Teströl és lélekröl (On Body and Soul)

You've seen practically everything.

Life is now void of excitement, and surprise has been replaced with disappointment.

Occupying a leadership role, many feel compelled to seek your advice, and since it is difficult to find people to work in your industry, you won't humiliate them for sharing their thoughts, and they therefore feel safe discussing things with you, as they would a psychiatrist if their wages were much higher.

Everything has been accounted for.

Accept a stunning new inspector, with a photographic memory.

Much too serious, she has never taken the time to develop social skills, or, listen to music, and she still sees her childhood therapist regularly, to discuss the ways in which other individuals interact with one another.

A strict unaltered routine dating from a precise moment recalled unaccustomed to feeling romantic desire, suddenly, tempted.

And after a depressed co-worker steals the mating powder their slaughterhouse uses to encourage timid cattle to procreate, and the detectives leading the investigation demand a psychiatrist be brought in to evaluate all and sundry, the two lovelorn brainiacs discover they've been meeting nightly in dreams, one a fearsome buck, the other, a curious doe, the novelty of the revelation encouraging them to start dating, even if, he's left all that behind him.

And she's never had a boyfriend.

Or anyone else to talk to.

It may sound absurd, but Ildikó Enyedi's Teströl és lélekröl (On Body and Soul) rationally disbelieves to its advantage, cultivating trusting yet hesitant sociopathic romance, as austerity calculates, and flexibility assumes.

How to take a cold industrial setting, one prone to driving even its most brutal employees to despair, and transform it into a cascading tantalizing mystery, restrained yet overflowing with life, may have been the question Enyedi asked himself before creating this brilliant synthesis of comedy, romance, and horror.

Search in the isolated shops of forgotten small towns and you might just find that priceless knick-knack you didn't know you had been looking for for the majority of your strategically planned life.

Teströl és lélekröl is a masterpiece of anesthetized shock, as awkward as it is enlightening, as unconcerned as it is revealing.

With bountiful tips on how to successfully manage a business, Endre (Géza Morcsányi) functioning like the cool level-headed supervisor risk based capitalism left behind, fired, demoted, shipped overseas.

As fun to think about afterwards as it is to simply sit back and watch, the cattle fortunately not focusing too directly in the narrative, it generates ineffable emotion, the clarification of which still leaves you confused.

A grotesquely beautiful mind fuck.

A bucolic must see.

A romantic comedic triumph.

Frolicking away.

Hochelaga, Terre des Âmes (Hochelaga, Land of Souls)

In the 13th Century, a vicious battle having claimed the lives of many young men, a wise First Nations Prophet (Raoul Max Trujillo) chants out through the ages, pleading for peace to flourish eternal within his realm, his words planted on the winds with fertile simplicity, harvesting paradise in war torn isolation.

Who could have predicted what would happen in the following centuries, that another people would come and carve an alternative civilization out of the wilderness, and then another would land and attempt to transform it to their liking, and then others would appear and industriously cultivate traditions of their own, united by the prosperity of a distinct French culture, its multidisciplinary environment, adventurously preordained?

The island of Hochelaga slowly transformed into a metropolis, several of its epochs colourfully brought to life in François Girard's Hochelaga, Terre des Âmes (Land of Souls), sport having replaced destructive battles long passed, an incomparable nightlife spiritually enlivening working days, respect for nature thankfully lambasting fracked revenues and nuclear energy, a versatile collective creatively redefining culture on a mesmerizing weekly basis, orchestrated and executed, with transcendental evanescence.

Terre des Âmes follows a young First Nations archaeologist as he presents his thesis before a gathering of academics, a thesis based upon discoveries made at Percival Molson Memorial Stadium, after a sinkhole opened up during a feisty Redmen's game.

The sinkhole gave Baptiste Asigny (Samian) the opportunity to excavate the field, and the discoveries he made led him to reasonably piece together a convincing historical narrative covering Cartier's discovery of the island, missionary/fur trading clashes in New France, and the Patriot Rebellion of 1837, while also evidencing dynamic First Nations settlements on the island, the film complete with intriguing theoretical associated dramatizations of the periods.

If you find Canadian history somewhat boring, try reading books focused primarily on Québec. If you're at an age where the study of history is becoming more interesting (around 28 for me), you may thoroughly enjoy reading them as much as I do.

I've obviously wondered how long bears survived on the island after its population exploded, and I've never been able to find the date when they disappeared in the books I've read, which weren't about wildlife, but I imagine it was in the late 19th Century or the early 20th, fox, skunks, raccoons, groundhogs, opossums, coyotes, and squirrels still living on the island.

Even though I find Montréal's current composition fascinating, my favourite images from Terre des Âmes show what it may have looked like when it was still predominantly forested, indistinguishable from the massive mainland forests surrounding it, so many centuries ago.

Do some landscapes have a spiritual significance similar to that of Percival Molson Memorial Stadium as it's presented in Terre des Âmes, a kind of undetectable mass accumulation of positive spiritual energies which generate sincere subconscious synergies, like a hub or a server?

Can't answer that question myself.

I've always loved the idea though, since reading about it in Morgan Llywelyn's Druids, and I absolutely loved what Terre des Âmes does with it, how it beautifully unites Montréal's history in a thought provoking contemporary hypothesis, which speaks to the best of what Québecois culture has to offer, has always offered, and will continue to offer.

All down the line.

*With Siân Phillips (Sarah Walker) and Linus Roache (Colonel Philip Thomas).

Hostiles

A violent landscape, the American West near the turn of the 20th Century, most of the major conflicts having come to an end, the remnants of the brutality that saw millions killed or dispossessed still sparring, contradictory conceptions of ownership clashing with abusive indignation, the law stringently enforced, from multiple opposing points of view.

Hostiles is a solid western, unreeling like a traditional American fight your way home film, ambushes, distressed damsels, kidnappings, trespassing, and convicted belligerents awaiting a weathered legendary Captain (Christian Bale as Joseph J. Blocker) as he unwillingly leads a dying Cheyenne Chief (Wes Studi as Yellow Hawk) from New Mexico to Montana.

As he unwillingly leads him home.

Blocker viciously fought American First Nations in many extreme battles and has the reputation for having killed more of them than any other soldier, after almost losing his life in his youth, women and children outrageously included.

The convicted belligerent (Ben Foster as Sgt. Charles Wills) is cleverly used to pursue this point, as he desperately appeals to Blocker's sense of duty, arguing that he's heading to the gallows for committing a crime less abhorrent than many of the Captain's own, thereby appealing to his sense of justice, while delegitimizing applications of the concept.

But he also appeals to his sense of camaraderie, and that's where Hostiles script excels, by narrativizing the strong bonds forged by people who find themselves continuously facing extremes, and the ways in which they grow to platonically love one another as a consequence.

The loss of one having deep long lasting affects.

Yellow Hawk lost his land, his dignity, most of his family, and his way of life.

Captain Blocker fought in many wars and lost many friends and detests having to lead Indigenous warriors home through hostile territory.

But as they travel North, he comes to understand that Yellow Hawk is someone worthy of respect and was likely therefore leading a respectful people.

Yellow Hawk's honest and fair unracially biased actions slowly redefine Blocker's constitution, and the two fierce opponents start working together, overlooking past grievances, respecting each other as persons.

The belligerent be damned.

They also meet and take in the survivor of a horrendous attack early on, during which her husband and three daughters were killed and her homestead set ablaze (Rosamund Pike as Rosalie Quaid), and as Yellow Hawk's family offers their empathy, Blocker notices their humanity, bonds linked by grief further calling into question past actions, his conduct later on, exemplifying conscious evolution.

It's like their entourage represents a fierce multicultural collective which appreciates both genders and is direly forced to fight its way through a relatively lawless realm wherein which the violent scourge and flourish, like unleashed/untethered tigers or birds of prey.

There isn't much dialogue but every uttered syllable means something.

Themes that are less pronounced in many westerns are brought to the fore such as the abuse of Indigenous peoples, the strength of powerful resilient women, forgiveness as opposed to fury, and the changing dynamics of different cultures suddenly living together in peace.

With a conscientious edge.

That isn't too lofty or complicated.

There's still plenty of conflict, it's not a walk in the park or a bushel of apples.

But it's multiculturally vindicated.

With hardboiled romantic community.

Aus dem Nichts (In the Fade)

Germany was a ruin at the end of World War II, rubble and ash produced by insane bigots who thought they were incarnated Übermensch playing out predestined roles.

The Russians crushed them.

The Allies dealt them crippling blows.

Tens of millions dead, goals unachieved, millions still mistrust and vilify Germany to this day, and even if postmodern Deutschland sets the standard for environmental sustainability and multicultural inclusion, and Nazi Germany was governed by brutal thugs who terrorized many into submission, when you watch World War II documentaries about Nazi death camps, or see how they slaughtered local populations when retreating, it's still difficult to separate the horrors from contemporary wonders, the scum, from the conscientious.

I do separate them, Germany shows up in the news doing something incredibly advanced so often that I can classify Nazi Germany as an aberration, and 21st Century Germany as a triumph, but watching those videos provokes latent passions that can't simply be reasoned away with vigour or ease, they were so systematically brutal, so void of compassion or humanity.

It's happening again elsewhere.

Atrocities that shouldn't have been forgotten have been forgotten and new generations of violent racists are once again politically active, have been for years, unconcerned for the lives and futures they would ruin, unconcerned with anything but themselves.

Aus dem Nichts (In the Fade) presents a loving family whose husband is a model of rehabilitation after having served his time in prison.

He's devoted to raising his son, loving his wife, and doing his best at work every day to provide for them.

Their multiethnic family is thriving and making positive contributions to greater Germany, but this offends a Neo-Nazi couple, who detonate a bomb in front of their multitasking business.

The husband and son are killed, and the wife is left suffering ad infinitum.

The film hauntingly focuses on her grief to accentuate the extreme hate crime's malevolence, the eventual trail of the murderers an exercise in sheer torture, as a victim must directly face the impenitent killers of her family.

What is reasonable doubt?

It must be incredibly difficult to make such decisions.

Reason isn't a blue sky or a shining sun.

As many others have pointed out, the vicissitudes of reason rationally articulated can logically drive someone insane, especially if they're the victims of a crime.

And the perpetrator's guilt is obvious.

Aus dem Nichts moves from despondency to hope to vengeance as it desperately seeks retribution.

Patience is an aspect of the sublime.

But how does one keep a cool head when forced to contend with total chaos?

With inflexible ideology?

Does logic apply to the actions of victims of terror?

Rationally?

L'Insulte

Politicians spreading hate to prey upon the weaknesses of their flocks, to turn their latent prejudices into jingoistic warlike ambitions, to transform tolerant markets into breeding grounds for death and destruction, to gain power for themselves which they will share with no one, perniciously pervert and corrupt the religious and/or secular principles they exploit to gain recognition, then bask in luxurious splendour while lives are lost and communities torn apart, after their viewpoints become codes of conduct, and harmless repartee starts invoking wanton bloodshed.

A mechanic falls for the volatile rhetoric of a Lebanese demagogue in Ziad Doueiri's L'Insulte, and proceeds to express himself contemptuously thereafter.

But the Palestinian man whom he targets isn't willing to let things slide, and immediately comes a' knockin' to assert his sincere displeasure.

He's ignored, tensions escalate, his boss, a levelheaded kind hearted understanding person, asks him to apologize for the way in which he retaliated, he agrees, only to have his people vitriolically criticized as he prepares to do so, a genocidal comment that inflames his passions, and leaves his provocateur on the ground with two broken ribs.

As they wait for their day in court, both men are reasonably counselled, and even though Yasser (Kamel El Basha) has a legitimate defence, he refuses to air grievances when eventually pressed by the judge.

He's an ethical person whom the world keeps beating down.

He won't sit back and take it, but he won't rat out his adversaries either.

Complicated film.

Multicultural dilemmas.

Their dispute makes headlines and soon the appeal is a national sensation, ethnocentric hatreds refuelled by each carefully calculated examination, a recent civil war still haunting collective memories, only the truly wicked hoping to see them reanimated once more.

L'Insulte shows how misguided individual actions can have horrendous cultural repercussions if hatred is left to pontificate unchallenged while those who profit from its dissemination publicly promote its virulence.

Tony (Adel Karam) and Yasser can't stand the spectacle. It's one of the film's best aspects. They detest the ways in which their simple disagreement becomes a demented political powder keg.

They slowly learn to understand, and as they tacitly agree to tolerate one another, both as people and as people who have suffered greatly, the film's deep multifaceted layers become more respectfully binding (revolutionaries turned civil servants, diaspora discourses, a child is born, workplace health and safety . . .).

Myriad characters offer brief challenging insights that condense manifold local, regional, national, and international personal and communal ethicopolitical viewpoints into a compelling heartfelt cerebral narrativization.

An argument that could have just been quietly settled.

If they had listened to their wives.

And ignored mad extremists.

Call Me By Your Name

Lazy Summer days, cozy calisthenic concurrences, adventurous insights, carefree study, inspiring intuitions, definitive imprecision, consequent variability, frozen yogurt waffle cones, shinnicked bones, furtive independence, sensual stealth, unpasteurized promenades, thematic quests, impassioned evanescence, vespertine incandescence, echoing undulations, lunar embarkations, fireside simplicity, hidden roasted treasures.

Randomly sought after.

Improvised replays.

Some work to be done perhaps but certainly not right away, not today or this week, this hour, outlines drawn on the sweltering haze, remembered then forgotten, aeronautically cosigned.

At some point.

Envisaged, aggregated.

Legends of the Fall.

Amour.

Attach romance to the above and meaninglessly embrace the omniscience characteristic of the terrestrially divine, the mortal, insofar as you've become half of Inception's whole, and denied yourself through recourse to another.

Floating around, receding.

Call Me By Your Name cherishes love in Summer with the fleeting devotion of hesitant curious maturity.

Patiently sculpted with blossoming freespirited amicability, the easy going free flowing compassion sans conflict that I was hoping to find in Sleeping Giant, cultural differences praised without exaggeration, tranquil friendships, experiments, rests, excursions, it supplely romanticizes neither one nor the other, sensitively creating with the poignancy of unclassified commitment, it adores without seducing, and delicately tempers fair play.

The tenderest, sweetest, bravest, most sober and intelligent love story I've seen in years, as if love wasn't something controversial, wasn't concerned with ownership, loss, or time.

Scientific artistry.

Ethical understanding.

Molly's Game

What a sensation.

Nefariously betrayed by a player in L.A, she picks up and moves to New York, cleverly managing its most lucrative poker game soon after, a table upon which it only cost $250,000 to play.

To buy in.

Exceedingly bright yet mysterious and chill, she lavishly executes with modest reticent conviviality, eloquently ensuring a good time while building her mystique, seducing excessive wealth because she remains unavailable, her clients finding themselves basking in wondrous extremes, vivaciously sustained, through feverish risk embellishment.

Just sitting at the table must have made them feel legendary.

While her exotic enabling and untouchable allure generated complimentary resilient reveries that made losing millions seem like fun.

Elegance.

Jurisprudently classified.

Quite a sporty film, Molly's Game.

The dialogue rapidly disseminates emblazoned information with fervid freeflowing evangelical equanimity.

With innocence.

She's not necessarily free of guilt, but like Columbo in For Your Eyes Only, her crimes amount to nothing when compared to those of Kristatos.

Molly's (Jessica Chastain) lawyer sees it that way too (Idris Elba as Charlie Jaffey), making an impassioned plea for the prosecution's sympathy in one of the film's best scenes.

If you like psychology, Molly has an honest contentious conversation with her father (Kevin Costner) near the end, that argumentatively condenses priceless age-old imbroglios.

It's well-timed.

She was one of the best downhill skiers in the U.S at one point, specializing in moguls, and she matched her athleticism with a sharp intellect that was confident and capable enough to construct palaces out of incredible risks undertaken, while never opportunistically overlooking client confidentiality.

Even when offered millions.

Self-reliant sacrifice.

Supreme integrity.

Good film, fast-paced-high-stakes worked into a narrative that's direct yet still more intelligent than most.

There must be big games in Denver.

Every night of the year.

Get Out

Racist idiocy is taken to its ludicrous point of no return in Jordan Peele's terrifying Get Out, wherein which science-fiction theorizes immortality, and horror practically applies it.

Intergenerationally.

An African American is seduced by a Caucasian beauty, and after months of seemingly harmless courtship, is invited to her country home.

Little does he know that the logic underlying his initial misgivings is in fact fuelling her emotional duplicity.

Fundamentally speaking.

For what was formerly dismissed and despised by the reprehensible has been transformed into an object of veneration, or what was once loathed is now admired, even coveted in the corporeal sense.

He soon finds himself designated somnambulistic person of interest, over a cup of late evening tea, and left plunged deep below the subconscious surface.

Floating in limbo.

His closest friend immediately grasps his peril, employing relevant pop cultural analyses to comprehend, but can assist not, from his digs in the heart of the city.

As a result, only improvised ingenuity can psychologically save him, physically speaking, as the operating table is prepped, and shackles retain fear enraged.

Perfidy.

Misjudging friendship.

A mind-boggling manifestation of the Machiavellian macabre, Get Out succeeds where so many horror films fail.

Its absurd plot is rationally realized through a dramatic commitment that is neither forced nor exaggerated.

It doesn't rely on the supernatural and therefore resonates with harrowing plausibility.

More than a weekend was spent writing the script, and the resultant social commentary is less shocking, until the truth emerges.

And clues are presented and analyzed, deductive aids invoked, as the awkward sleuths eternal, confronting dismissive ridicule through haunting contemplation.

It's nice to see so much time and care put into the creation of thought provoking horror.

The social commentary isn't as ridiculous as it seems, in fact it's quite reasonable, mad jealousy taken to the extreme, the insane application of unscientific conjecture.

I always thought you see a lot of African Americans on professional sports teams because institutional racism keeps their communities poor, and when you're poor you have a lot more time to focus on sport, if you aren't working, and more drive to be the best, because you aren't growing up surrounded by luxurious distractions and potential opportunities.

That's the logical explanation anyways.

As upsetting as such a point remains.