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?