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.

Juyuso seubgyuksageun (Attack the Gas Station!)

A group of young adults, who have failed to professionally assert themselves, randomly decide to attack a local gas station, again, in Sang-Jin Kim's Juyuso seubgyuksageun (Attack the Gas Station!), their boredom invigoratingly eclipsed by rash hypertense pretentions, inspirations from which they reclaim the dignity that their culture's strict obsession with obedience has denied them, artists and athletes in/variably adjudicating calamitous caprice, with malevolent will, and assiduous extension.

But through their delinquent acts, through the ways in which they audaciously challenge their neighbourhood's modus operandi, their divergence necessitating that unanticipated rival factions gather, investigate, emerge, the established order riled, jurisprudence gingerly jabberwocked, a serendipitous state of affairs chaotically presents itself, wherein which everyone eclectically entertains novel nubile notions, energetically exceeding the bumptious bottom line, collectively assembled, to irascibly trench and tether.

Extreme masculinity deftly delineating the absurd, Juyuso seubgyuksageun satirizes sociopaths to exorcize easy living.

Note how the no-goodniks must pretend to be constructive citizens in order to eventually acquire the loot they're after.

Comedically crafted psychotically shafted supreme bizarro excess, like Walter Hill's The Warriors sponsored by Red Bull, like paddleboarding down the St. Lawrence, a culture's admiration for fighting shocked but surely syndicated, Juyuso's childlike unconcerned courageous illuminating lunacy still metaphorically cultivates the entrepreneurial path, with cold considerate recourse to hypocrisy notwithstanding, levels and layers and legitimacies, assuming roles to expedite karma.

Babettes gæstebud (Babette's Feast)

Nothing sensational, cataclysmic, outlandish, inflammatory, no hooplas, aggrandizements, emoticons, bells and whistles, just simply steeped humble self-sacrifice graciously adorned, artistically respected, the shock of the indulgence subconsciously placated by years of habitual camaraderie, as the unassuming gregariously gather to uncharacteristically try something new, a world class multiple course meal prepared by the exiled apotheosis of authentic French cuisine, peacefully and modestly living with two beautiful unmarried once sought after religious sisters, a revolutionary remonstrance content to quaintly struggle who expounds the extraordinary by crutch, crépuscule, or chrysanthemum, ready to express her boundless gratitude, joyously importing refuge.

Assertive timidity.

Stoic intention.

A suitor, no, not a suitor, a patron, yes, a potential patron, himself a world renowned hypnotic, who miraculously facilitated her exodus out of respect for exceptional talent and devotion to social artistry, leaves a lasting impact even if his objectives were extinguished.

Another suitor, an actual suitor, having abandoned his pursuit decades earlier, apprehensively sits down to dine, pondering whether or not his world achievements were indeed worthwhile, or if psychological salvation, bucolic peace of mind, would have been alchemically manifested if he had surrendered to unrequited love.

To a life of fulfilled obscurity.

Babettes gæstebud (Babette's Feast) resplendently celebrates immersion and ingenuity by brilliantly settling down to cut and dry community.

As cultures digestively mingle to tolerate through mutual cooperation, discourses of the immiscible asymptotically approach convergence.

To accept, to permit, to question, to splurge, devout inhabitants of a remote Danish village spend one evening of their lives dramatically immersed in the warmth of the supernaturally quotidian.

A comment on the excesses of the French Revolution which freely examines spiritual aspects of social democracy (a suddenly wealthy chef spends everything to enrich impoverished lives for an evening), as well as an attempt to exemplify undeniable artistic veracity, lets everything go to theoretically merge with unconscious levity, choosing peace as a representative of sustainability, culinary assemblies, as heralds of the sublime.

It

Plagued by an ingratiating ravenous monstrosity, a team of creative outcasts struggles to envision.

It preys upon them in isolation, shockingly manifesting their most potent fears in trepidatious real-time after they've been discovered alone.

Or at least passing by unnoticed, adults being immune to the clown's pestiferous ploys, and unable to assist their young as they struggle to outwit vicious appetite.

Yet one boy (Jaeden Lieberher as Bill Denbrough) boldly decides he will not yield and convinces the others to affirm contention.

Thereby emerging as leader.

Having realized they are stronger if they resolutely unite as one, they set out in search of conflict, whether engaging with the malevolent Pennywise (Bill Skarsgård), their parents, or other unhelpful adults, things are bleak, castigating apprehensions woebegone, they eventually strike with vehement poise.

Umbilical.

They mustn't be afraid you see, and contending as a group helps them face then overcome their fears, Pennywise functioning as the haunting prospect of a spoiled unproductive lonely maladjusted youth, it doesn't necessarily kill them but transforms them into mature horrors, mired in a revolving stasis, the sought after younglings organized in It, finding friendship like an antidote to venom.

Articulate idiosyncrasies.

Improvised bedlam.

It's unconcerned restrained yet volatile examination of unsung heroism shyly elevates the versatility of teamwork while cohesively combatting bullying and rumour.

It's a matter of timing, strategizing, envisioning, coordinating, communicating, adjusting, adapting.

The film mechanically delivers some solid frights while still developing young adult character and plot without overemphasizing the grotesque or understating childhood trauma.

All around bad, being a kid in It's filmscape.

That is one crappy fictional town.

Métamorphoses

Immaculate inviolable chill yet vengeful hipster gods graciously curve their way through Christophe Honoré's Métamorphoses, immortality enabling them to cruelly spurn the wicked or justly reward good deeds, as they randomly select un/fortunate individuals to masterfully assert eternity.

With judicious postmodern consternation.

And bewitching salacious tact.

It's capricious veracity, sensually applied, brazenly exemplifying discourses of the inquisitive, the amorous, the mercurial, the forbidden, inexhaustible excesses secreting broiled dis/continuity, born of tender infatuation, harkened by incredulous gusts.

Ecstatic endurance.

Courtly compunction.

Roman myth flourishing within contemporary realms, ancient momentum rawly rekindled.

According to Honoré's appetitive applications of the tales, and the ways in which they loosely follow the journey of a bewildered ingenue, Roman gods were obsessed with Earthly pleasures, enjoyed obtaining them, yet still excelled at fruitfully complicating one another's pursuits, as if the satisfaction of a desire was sheer punishment for the uninitiated.

That's standard isn't it?

In the beginning the film seems like a lofty excuse to celebrate young adult experimentation, flings, but as it progresses a visceral sense of relevant nonchalant mesmerizing streetwise countryside volition gradually emerges, a bona fide spiritual transmutation, as it were, artistically grasping fecund universal tranquilities, light yet vicious, hesitantly engaged.

Perhaps all of these individuals who came to be worshipped as gods were just chillaxed Joes anthropomorphic and insouciant enough to delight literary pretensions of old?

Much more literal than O Brother, Where Art Thou?

Don't Look Now

A mother (Julie Christie) and father (Donald Sutherland), devastated by the loss of their daughter, travel to Venice for restorative distraction, only to find themselves immersed in the inexplicable, struggling to comprehend what simply cannot be.

Thus, as a blind woman's (Hilary Mason) murky clairvoyance confuses yet spiritually syndicates, John Baxter's rationality holds strong, even if he can't deny he's seen something odd, or that her predictions coldly generate truth.

Monopolistic reason can lead one to disregard his or her non-linear senses, the pursuit of pure logic having yet to clarify visions and premonitions, the sustained consistency of which always cause the sure and steady to question enthusiastically, or deny nevertheless, with vehement sincerity.

It's much better than a culture which values psychic claims above all else, for such an unqualifiable elevation begs a preponderance of chicanery.

Mumbo-jumbo as it were.

I believe there are rare people who possess such gifts notwithstanding who shouldn't be shamed and sidelined consequently.

How much of it is basic logic psychologically or historically applied remains to be determined, not by me malheureusement, but by those who make a living marketing such things.

Take prophecy.

If I remember correctly, France was in a state of disarray years after the revolution and Napoleon judged that for order to return, the disorganized people needed something to do.

So he went about conquering Europe.

I applied aspects of this scenario 10 years ago to the United States, thinking that if masses accustomed to wealth and comfort one day found themselves struggling to get by, a madman could unite them with gilded promises, which is what Trump is trying to do.

It's not prophecy.

It's speculation based on historical precedent.

Don't Look Now isn't the greatest film. It's shot in Venice but the cinematography focuses more on dark alleyways and run down buildings than what I imagine are architectural wonders. It keeps you anticipating the next action throughout without offering much compensation for your trouble, apart from some timeless interactions between Christie and Sutherland, and a vague sense of conspiracy which would have benefitted from value added information.

It's character driven but the material doesn't exactly situate them on the 417.

Did Venice have a highly xenophobic reputation at the time?

Walkabout

Courage sustains two formerly privileged youngsters lost in the Australian outback as they conserve what little strength remains to keep moving in search of sanctuary.

The boy (Luc Roeg) is too young to comprehend the crisis but the girl (Jenny Agutter) is resilient enough to diagnose, plan, proceed, and persevere.

Just as things seem hopelessly bleak, as their oasis dries up and alternatives fail to present themselves, an Indigenous youth on walkabout (David Gulpilil) appears on the horizon.

Possessing the knowledge and skills necessary to comfortably excel and thrive, he nourishes then guides them towards heavily populated lands, referred to often, as postmodern civilization.

Director Nicolas Roeg does a brilliant job juxtaposing the urban and the naturalistic throughout, showcasing at least a dozen native Australian animals, with childlike bliss and wondrous unconcern.

Can't believe I haven't seen this until recently.

Many of the animals are hunted for food however so beware.

When nature is your primary textbook, and survival your most demanding 9 to 5, you develop a relationship with your environment potentially as valuable as any University degree.

Possibly more valuable in current economies.

Walkabout provocatively elevates ingeniously living off the land, developing abilities akin to instincts, and characteristics cathartic and strong.

Possibly created to combat dismissive attitudes regarding Indigenous peoples adopted by Anglo-Australians, it certainly makes aspects of city living seem dull while lauding hearty bush living.

The unfortunate incompatibility of the two worlds as depicted in the film haunting the empathetic long afterwards, as different maturities conflict and cultures tragically come of age, Walkabout offers challenges and insights into ideal romance, coldly shattered, by prohibitive fears of the unknown.

The Glass Castle

Lifelong freespirited learning clashes with a daughter's less romantic pending nuptials as social interaction is inquisitively utilized to vindicate love in Destin Daniel Cretton's The Glass Castle.

Jeannette's (Brie Larson) wild unpredictable upbringing inculcated desires to seek out stability.

But schmoozing high and dry has its manicured blemishes, and a life spent precisely calculating the whimsical and/or incisive and/or apt and/or deconstructive impact of every austerely crafted glance, blush, and/or statement, and/or, sterilely severs her invaluable absurd attachments.

Through an intermittent series of sustained past life remembrances we're feverishly introduced to a lovingly versatile chaotically constructive family, complete with self-destructive alcoholic husband, and tender angelic supportive wife.

Their interactions bluntly interweave the traumatic and the endearing to intergenerationally spread a gritty multiphasic aggregate across recent genealogical landscapes, in order to strengthen psychological shielding which counters antiseptic evaluations.

It's well done, joyously celebrating unrestrained freedom while heartbreakingly illustrating potential related consequences, the bohemians and the bourgeois culturally busking and(/or) burnishing, as a family unconditionally demonstrates what it means to love.

Unfortunately, Captain Fantastic was released not too long ago, and while The Glass Castle makes more of a polished mainstream fit, Captain is the more exciting film.

A new subgenre?

Watch the booze peeps!

I love having a drink when the working day is done, a couple more on the weekend, and having learned to drink moderately, I find I now enjoy a glass of red wine or a pint much more.

I believe I learned to do this through cultural osmosis, my definition of the phrase being "learning and/or adopting features of the new culture you find yourself living within without socially interacting with it that often."

I should have posted that phrase when it popped into my head years ago.

It's probably from the 19th century.

Bah!

The Nut Job 2: Nutty by Nature

Gluttony and greed contend with sustainability and prudence as a group of mischievous animals from a local park run afoul of a corrupt disingenuous mayor, in The Nut Job 2: Nutty by Nature.

As overflowing with contempt for anything that doesn't immediately enrich his vast fortunes, as he is unable to prevent himself from gorging upon snacks encumbered by a cardiac degree of immobilizing trans fat, Mayor Muldoon (Bobby Moynihan) decides to turn public land into an amusement park without seeking the guidance of council beforehand.

It is cheaply constructed for the bare minimum with concern for neither structural integrity nor public safety, a ghastly house of carnivalesque cards ready to crumble at any given moment.

The animals protest.

The public land is their home, the ground upon and within which they rear and nurture their young, without it they'll have to move to the surrounding unforgiving concrete wastelands, wherein which they'll likely be divided, and forced to live unscrupulously alone.

They are also guilty of flagrant distraction.

Spoiled after having fortunately gathered extreme wealth, they squandered their resources with reckless unconcern, consumed by ravenous appetites, their carefree excess foolishly cost them their homegrown instincts.

But one squirrel kept her head, Andie (Katherine Heigl), thorny love interest of leader, Surly (Will Arnett).

Together they begin to rebuild, encouraging each individual member to share their ideas, demonstrate their competencies, synergize their strategies, and mobilize their momentum.

With the sole goal in mind, of taking Muldoon the fuck down.

It's an energetic children's film that environmentally examines contemporary obsessions with grotesque profits by juxtaposing plutocrats with the penniless, the nimble, with the immutable.

The Mayor consults no one, cares nothing for his clients, it's pure unregulated capitalism, sacrificing sanctuary for psychotropics, and solace for crime and hunger.

Communal ghettoization.

Globalization is metaphorically presented as different animal groups share their mutually hopeless predicaments.

One hell of a squirrel.

One hell of a mouse.

An incredible synthesis.

Problems in one region of the globe/town, problems in another.

Symbiotic stitches, cooperative communications.

Pursuant, indicative.

Of global citizenry.