Madeline's Madeline

Raw inimitable frothing exuberant talent exasperated within deductive convention extemporaneously seething through.

Misunderstandings contraceptively disputing improvised codes maladroitly enfeebling eruptive creative scripture, diminutive tisane steeped in self-doubt ominous reckless outbursts wildly stricken angst.

No rules.

No mentor.

Consuming instinct cognizant of its gravity elementally composing ephemeral truths, the art of reflecting a god's experimental impulses editing in universal flux, objectives unrecognized ceaseless mismatched byproducts tempering environmental exfoliation; arboreal glimpses sowing conscious splash.

Climatology.

Raindrops.

She's phenomenal.

Constant motion excavating incorporeal archaeological feeling clasped in whisked conjecture verifiably asymmetrically drawn.

Random impulse subconsciously sleuthing bare recalcitrants embroiled revealed.

Ethereal alma mater intuitively grasped like love blindly struck with congenital nuisance empiric moisture foam.

Mama lynx still a kit feisty mews mystified matriculating.

Exotic overtures.

Prone discomfort.

Abstruse grammar attuned not specialized boldly stoked constrained gusts briskly pounced moans rosetta.

Obscene exhaustion retail shock.

Peace of mind on stage.

Constituent convalescence.

Emotional infinities planetary permutations feline fluctuation omniscient ceremony.

Bertha dans la zone.

It's like performance anxiety is strictly material as Madeline (Helena Howard) disconcertingly asserts stratos.

Duelling with classification.

Alternatives strictly conceived.

Juliet, Naked

A long-term relationship, once overflowing with amorous bounty, has fallen into a state of blind extraction, one partner remaining guiltless as the other pans and prospects, crass dismissive routine having disenchanted glib absorption.

Duncan Thomson (Chris O'Dowd) is quite successful for someone who's become even more enamoured with the music of his youth as he's aged, a rare highly-specialized peculiarity who's found both stimulating employment and an irresistible mate without having to adjust his lifestyle, at all, like an uncompromised established radical nerd god I suppose, who may have been diagnosed autistic if he hadn't learned to tame distracting obsessions, level-headed if not unique, examining non-Dickensian media pedagogically throughout the day.

Annie Platt (Rose Byrne) is also a success yet puts up with more bullshit than most women I know would for five minutes. She's spent too many years acquiescing and it's unfortunately resulted in stalemate.

When suddenly, as if a rival divinity decided to mystify his or her earthly spiritual contemporaries, she writes a critical review of the artist Duncan fetishizes, and shortly thereafter, that very same singer/songwriter, one Tucker Crowe (Ethan Hawke), makes first intuitive contact.

Crowe's soon visiting town after attending an hospitable family reunion close by (he's from the States and Annie lives in Britain), and the two hit it off even though/because they're both rather charmingly unsure of themselves.

Multiple characters offering myriad commentaries accompany them as they exchange goods, stewing an atypical bourgeois pot roast of sorts which narratively generates free-flowing conceptual sustenance.

From Annie's worldly lesbian sister (Lily Brazier as Ros Platt) to her town's mayoral sensation (Phil Davis as Mayor Terry Barton) to the subject of an old school photograph (Ninette Finch) to Tucker's thoughtful son Jackson (Azhy Robertson), an active international urbanely pastoral assertive inoffensive multigenerational cluster thoughtfully protrudes, constant flux radiating concerted solitude, domestic clutches loosening vows seized.

Unmarried vows.

Whatever.

The main characters aren't one-dimensional pin-ups either, evolving crises and resurgent settlements interrogatively finagling initial semantic outlines, as a matter of psychological flexibility openly conciliated, in spite of pretence recalled.

Tucker Crowe isn't ideal or anything, but he's changed and is much more responsible than he used to be.

Breakdowns still regularly accompany his daily regimen, often brought on by legitimate grievances cunningly wielded by jaded yet prosperous former lovers.

Wives, partners, fans.

Children he's never met.

Duncan is a bit of a douche but you still feel for him when Crowe bluntly and insensitively ignores his questions, even if from Crowe's point of view he's that guy.

Juliet, Naked is a laidback multilayered serious comedic piece of exceptional screenwriting (Evgenia Peretz, Jim Taylor, and Tamara Jenkins), convincing personalities innocently/frankly/charitably/maturely/helplessly/judiciously observing otherworldly circumstances, while remaining committed to personal affairs which romanticize anaesthetic sensation.

Dozens of cool little ideas and points of view expertly weaved into a funny unconcerned profound teacup tapestry.

It doesn't acknowledge how ridiculous it all sounds.

Adroitly so.

I'll keep coming back to the hospital scene again and again, which was much too short.

Perfectly timed ending though.

1991

An unanticipated spontaneous exotic academic excursion adventurously unravels in sarsaparillic miniature, lighthearted yet fascinating inchoate escapades, romantically acculturated with pioneered social pause, randomly convivializing spades, hearts, haze, clubbing not focused upon although zesty quaffs do saturate several scenes, Ricardo Trogi's 1991 playfully depicting spirited leisure studies in autodidactic swoon, as Jean-Carl Boucher (Ricardo Trogi) recalls familial legends, and mischievously departs for his ancestral patria.

Could Ireland have been worked in?

Yes, definitely, and I'm puzzled as to why the Emerald Isle, in its everlasting effervescent temperate ginger majesty, was left out, although perhaps a less circuitous focus on Italy and France was more apt, even if such evocations overlooked Europe's authentic heartland.

Jean-Carl proceeds through the unknown cultural wilderness, meeting spry eclectic denizens along the way, transported by train across sundry frontiers, regionally speaking, elastically compiling histoires robust and brittle.

In search of truest love.

Studiously awaiting in Italy.

Troji's funny, clever, charmingly observant sojourn overseas presents ambassadorial serendipity in rugged improvisational catalyst.

Mom (Sandrine Bisson) and dad (Claudio Colangelo) still adorably co-ordinate conjugal theatrics, and the aforementioned legends add a touch of outlandish dynamism.

A series of imaginative encounters between Troji and love interest Marie-Ève Bernard (Juliette Gosselin) are particularly appealing, like you're magnetically transported into mock-Antonioniesque dire pragmatism.

It'd be cool to see them crafted into a feature length emulsion (just make sure it's better than Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid [which I may have been too young for when I saw it {and probably has nothing to do with Italian cinema]).

Troji's gifts for creating cool relatable yet quirky characters are cheerfully pronounced as he showcases interpersonal invention by briskly interweaving lost, ambitious, established, curious, and defined souls.

I'd love to see him hit le Saguenay.

With some Tante Tricotante.

And a night out in Tadoussac.

*Not as good as 1987.

La Tenerezza (Tenderness)

Stubbornness and pride abound in Gianni Amelio's La Tenerezza, as a widower takes a shine to a family next door, while continuing to neglect his own middle-aged offspring, who shamelessly covet their litigious inheritance.

His extramarital appetites produced profound resentment in his young, and his unwillingness to accept responsibility have fostered distraught enmities.

The young family is energetic and full of life, curiosity boundlessly blooming as mother and little ones inspect undiscovered surroundings.

Lorenzo (Renato Carpentieri) finds himself offering fatherly advice and even develops kind friendships with both partners, sharing observations grumpily withheld from daughter and son with his unknown endearing impulsive new neighbours.

Something's not quite right though, Fabio (Elio Germano) often sharing awkward sad thoughts to which Lorenzo responds with empathy.

And as the joy from Amélie is pathologically reconceptualized, La Tenerezza admonishes adventurous spirits, the ramifications of settling with mindsets unsound, obtusely effecting tenants newfound, while those grown accustomed to habitual means, pay full price for taxing soirées indiscreet.

Redemption is sought however misplaced temperate reckonings bearing choice succulent fruits.

The film rhetorically narrativizes clashes between longstanding and recently confirmed residents to examine belonging and community from less romantic social ordeals.

Tenderness breaks through but as a cold heart convalesces psychological precedents confound poised rebirths.

Depicting a less cheerful array of realistic sentiments, losses disparaged erupt with molten inadmissibility.

Its mistrust of male refugees isn't counterbalanced by dependable claimants, even if said mistrust is ostensibly the byproduct of Lorenzo's infidelities, childhood trauma effecting his daughter Elena's (Giovanna Mezzogiorno) professional and personal lives, her inability to trust men perhaps resulting in cynical isolation.

Xenophobia's still xenophobia even when it's intellectually contextualized.

Leaving audiences to sift through clues presented to clarify semantic stresses may ambiguously impress, but effects still hauntingly linger long after characters heal from hard fought lessons.

Puzzle

You've played the video game thousands of times.

You're good at it.

You know the secrets for every level.

But you've played it over and over and over again to the point where it seems like you're stuck on an easy level forever, with no hope of playing something more challenging or diversifying your agile technique 'til the unforeseeable corked end of time.

Others don't seem to understand.

They like their levels.

They don't mind the routine.

But one day an unexpected diversion suddenly reignites cognitive passions which then exhilaratingly intensify an otherwise typical afternoon.

The predictable structure which has been forlornly upheld for what seems like eons finds itself briefly reinvigorated with novel motivational amelioration.

Harmless enough, additional challenges are sought the pursuit of which reveals hidden wonders complexly layered with alternative options, the new game's design possessing limitless imagination stretched across borderless frontiers inhabited by seemingly infinite individualities stressing nothing indistinct in particular.

The thrilling rush of discovery.

Invaluably articulated.

Marc Turtletaub's Puzzle adventurously fitting these pieces together to modestly celebrate romantic parentheses, each partner a redefined wilderness slowly homesteading unfurnished habitations.

Inexhaustible permutations.

Storylines, respect abounding and although some characters could be less rigid, none of them are presented angelically or monstrously.

Choice is vindicated, Puzzle's like an innocent investigation of manifold worlds the characteristics of which envelope varying degrees of boredom or fascination while taking factors like mood, time, compatibility, and eccentricity into account, leaving abundant room for interrogative developments, catalysts and breadcrumbs, Easter eggs and fireworks atmospherically blending, what's different today?, what can be creatively stitched and spooled?

With a brilliant ending.

Emerging in timeless craft.

Papillon

Entrenched plutocrats, none too pleased with having been fooled, frame a specialized romantic thief with most scandalous murder.

As lucrative sums casually discern culpability, a bright future slowly fades into unimaginative oblivion.

Banished from France and sent to live in an isolated penal colony, Henri 'Papillon' Charrière (Charlie Hunnam) sets his aggrieved broken heart on escaping.

Fellow less pugilistic prisoner Louis Dega (Rami Malek) provides financial backing in exchange for loyal security, having been rightfully convicted for counterfeiting, the proceeds of which he's partially brought along.

But careless plans, foolish declarations, inclement weather, and treacherous saviours incrementally spoil their impromptu soliloquies, extended time in solitary confinement awaiting, for as long as an excruciating non-negotiable 5 years.

Many spent in total darkness.

Yet Papillon will not forget his cherished homeland (or Québec perhaps [it doesn't come up {would it have been that hard to include a scene where he considers settling in Montréal?}]) nor curtail his efforts to one day return.

As stubborn and incorrigible as he is death-defying, he embraces the unknown with devout frenzied reverence.

If only a love of nature had been inculcated at a young age, the jungles of French Guiana no doubt would have overflowed with tropical sustenance.

But as things would have it, or rather as this somewhat bland account would present them, Papillon continues to trust the small closely-knit members of his colonialist enclave's upper echelons, rather than the bounty of the forbidden wild, only to see severe punishments increase as time lugubriously passes by.

Papillon's somewhat too light for such grave subject matter, too bare, too superficial.

I wanted to learn more about its fascinating characters and listen as they plotted while getting to know one another, but the film only develops one individual diminutively, and it's not even Papillon, the resultant blunt dialogues leaving little room to manoeuvre, even though for decades they must have had nothing but conversation to console themselves.

The crafty Rami Malek effortlessly steals every scene he's in, adding multifaceted flourishes throughout which prove his voice would extoll first rate animation.

But he's like the gold particles in a dull textbook slab of cinematic ore, brilliantly shining through before fading as it's lit up explicitly.

With possibly the least surreal dream sequence I've ever seen.

Hardened inmates innocently greeting one another like they're at Summer camp.

Hardly any time spent actually planning their escapes.

Even less considering the outside world.

Papillon's much more like a caterpillar, covering far too long a period without managing to produce much depth.

Lots of fighting though, nobility of spirit versus basic instinct and such, and even if they dependably relied on one another, it still seems as if they were simply chugging along.

Shizam.

A Room with A View

Sometimes it's important to make decisions when you lack knowledge and comprehension.

Contemplating exponential hypotheticals may only serve to sterilize raw emotions unpredictably cascading themselves as the unexpected taxonomically qualifies spontaneity.

Trying to make sense of them may result in an otherwise splendid evening stifled, presumption and preconception phantasmagorically belittling the experimental as if romance (or science) were something to be categorically disillusioned, prior to making first contact without ever having trusted irresponsibly.

Vacations during which you encounter individuals possessing alternative viewpoints semantically nurtured beyond localized frontiers can have rapturous effects, as they do in James Ivory's A Room with a View, as studious Lucy Honeychurch (Helena Bonham Carter) meets daring George Emerson (Julian Sands) and potentialities previously merely conceptualized suddenly invoke unconsidered epistemic senses.

Practically so.

Even if less emotional interactions are to be found in relationships forthcoming, the memories of those fleeting moments may effervescently characterize the dependably conjugal with adventurous imaginatively epic allegories, narratively liaised in intricate domestic reverie.

Unless the thrilling distraction should appear back home at a point in time before you find yourself wed.

At which point the exotic and the classified bewilderingly synthesize in quizzical exclamatory periodic pulsation, hyperbole nor mischief nor heartache notwithstanding.

An awkwardly crafted deeply moving carefree sober exoneration of wills un/tamed, A Room with a View celebrates the impulsive and the accidental while showcasing traditional lives lived.

Blunt forms of journalistic expression masterfully serenade literary proprieties in conjunction, the amorphous blend innocently concocted consequently thoroughly mystifying the cherished theoretically adversarial methodologies apropos.

Dinner for two.

Tarte aux bleuets à la mode.

An all-star ensemble that wasn't commercially assembled to heart-throbbingly cash-in.

Acting, characters, in/discretion.

Flavour.

Is there an underlying self-deprecating cheeky layer of innocent extravagance lampooned, or was such an aspect ironically mixed-in to mockingly impress the interminably austere?

Something given to suppose.

Indubitably speaking.

Cielo

Universally coded limitless variation as amorphous as it is particular aloofly showcasing synthesized basking essentials with regard for neither commentary nor broadcast spread out plainly for the naked eye to see.

Infinitely structuring sanguine molecular diversity in puzzling transformative lexicographical serenade, like treasured atemporal ecoblueprints smugly cast aside to exalt sensation, still silently omnipresent awaiting less confrontational loci, delineating epics, as individualized as one two three.

Like everything that could have ever existed had always astrologically exclaimed its infinitesimal foundations transitionally excavated throughout neverending time.

Extraterrestrially organic, a transisted lifeforce speculatively attired, left to mischievously promote clarity and intimate concrete mathematical formulae, while remaining romantically unrequited, persistent concealed lucid revelation, rebelliously consistent illuminated compound pines.

Blinding.

You've found it if you weren't sure what to look for, especially if you were searching for nothing at all.

Misplaced like indirection.

Celestial wherewithal.

I was playing constellation recently, and, as usual, I began by searching for raccoon.

Unsure if I had located the stars I traditionally transform into constellation raccoon, I started to notice raccoon constellations partout.

The night sky was bustling with raccoon activity that evening indeed, as I shyly observed their narrative spontaneity.

If genetic codes or html exponents appeared as they sought delicious slices of chocolate or banana, I can't claim to have found their cyphers.

I did suddenly notice a turtle passing by underwater, however, his or her aquatic foraging briefly caught in faint exterior light.

It was good luck to see her or him, the odds of it passing by unnoticed greatly surpassing those that would lead to its detection, a sight almost lacking historical precedent entirely, if only it hadn't happened once or twice before.

A lil snapper, snapping away.

Symbiotically chillin'.

Snap snap.

Snap snap snap.

Snap snap.

Around 1am.