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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.