Into the Forest

Isolated ingenuity, embowered seclusion, 2 sisters living together in the West Coast woods far from town must learn to survive after the North American power grid suddenly shuts down, permanently, in Patricia Rozema's Into the Forest.

Feminine fortitude.

There's no fear, no frequent unprovoked breakdowns, in fact the film seems too sober and logical after their father (Callum Keith Rennie as Robert) dies and the grieving ends after a brief period of intense sorrow.

It's a matter of timing, the film divided into temporal segments which narrativize specific incidents yet leave out inquisitive aspects which leave you wondering why they chose to stay in the woods and why they weren't more curious about was happening in the world?

Such questions are entertained but they aren't examined at length, as they would have been if the story didn't jump ahead so often, which I found odd considering their circumstances and the massive destabilizing continental paradigm shifts enveloping them.

They can't find any information and there's no one else to talk to besides a partner (Max Minghella as Eli) who arrives for a short stay to state that no one really knows anything in town either, and game changing decisions are behind made based on conjecture, which moderately heightens end of the world tensions by acknowledging that communication networks and associated cross-references no longer exist, but the film remains deep in the woods so none of these convolutions can be explored.

Nevertheless, Into the Forest challenges gender stereotypes as Nell (Ellen Page) and Eva (Evan Rachel Wood) pioneer it hardcore.

Their survival skills were actually significantly enhanced precisely at the moment where I started to think the film was going to ignore such progressive potential.

If you've ever worked in the bush you know women can do anything men can, often with less complaining, and more team building enthusiasm.

Nell learns to hunt, forage, use ropes to hide food in trees so bears have a much harder time getting at it, and Eva learns to chop wood.

Eva's raped while doing so, a terrifying moment which speaks to the worst in men, i.e., as women begin to prove that they are capable of doing the work stereotypically ascribed to men, the worst men violently assault them to belittle and degrade their genuine badass accomplishments.

As Nell and Eva slowly realize they don't want to live their lives botanically bushwhacking, their dwelling gradually collapses, the last sign of the postmodern world, reclaimed once again by environmental inevitabilities.

Thought the film shouldn't have skipped Winter, left out some relevant discussions, and missed out on incredible cinematographic opportunities (see Sleeping Giant), but Into the Woods still aptly disintegrates gender stereotypes with regenerative pluck and expedient resiliency, transitioning from one epoch to the next, wherein every moment defines adventure.

Risk.

Synergistic sisterhood.

The nebulous sublime.

Maggie's Plan

The spirit of independence, intelligence and confidence, basking in unconscious success, high-level functioning finessed, fabled and fastened, doubts rationally ridiculed, friends casually consulted, expansion, diversity, risk management, decision made, imaginations materialized, nebulous nascent nesting, enlightening epiphany, a child is born.

Yet one marriage dissolves to consolidate her portfolio, her hawkish rival expressing her grievances verbosely, the mutually sought after bad boy wearing on Maggie's (Greta Gerwig) nerves as the years pass, until it becomes plainly apparent, that she'd be better off on her own.

For a time.

In a bit of a pickle.

Maggie's Plan is as clever as it is charming.

Well versed in psychological analysis, manipulative benevolence fetchingly at play, it never loses its sense of cerebral congeniality, fun, it's a lot of fun, fair play you know, in what otherwise could have been tragic and miserable, director Rebecca Miller boldly blends logic and laughter, harmonizing open minds with good intentions, even as chaos clouds over it's smooth, chill, cool, laid-back in full putter, possibly the best romantic comedy I've seen.

There's a great short clip that shows Maggie and Georgette (Julianne Moore) out for a drive that could have easily been cut, but its inclusion hilariously stylizes quaint urban absurdity, thereby lightening the mood with self-deprecating shock, and calling into question its own romantic existence (editing by Sabine Hoffman).

Candlelight.

Gerwig and Moore work exceptionally well together, like Denzel and Mark Wahlberg, casting by Cindy Tolan.

Ethan Hawk (John) also excels, like a mix of Harrison Ford, John Cusack and Harry Dean Stanton, which he makes totally his own.

Watch the English language only Québécois signage. That's technically illegal!

A fun trip to Québec regardless, with good music, lively conversation, tantalizing food and drink, and a bit of snowshoeing adventurously thrown in.

Solid R&D.

No Žižek?

Miller wrote the screenplay as well and handles the brainy dialogue with restrained decorum and explosive observation.

It's like J. M. Coetzee's Foe.

It starts off rushed, in a panic, and then slowly settles down to seductively reflect and ponder, like Maggie's state of mind I suppose.

I'm crying.

Alice Through the Looking Glass

Courageous independent daring precociously proving itself under pirated extremes, sees its accomplishments rewarded with gender biased disdain as a scorned suitor attempts to neutralize it permanently, thereby aggrandizing his mediocrity, in terms of the status quo.

But in this petty and perilous predicament an alternative reality presents itself, more literary than commercial, but one within which Alice's (Mia Wasikowska) strength is regarded with respect and awe, the reflection becoming the recourse, as she instinctively exonerates Wonderland's sociocultural peculiarities.

Once more.

Agile assertions.

Temporal clemency.

The foundations are in place to enchant an everlasting imbroglio, feminine resiliency challenging unimaginative entitlement, multicultural magnanimity dousing insensitive cinders, but Alice Through the Looking Glass doesn't narratively impress, as it struggles to diversify both structurally and linguistically.

The script, while written for children, doesn't invest in creative unrestrictive dialogue, continuously employing stale predictable expressions, like Andrew Adamson's Prince Caspian, consequently subverting its versatile progressive message.

In an Alice in Wonderland film, it's fun to watch as all the strange characters have their defining moments as well, but in Through the Looking Glass many of them (Tweedledee [Matt Lucas], the Cheshire Cat [Stephen Fry], etc.) turn into background fluff, and offer sycophantic praise as opposed to startling interrogations.

Individuality sacrificed to establish unconscious group consensus.

Time (Sacha Baron Cohen) is also limited by stifling encumbrances, and the Mad Hatter (Hatter Tarrant Hightopp [Johnny Depp]) functions like a lamentable puppy instead of ingenious rarefied iridescence.

If he was destined to be a Hatter like his father before him, why wasn't Alice destined to end up like her mother before her?

Much too covertly traditional for a film advocating for gender equality, Through the Looking Glass has some fun moments, but doesn't inspire long lasting critical propensity.

Perhaps it's suggesting that if the powerful are indeed bland, powerful women must also be bland when occupying leading roles to avoid mass displacements, while structuring the order of things.

The familiarity in TTLG dulls its fantastic edge.

By dulling the fantasy, it counterproductively thinks outside the box, Alice excelling at out of the box thinking, but it's more compelling when she faces multiple encompassed challenges rather than one realistic and one fantastic, challenges which she duels with head on without encountering any serious setbacks.

The film does point out the ridiculous burdens independent women sometimes confront when expressing themselves, however, diagnoses of hysteria for instance, grossly unjust reductions.

High-Rise

Quiescently ensconced in an eccentric microcosm, floor upon floor of economically ranked struggles, celebrations, sacrifices, autarky inclined to divine judgment, electrical exclusivity dividing the aggrieved populace, factions and punishments and discourse, threats, rebellion, single Laing (Tom Hiddleston) remains professionally detached as the disdain of the upper levels begets a crusading demagogue, a brilliant attempt to self-sufficiently endure, chaotically chained to the repercussions of decay.

Experimental empowerment.

Entitled vengeance.

Daring to dream.

Ben Wheatley's High-Rise possesses a peculiar ambivalence which consistently deconstructs attempts to clarify its underlying motivations, inhabiting the illusive intersection where horror, comedy, and tragedy collude, where everything remains uncertain, and spectres illuminate aberrations.

Quick draw.

Technically, the film's outstanding. The production design (Mark Tildesley), cinematography (Laurie Rose), and editing (Amy Jump and Wheatley) shine forth with undeniable cheek and variability.

A team assembled.

At points the writing (Jump) struggles however, excelling at crafting believable impoverished and bourgeois dialogues, but failing to convince when enabling plutocratic mysticism.

Obviously a closer study of In Search of Lost Time is in order.

It's like a really tight elementary first or second script, Jump demonstrating that she has the ability to win awards, High-Rise impressing like Blood Simple or J'ai tué ma mère, Between the Buttons or David Bowie's self-titled album.

Childlike brilliance.

High-Rise sacrifices sophistication for shock and ordure, the script still excelling at not bothering to explain things which left me full of sardonic amelioration.

Cool cast of varied characters.

At its best when it's genuinely unconcerned, at its worst when it just doesn't care.

Winky face.

For such a massive apartment building, High-Rise doesn't showcase much of its commercial enterprise, only focusing on a totalitarian grocery store and some perfunctory athletic accompaniments.

Inflammatory reflections of hierarchical obsessions.

Sociopolitically speaking.

*Loved the quick-French-learning grocery clerk.

X-Men: Apocalypse

Entombed omniscience, eternally incarcerated in nocturnal necromance, once unparalleled god of an ancient world, tyrannical and ostentatious in luminous immortality, guarded by 4 devoted soldiers living and dying at his command, dedicated to ruling with neither compromise nor exception, suddenly unearthed by a clandestine Egyptian cult, to demonically deconstruct the flourishing postmodern world.

Auspicious ascension.

Consummate destruction.

The world is blanketed in relative calm as those with pseudosupernatural powers and their hardworking compatriots have learned to live peaceful lives, Magneto (Michael Fassbender) even having found a day job and wife, Professor X (James McAvoy) competently facilitating education.

But the extraordinary are still plagued by bigoted misunderstandings, forced to fight to the death or perform parlour tricks, and as Apocalypse (Oscar Isaac) begins to rise he quickly finds enthusiastic neophytes.

To unleash a new world order.

The X-Men standing in his way.

X-Men: Apocalypse recasts the franchise, reintroducing favourite characters to the alternative timeline while ensuring traditional rivalries and romances ignite anew.

Too much time may have been spent exploring these traditions, Professor X and Magneto's everlasting polarity growing tiresome at points, future films perhaps expanding upon their routine dialogues, as they possibly explore alternative argumentative philosophies.

Relying heavily on what's transpired in the past, in the past, while laying the foundations to illuminate future irresistibilities, X-Men: Apocalypse isn't the best X-Men film but still delivers an exciting tale which encourages the development of its audience's better selves.

Things that initially seem strange or otherworldly can become as familiar as whatever it is you grew up thinking was natural and good, trying new things and having discussions with people from other cultures paving alternative avenues of inquiry with multidimensional crystalline curiosity.

Hopefully after last weekend's horrific tragedy in Orlando, people feel more willing to embrace less extreme world views.

You could live as long as Apocalypse and still encounter fresh perspectives to challenge your variable order of things with plump compelling intergalactic différence.

Without losing sight of where you come from.

Cross-referencing conversational data with research undertaken at your local universal library.

Neighbours 2: Sorority Rising

Ambience.

New beginnings.

The Radner family continues to shed light on erroneous child rearing trials, practices, reflexively adapting to unpredictable circumstances with cohesive charm and salacious whimsy.

But another flock of rambunctious young adults is intent on wantonly expressing themselves next door, a blossoming sorority playing by their own rules to un/consciously break new emancipatory ground, unconcerned with the fact that Mac (Seth Rogen) and Kelly (Rose Byrne) are trying to sell their home, convivially coached by arch rival Teddy Sanders (Zac Efron).

Who's let go shortly thereafter.

Conflicted and forlorn, finding solace on the opposing team.

The result is a rushed collection of combative criticisms, relationship constructs, implausible rationalizations, and bold active dreams, dreams clashing as they seek definitive realization, the film heavy on good intentions, light on aerobic integrations.

Sloppy sequel.

On the one hand, there's a progressive element which depicts young women trying to succeed by asserting themselves using non-traditional means (that's cool), unfortunately relying on a man to start things up, on the other there's the typical sophomoric approach that utilizes tried and true marketable probabilities to sell the film, although sex isn't one of the main selling points.

The opposition doesn't blend well.

Like reading the newspaper on the toilet, Neighbours 2: Sorority Rising doesn't really progress even if moving forward's built into the narrative and it never slows down to encourage reflection, conflicting lifestyles producing some laughs, but still lacking the lubricants that irritably fuelled the original.

Even if it's a carbon copy.

Efron steals the show.

Hardcore Henry

Apocalyptic awakening, immediately thrust into omnipresent annihilation, or birth in a fascist realm, unable to speak, cyborg awareness, the necessity of inductively coming to terms with what that means as a legion of minions attempts to obliterate you, escape from the blimp, follow the bread crumbs, instinctively strategize each and every incendiary reaction, awestruck athleticism, magnanimous masquerade, keep bursting with blunt obstinacy, survive to Frankenstein your creator, smash crunch dash ditch, pernicious reflexivity, maniacally coming into being.

Too insane.

Too psycho.

The opening credits suggest Hardcore Henry's parodying James Bond and is therefore supposed to be comedic, but if that's the case, it's a sick sense of humour that doesn't particularly impress.

The film's like a video game, like Henry's your character and you're trying to frenetically fight your way to the end, the unnerving celebration of violence perhaps meant to critique blitzkrieg obsessions, found in many a video game, less pronounced in Bond, still there, James Bond.

I don't think that's the case though, the opening credits also festively revelling in graphic death, Hardcore Henry consequently seeming like an elevation of violence for violence's sake rather than a reticent vituperative censor.

The audience is Henry as he fights his way to the top, always following his point of view.

Compliments for trying something different, but whereas this technique worked in Son of Saul, perhaps here suggesting that focusing too strongly on individuality leaves you suffering under constant threat, it's disorienting in Hardcore Henry.

The quasi-novelty wore off after 5 minutes and I quickly grew tired of the obscured frenzied panic.

Jimmy (Sharlto Copley) and his avatars provide comic relief but they also die brutally every time they provide information, as James Bond's contacts often do.

Way too much violence without much of a point.

I like raw bohemian unconcerned films, when they're done well, but Hardcore Henry just seems to be exploiting subconscious malevolence, like cockfighting or racism.

It's too easy.

Rash thoughtless elevations.

Scripted chaos.

Il racconto dei racconti (Tale of Tales)

August propitious enveloping cocoon, swath the embellished confiding ruckus in lavender pretence corresponding can do.

Zodiac.

A mockery.

A complete lack of concern wickedly blended with seditious witness guides Il racconto dei racconti (Tale of Tales) as it dismally lampoons heroic adventure with self-deprecating panache and oblivious tender.

Viscidly challenging you to care for its bland, boring, banal, and bumptious characters, it insolently reminds you that you still haven't left the theatre.

The cinematography's compelling enough (Peter Suschitzky), stating the natural beauty contained herewithin is abundantly more profound than anything these stories have to offer, yet we wrote narratives anyways to illuminate our genuine contempt, for you, asinine aperture, belittle the ebb and flow.

Care for nothing.

Salacious stasis.

The foundations for something more tantalizing laid waste by exasperating lassitude.

Do absolutely nothing, harvest excessive applause.

Galavanting circuitry, crusading camp.