly abrasive inextinguishable charm, living by the sword sin substantia erratum, he lives, he fights, he finds loves, and pain, yet his terminal illness miraculously finds a cure which leaves him scarred yet invincible, still unable to overcome humbling squeamish demobilizing conjecture, he leaves his love behind, to vainly hunt down his creator.

Appearances, cultivated but not necessary if a relationship is anchored in golden tangible incontrovertible truth, true love elevating Deadpool (Ryan Reynolds) and Vanessa (Morena Baccarin), Deadpool and Zoolander 2 playfully released the same weekend.

Both of them led hard lives prior to the activation of Deadpool's mutant genes, expediently wielding their constituent strengths with irascible conviction, defiantly defending alternative virtuous conceptions, fortune having brought them together only to precipitously tear them apart.

It really is as tragic as all that if you feel, if you love.

With the best opening credits I've seen since The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, Deadpool presents the cockiest brazen celebratory elevation of trash talk possibly ever written, I can't think of another film where the überconfident insults cacklingly flow with such explicit potency, anyways, with very few misses, undeniable irreverent spirituality.

Written by Rhett Reese and Paul Wernick.

The rest of it's solid as well, a strong love story, variable minor characters skilfully moving the plot in different directions, or just hilariously commenting, convincing villains, unexpected captivating situations, a dialogue with the audience that takes the edge off while matriculating the absurdity, Ryan Reynolds doing what he does best with impeccably grizzled exuberant confidence.

With necessitated risk at heart.

Fiesty stability.

Forgot to mention that all the Marvel films aren't made by the same studio.

Whatevs.

The precision of the action scenes is on par with the best hyperkinetic films released in recent years.

May prefer Deadpool to Guardians of the Galaxy.

So romantic.

Zoolander 2

Lost in the wilderness, hard-earned accomplishments reduced to ash, ever evolving fashionable escapades firmly embedding debilitating doubts, two men once experimentalizing their flair with unconcerned immaculate retention cast out to cower shamefully in oblivion, suddenly once again required to indubitably vanquish the wicked, a sultry almost swimsuit model guiding their investigations, into the deaths of the innocently unfathomable, extracurricular intricacies, defiantly orchestrated by a fragile bested foe.

Derek Zoolander (Ben Stiller) and Hansel (Owen Wilson) must return to the limelight to reassert their exploratory finesse, for a criminal mastermind has targeted the world's most good looking people to fulfill a prophecy contraceptional in its cunning.

Shenanigans and blundering complicate their inquiries yet naivety and credulity reward their perseverance.

Derek's son Derek Jr. (Cyrus Arnold) must play a primary role, as it becomes apparent, that he may be the chosen one.

Exglamatory.

Providing laughs and hilarious situations with endearing supporting characters and a profound respect for its origins, Zoolander 2 succeeds at extending the franchise, but doesn't eclipse its starlit predecessor.

It terms of ridiculousness, it does surpass the original with ludicrous lubricants and transitional rebounds, but, even though it's a lot of fun to see the old characters back at it once again, mixing with new additions who socialistically and religiously spice things up, I wasn't as captivated as I was with Dumb and Dumber To, Anchorman 2, or 22 Jump Street, although I did prefer it to Hot Tub Time Machine 2, Airplane II, Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me, The Hangover Part II, and Ghostbusters II.

I loved how it validated Hansel and Derek's professional competencies and juxtaposed them with the errors they sometimes make taking care of real world demands, like cloistered vestals suddenly fending for themselves.

Hansel and Derek's dynamic reminded me of that cultivated between Ricky and Julian in Trailer Park Boys.

Could there possibly be a Trailer Park Boys/Zoolander crossover shot in Montréal, one of North America's most beautiful cities, with Mugatu (Will Ferrell) teaming up with the one and only Xavier Dolan to kidnap Céline Dion and antiquate Cirque du Soleil?

I'm thinking, best idea, in the history of ever.

Ever.

Ever . . .

Mustang

Children at play, happenstance and hijinks emboldening hilarity, the joys of youth spontaneously free-flowing, the unexpected and the ahistorical flourishing as they bumble, the beach magnetically galvanizing the zeal, time to excel at discovery and exploration, embrace what's new through awe and fascination, dive in and test the waters, let the ultrabliss cascade.

But the elders, the patriarchs and those who fear them, find such joyous acts of emancipated abandon troublesome and unproductive, the youths described previously being 5 young girls, young sisters, one perhaps with brilliant, laughing eyes and plump, matt cheeks (Albertine), their village obsessed with strict definitions of the ladylike, coldhearted calculated restrictions which severely limit astronomical potentialities.

Soon they're being taught to be domestic servants while being married-off, one by one, the crime, exceedingly enjoying life, the punishment, squabbling in the shadows forever after.

Sure, it's nice when food is prepared for you, but if you're not prepared to cook the same, there isn't much point in benefitting from the enriching nutrient intake.

Sure, sometimes conversations with opposite genders seem bizarre and incomprehensible, but a collage of masculine and feminine ideas blended within a cultural and political fabric makes life dynamic and unpredictable, makes beautiful cities like Montréal, and is an integral component of vibrant contagious cohesivity.

Gender balance you know, it's not such a bad thing, you can refine some remarkable synergies, it works both ways.

Mustang examines sheer patriarchal oppression and the ways in which obsessions with ruthlessly employed conceptions of virtue and purity, even respect, can asininely suffocate blossoming imaginations.

Its fictional portrayal of incarcerated curiosity juxtaposes the harsh and the tender with disparate shocking alarm.

It's not that concepts like virtue and morality are necessarily threatening, it's only when a specific virtuous concept is enforced dogmatically, obstinately applied to each and every situation, like residential schools or Nazi Germany, that it dissolves its links with the good, and malevolently functions as condemnation incarnate.

You need rules in order to succeed in many domains, and if everyone is constantly subverting everything management decides it's difficult to accomplish anything.

But if management decides something and a situation arises which organically challenges that decision and they sharply suppress the challenge similar problems can arise.

You can be disciplined and successful while remaining young at heart.

Hopefully that's the life awaiting Lale (Günes Sensoy) as she leaves for Istanbul, taking a mature risk to thwart imposed maturity, relaxed in her liberation, ready to take on the new.

Son of Saul

World War II, a war machine ensuring mechanized misery malevolently eviscerates, its inherent cruelty viciously forcing its prisoners to meticulously accelerate their own demise, treachery and suicide integral components of its abysmal order, survive through brutality before being brutally discarded, act, don't think, remain unobservant, no future, no past, all-encompassing immediate degeneracy, malicious hellspawn, total, craven, chaos.

One man suddenly opens his eyes, has a thought, abstracts himself from the horror, existentializing the spiritual in a momentary revelation, taking matters into his own hands, boldly asserting dignity.

His individualistic search for last rights causes problems for his collective as his pursuit of a proper burial for his son complicates their plans to escape.

But his steady committed unyielding focus also exemplifies what it means to be human, to uphold peaceful virtues, to have respect for both the living and the dead, to majestically sabotage the ruthless ethics of the oppressor, with wild moral implications, an aesthetic point of view.

Son of Saul's immediacy pulls you into death's grip with unrelenting intensity as fascist logic refuses to let go, desperate resiliencies thwarting its banality with resolute transcendent grace.

The unexpected, the unpredictable, the exceptional, the sane, Saul's (Géza Röhrig) actions serve as a reminder to the conscientious that strength of will can reflex irrepressibly, spontaneous means, keeping goals in mind.

The Revenant

Insolence, disrespect, dishonour, carnal craven incredulous antagonist refusing to make the bold sacrifices required to encourage the convalescence of a helpless colleague, the barren logic of the unimaginative stagnating guilded contentment like lifeless inert gruelling cowardice, sublimity cast adrift, motionless, immobile, utterly dependent upon charitable goodwill, his son, vigilant, his strength, returning.

A mighty hunter, a conscientious man, able to see beyond the colour of one's skin or the pretensions of one's culture, intelligent and fierce yet cognizant of august lighthearted wonder, aware that he must live within the world but ready to embrace the bizarre and the peculiar, revel in family life, catch a snowflake on his tongue.

But the wilderness, the wild, where his exhaustive knowledge exhales survival, remains wild, unpredictable, with others seeking to survive as well, competing proficiencies contracting in the shadows, inspecting, subverting, challenging, strike and you will be struck, a mother bruin raising young attacks as Glass (Leonardo DiCaprio) hunts, he's almost dead by the end of the struggle, the mother resting docile and breathless on high.

He's left for dead by a treacherous goon after the goon kills his son (Forrest Goodluck as Hawk) but the power of the bear focuses his recovery and he's able to improbably begin crawling back home.

Hostile territory adds to his burdens as a First Nations Chief (Duane Howard as Elk Dog) seeks his kidnapped daughter (Melaw Nakehk'o as Powaqa), infuriated by both the insult and the treatment of his people, he attacks first and asks no questions.

Glass makes his way one excruciatingly painful movement at a time, enduring extreme punishment while witnessing naturalistic vivacity, breathtaking harmonies further motivating his resolve.

The Revenant is an incredible film, surpassing Fitzcarraldo in terms of herculean elasticity, each second dependent upon threateningly complex environmental courtesies, iconic patience unfurling in its reels like dedicated enriched spirituality, the production's staggering accomplishments complementing Glass's will, his superhuman endurance, in agile exoteric splendour, delivering a simple tale, with extraordinarily sophisticated refinement.

There's one scene that subtly introduces calm, the resonant flux having suddenly subsided, and just as I was thinking, "this makes an odd fit," Glass wakes up and has to frantically ride his horse off a cliff, brilliant editorial awareness rarely so strikingly realized (editing by Stephen Mirrione). 

And the final confrontation takes place as the sun gradually illuminates a valley's mountainous terrain, as glass firmly integrates the wisdom of lessons learned (cinematography by Emmanuel Lubezki).

Outstanding. Needs to be seen in theatres.

Captain Henry (Domhnall Gleeson) skilfully balances the differences between Glass and Fitzgerald (Tom Hardy), Glass, the man of communal knowledge, the spirit, spending his free time in search of game to eat in a land of plenty, in touch with his surroundings, able to instantaneously decide, Fitzgerald, the appetites, thinking only of his own personal prejudices and the wealth he hopes to obtain thereby.

Henry is in charge and must make the tough calls but possesses a conscience of his own that enables Glass to live even if it imperialistically blinds him to Fitzgerald's ambition.

A platonic helmsperson, with some unfortunate ideas about how to facilitate relations with Aboriginal peoples.

Would Glass have killed him in another life, the memories of his peaceful frontier existence haunting him with ageless sorrow?

He nevertheless remains a man of principle.

Not an ideological zealot.

But a practical human being.

Living in the world.

Co-existing.

The Finest Hours

Risk.

Integrity.

Astronomical odds.

Will.

Bernie Webber (Chris Pine), bold self-sacrificing Coast Guard fundamental, exemplifying hardcore durability in his attempts to rescue a beleaguered crew, resiliently flexible, combative oceanic sizzle.

The conditions are fierce and his compass is missing but due to his exhaustive knowledge he's still able to strive on through.

Ability, conviction, experience, defence, extreme drive exercising resolute caution.

The Finest Hours, a bare-bones resurgency airtight and hunkered down.

The best scenes showcase Webber steering directly into massive oncoming waves, manning his vessel, incredible feats of nautical navigation, necessary to overcome jagged displacements.

Robust in their sentiments, humble teamwork, no time to consider alternative options, saturated condensed immediacy.

With a bit of luck.

Just another day.

45 Years

It all seemed so simple, growing up, you know.

Married couples loved each other. That's why they were married. Their vows functioned like impenetrable devout amorous stainless steel domestically upholding both excellence and virtue as a matter of enviable endurance over the years, level-heads making conscientious decisions to sublimely support one another, dignity through sacrifice, enriching everlasting love.

Due to the sacred nature of the bonds, it never occurred to me that jealousy could dishevel their peaceful harmonies by introducing unforeseen frenetics, tumultuous temptations, to ensure conflict degeneratively materialized, and invasively persisted evermore.

Odd how it's used like a regenerative distraction sometimes, rather than strolls along the beach or a weekend in the Laurentians, bizarre these frenzied fluctuations, confusingly chaotic resuscitative respirations.

Yet Mr. and Mrs. Mercer (Tom Courtenay and Charlotte Rampling) seem to have found a way to amicably co-exist old-school-style for close to a half-century in Andrew Haigh's 45 Years, subtly embracing different modest themes to maturely promote conjugal longevity, striving ever onwards on a path of cherished illuminated merriment, feisty yet docile, an eternal fountain of youth.

But even their upright stability is viscerally challenged after 45 years of sure and steady elasticity, 45 Years calmly and patiently injecting a jealous element and then slowly yet persistently intensifying its disillusionment.

Enough time has passed to theoretically compensate for wild romantic passions that lasciviously took hold 50 years ago, before Kate and Geoff ever met.

The film hauntingly rationalizes these sober emotions to strengthen their consistencies with delicate poignant gravity, the final scene ambiguously clad in brilliance, as you wonder if the moment is ecstatic and/or derelict, a reverberating disorienting dispute.