At any given historical moment, you have powerful institutions, and powerful men and women who want to play roles within them, whether they be Jedi or Sith, whether they seek power to benefit the many or the few, the institutions exist and they need people to fill them up, in times of economic prosperity or depression, they just keep rollin', just keep rollin' on.
If religion dominates a culture, if a country's most powerful institutions are religious, Sith will be attracted to them, and will cunningly take on roles within to deviously feign virtue as they pursue oligarchic ends.
It's much simpler than launching a revolution, much less destructive, more palatable.
Thus it's men and women who pervert religious virtues for their own ends as opposed to those virtues themselves that are inherently corrupt, and if a cold hearted conniving megalomaniac seeks and gains power within a country dominated by religion, his or her tyranny would likely flourish just as it would within a democracy, assuming there were no checks and balances to restrain them, and they couldn't install loyal servants everywhere in a devout bureaucracy.
In a religious society you therefore wind up on occasion with a ruling elite who care nothing about generosity or goodwill, but are more concerned with holding onto the reigns forever, and acquiring as much personal wealth as they can meanwhile.
No matter what needs to be done to acquire it.
There are of course, other religious individuals, good people who recognize the fallibility of humankind and forgive their flocks for embracing desires that they don't encourage themselves but don't furiously condemn either.
They tend to understand that people are trying to live virtuous lives but can easily be swayed by enticing earthly passions, and spend more time trying to find constructive ends for those passions rather than condemning those who gleefully break a rule or two.
Finding religious people like this requires research and critical judgment on behalf of the curious individual, who may find a chill likeminded community if they search for it long enough.
Beware religious institutions who want large cash donations or think the world is going to end on a specific day or that science is evil or that war or racism or homophobia are good things, or that because someone saw a butterfly everyone should invest in bitcoin.
Perhaps consider the ones which argue that people shouldn't be huge assholes all the time and that communities flourish as one using science like a divine environmental conscience.
Or not, it's really up to you.
There can be a ton of associated bullshit.
But if it can stop you from being angry all the time, it may be beneficial.
In Greta Gerwig's Lady Bird, religious youth rebelliously come of age in a small moderately conservative Californian town, awkwardly experimenting with the will to party throughout, reflecting critically on wild behaviours from time to time.
Guilt and gumption argumentatively converse as a passionate mother (Laurie Metcalf as Marion McPherson) and daughter (Saoirse Ronan as Lady Bird) vigorously solemnize independent teenage drama, unacknowledged childlike love haunting their aggrieved disputes, while im/modest matriculations im/materially break away.
It's a lively independent stern yet chill caring depiction of small town struggles and feisty individualities, with multiple characters diversified within, brash innocence spontaneously igniting controversy, wholesome integrities bemusedly embracing conflict.
None of these characters are trying to rule the world, they're just trying to live within it.
Religion provides them with strength, perhaps because they live in region where it doesn't have the upper-hand.
Loved the "eager-football-coach-substituting-for-the-drama-teacher" scenes.
Not-so-subtle subtlety.
Out of sight.
Friday, December 29, 2017
Tuesday, December 26, 2017
The Shape of Water
An ancient unfathomed independent environmental consciousness is captured and brought back to the United States, in chains, clandestine military operations responsible for its incarceration, it actively expresses its discontent oceanically, stuck within a container in a back room of a forgotten corridor in a decrepit building, wondering why a similar species would proceed so callously, when so much more could be learned under respectful mutual examination?
Others humanistically understand this point, immediately recognizing the unjustness of the circumstances, and unaccustomed to viewing such sincere pain and suffering, decide it's time to uncharacteristically encourage sneaky boat-rocking initiatives.
Introspectively speaking, it's really the brainchild of a lone sweet cleaning person who discovers the aquahumanoid (Doug Jones) throughout the course of her daily labours, tries to make friends, and eventually realizes she cares enough to save him.
With a little help from the ethically inclined.
Her heartstrung horizons.
Symphonically submerged.
Guillermo del Toro's The Shape of Water might not be the best film I've seen this year, but that doesn't mean it isn't my favourite.
It's still incredibly good, and thought provokingly entertains while crossing comedic, dramatic, romantic and sci-fi streams, the resultant energy discharge composed of purest raw loving artistic soul, the delicately distracted uniting to outwit a nuclear family man, in possession of everything people are supposed to desire, accept for his personal accompanying douche baggage.
The film's so well nuanced.
And casted (Robin D. Cook).
So many spoilers.
I have to mention these things.
There's just too much cool in one film.
Like characters from Ghost World decided to take on the army, there's a struggling painter who's lost his cash cow (Richard Jenkins as Giles), a conscientious Russian spy who's more scientist than commie, more concerned with promoting life than objectifying ideals (Michael Stuhlbarg as Dr. Robert Hoffstetler), a splendiferous local cinema that can't find an audience, Michael Shannon (Richard Strickland), Octavia Spencer (Zelda Fuller), multiple cats, pie slices to go, a potent critique of exclusive diners, amorous eggs hardboiled, hilarity ensues as positive thinking bemuses, even the douchiest character makes a reasonable plea for sympathy (he's used to lampoon by-any-means-necessary so well), dialogue heartwarmingly places the "human" back in "humanistic", Nigel Bennett (Mihalkov) seriously impresses in Russian, fellow Canadian actor David Hewlett (Fleming) burnishes the brash bumble, prim cold war ridiculousness with a taste for culinary excess, a bit of gore here and there, Hamilton Ontario's city hall plus the CFL Hall of Fame, methinks, good people given a chance to do something good which they overcome rational fears to do, a sense that everyone loved working on the film, yet didn't let the good times detrimentally effect their performances.
With the incomparable Sally Hawkins (Elisa Esposito) tenderly stealing the show; she has an endearing knack for showing up in the simply awesome.
The plot elements and cool criticisms and situations aren't just a smattering of amazing either, del Toro brilliantly blends them together into a startlingly clever narrative that keeps you acrobatically positioned to appreciate virtuous leaps and bounds, that seem to be vivaciously drawing you into a fantastic day in your life, during which you make a remarkable difference, during which you are the change.
Looking past racially motivated sensation.
Discourses of the huggable.
Like perennial blossoming unassailable fountains of youth.
Spontaneous trips to candy stores.
Artistically crafted vegan ice cream.
Others humanistically understand this point, immediately recognizing the unjustness of the circumstances, and unaccustomed to viewing such sincere pain and suffering, decide it's time to uncharacteristically encourage sneaky boat-rocking initiatives.
Introspectively speaking, it's really the brainchild of a lone sweet cleaning person who discovers the aquahumanoid (Doug Jones) throughout the course of her daily labours, tries to make friends, and eventually realizes she cares enough to save him.
With a little help from the ethically inclined.
Her heartstrung horizons.
Symphonically submerged.
Guillermo del Toro's The Shape of Water might not be the best film I've seen this year, but that doesn't mean it isn't my favourite.
It's still incredibly good, and thought provokingly entertains while crossing comedic, dramatic, romantic and sci-fi streams, the resultant energy discharge composed of purest raw loving artistic soul, the delicately distracted uniting to outwit a nuclear family man, in possession of everything people are supposed to desire, accept for his personal accompanying douche baggage.
The film's so well nuanced.
And casted (Robin D. Cook).
So many spoilers.
I have to mention these things.
There's just too much cool in one film.
Like characters from Ghost World decided to take on the army, there's a struggling painter who's lost his cash cow (Richard Jenkins as Giles), a conscientious Russian spy who's more scientist than commie, more concerned with promoting life than objectifying ideals (Michael Stuhlbarg as Dr. Robert Hoffstetler), a splendiferous local cinema that can't find an audience, Michael Shannon (Richard Strickland), Octavia Spencer (Zelda Fuller), multiple cats, pie slices to go, a potent critique of exclusive diners, amorous eggs hardboiled, hilarity ensues as positive thinking bemuses, even the douchiest character makes a reasonable plea for sympathy (he's used to lampoon by-any-means-necessary so well), dialogue heartwarmingly places the "human" back in "humanistic", Nigel Bennett (Mihalkov) seriously impresses in Russian, fellow Canadian actor David Hewlett (Fleming) burnishes the brash bumble, prim cold war ridiculousness with a taste for culinary excess, a bit of gore here and there, Hamilton Ontario's city hall plus the CFL Hall of Fame, methinks, good people given a chance to do something good which they overcome rational fears to do, a sense that everyone loved working on the film, yet didn't let the good times detrimentally effect their performances.
With the incomparable Sally Hawkins (Elisa Esposito) tenderly stealing the show; she has an endearing knack for showing up in the simply awesome.
The plot elements and cool criticisms and situations aren't just a smattering of amazing either, del Toro brilliantly blends them together into a startlingly clever narrative that keeps you acrobatically positioned to appreciate virtuous leaps and bounds, that seem to be vivaciously drawing you into a fantastic day in your life, during which you make a remarkable difference, during which you are the change.
Looking past racially motivated sensation.
Discourses of the huggable.
Like perennial blossoming unassailable fountains of youth.
Spontaneous trips to candy stores.
Artistically crafted vegan ice cream.
Friday, December 22, 2017
Loving Vincent
Choosing an occupation isn't so easy for some, not easy at all for many, and can be a source of frustration for those who don't have much desire to do anything, for the majority of their lives, even if they develop expensive tastes for automobiles, or, perhaps, exotic vacation destinations.
Social evaluations of job titles and financial motivations can be disheartening as well, especially if that which you never wanted to do earns less money than something else which someone else never wanted to do, when situated within the context of various cultural mating rituals.
But some make the decision to follow their hearts despite dismissive pretensions or a reliable income, and apply themselves vigorously to something they love doing, much to the dismay of people who never really loved or had any desire to do anything, it's a strange social phenomenon that can discombobulate if considered logically.
The disenchantingly bizarro.
Competing discourses of maturity.
It's not like this with everyone, but in Loving Vincent a tragic account of exclusivity explains why the brilliant painter Vincent van Gogh (Robert Gulaczyk) was unable to feel at peace throughout his professional life.
He spent years painstakingly developing an original style that was only moderately celebrated during his lifetime (he only sold one painting for instance), and never really felt as if he fit in.
Cast out from his hometown, judged peculiar by his parents, unsuccessful with traditional occupations, a depression set in which was soothed by constant work.
Loving Vincent celebrates that work in one of the most beautiful films I've seen.
Perhaps the most beautiful, I've never seen anything like it before.
Like a distant graceful star consciously transmitted its sympathetic and understanding warmhearted radiance to the brushstrokes of dozens of gifted artists, and left them capably distilling sweetly flowing raw solar energy with the tender care of loving parents who seek to bless their children's youth and adolescence with the utmost imaginative uncompromising love and sacrifice, and simultaneously, through an act of synthetic genius, fluidly articulated the starstruck luminescent incandescent joyful orchestrations of the children as well, thereby exemplifying freespirited innocence and wonder, like an enchanting and carefree perpetual Christmas morn, Loving Vincent harnesses gregarious gifts and shares them with modest intent bewilderment, delicately crafting an image of a curious soul, who was tragically misunderstood if not overlooked by dull considerations of propriety.
I'm sure Loving Vincent will view well on a television screen, but it's so worth checking out in theatres.
To say that it should be seen in theatres wouldn't be fitting, however, due to the laissez-faire chill style of the lauded humble subject in question.
I agree with the postmaster (Chris O'Dowd), animals really can know your heart at first sight, but you have to be willing to know theirs too in order to notice.
It's like they intuitively sense love, good, evil.
More than 100 artists came together to craft Loving Vincent's unique oil paint animation.
Quality and quantity immersed in effervescent equilibrium, it's like collective conscious soul, cinematically reified, by acrobatic admirers.
What a painter.
What a calling.
What an artist.
His conflicted infinities, ingeniously underscored.
His extant outputs, kaleidoscopically exceeding.
Social evaluations of job titles and financial motivations can be disheartening as well, especially if that which you never wanted to do earns less money than something else which someone else never wanted to do, when situated within the context of various cultural mating rituals.
But some make the decision to follow their hearts despite dismissive pretensions or a reliable income, and apply themselves vigorously to something they love doing, much to the dismay of people who never really loved or had any desire to do anything, it's a strange social phenomenon that can discombobulate if considered logically.
The disenchantingly bizarro.
Competing discourses of maturity.
It's not like this with everyone, but in Loving Vincent a tragic account of exclusivity explains why the brilliant painter Vincent van Gogh (Robert Gulaczyk) was unable to feel at peace throughout his professional life.
He spent years painstakingly developing an original style that was only moderately celebrated during his lifetime (he only sold one painting for instance), and never really felt as if he fit in.
Cast out from his hometown, judged peculiar by his parents, unsuccessful with traditional occupations, a depression set in which was soothed by constant work.
Loving Vincent celebrates that work in one of the most beautiful films I've seen.
Perhaps the most beautiful, I've never seen anything like it before.
Like a distant graceful star consciously transmitted its sympathetic and understanding warmhearted radiance to the brushstrokes of dozens of gifted artists, and left them capably distilling sweetly flowing raw solar energy with the tender care of loving parents who seek to bless their children's youth and adolescence with the utmost imaginative uncompromising love and sacrifice, and simultaneously, through an act of synthetic genius, fluidly articulated the starstruck luminescent incandescent joyful orchestrations of the children as well, thereby exemplifying freespirited innocence and wonder, like an enchanting and carefree perpetual Christmas morn, Loving Vincent harnesses gregarious gifts and shares them with modest intent bewilderment, delicately crafting an image of a curious soul, who was tragically misunderstood if not overlooked by dull considerations of propriety.
I'm sure Loving Vincent will view well on a television screen, but it's so worth checking out in theatres.
To say that it should be seen in theatres wouldn't be fitting, however, due to the laissez-faire chill style of the lauded humble subject in question.
I agree with the postmaster (Chris O'Dowd), animals really can know your heart at first sight, but you have to be willing to know theirs too in order to notice.
It's like they intuitively sense love, good, evil.
More than 100 artists came together to craft Loving Vincent's unique oil paint animation.
Quality and quantity immersed in effervescent equilibrium, it's like collective conscious soul, cinematically reified, by acrobatic admirers.
What a painter.
What a calling.
What an artist.
His conflicted infinities, ingeniously underscored.
His extant outputs, kaleidoscopically exceeding.
Wednesday, December 20, 2017
Star Wars: The Last Jedi
I'd wager that when George Lucas set out to write Star Wars Episodes I-III he imagined himself creating sophisticated scripts which would politically and ethically diversify his intergalactic creation through a tragic appeal to universal social justice.
Tragic inasmuch as the Jedi would be betrayed and the Emperor would inevitably reign supreme.
It's possible that Star Wars: The Last Jedi writer and director Rian Johnson respected this aspect of Lucas's vision (he did achieve that aspect of his vision) but wanted to tone it down a bit, or to make Episode VIII easier to follow anyways.
If that's the case, well done.
In fact, The Last Jedi's a masterpiece of unpretentious chill ethicopolitical sci-fi activism, not to mention an explosive Star Wars film, way done to the nitty-gritty.
Best since Jedi.
Possibly better than Jedi.
Conflict.
As the last remnants of the resistance run out of fuel, star destroyers who can track them through hyperspace pick them off one by one, and after most of their senior leadership is suddenly wiped out by Kylo Ren (Adam Driver), passionate headstrong and defensive rebels bitterly dispute their remaining options.
Lacking the requisite rank to command, Poe Dameron (Oscar Isaac) improvises plan B, which an embarrassed Finn (John Boyega) puts into action, along with the aid of dedicated worker Rose Tico (Kelly Marie Tran).
Meanwhile, Rey (Daisy Ridley) and Luke Skywalker (Mark Hamill) become better acquainted as her innocent forceful magnetism awakens hope in his forlorn Jedi consciousness.
Kylo Ren and Supreme Leader Snoke (Andy Serkis) seek to drive them apart however, to further delay the resurgence of the Jedi, and strengthen their sadistic stranglehold on the galaxy.
That's the bare bones, but I don't want to give too much away, nothing too out of the ordinary, I'd say, it's more of a matter of how it's held together.
Comedically.
Astronomically.
General Hux (Domhnall Gleeson) of all characters, looking much more pale and sickly, taking the brunt of the insults, he battles wits early on with Dameron, but if you think of their dialogue extranarratively, it's as if Johnson is brilliantly laying down his gambit, his new direction, his original take on Star Wars, his embrace of lighthearted extreme space tragedy.
Muck like Captain America: Civil War's bold mention of The Empire Strikes Back, The Last Jedi's uncharacteristic unprecedented Star Warsian ridiculousness pays off as nimble youthful energy, and Hamill, and Chewbacca (Joonas Suotamo), Chewbacca doesn't show up in spellcheck, and Leia Organa (Carrie Fisher), and Laura Dern (Vice Admiral Holdo)(Dern is super impressive), spontaneously and playfully redefine rebellious agency.
Apart from Rey and Finn, I wasn't that impressed with the new cast in The Force Awakens, but as Johnson's lighthearted humanistic fallible yet decisive characters joyfully play their roles with competent agile abandon, in situations wherein which there is no clear and precise plan of action, it's as if his direction creates a loving caring nurturing self-sacrificing bold aesthetic that's lucidly transmitted through every innocent yet volatile melodic aspect.
It's a risk, embracing the lighthearted so firmly in such a solemn franchise, but it works well, incredibly well, no doubt a byproduct of having the legendary Mark Hamill so close at hand, and, possibly, red bull, could this be the crowning achievement of today's youth's sober obsession with red bull?
It's like they know when to be funny, when to be furious, when to be desperate, grateful, condemnatory, sad, ruthless, gracious, assertive, feeble.
Abused animals are set free.
Plutocratic weapons dealers castigated.
Vegetarianism presented as a conscientious choice.
Loving kindness shown towards animals leads survivors towards light.
Without being preachy or sanctimonious.
Just short random bursts well-threaded into the action.
It's not all cute and cuddly, the mischievous substance is backed by unyielding pressure, the entire film apart from the interactions on Luke's far away island is one massive extended fight scene, coming in at 152 chaotic minutes, a sustained accelerated orgasmic orchestration, that seems like it was just takin' a walk in the woods, or considering what to do on a long weekend.
New character DJ's (Benicio Del Toro) embrace of moralistic relativism left me puzzled.
You'd have to be a huge piece of shit to betray the resistance like that.
He's right that both sides purchase weapons from arms dealers and use them to pursue alternative ethicopolitical visions.
But he's wrong to have not chosen a side during a real conflict with physical casualties mounting by the minute, one group notably less oppressive than the other.
When shit hits the fan, when a Hitler decides he wants to conquer Europe, or the president of the United States starts directly supporting misogynists and white supremacists, or the right to unionize is threatened politically, when extremes govern, then moralistic relativism takes a back seat to action, and you fight them, with mind, body, and spirit, plain and simple.
Don't know what to make of Maz Kanata's (Lupita Nyong'o) labour dispute. If her employees are comin' at her that hard, she must be utilizing antiquated labour policies.
Too much praise perhaps, but I haven't really loved a new Star Wars film since I was 7.
It worked for me.
Big time.
Spoiler: I was glad they recognized there could never be a last Jedi.
The Jedi might take on a new name if future Jedi don't understand that the powers they possess were once referred to as Jedi powers.
They'd still be Jedi, however, or at least gifted individuals in tune with whatever word they use to characterize the force.
The universe would never stop producing them.
Although alarming build-ups of plastics could prevent people from breeding which could lead to even less Jedi, which would be a very small number indeed.
Kylo Ren the death eater, Rey, born of non-magical parents.
There's a Harry Potteresque magic to The Last Jedi.
Culturally conjuring.
Tragic inasmuch as the Jedi would be betrayed and the Emperor would inevitably reign supreme.
It's possible that Star Wars: The Last Jedi writer and director Rian Johnson respected this aspect of Lucas's vision (he did achieve that aspect of his vision) but wanted to tone it down a bit, or to make Episode VIII easier to follow anyways.
If that's the case, well done.
In fact, The Last Jedi's a masterpiece of unpretentious chill ethicopolitical sci-fi activism, not to mention an explosive Star Wars film, way done to the nitty-gritty.
Best since Jedi.
Possibly better than Jedi.
Conflict.
As the last remnants of the resistance run out of fuel, star destroyers who can track them through hyperspace pick them off one by one, and after most of their senior leadership is suddenly wiped out by Kylo Ren (Adam Driver), passionate headstrong and defensive rebels bitterly dispute their remaining options.
Lacking the requisite rank to command, Poe Dameron (Oscar Isaac) improvises plan B, which an embarrassed Finn (John Boyega) puts into action, along with the aid of dedicated worker Rose Tico (Kelly Marie Tran).
Meanwhile, Rey (Daisy Ridley) and Luke Skywalker (Mark Hamill) become better acquainted as her innocent forceful magnetism awakens hope in his forlorn Jedi consciousness.
Kylo Ren and Supreme Leader Snoke (Andy Serkis) seek to drive them apart however, to further delay the resurgence of the Jedi, and strengthen their sadistic stranglehold on the galaxy.
That's the bare bones, but I don't want to give too much away, nothing too out of the ordinary, I'd say, it's more of a matter of how it's held together.
Comedically.
Astronomically.
General Hux (Domhnall Gleeson) of all characters, looking much more pale and sickly, taking the brunt of the insults, he battles wits early on with Dameron, but if you think of their dialogue extranarratively, it's as if Johnson is brilliantly laying down his gambit, his new direction, his original take on Star Wars, his embrace of lighthearted extreme space tragedy.
Muck like Captain America: Civil War's bold mention of The Empire Strikes Back, The Last Jedi's uncharacteristic unprecedented Star Warsian ridiculousness pays off as nimble youthful energy, and Hamill, and Chewbacca (Joonas Suotamo), Chewbacca doesn't show up in spellcheck, and Leia Organa (Carrie Fisher), and Laura Dern (Vice Admiral Holdo)(Dern is super impressive), spontaneously and playfully redefine rebellious agency.
Apart from Rey and Finn, I wasn't that impressed with the new cast in The Force Awakens, but as Johnson's lighthearted humanistic fallible yet decisive characters joyfully play their roles with competent agile abandon, in situations wherein which there is no clear and precise plan of action, it's as if his direction creates a loving caring nurturing self-sacrificing bold aesthetic that's lucidly transmitted through every innocent yet volatile melodic aspect.
It's a risk, embracing the lighthearted so firmly in such a solemn franchise, but it works well, incredibly well, no doubt a byproduct of having the legendary Mark Hamill so close at hand, and, possibly, red bull, could this be the crowning achievement of today's youth's sober obsession with red bull?
It's like they know when to be funny, when to be furious, when to be desperate, grateful, condemnatory, sad, ruthless, gracious, assertive, feeble.
Abused animals are set free.
Plutocratic weapons dealers castigated.
Vegetarianism presented as a conscientious choice.
Loving kindness shown towards animals leads survivors towards light.
Without being preachy or sanctimonious.
Just short random bursts well-threaded into the action.
It's not all cute and cuddly, the mischievous substance is backed by unyielding pressure, the entire film apart from the interactions on Luke's far away island is one massive extended fight scene, coming in at 152 chaotic minutes, a sustained accelerated orgasmic orchestration, that seems like it was just takin' a walk in the woods, or considering what to do on a long weekend.
New character DJ's (Benicio Del Toro) embrace of moralistic relativism left me puzzled.
You'd have to be a huge piece of shit to betray the resistance like that.
He's right that both sides purchase weapons from arms dealers and use them to pursue alternative ethicopolitical visions.
But he's wrong to have not chosen a side during a real conflict with physical casualties mounting by the minute, one group notably less oppressive than the other.
When shit hits the fan, when a Hitler decides he wants to conquer Europe, or the president of the United States starts directly supporting misogynists and white supremacists, or the right to unionize is threatened politically, when extremes govern, then moralistic relativism takes a back seat to action, and you fight them, with mind, body, and spirit, plain and simple.
Don't know what to make of Maz Kanata's (Lupita Nyong'o) labour dispute. If her employees are comin' at her that hard, she must be utilizing antiquated labour policies.
Too much praise perhaps, but I haven't really loved a new Star Wars film since I was 7.
It worked for me.
Big time.
Spoiler: I was glad they recognized there could never be a last Jedi.
The Jedi might take on a new name if future Jedi don't understand that the powers they possess were once referred to as Jedi powers.
They'd still be Jedi, however, or at least gifted individuals in tune with whatever word they use to characterize the force.
The universe would never stop producing them.
Although alarming build-ups of plastics could prevent people from breeding which could lead to even less Jedi, which would be a very small number indeed.
Kylo Ren the death eater, Rey, born of non-magical parents.
There's a Harry Potteresque magic to The Last Jedi.
Culturally conjuring.
Tuesday, December 19, 2017
Radius
Egregious acts of villainous content are cosmically externalized after an erroneous admission of covert maniacal desire, the resultant coupling romantically symbolizing the ways in which a strong union can prevent its partners from diabolically seducing appetite, if they focus on mutual goals at hand, after having been intergalactically forgiven.
Realizing that if they don't remain close together the destruction of life will balefully revel, they struggle to stay united as law enforcement seeks viral separations.
Amnesia encourages their love's growth even if past lives ungraciously intervene, appeals to authorities instigating carnage, as two young lovers radically strive.
To understand what's happening.
Without ever asking, "why?"
Caroline Labrèche and Steeve Léonard's Radius makes the most of its small budget.
It's an excellent example of a film maximizing its cinematic appeal while working within financial constraints.
While it deals with extraordinary subject matter, its plot is fantastically plausible, a bit of down-to-earth realistic imagination, meaning that its multiple woodland settings are narratively justified.
The script doesn't take on airs or attempt to situate itself within a broader cultural dynamic, rather, it minimally focuses on using every amorous/confused/desperate/caring/terrified/inquisitive/calculating syllable to move the action along within its own tightly constructed boundaries.
Diego Klattenhoff (Liam) and Charlotte Sullivan (Jane) calmly yet keenly adopt level-heads to judiciously consider their predicament and logically structure stoic certitude, fine performances athletically exemplifying cold hard scientific rationality.
Plus there's a twist at the end that propels it to another level without histrionically horrifying the ethics of the heartbreak, remarkably well done startling severance, sudden historical revelations, which complicate everything that's passed beforehand.
It could be a solid television series methinks, this Radius, allegorical implications of the storyline notwithstanding.
I'm thinking at least two chilling seasons on Space could be hauntingly broadcast, the inevitable cataclysm tragically intensifying each passing tender chaotic moment, thereby indirectly commenting upon cultural obsessions with the past, while polemically polarizing discourses of mercy.
Prolonged judgment withheld.
True love?
Realizing that if they don't remain close together the destruction of life will balefully revel, they struggle to stay united as law enforcement seeks viral separations.
Amnesia encourages their love's growth even if past lives ungraciously intervene, appeals to authorities instigating carnage, as two young lovers radically strive.
To understand what's happening.
Without ever asking, "why?"
Caroline Labrèche and Steeve Léonard's Radius makes the most of its small budget.
It's an excellent example of a film maximizing its cinematic appeal while working within financial constraints.
While it deals with extraordinary subject matter, its plot is fantastically plausible, a bit of down-to-earth realistic imagination, meaning that its multiple woodland settings are narratively justified.
The script doesn't take on airs or attempt to situate itself within a broader cultural dynamic, rather, it minimally focuses on using every amorous/confused/desperate/caring/terrified/inquisitive/calculating syllable to move the action along within its own tightly constructed boundaries.
Diego Klattenhoff (Liam) and Charlotte Sullivan (Jane) calmly yet keenly adopt level-heads to judiciously consider their predicament and logically structure stoic certitude, fine performances athletically exemplifying cold hard scientific rationality.
Plus there's a twist at the end that propels it to another level without histrionically horrifying the ethics of the heartbreak, remarkably well done startling severance, sudden historical revelations, which complicate everything that's passed beforehand.
It could be a solid television series methinks, this Radius, allegorical implications of the storyline notwithstanding.
I'm thinking at least two chilling seasons on Space could be hauntingly broadcast, the inevitable cataclysm tragically intensifying each passing tender chaotic moment, thereby indirectly commenting upon cultural obsessions with the past, while polemically polarizing discourses of mercy.
Prolonged judgment withheld.
True love?
Friday, December 15, 2017
Tulip Fever
Fortunes scripted, ventured, improvised, inherited, youth and innocence nimbly characterized with cascading credulous streetwise spiritual tenacity, the frenetic pace complementing risks with elegant acrobatic smoothly flowing brisk tremors, the resultant emission subconsciously generating wild resonating exhilarating cerebral undulations which extranarratively converge in a whisking amorous three-dimensional dance of serendipity, illustrative soul ecstatic choreography, breaking waves basking beachheads seductive surf immaculate maelstrom, calmly executed with the delicate argumentative poise of a parlour room chat at high tea, which discusses obsessions with authentic splendour while staking suppositions with audacious rapt sincerity, spurred momentary inspirations lucidly identifying integral ephemerals with substantial sage elasticity, blossoming concerns burgeoned through wager, foresight, chance, bidding, marketed stratified sociocultural immersions, tantalizingly blended with cherished sympathetic assumption.
Religious figures often make a muck of communal virtues but Tulip Fever's Abbess (Judi Dench) and Cornelis Sandvoort (Christoph Waltz) do exemplify with resounding magnanimity.
Sheer beauty, unafraid to revel in perpetual genius with unconcerned in/discreet hesitant bold symphony, like lunching at an ill-defined French bistro it pauses, reflects, manoeuvres and mystifies to romanticize a psychology well worth perceiving.
Overflowing with life.
Materializing mercy.
Like the ideal and the practical were courting for millennia and suddenly found themselves conceptually synthesized for 105 begrudged minutes, during which they purified raw tranquility before separating everlastingly once more.
The omega directive.
Heartstrung honeysuckle.
It makes you wish you weren't too prone to love for postmodern romance.
Take your hand in mine.
And vanish.
Religious figures often make a muck of communal virtues but Tulip Fever's Abbess (Judi Dench) and Cornelis Sandvoort (Christoph Waltz) do exemplify with resounding magnanimity.
Sheer beauty, unafraid to revel in perpetual genius with unconcerned in/discreet hesitant bold symphony, like lunching at an ill-defined French bistro it pauses, reflects, manoeuvres and mystifies to romanticize a psychology well worth perceiving.
Overflowing with life.
Materializing mercy.
Like the ideal and the practical were courting for millennia and suddenly found themselves conceptually synthesized for 105 begrudged minutes, during which they purified raw tranquility before separating everlastingly once more.
The omega directive.
Heartstrung honeysuckle.
It makes you wish you weren't too prone to love for postmodern romance.
Take your hand in mine.
And vanish.
Thursday, December 14, 2017
You're Soaking in It
I suppose advertisements often work.
That people see them on television or online and then buy the products they witness after having unconditionally embraced ecstatic desires to shop, or at least, do something.
Every so often I see a really good ad (Heineken had some great ones a couple years ago and there was that cool one with the hamster or gerbil escaping from a hospital last Summer), and I can appreciate the creativity that goes into crafting them, but actually buying something that they mention, or feeling compelled to buy something they mention, that's something I don't understand, even if I appreciate the variety of goods available at various shops/. . . throughout town and I may use Wix to create a website at some point.
Then again, craft beer, wine, indie music, fictional and non-fictional books, knickknack boutiques, juice purveyors, speciality cheeses, and items from antipasto bars don't really show up in televised ads that often, and I don't watch television, and if they do, I then instinctually don't want to buy them if I happen to see them because it seems as if they've lost something genuine in the marketing.
I don't hold it against companies who decide to go this route (Molson and Labatt were likely craft breweries long ago). If they desire to expand to larger markets, good for them, just don't change the original recipe!
Film trailers, I do watch a lot of film trailers, I love watching film trailers, but I go to the cinema often enough and like to keep abreast of what's coming to town and usually won't see a film if I don't like the trailer unless it's been hewn by a director I like or just seems unapologetically incorrigible and/or ridiculous.
Does Ricard advertise in France?
Does Simons advertise in Québec?
I love the collective nature of STM advertisements and check out artists advertised in métro stations on iTunes later on if they have a catchy name or their album sounds cool.
Or they're holding a violin or standing next to a piano.
There are a preponderance of little ads that pop-up online (pop-up ads [😉]) that are somewhat irritating, and I thought You're Soaking in It was going to condemn them with more passionate argumentation, was going to create an all-encompassing death-defying theory or two to conspiratorially define things, even if they bluntly recognize the inherent impossibilities of pursuing such objectives, as people have been stating for centuries, that's where you find the most sincerely odd novelties, ludicrously presented with cold hard immaculate ephemeral tact.
I was hoping it would take me a stage past Fast Food Nation or game change like Cowspiracy or Blackfish but I didn't really get there, although I did like considering facts presented, the promotion of AdBlockers, and having the chance to listen to contemporary internet gurus in their own words.
Maybe it wasn't trying to seem like an ad so it ignored filmic conventions and decided to boldly wing it?
Although it seems like even if you spend millions on market research, if you never wing it, you may find yourself struggling to sell.
Some relevant postmodern analyses of a reality that's been (relatively) uncritically pontificating nevertheless, You're Soaking in It offers some thoughtful commentaries without strikingly conditioning, like a late afternoon novel that coyly resists immersive seduction.
Not bad.
That people see them on television or online and then buy the products they witness after having unconditionally embraced ecstatic desires to shop, or at least, do something.
Every so often I see a really good ad (Heineken had some great ones a couple years ago and there was that cool one with the hamster or gerbil escaping from a hospital last Summer), and I can appreciate the creativity that goes into crafting them, but actually buying something that they mention, or feeling compelled to buy something they mention, that's something I don't understand, even if I appreciate the variety of goods available at various shops/. . . throughout town and I may use Wix to create a website at some point.
Then again, craft beer, wine, indie music, fictional and non-fictional books, knickknack boutiques, juice purveyors, speciality cheeses, and items from antipasto bars don't really show up in televised ads that often, and I don't watch television, and if they do, I then instinctually don't want to buy them if I happen to see them because it seems as if they've lost something genuine in the marketing.
I don't hold it against companies who decide to go this route (Molson and Labatt were likely craft breweries long ago). If they desire to expand to larger markets, good for them, just don't change the original recipe!
Film trailers, I do watch a lot of film trailers, I love watching film trailers, but I go to the cinema often enough and like to keep abreast of what's coming to town and usually won't see a film if I don't like the trailer unless it's been hewn by a director I like or just seems unapologetically incorrigible and/or ridiculous.
Does Ricard advertise in France?
Does Simons advertise in Québec?
I love the collective nature of STM advertisements and check out artists advertised in métro stations on iTunes later on if they have a catchy name or their album sounds cool.
Or they're holding a violin or standing next to a piano.
There are a preponderance of little ads that pop-up online (pop-up ads [😉]) that are somewhat irritating, and I thought You're Soaking in It was going to condemn them with more passionate argumentation, was going to create an all-encompassing death-defying theory or two to conspiratorially define things, even if they bluntly recognize the inherent impossibilities of pursuing such objectives, as people have been stating for centuries, that's where you find the most sincerely odd novelties, ludicrously presented with cold hard immaculate ephemeral tact.
I was hoping it would take me a stage past Fast Food Nation or game change like Cowspiracy or Blackfish but I didn't really get there, although I did like considering facts presented, the promotion of AdBlockers, and having the chance to listen to contemporary internet gurus in their own words.
Maybe it wasn't trying to seem like an ad so it ignored filmic conventions and decided to boldly wing it?
Although it seems like even if you spend millions on market research, if you never wing it, you may find yourself struggling to sell.
Some relevant postmodern analyses of a reality that's been (relatively) uncritically pontificating nevertheless, You're Soaking in It offers some thoughtful commentaries without strikingly conditioning, like a late afternoon novel that coyly resists immersive seduction.
Not bad.
Tuesday, December 12, 2017
The Killing of a Sacred Deer
The darker side of contemporary sick demented psycho comedy distraughtly horrifies in The Killing of a Sacred Deer, which is sort of like The Lobster's less nuanced emaciated bile, striving to absorb Yorgos Lanthimos's excess fat, while also producing gut wrenching nausea.
Whereas a lot of time and care went into crafting The Lobster's clever maniacal sociocultural criticisms, Sacred Deer is more like that other idea Lanthimos had while ingeniously writing, an idea that was perhaps quickly given the green light after the former's success to capitalize on wry sadistic sensation.
All the elements for a bit of intelligent woeful macabre distraction are there, and whether or not he was being intentionally banal is beside the point, it's just too content with suffering to offer any critical stoic insights, as if it wants to be masochistically beaten to the point of bitter exhaustion.
Even if you're being intentionally banal to comment on how disenchantment abounds, it doesn't change the fact that banality is banality and your audience is still stuck sitting through the entire practically pointless slide show.
Perhaps such endeavours do encourage creative growth, I'm in no position to measure such outcomes, but if it's not a way to make a trite point that metaphorically condemns a lack of bold fictional imagination, it's a lazy way to disinterestedly appear genuine for a mundane bit of excruciating tedium.
Why does the new Twin Peaks come to mind?
The Secret History of 'Twin Peaks' book is quite good.
Barry Keoghan (Marting) haphazardly steals the show and is given the best material, notably his interactions with infatuated Kim (Raffey Cassidy) and his ice cold emotionless curses.
Nevertheless, like Sophie's Choice if it had an aneurism, The Killing of a Sacred Deer begs brilliant qualifications but flops down more like an unappealing B-side, or Belle and Sebastian's How to Solve Our Human Problems (Part 1).
La Femme's Mystère?
Which means it is an excellent horror film.
Comedic tremors notwithstanding.
Whereas a lot of time and care went into crafting The Lobster's clever maniacal sociocultural criticisms, Sacred Deer is more like that other idea Lanthimos had while ingeniously writing, an idea that was perhaps quickly given the green light after the former's success to capitalize on wry sadistic sensation.
All the elements for a bit of intelligent woeful macabre distraction are there, and whether or not he was being intentionally banal is beside the point, it's just too content with suffering to offer any critical stoic insights, as if it wants to be masochistically beaten to the point of bitter exhaustion.
Even if you're being intentionally banal to comment on how disenchantment abounds, it doesn't change the fact that banality is banality and your audience is still stuck sitting through the entire practically pointless slide show.
Perhaps such endeavours do encourage creative growth, I'm in no position to measure such outcomes, but if it's not a way to make a trite point that metaphorically condemns a lack of bold fictional imagination, it's a lazy way to disinterestedly appear genuine for a mundane bit of excruciating tedium.
Why does the new Twin Peaks come to mind?
The Secret History of 'Twin Peaks' book is quite good.
Barry Keoghan (Marting) haphazardly steals the show and is given the best material, notably his interactions with infatuated Kim (Raffey Cassidy) and his ice cold emotionless curses.
Nevertheless, like Sophie's Choice if it had an aneurism, The Killing of a Sacred Deer begs brilliant qualifications but flops down more like an unappealing B-side, or Belle and Sebastian's How to Solve Our Human Problems (Part 1).
La Femme's Mystère?
Which means it is an excellent horror film.
Comedic tremors notwithstanding.
Friday, December 8, 2017
Wind River
Friendships slowly cultivated over the years like birch trees crafted into dependable canoes, launching this way and that across un/familiar waterways, consistently patchworking principles and down-to-earth dossiers, weathered yet versatile hardboiled harkenings celebrating cherished repetition with iconic seasoned variability, thematic thimbles boisterous bows, jaded elasticity ample comebacks, good hearts strong people all too aware of systematic cruelties lodged in impermeable stone, bookhousin' it nevertheless hived and alive intrepid backbone, resourceful headway, local integrity, tooth and nail, afloat.
Aware of the dark side, contending with wayward unscrupulous desire detached and frothing with venomous inadmissibility, beautiful strong intelligent women cut down by worthless ignorance, whose fear leads it to horrifically crush inquisitive spirits, without generating remorseful emotions, the branding of men without honour.
I don't even like to use that word, the word honour. Search these blogs, I doubt you'll find I've used it often. It's associated with the killing of independent women so regularly that its merit has been severely diluted. And even if it's honourable to serve your country, when the leaders of a country drive it astray, it's just as honourable to humbly refuse them.
Canada has launched an inquiry into missing and murdered Indigenous women. Said murders and abductions represent a reality that's so offensive it makes me ashamed to be human.
Deer don't pull that kind of shit.
Water buffalo, horses, nope.
Wind River works in a more rustically sophisticated frame than the one I've laid out, a dark sombre penetrating investigation into one of the most loathsome hushed-up realities assaulting North American culture.
It isn't a box of chocolates.
It ain't a bouquet of flowers.
It's a character driven harshly hewn multidimensionally matriculated stark blunt tragedy.
With the best performance I've seen from Jeremy Renner (Cory Lambert) in years.
There's good and evil in everyone and people fight if differently at various points in their lives.
But if you see people doing the purely evil things the bad guys do in this film, you need to stand up to them.
It doesn't matter if you get hurt. It doesn't matter if you lose your shit. It don't matter if corrupt policepersons lock you up. It matters that you did the right thing.
It's not about being Indigenous or European, Chinese or African, Australian, Brazilian, Danish or Russian, it's about simply being human.
Not that I won't plug the Irish at times or write about how I love being Canadian, but I don't consider those groups to be superior to any other, just different, and I know that there's so much to be learned from other cultures that it seems foolish to clash with them, I'd rather have a pint or something nice to eat with strangers from other lands/towns/provinces/neighbourhoods, I don't understand this divide and conquer nonsense.
It's nothing new you know.
In fact it's probably the oldest play in the book.
The demonic logic of the damned.
Pestilent profitability.
When I was a kid I figured all the people who saw the ending to the original Planet of the Apes film would get it and peace would globally prosper.
Such a shame.
Such a missed opportunity.
Aware of the dark side, contending with wayward unscrupulous desire detached and frothing with venomous inadmissibility, beautiful strong intelligent women cut down by worthless ignorance, whose fear leads it to horrifically crush inquisitive spirits, without generating remorseful emotions, the branding of men without honour.
I don't even like to use that word, the word honour. Search these blogs, I doubt you'll find I've used it often. It's associated with the killing of independent women so regularly that its merit has been severely diluted. And even if it's honourable to serve your country, when the leaders of a country drive it astray, it's just as honourable to humbly refuse them.
Canada has launched an inquiry into missing and murdered Indigenous women. Said murders and abductions represent a reality that's so offensive it makes me ashamed to be human.
Deer don't pull that kind of shit.
Water buffalo, horses, nope.
Wind River works in a more rustically sophisticated frame than the one I've laid out, a dark sombre penetrating investigation into one of the most loathsome hushed-up realities assaulting North American culture.
It isn't a box of chocolates.
It ain't a bouquet of flowers.
It's a character driven harshly hewn multidimensionally matriculated stark blunt tragedy.
With the best performance I've seen from Jeremy Renner (Cory Lambert) in years.
There's good and evil in everyone and people fight if differently at various points in their lives.
But if you see people doing the purely evil things the bad guys do in this film, you need to stand up to them.
It doesn't matter if you get hurt. It doesn't matter if you lose your shit. It don't matter if corrupt policepersons lock you up. It matters that you did the right thing.
It's not about being Indigenous or European, Chinese or African, Australian, Brazilian, Danish or Russian, it's about simply being human.
Not that I won't plug the Irish at times or write about how I love being Canadian, but I don't consider those groups to be superior to any other, just different, and I know that there's so much to be learned from other cultures that it seems foolish to clash with them, I'd rather have a pint or something nice to eat with strangers from other lands/towns/provinces/neighbourhoods, I don't understand this divide and conquer nonsense.
It's nothing new you know.
In fact it's probably the oldest play in the book.
The demonic logic of the damned.
Pestilent profitability.
When I was a kid I figured all the people who saw the ending to the original Planet of the Apes film would get it and peace would globally prosper.
Such a shame.
Such a missed opportunity.
Thursday, December 7, 2017
The Hitman's Bodyguard
Hitperson nobility chaotically clashes on the way to trial after two bitter rivals begrudgingly team up to ensure evidence is produced that will incriminate a tyrant.
In Patrick Hughes's The Hitman's Bodyguard.
Independently affixed, one smoothly flowing while the other meticulously researches every operation's specialized nanoaspects, their contradictory approaches enraging the more assiduously inclined, much to his immortally gifted interlocutor's amusement, the bodies reflexively pile up as the bromance intensifies, discourses of the huggable ironically embracing acutely accented vitriol, voice two highly successful underground phenoms, unaccustomed to negotiating viscid bonds of true friendship.
Because they're usually out killing people.
And rarely have time.
To love.
The tyrant's henchpeople at least try to make things difficult, even going so far as to instigate the best most intelligently and intricately edited (Jake Roberts) high speed chase I've seen in years, involving boats in Amsterdam, plus Salma Hayek (Sonia Kincaid) versatilely delivers, and Elodie Yung (Amelia Roussel) tantalizes with less bravado.
The international policing community is betrayed.
Vengeance pontificates while reacting condemnatorially.
Just tell her you love her.
This joyful Christmas/Festive season.
So close to entering the realm of the cult classic, one day, perhaps it will, I don't know, but, although both Samuel L. Jackson (Darius Kincaid) and Ryan Reynolds (Michael Bryce) captivatingly execute, casting by Elaine Grainger and Marianne Stanicheva, I couldn't help but wish Robert Rodriguez or Quentin Tarantino had edited the script, which is oddly still a bit light considering (a chummy bloodbath for the entire family?), although there are moments of comedic genius, Reynolds uncharacteristically laying it down to a bartender before reentering the fray for one, and the line, "he ruined the [phrase] mother fucker."
Can't one of these films that torches a car, or, building, have a self-reflexive moment where the controversial ponder their consequent environmental impact?
A sequel seems apt since Jackson and Reynolds work so well together.
I would suggest not bringing them closer together as it progresses.
Rather, I'd replace the tendency to strengthen familial or bromantic feelings in round two with a two minute scene, after some pyrotechnic shenanigans, where they actually stop talking and just stare at one another for awhile, their looks encapsulating thirty awkward cheesy moments of convivial intrigue, to give it more of an edge, make it more furious, more vital.
That's what I'd do.
In Patrick Hughes's The Hitman's Bodyguard.
Independently affixed, one smoothly flowing while the other meticulously researches every operation's specialized nanoaspects, their contradictory approaches enraging the more assiduously inclined, much to his immortally gifted interlocutor's amusement, the bodies reflexively pile up as the bromance intensifies, discourses of the huggable ironically embracing acutely accented vitriol, voice two highly successful underground phenoms, unaccustomed to negotiating viscid bonds of true friendship.
Because they're usually out killing people.
And rarely have time.
To love.
The tyrant's henchpeople at least try to make things difficult, even going so far as to instigate the best most intelligently and intricately edited (Jake Roberts) high speed chase I've seen in years, involving boats in Amsterdam, plus Salma Hayek (Sonia Kincaid) versatilely delivers, and Elodie Yung (Amelia Roussel) tantalizes with less bravado.
The international policing community is betrayed.
Vengeance pontificates while reacting condemnatorially.
Just tell her you love her.
This joyful Christmas/Festive season.
So close to entering the realm of the cult classic, one day, perhaps it will, I don't know, but, although both Samuel L. Jackson (Darius Kincaid) and Ryan Reynolds (Michael Bryce) captivatingly execute, casting by Elaine Grainger and Marianne Stanicheva, I couldn't help but wish Robert Rodriguez or Quentin Tarantino had edited the script, which is oddly still a bit light considering (a chummy bloodbath for the entire family?), although there are moments of comedic genius, Reynolds uncharacteristically laying it down to a bartender before reentering the fray for one, and the line, "he ruined the [phrase] mother fucker."
Can't one of these films that torches a car, or, building, have a self-reflexive moment where the controversial ponder their consequent environmental impact?
A sequel seems apt since Jackson and Reynolds work so well together.
I would suggest not bringing them closer together as it progresses.
Rather, I'd replace the tendency to strengthen familial or bromantic feelings in round two with a two minute scene, after some pyrotechnic shenanigans, where they actually stop talking and just stare at one another for awhile, their looks encapsulating thirty awkward cheesy moments of convivial intrigue, to give it more of an edge, make it more furious, more vital.
That's what I'd do.
Tuesday, December 5, 2017
The Rift: Dark Side of the Moon
North of Belgrade, a mysterious satellite crash leads an eclectic international mismatch to cautiously exhibit.
Their leader, ill at ease with working with others and known for adopting unorthodox methods, blindly yet confidently leads onwards.
A brilliant scientist, tenacious tesla, and liaising liability accompany him forthwith, illustrious classified governmental nocturnes somnambulistically elucidating their scratchy lunar distillates.
After encountering a haunting spaceperson, whose inexplicable presence seems to be immortally manipulating its surroundings, madness slowly hemorrhages their improvised intentions.
Correspondingly, a secret portal holds enigmatic clues to his or her terrestrial origins, its temporal spatial eccentricities, seductively eviscerating psychological bounds.
As well.
Is the world at large a component of an invisible computer program (requiring caring environmental stewardship) within which those designated prophetic in ages past had accidentally downloaded information regarding the future through the ether which made no sense within their contemporary sociocultural predicaments?
I'm not sure.
Even if it's true, nevertheless, it couldn't save The Rift: Dark Side of the Moon from taking itself too seriously.
I imagine it was written by someone whose first language isn't English, because its clunky clichés, hastily delivered as if they're hard-hitting extravagantly stranded bona fides, are precise yet sloppy, inasmuch as a Native speaker would likely do a better job of covering up their emotionless tact.
That's likely what I would sound like writing in another language if I overemphasized my fluency anyways.
Had everything been slown down a bit and a slight comedic element attached, with a lot more gore, this aspect would have been more appreciated.
That isn't to say the film's all bad.
The soundtrack's fantastic and it ends well.
It made me think of David Bowie's first album, upon which you'll hear the origins of unparalleled songwriter awkwardly developing his genius chops.
More time and care and perhaps Dejan Zecevic will pull it together for a Diamond Dogs or two, a Rebel Rebel, a Young Americans.
'Tis the season.
Their leader, ill at ease with working with others and known for adopting unorthodox methods, blindly yet confidently leads onwards.
A brilliant scientist, tenacious tesla, and liaising liability accompany him forthwith, illustrious classified governmental nocturnes somnambulistically elucidating their scratchy lunar distillates.
After encountering a haunting spaceperson, whose inexplicable presence seems to be immortally manipulating its surroundings, madness slowly hemorrhages their improvised intentions.
Correspondingly, a secret portal holds enigmatic clues to his or her terrestrial origins, its temporal spatial eccentricities, seductively eviscerating psychological bounds.
As well.
Is the world at large a component of an invisible computer program (requiring caring environmental stewardship) within which those designated prophetic in ages past had accidentally downloaded information regarding the future through the ether which made no sense within their contemporary sociocultural predicaments?
I'm not sure.
Even if it's true, nevertheless, it couldn't save The Rift: Dark Side of the Moon from taking itself too seriously.
I imagine it was written by someone whose first language isn't English, because its clunky clichés, hastily delivered as if they're hard-hitting extravagantly stranded bona fides, are precise yet sloppy, inasmuch as a Native speaker would likely do a better job of covering up their emotionless tact.
That's likely what I would sound like writing in another language if I overemphasized my fluency anyways.
Had everything been slown down a bit and a slight comedic element attached, with a lot more gore, this aspect would have been more appreciated.
That isn't to say the film's all bad.
The soundtrack's fantastic and it ends well.
It made me think of David Bowie's first album, upon which you'll hear the origins of unparalleled songwriter awkwardly developing his genius chops.
More time and care and perhaps Dejan Zecevic will pull it together for a Diamond Dogs or two, a Rebel Rebel, a Young Americans.
'Tis the season.
Friday, December 1, 2017
Thor: Ragnarok
Sibling rivalry basks psychotic in Thor: Ragnarok, as the God of Thunder's (Chris Hemsworth) necromongesque sister (Cate Blanchett as Hela) escapes her prison to bring death and destruction to those worlds who would forthrightly oppose her, challenge her, spurn her, mock her.
In possession of seemingly limitless power which Odin's (Anthony Hopkins) death helplessly releases, she ungraciously overwhelms Thor and Loki (Tom Hiddleston) before returning to Asgard to assert her dominance.
Boastfully awaiting their bellicose return.
The defeated brothers find themselves playing different roles upon a chaotic planet, perhaps modelled upon the last days of Rome's imperial pretension, ruled by a comic tyrant (Jeff Goldblum as the Grandmaster [it's the best Goldblum I've seen in years]) who loves gladiating and humiliating, the gladiators themselves intent on revolting, Thor forced to fight and plot amongst them, Loki cleverly seducing the oligarchic elite, with a beautiful Valkyrie (Tessa Thompson) haunted by battles fought long ago, in the heavens, who has taken to drink and collecting random strays, and remains unimpressed upon encountering her devoted liege.
Old friends pop up as Thor remains evergreen, the film's actually quite funny despite its violent extremities, an unsettling kind of apocalyptic autocratic resigned athletic humour that emboldens the democratic subconscious by turning masters of war themselves into subjects of gladiatorial intrigue, to be criticized and championed as they interact cinematically.
It's the best Thor film I've seen, even if it seems like a diagnosis for a mental illness, Heimdall's (Idris Elba) shepherding diminutively contrasting the conquistadorial ostentation, Thor's cheery undaunted good spirits making everything seem stable and safe, frenzies notwithstanding, even if he still needs guidance from his deceased progenitor, new characters introduced and developed with crafty eccentricity, a hulking universal ferocious manifest, in that leather, the world Marvel films has created is expanded with fascinating conspiracy.
It's like they're not just trying to voraciously cash in, they're often delivering high quality products that make going to the cinema so worth it.
Ragnarok's music gives it an oddball artistic touch born of the 1980s.
Like Tron could have been.
Hoping Loki figures prominently in the next Doctor Strange film
How do they choose which characters end up in which films?
It must be fun to make such decisions.
Will every Asgardian have superpowers on Earth?
In possession of seemingly limitless power which Odin's (Anthony Hopkins) death helplessly releases, she ungraciously overwhelms Thor and Loki (Tom Hiddleston) before returning to Asgard to assert her dominance.
Boastfully awaiting their bellicose return.
The defeated brothers find themselves playing different roles upon a chaotic planet, perhaps modelled upon the last days of Rome's imperial pretension, ruled by a comic tyrant (Jeff Goldblum as the Grandmaster [it's the best Goldblum I've seen in years]) who loves gladiating and humiliating, the gladiators themselves intent on revolting, Thor forced to fight and plot amongst them, Loki cleverly seducing the oligarchic elite, with a beautiful Valkyrie (Tessa Thompson) haunted by battles fought long ago, in the heavens, who has taken to drink and collecting random strays, and remains unimpressed upon encountering her devoted liege.
Old friends pop up as Thor remains evergreen, the film's actually quite funny despite its violent extremities, an unsettling kind of apocalyptic autocratic resigned athletic humour that emboldens the democratic subconscious by turning masters of war themselves into subjects of gladiatorial intrigue, to be criticized and championed as they interact cinematically.
It's the best Thor film I've seen, even if it seems like a diagnosis for a mental illness, Heimdall's (Idris Elba) shepherding diminutively contrasting the conquistadorial ostentation, Thor's cheery undaunted good spirits making everything seem stable and safe, frenzies notwithstanding, even if he still needs guidance from his deceased progenitor, new characters introduced and developed with crafty eccentricity, a hulking universal ferocious manifest, in that leather, the world Marvel films has created is expanded with fascinating conspiracy.
It's like they're not just trying to voraciously cash in, they're often delivering high quality products that make going to the cinema so worth it.
Ragnarok's music gives it an oddball artistic touch born of the 1980s.
Like Tron could have been.
Hoping Loki figures prominently in the next Doctor Strange film
How do they choose which characters end up in which films?
It must be fun to make such decisions.
Will every Asgardian have superpowers on Earth?
Wednesday, November 29, 2017
Churchill
Qualifying the identity of a charismatic colossus with definitive ambient converging characteristics can be as politically crafty as the individual under observation, if sober rhetoric is to be biographically evidenced, the resultant identity less of a fiction than an interpretive constellation/polemic/homage/impression, narrative arguments creatively distilling personality inasmuch as their propositions are culturally elevated, for a time, for a fissure, for a season, skilfully situating themselves within broader agitations depending on the motivations of their supporting cast, like strategic serendipity, or a bit of provocative horseplay.
The wonderful thing about In Search of Lost Time is that it follows the same characters for thousands of pages throughout their lives, Proust intricately demonstrating how different ages and relationships and fashions and successes/failures privately shape mass marketed caricatures, a book about someone's life seeming more like a resonant aspect within such a frame, even if the press may still play the Ignatieff card if it so chooses.
So much diversity condensed into stereotypical miniatures which guide light yet edgy conversations with the playful wit of meaningless escapades.
Unless they're about Trump.
Monster.
Jonathan Teplitzky's Churchill sympathetically examines the great orator's rational wish to not repeat World War I's Gallipoli disaster.
His criticisms of Operation Overlord, as logical and sound as they appear, were countered by alternative evaluations which were rather unappreciative of his sustained opposition.
The realization that his viewpoints weren't militaristically cherished briefly derailed his confident locomotion, the film humanistically yet melodramatically suggesting that this was the moment he completely transformed from military strategist to political exponent.
Chruchill (Brian Cox) the man figures more prominently in Teplitzky's film than the immutable godlike figurehead I've encountered in books at times, a compelling cinematic feature considering how respectfully leadership at the highest levels is depicted within.
Cognizant of the great unknown, the approach of less critical engagements, he strove on regardless, cultivating tidal pride.
James Purefoy (King George VI) delivers a brilliant supporting performance.
Brian Cox also excels.
*Forgot to mention the ways in which Churchill's editing process is dramatized: fantastic. At least when he's searching for the right word.
The wonderful thing about In Search of Lost Time is that it follows the same characters for thousands of pages throughout their lives, Proust intricately demonstrating how different ages and relationships and fashions and successes/failures privately shape mass marketed caricatures, a book about someone's life seeming more like a resonant aspect within such a frame, even if the press may still play the Ignatieff card if it so chooses.
So much diversity condensed into stereotypical miniatures which guide light yet edgy conversations with the playful wit of meaningless escapades.
Unless they're about Trump.
Monster.
Jonathan Teplitzky's Churchill sympathetically examines the great orator's rational wish to not repeat World War I's Gallipoli disaster.
His criticisms of Operation Overlord, as logical and sound as they appear, were countered by alternative evaluations which were rather unappreciative of his sustained opposition.
The realization that his viewpoints weren't militaristically cherished briefly derailed his confident locomotion, the film humanistically yet melodramatically suggesting that this was the moment he completely transformed from military strategist to political exponent.
Chruchill (Brian Cox) the man figures more prominently in Teplitzky's film than the immutable godlike figurehead I've encountered in books at times, a compelling cinematic feature considering how respectfully leadership at the highest levels is depicted within.
Cognizant of the great unknown, the approach of less critical engagements, he strove on regardless, cultivating tidal pride.
James Purefoy (King George VI) delivers a brilliant supporting performance.
Brian Cox also excels.
*Forgot to mention the ways in which Churchill's editing process is dramatized: fantastic. At least when he's searching for the right word.
Tuesday, November 28, 2017
Justice League
Superman's (Henry Cavill) death having exposed Earth to intergalactic invasion, Batman (Ben Affleck), riddled with guilt, must find a way to heroically compensate.
Assembling a team of gifted phenoms seems like the best course of action, and the globe is traversed to collectively materialize both ancient and contemporary myth and legend.
Wonder Woman (Gal Gadot) quickly joins up shortly after Aquaman (Jason Momoa) initially refuses to participate, the Flash (Ezra Miller) and Cyborg (Ray Fisher) eventually accommodating Mr. Wayne's self-sacrificing request, the resultant union improvising in battle with hopes of defeating the tyrannical Steppenwolf (Ciarán Hinds), whose monstrous heart terrifyingly seeks the destruction of passionate worlds, the annihilation of free peoples, the nourishment of death and decay.
They come together with much less ego than their avenging competitors, reluctance and leadership issues more of an itch than an implosive characteristic, historical reverence subduing aged contemporary Gods, youthful postmodern members discursively ready to mystify.
Perhaps suggesting that DC is distinguishing itself from Marvel by focusing more on collective unity than individualistic personality?
Even if interstellar awakenings make some of these reflections mute.
Batman is ridiculed for having no superpower.
David Bowie and Prince are awesomely compared to Superman.
Sea shepherding of the rustic conveys bucolic mythological fortune.
Love vanquishes the unleashed chaos of blitzkrieg.
Computational prowess is as highly regarded as environmental stewardship, global interconnectivity physically synthesized ad infinitum.
Whales.
I rather liked how Justice League holds it together.
Not as verbose as The Avengers nor as intricate, but its laid-back approach is still rich in metaphor which indirectly stylizes an imaginary vortex, wherein which interpretive discourses manifest interdisciplinary comment, the intellectualization of the straightforward, the love for all things plaid.
Does the Flash become jealous of Batman in subsequent films as Wonder Woman appears to prefer him?
Will Aquaman and Cyborg's habitual independence destabilize their cherished unity?
As much of a catalyst as it is a fulcrum, Zack Snyder's Justice League gives DC even more eclectic momentum, some versatile room to manoeuvre, the depth of its successors hopefully reaching way down to Atlantis, while diversifying cyberspatial manors, with Amazonian lightning speed.
Burgeoning.
Assembling a team of gifted phenoms seems like the best course of action, and the globe is traversed to collectively materialize both ancient and contemporary myth and legend.
Wonder Woman (Gal Gadot) quickly joins up shortly after Aquaman (Jason Momoa) initially refuses to participate, the Flash (Ezra Miller) and Cyborg (Ray Fisher) eventually accommodating Mr. Wayne's self-sacrificing request, the resultant union improvising in battle with hopes of defeating the tyrannical Steppenwolf (Ciarán Hinds), whose monstrous heart terrifyingly seeks the destruction of passionate worlds, the annihilation of free peoples, the nourishment of death and decay.
They come together with much less ego than their avenging competitors, reluctance and leadership issues more of an itch than an implosive characteristic, historical reverence subduing aged contemporary Gods, youthful postmodern members discursively ready to mystify.
Perhaps suggesting that DC is distinguishing itself from Marvel by focusing more on collective unity than individualistic personality?
Even if interstellar awakenings make some of these reflections mute.
Batman is ridiculed for having no superpower.
David Bowie and Prince are awesomely compared to Superman.
Sea shepherding of the rustic conveys bucolic mythological fortune.
Love vanquishes the unleashed chaos of blitzkrieg.
Computational prowess is as highly regarded as environmental stewardship, global interconnectivity physically synthesized ad infinitum.
Whales.
I rather liked how Justice League holds it together.
Not as verbose as The Avengers nor as intricate, but its laid-back approach is still rich in metaphor which indirectly stylizes an imaginary vortex, wherein which interpretive discourses manifest interdisciplinary comment, the intellectualization of the straightforward, the love for all things plaid.
Does the Flash become jealous of Batman in subsequent films as Wonder Woman appears to prefer him?
Will Aquaman and Cyborg's habitual independence destabilize their cherished unity?
As much of a catalyst as it is a fulcrum, Zack Snyder's Justice League gives DC even more eclectic momentum, some versatile room to manoeuvre, the depth of its successors hopefully reaching way down to Atlantis, while diversifying cyberspatial manors, with Amazonian lightning speed.
Burgeoning.
Friday, November 24, 2017
Der Amerikanische Freund (The American Friend)
Playful deceit with murderous intent wickedly tricks resigned desperation into committing uncharacteristic crimes in Wim Wenders's Der Amerikanische Freund (The American Friend), the lucrative potential payoff producing imaginative cures for dissembled diagnoses, beforehand, while innocence still tenderizes, while conscience remains impenitent, while a child acknowledges fraternity, while a wife willingly confides, the sudden possibility, the imposing tactile ease, inherent obscurities coaxing refined obsolescence, disappearing into the fold, in possession of purist panacea.
Concurrently, a fraudulent easel facilitates brushstrokes which comfortably pay the bills for both facsimilator and procurer, a man of the world always eager to make new friends, his kaleidoscopic contacts adroitly brimming with opportunistic fervour.
Begrudged meetings of minds.
Corruption classed exclusive.
The film's mix of grizzled despondent frightened action and curious childlike malevolent pause maliciously meows with tantalizing solemnity, like you've been dating a cool partner for a while and have run out of ideas, your whiskers rustling with uncertainty as you acquiesce to their control.
Cat style, things are still rather loose knit and unconcerned but the spontaneous bursts of profound inspiration startlingly ignite uncharted expeditionary crazes.
Visceral emotions.
Subconscious realization.
Like the ingredients for grandma's seductive shepherd's pie, Der Amerikanische Freund reflexively socializes with clandestine variability, each mouthful uniquely pronounced, the devouring of morsels plain yet sublime.
Taken in its entirety, it timorously yet nonchalantly plays dangerous games as it heuristically high jumps, surprisingly settled with enterprising leaps and bounds, intuitively melding cautious authenticity with bold improvisation, it angelically clasps demons, in cloaks of aspen rue.
Concurrently, a fraudulent easel facilitates brushstrokes which comfortably pay the bills for both facsimilator and procurer, a man of the world always eager to make new friends, his kaleidoscopic contacts adroitly brimming with opportunistic fervour.
Begrudged meetings of minds.
Corruption classed exclusive.
The film's mix of grizzled despondent frightened action and curious childlike malevolent pause maliciously meows with tantalizing solemnity, like you've been dating a cool partner for a while and have run out of ideas, your whiskers rustling with uncertainty as you acquiesce to their control.
Cat style, things are still rather loose knit and unconcerned but the spontaneous bursts of profound inspiration startlingly ignite uncharted expeditionary crazes.
Visceral emotions.
Subconscious realization.
Like the ingredients for grandma's seductive shepherd's pie, Der Amerikanische Freund reflexively socializes with clandestine variability, each mouthful uniquely pronounced, the devouring of morsels plain yet sublime.
Taken in its entirety, it timorously yet nonchalantly plays dangerous games as it heuristically high jumps, surprisingly settled with enterprising leaps and bounds, intuitively melding cautious authenticity with bold improvisation, it angelically clasps demons, in cloaks of aspen rue.
Thursday, November 23, 2017
A Quiet Passion
You forget about the thunderous lambasted dissatisfied offended vengeful austerity of artistic realms at times, quite different from the sporting world, as noted by others, overtly liberal yet savagely obsessed with youth and purity, pedantic pastures pirouetting and periodizing, wherein which people, many of whom can neither dribble nor throw a ball, act like severe generals intent on asininely disparaging anyone they can't seduce with their discursive charms, suckling the silver spoon with seditious sentiment, exceptionally accomplished yet insanely jealous, having created an odious convoy of fictional evaluations (principles) which they adhere to as if they're the essence of assiduity, as if they've asseverated a house of cards, the foundations of which they earnestly value like divine truths.
I made a crucial error upon engaging.
In my youth, I thought there would be a warm and friendly community wherein which one would feel free to express themselves in order to advance and learn, these were, after all, the people who couldn't catch or throw, and always wanted to play soccer (which they were terrible at), only to discover inherent habitual derisive reflexes often haunting otherwise cheerful discussions, reflexes which made beers with the jocks seem less cumbersome, even if I didn't get it and usually felt out of place with them.
It was disillusioning to find cruel pretensions backed up by limitless disdain uttered by people who weren't even that good yet had worked their way into a steady state of affairs, or would do anything they could to inanely disseminate their mediocrity.
I was too nice.
There was absolutely no chance for me.
They still do it. I still think I'm having a casual conversation only to find everything I've said without necessarily meaning any of it, just small talk, thrown back in my face behind the scenes with displeasure.
Terence Davies's A Quiet Passion made me think of those days as Emily Dickinson (Emma Bell/Cynthia Nixon) writes while martially pondering ethics.
Extremely gifted, passionate, verbose, and strict, she logically finds ways to justify her viewpoints while writing sweetly flowing unmatched poetry.
The title of the film is odd considering how often Dickinson disputes with so many, by no means a shrinking violet, more like a rigorous grizzly defending poetic cubs.
Her sister's (Rose Williams/Jennifer Ehle as Vinnie Dickinson) sympathetic and understanding, she diplomatically mediates between Emily and brother Austin (Benjamin Wainwright/Duncan Duff) as they become more estranged through argumentative age.
I loved the scenes where there was hardly any dialogue, when different family members have their portraits painted for instance, or when the family is depicted quietly relaxing one evening in the same 19th century room, long before the noisy rise of electronic interests.
It's like you're there.
At peace.
At contemplative leisure.
A different time, when religion and marriage still played a powerful role in many people's lives, marriage still being rather popular I suppose, Ms. Dickinson resolutely cultivating alternative paths for herself and others along which she independently strides.
The writing in the film displays remarkable talent at times, especially as Emily ages, but at others a lack of editorial finesse is plainly evident.
The words are out of control.
Its confident blend of the quirky and the serious made me think it was Canadian.
English Canadian.
I made a crucial error upon engaging.
In my youth, I thought there would be a warm and friendly community wherein which one would feel free to express themselves in order to advance and learn, these were, after all, the people who couldn't catch or throw, and always wanted to play soccer (which they were terrible at), only to discover inherent habitual derisive reflexes often haunting otherwise cheerful discussions, reflexes which made beers with the jocks seem less cumbersome, even if I didn't get it and usually felt out of place with them.
It was disillusioning to find cruel pretensions backed up by limitless disdain uttered by people who weren't even that good yet had worked their way into a steady state of affairs, or would do anything they could to inanely disseminate their mediocrity.
I was too nice.
There was absolutely no chance for me.
They still do it. I still think I'm having a casual conversation only to find everything I've said without necessarily meaning any of it, just small talk, thrown back in my face behind the scenes with displeasure.
Terence Davies's A Quiet Passion made me think of those days as Emily Dickinson (Emma Bell/Cynthia Nixon) writes while martially pondering ethics.
Extremely gifted, passionate, verbose, and strict, she logically finds ways to justify her viewpoints while writing sweetly flowing unmatched poetry.
The title of the film is odd considering how often Dickinson disputes with so many, by no means a shrinking violet, more like a rigorous grizzly defending poetic cubs.
Her sister's (Rose Williams/Jennifer Ehle as Vinnie Dickinson) sympathetic and understanding, she diplomatically mediates between Emily and brother Austin (Benjamin Wainwright/Duncan Duff) as they become more estranged through argumentative age.
I loved the scenes where there was hardly any dialogue, when different family members have their portraits painted for instance, or when the family is depicted quietly relaxing one evening in the same 19th century room, long before the noisy rise of electronic interests.
It's like you're there.
At peace.
At contemplative leisure.
A different time, when religion and marriage still played a powerful role in many people's lives, marriage still being rather popular I suppose, Ms. Dickinson resolutely cultivating alternative paths for herself and others along which she independently strides.
The writing in the film displays remarkable talent at times, especially as Emily ages, but at others a lack of editorial finesse is plainly evident.
The words are out of control.
Its confident blend of the quirky and the serious made me think it was Canadian.
English Canadian.
Wednesday, November 22, 2017
Zemletryasenie (The Earthquake)
I like how Sarik Andreasyan's Zemletryasenie (The Earthquake) focuses primarily on rebuilding a town after a massive natural disaster strikes, thereby championing the ways in which local, regional, national, and global citizens gather to respond to crises, the lasting bonds forged thereafter strengthening the endurance of their latent communal resolve, like winter in Canada and Québec, or the logistics of the World Cup of Soccer.
You can also create a bunch of characters and situate them within troubled relationships wherein which stubbornness and idiocy prevent them from appreciating their resounding good fortune, and then have an earthquake destroy their lives, the end, in order to suggest that your audience take some time to reconsider its own stable state of affairs, and perhaps encourage them to engage in random creative acts of kindness in the upcoming months, to prove that people don't require exceptional shocks to demonstrate their love.
That point may be missed, however, and Zemletryasenie actually does demonstrate how Armenia grieves, bleeds, retrieves, constructs post-quake, albeit in an ultra-patriarchal blockbustery fashion, complete with crime, heartbreaking sensation, flourishing hope, and cosmic justice.
It's a shame sophisticated delicate intricate less emotional dramatic tragedies don't make the same impact.
It's like you ignore the simplistic yet worthwhile message from the blockbuster because it's too cheesy, and refuse to accept the complicated ethics of the artistic because they're too serious.
You don't need earthquakes you know, or hurricanes, tornadoes, or ice storms, to show family and friends every once in a while that you're not quite so self-obsessed, it can be done either spontaneously or within a designated time slot every Saturday evening, depending on the dynamics of your sociocultural surroundings, and/or your willingness to express genuine care.
I suppose if someone who's known to be self-obsessed suddenly does have a Scroogesque awakening one day their resulting conduct would generally be regarded tectonically, artistic revelations inspiring thereafter like agile movement on a seismograph, as the tyrant's goodwill resoundingly evokes cheer.
Although when such acts occur interlocutors might reasonably respond suspiciously, thereby frustrating the curmudgeon in mid-reformation.
Wage hikes perhaps placate these tendencies.
Ice cream also.
And dinner at the Keg or Végo.
Money donated to help endangered species.
Grand Marnier.
A blender.
It's kind of fun to hangout with others sometimes and listen to what they have to say.
So many different takes on things.
So much emphatic life.
You can also create a bunch of characters and situate them within troubled relationships wherein which stubbornness and idiocy prevent them from appreciating their resounding good fortune, and then have an earthquake destroy their lives, the end, in order to suggest that your audience take some time to reconsider its own stable state of affairs, and perhaps encourage them to engage in random creative acts of kindness in the upcoming months, to prove that people don't require exceptional shocks to demonstrate their love.
That point may be missed, however, and Zemletryasenie actually does demonstrate how Armenia grieves, bleeds, retrieves, constructs post-quake, albeit in an ultra-patriarchal blockbustery fashion, complete with crime, heartbreaking sensation, flourishing hope, and cosmic justice.
It's a shame sophisticated delicate intricate less emotional dramatic tragedies don't make the same impact.
It's like you ignore the simplistic yet worthwhile message from the blockbuster because it's too cheesy, and refuse to accept the complicated ethics of the artistic because they're too serious.
You don't need earthquakes you know, or hurricanes, tornadoes, or ice storms, to show family and friends every once in a while that you're not quite so self-obsessed, it can be done either spontaneously or within a designated time slot every Saturday evening, depending on the dynamics of your sociocultural surroundings, and/or your willingness to express genuine care.
I suppose if someone who's known to be self-obsessed suddenly does have a Scroogesque awakening one day their resulting conduct would generally be regarded tectonically, artistic revelations inspiring thereafter like agile movement on a seismograph, as the tyrant's goodwill resoundingly evokes cheer.
Although when such acts occur interlocutors might reasonably respond suspiciously, thereby frustrating the curmudgeon in mid-reformation.
Wage hikes perhaps placate these tendencies.
Ice cream also.
And dinner at the Keg or Végo.
Money donated to help endangered species.
Grand Marnier.
A blender.
It's kind of fun to hangout with others sometimes and listen to what they have to say.
So many different takes on things.
So much emphatic life.
Tuesday, November 21, 2017
Limbo
A struggling small town, as conscious of its historical economic uncertainties as it is of its naturalistic providence, its identity surfing Northwest waves with surges of prosperity before suddenly crashing with hawkish speed, introduces a newcomer to its local pantheon, her voice mellifluously diagnosing with gritty surgical precision, a tavern effervescently supplying tales and testaments and intrigue and romance, while a local canning factory shuts down, a mayor envisions the benefits of ecotourism, a couple grow tired of meagre cashflows, and winter incrementally and hauntingly approaches.
As all of these plots threads stitch together and breakaway, like preparations being made for a regional mini-series replete with bucolic melodrama, a wayward son shows back up in town in desperate search of liquid capital, his by-the-book sibling unaware of his shady dealings, the two reunited for a trip by sea enriched by artistic accompaniments, which indiscreetly departs with adventurous cheer, glibly unaware of the creditors who pursue them.
Some films chart a different course halfway through, and courageously alter their narrative visions, such as Full Metal Jacket or Lost Highway, with more success than John Sayles's Limbo.
Theoretically speaking, or inasmuch as one is to apply thought to speculate regarding its cryptic prophetic ending, the second half of Limbo works, after three of its characters find themselves lost on Pacific shores without much hope of rescue.
The rest of its characters disappear though, after having been creatively developed, and I have to admit that they had been developed to the point that I was somewhat irked to see them largely absent from the rest of the film.
However, during the second half young Noelle (Vanessa Martinez) does demonstrate remarkable storytelling skills as she pretends to read from a diary found sitting in an abandoned cabin which doesn't contain many entries.
The film was released in 1999.
By isolating an imaginative youth and then celebrating her literary agility, minutes before her rescue arrives, and then ending the film before we find out whether or not she's been rescued or murdered, Sayles may have been expressing his concerns regarding the future of American cinema, her death representing one wherein which friends sell each other out to make a quick buck, or original storytelling fades as commercial interests place more of an emphasis on calculating revenues than cultivating independence, her life allegorically symbolizing the flourishing of American small town communal solidarity, with its corresponding continuing focus on original ideas, which would inevitably find themselves hailed in the nation's cinemas.
It looked like her feisty mom (Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio) had finally found a stable nice partner (David Strathairn as Joe Gastineau) as well, a relationship that may have prospered within diverse creative cultures.
The depth of Sayles's prophecy can't be explored here unfortunately, but I can confidently claim there are still many excellent independent films being made in the U.S., and many that are still out there to make a quick buck.
Did the 2000s engender a paradigm shift or cleverly dissemble artistic realities which never stop agitating?
How would I know?
May make a cool book however.
As all of these plots threads stitch together and breakaway, like preparations being made for a regional mini-series replete with bucolic melodrama, a wayward son shows back up in town in desperate search of liquid capital, his by-the-book sibling unaware of his shady dealings, the two reunited for a trip by sea enriched by artistic accompaniments, which indiscreetly departs with adventurous cheer, glibly unaware of the creditors who pursue them.
Some films chart a different course halfway through, and courageously alter their narrative visions, such as Full Metal Jacket or Lost Highway, with more success than John Sayles's Limbo.
Theoretically speaking, or inasmuch as one is to apply thought to speculate regarding its cryptic prophetic ending, the second half of Limbo works, after three of its characters find themselves lost on Pacific shores without much hope of rescue.
The rest of its characters disappear though, after having been creatively developed, and I have to admit that they had been developed to the point that I was somewhat irked to see them largely absent from the rest of the film.
However, during the second half young Noelle (Vanessa Martinez) does demonstrate remarkable storytelling skills as she pretends to read from a diary found sitting in an abandoned cabin which doesn't contain many entries.
The film was released in 1999.
By isolating an imaginative youth and then celebrating her literary agility, minutes before her rescue arrives, and then ending the film before we find out whether or not she's been rescued or murdered, Sayles may have been expressing his concerns regarding the future of American cinema, her death representing one wherein which friends sell each other out to make a quick buck, or original storytelling fades as commercial interests place more of an emphasis on calculating revenues than cultivating independence, her life allegorically symbolizing the flourishing of American small town communal solidarity, with its corresponding continuing focus on original ideas, which would inevitably find themselves hailed in the nation's cinemas.
It looked like her feisty mom (Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio) had finally found a stable nice partner (David Strathairn as Joe Gastineau) as well, a relationship that may have prospered within diverse creative cultures.
The depth of Sayles's prophecy can't be explored here unfortunately, but I can confidently claim there are still many excellent independent films being made in the U.S., and many that are still out there to make a quick buck.
Did the 2000s engender a paradigm shift or cleverly dissemble artistic realities which never stop agitating?
How would I know?
May make a cool book however.
Monday, November 20, 2017
Patriots Day
Once you move past the flag waving and the patriotism and the obsessive communal pride and the righteousness of it all, the ra ra ra, Patriots Day isn't so bad, a multidimensional humanistic account of the heroic men and women who boldly risked their lives to hunt down loathsome terrorists after they attacked the Boston Marathon crowd in 2013, a vile act objectifying infamy, the product of pathetic misplaced ambition, madly demonstrating sociopathic idiocy, fortunately they were caught and dealt with strictly.
Edited by Gabriel Fleming and Colby Parker Jr., multiple characters, each playing a role in the ensuing chaos, are intelligently introduced and skilfully interwoven, each short scene adding a bit more depth, each brief moment humanistically diversifying.
Thereby augmenting terrorist horrors.
One character shows up more often than the others, Mark Wahlberg as Sgt. Tommy Saunders, a wild passionate smartass police officer who never holds back what he's thinking.
Within a hierarchy, if the higher-ups have forgotten to take steps that you feel are necessary, it's important to delicately speak your mind, carefully choosing which battles to fight.
The fight is real and threatening in Patriots Day, so Saunders expresses himself freely throughout.
The film doesn't just focus on law enforcement however, it also provides the victims of the bombings with lots of screen time, as well as a brave young Chinese entrepreneur (Jimmy O. Yang as Dun Meng) whose knowledge leads to an explosive confrontation.
And there's cool little scenes too, like the rooftop zeroing-in where the national and the local colourfully exchange ideas, depth and pluralization consistently added, a sophisticated well-thought-out investigation of the city of Boston.
Which clearly responds to the Hollywood lumps it took in 2015.
With serious grit.
And undeniable attitude.
Like a mainstream independent film oddly focused on homeland security, Patriots Day shocks as it sweats, synergizes as it sizzles.
It makes it clear that it isn't encouraging Islamophobia either, carefully acknowledging that these were extremist lunatic exceptions.
Saunders delivers quite the speech in the end.
I didn't expect it to be so sensitive.
It maybe could have used a couple more takes, but it still courageously salutes discourses of the heartwarming, emphatically tenderizing amorous relations, which hopefully aren't criminalized due to some shortsighted jackass's bigoted ideals.
Legalizing love is a strange way to go about things.
People fall in love.
There's nothing more beautiful than that.
Edited by Gabriel Fleming and Colby Parker Jr., multiple characters, each playing a role in the ensuing chaos, are intelligently introduced and skilfully interwoven, each short scene adding a bit more depth, each brief moment humanistically diversifying.
Thereby augmenting terrorist horrors.
One character shows up more often than the others, Mark Wahlberg as Sgt. Tommy Saunders, a wild passionate smartass police officer who never holds back what he's thinking.
Within a hierarchy, if the higher-ups have forgotten to take steps that you feel are necessary, it's important to delicately speak your mind, carefully choosing which battles to fight.
The fight is real and threatening in Patriots Day, so Saunders expresses himself freely throughout.
The film doesn't just focus on law enforcement however, it also provides the victims of the bombings with lots of screen time, as well as a brave young Chinese entrepreneur (Jimmy O. Yang as Dun Meng) whose knowledge leads to an explosive confrontation.
And there's cool little scenes too, like the rooftop zeroing-in where the national and the local colourfully exchange ideas, depth and pluralization consistently added, a sophisticated well-thought-out investigation of the city of Boston.
Which clearly responds to the Hollywood lumps it took in 2015.
With serious grit.
And undeniable attitude.
Like a mainstream independent film oddly focused on homeland security, Patriots Day shocks as it sweats, synergizes as it sizzles.
It makes it clear that it isn't encouraging Islamophobia either, carefully acknowledging that these were extremist lunatic exceptions.
Saunders delivers quite the speech in the end.
I didn't expect it to be so sensitive.
It maybe could have used a couple more takes, but it still courageously salutes discourses of the heartwarming, emphatically tenderizing amorous relations, which hopefully aren't criminalized due to some shortsighted jackass's bigoted ideals.
Legalizing love is a strange way to go about things.
People fall in love.
There's nothing more beautiful than that.
Friday, November 17, 2017
Murder on the Orient Express
Possessing an inexhaustible gift for anaesthetizing extraordinarily complex behemoths, resolved riddles exemplifying multidisciplinary mettle, Agatha Christie's Hercule Poirot (Kenneth Branagh) fittingly decides it's time for a vacation, and boards the lauded Orient Express in search of computational repose.
But just as he begins to exercise his literary imagination, a hardened degenerate comes a quizzically calling, in search of world renowned vigilance, to serve and protect his undignified exemptions.
Having already proven that dignity is something he regards philosophically inasmuch as he takes manifold vicissitudes into intellectual account before making variable judgments, he still refuses the thug's request and continues to seek solitude.
Only to awaken to discover that a fellow passenger has been, murdered, and that he must therefore astutely detect once more, to avoid indirectly condoning the free movement of violent criminals.
His voyage having been impeded by a serendipitous avalanche.
He flexes inquisitively.
As his investigation commences.
Kenneth Branagh's Murder on the Orient Express condenses the famed detective's sleuthing into a series of short but meaningful exchanges, each fully charged with guilt and inculpability, cloaked details deductively electrifying a productive narrative gridiron.
With somewhat more formal spectacle (production value) than I'm used to seeing in stories concerning culturally elevated investigatory phenomenons.
I rather enjoy watching the great detectives/inspectors/private investigators/dudes piece together clues delineating nefarious acts, with my parents, but I'm more used to seeing them explore within televisual boundaries.
I'm happy to see the actors who haven't yet become heartthrobs, starlets, or characters on demand cut their chops in a well written episode (usually around 2 hours in length), and am often not that concerned with how much screen time they each receive.
Indubitably.
When this format is given a much larger budget, as it should be more regularly, with many more famous actors, I certainly appreciate the cinematography, along with corresponding cinematic eccentricities, but if it ends with one of my favourite actors not having been given a larger role, when they could have been, or if the pressures of having more critical exposure make it seem rushed, it can be somewhat of a disappointment, one which might have been dismissed had their been a lower budget with multiple unknowns.
That isn't to say I didn't enjoy Branagh's take on Poirot, the cunning nature of the collective revenge reverberating with vindicated compunction.
Poirot himself mesmerizes, and the eclectic yet cohesive jigsaw cast commands the puzzling scenes judiciously.
Another 45 to 90 minutes though, too much of a commercial focus (were Frost or Morse ever trying to make money?[the commercial approach worked more successfully for Guy Ritchie methinks]), how many more tributaries could have been navigated with that much more time?
Thus, I'm hoping there's an extended version coming out soon, which adds more depth of character to a film that's already highly thought provoking as it scintillatingly yet diminutively reprimands.
But just as he begins to exercise his literary imagination, a hardened degenerate comes a quizzically calling, in search of world renowned vigilance, to serve and protect his undignified exemptions.
Having already proven that dignity is something he regards philosophically inasmuch as he takes manifold vicissitudes into intellectual account before making variable judgments, he still refuses the thug's request and continues to seek solitude.
Only to awaken to discover that a fellow passenger has been, murdered, and that he must therefore astutely detect once more, to avoid indirectly condoning the free movement of violent criminals.
His voyage having been impeded by a serendipitous avalanche.
He flexes inquisitively.
As his investigation commences.
Kenneth Branagh's Murder on the Orient Express condenses the famed detective's sleuthing into a series of short but meaningful exchanges, each fully charged with guilt and inculpability, cloaked details deductively electrifying a productive narrative gridiron.
With somewhat more formal spectacle (production value) than I'm used to seeing in stories concerning culturally elevated investigatory phenomenons.
I rather enjoy watching the great detectives/inspectors/private investigators/dudes piece together clues delineating nefarious acts, with my parents, but I'm more used to seeing them explore within televisual boundaries.
I'm happy to see the actors who haven't yet become heartthrobs, starlets, or characters on demand cut their chops in a well written episode (usually around 2 hours in length), and am often not that concerned with how much screen time they each receive.
Indubitably.
When this format is given a much larger budget, as it should be more regularly, with many more famous actors, I certainly appreciate the cinematography, along with corresponding cinematic eccentricities, but if it ends with one of my favourite actors not having been given a larger role, when they could have been, or if the pressures of having more critical exposure make it seem rushed, it can be somewhat of a disappointment, one which might have been dismissed had their been a lower budget with multiple unknowns.
That isn't to say I didn't enjoy Branagh's take on Poirot, the cunning nature of the collective revenge reverberating with vindicated compunction.
Poirot himself mesmerizes, and the eclectic yet cohesive jigsaw cast commands the puzzling scenes judiciously.
Another 45 to 90 minutes though, too much of a commercial focus (were Frost or Morse ever trying to make money?[the commercial approach worked more successfully for Guy Ritchie methinks]), how many more tributaries could have been navigated with that much more time?
Thus, I'm hoping there's an extended version coming out soon, which adds more depth of character to a film that's already highly thought provoking as it scintillatingly yet diminutively reprimands.
Tuesday, November 14, 2017
Singularity
A future planet Earth, lacking its dominant terrestrial species, upon which two virtual executioners patiently seek out fleeting remnants of civilization, resignedly prepares itself for the enviroassimilation of an amorous cyberconsciousness, as a young heroine chants out between worlds, and her fellow survivors heed not her call.
She searches for a fabled realm known to artistically nurture, accompanied by a naive stranger, but she knows nothing of his directed origins, nor of his manufactured indemnities.
It's very Terminator.
With a little room left over for young love.
Left to bloom in the sequel, wait a second, Singularity functions more suitably as a proxy for critiques of the aforementioned, even if its landscapes are much less apocalyptic, and its scope less armageddonesque.
One point that's confused me regarding the Terminator films at times is how do the machines continue to produce more machines throughout the war. Fully automated factories? But where do they get their raw materials?
The humans that are rounded up aren't sent to labour camps, they're exterminated, and the machines are never depicted roaming throughout a city gathering metal to build more of their kind.
Similarly, in Singularity, the majority of which takes place 97 years into the future, technology that's almost a century old still works, and people still know how to use it even though they grew up without schools or sustained community.
The vast majority of the human race has been gone for decades.
How do its machines still smoothly function?
Cyborg labour?
Also, in both cases, why do the machines continue to attempt to eradicate humanity?
If a significant proportion of your enemy has been destroyed, one so big that they're no longer a threat and won't be again for millennia, doesn't it make sense to use your resources to pursue other objectives, rather than spending 20 times as much as you did to achieve 90% of your goal on discovering and eliminating a scant fraction of that total?
Wouldn't the logical nature of machines come to this conclusion?
Sit back on ye olde cyberdairy farm with a vineyard and kick their electronic feet up?
Suppose that point works better for Singularity than it does for The Terminator.
The points I'm making would make for more boring Terminator or Singularity films.
Questions.
She searches for a fabled realm known to artistically nurture, accompanied by a naive stranger, but she knows nothing of his directed origins, nor of his manufactured indemnities.
It's very Terminator.
With a little room left over for young love.
Left to bloom in the sequel, wait a second, Singularity functions more suitably as a proxy for critiques of the aforementioned, even if its landscapes are much less apocalyptic, and its scope less armageddonesque.
One point that's confused me regarding the Terminator films at times is how do the machines continue to produce more machines throughout the war. Fully automated factories? But where do they get their raw materials?
The humans that are rounded up aren't sent to labour camps, they're exterminated, and the machines are never depicted roaming throughout a city gathering metal to build more of their kind.
Similarly, in Singularity, the majority of which takes place 97 years into the future, technology that's almost a century old still works, and people still know how to use it even though they grew up without schools or sustained community.
The vast majority of the human race has been gone for decades.
How do its machines still smoothly function?
Cyborg labour?
Also, in both cases, why do the machines continue to attempt to eradicate humanity?
If a significant proportion of your enemy has been destroyed, one so big that they're no longer a threat and won't be again for millennia, doesn't it make sense to use your resources to pursue other objectives, rather than spending 20 times as much as you did to achieve 90% of your goal on discovering and eliminating a scant fraction of that total?
Wouldn't the logical nature of machines come to this conclusion?
Sit back on ye olde cyberdairy farm with a vineyard and kick their electronic feet up?
Suppose that point works better for Singularity than it does for The Terminator.
The points I'm making would make for more boring Terminator or Singularity films.
Questions.
Friday, November 10, 2017
Victoria & Abdul
Dualities softly structure Stephen Frears's Victoria & Abdul, like stately courtly pillow fights stuffed with feta cheese.
Abdul (Ali Fazal), a young Indian clerk who's suddenly given the chance to serve the British Queen (Judi Dench), is initially contrasted with Mohammed (Adeel Akhtar), a fellow citizen who has a much less romantic vision of Britain's sleepless empire.
He's also opposed to Victoria's eldest son, Bertie (Eddie Izzard), since his close relationship with the Queen allows her to be much more maternal with him than she ever could be with her entitled offspring.
The Queen is royal yet rough and grumpy after decades of diplomatically socializing, while Abdul is common yet polished and enthusiastic after years of cultivating working relationships.
She's also contrasted with her staff whose racist pretensions cringe at the thought of entertaining and living with an Indian muslim.
Jealousy fosters collusion.
Collusion begets wrath.
The dualistic structures of the script, which is full of light short meaningful scenes which briskly move the film along while digestibly dramatizing intense subjects, create a disputatiously inclusive reverent collage of hospital hostilities and delicate debates, complete with brave moments that champion multicultural communities and uphold principles of mutual tolerance at the highest anti-racist levels.
Eat it Trump.
The release of Victoria & Abdul comes at a critical time.
Trump's in/direct promotion of intolerance and hate is spreading like a loathsome psychological plague, enacting a total disaster for the working people he claims to champion and likely regards as cannon fodder.
I've lived and worked with people from Africa, Indian, China, South and North America, Europe, the country, the city, etcetera, and I've learned that the racist hate speech fuelled by Trump and his supporters is as detestable as it is absurd.
I obviously want to see the terrorists brought to justice.
If the police have more power to stop terrorist suspects before they act without infringing upon the rights of citizens in general, especially considering how freely terrorists move throughout Europe, then perhaps the terrorist brats who keep giving their cultures a violent name will think twice before detonating bombs or driving through crowds.
It should be remembered, as Victoria & Abdul soundly relates, that muslims also seek the benefits of civil society and continue to form an integral part of Western communities.
Most of them simply wish to work and peacefully support their families while simultaneously building strong communities.
Tolerating these communities in an atmosphere of mutual trust leads them to feel like citizens, not muslim citizens but French or American or Canadian citizens.
And if they feel at peace within their cultural surroundings, they'll be much more likely to do the work of the police for them.
Don't let the politics of hate destroy your mind.
Simple acts of kindness, and a willingness to constructively work together, can lead to a proliferation of united nations, the many deconstructing warlike rhetoric with comedic dis/engaged prosperity, psychotic mainstream discourses, crumbling into meaningless dust thereafter.
Which is ironically how they’re often presented.
Beware the ignorant boy Mr. Scrooge, beware.
His kind understands next to nothing.
And seeks to rule everything with extreme prejudice.
Abdul (Ali Fazal), a young Indian clerk who's suddenly given the chance to serve the British Queen (Judi Dench), is initially contrasted with Mohammed (Adeel Akhtar), a fellow citizen who has a much less romantic vision of Britain's sleepless empire.
He's also opposed to Victoria's eldest son, Bertie (Eddie Izzard), since his close relationship with the Queen allows her to be much more maternal with him than she ever could be with her entitled offspring.
The Queen is royal yet rough and grumpy after decades of diplomatically socializing, while Abdul is common yet polished and enthusiastic after years of cultivating working relationships.
She's also contrasted with her staff whose racist pretensions cringe at the thought of entertaining and living with an Indian muslim.
Jealousy fosters collusion.
Collusion begets wrath.
The dualistic structures of the script, which is full of light short meaningful scenes which briskly move the film along while digestibly dramatizing intense subjects, create a disputatiously inclusive reverent collage of hospital hostilities and delicate debates, complete with brave moments that champion multicultural communities and uphold principles of mutual tolerance at the highest anti-racist levels.
Eat it Trump.
The release of Victoria & Abdul comes at a critical time.
Trump's in/direct promotion of intolerance and hate is spreading like a loathsome psychological plague, enacting a total disaster for the working people he claims to champion and likely regards as cannon fodder.
I've lived and worked with people from Africa, Indian, China, South and North America, Europe, the country, the city, etcetera, and I've learned that the racist hate speech fuelled by Trump and his supporters is as detestable as it is absurd.
I obviously want to see the terrorists brought to justice.
If the police have more power to stop terrorist suspects before they act without infringing upon the rights of citizens in general, especially considering how freely terrorists move throughout Europe, then perhaps the terrorist brats who keep giving their cultures a violent name will think twice before detonating bombs or driving through crowds.
It should be remembered, as Victoria & Abdul soundly relates, that muslims also seek the benefits of civil society and continue to form an integral part of Western communities.
Most of them simply wish to work and peacefully support their families while simultaneously building strong communities.
Tolerating these communities in an atmosphere of mutual trust leads them to feel like citizens, not muslim citizens but French or American or Canadian citizens.
And if they feel at peace within their cultural surroundings, they'll be much more likely to do the work of the police for them.
Don't let the politics of hate destroy your mind.
Simple acts of kindness, and a willingness to constructively work together, can lead to a proliferation of united nations, the many deconstructing warlike rhetoric with comedic dis/engaged prosperity, psychotic mainstream discourses, crumbling into meaningless dust thereafter.
Which is ironically how they’re often presented.
Beware the ignorant boy Mr. Scrooge, beware.
His kind understands next to nothing.
And seeks to rule everything with extreme prejudice.
Tuesday, November 7, 2017
An Inconvenient Sequel: Truth to Power
Positive growth.
Sustained undaunted environmental activism.
Mr. Al Gore and his inspiring message of hope, brilliantly documented in An Inconvenient Sequel: Truth to Power, invigoratingly offers contemporary scientific fact to fight the baseless rhetoric of the Trump administration, with both compelling truths and constructive consensus.
According to Dune, "fear is the mind killer."
Gore casts it as despair, and rationally comments upon how crushing blows to a movement, in this case Trump's ignorant decision to withdraw the United States from the Paris Climate Accord, for starters, can lead members/supporters/leaders/partners to be overwhelmed by grief and hopelessness, even though the movement still exists, even though hope is still flourishing.
His unwavering commitment provides those who believe that climate change can be reversed, that citizens of dynamic metropolises can stop breathing in a pack of cigarettes a day, that economies which no longer rely on mass fossil fuel consumption can be created, that rivers, lakes, and oceans can stop being experimental dumping grounds for toxic pollutants, destroyed by unethical businesses who won't bear the costs of conducting their affairs responsibly, with a shining flame which will not be extinguished, no matter how obstinate, well-financed, destructive, and dismissive the opposition, launching attack after attack on one's personal credibility, their well-oiled obsessions with everlastingly increasing profits driving thousands of species to extinction, while continuing to recklessly contaminate inhabitable symbiotic environments.
Politics can achieve these ends if people continue to lobby politicians to produce effective change.
The Democrats may be in a bit of a tailspin, but they'll soon be back and ready to govern.
Gore points out how markets for wind and solar are rapidly expanding throughout the world and that some cities within the United States (Texas included) now meet all of their energy demands with renewable resources.
Not bad.
How does the old argument work?
Yes, if 99% of a group believes in something and 1% challenges this belief, it's the 1% who may see things more clearly.
This argument can be effective, and if Copernicus hadn't challenged religious viewpoints that the world was flat we may still be living in a much less imaginative globe.
But professional scientists are a highly independent well-educated group, and around 99% of them maintain climate change is real.
That's a high percentage for independent thinkers.
Getting highly independent well-educated people to agree about anything is next to impossible, yet here we have 99% of a highly independent well-educated group agreeing that climate change is real, and 1% of them possibly earning mad profits to spurn them.
Such challenges are highly suspect.
Getting sick from swimming in a river or walking to a store in extreme heat or having your town destroyed by a hurricane isn't.
As Gore points out, mass destructive weather events are increasing worldwide.
Climate change is real and alternative energy sources can produce mass wealth.
Adopting renewable energy sources to supply your municipality with power isn't a socialist plot, it's capitalism, plain and simple.
The title of the film is misleading.
Alternative energy sources couldn't be more relevant.
Sustained undaunted environmental activism.
Mr. Al Gore and his inspiring message of hope, brilliantly documented in An Inconvenient Sequel: Truth to Power, invigoratingly offers contemporary scientific fact to fight the baseless rhetoric of the Trump administration, with both compelling truths and constructive consensus.
According to Dune, "fear is the mind killer."
Gore casts it as despair, and rationally comments upon how crushing blows to a movement, in this case Trump's ignorant decision to withdraw the United States from the Paris Climate Accord, for starters, can lead members/supporters/leaders/partners to be overwhelmed by grief and hopelessness, even though the movement still exists, even though hope is still flourishing.
His unwavering commitment provides those who believe that climate change can be reversed, that citizens of dynamic metropolises can stop breathing in a pack of cigarettes a day, that economies which no longer rely on mass fossil fuel consumption can be created, that rivers, lakes, and oceans can stop being experimental dumping grounds for toxic pollutants, destroyed by unethical businesses who won't bear the costs of conducting their affairs responsibly, with a shining flame which will not be extinguished, no matter how obstinate, well-financed, destructive, and dismissive the opposition, launching attack after attack on one's personal credibility, their well-oiled obsessions with everlastingly increasing profits driving thousands of species to extinction, while continuing to recklessly contaminate inhabitable symbiotic environments.
Politics can achieve these ends if people continue to lobby politicians to produce effective change.
The Democrats may be in a bit of a tailspin, but they'll soon be back and ready to govern.
Gore points out how markets for wind and solar are rapidly expanding throughout the world and that some cities within the United States (Texas included) now meet all of their energy demands with renewable resources.
Not bad.
How does the old argument work?
Yes, if 99% of a group believes in something and 1% challenges this belief, it's the 1% who may see things more clearly.
This argument can be effective, and if Copernicus hadn't challenged religious viewpoints that the world was flat we may still be living in a much less imaginative globe.
But professional scientists are a highly independent well-educated group, and around 99% of them maintain climate change is real.
That's a high percentage for independent thinkers.
Getting highly independent well-educated people to agree about anything is next to impossible, yet here we have 99% of a highly independent well-educated group agreeing that climate change is real, and 1% of them possibly earning mad profits to spurn them.
Such challenges are highly suspect.
Getting sick from swimming in a river or walking to a store in extreme heat or having your town destroyed by a hurricane isn't.
As Gore points out, mass destructive weather events are increasing worldwide.
Climate change is real and alternative energy sources can produce mass wealth.
Adopting renewable energy sources to supply your municipality with power isn't a socialist plot, it's capitalism, plain and simple.
The title of the film is misleading.
Alternative energy sources couldn't be more relevant.
Friday, November 3, 2017
Alone in Berlin
A husband and wife, conscientious citizens who watched in silent horror as their culture madly lit jingoistic imperialist flames, once more, as their neighbours and compatriots became communally intoxicated with the blind xenophobic ambition of institutionalized megalomania (Trump?), politically isolated yet industrially integrated, morosely aware of the overwhelming tyrannical dogmas that have consumed their beloved Germany, quietly protest by writing critiques of Hitler's government on postcards and leaving them in public places throughout Nazi Berlin, their messages blunt and to the point, boldly castigating a movement that reduced their country to ash.
Long past the age when passionate inexperience habitually motivates romantic rebellious protest, for those lacking inexhaustible wealth, their logical engagement soberly revitalizes their youthful commitment, tenderly captured by director Vincent Perez with tender aged compassion.
A civil bureaucracy (a police force) believing it can independently operate outside Nazi jurisdiction is assigned their case, the intelligent objective inspector soon castrated by totalitarianism.
Individualized governments require general violence to rule.
General violence inherently encourages revolution.
Until such a time as cooler heads prevail.
And different cultures forge diverse unions.
Alone in Berlin modestly visualizes proactive labour in action, as it takes social democratic steps to subvert authoritarian cruelty, using intellect to promote sustainable security as opposed to sensationalized sanity (fascist psychiatry), capturing active conjugal middle-aged bliss meanwhile, as well as constabulary sympathy and inspired materialism.
If that scene didn't break your heart you've stiffened your lip too rigidly.
I wonder if the film would have been stronger if other protestors from Berlin had played secondary roles, the Quangels (Emma Thompson and Brendan Gleeson) still isolated but part of a bigger picture?
It's a very patient film that excels at slowly and soberly building tension and character (note how the wedded dialogue becomes lengthier as the film unreels), however, in order to reflect realistic independent engagement, a simplified upright form harmoniously working with diverse mature content, lessening its multilateral impact to focus its robust character.
Too many distractions may have spoiled it.
Light yet hard and penetrating, it humbly captures aspects of resistance that many more complicated narratives fail to realize.
Sincere.
Long past the age when passionate inexperience habitually motivates romantic rebellious protest, for those lacking inexhaustible wealth, their logical engagement soberly revitalizes their youthful commitment, tenderly captured by director Vincent Perez with tender aged compassion.
A civil bureaucracy (a police force) believing it can independently operate outside Nazi jurisdiction is assigned their case, the intelligent objective inspector soon castrated by totalitarianism.
Individualized governments require general violence to rule.
General violence inherently encourages revolution.
Until such a time as cooler heads prevail.
And different cultures forge diverse unions.
Alone in Berlin modestly visualizes proactive labour in action, as it takes social democratic steps to subvert authoritarian cruelty, using intellect to promote sustainable security as opposed to sensationalized sanity (fascist psychiatry), capturing active conjugal middle-aged bliss meanwhile, as well as constabulary sympathy and inspired materialism.
If that scene didn't break your heart you've stiffened your lip too rigidly.
I wonder if the film would have been stronger if other protestors from Berlin had played secondary roles, the Quangels (Emma Thompson and Brendan Gleeson) still isolated but part of a bigger picture?
It's a very patient film that excels at slowly and soberly building tension and character (note how the wedded dialogue becomes lengthier as the film unreels), however, in order to reflect realistic independent engagement, a simplified upright form harmoniously working with diverse mature content, lessening its multilateral impact to focus its robust character.
Too many distractions may have spoiled it.
Light yet hard and penetrating, it humbly captures aspects of resistance that many more complicated narratives fail to realize.
Sincere.
Tuesday, October 31, 2017
Cult of Chucky
Inextinguishable malevolent flames of pure maladjusted fury continue to terrify innocent yet vengeful Andy (Alex Vincent) and Nica (Fiona Dourif), the former having escaped to the country, the later, residing within a minimum security nuthouse, ignored and barely able to move, in Don Mancini's Cult of Chucky.
Not as much time and thought is put into imagining how Chucky (Brad Dourif) will be unleashed once more in this one, yet said Chucky, maniacal embodiment of blind undiscerning impulsive valueless consumeristic purchasing, soon visits rehabilitating Nica, who is being pervertedly manipulated by her secular psychiatrist, the traditional massacre following shortly thereafter, as obdurate extreme materialism rationally will not believe.
Demonic denizens ravaging.
Exonerating sheer incapacity.
For Chucky's wisecracking also betrays the world of pain that awaits young funny people after reaching the age of 27.
Should they choose to continue expressing themselves without a tight grip on the reigns.
And Andy's suffering that of the torment perennially felt by a child abused by the other children in his small hometown, a child who never leaves yet matures to become successful, but must still regularly see those who once routinely humiliated him, as living memories haunt and torment throughout the course of his busy days.
Even if they're now under his employ.
And beautiful Nica, paralyzed and surrounded by an ungrateful frenzied brood, warns of the unacknowledged dismissive regard a generous mother receives when raising bullish misogynistic patriarchal young.
This halloween.
Even if the movie came out some time ago.
Cult of Chucky could have used more Andy.
Great production values nevertheless.
Not as much time and thought is put into imagining how Chucky (Brad Dourif) will be unleashed once more in this one, yet said Chucky, maniacal embodiment of blind undiscerning impulsive valueless consumeristic purchasing, soon visits rehabilitating Nica, who is being pervertedly manipulated by her secular psychiatrist, the traditional massacre following shortly thereafter, as obdurate extreme materialism rationally will not believe.
Demonic denizens ravaging.
Exonerating sheer incapacity.
For Chucky's wisecracking also betrays the world of pain that awaits young funny people after reaching the age of 27.
Should they choose to continue expressing themselves without a tight grip on the reigns.
And Andy's suffering that of the torment perennially felt by a child abused by the other children in his small hometown, a child who never leaves yet matures to become successful, but must still regularly see those who once routinely humiliated him, as living memories haunt and torment throughout the course of his busy days.
Even if they're now under his employ.
And beautiful Nica, paralyzed and surrounded by an ungrateful frenzied brood, warns of the unacknowledged dismissive regard a generous mother receives when raising bullish misogynistic patriarchal young.
This halloween.
Even if the movie came out some time ago.
Cult of Chucky could have used more Andy.
Great production values nevertheless.
Friday, October 27, 2017
Jungle
Youthful exuberance, boldly challenging parts unknown, randomly embracing inquisitive camaraderie, a team assembled improvisationally adventuring, a lack of knowledge fuelling information hunger, a gluttonous immersion abstemiously characterized poetically generating conflicting points of view, holistic hostilities hierarchically hashed, minuscule manoeuvres incremental thresh, torn and frayed lost their way repartee coruscate, tenacious agility expressly trudging, environmental appreciation enlightening unawares, a man, a tool, moonlight gruel, irrepressible spirit, suddenly alone in the jungle.
Yossi Ghinsberg (Daniel Radcliffe) keeps going.
His pack breaks up and his partner disappears but he pushes onwards notwithstanding unforbidden, cavalier.
There's character, vision, perseverance, alarm.
Jungle interpersonally examines trial by audacity as 3 rugged romantics with sketch accompaniment dare endurance and improbability to vehemently and disdainfully scorn.
A true story which cruelly tests resiliency as dynamic friendships exhilarate, I was surprised that it captured my attention so completely even though it focused intently on only one character for so long.
When it seems as if the elements have pushed him far past loveable psychosis, the spiritual artistically intervenes, radiantly illuminated in emancipatory contrast.
Cool survival flick.
Yossi Ghinsberg (Daniel Radcliffe) keeps going.
His pack breaks up and his partner disappears but he pushes onwards notwithstanding unforbidden, cavalier.
There's character, vision, perseverance, alarm.
Jungle interpersonally examines trial by audacity as 3 rugged romantics with sketch accompaniment dare endurance and improbability to vehemently and disdainfully scorn.
A true story which cruelly tests resiliency as dynamic friendships exhilarate, I was surprised that it captured my attention so completely even though it focused intently on only one character for so long.
When it seems as if the elements have pushed him far past loveable psychosis, the spiritual artistically intervenes, radiantly illuminated in emancipatory contrast.
Cool survival flick.
Tuesday, October 24, 2017
Inhumanwich!
Global annihilation, voraciously presenting itself as conscious highly radioactive ground beef, sets out to capitalistically aggrandize, or plain and simply gluttonously devour.
Cincinnati unassumingly resting upon its sloppy path, a team of reluctant scientific heroes spontaneously joes to whopperifically flame-broil.
Lovin' every single carcinogenic prostate sizzle, heavily armed militaristic imprecision must recklessly engage, unable to determine if it can leave a lasting impression, it randomly improvises, and cartographically refills.
Only one person, in the known universe, can withstand the demon's exacting crawl, a mild-mannered limitless consumer, once, vocationally renowned.
Allergic to onions though he may be, willingly accepting his herculean labour, proceeding as would a wild boar possessing tusks of immortality, he eternally embraces his bold ephemeral hunger.
With room left over for pizza.
Covered with anchovies of old.
Sometimes it isn't fair to judge a film based upon merit, success, ingenuity, exoneration, originality, genius, appetite, intergalacticity, gumption, nope, sometimes a minimalist application of spirited inanity is the crucial critical factor to be haphazardly applied, whether the film has a low budget, a lack of concern, no goals, passion, agenda, rules, regulations, form working hand in hand with content inasmuch as it's quickly thrown together to castigate lacks of foresight, fast food or meat consumption in this instance, effort, yes, there might be effort, and the trick may be to indubitably judge if the film was effortlessly made or cheaply constructed, a beautiful thing or bilious impulse, perhaps simply a two day old baguette, tart treacle, meat that passes the smell test, or healthy yet aggravating nicorette gum, whatever the criteria, its bombastic sentience irresponsibly euthanizes audacity, while emphasizing bromantic good times, or feminist bewilderment.
Perhaps also indestructibility.
Bamboozled in boisterous fey jocose panini, wisecracked inherent impediments exclaim gargantuan folio.
Did they at least fail to attempt to innovate in any way while confidently transmitting an unreasonable lack of sophistication?
Did they at least refuel the status quo with disingenuous yet hearty absurd incredulous compunction?
Did they not even try to give everything they've got without seeming hopelessly and aimlessly incompetent?
I'd watch it again, regardless, if that means anything, this pan-fried indigestible Inhumanwich!
A bit more time and money and they might seriously impress some day.
Solid indistinct blunt metaphorical mischief.
Still much better than The House.
Midnight vegetarianism?
Cincinnati unassumingly resting upon its sloppy path, a team of reluctant scientific heroes spontaneously joes to whopperifically flame-broil.
Lovin' every single carcinogenic prostate sizzle, heavily armed militaristic imprecision must recklessly engage, unable to determine if it can leave a lasting impression, it randomly improvises, and cartographically refills.
Only one person, in the known universe, can withstand the demon's exacting crawl, a mild-mannered limitless consumer, once, vocationally renowned.
Allergic to onions though he may be, willingly accepting his herculean labour, proceeding as would a wild boar possessing tusks of immortality, he eternally embraces his bold ephemeral hunger.
With room left over for pizza.
Covered with anchovies of old.
Sometimes it isn't fair to judge a film based upon merit, success, ingenuity, exoneration, originality, genius, appetite, intergalacticity, gumption, nope, sometimes a minimalist application of spirited inanity is the crucial critical factor to be haphazardly applied, whether the film has a low budget, a lack of concern, no goals, passion, agenda, rules, regulations, form working hand in hand with content inasmuch as it's quickly thrown together to castigate lacks of foresight, fast food or meat consumption in this instance, effort, yes, there might be effort, and the trick may be to indubitably judge if the film was effortlessly made or cheaply constructed, a beautiful thing or bilious impulse, perhaps simply a two day old baguette, tart treacle, meat that passes the smell test, or healthy yet aggravating nicorette gum, whatever the criteria, its bombastic sentience irresponsibly euthanizes audacity, while emphasizing bromantic good times, or feminist bewilderment.
Perhaps also indestructibility.
Bamboozled in boisterous fey jocose panini, wisecracked inherent impediments exclaim gargantuan folio.
Did they at least fail to attempt to innovate in any way while confidently transmitting an unreasonable lack of sophistication?
Did they at least refuel the status quo with disingenuous yet hearty absurd incredulous compunction?
Did they not even try to give everything they've got without seeming hopelessly and aimlessly incompetent?
I'd watch it again, regardless, if that means anything, this pan-fried indigestible Inhumanwich!
A bit more time and money and they might seriously impress some day.
Solid indistinct blunt metaphorical mischief.
Still much better than The House.
Midnight vegetarianism?
Friday, October 20, 2017
L'Avventura
An artistic heritage so vast and imposing its contemporary admirers can't help but compose themselves with awe.
Quotidian cheek materialistically tethered exchanging observations with speculative mobilization possessing unimaginative magnetism (wry jealousy).
Small towns with no work wherein which the male inhabitants collectively contemplate aesthetics casually passing by.
Playful luxury illusively inconvenienced slumbers with impoverished free speech which differentiates not between beauty and brutality, a life spent with no feminine contact (it's odd when people seek answers and the answers are brutal and you try not to respond but they demand that answer, and if you respond they despise you even more than they would have if you had said nothing, and then treat you brutally).
A culture laments the disappearance of a siren whose mischievous independent preference for theoretical possibility created a sensation which his desire dismissively ignored.
Patriarchically philandering, L'Avventura presents a bored successful man to whom the most sought after precious women helplessly swoon, his innocent unattached habitual eloquence effortlessly ensnaring them within psychological shackles composed of forgiveness, sympathy, contempt, and guilt.
Apart from his betrothed who can't be found.
Culturally inclined, bucolic and urban socioeconomics multifacetedly engender amorous situations which fleetingly comment on relationships and/or conjugal commitment inasmuch as they carnivalesquely sexualize poverty and privilege.
The subject of so many wild comedies intellectually transformed into a literary matriculately meandering exposé, undesirable men imagining they're exceptionally endowed with unqualifiable gravitational irreducibility, which the opposite sex is irresistibly drawn towards, ethically as irresponsible as sadism, politically, masochistically responsive.
L'Avventura gets away with it, cloaking its victorious Lothario in voluminous vulnerable versatility, surrounding his endeavours with enough différence to democratically deconstruct any paradigmatic impulse, wildly commenting with realistic fascination, embroiling and staking with convectional subterfuge, brilliant inspired indulgence or bold calculated virtuosity?, metanarrative expression expressly exalting, cinematic sophistication, love, adventure.
Quotidian cheek materialistically tethered exchanging observations with speculative mobilization possessing unimaginative magnetism (wry jealousy).
Small towns with no work wherein which the male inhabitants collectively contemplate aesthetics casually passing by.
Playful luxury illusively inconvenienced slumbers with impoverished free speech which differentiates not between beauty and brutality, a life spent with no feminine contact (it's odd when people seek answers and the answers are brutal and you try not to respond but they demand that answer, and if you respond they despise you even more than they would have if you had said nothing, and then treat you brutally).
A culture laments the disappearance of a siren whose mischievous independent preference for theoretical possibility created a sensation which his desire dismissively ignored.
Patriarchically philandering, L'Avventura presents a bored successful man to whom the most sought after precious women helplessly swoon, his innocent unattached habitual eloquence effortlessly ensnaring them within psychological shackles composed of forgiveness, sympathy, contempt, and guilt.
Apart from his betrothed who can't be found.
Culturally inclined, bucolic and urban socioeconomics multifacetedly engender amorous situations which fleetingly comment on relationships and/or conjugal commitment inasmuch as they carnivalesquely sexualize poverty and privilege.
The subject of so many wild comedies intellectually transformed into a literary matriculately meandering exposé, undesirable men imagining they're exceptionally endowed with unqualifiable gravitational irreducibility, which the opposite sex is irresistibly drawn towards, ethically as irresponsible as sadism, politically, masochistically responsive.
L'Avventura gets away with it, cloaking its victorious Lothario in voluminous vulnerable versatility, surrounding his endeavours with enough différence to democratically deconstruct any paradigmatic impulse, wildly commenting with realistic fascination, embroiling and staking with convectional subterfuge, brilliant inspired indulgence or bold calculated virtuosity?, metanarrative expression expressly exalting, cinematic sophistication, love, adventure.
Tuesday, October 17, 2017
The Mountain Between Us
A sudden crash upon a remote mountain top shockingly affects three airborne strangers, plummeting just before achieving thunderous summit, no cellphone service available, no flight plan having been filed, destitute, forlorn, aerodynely abandoned, they classify, catalogue, conjure, and code, embracing logical risk to command desperate passion, blindly preparing for enigmatic descent, wounded yet versatile, adventurously impacting.
Seductive scorned survival.
One traveller planned to be wed the next day, an innovative photographer working for The Guardian on her way to Denver, she refuses to sit still and wait, thereby prompting diminutive exodus.
Another must follow, himself quietly suffering after having lost a loved one, the two slowly traversing frozen inhospitable lands together as one, struggling to limitlessly strive on, with the hopes of rediscovering civilization.
A persevering dog tenaciously accompanies them, spiritually guiding them along the way, enabling them to grasp, grip, and grind, well-placed throughout the film to devoutly distract and domestically foreshadow, his improvised excursions adamantly nestling, the parental and the preconditioned, precociously implied.
Roughing it stark and wayward, lost in the wilderness in the dead of Winter with neither supplies nor sustenance to trek their way through.
Can they endure like inexhaustible inclement feline prognosticators?
While exponentially cultivating, what is known as true love?
The Mountain Between Us metaphorically ices the unforgiving terrain the everlasting requires to harmoniously resound.
Amidst the jaded chaos of hopelessness and the disabling cynicism of despair, a would be couple sustainably compensates.
Cinematographically lacking considering their environment, and much more rich in woodland symbolism than death-defying dialogue, it still presents a tumultuously touching vision, unobscured by constant slights.
Imperative integrity.
Substantiated romance.
Seductive scorned survival.
One traveller planned to be wed the next day, an innovative photographer working for The Guardian on her way to Denver, she refuses to sit still and wait, thereby prompting diminutive exodus.
Another must follow, himself quietly suffering after having lost a loved one, the two slowly traversing frozen inhospitable lands together as one, struggling to limitlessly strive on, with the hopes of rediscovering civilization.
A persevering dog tenaciously accompanies them, spiritually guiding them along the way, enabling them to grasp, grip, and grind, well-placed throughout the film to devoutly distract and domestically foreshadow, his improvised excursions adamantly nestling, the parental and the preconditioned, precociously implied.
Roughing it stark and wayward, lost in the wilderness in the dead of Winter with neither supplies nor sustenance to trek their way through.
Can they endure like inexhaustible inclement feline prognosticators?
While exponentially cultivating, what is known as true love?
The Mountain Between Us metaphorically ices the unforgiving terrain the everlasting requires to harmoniously resound.
Amidst the jaded chaos of hopelessness and the disabling cynicism of despair, a would be couple sustainably compensates.
Cinematographically lacking considering their environment, and much more rich in woodland symbolism than death-defying dialogue, it still presents a tumultuously touching vision, unobscured by constant slights.
Imperative integrity.
Substantiated romance.
Friday, October 13, 2017
Blade Runner 2049
Discontinuous highjacked expedited inevitable irrelevancy.
Circuitous momentous obedience bountifully propelling twisted archaic innate atypical hemorrhage.
Existential awakening argumentative dawn autosuggestive auspices communal cast iron cravings, clues, ambulatory optics, somnambulistic certainty, neigh, whisker.
Fragmentary vestiges ominously scattered cryptic pathfinder serpentinely excavating miracles, whippoorwills, potash.
Direly coaxed into a subconscious vortex transformative sensual belonging propagated harvested posterity.
Suckling within the protospatial womb.
A set plan, goals, preconditioned life programmed to pounce and prognosticate, virtual violations inorganic technotruths, aesthetic vibrations old school orchestrations architecturally hallowed within alternative sanctuary, every scene reigniting the ambivalent distraught investigative visceral momentum, symphonically sequestering emotional anomalies to imagine identity harmoniously hewn, institutionalized on the outskirts primordial emergent feeling, a home, a relationship, a father figure, integration, tacit knowledge extant and mobile, coveted like uncertifiable exception, music, production design, editing, cinematography, as vocal as dialogue, plot, or character.
The most beautiful dress I've ever seen.
Every sequence painstakingly sculpted to intangibly perspire life while inquisitively examining manufactured ontological biology by humanistically juxtaposing desperate and plutocratic being.
Without sharp contrast.
With minimal direct contact.
Non-existent environmental biodiversity morosely levels artistic conflict like a galaxy with no solar system or a workplace without feminine voice.
As fragile as cloistered brilliance she cultivates eternities crafting memories as wondrous as the Saguenay for the fortunate to joyfully consider.
Respectful of its origins while dynamically creating divergent vision, Blade Runner 2049 is on par with Mad Max: Fury Road in terms of revelation, in this case that of Denis Villeneuve's genius, which successfully synthesizes so many gifted subjects.
Harrison Ford's (Deckard) so real.
Ryan Gosling ('K') too.
Circuitous momentous obedience bountifully propelling twisted archaic innate atypical hemorrhage.
Existential awakening argumentative dawn autosuggestive auspices communal cast iron cravings, clues, ambulatory optics, somnambulistic certainty, neigh, whisker.
Fragmentary vestiges ominously scattered cryptic pathfinder serpentinely excavating miracles, whippoorwills, potash.
Direly coaxed into a subconscious vortex transformative sensual belonging propagated harvested posterity.
Suckling within the protospatial womb.
A set plan, goals, preconditioned life programmed to pounce and prognosticate, virtual violations inorganic technotruths, aesthetic vibrations old school orchestrations architecturally hallowed within alternative sanctuary, every scene reigniting the ambivalent distraught investigative visceral momentum, symphonically sequestering emotional anomalies to imagine identity harmoniously hewn, institutionalized on the outskirts primordial emergent feeling, a home, a relationship, a father figure, integration, tacit knowledge extant and mobile, coveted like uncertifiable exception, music, production design, editing, cinematography, as vocal as dialogue, plot, or character.
The most beautiful dress I've ever seen.
Every sequence painstakingly sculpted to intangibly perspire life while inquisitively examining manufactured ontological biology by humanistically juxtaposing desperate and plutocratic being.
Without sharp contrast.
With minimal direct contact.
Non-existent environmental biodiversity morosely levels artistic conflict like a galaxy with no solar system or a workplace without feminine voice.
As fragile as cloistered brilliance she cultivates eternities crafting memories as wondrous as the Saguenay for the fortunate to joyfully consider.
Respectful of its origins while dynamically creating divergent vision, Blade Runner 2049 is on par with Mad Max: Fury Road in terms of revelation, in this case that of Denis Villeneuve's genius, which successfully synthesizes so many gifted subjects.
Harrison Ford's (Deckard) so real.
Ryan Gosling ('K') too.
Tuesday, October 10, 2017
A Ghost Story
A Ghost Story takes itself rather seriously for a bizarro religious art film, opening with intense sorrowful classical music that accompanies the plodding uninspiring narrative for awhile before unobtrusively fading into the dull background.
Not much is known about the featured character before he chooses to remain with Earthen realms, forever spectating his former haunts, dolorously watching as life continues unaffected, self-inflicted emotional torment meets phantasmagorical purposeless attention, dry lifeless exchanges with other ghosts, pointlessness carrying on.
A number of mournful scenes then adorn the story with motionless static depressing longevity, which would have been more tragic if there was more of a reason to care, before, suddenly, wondrously, the camera starts moving, beautiful music then igniting a jaunty passionate grizzled condemnation of nihilism, the finite, the unimaginative, the plain, no counterargument forthcoming which makes sense considering the circumstances (that guy at the party), as the derelict observes, unable to intervene.
Afterwards we're treated to a remarkably creative lively endearing artistic exposition of convivial charm and romantic playfulness, which compensates for the drab meaningless anguish earlier, providing the rationale for the former bland rendition, from vapidity to virtuosity, David Lowery intellectually shining.
I would have left the ghost business out and focused on developing different compelling dialogues for different historical periods transitioning from one to another within the same remote locale instead.
Watch the whole thing, it's impressive, but could have been much more alluring, more penetrating, more provocative, more enigmatic, if it had embraced random ethereal flux, rather than lugubriously making a point that isn't that sharp or innovative.
Not much is known about the featured character before he chooses to remain with Earthen realms, forever spectating his former haunts, dolorously watching as life continues unaffected, self-inflicted emotional torment meets phantasmagorical purposeless attention, dry lifeless exchanges with other ghosts, pointlessness carrying on.
A number of mournful scenes then adorn the story with motionless static depressing longevity, which would have been more tragic if there was more of a reason to care, before, suddenly, wondrously, the camera starts moving, beautiful music then igniting a jaunty passionate grizzled condemnation of nihilism, the finite, the unimaginative, the plain, no counterargument forthcoming which makes sense considering the circumstances (that guy at the party), as the derelict observes, unable to intervene.
Afterwards we're treated to a remarkably creative lively endearing artistic exposition of convivial charm and romantic playfulness, which compensates for the drab meaningless anguish earlier, providing the rationale for the former bland rendition, from vapidity to virtuosity, David Lowery intellectually shining.
I would have left the ghost business out and focused on developing different compelling dialogues for different historical periods transitioning from one to another within the same remote locale instead.
Watch the whole thing, it's impressive, but could have been much more alluring, more penetrating, more provocative, more enigmatic, if it had embraced random ethereal flux, rather than lugubriously making a point that isn't that sharp or innovative.
Friday, October 6, 2017
Kollektivet (The Commune)
I know open relationships can work because I've met people who have rationally embraced free love without jealously descending into the wild frenzied madness that structures so many monogamously themed narratives.
When I listen to sex people tell their lusty tales of spontaneous syntheses and unbridled inspiration, I often wonder how their stable relationship continues to thrive over the years, yet years later still see them dating the same people, and neither partner claims to be consumed by purest envy.
They say it's a matter of maturity.
I still don't get it.
Kollektivet (The Commune) examines a stable relationship that is challenged by the introduction of a third element, who is plainly a much younger version of the man's original life partner.
The mother of his child.
She's seeking change to alleviate mid-life meaninglessness and argues that they should transform their recently inherited house into a lively commune.
She isn't psychologically equipped to sublimate her true feelings, however, and eventually finds herself struggling to logically endure.
More like Cassavete's A Woman Under the Influence than Lukas Moodysson's Tillsammans (Together), Thomas Vinterberg's Kollektivet cruelly illustrates the detrimental effects of a hasty big picture alteration, an incredible paradigm shift, as sure and steady security promotes basic instinct.
I was deceived by Kollektivet myself.
I was hoping to see a multidimensional film wherein which multiple characters were developed and nuanced as they cohesively embraced collective conflict as one.
I suppose it is unpredictable inasmuch as it primarily focuses on the deterioration of a nuclear family rather than the challenges of communal life, but I didn't rent a film about a commune to see what manifold more traditional storylines tend to generate.
The other individuals living within the commune receive little to no character development and bluntly interact throughout as originally presented, the occasional clever comment or the purchase of a dishwasher notwithstanding.
Decisions are made rather quickly as well, as if something as serious as starting a commune and giving away your house is like tying your shoes or trying Indonesian food for the first time.
Kollektivet atypically narrativizes life in a commune thereby tricking its traditional audience into watching the bizarro mainstream.
A dire preachy warning for the experimental, a harsh validation of conjugal revenge, it heartbreakingly explores/justifies adulterous instincts commonly depicted as characteristics of the alpha-male, who ironically wanted nothing to do with them, without sympathy for his partner, a daughter torn apart along the way.
An excruciating attempt to find a way to exonerate misogyny.
When I listen to sex people tell their lusty tales of spontaneous syntheses and unbridled inspiration, I often wonder how their stable relationship continues to thrive over the years, yet years later still see them dating the same people, and neither partner claims to be consumed by purest envy.
They say it's a matter of maturity.
I still don't get it.
Kollektivet (The Commune) examines a stable relationship that is challenged by the introduction of a third element, who is plainly a much younger version of the man's original life partner.
The mother of his child.
She's seeking change to alleviate mid-life meaninglessness and argues that they should transform their recently inherited house into a lively commune.
She isn't psychologically equipped to sublimate her true feelings, however, and eventually finds herself struggling to logically endure.
More like Cassavete's A Woman Under the Influence than Lukas Moodysson's Tillsammans (Together), Thomas Vinterberg's Kollektivet cruelly illustrates the detrimental effects of a hasty big picture alteration, an incredible paradigm shift, as sure and steady security promotes basic instinct.
I was deceived by Kollektivet myself.
I was hoping to see a multidimensional film wherein which multiple characters were developed and nuanced as they cohesively embraced collective conflict as one.
I suppose it is unpredictable inasmuch as it primarily focuses on the deterioration of a nuclear family rather than the challenges of communal life, but I didn't rent a film about a commune to see what manifold more traditional storylines tend to generate.
The other individuals living within the commune receive little to no character development and bluntly interact throughout as originally presented, the occasional clever comment or the purchase of a dishwasher notwithstanding.
Decisions are made rather quickly as well, as if something as serious as starting a commune and giving away your house is like tying your shoes or trying Indonesian food for the first time.
Kollektivet atypically narrativizes life in a commune thereby tricking its traditional audience into watching the bizarro mainstream.
A dire preachy warning for the experimental, a harsh validation of conjugal revenge, it heartbreakingly explores/justifies adulterous instincts commonly depicted as characteristics of the alpha-male, who ironically wanted nothing to do with them, without sympathy for his partner, a daughter torn apart along the way.
An excruciating attempt to find a way to exonerate misogyny.
Tuesday, October 3, 2017
My Cousin Rachel
A loyal adopted son, filled with impotent rage, blindly seeks closure concerning his father's sudden death as it relates to a mysterious relationship beguiled in the Italian countryside, forged with an enigmatic English belle, who had the strength to seduce proud misogyny.
He sets out seeking justice, never having had much interest in women either, but soon finds himself enraptured with the sought after murderess, his presumption quickly fading as her charms mellifluously sway, his fortune soon levitating at her disposal, all-encompassing infatuation contending with more worldly criticisms, is she friend or foe?, matron, or dominatrix?
Beyond classification.
Contraceptive indigo.
My Cousin Rachel commences soundly.
Its sophisticated introduction to character, historical period, familial severance, and exotic cataclysm, gingerly yet coercively narrated with bitter incisive pause, led me to think I had stumbled upon something otherworldly, something radiant, something timeless.
It's not that the rest of the film isn't worth watching, it is, but My Cousin Rachel's first 25 minutes or so lour you in with a compelling cinematic elegance that rarely showcases its distinct eloquent reticence.
There are no answers, no solutions, no conclusions, it's strict theory, strict conjecture, a mystery lacking a brilliant sleuth, wherein which contingencies construct discombobulating distractions that harrowingly question what has indeed come to pass, a man who knows nothing about women obsessed with a woman who knows everything about men, who's intent on achieving independence from stiflingly patriarchal codes of conduct, without ever asking for anything, or seeming as if she desires six pence.
Was Rachel (Rachel Weisz) the hapless generous victim of sexist preconceptions themselves incapable of trusting anything a woman says after having fallen in love, thereby sacrificing their former unconscious unilateral independence, their control, as a consequence, and winding up mad, or was she indubitably trying to poison both father and son in order to access their vast unencumbered fortune?
Can free unattached wealthy male loners ever listen to anything overtly uttered by their curious brilliant feminine correspondants without suspecting conspiracy and treachery, the magnitude of the duplicitous betrayal slowly intensifying as the bond between them grows tighter and tighter?
How would a brilliant woman without a fortune who seeks control over her own affairs ever achieve financial and personal independence without comment in a society dominated by men?
Would both characters have lived pleasant lives if homosexuality hadn't been culturally abhorred?
Sometimes narration works, sometimes it doesn't.
The narration was working in My Cousin Rachel, and I wished it had played a more prominent role throughout the majority of the film.
He sets out seeking justice, never having had much interest in women either, but soon finds himself enraptured with the sought after murderess, his presumption quickly fading as her charms mellifluously sway, his fortune soon levitating at her disposal, all-encompassing infatuation contending with more worldly criticisms, is she friend or foe?, matron, or dominatrix?
Beyond classification.
Contraceptive indigo.
My Cousin Rachel commences soundly.
Its sophisticated introduction to character, historical period, familial severance, and exotic cataclysm, gingerly yet coercively narrated with bitter incisive pause, led me to think I had stumbled upon something otherworldly, something radiant, something timeless.
It's not that the rest of the film isn't worth watching, it is, but My Cousin Rachel's first 25 minutes or so lour you in with a compelling cinematic elegance that rarely showcases its distinct eloquent reticence.
There are no answers, no solutions, no conclusions, it's strict theory, strict conjecture, a mystery lacking a brilliant sleuth, wherein which contingencies construct discombobulating distractions that harrowingly question what has indeed come to pass, a man who knows nothing about women obsessed with a woman who knows everything about men, who's intent on achieving independence from stiflingly patriarchal codes of conduct, without ever asking for anything, or seeming as if she desires six pence.
Was Rachel (Rachel Weisz) the hapless generous victim of sexist preconceptions themselves incapable of trusting anything a woman says after having fallen in love, thereby sacrificing their former unconscious unilateral independence, their control, as a consequence, and winding up mad, or was she indubitably trying to poison both father and son in order to access their vast unencumbered fortune?
Can free unattached wealthy male loners ever listen to anything overtly uttered by their curious brilliant feminine correspondants without suspecting conspiracy and treachery, the magnitude of the duplicitous betrayal slowly intensifying as the bond between them grows tighter and tighter?
How would a brilliant woman without a fortune who seeks control over her own affairs ever achieve financial and personal independence without comment in a society dominated by men?
Would both characters have lived pleasant lives if homosexuality hadn't been culturally abhorred?
Sometimes narration works, sometimes it doesn't.
The narration was working in My Cousin Rachel, and I wished it had played a more prominent role throughout the majority of the film.
Friday, September 29, 2017
The Darkest Hour
A routine business trip to Moscow to sell software which knows how to party, itself fraught with duplicitous peril, is intergalactically interrupted in Chris Gorak's The Darkest Hour, as colonialist extraterrestrials electronically invade.
The entire freaking planet.
Gorging themselves on humanity's energy and power, yet invisible to homo sapien eyes, and protected by impenetrable shielding, Earth is globally gutted in a matter of hours, and our heroes thrust back into an unforgiving dark age.
Nevertheless, good fortune enables them to slowly piece together what has incredibly come to pass, as they juke and gesticulate their way from one improvised shelter to another.
Other survivors are encountered along the way, and from what little knowledge they possess as a whole, they're able to slowly strategize, synergize, swerve, and shock, mounting what little resistance they can, as they desperately seek submerged self-sustaining agency.
To bask in extant logic.
Even if there's nowhere to hide.
Allegorical applications of The Darkest Hour vigorously outdistancing the film itself, one wonders about these chaotic representations and what they indeed substantiate?
We know that once there was a will to party.
We know that energy has been ignominiously expropriated.
Those responsible can neither be seen nor detected.
And are in possession of vastly superior technology.
Yet within the underground alternative methods are ingeniously designed to expose the avarice worldwide.
Therefore, it seems that The Darkest Hour, in 2011, lacklustre and threadbare though it may presently be, was claiming that mad übercapitalists in possession of armies and courts of law were fed up with the leisure activities of the frisky masses, and diabolically dictated that their artistic energies would be direly transformed into concrete labour, with Dickensian dismissals and authoritarian shares, the last remnants of the bourgeoisie left to courageously extend the light, as darkness descended, and individuality soullessly evaporated.
Other interpretations might be more apt.
The entire freaking planet.
Gorging themselves on humanity's energy and power, yet invisible to homo sapien eyes, and protected by impenetrable shielding, Earth is globally gutted in a matter of hours, and our heroes thrust back into an unforgiving dark age.
Nevertheless, good fortune enables them to slowly piece together what has incredibly come to pass, as they juke and gesticulate their way from one improvised shelter to another.
Other survivors are encountered along the way, and from what little knowledge they possess as a whole, they're able to slowly strategize, synergize, swerve, and shock, mounting what little resistance they can, as they desperately seek submerged self-sustaining agency.
To bask in extant logic.
Even if there's nowhere to hide.
Allegorical applications of The Darkest Hour vigorously outdistancing the film itself, one wonders about these chaotic representations and what they indeed substantiate?
We know that once there was a will to party.
We know that energy has been ignominiously expropriated.
Those responsible can neither be seen nor detected.
And are in possession of vastly superior technology.
Yet within the underground alternative methods are ingeniously designed to expose the avarice worldwide.
Therefore, it seems that The Darkest Hour, in 2011, lacklustre and threadbare though it may presently be, was claiming that mad übercapitalists in possession of armies and courts of law were fed up with the leisure activities of the frisky masses, and diabolically dictated that their artistic energies would be direly transformed into concrete labour, with Dickensian dismissals and authoritarian shares, the last remnants of the bourgeoisie left to courageously extend the light, as darkness descended, and individuality soullessly evaporated.
Other interpretations might be more apt.
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