A getaway.
A surprise.
A much less terrifying Drac (Adam Sandler) heads out for some rest and relaxation, a well-earned break from managing his infamous hotel.
His friends and family enthusiastically accompany him, adding communal comedic style to his travels similar to that found in A Muppet Family Christmas (1987).
It's not Christmas, not even Halloween, yet the cruise they find themselves upon does come equipped with stunning Summertime festivities, attractions, designed specifically for monsters, who are unaware it's a vengeful trap.
The Van Helsings (Jim Gaffigan as Van Helsing and Kathryn Hahn as Ericka) have sought to finish Dracula off for generations.
Without success.
But now their family has come up with their most diabolical scheme ever, and have successfully lured everyone into their exhaustive clutches.
An aspect that has never been considered may foil their antiseptic ambitions, however.
Known to both human and monster kind.
As unabashed true love.
Or zinging, as it's referred to in Hotel Transylvania 3: Summer Vacation, and it does perhaps generate the odd blush or two, as aged Drac comes to terms with his emotions.
Nevertheless, daughter Mavis (Selena Gomez [not Winona Ryder?]) stays focused, and detects peculiar behaviour as she monitors the actions of dad's commanding love interest.
With the help of her chill surfs-up! beatbox husband Johnny (Adam Samberg), they may just be able to dispel the leviathan.
It's a cruise after all.
Replete with Bermudan triangulations.
Some funny moments, some serious camaraderie, death-defyingly wicked yet convivially chummy and endearing, Hotel Transylvania 3 innocently blends mirth with the macabre to highlight collective curses, synthesizing Capulets and Montagues demonstrously, while adding myriad spicy flavours askew.
An odd narrative technique that didn't really work with me, it consistently focuses intently on one character at the end of a sequence and then pauses for dramatic effect.
I imagine I'm outside the targeted audience's age range, but I found the technique to be more sluggish than profound.
The kids in the theatre were laughing though, and seemed to have thoroughly enjoyed themselves as the credits rolled.
I did rather enjoy the ways in which so many characters were diminutively featured throughout nonetheless, especially Blobby (Genndy Tartakovsky), and lovestruck Drac in denial.
Plus the DJed dénouement.
Gremlin air.
The underwater volcano.
And the inherent ridiculousness of it all.
Nice.
Tuesday, July 31, 2018
Friday, July 27, 2018
Leave No Trace
A valiant soldier unable to adjust to civilian life.
Versatile and self-sufficient, he (Ben Foster as Will) makes a rustic home for his small family in a National Park.
His daughter (Thomasin McKenzie as Tom) is helpful and reliable and enjoys the alternative lifestyle her and her father are living.
But since their dwelling is technically illegal, after they're eventually discovered they have to abruptly adapt and make peace with the outside world, fortunately continuing to live together as one.
They're treated quite well, even provided with a home in the countryside plus ample work and schooling.
But the adjustment is still too much for Tom's father, and the sleeping and waking nightmares continue to destructively haunt him, and even though Tom likes living with others, one day they suddenly pack everything up and head back to the isolated wild.
A psychological tragedy.
Brought about by a lack of care.
Debra Granik's Leave No Trace presents a loving family striving to independently get by.
Their circumstances would be less extreme had more time and funding been available to assist Will after he returned home.
I find it's the people who promote and agitate wars who should be held to account after they're over, not the soldiers who fight them, many of whom likely believe the lies war mongering politicians tell them, and therefore shouldn't be condescendingly criticized in public themselves.
Unless they treated local populations savagely.
As many other people have written, stated, theorized, noted, the people who start the wars and sell the weapons to keep them going don't fight in them themselves, and take home profits that make Shangri-La look destitute.
Even if their own country's public debt skyrockets meanwhile (since their wealth is accumulated privately it's of no concern to them).
And they ask poor people to fight in their wars and those brave self-sacrificing people do fight in their wars, but after the war is finished and they've suffered extreme trauma that nothing can prepare anyone for, they're left to fend for themselves with a prescription for pills and the odd hour long chat, while the war mongers bank multi-millions, a scant fraction of which they spend helping those who earned them their profits recover.
Fighting in a war isn't a typical job, and those that do after mad fools start them deserve adequate care and compensation upon returning home.
No matter how long it takes.
A retreat in the countryside with no work and ample comfort for years on end perhaps.
Will walking into the forest on his own after leaving his daughter behind in a welcoming community should be a wake-up call for the civilian public service tasked with helping men and women like him rediscover peace of mind.
Or, more suitably, for politicians tasked with supplying such organizations with the necessary funds to do so, enormous amounts of public money spent on starting and fighting ludicrous wars, not enough spent helping honest veterans become contributing citizens after they've made unimaginable sacrifices.
Or, even more suitably, just ending gun violence permanently.
By making it much much much much much much much much harder to access a gun.
As Toronto's mayor John Tory suggested recently.
Or start wars.
A Middle-Eastern EU comes to mind.
That could work.
Versatile and self-sufficient, he (Ben Foster as Will) makes a rustic home for his small family in a National Park.
His daughter (Thomasin McKenzie as Tom) is helpful and reliable and enjoys the alternative lifestyle her and her father are living.
But since their dwelling is technically illegal, after they're eventually discovered they have to abruptly adapt and make peace with the outside world, fortunately continuing to live together as one.
They're treated quite well, even provided with a home in the countryside plus ample work and schooling.
But the adjustment is still too much for Tom's father, and the sleeping and waking nightmares continue to destructively haunt him, and even though Tom likes living with others, one day they suddenly pack everything up and head back to the isolated wild.
A psychological tragedy.
Brought about by a lack of care.
Debra Granik's Leave No Trace presents a loving family striving to independently get by.
Their circumstances would be less extreme had more time and funding been available to assist Will after he returned home.
I find it's the people who promote and agitate wars who should be held to account after they're over, not the soldiers who fight them, many of whom likely believe the lies war mongering politicians tell them, and therefore shouldn't be condescendingly criticized in public themselves.
Unless they treated local populations savagely.
As many other people have written, stated, theorized, noted, the people who start the wars and sell the weapons to keep them going don't fight in them themselves, and take home profits that make Shangri-La look destitute.
Even if their own country's public debt skyrockets meanwhile (since their wealth is accumulated privately it's of no concern to them).
And they ask poor people to fight in their wars and those brave self-sacrificing people do fight in their wars, but after the war is finished and they've suffered extreme trauma that nothing can prepare anyone for, they're left to fend for themselves with a prescription for pills and the odd hour long chat, while the war mongers bank multi-millions, a scant fraction of which they spend helping those who earned them their profits recover.
Fighting in a war isn't a typical job, and those that do after mad fools start them deserve adequate care and compensation upon returning home.
No matter how long it takes.
A retreat in the countryside with no work and ample comfort for years on end perhaps.
Will walking into the forest on his own after leaving his daughter behind in a welcoming community should be a wake-up call for the civilian public service tasked with helping men and women like him rediscover peace of mind.
Or, more suitably, for politicians tasked with supplying such organizations with the necessary funds to do so, enormous amounts of public money spent on starting and fighting ludicrous wars, not enough spent helping honest veterans become contributing citizens after they've made unimaginable sacrifices.
Or, even more suitably, just ending gun violence permanently.
By making it much much much much much much much much harder to access a gun.
As Toronto's mayor John Tory suggested recently.
Or start wars.
A Middle-Eastern EU comes to mind.
That could work.
Tuesday, July 24, 2018
Boundaries
Entrepreneurial ambitions complicate a straightforward road trip, as a mother (Vera Farmiga as Laura Jaconi) agrees to transport her mischievous father (Christopher Plummer as Jack Jaconi) to a location where his passions will be viewed less dismissively.
The next generation (Lewis MacDougall as Henry), having recently been expelled from school, curiously comes along, sort of eager to spend time with grandpa, unaware they'll be visiting his deadbeat dad (Bobby Cannavale as Leonard).
So many different paths to tread, so many ways in which they intertwine, a crash course in extracurricular enigmatic eccentricity mysteriously thrilling young Henry, as they travel from contact to contact, conjuring spells as pitstops confuse trusting mom.
She's truly wonderful.
Her magnanimous heart endears her to animals and she consistently comes to the aid of the lost and downtrodden.
Unfortunately this leads people to take advantage of her, some harmless, some cruel, all of them blind to the fact that they've encountered a resplendent sun, inside and out, who transforms tumbledown lots into palatial realms, worthy of uncompromised praise and adoration, if the self-obsessed would only think past craven impulse, and consider abundant rays down the road.
Shana Feste's Boundaries presents lighthearted mischief which is intense at times yet still wondrously illuminates candid impropriety.
As the tender loving embraces the devoutly incorrigible, multigenerational muses thoughtfully materialize.
Forbidden portraits.
Conjugal miscommunication.
Evergreen commerce.
Therapeutic theatrics.
If you don't simply fit there's freedom in the labyrinthine.
Constant flux may be tiring, but spontaneous adjustments create grand novelties.
Chaotic logic rationally intensifying.
Kafkaesque at times.
Nice to head out for ice cream.
Accept Boundaries as a clever comedic reflection upon individuals conceiving unique masternarratives, and embrace a steady flow of unexpected conditional ruses.
Full of existential craft.
And love scolding ever after.
Loved it.
The next generation (Lewis MacDougall as Henry), having recently been expelled from school, curiously comes along, sort of eager to spend time with grandpa, unaware they'll be visiting his deadbeat dad (Bobby Cannavale as Leonard).
So many different paths to tread, so many ways in which they intertwine, a crash course in extracurricular enigmatic eccentricity mysteriously thrilling young Henry, as they travel from contact to contact, conjuring spells as pitstops confuse trusting mom.
She's truly wonderful.
Her magnanimous heart endears her to animals and she consistently comes to the aid of the lost and downtrodden.
Unfortunately this leads people to take advantage of her, some harmless, some cruel, all of them blind to the fact that they've encountered a resplendent sun, inside and out, who transforms tumbledown lots into palatial realms, worthy of uncompromised praise and adoration, if the self-obsessed would only think past craven impulse, and consider abundant rays down the road.
Shana Feste's Boundaries presents lighthearted mischief which is intense at times yet still wondrously illuminates candid impropriety.
As the tender loving embraces the devoutly incorrigible, multigenerational muses thoughtfully materialize.
Forbidden portraits.
Conjugal miscommunication.
Evergreen commerce.
Therapeutic theatrics.
If you don't simply fit there's freedom in the labyrinthine.
Constant flux may be tiring, but spontaneous adjustments create grand novelties.
Chaotic logic rationally intensifying.
Kafkaesque at times.
Nice to head out for ice cream.
Accept Boundaries as a clever comedic reflection upon individuals conceiving unique masternarratives, and embrace a steady flow of unexpected conditional ruses.
Full of existential craft.
And love scolding ever after.
Loved it.
Friday, July 20, 2018
Ant-Man & the Wasp
The underground trade in highly specialized technological essentials leads unscrupulous entrepreneurs to discriminately rank indiscretions.
Their desperate contacts require the unique components to commence a maternal examination of the uncharted Quantum Realm.
To catalyze their investigation, the assistance of a frowned upon former colleague is required, even if at the moment he's structurally immured.
He's kept busy throughout his exile, however, taking care of his inquisitive daughter at times, while strategically assisting in the creation of a legitimate business.
His partners rely on his insights as deadlines frenetically approach, yet are still there to assist should the world invoke his diminutive fury.
Law enforcement agents lie ready to pounce as well.
As a dying paracorporeal phenomenon furtively monitors the proceedings, in/substantially hoping to acquire life preserving experimental medicine.
Writers Chris McKenna, Erik Sommers, Paul Rudd, Andrew Barrer, and Gabriel Ferrari keep these 7 threads tightly knit, thought provokingly interweaving them with nimble effective cause.
The result is one of the coolest Marvel films I've seen, a multidimensional triumph, haphazardly exceeding as egos prank and clash, resolutely imbibing as the minuscule basks macroscopic.
Difficult to meticulously seem so unconcerned.
To stitch together such a frenzied family friendly tableau.
To create such a thrilling clever memorable Summertime fusion, a huge varied cast is assembled, the film directly benefitting from the talents of Laurence Fishburne (Dr. Bill Foster), Bobby Cannavale (Paxton), Judy Greer (Maggie), Michael Peña (Luis), Walton Goggins (Sonny Burch), and Randall Park (Jimmy Woo), not to mention Hannah John-Kamen (Ava/Ghost) and Abby Ryder Fortson (Cassie), and mainstays Michael Douglas (dad), Evangeline Lily (the Wasp) and Ant-Man himself, Paul Rudd.
That's some solid diversity.
The film thinks globally through the use of microscopic illumination, its multiple well-developed characters (also including T.I. as Dave and David Dastmalchian as Kurt) clearly defining themselves at large, while cohesively electrifying piquant age old paradigms.
It's Trump's worst nightmare.
A family friendly film that everyone will see that has strong Latino, Black, Asian, ambiguously gay, and female characters, not to mention a Southern man foiled, and a traditional patriarch critiqued throughout, convincingly held together by humanistic self-sacrifice, even going so far as to metaphorically pull a feminine genius out of the clutches of extreme computational dismissal.
After having learned so much during her travels.
So many different walks of life narrativized.
The research scientists who critique the creation of commercial enterprise.
The professor who critiques their egos.
The criminal business that makes huge amounts of cash.
The small business created by ex-cons to legally scrape by.
In the beginning.
The new dad's always part of the picture.
The difficulties of making new friends outside work during one's professional life.
The ways in which online obsessions can lead to people missing extraordinarily realistic events taking place nearby (brilliant) (editing by Dan Lebental and Craig Wood).
The supernatural im/materialized.
Ontological office space.
Wings and blasters.
It's also really funny, I couldn't control my laughter at points, an expert blend of the serious and the comedic thoughtfully delivered like you're heading out to the ballgame.
Too adult focused?
I don't think so.
There's still enough action to keep the young ones focused I'd wager.
I might see this in theatres again.
First rate adventurous comedic romantic sci-fi action.
I can't think of an equally enrapturing comparison.
So well done.
Their desperate contacts require the unique components to commence a maternal examination of the uncharted Quantum Realm.
To catalyze their investigation, the assistance of a frowned upon former colleague is required, even if at the moment he's structurally immured.
He's kept busy throughout his exile, however, taking care of his inquisitive daughter at times, while strategically assisting in the creation of a legitimate business.
His partners rely on his insights as deadlines frenetically approach, yet are still there to assist should the world invoke his diminutive fury.
Law enforcement agents lie ready to pounce as well.
As a dying paracorporeal phenomenon furtively monitors the proceedings, in/substantially hoping to acquire life preserving experimental medicine.
Writers Chris McKenna, Erik Sommers, Paul Rudd, Andrew Barrer, and Gabriel Ferrari keep these 7 threads tightly knit, thought provokingly interweaving them with nimble effective cause.
The result is one of the coolest Marvel films I've seen, a multidimensional triumph, haphazardly exceeding as egos prank and clash, resolutely imbibing as the minuscule basks macroscopic.
Difficult to meticulously seem so unconcerned.
To stitch together such a frenzied family friendly tableau.
To create such a thrilling clever memorable Summertime fusion, a huge varied cast is assembled, the film directly benefitting from the talents of Laurence Fishburne (Dr. Bill Foster), Bobby Cannavale (Paxton), Judy Greer (Maggie), Michael Peña (Luis), Walton Goggins (Sonny Burch), and Randall Park (Jimmy Woo), not to mention Hannah John-Kamen (Ava/Ghost) and Abby Ryder Fortson (Cassie), and mainstays Michael Douglas (dad), Evangeline Lily (the Wasp) and Ant-Man himself, Paul Rudd.
That's some solid diversity.
The film thinks globally through the use of microscopic illumination, its multiple well-developed characters (also including T.I. as Dave and David Dastmalchian as Kurt) clearly defining themselves at large, while cohesively electrifying piquant age old paradigms.
It's Trump's worst nightmare.
A family friendly film that everyone will see that has strong Latino, Black, Asian, ambiguously gay, and female characters, not to mention a Southern man foiled, and a traditional patriarch critiqued throughout, convincingly held together by humanistic self-sacrifice, even going so far as to metaphorically pull a feminine genius out of the clutches of extreme computational dismissal.
After having learned so much during her travels.
So many different walks of life narrativized.
The research scientists who critique the creation of commercial enterprise.
The professor who critiques their egos.
The criminal business that makes huge amounts of cash.
The small business created by ex-cons to legally scrape by.
In the beginning.
The new dad's always part of the picture.
The difficulties of making new friends outside work during one's professional life.
The ways in which online obsessions can lead to people missing extraordinarily realistic events taking place nearby (brilliant) (editing by Dan Lebental and Craig Wood).
The supernatural im/materialized.
Ontological office space.
Wings and blasters.
It's also really funny, I couldn't control my laughter at points, an expert blend of the serious and the comedic thoughtfully delivered like you're heading out to the ballgame.
Too adult focused?
I don't think so.
There's still enough action to keep the young ones focused I'd wager.
I might see this in theatres again.
First rate adventurous comedic romantic sci-fi action.
I can't think of an equally enrapturing comparison.
So well done.
Tuesday, July 17, 2018
Uncle Drew
A legendary street side basketball tournament known as the Rucker Classic drives feisty shoesalesperson/coach Dax (Lil Rel Howery/Ashton Tyler) to envisage heartfelt impressions.
Yet after obnoxious rival Mookie (Nick Kroll) steals his best player, and then his partner, after she throws him out, wayward Dax must embrace paths followed unbidden.
But as despair begins to weaken his profound resilient temper, a potent force from decades past, still in possession of incomparable skill, suddenly appears ready to contend, if and only if he can reassemble his once duty-bound team.
A member of which remains aggrieved.
Begrudged impassioned youth.
Underscored divisively.
Charles Stone III's Uncle Drew innocently celebrates teamwork to strengthen multigenerational resolve.
Logic is magically reconceptualized within, to artistically metamorphisize concrete athletic biology.
At times it struggles.
Some vegetarian sandwiches need two to three times as much cheese, and even if do-gooding boldly asserts Uncle Drew's regenerative harmonies, it still undeniably serves up a thick multilayered footlong.
Chomp Chomp.
Friendships briefly reestablished to redeem themselves for having missed rare highly prized opportunities illuminate the backcourt.
Enchanting implausibility fuelling huggable lighthearted mysteries acrobatically sashay unconfused.
A healthy examination of sport and the ways in which it can positively impact one's community sharply attunes deeply connected obligation.
And a contemplative disputatious sad yet determined Kevin Hart/Eeyore hybrid enlivens the game with perplexed in/credulous jamméd excitability.
Rewards for versatility redefining alternative options strewn.
A bit o' basketball worked in.
With some loving romance too.
Transported from the bleachers to centre stage primetime, Uncle Drew innocently tenderizes as it renovates old school.
Not the most hard-hitting film, but not a shout out to the dark side either, it boldly cuts down sith with blunt octogenarian sabres, while shedding a little light, on respectful collective views.
Super chill.
Yet after obnoxious rival Mookie (Nick Kroll) steals his best player, and then his partner, after she throws him out, wayward Dax must embrace paths followed unbidden.
But as despair begins to weaken his profound resilient temper, a potent force from decades past, still in possession of incomparable skill, suddenly appears ready to contend, if and only if he can reassemble his once duty-bound team.
A member of which remains aggrieved.
Begrudged impassioned youth.
Underscored divisively.
Charles Stone III's Uncle Drew innocently celebrates teamwork to strengthen multigenerational resolve.
Logic is magically reconceptualized within, to artistically metamorphisize concrete athletic biology.
At times it struggles.
Some vegetarian sandwiches need two to three times as much cheese, and even if do-gooding boldly asserts Uncle Drew's regenerative harmonies, it still undeniably serves up a thick multilayered footlong.
Chomp Chomp.
Friendships briefly reestablished to redeem themselves for having missed rare highly prized opportunities illuminate the backcourt.
Enchanting implausibility fuelling huggable lighthearted mysteries acrobatically sashay unconfused.
A healthy examination of sport and the ways in which it can positively impact one's community sharply attunes deeply connected obligation.
And a contemplative disputatious sad yet determined Kevin Hart/Eeyore hybrid enlivens the game with perplexed in/credulous jamméd excitability.
Rewards for versatility redefining alternative options strewn.
A bit o' basketball worked in.
With some loving romance too.
Transported from the bleachers to centre stage primetime, Uncle Drew innocently tenderizes as it renovates old school.
Not the most hard-hitting film, but not a shout out to the dark side either, it boldly cuts down sith with blunt octogenarian sabres, while shedding a little light, on respectful collective views.
Super chill.
Friday, July 13, 2018
Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom
Jurassic World, back at it.
Dinosaur-related shenanigans, check.
Some dick trying to cash in on the genetically reincarnated beasties: you got it.
Those who care about preserving both the independence and integrity of dinosaur kind, primed, and ready to go.
Consistent death-defying escapes mixed in with a ludicrous plot that unravels like a particularly intriguing series of Bazooka Joe comics?
Yuppers.
Although the dinosaurs, as in the actual dinosaurs, having been left alone to exist freely on Isla Nublar, still make for a stunning cinematic extravaganza, their wild unpredictable prehistoric codes of conduct generating thrilling exceptional naturalistic exhilarations, that make the unrelenting poaching of elephants, rhinos, lions, tigers, bears, and others, seem even more horrendous, as even more are illegally deprived of life each day.
A UN army to stop them?
I'd greenlight that idea.
Yet, for the next Jurassic World sequel, might I suggest 25 minutes more pure dinosaur, and 25 minutes less human interaction?
Still include plenty of Zia Rodriguez (Daniella Pineda), Franklin Webb (Justice Smith), Owen Grady (Chris Pratt), Claire Deaning (Bryce Dallas Howard), Maisie Lockwood (Isabella Sermon), and Ian Malcolm (Jeff Goldblum), but take it easy on the maniacal conspiring.
Plus, the ending, spoiler alert, suggests dinosaurs will be proliferating partout in Jurassic World 3.
Considering how many were saved from the island, that's a bit ridiculous, unless all the dinosaurs who jumped off the cliff to freedom swam to land and survived, the numbers simply don't add up.
Not including those who can fly.
Methinks more time should be spent on the script for future instalments as well.
I was super happy to see James Cromwell (Benjamin Lockwood) but then he had to deliver the worst dialogue imaginable, over and over again.
He deserves so much better.
Even the first half of Ian Malcolm's speech isn't that tight, although his statements at the end of the film make an impact, as if they reserved the best writing for the last 2 minutes, hoping the rest would be overlooked as a consequence.
Even with the impact, they still make you think the world will be overrun with dinosaurs in the next movie, when those who were shipped off the island weren't exactly handpicked by Noah (I assume dinosaurs lay a bunch of eggs at a time, but how often do they breed and how closely do they watch their young? [elephant moms carry their young for 22 months{mama turtles lay then take off}]).
What happened to Lowery (Jake Johnson)?
He didn't die in the first/fourth film.
He was cool.
The Indoraptor may be a prototype, but it's also a highly refined predator bred to kill and kill.
And kill again.
I don't think turning the lights out would fool it.
Plus, the auction doesn't make much sense.
None of the dinosaurs they're selling apart from the Indoraptor prototype have been genetically conditioned to follow commands, and a bunch of them are herbivorous by nature.
How are you going to turn something that eats grass and plants all day and isn't violent into some strange breed of instinctual vegetarian mercenary?
And how could you trick elite arms dealers into thinking that's a great idea?
Even if it'd make a funny Will Ferrell movie.
And wouldn't one sniper bullet put a dinosaur mercenary out of commission?
If you could weaponize herbivores wouldn't a deer be more suitable option?
I can't believe I'm thinking about these things.
Plus, if Eli Mills (Rafe Spall) is managing the fortune that built Jurassic Park etc., why would he take so many idiotic risks to pick up what probably amounts to spare chump change?
The payouts he had to make after Jurassic World fell apart weren't astronomically high in speculative comparison.
A fun movie to watch lacking in structural cohesion, perhaps Fallen Kingdom's writers made internal and personal sacrifices to narratively lampoon the miserable ethical foundations of global weapons manufacturing, deliberately not thinking things through to sharply critique plutocratic ambitions, while betting on making a shit ton of money meanwhile?
The do-gooders are still awesome.
And the dinosaurs too.
My favourite dinosaur: the stegosaurus.
Always has been.
😌
Dinosaur-related shenanigans, check.
Some dick trying to cash in on the genetically reincarnated beasties: you got it.
Those who care about preserving both the independence and integrity of dinosaur kind, primed, and ready to go.
Consistent death-defying escapes mixed in with a ludicrous plot that unravels like a particularly intriguing series of Bazooka Joe comics?
Yuppers.
Although the dinosaurs, as in the actual dinosaurs, having been left alone to exist freely on Isla Nublar, still make for a stunning cinematic extravaganza, their wild unpredictable prehistoric codes of conduct generating thrilling exceptional naturalistic exhilarations, that make the unrelenting poaching of elephants, rhinos, lions, tigers, bears, and others, seem even more horrendous, as even more are illegally deprived of life each day.
A UN army to stop them?
I'd greenlight that idea.
Yet, for the next Jurassic World sequel, might I suggest 25 minutes more pure dinosaur, and 25 minutes less human interaction?
Still include plenty of Zia Rodriguez (Daniella Pineda), Franklin Webb (Justice Smith), Owen Grady (Chris Pratt), Claire Deaning (Bryce Dallas Howard), Maisie Lockwood (Isabella Sermon), and Ian Malcolm (Jeff Goldblum), but take it easy on the maniacal conspiring.
Plus, the ending, spoiler alert, suggests dinosaurs will be proliferating partout in Jurassic World 3.
Considering how many were saved from the island, that's a bit ridiculous, unless all the dinosaurs who jumped off the cliff to freedom swam to land and survived, the numbers simply don't add up.
Not including those who can fly.
Methinks more time should be spent on the script for future instalments as well.
I was super happy to see James Cromwell (Benjamin Lockwood) but then he had to deliver the worst dialogue imaginable, over and over again.
He deserves so much better.
Even the first half of Ian Malcolm's speech isn't that tight, although his statements at the end of the film make an impact, as if they reserved the best writing for the last 2 minutes, hoping the rest would be overlooked as a consequence.
Even with the impact, they still make you think the world will be overrun with dinosaurs in the next movie, when those who were shipped off the island weren't exactly handpicked by Noah (I assume dinosaurs lay a bunch of eggs at a time, but how often do they breed and how closely do they watch their young? [elephant moms carry their young for 22 months{mama turtles lay then take off}]).
What happened to Lowery (Jake Johnson)?
He didn't die in the first/fourth film.
He was cool.
The Indoraptor may be a prototype, but it's also a highly refined predator bred to kill and kill.
And kill again.
I don't think turning the lights out would fool it.
Plus, the auction doesn't make much sense.
None of the dinosaurs they're selling apart from the Indoraptor prototype have been genetically conditioned to follow commands, and a bunch of them are herbivorous by nature.
How are you going to turn something that eats grass and plants all day and isn't violent into some strange breed of instinctual vegetarian mercenary?
And how could you trick elite arms dealers into thinking that's a great idea?
Even if it'd make a funny Will Ferrell movie.
And wouldn't one sniper bullet put a dinosaur mercenary out of commission?
If you could weaponize herbivores wouldn't a deer be more suitable option?
I can't believe I'm thinking about these things.
Plus, if Eli Mills (Rafe Spall) is managing the fortune that built Jurassic Park etc., why would he take so many idiotic risks to pick up what probably amounts to spare chump change?
The payouts he had to make after Jurassic World fell apart weren't astronomically high in speculative comparison.
A fun movie to watch lacking in structural cohesion, perhaps Fallen Kingdom's writers made internal and personal sacrifices to narratively lampoon the miserable ethical foundations of global weapons manufacturing, deliberately not thinking things through to sharply critique plutocratic ambitions, while betting on making a shit ton of money meanwhile?
The do-gooders are still awesome.
And the dinosaurs too.
My favourite dinosaur: the stegosaurus.
Always has been.
😌
Tuesday, July 10, 2018
Un beau soleil intérieur (Let the Sunshine In)
A match.
Endurance.
Compatibility.
R & D.
Pastoral paradigms emanating golden harmonies rhetorically reverberating through multilateral millennia, joyfully narrativized like historical ambrosia, atemporally animated to mellifluously sing, unconditionally composed spry apian honeysuckle, youthfully absorbed then maturely articulated, with different methodologies, flexibly inscribed.
Passing years blending experiential summations curiously moving forward with impassioned conviction, truthful conception still tantalizingly motivates without ever asking why?
Enchantments, disappointments, routines, bewilderments, a scintillating literary array miscellaneously nuancing biodiverse auto/biography, sifting through the acquired knowledge like basking in metropolitan obscurity, multiplicities aligning quotients with commensurate psychological constituencies, strategic planning wondrously liaising with lampooned spontaneity, crème brûlée, a quiche, a grilled cheese, a bumptious timbit in Milan, a marigold scone brashly drenched in herbal tease.
Tisane.
Itinerant ecstasies dependable denominators express escapades mundane nebulae, a resonant echo still conceiving la clé labyrinthique, the maze itself intuitively reliable, as long as theoretical conclusions remain determinately uncertain.
Ephemeral clarifications auriferously constructing poetic periodicals classically mystifying formal assumption, jazzy rhythms alternating beats with inspired endemic hypothesis, comical complements relieving inquisitive bouts of suspicious vertigo, extraterrestrial revelations, steeping thematic controversy.
Doubts, delusions, denials.
Elasticity.
Sitting back later on, settled and sequestered, conceptually caressing canvases, a story takes shape.
Notwithstanding unclassified frontiers, the tumults and triumphs and testaments and temptations serendipitously characterize life alight anew.
Outcomes conspicuously serializing no less, theatrics exemplifying latent desires quotidian.
And while observing sundry orchestrations mischievizing relational aesthetics, communal romance applauds in tune.
Without ever coldly abandoning.
Free longings for something true.
Immaterial.
Blessed.
Starchy.
Endurance.
Compatibility.
R & D.
Pastoral paradigms emanating golden harmonies rhetorically reverberating through multilateral millennia, joyfully narrativized like historical ambrosia, atemporally animated to mellifluously sing, unconditionally composed spry apian honeysuckle, youthfully absorbed then maturely articulated, with different methodologies, flexibly inscribed.
Passing years blending experiential summations curiously moving forward with impassioned conviction, truthful conception still tantalizingly motivates without ever asking why?
Enchantments, disappointments, routines, bewilderments, a scintillating literary array miscellaneously nuancing biodiverse auto/biography, sifting through the acquired knowledge like basking in metropolitan obscurity, multiplicities aligning quotients with commensurate psychological constituencies, strategic planning wondrously liaising with lampooned spontaneity, crème brûlée, a quiche, a grilled cheese, a bumptious timbit in Milan, a marigold scone brashly drenched in herbal tease.
Tisane.
Itinerant ecstasies dependable denominators express escapades mundane nebulae, a resonant echo still conceiving la clé labyrinthique, the maze itself intuitively reliable, as long as theoretical conclusions remain determinately uncertain.
Ephemeral clarifications auriferously constructing poetic periodicals classically mystifying formal assumption, jazzy rhythms alternating beats with inspired endemic hypothesis, comical complements relieving inquisitive bouts of suspicious vertigo, extraterrestrial revelations, steeping thematic controversy.
Doubts, delusions, denials.
Elasticity.
Sitting back later on, settled and sequestered, conceptually caressing canvases, a story takes shape.
Notwithstanding unclassified frontiers, the tumults and triumphs and testaments and temptations serendipitously characterize life alight anew.
Outcomes conspicuously serializing no less, theatrics exemplifying latent desires quotidian.
And while observing sundry orchestrations mischievizing relational aesthetics, communal romance applauds in tune.
Without ever coldly abandoning.
Free longings for something true.
Immaterial.
Blessed.
Starchy.
Friday, July 6, 2018
Quand l'amour se creuse un trou (When Love Digs a Hole)
An undisciplined approach to scholastic endeavours leaves young Miron (Robert Naylor) locked-down in homeschool.
His reserved yet open-minded parents understand that teenagers like to experiment, but are still adamant that their boy should definitively finish high school.
Therefore, their family rents a home in the countryside where it is believed there will be less distractions, and Miron sits down with mom to soberly cast procrastination aside.
Things go well.
The plans seems to be working.
But little do mom and dad know that their son is cut from the purest romantic egalitarian inclusivity, and soon finds himself enamoured of their rebellious widowed neighbour next door.
Florence (France Castel/Emilie Carbonneau) is a daring freespirit who elastically makes ends meet, and while Miron's parents (Patrice Robitaille as David and Julie LeBreton as Thérèse) sympathize with such an approach, at the end of the day they're better acquainted with orderly inflexible routines.
They aren't ogres or anything, they're actually much cooler than many parental units depicted in romantic comedies, yet they still authoritarianly attempt to shut love the fuck down, which thoroughly annoys their son, who effortlessly finds it wherever he goes.
As a side effect, David's increasing strictness revitalizes his wife's latent passions, and their marriage is consequently saved.
Yet their son is much more resourceful than they think, and an idea is generated through pseudo-televisual leisure studies, which just might represent, the apotheosis of truest free love.
Excavated from the heart of despair.
It's been awhile since I've seen such a remarkable Québecois comedy, which outperforms its American counterparts with a scant fraction of their operating budgets.
No doubt because Excentris went under.
A well-written story vivaciously brought to life, cognizant of the ways in which utopian dreams must confront disengaging realities, yet illustrative of the ingenuity which enables them to variably thrive amongst different generations, Quand l'amour se creuse un trou (When Love Digs a Hole) beautifully celebrates love and living, from multiple philosophical perspectives argumentatively voiced and respected.
It ends with perfect timing.
It's important to strive for the utopian but you still have to live meanwhile.
The trick is to do so without becoming cynical, a mindset which dismally breeds decay, if it takes over one's unconscious.
Don't get me wrong, I think finishing high school (and university or college) is very important, especially when you're young and don't have to work all the time, and it does open up doors and lets you expand your mind with cool challenges that the real world rarely offers.
Quand l'amour se creuse un trou makes a stunning case for disorderly reckonings however, undoubtably mischievized after categorial rules were far too dismissively applied.
Digs in deep.
His reserved yet open-minded parents understand that teenagers like to experiment, but are still adamant that their boy should definitively finish high school.
Therefore, their family rents a home in the countryside where it is believed there will be less distractions, and Miron sits down with mom to soberly cast procrastination aside.
Things go well.
The plans seems to be working.
But little do mom and dad know that their son is cut from the purest romantic egalitarian inclusivity, and soon finds himself enamoured of their rebellious widowed neighbour next door.
Florence (France Castel/Emilie Carbonneau) is a daring freespirit who elastically makes ends meet, and while Miron's parents (Patrice Robitaille as David and Julie LeBreton as Thérèse) sympathize with such an approach, at the end of the day they're better acquainted with orderly inflexible routines.
They aren't ogres or anything, they're actually much cooler than many parental units depicted in romantic comedies, yet they still authoritarianly attempt to shut love the fuck down, which thoroughly annoys their son, who effortlessly finds it wherever he goes.
As a side effect, David's increasing strictness revitalizes his wife's latent passions, and their marriage is consequently saved.
Yet their son is much more resourceful than they think, and an idea is generated through pseudo-televisual leisure studies, which just might represent, the apotheosis of truest free love.
Excavated from the heart of despair.
It's been awhile since I've seen such a remarkable Québecois comedy, which outperforms its American counterparts with a scant fraction of their operating budgets.
No doubt because Excentris went under.
A well-written story vivaciously brought to life, cognizant of the ways in which utopian dreams must confront disengaging realities, yet illustrative of the ingenuity which enables them to variably thrive amongst different generations, Quand l'amour se creuse un trou (When Love Digs a Hole) beautifully celebrates love and living, from multiple philosophical perspectives argumentatively voiced and respected.
It ends with perfect timing.
It's important to strive for the utopian but you still have to live meanwhile.
The trick is to do so without becoming cynical, a mindset which dismally breeds decay, if it takes over one's unconscious.
Don't get me wrong, I think finishing high school (and university or college) is very important, especially when you're young and don't have to work all the time, and it does open up doors and lets you expand your mind with cool challenges that the real world rarely offers.
Quand l'amour se creuse un trou makes a stunning case for disorderly reckonings however, undoubtably mischievized after categorial rules were far too dismissively applied.
Digs in deep.
Tuesday, July 3, 2018
Hotel Artemis
High level underground healthcare, malfeasant exclusivity monopolizing bedside manners, a doctor whose son was lost surgically suturing round the clock, strict codes of conduct sustaining improbable decorum with the efficient composure of inoculated propriety, an indispensable service for those who require it, an oasis, a criminal miracle, aliases supplied sanctuary granted, personality condoned within but who's to say what'll happen on the outside, a father and son at odds, expertly timed assassignations, steadfast fraternal devotion, prescribed in/discriminate patience, getaways, gumption, gallantry and gunshot wounds, grotesquely favoured, securely synchronized, playfully humoured, abruptly inundated.
Riots raging in Los Angeles, the result of soulless ambitions to privatize water realized, ubiquitous disorder generating pandemonium, within which even the outlawed superelite feel helpless with nowhere to hide.
Forgotten past misdeeds ravenously salivating.
The drool an elixir.
The drip a commandant.
Escape through delirium manifested in the labyrinthine.
Plain sight stealth.
Unorthodox risk management.
Hotel Artemis has the makings of a cult classic perhaps dependent upon the preferences of a younger generation.
I enjoyed the film and the ways in which it openly orchestrates alternative subterranean postures, its imaginative non-compliance circumnavigating electroshocks, boisterously treading the turbulent mainstream, exuberantly bolting nutty necromance.
But I couldn't help wondering if I would have loved it thirty years ago, or if alternative alternative formats have unconsciously redefined the underground, with the same subtle corporate polish that led to so many unremarkable Johnny Depp films.
Have I simply grown older, or have statistical calculations transformed wild narratives into more family friendly pieces of civil disobedience, a sign of a more hesitant restrained contemporary artistic approach, saturated with widespread perennial job insecurity?
Perhaps the form of the underground films that hit theatres in the 80's have become the contents of similar early twenty-first century films, the form of the latter now representing the content of the former, to reflect how political engagements have changed due to a lack of progressive organization, dating from the unfortunate release of Mortdecai?
That makes more sense.
😌
Riots raging in Los Angeles, the result of soulless ambitions to privatize water realized, ubiquitous disorder generating pandemonium, within which even the outlawed superelite feel helpless with nowhere to hide.
Forgotten past misdeeds ravenously salivating.
The drool an elixir.
The drip a commandant.
Escape through delirium manifested in the labyrinthine.
Plain sight stealth.
Unorthodox risk management.
Hotel Artemis has the makings of a cult classic perhaps dependent upon the preferences of a younger generation.
I enjoyed the film and the ways in which it openly orchestrates alternative subterranean postures, its imaginative non-compliance circumnavigating electroshocks, boisterously treading the turbulent mainstream, exuberantly bolting nutty necromance.
But I couldn't help wondering if I would have loved it thirty years ago, or if alternative alternative formats have unconsciously redefined the underground, with the same subtle corporate polish that led to so many unremarkable Johnny Depp films.
Have I simply grown older, or have statistical calculations transformed wild narratives into more family friendly pieces of civil disobedience, a sign of a more hesitant restrained contemporary artistic approach, saturated with widespread perennial job insecurity?
Perhaps the form of the underground films that hit theatres in the 80's have become the contents of similar early twenty-first century films, the form of the latter now representing the content of the former, to reflect how political engagements have changed due to a lack of progressive organization, dating from the unfortunate release of Mortdecai?
That makes more sense.
😌
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