Lady Bird

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?