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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.