A young idealistic Queen takes the throne in brave Scotland, a queen as familiar with communal ethics as she is unaware of treacherous plots, her gallant attempts to ecumenically harmonize defiantly subverted by rank misogyny, her courageous desire to have a family, reproached by hearts diffused.
Woeful political intrigue, direst soulless plagues.
It's like at any time there are many conflicting interests, and every one of them thinks they're pursuing just objectives, and if they actually want to reify their ideas even though they rest in opposition, byzantine arrays of begrudged conflicting alliances engulf them, the steady mind keeping track of every variation, even if he or she can by no means lead.
The individual in power attempts to change things and can hopefully rely upon the discipline of her or his colleagues, as Elizabeth I (Margot Robbie) did in England for quite some time.
He or she must command differing degrees of respect, soothe aggrieved adversaries, yield when it's advantageous to do so, act at opportune times.
William Lyon Mackenzie King seems to have been a master at doing this from what I've read, perhaps because he proceeded inductively, that is, even though he had ideals he still had to balance manifold competing factors (personalities, internal and external opponents, divergent regional agendas, budgetary constraints, campaign promises, ethical expectations . . .), each with their own comprehensive sets of particularities, to implement them, so he studied individuals, learned what motivated them, learned when to trust and distrust those surrounding him, since he understood what conditioned their advice, and his incisive study allowed him to balance a relatively concrete house of cards for 9 then 13 years, with an enviable composure few could ever hope to possess.
He knew when to listen, when not too, and therefore gained the respect of the level-headed individuals within his government, and beyond.
There are no mortal gods, only women and men and clever narratives, William Lyon Mackenzie King at least had some support which unfortunately Mary Stuart (Saoirse Ronan) did not, her wise sympathetic ideas unsuited to the volatile times.
She was feisty though, and beautiful, and put up a good fight, won some key victories, and was loved by many.
If Mary Queen of Scots's as independent as it seems, a good match for its headstrong subject matter, director Josie Rourke certainly made the most of her finances.
Convincing battle scenes, impressive aerial shots, a huge number of extras travelling through landscapes which seem remote, castle dynamics, armour.
It's solid, a tragic tale passionately brought to life, myriad characters adding depth, historical sorrow, and contemporary vindications.
There's an incredible shot of Saoirse, which lasts for some time, during which I imagined her becoming more and more sublime as she ages, and continues to take on bold challenging roles.
Margot Robbie's great too, the film's very well cast (Alastair Coomer) and seems to have been taken seriously by everyone involved.
I was hoping for two or three earth shattering royal declarations, the magnanimous linguistic authenticity of which would resonate with incumbent thunder.
But you can't have everything, and the writing's still quite good (Beau Willimon and John Guy).
One of the best films I've seen in 2018.
Enriched through bright enchantments.
Friday, December 28, 2018
Wednesday, December 26, 2018
Under the Silver Lake
Bored, drifting, idle, amenable, overwhelmed by absolutely nothing, sought after and welcome everywhere, not awkward or creepy or uptight or dismissive, never really sayin' much, never that sure of what you mean or are trying to say, searching for something without knowledge or method yet providing fresh insights into that which you seek, no matter what you try, no matter where you go, the subject of your investigation closely tied to what you've been watching on tv, your favourite video games, the women who love you, your raw unfiltered instinct, solutions to random conspiracy theories discovered along the way, carefree choice deterministically diagnosed, skunk stink bears no repercussions, as if you are, undeniably, L.A's stablest, most heroic bro.
You have everything you need without working.
You're desired everywhere.
You achieve your goals without thinking.
No matter what, you succeed.
Your goals aren't lofty, you're just looking for the blonde who used to swim in your apartment's pool before she suddenly disappeared, but intertwined with your humble slightly pervy objectives are those sought by men and women throughout human history, as if you've accidentally substantialized grasped sociohistorical meaninglessness.
In unsung purest Dada.
It's like you're in a library and you randomly choose different books from diverse sections to prove a thesis you didn't know existed prior to waking up hungover.
Like every innuendo you ever speculated upon bore cohesive communal fruit which was as succulent as it was crowd pleasing.
Like you were at the centre of manifold concentric circles the alignment of which generated personalized interstellar phenomenon harnessed inclusively, just for you.
The kind of narrative which demands its director includes his or her middle name.
Random synergies chaotically cultivated ask, "what's Under the Silver Lake?", in David Robert Mitchell's latest film.
It's film noiry.
It's coming of age.
It's David Lynchy.
It's a bit nutso.
Still, if you're wondering if you can fall for another hapless protagonist who accomplishes much more during his miraculous quest than his ends ever intended, you'll likely enjoy it as much as I did, indubitably, by all means.
Essential undergrad viewing.
Well suited to late August.
You have everything you need without working.
You're desired everywhere.
You achieve your goals without thinking.
No matter what, you succeed.
Your goals aren't lofty, you're just looking for the blonde who used to swim in your apartment's pool before she suddenly disappeared, but intertwined with your humble slightly pervy objectives are those sought by men and women throughout human history, as if you've accidentally substantialized grasped sociohistorical meaninglessness.
In unsung purest Dada.
It's like you're in a library and you randomly choose different books from diverse sections to prove a thesis you didn't know existed prior to waking up hungover.
Like every innuendo you ever speculated upon bore cohesive communal fruit which was as succulent as it was crowd pleasing.
Like you were at the centre of manifold concentric circles the alignment of which generated personalized interstellar phenomenon harnessed inclusively, just for you.
The kind of narrative which demands its director includes his or her middle name.
Random synergies chaotically cultivated ask, "what's Under the Silver Lake?", in David Robert Mitchell's latest film.
It's film noiry.
It's coming of age.
It's David Lynchy.
It's a bit nutso.
Still, if you're wondering if you can fall for another hapless protagonist who accomplishes much more during his miraculous quest than his ends ever intended, you'll likely enjoy it as much as I did, indubitably, by all means.
Essential undergrad viewing.
Well suited to late August.
Friday, December 21, 2018
At Eternity's Gate
Light streaming through the window, dreamy reckoning, exotic pause, patient nimble expression sparrow soaring eyes adoring, vortex, texture, blends, illuminated unconscious spiritually orchestrated canvas, brush strokes, supernatural brevity denoted enchantingly, floral vigour, spellbound charm, relaxed contemplative feeling, emotion, embrasure, less concerned with exacting aesthetics, less enamoured with splayed bedazzle, shyly swaddling landscapes in waves, in vivid undulating coy windswept waves.
Unaccustomed to traditional lifestyles, he struggles to say the right thing.
Unaware of what he's done, he rests for brief periods at times.
It can be very dark, how you have to think to understand what drives some people, sometimes, not everyone by any means, but some people care about such meaningless things, and seem to find motivation through ill-willed spite.
At times.
Many people don't fit roles that suggest they should act a specific way.
Many people which advocate for these roles don't fit them well either.
The roles exist to avoid confusion, I suppose, although I imagine broadening them, expanding them to include more spice, more variability, would make both spice and variability seem just as natural as rigid structure, and communities would correspondingly benefit from the increased diversity, teaching those whom it frightens to have no fear, regardless of whether or not everyone liked the same things.
Vincent van Gogh's (Willem Dafoe) actions are out of line at times and he doesn't realize it. But the violence he encounters doesn't teach him anything, in fact only makes things much much worse.
In the film.
His style, like intuitive observations of incorporeal intangible invisible imperceptible resonances, carefully balancing the sincere and the awkward with realistically composed imagination, perhaps mistaken for humorous representatives of inarticulate blooms in his time, clearly synthesizing wonder with amazement through recourse to the mundane to me, tasks hesitant poetic lucidity, the unobserved omnipresent joys that pass unnoticed as one ages, as dismissals of innocence replace innate fascinations, they never did with Vincent van Gogh, and, according to the two films I've seen about him, he remained unassuming till the end.
Perhaps touched, ingenious, perspicacious, naive, he had a vision anyways and worked hard to clarify it, as if he could never quite realize what it was, but sought to enliven it nonetheless.
The film's a carefully crafted thoughtful investigation of Van Gogh the artist, rich with performances from great actors, the dialogue perhaps too lofty and condensed at times but poignant and revealing at others, Julian Schnabel presenting his own artistic gifts most prominently perhaps when nothing's being said at all.
A gifted filmmaker.
A wonderful film.
Unaccustomed to traditional lifestyles, he struggles to say the right thing.
Unaware of what he's done, he rests for brief periods at times.
It can be very dark, how you have to think to understand what drives some people, sometimes, not everyone by any means, but some people care about such meaningless things, and seem to find motivation through ill-willed spite.
At times.
Many people don't fit roles that suggest they should act a specific way.
Many people which advocate for these roles don't fit them well either.
The roles exist to avoid confusion, I suppose, although I imagine broadening them, expanding them to include more spice, more variability, would make both spice and variability seem just as natural as rigid structure, and communities would correspondingly benefit from the increased diversity, teaching those whom it frightens to have no fear, regardless of whether or not everyone liked the same things.
Vincent van Gogh's (Willem Dafoe) actions are out of line at times and he doesn't realize it. But the violence he encounters doesn't teach him anything, in fact only makes things much much worse.
In the film.
His style, like intuitive observations of incorporeal intangible invisible imperceptible resonances, carefully balancing the sincere and the awkward with realistically composed imagination, perhaps mistaken for humorous representatives of inarticulate blooms in his time, clearly synthesizing wonder with amazement through recourse to the mundane to me, tasks hesitant poetic lucidity, the unobserved omnipresent joys that pass unnoticed as one ages, as dismissals of innocence replace innate fascinations, they never did with Vincent van Gogh, and, according to the two films I've seen about him, he remained unassuming till the end.
Perhaps touched, ingenious, perspicacious, naive, he had a vision anyways and worked hard to clarify it, as if he could never quite realize what it was, but sought to enliven it nonetheless.
The film's a carefully crafted thoughtful investigation of Van Gogh the artist, rich with performances from great actors, the dialogue perhaps too lofty and condensed at times but poignant and revealing at others, Julian Schnabel presenting his own artistic gifts most prominently perhaps when nothing's being said at all.
A gifted filmmaker.
A wonderful film.
Wednesday, December 19, 2018
The Christmas Chronicles
The Christmas spirit has hit a critical low as people across North America stubbornly refuse to believe.
And Santa's (Kurt Russell) in trouble.
His sleigh having encountered unexpected turbulence, he's lost touch with his reindeer, and crash landed in Chicago.
He needs help, and even though he provides the adult world with ample evidence to prove he's authentic, expressing himself in different languages and reflexively presenting the perfect gift, its cold shoulder is still bluntly given, and he must therefore improvise distraught on the road.
Those who have stowed away for the journey, or part of the journey, find themselves lost in hostile streets alone, within which wits must be developed then relied upon, as potential ends for corrupt pastimes ring true.
While Santa heads to prison.
His characteristic charm and overflowing goodwill ensure he still makes the most of it, but at points things do seem rather grim, like Who-ville on lockdown, or blind commercial obsessions.
Yet true believers still remain committed to setting him free.
With hopes he will finish his work.
And save the Holiday Season yet again.
In The Christmas Chronicles.
Wherein innocence is exonerated.
A bit too hasty, perhaps, time is an issue, but naive assumptions don't compensate for productive tension.
If Santa's appeals in the restaurant had been less confident, and his audience had been more willing to listen, for instance, the result wouldn't have seemed so rushed, and stronger emotions could have been sincerely generated.
Chronicles excels at critiquing hard-hearted dismissals of the season, but still stuffers from a surplus of disbelief, which creates a bleak atmosphere, much less infused with seasonal mirth making.
Santa can't do it all himself, although Russell impresses.
Try not to misunderstand, as far as Christmas films go, it's better than many, and Santa's blunt spirited enthusiasm is endearing.
But the film's more like a video game than a movie, like Santa has to boldly pass level after level, quickly, instead of just reacting and commenting within a deep narrative.
The binge viewing aesthetic is oddly like a video game, or at least much less like a broadcast television show.
Rather than lure viewers in with great stories, perhaps binge oriented series are trying to make them feel just as great for having finished an episode as they would have had they passed a level?
Thus, although presenting hearty protagonists reverently dedicated to the holiday season, The Christmas Chronicles would have benefitted from a little more time and patience.
That perfect gift doesn't just materialize out of thin air or show up thanks to formulae or speculation.
It takes love, foresight, originality, and spontaneity, to demand it be purchased.
Or placed upon a heartfelt wish list.
Written with care.
Mailed due North.
And Santa's (Kurt Russell) in trouble.
His sleigh having encountered unexpected turbulence, he's lost touch with his reindeer, and crash landed in Chicago.
He needs help, and even though he provides the adult world with ample evidence to prove he's authentic, expressing himself in different languages and reflexively presenting the perfect gift, its cold shoulder is still bluntly given, and he must therefore improvise distraught on the road.
Those who have stowed away for the journey, or part of the journey, find themselves lost in hostile streets alone, within which wits must be developed then relied upon, as potential ends for corrupt pastimes ring true.
While Santa heads to prison.
His characteristic charm and overflowing goodwill ensure he still makes the most of it, but at points things do seem rather grim, like Who-ville on lockdown, or blind commercial obsessions.
Yet true believers still remain committed to setting him free.
With hopes he will finish his work.
And save the Holiday Season yet again.
In The Christmas Chronicles.
Wherein innocence is exonerated.
A bit too hasty, perhaps, time is an issue, but naive assumptions don't compensate for productive tension.
If Santa's appeals in the restaurant had been less confident, and his audience had been more willing to listen, for instance, the result wouldn't have seemed so rushed, and stronger emotions could have been sincerely generated.
Chronicles excels at critiquing hard-hearted dismissals of the season, but still stuffers from a surplus of disbelief, which creates a bleak atmosphere, much less infused with seasonal mirth making.
Santa can't do it all himself, although Russell impresses.
Try not to misunderstand, as far as Christmas films go, it's better than many, and Santa's blunt spirited enthusiasm is endearing.
But the film's more like a video game than a movie, like Santa has to boldly pass level after level, quickly, instead of just reacting and commenting within a deep narrative.
The binge viewing aesthetic is oddly like a video game, or at least much less like a broadcast television show.
Rather than lure viewers in with great stories, perhaps binge oriented series are trying to make them feel just as great for having finished an episode as they would have had they passed a level?
Thus, although presenting hearty protagonists reverently dedicated to the holiday season, The Christmas Chronicles would have benefitted from a little more time and patience.
That perfect gift doesn't just materialize out of thin air or show up thanks to formulae or speculation.
It takes love, foresight, originality, and spontaneity, to demand it be purchased.
Or placed upon a heartfelt wish list.
Written with care.
Mailed due North.
Tuesday, December 18, 2018
Bohemian Rhapsody
Struggling with upheld established traditions, a creative singer songwriter enchants serendipity.
It's not that their guidelines are obtuse or ill-defined, their associated codes and mannerisms just stress him the *&%$ out.
Even if he doesn't respond delinquently.
Not at a loss for words, he soon finds himself loquaciously disposed, and boldly makes known his desire to join a band.
They hit it off, hit the ground running, shake things up, let it all hang loose, every member contributing to their success, critical inquiries fuelling their momentum.
Cohesively.
Indeed, Bohemian Rhapsody excels at presenting Queen the band as they sternly work to synchronously perform and compose.
Focusing heavily on Freddie Mercury's (Rami Malek) life, he still isn't depicted as the band's sole driving force.
They wrote so many unique songs, songs that don't even come close to sounding like anything else, not even Bowie, some experimental bands forgetting that music needs to be appealing in some way (Bowie was very appealing), not Queen, who had a rare gift for balancing the experimental and the commercial which still influences today, let's throw in an operatic section, and later write two of the most stunning jock anthems of all time, undeniable diversity exuberantly exemplifying innovative resolve, the film suggesting it's the product of their union, and that no one ever unilaterally took control.
Mercury even critiques his solo career precisely because the studio musicians he worked with never challenged him with the same bravado he'd taken for granted in Queen (I imagine many studio musicians do challenge the artists they work with, but within the film that point helps cultivate its emphasis on unity).
While the film celebrates Mercury's strong character, the ways in which he enriched peoples lives in alternative ways to those promoted by his upbringing, which he still respected, things become very dark when he embraces his difference, as if the film is indirectly critiquing it.
Queen and his family and his eventual life partner (Aaron McCusker) and his first wife (Lucy Boynton) were no doubt essential features of his life, but I wonder if he was as lost as they grew apart as Bohemian Rhapsody suggests?
I'm not trying to say he should have partied as hard as he did, I'm not promoting wild lifelong partying, I'm just pointing out that the film becomes very dark as Mercury's alternative lifestyle becomes the focus, and I imagine he likely made many supportive friends when he came out, many of whom were likely also there to support him.
And were his bandmates as angelic as depicted within?
Outstanding musicians who redefined pop music and understood that music was their career nevertheless, Bohemian Rhapsody pays tribute to their indelible impact while celebrating loyalty and composition.
Many cool cat shots too.
Hardly anyone seems to age in the film, like pop music is a fountain of youth.
Although hairstyles and outfits do change.
It's not that their guidelines are obtuse or ill-defined, their associated codes and mannerisms just stress him the *&%$ out.
Even if he doesn't respond delinquently.
Not at a loss for words, he soon finds himself loquaciously disposed, and boldly makes known his desire to join a band.
They hit it off, hit the ground running, shake things up, let it all hang loose, every member contributing to their success, critical inquiries fuelling their momentum.
Cohesively.
Indeed, Bohemian Rhapsody excels at presenting Queen the band as they sternly work to synchronously perform and compose.
Focusing heavily on Freddie Mercury's (Rami Malek) life, he still isn't depicted as the band's sole driving force.
They wrote so many unique songs, songs that don't even come close to sounding like anything else, not even Bowie, some experimental bands forgetting that music needs to be appealing in some way (Bowie was very appealing), not Queen, who had a rare gift for balancing the experimental and the commercial which still influences today, let's throw in an operatic section, and later write two of the most stunning jock anthems of all time, undeniable diversity exuberantly exemplifying innovative resolve, the film suggesting it's the product of their union, and that no one ever unilaterally took control.
Mercury even critiques his solo career precisely because the studio musicians he worked with never challenged him with the same bravado he'd taken for granted in Queen (I imagine many studio musicians do challenge the artists they work with, but within the film that point helps cultivate its emphasis on unity).
While the film celebrates Mercury's strong character, the ways in which he enriched peoples lives in alternative ways to those promoted by his upbringing, which he still respected, things become very dark when he embraces his difference, as if the film is indirectly critiquing it.
Queen and his family and his eventual life partner (Aaron McCusker) and his first wife (Lucy Boynton) were no doubt essential features of his life, but I wonder if he was as lost as they grew apart as Bohemian Rhapsody suggests?
I'm not trying to say he should have partied as hard as he did, I'm not promoting wild lifelong partying, I'm just pointing out that the film becomes very dark as Mercury's alternative lifestyle becomes the focus, and I imagine he likely made many supportive friends when he came out, many of whom were likely also there to support him.
And were his bandmates as angelic as depicted within?
Outstanding musicians who redefined pop music and understood that music was their career nevertheless, Bohemian Rhapsody pays tribute to their indelible impact while celebrating loyalty and composition.
Many cool cat shots too.
Hardly anyone seems to age in the film, like pop music is a fountain of youth.
Although hairstyles and outfits do change.
Friday, December 14, 2018
Clara
Vigorous contemplation astronomically acclimated objectively focused on enigmatic night skies.
The loss of a loved one, the end of a marriage, caught up in one's work, cold obsession wears thin.
Pedagogically anyway, those are the kinds of unimaginative questions purposeless fools think up in bland appeals to flippant provocation, having nothing that drives them themselves they seek recognition in blasé slander, as they rigidly capsize then flounder away.
No matter.
Perhaps Dr. Isaac Bruno (Patrick J. Adams) did need a break, but his uninterrupted logical obsession does lead to prosperous discoveries.
With Clara (Troian Bellisario), an independent spirit emboldening itinerant fascination, having travelled the globe she applies to work with Dr. Bruno, bringing passion and impulse and style to their studies, cooly adopting romantic methods, warmly embracing emotions age old.
Imaginary numbers.
Heart.
Spawn of the universe interdimensionally abstracting to practically envision passage, spiritual transference incorporeally transmitting commensurate extraterrestrial caches, juxtaposed entities interpreting as one coyly generating crinkly bifrost, the bond of the inexplicable reciting interplanetary sun drenched dawns.
Sci-fi love, intergalactically conceptualized, resoundingly researched, indiscriminately developed.
This Clara, Akash Sherman's Clara, true synthesis of art and science, like a seashell or desert haze.
Posing questions with no reasonable response, intercessions padded feasible parlance, cool realistic bonsai that values stoic discipline, charmed cogent romance which denotes with precision.
With academically inclined composed characters well suited to dreamy wild cards, Clara contrasts teaching with research, the lab with the world at large, objective analysis with inspired intuition, and dismal grief with resilient hope.
Dr. Durant (Ennis Esmer) and Dr. Bruno's approaches to higher education complement each other well, and even though misfortune has ended Dr. Jenkins (Kristen Hager) and Dr. Bruno's marriage, they still maintain a professional relationship as time slowly goes by.
Alternative thinking and experimental readings lead to rational conclusions which reclassify ontological taxonomies.
I have no idea how to find them, or contact them, but there must be other lifeforms out there.
I don't know how much should be spent trying to find them.
But hopefully some's spent on dolphins, improbability.
The sea.
The loss of a loved one, the end of a marriage, caught up in one's work, cold obsession wears thin.
Pedagogically anyway, those are the kinds of unimaginative questions purposeless fools think up in bland appeals to flippant provocation, having nothing that drives them themselves they seek recognition in blasé slander, as they rigidly capsize then flounder away.
No matter.
Perhaps Dr. Isaac Bruno (Patrick J. Adams) did need a break, but his uninterrupted logical obsession does lead to prosperous discoveries.
With Clara (Troian Bellisario), an independent spirit emboldening itinerant fascination, having travelled the globe she applies to work with Dr. Bruno, bringing passion and impulse and style to their studies, cooly adopting romantic methods, warmly embracing emotions age old.
Imaginary numbers.
Heart.
Spawn of the universe interdimensionally abstracting to practically envision passage, spiritual transference incorporeally transmitting commensurate extraterrestrial caches, juxtaposed entities interpreting as one coyly generating crinkly bifrost, the bond of the inexplicable reciting interplanetary sun drenched dawns.
Sci-fi love, intergalactically conceptualized, resoundingly researched, indiscriminately developed.
This Clara, Akash Sherman's Clara, true synthesis of art and science, like a seashell or desert haze.
Posing questions with no reasonable response, intercessions padded feasible parlance, cool realistic bonsai that values stoic discipline, charmed cogent romance which denotes with precision.
With academically inclined composed characters well suited to dreamy wild cards, Clara contrasts teaching with research, the lab with the world at large, objective analysis with inspired intuition, and dismal grief with resilient hope.
Dr. Durant (Ennis Esmer) and Dr. Bruno's approaches to higher education complement each other well, and even though misfortune has ended Dr. Jenkins (Kristen Hager) and Dr. Bruno's marriage, they still maintain a professional relationship as time slowly goes by.
Alternative thinking and experimental readings lead to rational conclusions which reclassify ontological taxonomies.
I have no idea how to find them, or contact them, but there must be other lifeforms out there.
I don't know how much should be spent trying to find them.
But hopefully some's spent on dolphins, improbability.
The sea.
Wednesday, December 12, 2018
The Grinch
The Holiday Season taunts the miserly Grinch (Benedict Cumberbatch) yet again, its festive goodwill and celebratory merrymaking envisioned as definitive signs of hedonistic excess, unable to distinguish joyous relaxation from essential work undone, he sets out to ruin everything for the dear innocent unsuspecting Whos, their innate playfulness an affront to his cynical brooding, their kindness and sympathy misguided petulance unresolved, barest immaterial austere thrift left in stubborn, jealous mean-spirits, with no one to nurture or provide counsel, he villainously calculates, in the latest stubborn Grinch.
Although it's not as intense as all that, this amusing grinchy manifestation, the new Grinch much less menacing than his animated forefather, much less wicked, much less cruel, even if he pursues the same goals in the end, even if he categorically denies the Holiday Season, his will still grouchy but not cantankerous, his evil existent but not Barad-Dûr.
Esque.
Rather than demonizing the Grinch as purest incarnate evil, this version presents him as more of a comic figure, still in possession of sundry implements of ill-will, still quite disparaging when in the company of others, he also clearly loves his resident companions, and relies on them as would have Scrooge upon nothing.
He bumbles as he broils, stumbles as he strategizes, admits to making bad decisions, perhaps even goes with the flow.
And shares things.
Thus, while the atmosphere of this reimagined Grinch isn't as solemn as that found in the iconic cartoon, it's also much more balanced, and downright cheerful at times, as if everyone involved had adequate resources at their disposal and was not adverse to carolling lightly.
I never saw Jim Carrey's version.
At that time I was angry about the remake.
However, Cindy-Lou Who's (Cameron Seely) Mom (Rashida Jones) is stuck working nights, and rarely has time to sleep after caring for her young family.
They aren't wanting but she's wiped, although the Holidays still regenerate her spirit of loving self-sacrifice.
Whoville itself overflows with seasonal ingenuity and although its ingenious gifts for creating unique means through which to revel aren't showcased as often as I would have liked, there are still moments of aged brilliance, inventive gesticulation seamless and smooth.
The new Grinch film therefore functions like a thoughtful bourgeois paradigm, goods available for all without constant feasting, cultural particularities present but not circumspect, good times waxing at brisk beckoned calls, chillin' and distillin', radioactive heartbeat bliss.
The elation during the film's final moments, the classic ending that wondrously captures the spirit of the Holidays, still rejoices with unrestrained contentment, still abounds with effervescent cheer.
The Grinch may even find himself more sympathetic, even somewhat gracious as he basks in its blithe comforts.
Is it that hard to love generous spirits?
To embrace warmth and friendliness anew?
Although it's not as intense as all that, this amusing grinchy manifestation, the new Grinch much less menacing than his animated forefather, much less wicked, much less cruel, even if he pursues the same goals in the end, even if he categorically denies the Holiday Season, his will still grouchy but not cantankerous, his evil existent but not Barad-Dûr.
Esque.
Rather than demonizing the Grinch as purest incarnate evil, this version presents him as more of a comic figure, still in possession of sundry implements of ill-will, still quite disparaging when in the company of others, he also clearly loves his resident companions, and relies on them as would have Scrooge upon nothing.
He bumbles as he broils, stumbles as he strategizes, admits to making bad decisions, perhaps even goes with the flow.
And shares things.
Thus, while the atmosphere of this reimagined Grinch isn't as solemn as that found in the iconic cartoon, it's also much more balanced, and downright cheerful at times, as if everyone involved had adequate resources at their disposal and was not adverse to carolling lightly.
I never saw Jim Carrey's version.
At that time I was angry about the remake.
However, Cindy-Lou Who's (Cameron Seely) Mom (Rashida Jones) is stuck working nights, and rarely has time to sleep after caring for her young family.
They aren't wanting but she's wiped, although the Holidays still regenerate her spirit of loving self-sacrifice.
Whoville itself overflows with seasonal ingenuity and although its ingenious gifts for creating unique means through which to revel aren't showcased as often as I would have liked, there are still moments of aged brilliance, inventive gesticulation seamless and smooth.
The new Grinch film therefore functions like a thoughtful bourgeois paradigm, goods available for all without constant feasting, cultural particularities present but not circumspect, good times waxing at brisk beckoned calls, chillin' and distillin', radioactive heartbeat bliss.
The elation during the film's final moments, the classic ending that wondrously captures the spirit of the Holidays, still rejoices with unrestrained contentment, still abounds with effervescent cheer.
The Grinch may even find himself more sympathetic, even somewhat gracious as he basks in its blithe comforts.
Is it that hard to love generous spirits?
To embrace warmth and friendliness anew?
Tuesday, December 11, 2018
The Ballad of Buster Scruggs
Ebullient rapscallion itinerantly drawn serenades the horizon with erudite simplicity.
Appearances deceive a would be thief as a sage brush sure thing demonstratively bites back.
Age old sombre reflections resignedly ponder lonesome frontiers, emotion declaratively withdrawn, investment genuinely striking.
Disingenuous prospects confront honest labour as fortunes are struck grasped thrills excavated.
Marriage tempts thoughtful homesteaders as imagination riffs down the line.
A forlorn stagecoach elastic in bitters trudges wearily on towards stoked paradigms.
Nimble eclectic horseplay.
Erratic collected brawn.
Snug fits, misperceptions, testaments, shift and sway, the wild west conceptually exceeded, yet realistic, solemn, grey.
Invincible pretensions fade into soulful longings as diverse embellishments slowly manifest fear.
The writing's exceptional at times and it's a Coen Brothers film so I wondered why The Ballad of Buster Scruggs skipped theatres, and am still glibly wondering why? why? why?
Scruggs does excel when it's wildly boasting or forlornly lamenting or just simply reckoning, but then the lights suddenly dim, unfortunately, after awhile, although 4 out of 6 ain't bad.
That could explain it.
Harry Melling (The Artist) puts in a great performance as a solo act that's as versatile as its narrative's thought provoking.
Tim Blake Nelson (Buster Scruggs) also impresses, with an active style that wildly contrasts Mr. Melling's.
The film slips up when it considers civility, character, domestic matters, as if Western decorum has yet to transcend Hobbes's leviathan.
Not much screentime given to First Nations either, and they're only depicted as a stereotyped nuisance.
Nevertheless, it's still disturbing that a Coen Brothers film wasn't released in theatres, Barton Fink, Buster Scruggs is not, but they're still one of the best creative teams Hollywood's ever taken on.
I've annoyed many over the years and lost contacts and spoiled friendships by pointing out how good the Coen Brothers are, when they confidently state, "Hollywood only makes crap."
The creativity on Netflix is theoretically ideal because I can't think of any deadlines its creators have nor any timelines it'd be best to follow.
Just post it when it's finished.
It's kind of cool when something new shows up.
If it doesn't, I'll watch something else.
Still, a lot of the material I've seen that's been created by and for Netflix lacks the networked touch.
Remember, you're trying to find ways to make me like your show and tune in week after week, even if that logic doesn't apply.
I'm not just going to binge watch anything, even if the idea's really cool and it's starring actors I love (that's happened several times).
There are too many alternatives available.
In way too many other formats.
The Itunes store is incredible for movie renting for instance.
And it's the exception when they don't have what I'm looking for.
Appearances deceive a would be thief as a sage brush sure thing demonstratively bites back.
Age old sombre reflections resignedly ponder lonesome frontiers, emotion declaratively withdrawn, investment genuinely striking.
Disingenuous prospects confront honest labour as fortunes are struck grasped thrills excavated.
Marriage tempts thoughtful homesteaders as imagination riffs down the line.
A forlorn stagecoach elastic in bitters trudges wearily on towards stoked paradigms.
Nimble eclectic horseplay.
Erratic collected brawn.
Snug fits, misperceptions, testaments, shift and sway, the wild west conceptually exceeded, yet realistic, solemn, grey.
Invincible pretensions fade into soulful longings as diverse embellishments slowly manifest fear.
The writing's exceptional at times and it's a Coen Brothers film so I wondered why The Ballad of Buster Scruggs skipped theatres, and am still glibly wondering why? why? why?
Scruggs does excel when it's wildly boasting or forlornly lamenting or just simply reckoning, but then the lights suddenly dim, unfortunately, after awhile, although 4 out of 6 ain't bad.
That could explain it.
Harry Melling (The Artist) puts in a great performance as a solo act that's as versatile as its narrative's thought provoking.
Tim Blake Nelson (Buster Scruggs) also impresses, with an active style that wildly contrasts Mr. Melling's.
The film slips up when it considers civility, character, domestic matters, as if Western decorum has yet to transcend Hobbes's leviathan.
Not much screentime given to First Nations either, and they're only depicted as a stereotyped nuisance.
Nevertheless, it's still disturbing that a Coen Brothers film wasn't released in theatres, Barton Fink, Buster Scruggs is not, but they're still one of the best creative teams Hollywood's ever taken on.
I've annoyed many over the years and lost contacts and spoiled friendships by pointing out how good the Coen Brothers are, when they confidently state, "Hollywood only makes crap."
The creativity on Netflix is theoretically ideal because I can't think of any deadlines its creators have nor any timelines it'd be best to follow.
Just post it when it's finished.
It's kind of cool when something new shows up.
If it doesn't, I'll watch something else.
Still, a lot of the material I've seen that's been created by and for Netflix lacks the networked touch.
Remember, you're trying to find ways to make me like your show and tune in week after week, even if that logic doesn't apply.
I'm not just going to binge watch anything, even if the idea's really cool and it's starring actors I love (that's happened several times).
There are too many alternatives available.
In way too many other formats.
The Itunes store is incredible for movie renting for instance.
And it's the exception when they don't have what I'm looking for.
Friday, December 7, 2018
The Girl in the Spider's Web
Ideas that should have been shelved.
Desire that should have been sublimated.
Illicit ingenious technology.
Too tempting for sheer mortal vice.
Its mastermind (Stephen Merchant as Frans Balder) comprehends its extreme power and foolishly seeks its destruction.
Alone.
Yet he requires impeccable stealth to retrieve it and possesses not the requisite skill, nor the essential rationalized paranoia that should accompany such rash endeavours.
Considering the value.
His plan relies on a presumed lack of suspicion.
Steal it, acquire it, destroy it, quickly, before anyone realizes what's been done.
He wants to destroy FireWall to keep it out of the hands of those who covet it, without realizing they're watching at all times.
And soon a device which can unlock the codes for nuclear weapons worldwide is in terrorist hands, along with its gifted creator's son (Christopher Convery as August Balder), his father's accomplice related to their cypher (Sylvia Hoeks as Camilla Salander).
One Lisbeth Salander (Claire Foy) must resiliently contend nothing more, backed up by the loyal Mikael Blomkvist (Sverrir Gudnason) plus an agile unknown thoughtful factor (Lakeith Stanfield as Ed Needham).
The room for error's non-existent and the playing field's level, driven experts coldly strategizing, extreme limits, boldly reached.
If actual people were thinking of creating something like FireWall, I would state, "please don't create something like FireWall, existent geniuses capable of doing so."
Would it not be cooler to find a way to use computers to learn dolphin?
Or animal in general.
I was listening to lynx calls online one day and thought they sounded similar to the static you used to hear while devices communicated with one another through phone lines in the days of dial-up internet, which led me to the idea that an electronic device could be created to interpret what animal sounds mean, one which perhaps utilizes digital twin technologies albeit without comprehensible linguistic references (I suppose if such a device worked without references it could solve many communication problems).
I thought this idea was likely quite ridiculous and was going to keep it to myself but then saw Clara, wherein which a fictitious professor challenges his students to find the sound of the data, and thought perhaps I had accidentally found something.
And added the digital twin stuff today.
The Girl in the Spider's Web diabolically impresses, fast-paced cerebral orchestrations delineating cause in flux.
Ye olde, whoops, we really shouldn't have done that, anxiously seething sans menacing pause.
Globalized recourse imagines a Bond film with a rogue self-reliant female agent, its intrigue an international spectre, its ingenuity a bespeculative double o.
Held to crippling account for the one victim she left behind, two sisters fuzed adroitly adjudicate misperception.
I liked the characters and the situations they found themselves within, clever action ploys catch and release, creative use of the all-seeing panopticon.
Didn't there used to be laws about watching everyone everywhere they went all the time?
They weren't discredited were they?
On the last page of a paper copy of a newspaper that no one bought?
Lost in the twitter deluge?
Suppressed by great blue cries?
Desire that should have been sublimated.
Illicit ingenious technology.
Too tempting for sheer mortal vice.
Its mastermind (Stephen Merchant as Frans Balder) comprehends its extreme power and foolishly seeks its destruction.
Alone.
Yet he requires impeccable stealth to retrieve it and possesses not the requisite skill, nor the essential rationalized paranoia that should accompany such rash endeavours.
Considering the value.
His plan relies on a presumed lack of suspicion.
Steal it, acquire it, destroy it, quickly, before anyone realizes what's been done.
He wants to destroy FireWall to keep it out of the hands of those who covet it, without realizing they're watching at all times.
And soon a device which can unlock the codes for nuclear weapons worldwide is in terrorist hands, along with its gifted creator's son (Christopher Convery as August Balder), his father's accomplice related to their cypher (Sylvia Hoeks as Camilla Salander).
One Lisbeth Salander (Claire Foy) must resiliently contend nothing more, backed up by the loyal Mikael Blomkvist (Sverrir Gudnason) plus an agile unknown thoughtful factor (Lakeith Stanfield as Ed Needham).
The room for error's non-existent and the playing field's level, driven experts coldly strategizing, extreme limits, boldly reached.
If actual people were thinking of creating something like FireWall, I would state, "please don't create something like FireWall, existent geniuses capable of doing so."
Would it not be cooler to find a way to use computers to learn dolphin?
Or animal in general.
I was listening to lynx calls online one day and thought they sounded similar to the static you used to hear while devices communicated with one another through phone lines in the days of dial-up internet, which led me to the idea that an electronic device could be created to interpret what animal sounds mean, one which perhaps utilizes digital twin technologies albeit without comprehensible linguistic references (I suppose if such a device worked without references it could solve many communication problems).
I thought this idea was likely quite ridiculous and was going to keep it to myself but then saw Clara, wherein which a fictitious professor challenges his students to find the sound of the data, and thought perhaps I had accidentally found something.
And added the digital twin stuff today.
The Girl in the Spider's Web diabolically impresses, fast-paced cerebral orchestrations delineating cause in flux.
Ye olde, whoops, we really shouldn't have done that, anxiously seething sans menacing pause.
Globalized recourse imagines a Bond film with a rogue self-reliant female agent, its intrigue an international spectre, its ingenuity a bespeculative double o.
Held to crippling account for the one victim she left behind, two sisters fuzed adroitly adjudicate misperception.
I liked the characters and the situations they found themselves within, clever action ploys catch and release, creative use of the all-seeing panopticon.
Didn't there used to be laws about watching everyone everywhere they went all the time?
They weren't discredited were they?
On the last page of a paper copy of a newspaper that no one bought?
Lost in the twitter deluge?
Suppressed by great blue cries?
Wednesday, December 5, 2018
Widows
Left behind after a job gone wrong, a widow (Viola Davis as Veronica) weighs her unsettling options.
She's not alone, her husband's (Liam Neeson as Harry) entire crew having perished under hot pursuit, although she's a little more willing to embrace unorthodox ideas than her fellow despondent sisters (Michelle Rodriguez as Linda and Elizabeth Debicki as Alice).
After she finds plans for another heist.
And is coercively emboldened.
It's election time in her riding as well, the heir to its political dynasty (Colin Farrell as Jack Mulligan) not as ruthless as his jaded father (Robert Duvall as Tom Mulligan).
Realigned boundaries have cost him thousands of relied upon votes, however, and his strategy must broaden homegrown horizons.
His opponent's (Brian Tyree Henry as Jamal Manning) more familiar with his constituency's grievances, but runs into financial difficulties after his nest egg's ripped off.
Uncertainty ubiquitously abounds.
While goodwill beckons, lightly.
Multiple pieces composing a high stakes puzzle lacking definitive images agitate throughout Steve McQueen's Widows.
Roles, objectives, risk, and betrayal, highlight disingenuous motivations as tempting freedoms advocate.
It's as if those who were stealing everything assumed the people they were stealing from were stealing it from them anyway and therefore had no misgivings.
Serendipitous strategies aligned.
Suspended cause.
Expediency permeates Widows's calling with robust grim integrity.
As long as you only seek change for those who are only helping you, millions of supporters who don't know how or are unable to assist are left assuming everything's vague.
That no one cares.
Widows's ethics may be bleak but its script's still profound and it demands your strict attention.
Left in such situations it's difficult to imagine what one might do, but McQueen crafts several striking hypotheses which provocatively grill emulsion.
Grizzled and real.
Multilayered and invested.
She's not alone, her husband's (Liam Neeson as Harry) entire crew having perished under hot pursuit, although she's a little more willing to embrace unorthodox ideas than her fellow despondent sisters (Michelle Rodriguez as Linda and Elizabeth Debicki as Alice).
After she finds plans for another heist.
And is coercively emboldened.
It's election time in her riding as well, the heir to its political dynasty (Colin Farrell as Jack Mulligan) not as ruthless as his jaded father (Robert Duvall as Tom Mulligan).
Realigned boundaries have cost him thousands of relied upon votes, however, and his strategy must broaden homegrown horizons.
His opponent's (Brian Tyree Henry as Jamal Manning) more familiar with his constituency's grievances, but runs into financial difficulties after his nest egg's ripped off.
Uncertainty ubiquitously abounds.
While goodwill beckons, lightly.
Multiple pieces composing a high stakes puzzle lacking definitive images agitate throughout Steve McQueen's Widows.
Roles, objectives, risk, and betrayal, highlight disingenuous motivations as tempting freedoms advocate.
It's as if those who were stealing everything assumed the people they were stealing from were stealing it from them anyway and therefore had no misgivings.
Serendipitous strategies aligned.
Suspended cause.
Expediency permeates Widows's calling with robust grim integrity.
As long as you only seek change for those who are only helping you, millions of supporters who don't know how or are unable to assist are left assuming everything's vague.
That no one cares.
Widows's ethics may be bleak but its script's still profound and it demands your strict attention.
Left in such situations it's difficult to imagine what one might do, but McQueen crafts several striking hypotheses which provocatively grill emulsion.
Grizzled and real.
Multilayered and invested.
Tuesday, December 4, 2018
Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald
You hear it often enough, or perhaps read it would be more precise, "no one is bigger than the party," no single woman or man is bigger than the political entity to which they belong, present predicaments, as interminable as they seem, tax ephemeral in relation to its longevity, whose preservation remains crisp and paramount, whose agitations are as speculative as they seem foregone.
It's not that the speculations aren't sound or qualified by alluring probabilities, but multidimensional environments, those multifaceted enough to withstand authoritarian attempts to corral them, constantly change, thereby introducing unforeseen characteristics which can modify projected estimates and tarnish reasonable assumptions, some of them as wicked as Rowling's Grindelwald (Johnny Depp) or as progressive as Bernie Sanders, the point being that unless your jurisdiction lacks variety, your best laid plans may resoundingly fluctuate.
If you can't manage the fluctuation.
Politics isn't an individual branch of Esso or a fast food chain, although I wish it was much more boring again after seeing what it's wildly become.
Grindelwald isn't like most populists.
He's respectful and sympathetic and calm and rational, at least when he first meets someone and goes out of his way to woo them.
He's like the populist who catches more flies with honey, likely because he's grown tired of hiring new staff and training people who may quit anyway.
His song's sweet and humble and unassuming and non-confrontational, and it appeals to many of the upset or lost or downtrodden wizards and witches he meets behind the scenes.
As the first Fantastic Beasts film and the Harry Potter novels point out, he's clearly deluded himself into thinking bureaucratic dysfunction should by divinely remedied, and his remarkable power should be the agent which foments healing, the storm he unleashes at the end of Crimes telling another story, although Rowling doesn't shy away from bluntly critiquing stubborn decisions made by ministries emboldened by systemic pride.
Thus, the derelict and the disaffected find the lure of the populists enticing inasmuch as they promise order and utility for those have been objectively cast aside, an order that would be impossible to control even loosely without an efficient bureaucracy, the absence of which would likely cause their followers to dreamily recall bygone days of ill-temperament.
In the aftermath.
You can slowly take down a powerful establishment by gradually downsizing it for 20 years or so, but if you cut it all at once and destroy its infrastructure, the infrastructure your followers rely on to feed themselves and find shelter, their euphoria will quickly turn to disillusion when they realize there's nothing good left to eat.
Which they can afford.
Having a credit card bill that's hard to pay off is different from not being able to buy something.
The Crimes of Grindelwald paints a grim portrait upon which misfits are canvassed.
Newt Scamander (Eddie Redmayne), Tina Goldstein (Katherine Waterston), Queenie Goldstein (Alison Sudol), and Jacob Kowalski (Dan Fogler) persist interdimensionally within, as mad ambition contends with institutional privilege, and distraught lovers merge hopes and regrets.
I was sad when I realized "the greater good" was a double entendre, i.e., you can be altruistic like Spock at the end of Star Trek II, at all times really, which I initially thought was its sole meaning, or you can pursue good for the greater, or transfer all power and privilege to an unaccountable few.
The ministry may be somewhat obtuse but they maintain a peaceful mildly prosperous status quo.
And you can disagree with them.
It's quite strange, this disagreement that's supposedly so highly valued.
It's like if you disagree with the government you're delegitimized even if it simultaneously seeks profound criticisms.
The key is to not try to make sense of it, or at least not to think you've made sense of it, even if you've written or are writing a book that claims to have made sense of it, because it will never ever make much sense, at least for a very long time.
Keeps things interesting though.
Keeps things real.
Bewildering.
Mysterious.
It's not that the speculations aren't sound or qualified by alluring probabilities, but multidimensional environments, those multifaceted enough to withstand authoritarian attempts to corral them, constantly change, thereby introducing unforeseen characteristics which can modify projected estimates and tarnish reasonable assumptions, some of them as wicked as Rowling's Grindelwald (Johnny Depp) or as progressive as Bernie Sanders, the point being that unless your jurisdiction lacks variety, your best laid plans may resoundingly fluctuate.
If you can't manage the fluctuation.
Politics isn't an individual branch of Esso or a fast food chain, although I wish it was much more boring again after seeing what it's wildly become.
Grindelwald isn't like most populists.
He's respectful and sympathetic and calm and rational, at least when he first meets someone and goes out of his way to woo them.
He's like the populist who catches more flies with honey, likely because he's grown tired of hiring new staff and training people who may quit anyway.
His song's sweet and humble and unassuming and non-confrontational, and it appeals to many of the upset or lost or downtrodden wizards and witches he meets behind the scenes.
As the first Fantastic Beasts film and the Harry Potter novels point out, he's clearly deluded himself into thinking bureaucratic dysfunction should by divinely remedied, and his remarkable power should be the agent which foments healing, the storm he unleashes at the end of Crimes telling another story, although Rowling doesn't shy away from bluntly critiquing stubborn decisions made by ministries emboldened by systemic pride.
Thus, the derelict and the disaffected find the lure of the populists enticing inasmuch as they promise order and utility for those have been objectively cast aside, an order that would be impossible to control even loosely without an efficient bureaucracy, the absence of which would likely cause their followers to dreamily recall bygone days of ill-temperament.
In the aftermath.
You can slowly take down a powerful establishment by gradually downsizing it for 20 years or so, but if you cut it all at once and destroy its infrastructure, the infrastructure your followers rely on to feed themselves and find shelter, their euphoria will quickly turn to disillusion when they realize there's nothing good left to eat.
Which they can afford.
Having a credit card bill that's hard to pay off is different from not being able to buy something.
The Crimes of Grindelwald paints a grim portrait upon which misfits are canvassed.
Newt Scamander (Eddie Redmayne), Tina Goldstein (Katherine Waterston), Queenie Goldstein (Alison Sudol), and Jacob Kowalski (Dan Fogler) persist interdimensionally within, as mad ambition contends with institutional privilege, and distraught lovers merge hopes and regrets.
I was sad when I realized "the greater good" was a double entendre, i.e., you can be altruistic like Spock at the end of Star Trek II, at all times really, which I initially thought was its sole meaning, or you can pursue good for the greater, or transfer all power and privilege to an unaccountable few.
The ministry may be somewhat obtuse but they maintain a peaceful mildly prosperous status quo.
And you can disagree with them.
It's quite strange, this disagreement that's supposedly so highly valued.
It's like if you disagree with the government you're delegitimized even if it simultaneously seeks profound criticisms.
The key is to not try to make sense of it, or at least not to think you've made sense of it, even if you've written or are writing a book that claims to have made sense of it, because it will never ever make much sense, at least for a very long time.
Keeps things interesting though.
Keeps things real.
Bewildering.
Mysterious.
Friday, November 30, 2018
Creed II
Strange how seriously people take sports sometimes.
I always thought if you were playing in a big game, a playoff game, a game against a division rival, any game really, you did everything you could to win, training hard, listening to your coaches, sticking to the game plan, improvising if it's not working, supporting your teammates, using all your skill and talent to put up another win, while hoping you were playing against opponents who were genuinely doing the same.
If you didn't let up and did everything you could to win without cheating, then if you unfortunately didn't, it didn't matter so much, even if it still stung, still hurt a bit afterwards.
There was usually another game the following week, night, month, at some point, and winning all the time didn't make much sense, was improbable, even if it would have been nice to pull off a perfect season, or go up by 20 early to take the edge off and settle it down.
In a big game.
Some people aren't like that though, losing against solid competition even though they've trained just as hard drives them a bit mad even after they've done their best competing at a high level.
It doesn't help if their support networks collapse like Ivan Drago's (Dolph Lundgren) did after he lost to Rocky, and they lose a style of life they've grown accustomed to, as well as the contacts who made it so dear.
They came down hard on the Drago.
But he came down equally hard on himself.
I don't see the differences between Rocky (Sylvester Stallone) and Drago's situations in terms of nation, however, but rather in the ways in which they were supported by friends and family after their losses.
Every nation has people who know how to win.
Every nation has people who don't know how to lose.
Every nation has people who are there when you lose.
Every nation has people who freakin' love sports.
I don't see the arts in terms of winning and losing so much, more like a realm where your work's appealing or unappealing, interpreted differently according to individual tastes.
It surprises me when people are upset because I didn't like a film, or confused because I did.
Different people have different tastes and having different tastes in film has nothing to do with being right or wrong.
I don't get why people don't like some movies.
But I'm not insulted if they don't like my favourites.
Creed II lacks subtlety and daring yet still delivers something reliable, something durable.
The situations are familiar and the formula's a bit worn but that doesn't mean I don't like seeing Rocky back at it, or watching as Adonis (Michael B. Jordan) and Bianca's (Tessa Thompson) lives change and grow.
They change and grow in very conventional ways and their struggles don't remind me much of Adrian and Rocky's.
They're kind of tame in comparison.
Where's Creed's Paulie?
I think their lives need less traditional complications.
Wasn't the first Rocky one of the best American movies ever made though, so many life lessons built into its original script?
Rocky Balboa too?
Creed III's got its work cut out for it if it's goanna make it without Stallone.
In genres where a lot of artists seem similar at times, there's truly no one else like him.
At his best when he lets his heart speak.
I may have an Over the Top postcard stuck to my fridge.
Which no longer works.
There be another fridge though, close at hand.
Stuffed full of cheese.
And a rice/veggie medley.
It's good in soup.
With sour cream and blue cheese.
Yum.
I always thought if you were playing in a big game, a playoff game, a game against a division rival, any game really, you did everything you could to win, training hard, listening to your coaches, sticking to the game plan, improvising if it's not working, supporting your teammates, using all your skill and talent to put up another win, while hoping you were playing against opponents who were genuinely doing the same.
If you didn't let up and did everything you could to win without cheating, then if you unfortunately didn't, it didn't matter so much, even if it still stung, still hurt a bit afterwards.
There was usually another game the following week, night, month, at some point, and winning all the time didn't make much sense, was improbable, even if it would have been nice to pull off a perfect season, or go up by 20 early to take the edge off and settle it down.
In a big game.
Some people aren't like that though, losing against solid competition even though they've trained just as hard drives them a bit mad even after they've done their best competing at a high level.
It doesn't help if their support networks collapse like Ivan Drago's (Dolph Lundgren) did after he lost to Rocky, and they lose a style of life they've grown accustomed to, as well as the contacts who made it so dear.
They came down hard on the Drago.
But he came down equally hard on himself.
I don't see the differences between Rocky (Sylvester Stallone) and Drago's situations in terms of nation, however, but rather in the ways in which they were supported by friends and family after their losses.
Every nation has people who know how to win.
Every nation has people who don't know how to lose.
Every nation has people who are there when you lose.
Every nation has people who freakin' love sports.
I don't see the arts in terms of winning and losing so much, more like a realm where your work's appealing or unappealing, interpreted differently according to individual tastes.
It surprises me when people are upset because I didn't like a film, or confused because I did.
Different people have different tastes and having different tastes in film has nothing to do with being right or wrong.
I don't get why people don't like some movies.
But I'm not insulted if they don't like my favourites.
Creed II lacks subtlety and daring yet still delivers something reliable, something durable.
The situations are familiar and the formula's a bit worn but that doesn't mean I don't like seeing Rocky back at it, or watching as Adonis (Michael B. Jordan) and Bianca's (Tessa Thompson) lives change and grow.
They change and grow in very conventional ways and their struggles don't remind me much of Adrian and Rocky's.
They're kind of tame in comparison.
Where's Creed's Paulie?
I think their lives need less traditional complications.
Wasn't the first Rocky one of the best American movies ever made though, so many life lessons built into its original script?
Rocky Balboa too?
Creed III's got its work cut out for it if it's goanna make it without Stallone.
In genres where a lot of artists seem similar at times, there's truly no one else like him.
At his best when he lets his heart speak.
I may have an Over the Top postcard stuck to my fridge.
Which no longer works.
There be another fridge though, close at hand.
Stuffed full of cheese.
And a rice/veggie medley.
It's good in soup.
With sour cream and blue cheese.
Yum.
Wednesday, November 28, 2018
The Nutcracker and the Four Realms
The loss of a loved one haunts gifted Clara's (Mackenzie Foy) heart, and her grief stricken father (Matthew Macfadyen) struggles to comfort her.
Festive ceremonies can't ease her troubled mind, nor can appeals to the breadth of tradition, nor the temptation to snuggle away.
Honestly immersed in dire bleak emotion, she visits a trustworthy friend (Morgan Freeman as Drosselmeyer).
And his supportive counsel and sympathetic understanding miraculously ignite her imagination, which magically blooms thereafter, a fantastic realm inadvertently emerging, wherein which she's respected as Queen.
Yet dark forces have set about undermining her rule, forces which take advantage of her naivety.
But those who remain loyal to her innate justice refuse to yield as the usurper rises, the rag tag as composed as they are outnumbered, united with the formerly influential.
Known as Mother Ginger (Helen Mirren).
As darkness descends.
In The Nutcracker and the Four Realms, an enchanting tale wildly revelling in solemn majesty, its embroiled burnished brightness boldly bursting the bland banal.
Within, inherent characteristics predisposed to leisure and play must outwit irreverent subjugation while clashing with concrete woe.
Is it so hard to enjoy the peaceful refinements a culture enlightens without being threatened by their jests?
Enamoured impulse, commercial spontaneity, sportspersonlike intrigue, a weekly night out?
Who doesn't like Mexican food?
The realization that the limitless nature of the democratic arts, as opposed to one-dimensional all-powerful commands they may be, produces much more lively overtures, which can creatively inspire curious hearts and minds, who produce much more clever material when given room to play, and freed from mind-numbing stereotypes, enlivens dull predictable routines, and lets you appreciate Birdman and Ferris Bueller sans hesitation, depending on complementary moods.
No one ever really listens to anyone who uses violence to assert themselves, although they pretend to to avoid pain.
I see smart men and women whose families respect them precisely because they don't micromanage things all the time.
They seem happy because their families are happy, and are always ready to provide assistance when required.
Perhaps Clara realizes her father is like that after contending with thoughtless Sugar Plum (Keira Knightley).
And agrees to dance with him lightly.
Caught up in spirited flight.
Festive ceremonies can't ease her troubled mind, nor can appeals to the breadth of tradition, nor the temptation to snuggle away.
Honestly immersed in dire bleak emotion, she visits a trustworthy friend (Morgan Freeman as Drosselmeyer).
And his supportive counsel and sympathetic understanding miraculously ignite her imagination, which magically blooms thereafter, a fantastic realm inadvertently emerging, wherein which she's respected as Queen.
Yet dark forces have set about undermining her rule, forces which take advantage of her naivety.
But those who remain loyal to her innate justice refuse to yield as the usurper rises, the rag tag as composed as they are outnumbered, united with the formerly influential.
Known as Mother Ginger (Helen Mirren).
As darkness descends.
In The Nutcracker and the Four Realms, an enchanting tale wildly revelling in solemn majesty, its embroiled burnished brightness boldly bursting the bland banal.
Within, inherent characteristics predisposed to leisure and play must outwit irreverent subjugation while clashing with concrete woe.
Is it so hard to enjoy the peaceful refinements a culture enlightens without being threatened by their jests?
Enamoured impulse, commercial spontaneity, sportspersonlike intrigue, a weekly night out?
Who doesn't like Mexican food?
The realization that the limitless nature of the democratic arts, as opposed to one-dimensional all-powerful commands they may be, produces much more lively overtures, which can creatively inspire curious hearts and minds, who produce much more clever material when given room to play, and freed from mind-numbing stereotypes, enlivens dull predictable routines, and lets you appreciate Birdman and Ferris Bueller sans hesitation, depending on complementary moods.
No one ever really listens to anyone who uses violence to assert themselves, although they pretend to to avoid pain.
I see smart men and women whose families respect them precisely because they don't micromanage things all the time.
They seem happy because their families are happy, and are always ready to provide assistance when required.
Perhaps Clara realizes her father is like that after contending with thoughtless Sugar Plum (Keira Knightley).
And agrees to dance with him lightly.
Caught up in spirited flight.
Tuesday, November 27, 2018
Green Book
It's fun when you have a job and you get to work with people from around the world.
You get all these fascinating insights into remarkably diverse cultures many of which are quite similar to your own if you make respectful comparisons.
Try new things.
You grow up eating specific foods for instance, and as you age, because you continue to eat these specific foods, it seems like eating them is natural, inasmuch as habits come to culturally qualify the term.
But when you work with people from different countries and begin to realize that they feel the same way about the food they grew up eating, the term natural becomes less organic, or is at least internationally diversified.
If you begin to try all the delicious foods they grew up eating and learn to appreciate the differences, while still enjoying your favourite local dishes, your options succulently expand tenfold, and your palette becomes much more global.
And you can ask questions like, "how do I turn this into a sandwich?", or, "can you melt cheese on this?", etc.
Plus, you're always eating.
I started cooking rice all the time.
Mixing in green lentils and potato.
In Peter Farrelly's Green Book, a gifted African American musician (Mahershala Ali as Dr. Don Shirley) takes his melodies on the road to the Southern U.S., hoping to build bridges of trust.
He hires a feisty bouncer from the Bronx to drive him (Viggo Mortensen as Tony Lip), and the two productively clash along the way.
As refined ethical viewpoints find themselves immersed in worlds where they don't apply, a more practical approach is begrudgingly sought, which, unfortunately, while necessary at points, does less to change hearts and minds.
And also causes serious problems.
The film cleverly embraces this pact and gradually synthesizes gentle and rough pretensions, Tony learning to react less instinctually, Dr. Shirley learning to take more precautions.
They slowly become friends as the film unreels and learn to appreciate each other precisely because of their differences.
Experience having taught them respect.
Green Book also examines the old "chummy" racial slurs that are often built into social interactions.
Tony makes the point that people "don't worry about" these slurs when they hear them but doesn't realize he's speaking from a position of privilege.
When the slurs are directed at him in the deep South he does worry about it and soon winds up in jail.
Different cultures often have different traditions which when appreciated add so much peaceful character to a neighbourhood/city/nation/world.
The casual slurs can make hard times worse.
And may not be as harmless to the people who let things slide.
As people in positions of privilege think.
You get all these fascinating insights into remarkably diverse cultures many of which are quite similar to your own if you make respectful comparisons.
Try new things.
You grow up eating specific foods for instance, and as you age, because you continue to eat these specific foods, it seems like eating them is natural, inasmuch as habits come to culturally qualify the term.
But when you work with people from different countries and begin to realize that they feel the same way about the food they grew up eating, the term natural becomes less organic, or is at least internationally diversified.
If you begin to try all the delicious foods they grew up eating and learn to appreciate the differences, while still enjoying your favourite local dishes, your options succulently expand tenfold, and your palette becomes much more global.
And you can ask questions like, "how do I turn this into a sandwich?", or, "can you melt cheese on this?", etc.
Plus, you're always eating.
I started cooking rice all the time.
Mixing in green lentils and potato.
In Peter Farrelly's Green Book, a gifted African American musician (Mahershala Ali as Dr. Don Shirley) takes his melodies on the road to the Southern U.S., hoping to build bridges of trust.
He hires a feisty bouncer from the Bronx to drive him (Viggo Mortensen as Tony Lip), and the two productively clash along the way.
As refined ethical viewpoints find themselves immersed in worlds where they don't apply, a more practical approach is begrudgingly sought, which, unfortunately, while necessary at points, does less to change hearts and minds.
And also causes serious problems.
The film cleverly embraces this pact and gradually synthesizes gentle and rough pretensions, Tony learning to react less instinctually, Dr. Shirley learning to take more precautions.
They slowly become friends as the film unreels and learn to appreciate each other precisely because of their differences.
Experience having taught them respect.
Green Book also examines the old "chummy" racial slurs that are often built into social interactions.
Tony makes the point that people "don't worry about" these slurs when they hear them but doesn't realize he's speaking from a position of privilege.
When the slurs are directed at him in the deep South he does worry about it and soon winds up in jail.
Different cultures often have different traditions which when appreciated add so much peaceful character to a neighbourhood/city/nation/world.
The casual slurs can make hard times worse.
And may not be as harmless to the people who let things slide.
As people in positions of privilege think.
Friday, November 23, 2018
Can You Ever Forgive Me?
A struggling writer (Melissa McCarthy) finds herself burdened with debt and stuck in the unmarketable fringe.
The rent's three months overdue, her cat's sick, her agent insults her, and she's just lost her job.
Somewhat of a recluse, a misfit, a misanthrope, a prickly pear, she sticks to her preferred hard liquor and settles down to stiffly agitate.
When suddenly an old acquaintance emerges (Richard E. Grant), a holds-nothing-back consume-whatever rough-and-tumble maelstrom, the two cultivating hospitable least resistance as they begin revelling in blunt parched mischief, a literary filmic modus operandi insouciantly scarifying thereafter, like a perky hangover maladroitly banished, or a banana split covered in red wine gravy.
Boldly.
She begins forging letters from deceased prominent authors and he helps her sell them after the FBI catches wind.
She likely would have written something noteworthy of her own beforehand had she just sat back and written something.
Setting her own limits then challenging them.
Like Captain Jean-Luc Picard.
Read other books though, enjoy them, devour them, don't worry if people criticize you.
Proust even wrote, "mediocre people generally believe that to let oneself be guided by books one admires takes away some of one's independence of judgment, [whereas the best people] feel that their power to understand and feel is infinitely increased [by contact with greatness]"(from "On Reading" as quoted in Benjamin Taylor's Proust: The Search).
Proust has an ingenious quote for so many demotivating doubts artists face.
And the judgments they encounter.
Peppered throughout his writings like garlic infused bannock.
Impoverished enrichment.
Incandescent flow.
Marielle Heller's Can You Ever Forgive Me? comedically enriches sloth to parasitically bewilder recrudescence.
Its poetic good times inflate the freewheeling to emancipate hope and thwart desperation.
Melissa McCarthy finally has a companion piece for Bridesmaids and Richard E. Grant keeps things spry.
I disagree with Lee's methods but can't deny her talent, a lazy way to imaginatively conjure, which revitalized dull conversations nonetheless, even if their contents were strictly anathema.
Worth seeing.
The rent's three months overdue, her cat's sick, her agent insults her, and she's just lost her job.
Somewhat of a recluse, a misfit, a misanthrope, a prickly pear, she sticks to her preferred hard liquor and settles down to stiffly agitate.
When suddenly an old acquaintance emerges (Richard E. Grant), a holds-nothing-back consume-whatever rough-and-tumble maelstrom, the two cultivating hospitable least resistance as they begin revelling in blunt parched mischief, a literary filmic modus operandi insouciantly scarifying thereafter, like a perky hangover maladroitly banished, or a banana split covered in red wine gravy.
Boldly.
She begins forging letters from deceased prominent authors and he helps her sell them after the FBI catches wind.
She likely would have written something noteworthy of her own beforehand had she just sat back and written something.
Setting her own limits then challenging them.
Like Captain Jean-Luc Picard.
Read other books though, enjoy them, devour them, don't worry if people criticize you.
Proust even wrote, "mediocre people generally believe that to let oneself be guided by books one admires takes away some of one's independence of judgment, [whereas the best people] feel that their power to understand and feel is infinitely increased [by contact with greatness]"(from "On Reading" as quoted in Benjamin Taylor's Proust: The Search).
Proust has an ingenious quote for so many demotivating doubts artists face.
And the judgments they encounter.
Peppered throughout his writings like garlic infused bannock.
Impoverished enrichment.
Incandescent flow.
Marielle Heller's Can You Ever Forgive Me? comedically enriches sloth to parasitically bewilder recrudescence.
Its poetic good times inflate the freewheeling to emancipate hope and thwart desperation.
Melissa McCarthy finally has a companion piece for Bridesmaids and Richard E. Grant keeps things spry.
I disagree with Lee's methods but can't deny her talent, a lazy way to imaginatively conjure, which revitalized dull conversations nonetheless, even if their contents were strictly anathema.
Worth seeing.
Wednesday, November 21, 2018
Venom
Having harvested interstellar phenomena, and obtained coveted extraterrestrial booty, a courageous spacecraft swiftly descends towards Earth, and none of its crew survives.
The alien lifeforms discovered bond with various hosts, begrudgingly commandeering their bodies, with intent most disruptive and grievous.
Including, but not limited to, heading back to space to find their fellow mucus-like beings, in order to one day return, and devour humanity.
Whole.
Or from the inside out.
It depends.
Both conscientious reporter Eddie Brock (Tom Hardy) and technocratic phenom Carlton Drake (Riz Ahmed) eventually find themselves hosting representatives of the species, reps whose personality differences closely match those of Brock and Drake, the reps in fact searching for unique personalities, even if corresponding storylines can't withstand the symmetry.
Not Marvel's finest hour.
I thought perhaps the buzz was off, preferring to see it for myself before adding an opinion, but Venom misses 8.25 times out of 10, although there's something to be said for such a complete lack of refinement.
Something bad.
In a nutshell, the story's too blunt, too direct, too surface level.
It's not that you can't write a great story that's blunt and direct, many appealing stories are, as many have noted, Venom's lacking the aesthetic expertise that held those stories together though, everything's condensed into purposeful formulaic probabilities for instance, which unfortunately assumed they required nothing more.
It happens.
Ruben Fleisher's usually quite good, I don't know what happened here but I suspect his hands were too tied, his independent spirit was exorcized throughout production, and the result fell far short of his audience's expectations, since independent spirits often lack inspiration when conventionally constrained.
Took one for the team perhaps.
I suppose every Marvel film isn't destined to present a deep convincing narrative that cerebrally shocks and actively theorizes, but Venom does neither, and metaphorically secretes jingoistic protoplasm.
I suppose you need deadlines and a production schedule but when you're bound to make multimillions regardless, do you need to follow them/it so strictly?
You probably do.
I don't work in film.
It's kind of funny when Venom discusses his sociohistorical misfortunes with Eddie.
Too little too late though.
But something cool for round 2.
The alien lifeforms discovered bond with various hosts, begrudgingly commandeering their bodies, with intent most disruptive and grievous.
Including, but not limited to, heading back to space to find their fellow mucus-like beings, in order to one day return, and devour humanity.
Whole.
Or from the inside out.
It depends.
Both conscientious reporter Eddie Brock (Tom Hardy) and technocratic phenom Carlton Drake (Riz Ahmed) eventually find themselves hosting representatives of the species, reps whose personality differences closely match those of Brock and Drake, the reps in fact searching for unique personalities, even if corresponding storylines can't withstand the symmetry.
Not Marvel's finest hour.
I thought perhaps the buzz was off, preferring to see it for myself before adding an opinion, but Venom misses 8.25 times out of 10, although there's something to be said for such a complete lack of refinement.
Something bad.
In a nutshell, the story's too blunt, too direct, too surface level.
It's not that you can't write a great story that's blunt and direct, many appealing stories are, as many have noted, Venom's lacking the aesthetic expertise that held those stories together though, everything's condensed into purposeful formulaic probabilities for instance, which unfortunately assumed they required nothing more.
It happens.
Ruben Fleisher's usually quite good, I don't know what happened here but I suspect his hands were too tied, his independent spirit was exorcized throughout production, and the result fell far short of his audience's expectations, since independent spirits often lack inspiration when conventionally constrained.
Took one for the team perhaps.
I suppose every Marvel film isn't destined to present a deep convincing narrative that cerebrally shocks and actively theorizes, but Venom does neither, and metaphorically secretes jingoistic protoplasm.
I suppose you need deadlines and a production schedule but when you're bound to make multimillions regardless, do you need to follow them/it so strictly?
You probably do.
I don't work in film.
It's kind of funny when Venom discusses his sociohistorical misfortunes with Eddie.
Too little too late though.
But something cool for round 2.
Tuesday, November 20, 2018
Mid90s
One's first encounter with other people.
Outside of school.
A curious child not prone to mischief suddenly finds himself ensconced with peeps of whom his mom (Katherine Waterston) may disapprove.
They aren't thieves or thugs or dealers or bigots, but homework still isn't really their thing, and they aren't exactly that interested in much, besides chillin'.
And skateboarding and girls.
His brother's (Lucas Hedges) a bit macho though and lays down a strict beating should he continue to exist and enter his much older presence.
A bit of a dick, until Stevie's (Sunny Suljic) recreational pursuits become too disruptive, at which point he actually says something which isn't pejorative or obtuse.
Surprise and shock.
Indiscrimination.
Jonah Hill's Mid90s is a heartfelt deep gritty super real account of youth as it breaks away too quickly.
Hill excels at presenting scenes that aren't overly preachy, or sentimental, or ridiculously exaggerated, or lame, both his writing and directing masterfully blended to craft an exceptionally thoughtful independent comedy that makes you think as it lips off, like cheeky unconcerned conscientious bright crossroads.
It's edgy, it's not provocative or loud or volatile, it's more subtle in its orchestrations as if its characters are aware they don't know much but still seek non-academic experiences that can inspire if not at least entertain them.
Actively.
Even the older ones who offer Stevie advice.
There's judgment but it isn't final, there's support but it isn't blind, there's experimentation but it isn't reckless, until they all get into a car whose driver's intoxicated.
Always a bad idea.
Hill does an amazing job.
I'd say he's the real deal.
Outstanding.
Mid90s sincerely celebrates friendship and camaraderie by having fun without causing too much trouble.
The limits it presents, i.e. don't drink and drive, are as reasonable as they are not foolish, and as realistic as death or paralysis.
Haunting.
Outside of school.
A curious child not prone to mischief suddenly finds himself ensconced with peeps of whom his mom (Katherine Waterston) may disapprove.
They aren't thieves or thugs or dealers or bigots, but homework still isn't really their thing, and they aren't exactly that interested in much, besides chillin'.
And skateboarding and girls.
His brother's (Lucas Hedges) a bit macho though and lays down a strict beating should he continue to exist and enter his much older presence.
A bit of a dick, until Stevie's (Sunny Suljic) recreational pursuits become too disruptive, at which point he actually says something which isn't pejorative or obtuse.
Surprise and shock.
Indiscrimination.
Jonah Hill's Mid90s is a heartfelt deep gritty super real account of youth as it breaks away too quickly.
Hill excels at presenting scenes that aren't overly preachy, or sentimental, or ridiculously exaggerated, or lame, both his writing and directing masterfully blended to craft an exceptionally thoughtful independent comedy that makes you think as it lips off, like cheeky unconcerned conscientious bright crossroads.
It's edgy, it's not provocative or loud or volatile, it's more subtle in its orchestrations as if its characters are aware they don't know much but still seek non-academic experiences that can inspire if not at least entertain them.
Actively.
Even the older ones who offer Stevie advice.
There's judgment but it isn't final, there's support but it isn't blind, there's experimentation but it isn't reckless, until they all get into a car whose driver's intoxicated.
Always a bad idea.
Hill does an amazing job.
I'd say he's the real deal.
Outstanding.
Mid90s sincerely celebrates friendship and camaraderie by having fun without causing too much trouble.
The limits it presents, i.e. don't drink and drive, are as reasonable as they are not foolish, and as realistic as death or paralysis.
Haunting.
Friday, November 16, 2018
First Man
I don't know what to make of space travel.
Would I like to travel to space?
Yes.
Would I like to explore space?
Yes.
Would I like to meet alien lifeforms?
Yes.
Do I wish extraterrestrial animals were featured more prominently on Star Trek?
Definitely yes.
It seems like an awfully expensive trip though, and since money hasn't been replaced as it has on Star Trek, in the Federation anyway, I would rather see trillions of dollars used to clean up the oceans, and feed the world's poor, and promote birth control worldwide, and proactively fight climate change.
Given the current state of the geopolitical scene, I unfortunately can't see any of those things happening soon, or at least until a cataclysmic environmental disaster dismally shakes things up.
I imagine if there was a God, and he or she did return, her or his first act would be to force us to clean up the planet.
While spending most of his or her time chillin' with dolphins.
However, I suppose if that happened the religious right would try to kill God.
Instead of just recycling things, consuming less, embracing flex-time, and marketing disposable containers.
I think I got that idea from South Park.
The science of space travel, the practical theoretical brilliance of the mathematicians, engineers, scientists, and technicians who managed to land a space craft on the moon, is still compelling nevertheless, perhaps the most risky unparalleled ingenious voyage ever hypothesized, even more important than whatever Donald Trump had for breakfast today, which I'm sure will intrigue historians and political scientists for upcoming untold millennia.
First Man doesn't focus on the math though, choosing rather to intently examine the brave astronauts who risked their lives to pioneer space travel, and they really did risk their lives when you consider how experimental the space program was, and rushed, incredibly brilliant no doubt, but still experimental and rushed, would you like to fly this ship we just made and aren't really sure about, not across the ocean, but into the stars themselves, and courageously embrace eternity with the fleeting awe of starstruck munificence?
True daring.
Yes.
It's a sure and steady meaningful account of the Armstrongs, beginning with the tragic death of their first daughter, and ending after Neil (Ryan Gosling) lands on the moon.
Mr. Armstrong is presented as an introverted somewhat cold yet loving man who lost a lot after Karen (Lucy Stafford) passed, but still remained a hard-working devoted husband.
Janet Armstrong (Claire Foy) struggles with the realities of being an astronaut's wife, when so many husbands aren't coming home, and the film reasonably showcases her frustrations at the rare moments when she presents them, her logical suggestions embraced by her husband, as the two practically exemplify self-sacrificing commitment and understanding.
First Man covers a long period of time but its snapshots are well chosen.
It's not overflowing with emotion or exclamation or patriotism, it's a much more sombre illustration of achievement that depicts determination objectively.
The events showcased within patiently generate their own significance while crafting a brave narrative that's much more familial than national.
I wouldn't have included only one black character as a voice of protest though, especially considering the resilient African Americans who worked on the space program, some of whom were poetically illuminated by Theodore Melfi's Hidden Figures, brilliant minds given deserved respect.
Nonetheless, First Man's temperate, generally formal calculus still makes you feel like you're really there, landing on the moon, taking steps in the most otherworldly of environments.
That we've visited this side of the galaxy.
I've heard Madagascar's pretty wild too.
I really felt like I was there, checking things out, wandering around, collecting samples.
I think we should clean up this planet first before heading to Mars or beyond.
I have the utmost respect for the people who risk their lives travelling to space though.
And the math that makes it all possible.
Imagine your team thought all that up and was right.
Too bad space travel's so expensive.
Although I've heard hemp can be used for just about anything.
Even to make fuel.
And it grows like a weed.
So it likely doesn't require pesticides.
Damn.
*Okay, I suppose there's room for ambiguity by writing, "rivetingly so, 😏", so I took it out, to avoid confusion. In my head I thought, "wait, use the word 'rivetingly,' you rarely use that word because you think it's used too often and people will obviously understand that and know that you're being facetious, because everyone knows that's the reason why you rarely use that word." After heading out for a bit, I realized no one could possibly understand that besides me, and rushed home after my appointment to correct my error.
Would I like to travel to space?
Yes.
Would I like to explore space?
Yes.
Would I like to meet alien lifeforms?
Yes.
Do I wish extraterrestrial animals were featured more prominently on Star Trek?
Definitely yes.
It seems like an awfully expensive trip though, and since money hasn't been replaced as it has on Star Trek, in the Federation anyway, I would rather see trillions of dollars used to clean up the oceans, and feed the world's poor, and promote birth control worldwide, and proactively fight climate change.
Given the current state of the geopolitical scene, I unfortunately can't see any of those things happening soon, or at least until a cataclysmic environmental disaster dismally shakes things up.
I imagine if there was a God, and he or she did return, her or his first act would be to force us to clean up the planet.
While spending most of his or her time chillin' with dolphins.
However, I suppose if that happened the religious right would try to kill God.
Instead of just recycling things, consuming less, embracing flex-time, and marketing disposable containers.
I think I got that idea from South Park.
The science of space travel, the practical theoretical brilliance of the mathematicians, engineers, scientists, and technicians who managed to land a space craft on the moon, is still compelling nevertheless, perhaps the most risky unparalleled ingenious voyage ever hypothesized, even more important than whatever Donald Trump had for breakfast today, which I'm sure will intrigue historians and political scientists for upcoming untold millennia.
First Man doesn't focus on the math though, choosing rather to intently examine the brave astronauts who risked their lives to pioneer space travel, and they really did risk their lives when you consider how experimental the space program was, and rushed, incredibly brilliant no doubt, but still experimental and rushed, would you like to fly this ship we just made and aren't really sure about, not across the ocean, but into the stars themselves, and courageously embrace eternity with the fleeting awe of starstruck munificence?
True daring.
Yes.
It's a sure and steady meaningful account of the Armstrongs, beginning with the tragic death of their first daughter, and ending after Neil (Ryan Gosling) lands on the moon.
Mr. Armstrong is presented as an introverted somewhat cold yet loving man who lost a lot after Karen (Lucy Stafford) passed, but still remained a hard-working devoted husband.
Janet Armstrong (Claire Foy) struggles with the realities of being an astronaut's wife, when so many husbands aren't coming home, and the film reasonably showcases her frustrations at the rare moments when she presents them, her logical suggestions embraced by her husband, as the two practically exemplify self-sacrificing commitment and understanding.
First Man covers a long period of time but its snapshots are well chosen.
It's not overflowing with emotion or exclamation or patriotism, it's a much more sombre illustration of achievement that depicts determination objectively.
The events showcased within patiently generate their own significance while crafting a brave narrative that's much more familial than national.
I wouldn't have included only one black character as a voice of protest though, especially considering the resilient African Americans who worked on the space program, some of whom were poetically illuminated by Theodore Melfi's Hidden Figures, brilliant minds given deserved respect.
Nonetheless, First Man's temperate, generally formal calculus still makes you feel like you're really there, landing on the moon, taking steps in the most otherworldly of environments.
That we've visited this side of the galaxy.
I've heard Madagascar's pretty wild too.
I really felt like I was there, checking things out, wandering around, collecting samples.
I think we should clean up this planet first before heading to Mars or beyond.
I have the utmost respect for the people who risk their lives travelling to space though.
And the math that makes it all possible.
Imagine your team thought all that up and was right.
Too bad space travel's so expensive.
Although I've heard hemp can be used for just about anything.
Even to make fuel.
And it grows like a weed.
So it likely doesn't require pesticides.
Damn.
*Okay, I suppose there's room for ambiguity by writing, "rivetingly so, 😏", so I took it out, to avoid confusion. In my head I thought, "wait, use the word 'rivetingly,' you rarely use that word because you think it's used too often and people will obviously understand that and know that you're being facetious, because everyone knows that's the reason why you rarely use that word." After heading out for a bit, I realized no one could possibly understand that besides me, and rushed home after my appointment to correct my error.
Thursday, November 15, 2018
The Predator
The Predator franchise having adjourned several years past on a rather unexpected bone-trilling high note, I was quite eager to entertain its brave successor, inasmuch as it seemed reasonable that it would reach even greater heights, hope logically characterized through lighthearted thrift, the lack of prolonged accompanying anticipatory proclamations (trailers) further augmenting wondrous presumption, I imagined it would impress, if not at least, mischievously diversify.
Yet it seems as if the new team was somewhat overwhelmed by their preceding act, and therefore sought transformative comedic consolidations, the resultant feature perhaps shocking resigned traditionalists, who no doubt stayed till the campy end regardless.
Not to say that Shane Black's unique approach lacks merit, but the Predator films do generally attempt to frighten, relying more heavily on horror than the absurd, often tending to terrify demonstrously.
Within elite commandoes find themselves replaced with a duty-free band of misfits, who have the audacity to tell jokes and exalt mischief, the rapidly paced loosely structured plot maladroitly reflecting their shenanigans, the resulting synthesis bizarrely endearing, typically tantalizing withheld revelations, bluntly shared, unabashed, tomfoolery.
It's more like a keg party than a night out at Saint-Bock, enthusiasm and excess carelessly abounding without taking much time to consider effect, mood, ambience, or likelihood.
Correspondingly, solutions readily present themselves, albeit in an inebriated way, chaotic resiliencies flying high on adrenaline, a family caught up in the jetstreamed carnage.
It's like Joes who haven't done much research suddenly find themselves experientially reaching ingenious conclusions, heavily saturated with kitschy ingenuity, as unconcerned as they are bewildered.
But even if they charmingly hypothesize, they can't outwit the film's brazen capacity.
It is fun though.
I like what they're trying to do, i.e, write a critical horror/comedy, and they mention all kinds of cool things like buses and science and global warming.
Plus it's co-starring Jake Busey (Keyes).
But the script could have perhaps used another round of edits, during which perhaps the predator dog idea would have been reimagined or left out.
A courageous attempt not lacking in ambition that still goes way too far, while mischievously diversifying no less, The Predator may have seriously impressed had it been crafted with more critical insight.
It may convince people to start thinking more seriously about climate change though.
Climate change is definitely real within.
And hopefully still will be in upcoming sequels.
*I never even listened to the Yardbirds!
Harrumph!
Yet it seems as if the new team was somewhat overwhelmed by their preceding act, and therefore sought transformative comedic consolidations, the resultant feature perhaps shocking resigned traditionalists, who no doubt stayed till the campy end regardless.
Not to say that Shane Black's unique approach lacks merit, but the Predator films do generally attempt to frighten, relying more heavily on horror than the absurd, often tending to terrify demonstrously.
Within elite commandoes find themselves replaced with a duty-free band of misfits, who have the audacity to tell jokes and exalt mischief, the rapidly paced loosely structured plot maladroitly reflecting their shenanigans, the resulting synthesis bizarrely endearing, typically tantalizing withheld revelations, bluntly shared, unabashed, tomfoolery.
It's more like a keg party than a night out at Saint-Bock, enthusiasm and excess carelessly abounding without taking much time to consider effect, mood, ambience, or likelihood.
Correspondingly, solutions readily present themselves, albeit in an inebriated way, chaotic resiliencies flying high on adrenaline, a family caught up in the jetstreamed carnage.
It's like Joes who haven't done much research suddenly find themselves experientially reaching ingenious conclusions, heavily saturated with kitschy ingenuity, as unconcerned as they are bewildered.
But even if they charmingly hypothesize, they can't outwit the film's brazen capacity.
It is fun though.
I like what they're trying to do, i.e, write a critical horror/comedy, and they mention all kinds of cool things like buses and science and global warming.
Plus it's co-starring Jake Busey (Keyes).
But the script could have perhaps used another round of edits, during which perhaps the predator dog idea would have been reimagined or left out.
A courageous attempt not lacking in ambition that still goes way too far, while mischievously diversifying no less, The Predator may have seriously impressed had it been crafted with more critical insight.
It may convince people to start thinking more seriously about climate change though.
Climate change is definitely real within.
And hopefully still will be in upcoming sequels.
*I never even listened to the Yardbirds!
Harrumph!
Wednesday, November 14, 2018
The Spy Who Dumped Me
Two girls, comfortably enacting stoic routines, nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary, a settled unsuspecting cozy blasé existence, latent talents uncultivated, bland assumption unjustified, not expecting nor risking nor desiring nor challenging much, while making the most of so-be-it circumstances, prescribed limits multilaterally defined.
When fate introduces ludicrous motivating implausibility, a situation so extraordinary it unfastens harnessed contention.
As definitively improbable as it is boundlessly distinct, their complete lack of applicable knowledge ensures unpredictable success.
Yet tasks can't be resiliently accomplished on their own, and soon trust must be relied upon, to spontaneously outmaneuver.
Their objectives are of the utmost importance and cruel adversaries seek their demise.
Amidst astounding world renown.
Reflexive potence, enduring instinct.
Sometimes the ridiculous awkwardly gesticulates with more disheveling ironic leverage, however, The Spy Who Dumped Me's serendipitous shenanigans perhaps too reliant on realistic pretensions.
Not that many of the scenarios aren't strange or fantastic, or that its boldness would lack succulence if it weren't so stern, but its quaint impressions and audacious ingenuity still don't mix well, like your uncle's homemade cream soda, or a cinnamon cilantro shake, you try them yet remain skeptical, and further experimentation bewilders all the more.
Not that there aren't redeeming factors.
Paul Reiser (Arnie) and Jane Curtain (Carol) add some laughs even if they're underutilized.
The Finnish backpacker they meet in the hostel (Ólafur Darri Ólafsson) should have a cameo in every sequel.
And Mila Kunis (Audrey) and Kate McKinnon (Morgan) work really well together, at times generating the captivating risky eloquence you expect from Hollywood's leading comedic duos.
Especially when they discuss likes and dislikes.
I went to see the film based on McKinnon's leading role alone.
Nevertheless, the blend's still too lumpy.
Extract the strengths for round two.
The talent's there.
Just gotta pull it together.
When fate introduces ludicrous motivating implausibility, a situation so extraordinary it unfastens harnessed contention.
As definitively improbable as it is boundlessly distinct, their complete lack of applicable knowledge ensures unpredictable success.
Yet tasks can't be resiliently accomplished on their own, and soon trust must be relied upon, to spontaneously outmaneuver.
Their objectives are of the utmost importance and cruel adversaries seek their demise.
Amidst astounding world renown.
Reflexive potence, enduring instinct.
Sometimes the ridiculous awkwardly gesticulates with more disheveling ironic leverage, however, The Spy Who Dumped Me's serendipitous shenanigans perhaps too reliant on realistic pretensions.
Not that many of the scenarios aren't strange or fantastic, or that its boldness would lack succulence if it weren't so stern, but its quaint impressions and audacious ingenuity still don't mix well, like your uncle's homemade cream soda, or a cinnamon cilantro shake, you try them yet remain skeptical, and further experimentation bewilders all the more.
Not that there aren't redeeming factors.
Paul Reiser (Arnie) and Jane Curtain (Carol) add some laughs even if they're underutilized.
The Finnish backpacker they meet in the hostel (Ólafur Darri Ólafsson) should have a cameo in every sequel.
And Mila Kunis (Audrey) and Kate McKinnon (Morgan) work really well together, at times generating the captivating risky eloquence you expect from Hollywood's leading comedic duos.
Especially when they discuss likes and dislikes.
I went to see the film based on McKinnon's leading role alone.
Nevertheless, the blend's still too lumpy.
Extract the strengths for round two.
The talent's there.
Just gotta pull it together.
Tuesday, November 13, 2018
The Hate U Give
When I was really young I never really wanted to leave the house.
It seemed, *as M. T_______ has observed, come to think of it, totally unfair that every weekday I'd be carted off to a centralized hub wherein which I'd have to negotiate terms and conditions with a select group of strangers many of whom were impolite and none too impressed with my habitual timidity.
Having yet to learn that being able to count was frowned upon and that you had to listen to people who were bigger than you, I had a rather tough go of it before settling into an obnoxious yet less beating-prone comedic routine, which was also difficult to grow out of as changing circumstances created new socially acceptable codes of conduct.
But eventually I reached middle-age and found that my desire to impress people outside of work had almost entirely disappeared, and although I didn't shy away from outings or conversation, I cared much less about whether or not I was appealing, catchy, suitable.
Sought after.
The Hate U Give's Starr Carter (Amandla Stenberg) is still in the thick of it though, uploading different psychological applications to fit sundry social situations, still attending school, going to parties, pursuing amorous relations, a student from a modest background attending a solid private school cleverly going with the flow, smoothly fitting in, hyperaware of precisely what not to say, managing rage, desire, curiosity, and confusion, with the adroit composure of a surefire sagelike symphony.
Flexible and highly strung.
She's still a kid though and therefore likes to do things kids like to do, as do her friends and siblings.
But when gun shots ring out at a party attended, she flees with an old companion with whom she once enjoyed playing Harry Potter.
Their youthful ambitions hold no sway after they're pulled over for no reason, however, and Starr's friend Khalil (Algee Smith) is soon dead on the ground after having spontaneously decided to simply comb his hair.
He may have been 17 and had a lot of potential.
How often do I read about events like this in the news?
How many of these tragedies could have been avoided?
Starr suffers extreme shock mixed with helplessness and the film gracefully supports her as systemic injustice generates activist passions.
It's a tight multifaceted narrative that soulfully blends kids playfully trying to live their lives, a hardworking father who's served time for drugs and won't go back (Russell Hornsby as Maverick Carter), a local drug dealer who's worried about exposure (Anthony Mackie as King), a caring mom who supports her daughter's decision (Regina Hall as Lisa Carter), a black cop caught up in the system (Common as Carlos), a supportive privileged boyfriend who's willing to take risks for Starr even though it's a world he doesn't understand (K.J. Apa as Chris), Starr's close school friend who doesn't try to understand (Sabrina Carpenter as Hailey), media reports that don't try to understand, underfunded public schools that can't keep the drugs out, an activist who understands how hard it is to speak out but knows how essential it is to do so (Issa Rae as April Ofrah), a family's local struggle to get by transformed by national attention which is none too appreciated by the thugs, many of whom tried, but could never find anything better to do.
Starr unites these elements and bravely makes tough decisions to help her community.
I loved the film's positive focus, convincingly letting the light shine through so much demotivating darkness.
The light is out there and it is shining brightly.
A lot of people who try to make it big selling drugs wind up in jail.
A lot of people who put in an honest day's work and keep looking forward, building a business or helping others build businesses, can still make good money, and don't have to be scared all the time.
Can enjoy time spent with friends and family.
Chill out a bit even.
Joke around.
Read books and watch movies.
It seemed, *as M. T_______ has observed, come to think of it, totally unfair that every weekday I'd be carted off to a centralized hub wherein which I'd have to negotiate terms and conditions with a select group of strangers many of whom were impolite and none too impressed with my habitual timidity.
Having yet to learn that being able to count was frowned upon and that you had to listen to people who were bigger than you, I had a rather tough go of it before settling into an obnoxious yet less beating-prone comedic routine, which was also difficult to grow out of as changing circumstances created new socially acceptable codes of conduct.
But eventually I reached middle-age and found that my desire to impress people outside of work had almost entirely disappeared, and although I didn't shy away from outings or conversation, I cared much less about whether or not I was appealing, catchy, suitable.
Sought after.
The Hate U Give's Starr Carter (Amandla Stenberg) is still in the thick of it though, uploading different psychological applications to fit sundry social situations, still attending school, going to parties, pursuing amorous relations, a student from a modest background attending a solid private school cleverly going with the flow, smoothly fitting in, hyperaware of precisely what not to say, managing rage, desire, curiosity, and confusion, with the adroit composure of a surefire sagelike symphony.
Flexible and highly strung.
She's still a kid though and therefore likes to do things kids like to do, as do her friends and siblings.
But when gun shots ring out at a party attended, she flees with an old companion with whom she once enjoyed playing Harry Potter.
Their youthful ambitions hold no sway after they're pulled over for no reason, however, and Starr's friend Khalil (Algee Smith) is soon dead on the ground after having spontaneously decided to simply comb his hair.
He may have been 17 and had a lot of potential.
How often do I read about events like this in the news?
How many of these tragedies could have been avoided?
Starr suffers extreme shock mixed with helplessness and the film gracefully supports her as systemic injustice generates activist passions.
It's a tight multifaceted narrative that soulfully blends kids playfully trying to live their lives, a hardworking father who's served time for drugs and won't go back (Russell Hornsby as Maverick Carter), a local drug dealer who's worried about exposure (Anthony Mackie as King), a caring mom who supports her daughter's decision (Regina Hall as Lisa Carter), a black cop caught up in the system (Common as Carlos), a supportive privileged boyfriend who's willing to take risks for Starr even though it's a world he doesn't understand (K.J. Apa as Chris), Starr's close school friend who doesn't try to understand (Sabrina Carpenter as Hailey), media reports that don't try to understand, underfunded public schools that can't keep the drugs out, an activist who understands how hard it is to speak out but knows how essential it is to do so (Issa Rae as April Ofrah), a family's local struggle to get by transformed by national attention which is none too appreciated by the thugs, many of whom tried, but could never find anything better to do.
Starr unites these elements and bravely makes tough decisions to help her community.
I loved the film's positive focus, convincingly letting the light shine through so much demotivating darkness.
The light is out there and it is shining brightly.
A lot of people who try to make it big selling drugs wind up in jail.
A lot of people who put in an honest day's work and keep looking forward, building a business or helping others build businesses, can still make good money, and don't have to be scared all the time.
Can enjoy time spent with friends and family.
Chill out a bit even.
Joke around.
Read books and watch movies.
Monday, November 12, 2018
Flatliners
I suppose Flatliners passes as a chilling representation of mainstream sci-fi/horror, its 5 med students adventurously engaged in supernatural experimentation, recklessly bringing about their own deaths to pioneer forbidden im/mortal disciplines, risking their coveted careers to entertainingly tantalize, while unwittingly materializing vengeful sociohistorical menace.
It excites eager film lovers by affixing its characters with ingenious analytical and creative abilities, real world superpowers which delineate discriminate diagnoses, yet simultaneously terrifies them by monstrously calling into question the means by which they obtained them, metaphorically speaking, "say no to drugs."
It's as if after flatlining everything they've ever done, read, intuited, or considered, is computationally available, capable of being accessed and applied with immediate inspirational virtuosity, however, since each character has effectively ruined, even ended the lives of others, their genius is maddeningly guilt ridden, and their aspirations spiritually overwhelming.
Like Limitless meets Final Destination, Flatliners packs a potent cerebrally stunning punch, but it gets down to it a little too quickly for my tastes, instantaneously invigorating its narrative without having thoughtfully justified why it's bothering to do so.
Perhaps an additional 15 minutes spent clarifying why the characters are so willingly embracing death enriched with a reflective dialogue concerning the merits of their moribund undertakings would have been too cumbersome, too boring, too intellectual, but it's not like they're thinking about taking a road trip here, or heading to the casino or skipping class.
Or making out in the library.
They be killing themselves to suicidally synergize prohibited prognostics and vivacious versatilities, and methinks that deserves a bit more discussion as the story unfolds, even if it unreels contemptuously thereafter.
Is that middle-aged bias?
Wait, Flatliner's religious underpinnings suggest explanations are unnecessary, so the rash undiscussed experimental adolescent death drive is therefore subconsciously sustained.
However, they're all med students using science to make breakthroughs within earthly realms, and should therefore be questioning everything they do.
Perhaps the soul searching yet practically attuned Ray (Diego Luna), who, unlike his colleagues, worked his way up through bold honest labour, presents a way out of this deadlock, for he's the only character whose past doesn't haunt him, and he's also the only one who doesn't flatline.
But doesn't the person of the world who never seeks to comprehend occult mysteries function like Indiana Jones and Marion at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, never seeking to understand the divine even if it is bluntly presented, out of unacknowledged religious humility, or existential acculturation?
And therefore can't assist?
Beats me.
*I watched Kingdom of the Crystal Skull again last night for the first time since it came out. I liked it a lot more the second time although things get pretty ridiculous near the end. And suggesting aliens taught ancient cultures everything they knew is ethnocentric. Our superbrains created the internet. Theirs created the Pyramids, the Great Wall etc.
**I wrote this last February and forgot that I had mentioned Indiana Jones. I didn't read it again until tonight, the night I had planned to post it on last February (well, I had planned to post it on a Monday in November). And I just recently finished watching all the Indiana Jones movies again. As in yesterday. Weird.
It excites eager film lovers by affixing its characters with ingenious analytical and creative abilities, real world superpowers which delineate discriminate diagnoses, yet simultaneously terrifies them by monstrously calling into question the means by which they obtained them, metaphorically speaking, "say no to drugs."
It's as if after flatlining everything they've ever done, read, intuited, or considered, is computationally available, capable of being accessed and applied with immediate inspirational virtuosity, however, since each character has effectively ruined, even ended the lives of others, their genius is maddeningly guilt ridden, and their aspirations spiritually overwhelming.
Like Limitless meets Final Destination, Flatliners packs a potent cerebrally stunning punch, but it gets down to it a little too quickly for my tastes, instantaneously invigorating its narrative without having thoughtfully justified why it's bothering to do so.
Perhaps an additional 15 minutes spent clarifying why the characters are so willingly embracing death enriched with a reflective dialogue concerning the merits of their moribund undertakings would have been too cumbersome, too boring, too intellectual, but it's not like they're thinking about taking a road trip here, or heading to the casino or skipping class.
Or making out in the library.
They be killing themselves to suicidally synergize prohibited prognostics and vivacious versatilities, and methinks that deserves a bit more discussion as the story unfolds, even if it unreels contemptuously thereafter.
Is that middle-aged bias?
Wait, Flatliner's religious underpinnings suggest explanations are unnecessary, so the rash undiscussed experimental adolescent death drive is therefore subconsciously sustained.
However, they're all med students using science to make breakthroughs within earthly realms, and should therefore be questioning everything they do.
Perhaps the soul searching yet practically attuned Ray (Diego Luna), who, unlike his colleagues, worked his way up through bold honest labour, presents a way out of this deadlock, for he's the only character whose past doesn't haunt him, and he's also the only one who doesn't flatline.
But doesn't the person of the world who never seeks to comprehend occult mysteries function like Indiana Jones and Marion at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, never seeking to understand the divine even if it is bluntly presented, out of unacknowledged religious humility, or existential acculturation?
And therefore can't assist?
Beats me.
*I watched Kingdom of the Crystal Skull again last night for the first time since it came out. I liked it a lot more the second time although things get pretty ridiculous near the end. And suggesting aliens taught ancient cultures everything they knew is ethnocentric. Our superbrains created the internet. Theirs created the Pyramids, the Great Wall etc.
**I wrote this last February and forgot that I had mentioned Indiana Jones. I didn't read it again until tonight, the night I had planned to post it on last February (well, I had planned to post it on a Monday in November). And I just recently finished watching all the Indiana Jones movies again. As in yesterday. Weird.
Friday, November 9, 2018
A Star is Born
With a voice as multifaceted as Brooklyn or a night out on Duluth, effervescently reverberating with transformative emotional characterization, sweetly orchestrating discursive labyrinths, purpose delineating fluctuating climax, the in/conclusive communally narrativizing, the independent meteorologically summarizing, Lady Gaga (Ally) firmly embraces the silver screen, irrepressibly showcasing her vast talent, chanting out with distinct virtuosity, enlightened like a seaside glade, I've never listened to her before, what an exceptionally mesmerizing performer.
Starring in a film that struggles to match up.
Although it starts out well as an alcoholic superstar (Bradley Cooper) suddenly decides to check out the local nightlife after another successful performance.
To his immense good fortune, he's lucky enough to discover a local talent whose versatility is as profound as it is unknown (Gaga).
The film excels as the two meet and Ally is instantaneously recognized.
But as the praise keeps rolling in, and rolling in, and rolling in, its gritty edge is blandly dulled, and as Jack's addictions correspondingly get the better of him, the result is a depressing descent into cold reckless shadow.
A Star is Born is just too obvious, not in the good we know this is tacky and we're making fun of ourselves kind of way, but in the bad you're supposed to be taking this seriously kind of way.
And it's super long.
Often when I see something this bad I'll go see something else and write about it instead, to avoid hurting feelings, but I don't have time to do that this month, and therefore, must proceed.
But I won't say much more.
Immediacy can be a useful device but when things are this instantaneous everything just falls apart.
Rapidly.
In terms of making a film, not going with the flow when performing live.
Man.
My mind's too full of negativity.
I think the expression is, field day, or you could have a field day with this one.
Some great performances though.
And some funny family moments.
The first 40 minutes are really good.
Bummer.
Starring in a film that struggles to match up.
Although it starts out well as an alcoholic superstar (Bradley Cooper) suddenly decides to check out the local nightlife after another successful performance.
To his immense good fortune, he's lucky enough to discover a local talent whose versatility is as profound as it is unknown (Gaga).
The film excels as the two meet and Ally is instantaneously recognized.
But as the praise keeps rolling in, and rolling in, and rolling in, its gritty edge is blandly dulled, and as Jack's addictions correspondingly get the better of him, the result is a depressing descent into cold reckless shadow.
A Star is Born is just too obvious, not in the good we know this is tacky and we're making fun of ourselves kind of way, but in the bad you're supposed to be taking this seriously kind of way.
And it's super long.
Often when I see something this bad I'll go see something else and write about it instead, to avoid hurting feelings, but I don't have time to do that this month, and therefore, must proceed.
But I won't say much more.
Immediacy can be a useful device but when things are this instantaneous everything just falls apart.
Rapidly.
In terms of making a film, not going with the flow when performing live.
Man.
My mind's too full of negativity.
I think the expression is, field day, or you could have a field day with this one.
Some great performances though.
And some funny family moments.
The first 40 minutes are really good.
Bummer.
Tuesday, November 6, 2018
Wolfe
Summations surmised in shock smothered sick suffering scorn.
Pronounced pertinent enriched bewilderment interrogative analytics revelations inconclusive.
Serial addendums.
Emotions recollected quixotic exhilaration scarlet iris peerless pathways authentic articles embraced innate pandemonium.
Mutual affection tempestuously tantalized whispers whirlwinds bliss.
Substitutions recitals realignments electrolysis solutes snickers flow, spastic momentum definitive increments narratively isolating cloyed vignettes.
Fortunes resentments antecedents exclamations.
An artist observing amongst them.
Discerning apt poetic reflections in pitched photogenic verse.
Much younger ignored pushed aside.
Still generating pith, catharsis.
Still secreting verdant environs.
Friends struggle to understand why a confidant takes her own life as an outsider questions them in Francis Bordeleau's Wolfe.
It unreels like less of a search for meaning than an attempt to obscure guilt.
It's like there was significance but they couldn't comprehend it and in a tragic attempt to provoke lucidity everything became much less clear.
Until an individual possessing true feeling honestly presented unabashed sincerity.
Wolfe subtly criticizes instinctual unreflective existence through experimental elucidation.
Unable to find resolutions, it suggests a lack of purpose can be overcome through artistic witness.
The violence the artist faces in the beginning fades as he befriends the two spirits also affected by its presumption.
A less depressing film might have solely focused on the good times, celebrating carefree creative progression as opposed to stark misfortune.
Presenting sundry outputs from local artists within.
Like a xylophone.
A soundboard.
A rainforest.
A café.
Pronounced pertinent enriched bewilderment interrogative analytics revelations inconclusive.
Serial addendums.
Emotions recollected quixotic exhilaration scarlet iris peerless pathways authentic articles embraced innate pandemonium.
Mutual affection tempestuously tantalized whispers whirlwinds bliss.
Substitutions recitals realignments electrolysis solutes snickers flow, spastic momentum definitive increments narratively isolating cloyed vignettes.
Fortunes resentments antecedents exclamations.
An artist observing amongst them.
Discerning apt poetic reflections in pitched photogenic verse.
Much younger ignored pushed aside.
Still generating pith, catharsis.
Still secreting verdant environs.
Friends struggle to understand why a confidant takes her own life as an outsider questions them in Francis Bordeleau's Wolfe.
It unreels like less of a search for meaning than an attempt to obscure guilt.
It's like there was significance but they couldn't comprehend it and in a tragic attempt to provoke lucidity everything became much less clear.
Until an individual possessing true feeling honestly presented unabashed sincerity.
Wolfe subtly criticizes instinctual unreflective existence through experimental elucidation.
Unable to find resolutions, it suggests a lack of purpose can be overcome through artistic witness.
The violence the artist faces in the beginning fades as he befriends the two spirits also affected by its presumption.
A less depressing film might have solely focused on the good times, celebrating carefree creative progression as opposed to stark misfortune.
Presenting sundry outputs from local artists within.
Like a xylophone.
A soundboard.
A rainforest.
A café.
Friday, November 2, 2018
Colette
Lavish living, routinely enjoying the most sumptuous victuals to play the role your standing traditionally authenticates, variable inspired expenses infusing a literary aura with the carefree bravado of limitless production, malleability, ceremonial constants, presumed ostentation auriferously manifesting guilds, assumed impeccability unerringly suspecting intrigue, lashed foibles pronounced yet overlooked inasmuch as they characterize, at home amidst scandal and rumour, brash confidence supposed, instinctually attuned to grasped levitational predicament, brazen yet steadfast, polished yoke adjourned.
Suddenly married.
To a partner less docile than anticipated.
Eventually comprehending her worth, her value to the Parisian imagination, she challenges her freewheeling worldly spouse, who's become dependent on her novel individualism.
Wondering if the art's progress solely by chance or accident?
It seems that many well read erudite professionals reasonably publish that which they believe will profitably sustain them, their understanding of the arts being generally more reliable than a gambler's knowledge of cards or horse racing, and by reading public tastes or those of private audiences thereby, a cultural continuum emerges within which it's possible to earn a living.
Thus Willy (Dominic West) initially dismisses Colette's (Keira Knightley) first novel, thinking it won't tastefully fit the literate French spirit as he distills it, but as bills pile up and nothing appealing conveniently presents itself, he eventually pursues its publication, and it's an immediate success.
Who knows really?
J. K. Rowling, rejected.
Proust, rejected.
You can't assume novelty and experimentation will cultivate financial freedoms without worry, perhaps there are publishing houses who can with whom I'm unfamiliar, but regardless every so often that magical narrative seductively hits the shelves and its unique unbridled perfectly fitting plots, ideas, characters, and settings, impassion stoic readers who have otherwise succumbed to the piquant yet predictable.
Colette's novels sell with the unmitigated fury of an exclamatory tempest, generating revenues most sound for her foolish spendthrift husband.
She puts up with it for quite some time before finally bidding adieu and heading out on her own.
The film critiques M. Gauthier-Villars but not too severely, preferring to dis/harmoniously celebrate the times during which they excelled together to dwelling upon their inevitable break.
How could you go that far?
Such betrayal.
For a miserly pittance.
A lively entertaining clever examination of a voice which slowly learns to independently express itself, complete with a critical yet unpretentious account of conjugal versatility, straddling the upper stratosphere, agitating deals, drafts, dogmas.
Indoctrinations.
Mischievous celebratory circumnavigation afloat.
Disenchanting yet enticing.
Love Keira Knightley's outrage.
Suddenly married.
To a partner less docile than anticipated.
Eventually comprehending her worth, her value to the Parisian imagination, she challenges her freewheeling worldly spouse, who's become dependent on her novel individualism.
Wondering if the art's progress solely by chance or accident?
It seems that many well read erudite professionals reasonably publish that which they believe will profitably sustain them, their understanding of the arts being generally more reliable than a gambler's knowledge of cards or horse racing, and by reading public tastes or those of private audiences thereby, a cultural continuum emerges within which it's possible to earn a living.
Thus Willy (Dominic West) initially dismisses Colette's (Keira Knightley) first novel, thinking it won't tastefully fit the literate French spirit as he distills it, but as bills pile up and nothing appealing conveniently presents itself, he eventually pursues its publication, and it's an immediate success.
Who knows really?
J. K. Rowling, rejected.
Proust, rejected.
You can't assume novelty and experimentation will cultivate financial freedoms without worry, perhaps there are publishing houses who can with whom I'm unfamiliar, but regardless every so often that magical narrative seductively hits the shelves and its unique unbridled perfectly fitting plots, ideas, characters, and settings, impassion stoic readers who have otherwise succumbed to the piquant yet predictable.
Colette's novels sell with the unmitigated fury of an exclamatory tempest, generating revenues most sound for her foolish spendthrift husband.
She puts up with it for quite some time before finally bidding adieu and heading out on her own.
The film critiques M. Gauthier-Villars but not too severely, preferring to dis/harmoniously celebrate the times during which they excelled together to dwelling upon their inevitable break.
How could you go that far?
Such betrayal.
For a miserly pittance.
A lively entertaining clever examination of a voice which slowly learns to independently express itself, complete with a critical yet unpretentious account of conjugal versatility, straddling the upper stratosphere, agitating deals, drafts, dogmas.
Indoctrinations.
Mischievous celebratory circumnavigation afloat.
Disenchanting yet enticing.
Love Keira Knightley's outrage.
Tuesday, October 30, 2018
Laissez bronzer les cadavres
Auriferously enveloped in taut supernatural ubiquity suddenly thrust into periscopical freelance tight-knit plans crisply cropped chaos inveterate beam brightly brandished ancient shivers.
Plot embryonically subsumed ambient malcontenants gargoylically grouped in febrile homely ruins spacious interiors accents flush endemic verisimilitude hearty chipped consummates.
Exacting detail poised petulance amassed misfortune spastic swathe.
Grim spirit haunted hospice brisk hashtag extrinsic vessel.
No escape alternative thought quotidian distraction nostalgic reminiscence, ambient gravity supersaturated magnetism cartesian lockdown enraptured immobility.
Beyond the interrogative enriching strict declaration I've never been here before exalted purest articulate perfidy, sensual stream insouciant sultry sunbathed nomenclature, emotive instinct lucrative goals breathless contempt perpetual motion perspicaciously exhaled saturated elevations arterial wavelength transisting thatch.
Velveteen.
Freedoms frenetically composed casked and coaxed immersion purloined Serengeti paradisaical taunts surveyed disemboweled allegiance.
Primordial improvisations midnight magnates circumstantially asphyxiating engrained accords, bleak prospects menacingly heckle options baleful non-negotiable arrest.
Brilliance generously applied atypically tailored to a weathered realm, its incumbent creative frenzies extracting copious iron clad ligaments.
You couldn't create something this tight without meticulous drive, but inasmuch as the mad notoriously evades reasonable discourse, Laissez bronzer les cadavres outwits generic overtures.
Refreshing.
What Free Fire could have been without the humour and more style.
Much more style.
It would be oppressively immersive if it wasn't so laissez-faire, bold unique cinematic reckoning polished and selective like precious blackmarket diamonds.
Maltese falcons.
Soaring through unparalleled wilds.
Ravenous and sheer.
Disillusioned incarnate yields.
A must see.
*Happy Halloween!
Plot embryonically subsumed ambient malcontenants gargoylically grouped in febrile homely ruins spacious interiors accents flush endemic verisimilitude hearty chipped consummates.
Exacting detail poised petulance amassed misfortune spastic swathe.
Grim spirit haunted hospice brisk hashtag extrinsic vessel.
No escape alternative thought quotidian distraction nostalgic reminiscence, ambient gravity supersaturated magnetism cartesian lockdown enraptured immobility.
Beyond the interrogative enriching strict declaration I've never been here before exalted purest articulate perfidy, sensual stream insouciant sultry sunbathed nomenclature, emotive instinct lucrative goals breathless contempt perpetual motion perspicaciously exhaled saturated elevations arterial wavelength transisting thatch.
Velveteen.
Freedoms frenetically composed casked and coaxed immersion purloined Serengeti paradisaical taunts surveyed disemboweled allegiance.
Primordial improvisations midnight magnates circumstantially asphyxiating engrained accords, bleak prospects menacingly heckle options baleful non-negotiable arrest.
Brilliance generously applied atypically tailored to a weathered realm, its incumbent creative frenzies extracting copious iron clad ligaments.
You couldn't create something this tight without meticulous drive, but inasmuch as the mad notoriously evades reasonable discourse, Laissez bronzer les cadavres outwits generic overtures.
Refreshing.
What Free Fire could have been without the humour and more style.
Much more style.
It would be oppressively immersive if it wasn't so laissez-faire, bold unique cinematic reckoning polished and selective like precious blackmarket diamonds.
Maltese falcons.
Soaring through unparalleled wilds.
Ravenous and sheer.
Disillusioned incarnate yields.
A must see.
*Happy Halloween!
Friday, October 26, 2018
At First Light
True love gone astray, withheld honest feelings bottled-up deep down proudly mired in distraught stasis as adhesive as it is cold.
A sighting, soulful regeneration, wondrous mischief suddenly appears levitating thoughts light and playful, so much time having been spent thinking of the right thing to say leaves him speechless, inarticulate, defensive, rude, thaws thick manifest in waking daydream, fears heartfelt quakes waxing dunes.
Translucent phase.
Image and status, communal narratives, blind rumour, blasé treatise.
Still that spark of ecstatic longing, that shimmering eternal flame, persevered in joyous depths, always, enraptures bright communication.
Before she's gone, disappears.
Then wakes having emerged divine.
Extraterrestrially wandering, At First Light.
Wherein romantic science-fiction illuminates superpowers, as ethereal precipitation saturates disbelief.
Confusion, answers which provoke quandary, a mystery lacking clues, codes, constructs, chords, gradually revealed in thoughtful awestruck miniature.
A tight script technologically economized inspires creative storytelling.
Desires to live freely contending with control.
Radioactive metamorphosis ironically humanizing elemental nuclei.
First contact made with ancient interstellar vocals.
It's as if the heights to which one raises their beloved are enigmatically reified within, godlike characteristics exotically pronounced.
Sean (Théodore Pellerin) sits back in wonder as Alex Lainey (Stefanie Scott) electrifies, thunderous awareness coyly emancipated, untilled.
That which is to be expected is present, is sewn, but At First Light reimagines these conventions to its credit, recharging their form with enlightening elastic appeal.
Supporting characters diversify its filmscape while adding narrative texture and nuance, the local transformed into the intergalactic piecemeal as events impressionably unfold.
Make the most of your talents and budgets increase tenfold.
I imagine.
Like amorous independence.
Galvanized gale force solar.
A sighting, soulful regeneration, wondrous mischief suddenly appears levitating thoughts light and playful, so much time having been spent thinking of the right thing to say leaves him speechless, inarticulate, defensive, rude, thaws thick manifest in waking daydream, fears heartfelt quakes waxing dunes.
Translucent phase.
Image and status, communal narratives, blind rumour, blasé treatise.
Still that spark of ecstatic longing, that shimmering eternal flame, persevered in joyous depths, always, enraptures bright communication.
Before she's gone, disappears.
Then wakes having emerged divine.
Extraterrestrially wandering, At First Light.
Wherein romantic science-fiction illuminates superpowers, as ethereal precipitation saturates disbelief.
Confusion, answers which provoke quandary, a mystery lacking clues, codes, constructs, chords, gradually revealed in thoughtful awestruck miniature.
A tight script technologically economized inspires creative storytelling.
Desires to live freely contending with control.
Radioactive metamorphosis ironically humanizing elemental nuclei.
First contact made with ancient interstellar vocals.
It's as if the heights to which one raises their beloved are enigmatically reified within, godlike characteristics exotically pronounced.
Sean (Théodore Pellerin) sits back in wonder as Alex Lainey (Stefanie Scott) electrifies, thunderous awareness coyly emancipated, untilled.
That which is to be expected is present, is sewn, but At First Light reimagines these conventions to its credit, recharging their form with enlightening elastic appeal.
Supporting characters diversify its filmscape while adding narrative texture and nuance, the local transformed into the intergalactic piecemeal as events impressionably unfold.
Make the most of your talents and budgets increase tenfold.
I imagine.
Like amorous independence.
Galvanized gale force solar.
Tuesday, October 23, 2018
The Wife
The world's rather oddly constructed, some of its pretensions anyways, the idea that female writers can't sell their work for instance, which I imagine was much more prevalent 50 years ago, Foucauldian analysis pending.
The world certainly seems like a much more open place for men, and when you think of the thousands of psychological, financial, political, and ethical barriers preventing women from expressing themselves, the gross injustice of it all makes you wonder why people who are supposed to be fearless are so utterly afraid of a little femininity?
Women make good storytellers, are capable of doing anything men can do really, and cultural codes that prevent them from selling their work under their own name therefore don't make much sense, especially since they have so many compelling stories to share.
Longer explanation in a book some day.
I don't like everything I read or watch or listen to that's written by women, I don't like everything I read or watch or listen to that's written by men, I didn't realize you were supposed to prefer the one that matched your gender when I was really young, and was severely reprimanded, still am I suppose, but since I live in a theoretically free country I should be free to pick and choose who I like, even in my forties, as long as they aren't spreading hate intended to curtail freedoms, and I don't see it as a feminine and masculine artistic continuum, but rather one composed of stories I like and others which I don't.
I'm much more forgiving with films.
If I wrote about music or books I imagine people would criticize me for being too harsh instead of enjoying what I do.
In The Wife we find a literary married couple who's been given the Nobel Prize for literature even though only one of them is being recognized.
Wife Joan Castleman's (Glenn Close) painstaking imaginative endeavours are hailed for their genius, and husband Joe Castleman (Jonathan Pryce) is given all the credit.
He's a bit of a brute, living a life of freedom and ease that's absolutely dependent on his wife's devotion, and rather than reciprocating her heartfelt sacrifice he consumes countless luxuries and never stops womanizing.
The golden ticket.
You'd think that if you had the golden ticket you wouldn't openly mock its charitable foundations or colonize its endemic struggle.
You'd think you'd respect it at least, especially if its purchase had nothing to do with you.
Value it.
Not the case though in The Wife, as Joe recklessly gorges at the trough (things become more complicated as a mischievous biographer [Christian Slater as Nathaniel Bone] inquisitively stirs things up).
The film examines a fed up spouse's desire to be recognized for her brilliance in a patriarchal world prone to overlook essential feminine contributions.
It's quite direct for a movie focused on award winning literature, although the point it makes shines more brightly since it isn't buried beneath sundry literary filmic devices.
The unacknowledged heroine, the burly bumptious brute.
Like he had no leg to stand on so he went out and bought stilts.
He doesn't even consider sharing it.
After so so many years.
The world certainly seems like a much more open place for men, and when you think of the thousands of psychological, financial, political, and ethical barriers preventing women from expressing themselves, the gross injustice of it all makes you wonder why people who are supposed to be fearless are so utterly afraid of a little femininity?
Women make good storytellers, are capable of doing anything men can do really, and cultural codes that prevent them from selling their work under their own name therefore don't make much sense, especially since they have so many compelling stories to share.
Longer explanation in a book some day.
I don't like everything I read or watch or listen to that's written by women, I don't like everything I read or watch or listen to that's written by men, I didn't realize you were supposed to prefer the one that matched your gender when I was really young, and was severely reprimanded, still am I suppose, but since I live in a theoretically free country I should be free to pick and choose who I like, even in my forties, as long as they aren't spreading hate intended to curtail freedoms, and I don't see it as a feminine and masculine artistic continuum, but rather one composed of stories I like and others which I don't.
I'm much more forgiving with films.
If I wrote about music or books I imagine people would criticize me for being too harsh instead of enjoying what I do.
In The Wife we find a literary married couple who's been given the Nobel Prize for literature even though only one of them is being recognized.
Wife Joan Castleman's (Glenn Close) painstaking imaginative endeavours are hailed for their genius, and husband Joe Castleman (Jonathan Pryce) is given all the credit.
He's a bit of a brute, living a life of freedom and ease that's absolutely dependent on his wife's devotion, and rather than reciprocating her heartfelt sacrifice he consumes countless luxuries and never stops womanizing.
The golden ticket.
You'd think that if you had the golden ticket you wouldn't openly mock its charitable foundations or colonize its endemic struggle.
You'd think you'd respect it at least, especially if its purchase had nothing to do with you.
Value it.
Not the case though in The Wife, as Joe recklessly gorges at the trough (things become more complicated as a mischievous biographer [Christian Slater as Nathaniel Bone] inquisitively stirs things up).
The film examines a fed up spouse's desire to be recognized for her brilliance in a patriarchal world prone to overlook essential feminine contributions.
It's quite direct for a movie focused on award winning literature, although the point it makes shines more brightly since it isn't buried beneath sundry literary filmic devices.
The unacknowledged heroine, the burly bumptious brute.
Like he had no leg to stand on so he went out and bought stilts.
He doesn't even consider sharing it.
After so so many years.
Friday, October 19, 2018
The Bookshop
So many harmless ideas.
Why would anyone protest if you wanted to open a bookshop for instance, why would anyone critique sharing ideas and stories, generating dreams, nurturing imagination, long before even television was taken for granted, especially in a small town with no local bookshop?
Books obviously enrich the mind in ways that television and film can't, I simply mention the town's lack of televisions to emphasize how grossly realistic things must have been at the time, for those regularly searching for alternative adventures and fantasies, or sharp cutting-edge non-fiction.
It seemed logical to me, in my youth, that if you wanted to open a store and freely sell things such as books or pizza you would be free to do so.
The thought of living somewhere where the government suddenly banned thousands of books and ideas or forced you to consume specific narratives without comment is baffling and inherently self-defeating.
The Bookshop's set in Britain not long after World War II and I've always taken it for granted that the United Kingdom was rather open-minded at the time, not so naively that I figured there weren't social issues or endemic inequalities that prevented groups and individuals from flourishing, but naively enough to suppose that if you wanted to open a bookshop in a small town without a bookshop, on your own property, you would be able to do so without legal interference.
Bizarro.
Monopolistic tragedies.
Isabel Coixet's The Bookshop is a brave soulful examination of an independent chap's immersion in local culture.
She was so beautiful.
Where many scenes would have ended in similar films, many of The Bookshop's keep unreeling complete with clever added details/suggestions/conflicts/hopes that add so much more to the courageous narrative.
Phenomenally laidback performances well-versed in bucolic sophistication calmly yet severely manifest palpable joys and tensions, actors acting in a serious film as if they were acting in a serious film, cultivating their craft, intently focused on their art.
The Bookshop's like that small town gem you've heard about where you can buy the most wondrous things off the beaten track and they've never even considered advertising.
It's as modest as a Sunday school teacher yet as fiery as a proactive country priest/rabbi/reverend/imam.
Some scenes seem to have been included to simply celebrate life, notably when Florence Green (Emily Mortimer) and Christine (Honor Kneafsey) are unexpectedly showcased at ease playfully enjoying themselves while working, or when Edmund Brundish (Bill Nighy) and Ms. Green are unsure how to end their first meeting, propriety suggesting they part although neither of them wishes to do so.
I'm still terrible at coming and going.
If only life were always spent in the middle of conversations.
A must-see film overflowing with pluck and integrity.
I can't imagine having to shop for books exclusively online.
You can't browse the shelves.
Find the perfect book you never knew you were looking for.
Why would anyone protest if you wanted to open a bookshop for instance, why would anyone critique sharing ideas and stories, generating dreams, nurturing imagination, long before even television was taken for granted, especially in a small town with no local bookshop?
Books obviously enrich the mind in ways that television and film can't, I simply mention the town's lack of televisions to emphasize how grossly realistic things must have been at the time, for those regularly searching for alternative adventures and fantasies, or sharp cutting-edge non-fiction.
It seemed logical to me, in my youth, that if you wanted to open a store and freely sell things such as books or pizza you would be free to do so.
The thought of living somewhere where the government suddenly banned thousands of books and ideas or forced you to consume specific narratives without comment is baffling and inherently self-defeating.
The Bookshop's set in Britain not long after World War II and I've always taken it for granted that the United Kingdom was rather open-minded at the time, not so naively that I figured there weren't social issues or endemic inequalities that prevented groups and individuals from flourishing, but naively enough to suppose that if you wanted to open a bookshop in a small town without a bookshop, on your own property, you would be able to do so without legal interference.
Bizarro.
Monopolistic tragedies.
Isabel Coixet's The Bookshop is a brave soulful examination of an independent chap's immersion in local culture.
She was so beautiful.
Where many scenes would have ended in similar films, many of The Bookshop's keep unreeling complete with clever added details/suggestions/conflicts/hopes that add so much more to the courageous narrative.
Phenomenally laidback performances well-versed in bucolic sophistication calmly yet severely manifest palpable joys and tensions, actors acting in a serious film as if they were acting in a serious film, cultivating their craft, intently focused on their art.
The Bookshop's like that small town gem you've heard about where you can buy the most wondrous things off the beaten track and they've never even considered advertising.
It's as modest as a Sunday school teacher yet as fiery as a proactive country priest/rabbi/reverend/imam.
Some scenes seem to have been included to simply celebrate life, notably when Florence Green (Emily Mortimer) and Christine (Honor Kneafsey) are unexpectedly showcased at ease playfully enjoying themselves while working, or when Edmund Brundish (Bill Nighy) and Ms. Green are unsure how to end their first meeting, propriety suggesting they part although neither of them wishes to do so.
I'm still terrible at coming and going.
If only life were always spent in the middle of conversations.
A must-see film overflowing with pluck and integrity.
I can't imagine having to shop for books exclusively online.
You can't browse the shelves.
Find the perfect book you never knew you were looking for.
Tuesday, October 16, 2018
We the Animals
A creative child, impoverished and sensitive, hesitant and withdrawn, immersed in domestic violence explosive tempers rigid flair, bipolar ontologies practically conditioning tempestuous mindsets artistically grained and fractured, love amorously swathing, freedom recklessly improvising, a lack of consultation disputatiously igniting frayed conscience, with striking elementary animosity, fell off the deep end, woe heartaches disbelief, still anchored constitutionally, to sights sounds preached ruptures too familiar.
Tough life for the little guy.
The love's there, no question, but paps doesn't get that he's just not the type of kid who learns to swim if you unexpectedly let go.
A budding young illustrator, painter, designer, architect, explicitly classifying the chaos as unconfrontationally as he can, attaching meaning to the inexplicable with tactile ambassadorial artifice, a collection accrued amassed, grotesquely misinterpreted upon discovery.
He finds it thrown away.
Learns to keep his head above water.
There's no support network overflowing with concerned expertise.
Just actions, reactions, patterns, nature.
A lack of understanding.
Existence.
We the Animals relies more on emotion than rational discourse as it presents itself, a stunning array of carefully selected snapshots delicately scolding in volatile willow.
There's nothing easy about this film, the characters patiently move from hardship to hardship supporting themselves as they frenetically endure, or become accustomed to livid passionate embraces, some people learn to thrive on conflict, a strange inhospitable disposition divisively characterizing sullen negotiation.
Odd habitual inadmissibilities.
An excellent film regardless which pulls you in with unassuming composure, not to be taken lightly even if endearment shines through, not to be bluntly dismissed even if scenes are strictly brutal.
When you see her sleeping on the couch one morning surrounded by mischief you think that must be something exceptionally adorable to wake up to.
But a lack of both resources and community services, and a strong desire to make their own way, lead to violent emotional outbursts which make their situation haunting and desperate.
Tough life for the little guy.
The love's there, no question, but paps doesn't get that he's just not the type of kid who learns to swim if you unexpectedly let go.
A budding young illustrator, painter, designer, architect, explicitly classifying the chaos as unconfrontationally as he can, attaching meaning to the inexplicable with tactile ambassadorial artifice, a collection accrued amassed, grotesquely misinterpreted upon discovery.
He finds it thrown away.
Learns to keep his head above water.
There's no support network overflowing with concerned expertise.
Just actions, reactions, patterns, nature.
A lack of understanding.
Existence.
We the Animals relies more on emotion than rational discourse as it presents itself, a stunning array of carefully selected snapshots delicately scolding in volatile willow.
There's nothing easy about this film, the characters patiently move from hardship to hardship supporting themselves as they frenetically endure, or become accustomed to livid passionate embraces, some people learn to thrive on conflict, a strange inhospitable disposition divisively characterizing sullen negotiation.
Odd habitual inadmissibilities.
An excellent film regardless which pulls you in with unassuming composure, not to be taken lightly even if endearment shines through, not to be bluntly dismissed even if scenes are strictly brutal.
When you see her sleeping on the couch one morning surrounded by mischief you think that must be something exceptionally adorable to wake up to.
But a lack of both resources and community services, and a strong desire to make their own way, lead to violent emotional outbursts which make their situation haunting and desperate.
Friday, October 12, 2018
A Simple Favor
Goodwill and zealous care giving fashionably articulate elementary communal grammar, A Simple Favor's domestic athleticism convivially contending in audacious absence, a mystery hauntingly captivating studious literature under composite examination, latent auspices duely animated, ambiflextrously endeavoured embroiled.
Beyond implicity.
Suspects torn.
Prudent assumption underestimates meticulous resolve as clandestine excursions regenerate volumes.
A writer (Henry Golding as Sean Townsend) caught between opposing factions caresses seductive leaves.
Mercies meddling concoctions settling dreams incarnate dispute.
Someone is guilty of murder.
Others vent droll miscues.
A film cleverly mixing the brave and the rash while tempting exclaimed propriety, delicately nuancing characteristics blandly dismissed for upholding traditions, alternative fascinations as experimental as they are devout, imaginative tremors subtly bracing reasonability, untamed emergence grasping shocks with steady calm, conceptions oft overlooked or undervalued diversified, to vindicate bourgeois innocence, and celebrate tact defused.
A proactive film capable of appealing to a wide audience, it's also so much more, like a rarefied precious eccentricity concealed yet scintillating in traction, mischievously whispering je suis essentiel, before phasing out of time with reticent cheeky indifference.
If films were still rented in physical stores and viewed with less distraction it may have been a vital exception for film lovers still immersed in the mainstream.
Boredom and desire play definitive roles which pose disquieting ethical questions while sorting through phenomenal intrigue.
I love Theodore Shapiro's soundtracks and have for quite some time, but I wonder why the music not written by Shapiro for the film isn't also available on a downloadable disc in the Itunes store, as compelling as it is with so many bright compositions.
Sandra Kendrick (Stephanie Smothers) is perfectly cast for the role (casting by Allison Jones).
I've noticed her over the years but have never seen her in something where she's clearly stood out.
Historical form and content.
Blake Lively (Emily Nelson), also good.
Comedic observations are worked in well and I loved it every time Sona (Aparna Nancherla), Stacy (Kelly McCormack), and Darren (Andrew Rannells) popped up, especially at the end.
The Vlogging's cool too.
Although the film shouldn't be thought of as educational, Paul Feig still brilliantly demonstrates how young directors can authentically work within Hollywood and still earn a respectable buck or two, throughout.
Loved it.
Costume design by Renee Ehrlich Kalfus.
Beyond implicity.
Suspects torn.
Prudent assumption underestimates meticulous resolve as clandestine excursions regenerate volumes.
A writer (Henry Golding as Sean Townsend) caught between opposing factions caresses seductive leaves.
Mercies meddling concoctions settling dreams incarnate dispute.
Someone is guilty of murder.
Others vent droll miscues.
A film cleverly mixing the brave and the rash while tempting exclaimed propriety, delicately nuancing characteristics blandly dismissed for upholding traditions, alternative fascinations as experimental as they are devout, imaginative tremors subtly bracing reasonability, untamed emergence grasping shocks with steady calm, conceptions oft overlooked or undervalued diversified, to vindicate bourgeois innocence, and celebrate tact defused.
A proactive film capable of appealing to a wide audience, it's also so much more, like a rarefied precious eccentricity concealed yet scintillating in traction, mischievously whispering je suis essentiel, before phasing out of time with reticent cheeky indifference.
If films were still rented in physical stores and viewed with less distraction it may have been a vital exception for film lovers still immersed in the mainstream.
Boredom and desire play definitive roles which pose disquieting ethical questions while sorting through phenomenal intrigue.
I love Theodore Shapiro's soundtracks and have for quite some time, but I wonder why the music not written by Shapiro for the film isn't also available on a downloadable disc in the Itunes store, as compelling as it is with so many bright compositions.
Sandra Kendrick (Stephanie Smothers) is perfectly cast for the role (casting by Allison Jones).
I've noticed her over the years but have never seen her in something where she's clearly stood out.
Historical form and content.
Blake Lively (Emily Nelson), also good.
Comedic observations are worked in well and I loved it every time Sona (Aparna Nancherla), Stacy (Kelly McCormack), and Darren (Andrew Rannells) popped up, especially at the end.
The Vlogging's cool too.
Although the film shouldn't be thought of as educational, Paul Feig still brilliantly demonstrates how young directors can authentically work within Hollywood and still earn a respectable buck or two, throughout.
Loved it.
Costume design by Renee Ehrlich Kalfus.
Tuesday, October 9, 2018
Fahrenheit 11/9
If you look back on Michael Moore's career, starting with Roger & Me, you see several well-crafted documentaries working within the most civilly disobedient of traditions, each of them championing social justice and attempting to inspire political change, as American as Pepsi apple pie, overflowing with effervescent goodwill.
He clearly abhors corporate greed and would like wealth to be distributed more fairly within the U.S, and has gone to great lengths to pursue his altruistic goals even as the situation has become remarkably worse since he began filming in 1989.
It's difficult to get an accurate picture of what's happening in the U.S, apart from the fact that Trump is likely crazy, because so many different journalists are writing about so many different aspects of a labyrinthine abstract construction, physically existing within specific boundaries no doubt, yet truly so vast, so incredibly complex, that I doubt anyone has ever understood the big picture.
Although the ending to Sean Baker's The Florida Project makes a lasting impression.
Just because something is incredible, seems beyond comprehension, even if you read all the latest books about it, doesn't mean you don't try to comprehend it, I only mention the abstract colossus because so many people are currently working in the United States and that is indeed a good thing.
I don't like Trump, he's turned a relatively stable world into a contentious polemic, and I don't know if his policies are directly responsible for the thousands of jobs that have been created down South, and I don't know how many of those jobs are steady 9-5 positions complete with decent wages, breaks, and benefits, but I do consistently read that thousands of people are back to work, and I can't dismiss that categorically even if I support different approaches to politics.
I love that people are working again even if I rather strongly dislike Mr. Trump.
Fahrenheit 11/9 breaks contemporary American politics down with unabashed Moorian vigour, uplifting progressive statistics tragically juxtaposed with downtrodden initiatives, myriad stunning examples as breathtaking as they are horrifying.
The picture painted is bleak to say the least, and I'm not here to contradict his assessment.
His examples aren't numerous enough to definitively frame the Democratic Party within the portrait he depicts, but they are revealing enough to start making reasonable accusations about the ways in which it goes about choosing its candidates.
If you can't allow your members to freely choose who represents you, even if a candidate doesn't fit a specific mold, it's distressing, and prone to manifest disillusion.
Trump rode unpredictability straight to the White House, and hasn't let up since for an instant.
Moore castigates the Democratic Party, Barack Obama, The New York Times, Union Leadership in West Virginia, and his rational enough presentation, which should be accompanied by a recommended reading list (it may have been in the end credits), seems generally hopeless, apart from its praise for Bernie Sanders and rising young Democratic candidates.
I started following Sanders on Instagram and he is incredible, the real deal, the genuine article, Jack Laytonesque.
He's as active as Trump but I rarely read about him in The New York Times.
It's like The New York Times is suicidally linked with Trump, like they're so dependent upon the revenue his antics generate, antics which constantly deride and attempt to ruin them, that they're afraid to take a financial hit and start backing a politician whom they would theoretically adore.
The people clearly love him.
His actions should be making headlines every day.
Scripted, Moore makes everything seem scripted, like people who don't subscribe to The New York Times don't matter, like they've stopped trying to find alternative means to generate revenue, and the Democratic Party is sticking too closely to a worn out formula.
But Sanders, the young alternative Democratic politicians, the teachers, and the workers Moore interviews are first rate, and I admire the ways in which they boldly stand up for hardworking Americans.
At the same time, should the situation become even more bleak, people can always look beyond politics.
You can form community groups which take communal action, work with each other to exemplify dreams elites have cynically classified unattainable, focus on taking non-violent actions that can lead to progressive change, the key perhaps being to simply listen to each other without sarcastically dismissing points of view or making others look ridiculous, and recognizing that within a democracy everyone's voice matters, regardless of income, education, race, gender, or sexual orientation.
If people create what they're hoping the government will create themselves, when a government finally comes along which supports their objectives there could be an extended period of widespread bliss casually sashaying through Congress for an extended period.
It's happened before, even if when people say the system's broken they're technically right.
Always.
To paraphrase Plato, and, I, Claudius, the system has always been broken, there never was a golden age where harmony prospered everywhere and everyone got along harmoniously.
Political systems aren't trucks.
You can take a truck in to be fixed.
One, two, maybe three mechanics work on it, not thousands of people from different regions with different backgrounds.
It's much less complicated to fix a truck.
A truck is real.
It exists physically.
That doesn't mean you don't stop trying to fix political systems.
If you stop trying to fix them, true darkness descends, and, to quote Pink Floyd, [you have to] get out of the road if you want to grow old (Sheep, Animals).
I believe in governments who want to help their citizens prosper and are committed to creating societies where it is possible for everyone to have the opportunity to do so.
But with a situation as grim as that presented in Fahrenheit 11/9, it looks like a lot of American people need to start creating paradise on Earth themselves, one self-sacrificing step soberly taken at a time.
*Idea for grassroots politicians hoping to make a difference: stop campaigning traditionally. Stop going door to door. Find a super rough demanding job and start working hard labour. Not for an afternoon, not for a coffee break in the morning, but for months at a time, tweeting and posting videos all the way. Then you'll really learn what it's like to live that kind of life and be so much more ready to defend those who do in Congress. Plus, you'll get to know so many wonderful people whom you may have never met otherwise. And learn what they really want and why they really want it. Remember. You're not the boss. You need the job. Your family's struggling. And you can't quit. That's my suggestion for new campaigning methods. According to Michael Moore's oeuvre, nothing else is working.
He clearly abhors corporate greed and would like wealth to be distributed more fairly within the U.S, and has gone to great lengths to pursue his altruistic goals even as the situation has become remarkably worse since he began filming in 1989.
It's difficult to get an accurate picture of what's happening in the U.S, apart from the fact that Trump is likely crazy, because so many different journalists are writing about so many different aspects of a labyrinthine abstract construction, physically existing within specific boundaries no doubt, yet truly so vast, so incredibly complex, that I doubt anyone has ever understood the big picture.
Although the ending to Sean Baker's The Florida Project makes a lasting impression.
Just because something is incredible, seems beyond comprehension, even if you read all the latest books about it, doesn't mean you don't try to comprehend it, I only mention the abstract colossus because so many people are currently working in the United States and that is indeed a good thing.
I don't like Trump, he's turned a relatively stable world into a contentious polemic, and I don't know if his policies are directly responsible for the thousands of jobs that have been created down South, and I don't know how many of those jobs are steady 9-5 positions complete with decent wages, breaks, and benefits, but I do consistently read that thousands of people are back to work, and I can't dismiss that categorically even if I support different approaches to politics.
I love that people are working again even if I rather strongly dislike Mr. Trump.
Fahrenheit 11/9 breaks contemporary American politics down with unabashed Moorian vigour, uplifting progressive statistics tragically juxtaposed with downtrodden initiatives, myriad stunning examples as breathtaking as they are horrifying.
The picture painted is bleak to say the least, and I'm not here to contradict his assessment.
His examples aren't numerous enough to definitively frame the Democratic Party within the portrait he depicts, but they are revealing enough to start making reasonable accusations about the ways in which it goes about choosing its candidates.
If you can't allow your members to freely choose who represents you, even if a candidate doesn't fit a specific mold, it's distressing, and prone to manifest disillusion.
Trump rode unpredictability straight to the White House, and hasn't let up since for an instant.
Moore castigates the Democratic Party, Barack Obama, The New York Times, Union Leadership in West Virginia, and his rational enough presentation, which should be accompanied by a recommended reading list (it may have been in the end credits), seems generally hopeless, apart from its praise for Bernie Sanders and rising young Democratic candidates.
I started following Sanders on Instagram and he is incredible, the real deal, the genuine article, Jack Laytonesque.
He's as active as Trump but I rarely read about him in The New York Times.
It's like The New York Times is suicidally linked with Trump, like they're so dependent upon the revenue his antics generate, antics which constantly deride and attempt to ruin them, that they're afraid to take a financial hit and start backing a politician whom they would theoretically adore.
The people clearly love him.
His actions should be making headlines every day.
Scripted, Moore makes everything seem scripted, like people who don't subscribe to The New York Times don't matter, like they've stopped trying to find alternative means to generate revenue, and the Democratic Party is sticking too closely to a worn out formula.
But Sanders, the young alternative Democratic politicians, the teachers, and the workers Moore interviews are first rate, and I admire the ways in which they boldly stand up for hardworking Americans.
At the same time, should the situation become even more bleak, people can always look beyond politics.
You can form community groups which take communal action, work with each other to exemplify dreams elites have cynically classified unattainable, focus on taking non-violent actions that can lead to progressive change, the key perhaps being to simply listen to each other without sarcastically dismissing points of view or making others look ridiculous, and recognizing that within a democracy everyone's voice matters, regardless of income, education, race, gender, or sexual orientation.
If people create what they're hoping the government will create themselves, when a government finally comes along which supports their objectives there could be an extended period of widespread bliss casually sashaying through Congress for an extended period.
It's happened before, even if when people say the system's broken they're technically right.
Always.
To paraphrase Plato, and, I, Claudius, the system has always been broken, there never was a golden age where harmony prospered everywhere and everyone got along harmoniously.
Political systems aren't trucks.
You can take a truck in to be fixed.
One, two, maybe three mechanics work on it, not thousands of people from different regions with different backgrounds.
It's much less complicated to fix a truck.
A truck is real.
It exists physically.
That doesn't mean you don't stop trying to fix political systems.
If you stop trying to fix them, true darkness descends, and, to quote Pink Floyd, [you have to] get out of the road if you want to grow old (Sheep, Animals).
I believe in governments who want to help their citizens prosper and are committed to creating societies where it is possible for everyone to have the opportunity to do so.
But with a situation as grim as that presented in Fahrenheit 11/9, it looks like a lot of American people need to start creating paradise on Earth themselves, one self-sacrificing step soberly taken at a time.
*Idea for grassroots politicians hoping to make a difference: stop campaigning traditionally. Stop going door to door. Find a super rough demanding job and start working hard labour. Not for an afternoon, not for a coffee break in the morning, but for months at a time, tweeting and posting videos all the way. Then you'll really learn what it's like to live that kind of life and be so much more ready to defend those who do in Congress. Plus, you'll get to know so many wonderful people whom you may have never met otherwise. And learn what they really want and why they really want it. Remember. You're not the boss. You need the job. Your family's struggling. And you can't quit. That's my suggestion for new campaigning methods. According to Michael Moore's oeuvre, nothing else is working.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)