The Disaster Artist

Let's make a film.

Just write one up and shoot it.

Figure shit out on the fly.

Improvised panoramas.

Excelsior.

Incumbent deconstruction, the drive, the crew, the means, ecstatic Aberdeen, no questions asked, no answers given, just pure raw sutured cataclysm, supercilious sagacity, uncompromising desire, and opaque expertise.

For The Room, the team was assembled, it was undertaken with zero film production knowledge, conflicts inherently emerging between director/writer/producer/star/ . . . Tommy and those he had hired, a cult-classic aggregated through the mayhem, complete with rarefied mystifying endearing bewilderment.

Think things through?

Don't think things through, ye outcast with inexhaustible resources, many of Herzog's early films weren't that good, but some of them were, and he kept making more and more until he became a sought after phenom, morbidly obsessed with death and violence, doin' his thang, cultivatin' that groove.

Tommy needed someone, a friend, a pal, a partner, a confidant, he needed someone around to motivate him to do something, like ambient social energizing parlay, he found it while studying acting in San Francisco, in the form of an enthusiastic fellow student named Greg (Dave Franco), according to The Disaster Artist, which seems genuine if it isn't too commercial, anyways, he just needed that someone to talk to, one person, even if he was self-absorbed and unapproachable, he couldn't live the dream on his own, he needed another, a self-sustaining uplifting bromantic catalyst, which would have been tragic if he hadn't embraced the comedy.

The laughter.

I've never seen The Room nor made or been part of the making of a film, but I imagine its lauded receptions has helped its aggrieved creators overlook disputes impassioned on set.

Perhaps, with unlimited wealth, it would be wiser to study film before directing and writing and producing and acting in one, even if the prestige of the self-made auteur simultaneously excites while oppressing bohemians everywhere, but you can't beat the novelty of rash unrefined dedicated loose imagination, wildly conjuring with eclectic poise, self-destructing to salute freewill, as long as it's true to its ever widening vision, and not in charge of the world's largest military.

The Disaster Artist is a lot of fun.

It examines underground filmmaking through a critically sympathetic super bizarro lens that regards the traditionally foolish with legendary unheralded agency.

With respect.

Blending the creepy and the courageous with warm resolute congeniality, or campy contagion, it transforms shock into sensation, midnight into lounging afternoon praise.

Damned irrefutable.

Phantom Thread

A life meticulously lived according to exacting criteria, quotidian asseverations infused with unacknowledged ritualistic admiration, everyone within his artistic sphere delicately catering to these blessed immutable prescriptions, his childish fastidious sophistication ethereally incarnating elegant cherished widely sought after constellations, dresses, among which starstruck architectures and promulgations and orchestrations and voyages are covetously imagined by both fiancée and unknown suitor, accolades, repute, and standing cultivating a dangerous self-worth carefully checked by his adoring sister, discipline jarring the uninitiated, romantic interests unable to penetrate exclusive resolve.

For a lengthy period of time.

While resting in the country, he meets and falls for a girl of a different kind, one less prone to statically accepting the intricate rules and regulations that permeate every aspect of his art, a beautiful freespirited contradictory ingenue, less in awe of his brilliance than infuriated by his ingratitude.

How does one establish themselves as a lasting integral prominent feature within his unchanging excessively refined obsessions?

Impassion the persnickety?

Without impacting his work?

Phantom Thread illuminates a haunting patience rarely seduced by American cinema.

In possession of an aesthetic often found in great European films, it's as if Paul Thomas Anderson is determined young Alma (Vicky Krieps), and Reynolds Woodcock (Daniel Day-Lewis) unimpressionable Eurocentric film critics.

As if the purest imagination is that which never takes part but always considers what would happen if it did, yet doesn't lambaste others for stepping forward, and then one day finds itself basking in the sauntering wake of a highly strung affected talented unabashed American manifestation, a model of its own creation, I wonder how Phantom Thread's being received in Germany, France, Spain, or the Netherlands, is it embracing applause due to its inherent sensitivities, or consternation regarding its atypical innocence?

How many graceful subtle provocative American films are there which examine the eccentricities of someone without any athletic aspirations, literally or figuratively, argumentatively?

Furtively enveloping strife bespoken?

Unhesitant concerning aspirations?

Indicative of early Winter.

The Post

Legal complications threaten the existence of The Washington Post after they publish government documents concerning executive American lies relating to the war in Vietnam, and the ways in which the unsuspecting public was scandalously misled about its necessity, in Steven Spielberg's The Post, wherein which the truth is jurisprudently vindicated.

A bold conscientious writer risks everything to photocopy and transmit the documents to the press, hiding out in a nondescript hotel room as the information first hits The New York Times.

The Post, also in the business of selling newspapers, 😉, is caught off guard without a competitive headline, and immediately seeks the clandestine source while Nixon's administration litigiously responds.

But its owner has recently taken the initial steps of transforming her paper into a public company, and controversial eruptions misclassified as shady dealings could seriously jeopardize the prosperity of its future (Meryl Streep as Kay Graham).

Her longtime and trusted friend Ben Bradlee (Tom Hanks) manages The Post's daily outputs, however, and is dead set against letting those who started a war, even though they knew it was outrageously unconscionable, unlike fighting back in World War II for instance, off the public hook.

Thus, you have ethics, the correct move in this situation obviously holding the government to account for its domestic and international abuses, versus economics, or the possibility that making the correct move could result in both jail time and the loss of an historic voice, an historic newspaper, omnipresent politics overshadowed by the courageous stand.

Debates abound as to what course should be taken, and multiple opposing viewpoints passionately have their say.

Mrs. Graham is haunted by her patriarchal conditioning and the misogynistic paternalism that has dominated most of her life.

But it's still her decision to make, the bold reckoning resting on her magnanimous shoulders, and wisdom is applied when she makes it, bold risk in the extreme, altruistically disseminated.

The Post's a good film, a dynamic multifaceted script introducing and diversifying sundry distinct personalities as they lucidly dispute big picture questions within scant pressurized time constraints, with the interests of encouraging a more peaceful world, the freedom of the press, and more mature public debate.

The debates are convincing, differences and alternatives characteristically narrativized, determined brash eloquent strengths qualified with reasonable compunction, professionalism, journalism, prison, and friendship, perforating the discussions with apt interrogative logic.

A bit cheesy at times, but I think that's just how Spielberg brilliantly crafts intense complex potentially boring films that can be thoroughly enjoyed by adolescents and adults alike.

With Bob Odenkirk (Ben Bagdikian) and David Cross (Howard Simons).

Reading the news online is convenient but definitely not the same as sitting back with a paper.

Sometimes with online news it's like you have to know what to search for, regardless of whether or not it exists.

With the physical paper you can move from page to page and find compelling articles you never knew you were searching for, as easily as if you're browsing at Indigo or the local independent bookstore.

Come to think of it.

The Commuter

A horrible day becomes incredibly worse as an honest intelligent literary family man finds himself caught up in a plutocratic conspiracy, after having been callously dismissed from work, multiple lives dependent on his aggrieved spontaneity, while time quickly passes, in chilling centigrade.

He's a commuter, commutes downtown tous les jours from a quiet idyllic hideaway, for 10 years in fact, doing his best at work to ensure his clients are treated fairly, let go so the miserly company he worked for wouldn't have to pay his pension.

Disgraceful.

On his commute home, he's villainously coerced into discovering the identity of a conscientious individual in possession of evidence which would incriminate the perpetrators of an executive level crime, before the last stop, malfeasance which he or she also witnessed, the upper levels none too pleased with the illicit nature of their dealings being made public, and willing to pay lavish sums to see those they can't buy off silenced.

Not in Trump's case though.

Wow does everyone ever love screwing that guy over.

It's becoming a sport.

The commuter in question, one Michael MacCauley (Liam Neeson), has to uncharacteristically schmooze with his fellow passengers, the awkward nature of the exchanges becoming increasingly hostile as time runs out.

He's friendly and greets everyone daily, but is more known for reading on route, not forcing small talk.

There's even a great Texas hold-em match which demonstrates how unreasonable pressures lead otherwise upright peeps to use xenophobic strategies to obtain scurrilous sought after goals, the politics of who belongs aggressively employed out of sheer wanton hopelessness, psychotic demands bellicosely breeding psychotic outcomes.

Michael feels ashamed and eventually stops playing along even though his puppeteers claim they've abducted and will harm his family.

Inspired by his example, soon everyone on the train is self-sacrificing, and there's another great scene, where you see them metaphorically creating a union.

Makes it harder to be fired.

Just have to make sure the company you work for remains profitable.

It's a thrilling bold ethical castigation of those who caused the 2008 financial crisis and were never held to account, The Commuter is, the ways in which they still screw over little guys and gals with or without the aid of law enforcement also a subject of interrogation, paydays and corrupt ways plus pilfering and penny-pinching pronounced and nuanced, cronies versus constitutionals, 😉, stickin' it to the man, evidenced through combative conscience.

Smoothly situated in a sustained daily environmentally friendly ride, the opening moments cleverly capturing loving variations on a conjugal theme, The Commuter breathtakes to incarcerate belittling politics of division, or at least derails attempts to shatter hardworking solidarity.

With a classic performance from Mr. Neeson, whose unparalleled passion gradually builds as the tension chaotically intensifies, the other characters on the train adding complementary cheek, notably Colin McFarlane (Conductor Sam), and the one and only Jonathon Banks (Walt)(Gremlins, Freejack).

With Vera Farmiga (Joanna), Sam Neill (Captain Hawthorne) and Patrick Wilson (Alex Murphy).

My timing for the métro was perfect afterwards.

Didn't miss a beat.

I, Tonya

Piecing together an identity can be laborious work, requiring years of dedicated research and a mastery of sundry source materials, a striking caricature then struck from the resultant reams of research that hopefully captivates both lay and expert viewers or readers alike, with its traditional exceptions, critical controversies exemplified notwithstanding, how does one classify an individual?, I'm still not certain, but can loosely stitch different economic realities together, if so tasked, or perhaps, commissioned.

Some worlds within worlds, however, the figure skating world as it's depicted in I, Tonya for instance, delicately existing within the unpredictable rambunctious buck of wild hardworking American egalitarian miscellany, prefer such narratives to eagerly adopt a prim presentation, as they're inspirationally and influentially disseminated to curious fans, exceptions to the rules obdurately punished for their lack of eloquence, even if, like Tonya Harding (Margot Robbie/McKenna Grace/Maizie Smith), they're one of the greatest representatives the sport has ever seen.

In the U.S even, where a versatile hardboiled lack of gentility has long been its cultural calling card.

More research required.

But you would think that in a culture which also prides itself on athletic achievement, funds would have been made available to assist young Tonya in acquiring the expensive outfits she couldn't buy, especially after she became the first American female figure skater to land the triple Axel, it wasn't the case though, according to I, Tonya, and instead her sartorial ingenuity often resulted in belittling judicial penalties.

Not that goodwill would have saved her.

Eventually, her foolish abusive shitbag husband's (Sebastian Stan as Jeff Gillooly) Cro-Magnon friend (Paul Walter Hauser as Shawn) ruined her career by facilitating an act so loathsomely stupid it still occupies a prominent place in the halls of true idiocy.

True infamy.

Strange film.

The music and mockumentarially realistic interviews set it up like a rip-roarin' homebrewed good time, but then you watch as Tonya's constantly abused from the age of 4 like director Craig Gillespie found a way to incarnate hair on the dog, and it's disconcerting.

You bought it.

Even with all that national attention she still had nowhere else to go, and the people whom you'd think would offer support, the aristos of the figure skating enclave, seem to have given her the crystal clear finger, perhaps hoping her unsuitable image would then quickly fade.

She was tough though, didn't back down, kept fighting until her supporting cast fucked shit up irreconcilably, an iconic American.

The film's really well done if it isn't disturbing.

Frightening.

Don't know where the truth's to be dug out of it but it certainly does facilitate some sincere craziness.

General sobriety's a good thing if you're competing internationally.

I'm not saying the world of figure skating should be like a monster truck rally, although that might make a funny tv movie, but perhaps it could be more sympathetic.

Seems like Ms. Harding should have had a lot more support anyways.

More research required.

As it stands, I, Tonya's an American tragedy.

Always great to see Bobby Cannavale (Martin Maddox).

Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri

Martin McDonagh cranks up Sympathy for the Devil and holds nothing back in Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri, as an abusive bigoted homophobic policeperson does the right thing for once after a lifetime of gross civil indecency.

The schematics.

A grieving mother (Frances McDormand as Mildred), whose daughter was brutally murdered, rents three billboards outside Ebbing, Missouri, to boldly call out the local police chief (Woody Harrelson as Chief Willoughby) for having made no progress on the case months later.

Her fury is justified and her disobedience sincere, even if members of the local constabulary don't see it that way, members who no longer take the case seriously.

An individual's reasonable observations therefore conflict with statistics and precedents, the police having handled similar cases before, and done relatively little after their initial investigation led nowhere.

Did complacency brought about by years of cold routine cause them to simply ignore the case?

Possibly.

Spoiler.

The police chief, who is dying of cancer, does commit suicide not long after the billboards go up.

This isn't Mississippi Burning.

Even if Ebbing's blunt righteous inspirational indignation generates hardboiled perdition, wherein which everyone is scorched in the flames, including James (Peter Dinklage), unwittingly, who's introduced to critique Mildred, or to reflect upon a culture so saturated with stereotypical thinking that no one's done anything genuine for decades, until the three billboards go up, after which people who don't have much experience feeling suddenly find themselves culturally enraged, unprecedented emotions wildly seeking semantic clarification, it's no Mississippi Burning, a film that doesn't present the racist pretensions of the local police force so lightly.

But the Feds aren't called in in this one, and even though I'm a forgiving man, and love a story that sees the hardboiled ethical transformation of a character like Dixon (Sam Rockwell), a grizzly tale that doesn't shy away from gruesome cultural codes, he still brutally assaults people and the law doesn't hold him to account, apart from taking his badge away, and I don't see why the metamorphosis of the brutally violent police officer is being celebrated with awards, when Wind River, another dark film that examines stark polarized realities, which is also well-written and compelling, was released in 2017, and ignored by the Golden Globes.

That's called white privilege, I believe.

Was The Revenant too soon?

All the Money in the World

What would you do if you were the richest person in the world, if you had more money than anyone else, if you made the other plutocrats look like paupers in comparison, if you could turn the Cleveland Browns into a Super Bowl contender?

I suppose I would travel a lot. Buy some nice things. A lot of Ne'Qwa. Donate heavily to schools. Open a bakery and a vegetarian fast food chain and a restaurant that sells its own craft beer. Make a film, tip lavishly, give tens of millions away, support athletes and artists, and vigilantly fight the poaching of endangered species.

A lot of good could be done with the world's largest fortune, a lot of positive changes could be made, poverty could be reduced for millions, a little bit more camaraderie, a little bit less sarcastic fatalism.

Incredible Christmases/Holiday Seasons.

Ridley Scott's All the Money in the World takes a look at J. Paul Getty (Christopher Plummer), who was the richest man in the world yet still never felt comfortable or secure.

A miser in the purest sense, even with all that money he never made much of an effort to get to know his family, his offspring, let alone learn to love them, preferring to acquire esteemed physical objects instead, because they wouldn't change their minds or disagree with him, he even let his grandson be terrorized by kidnappers for months rather than pay his ransom, even after they cut off his ear, even after they threatened to kill him.

Monstrous avarice.

That's what the film's about, the kidnapping of Getty's grandson (Charlie Plummer as John Paul Getty III), the dire straits of his desperate mother (Michelle Williams), the transformation of stern Ex-CIA Agent Fletcher Chase (Mark Wahlberg), and a growing friendship forged between kidnapped and kidnapper (Romain Duris as Cinquanta).

Costume design by Janty Yates.

Michelle Williams keeps getting better. She's capably transitioning from ingenue to matron with remarkable ambivalence.

Duris caught my attention too.

Solid film, well-constructed, super direct but perhaps not the place for metaphorical innovation, a critical examination of wealth backed up by believable characters and situations which energetically, controversially, argumentatively, speculatively, and empathetically move the plot along, sure and steady confident competent filmmaking, emotionally telling a story without histrionically agitating.

In these bizarro political times, I imagine some groups are commending the elder Getty on his moribund intractability.

While mad people argue about whose nuclear missile launch button is bigger.

Sometimes I think they're friends and they just like globally stirrin' the pot.

Such thoughts are dangerous.

*I'm so boycotting Tim Hortons.

Downsizing

Diseases, viruses, contagions, and plagues, having become much less common in the Western World in recent centuries, the afflicted often living long productive lives regardless, a Canadian even having recently found a way to stop cancer cells from spreading, it seems that either humanity is soberly outwitting its microbacterial/. . . foes, or they've used stealth to regroup so that they can one day deliver an unsolicited crushing biological blow, which will significantly reduce unselected populations, and make trivial obsessions seem much less monumental.

Havoc unleashed as the misperceived threat pounces.

Desperation disseminated as no cure can be found.

Heroic scientists combatting the pestilence in experimental pharmaceutical conclaves.

Subterranean realms geothermally flourishing with the spontaneous agility of a holistic labyrinthine avant-garde.

Global warming is undeniable, and taking steps to fight it paramount, and when people argue that it's too late, that we can't reverse what's already been done, I tend to think they've embraced gross ignorance to cover up their lack of transformative imagination.

Alexander Payne's Downsizing is ripe with metamorphic creativity however, even if its cute and cuddly miniaturizations wind up satirically reinstating the status-quo, the idea itself applied and collectivized literally, without much savage elaboration.

A bird attack?

Tame the ants!

I like to overlook the irrational, or find related metaphorical justifications, especially while viewing films who seem to be ironically catering to realistic pretensions which seem out of place in the prognosticative fantastic, so although the sea voyage from the airport was stretching it a bit, and could have been less dry, they were towing vodka, it still suggests that a wild credulous embrace of the unknown can generate blissful compensations, at peace in distilled waters, the compensations themselves rich inasmuch as they bask in surprisingly unfathomable depths, wherein unforeseen variables constantly tempt at play.

If you can simultaneously keep a level-head while somehow getting caught up with them.

Nothing like that happens in Downsizing though, it's more of a laid-back chill examination of how a good natured individual stoically deals with distress, his composed self-sacrifices fraught with cumbersome repercussions, which he patiently ignores with resigned saintly composure.

And humour.

A remarkable look at humble moderation and the seemingly preordained aspects of random belittling chance, Downsizing wasn't as energetic as I thought it would be, but still excelled at fomenting fortunes rich in communal longevity.

Who knows for how long?

Add more ridiculousness, harvest sequels and/or televisual applications.

A bird wouldn't actually be ridiculous I suppose.

It would seem sensational but would actually be realistic.

Restrained genius?

With Udo Kier (Konrad).

Darkest Hour

Western Europe crippled by Nazi aggression.

The entire British army almost lost.

Homeland resistance overwhelmed yet fierce.

Bitter negotiations clad in distraught whimper.

A controversial figure emerges, as respected and envied as he was distrusted and maligned, as equally capable of blundering as he was of succeeding, audaciously exemplifying both defeat and triumph, yet always ready to make difficult decisions, finding bold solutions when faced with formidable opposition, branded bullish bellicose resolve, suddenly called upon, to lead throughout times most wrathful.

Joe Wright's Darkest Hour presents a well-rounded examination of Winston Churchill (Gary Oldman) near the beginning of World War II, when he was tasked with leading the United Kingdom.

It appeared as if the British army would indeed be lost, which led many politicians to reasonably consider capitulating to Germany.

Although after seeing how cavalierly Hitler had disregarded deals he had struck with independent nations in recent years, negotiating with him under any circumstances must have made one feel extremely vulnerable.

Churchill seemed to understand the latter better than Halifax (Stephen Dillane) or Chamberlain (Ronald Pickup), as suggested by Darkest Hour, and even if the loss of Britain's army may have compelled him to agree to direst terms, he was still courageous enough to do anything he could to avoid such a disastrous situation.

Call on the civilian fleet to save the troops surrounded at Dunkirk.

Brilliance.

Joe Wright's Churchill was a fighter who knew how to lose but would do anything he could to win during a conflict.

And he wanted to save Britain from Nazi tyranny.

He wanted to fight them until all was lost.

Others within the government assumed they had already lost, so Churchill had to fight them along with the Nazis.

In fact, Darkest Hour showcases a politician who had to fight powerful personalities throughout the entire course of each and every day after he was sworn in as prime minister, a non-stop internal and external battle which he was stubborn enough to keep fighting yet malleable enough to know when to back down.

Staying one step ahead of alcoholic ruin the whole time.

He was broke too.

His unpredictable nature even frightened the King (Ben Mendelsohn), unpredictable inasmuch as people never knew what he was going to say or do, never knew what improvised comment or action would support his determined passionate argument.

It was like he handled the most stressful circumstances Britain had faced since the Roman Empire invaded with the resolute calm of a massive grizzly bear defending its kill from both other bears and a pack of wolves, always ready to fight on, thoughtfully working within an emotional tempest which he had the foresight to bravely ride and the composure to resist unbridled.

It is a movie after all, I don't know if he was really such an admirable person, but it's still a good movie that's well worth seeing, if not to praise the person who led the UK through its darkest hours, then to uphold a multidimensional inspirational caricature which could practically imagine a concrete solution for any theoretical problem, without overlooking lessons taught by chance and spontaneity, irrepressible spirit, always struggling on.

Reanimated by Gary Oldman.

I was almost clapping near the end.