Laissez bronzer les cadavres

Auriferously enveloped in taut supernatural ubiquity suddenly thrust into periscopical freelance tight-knit plans crisply cropped chaos inveterate beam brightly brandished ancient shivers.

Plot embryonically subsumed ambient malcontenants gargoylically grouped in febrile homely ruins spacious interiors accents flush endemic verisimilitude hearty chipped consummates.

Exacting detail poised petulance amassed misfortune spastic swathe.

Grim spirit haunted hospice brisk hashtag extrinsic vessel.

No escape alternative thought quotidian distraction nostalgic reminiscence, ambient gravity supersaturated magnetism cartesian lockdown enraptured immobility.

Beyond the interrogative enriching strict declaration I've never been here before exalted purest articulate perfidy, sensual stream insouciant sultry sunbathed nomenclature, emotive instinct lucrative goals breathless contempt perpetual motion perspicaciously exhaled saturated elevations arterial wavelength transisting thatch.

Velveteen.

Freedoms frenetically composed casked and coaxed immersion purloined Serengeti paradisaical taunts surveyed disemboweled allegiance.

Primordial improvisations midnight magnates circumstantially asphyxiating engrained accords, bleak prospects menacingly heckle options baleful non-negotiable arrest.

Brilliance generously applied atypically tailored to a weathered realm, its incumbent creative frenzies extracting copious iron clad ligaments.

You couldn't create something this tight without meticulous drive, but inasmuch as the mad notoriously evades reasonable discourse, Laissez bronzer les cadavres outwits generic overtures.

Refreshing.

What Free Fire could have been without the humour and more style.

Much more style.

It would be oppressively immersive if it wasn't so laissez-faire, bold unique cinematic reckoning polished and selective like precious blackmarket diamonds.

Maltese falcons.

Soaring through unparalleled wilds.

Ravenous and sheer.

Disillusioned incarnate yields.

A must see.

*Happy Halloween!

At First Light

True love gone astray, withheld honest feelings bottled-up deep down proudly mired in distraught stasis as adhesive as it is cold.

A sighting, soulful regeneration, wondrous mischief suddenly appears levitating thoughts light and playful, so much time having been spent thinking of the right thing to say leaves him speechless, inarticulate, defensive, rude, thaws thick manifest in waking daydream, fears heartfelt quakes waxing dunes.

Translucent phase.

Image and status, communal narratives, blind rumour, blasé treatise.

Still that spark of ecstatic longing, that shimmering eternal flame, persevered in joyous depths, always, enraptures bright communication.

Before she's gone, disappears.

Then wakes having emerged divine.

Extraterrestrially wandering, At First Light.

Wherein romantic science-fiction illuminates superpowers, as ethereal precipitation saturates disbelief.

Confusion, answers which provoke quandary, a mystery lacking clues, codes, constructs, chords, gradually revealed in thoughtful awestruck miniature.

A tight script technologically economized inspires creative storytelling.

Desires to live freely contending with control.

Radioactive metamorphosis ironically humanizing elemental nuclei.

First contact made with ancient interstellar vocals.

It's as if the heights to which one raises their beloved are enigmatically reified within, godlike characteristics exotically pronounced.

Sean (Théodore Pellerin) sits back in wonder as Alex Lainey (Stefanie Scott) electrifies, thunderous awareness coyly emancipated, untilled.

That which is to be expected is present, is sewn, but At First Light reimagines these conventions to its credit, recharging their form with enlightening elastic appeal.

Supporting characters diversify its filmscape while adding narrative texture and nuance, the local transformed into the intergalactic piecemeal as events impressionably unfold.

Make the most of your talents and budgets increase tenfold.

I imagine.

Like amorous independence.

Galvanized gale force solar.

The Wife

The world's rather oddly constructed, some of its pretensions anyways, the idea that female writers can't sell their work for instance, which I imagine was much more prevalent 50 years ago, Foucauldian analysis pending.

The world certainly seems like a much more open place for men, and when you think of the thousands of psychological, financial, political, and ethical barriers preventing women from expressing themselves, the gross injustice of it all makes you wonder why people who are supposed to be fearless are so utterly afraid of a little femininity?

Women make good storytellers, are capable of doing anything men can do really, and cultural codes that prevent them from selling their work under their own name therefore don't make much sense, especially since they have so many compelling stories to share.

Longer explanation in a book some day.

I don't like everything I read or watch or listen to that's written by women, I don't like everything I read or watch or listen to that's written by men, I didn't realize you were supposed to prefer the one that matched your gender when I was really young, and was severely reprimanded, still am I suppose, but since I live in a theoretically free country I should be free to pick and choose who I like, even in my forties, as long as they aren't spreading hate intended to curtail freedoms, and I don't see it as a feminine and masculine artistic continuum, but rather one composed of stories I like and others which I don't.

I'm much more forgiving with films.

If I wrote about music or books I imagine people would criticize me for being too harsh instead of enjoying what I do.

In The Wife we find a literary married couple who's been given the Nobel Prize for literature even though only one of them is being recognized.

Wife Joan Castleman's (Glenn Close) painstaking imaginative endeavours are hailed for their genius, and husband Joe Castleman (Jonathan Pryce) is given all the credit.

He's a bit of a brute, living a life of freedom and ease that's absolutely dependent on his wife's devotion, and rather than reciprocating her heartfelt sacrifice he consumes countless luxuries and never stops womanizing.

The golden ticket.

You'd think that if you had the golden ticket you wouldn't openly mock its charitable foundations or colonize its endemic struggle.

You'd think you'd respect it at least, especially if its purchase had nothing to do with you.

Value it.

Not the case though in The Wife, as Joe recklessly gorges at the trough (things become more complicated as a mischievous biographer [Christian Slater as Nathaniel Bone] inquisitively stirs things up).

The film examines a fed up spouse's desire to be recognized for her brilliance in a patriarchal world prone to overlook essential feminine contributions.

It's quite direct for a movie focused on award winning literature, although the point it makes shines more brightly since it isn't buried beneath sundry literary filmic devices.

The unacknowledged heroine, the burly bumptious brute.

Like he had no leg to stand on so he went out and bought stilts.

He doesn't even consider sharing it.

After so so many years.

The Bookshop

So many harmless ideas.

Why would anyone protest if you wanted to open a bookshop for instance, why would anyone critique sharing ideas and stories, generating dreams, nurturing imagination, long before even television was taken for granted, especially in a small town with no local bookshop?

Books obviously enrich the mind in ways that television and film can't, I simply mention the town's lack of televisions to emphasize how grossly realistic things must have been at the time, for those regularly searching for alternative adventures and fantasies, or sharp cutting-edge non-fiction.

It seemed logical to me, in my youth, that if you wanted to open a store and freely sell things such as books or pizza you would be free to do so.

The thought of living somewhere where the government suddenly banned thousands of books and ideas or forced you to consume specific narratives without comment is baffling and inherently self-defeating.

The Bookshop's set in Britain not long after World War II and I've always taken it for granted that the United Kingdom was rather open-minded at the time, not so naively that I figured there weren't social issues or endemic inequalities that prevented groups and individuals from flourishing, but naively enough to suppose that if you wanted to open a bookshop in a small town without a bookshop, on your own property, you would be able to do so without legal interference.

Bizarro.

Monopolistic tragedies.

Isabel Coixet's The Bookshop is a brave soulful examination of an independent chap's immersion in local culture.

She was so beautiful.

Where many scenes would have ended in similar films, many of The Bookshop's keep unreeling complete with clever added details/suggestions/conflicts/hopes that add so much more to the courageous narrative.

Phenomenally laidback performances well-versed in bucolic sophistication calmly yet severely manifest palpable joys and tensions, actors acting in a serious film as if they were acting in a serious film, cultivating their craft, intently focused on their art.

The Bookshop's like that small town gem you've heard about where you can buy the most wondrous things off the beaten track and they've never even considered advertising.

It's as modest as a Sunday school teacher yet as fiery as a proactive country priest/rabbi/reverend/imam.

Some scenes seem to have been included to simply celebrate life, notably when Florence Green (Emily Mortimer) and Christine (Honor Kneafsey) are unexpectedly showcased at ease playfully enjoying themselves while working, or when Edmund Brundish (Bill Nighy) and Ms. Green are unsure how to end their first meeting, propriety suggesting they part although neither of them wishes to do so.

I'm still terrible at coming and going.

If only life were always spent in the middle of conversations.

A must-see film overflowing with pluck and integrity.

I can't imagine having to shop for books exclusively online.

You can't browse the shelves.

Find the perfect book you never knew you were looking for.

We the Animals

A creative child, impoverished and sensitive, hesitant and withdrawn, immersed in domestic violence explosive tempers rigid flair, bipolar ontologies practically conditioning tempestuous mindsets artistically grained and fractured, love amorously swathing, freedom recklessly improvising, a lack of consultation disputatiously igniting frayed conscience, with striking elementary animosity, fell off the deep end, woe heartaches disbelief, still anchored constitutionally, to sights sounds preached ruptures too familiar.

Tough life for the little guy.

The love's there, no question, but paps doesn't get that he's just not the type of kid who learns to swim if you unexpectedly let go.

A budding young illustrator, painter, designer, architect, explicitly classifying the chaos as unconfrontationally as he can, attaching meaning to the inexplicable with tactile ambassadorial artifice, a collection accrued amassed, grotesquely misinterpreted upon discovery.

He finds it thrown away.

Learns to keep his head above water.

There's no support network overflowing with concerned expertise.

Just actions, reactions, patterns, nature.

A lack of understanding.

Existence.

We the Animals relies more on emotion than rational discourse as it presents itself, a stunning array of carefully selected snapshots delicately scolding in volatile willow.

There's nothing easy about this film, the characters patiently move from hardship to hardship supporting themselves as they frenetically endure, or become accustomed to livid passionate embraces, some people learn to thrive on conflict, a strange inhospitable disposition divisively characterizing sullen negotiation.

Odd habitual inadmissibilities.

An excellent film regardless which pulls you in with unassuming composure, not to be taken lightly even if endearment shines through, not to be bluntly dismissed even if scenes are strictly brutal.

When you see her sleeping on the couch one morning surrounded by mischief you think that must be something exceptionally adorable to wake up to.

But a lack of both resources and community services, and a strong desire to make their own way, lead to violent emotional outbursts which make their situation haunting and desperate.

A Simple Favor

Goodwill and zealous care giving fashionably articulate elementary communal grammar, A Simple Favor's domestic athleticism convivially contending in audacious absence, a mystery hauntingly captivating studious literature under composite examination, latent auspices duely animated, ambiflextrously endeavoured embroiled.

Beyond implicity.

Suspects torn.

Prudent assumption underestimates meticulous resolve as clandestine excursions regenerate volumes.

A writer (Henry Golding as Sean Townsend) caught between opposing factions caresses seductive leaves.

Mercies meddling concoctions settling dreams incarnate dispute.

Someone is guilty of murder.

Others vent droll miscues.

A film cleverly mixing the brave and the rash while tempting exclaimed propriety, delicately nuancing characteristics blandly dismissed for upholding traditions, alternative fascinations as experimental as they are devout, imaginative tremors subtly bracing reasonability, untamed emergence grasping shocks with steady calm, conceptions oft overlooked or undervalued diversified, to vindicate bourgeois innocence, and celebrate tact defused.

A proactive film capable of appealing to a wide audience, it's also so much more, like a rarefied precious eccentricity concealed yet scintillating in traction, mischievously whispering je suis essentiel, before phasing out of time with reticent cheeky indifference.

If films were still rented in physical stores and viewed with less distraction it may have been a vital exception for film lovers still immersed in the mainstream.

Boredom and desire play definitive roles which pose disquieting ethical questions while sorting through phenomenal intrigue.

I love Theodore Shapiro's soundtracks and have for quite some time, but I wonder why the music not written by Shapiro for the film isn't also available on a downloadable disc in the Itunes store, as compelling as it is with so many bright compositions.

Sandra Kendrick (Stephanie Smothers) is perfectly cast for the role (casting by Allison Jones).

I've noticed her over the years but have never seen her in something where she's clearly stood out.

Historical form and content.

Blake Lively (Emily Nelson), also good.

Comedic observations are worked in well and I loved it every time Sona (Aparna Nancherla), Stacy (Kelly McCormack), and Darren (Andrew Rannells) popped up, especially at the end.

The Vlogging's cool too.

Although the film shouldn't be thought of as educational, Paul Feig still brilliantly demonstrates how young directors can authentically work within Hollywood and still earn a respectable buck or two, throughout.

Loved it.

Costume design by Renee Ehrlich Kalfus.

Fahrenheit 11/9

If you look back on Michael Moore's career, starting with Roger & Me, you see several well-crafted documentaries working within the most civilly disobedient of traditions, each of them championing social justice and attempting to inspire political change, as American as Pepsi apple pie, overflowing with effervescent goodwill.

He clearly abhors corporate greed and would like wealth to be distributed more fairly within the U.S, and has gone to great lengths to pursue his altruistic goals even as the situation has become remarkably worse since he began filming in 1989.

It's difficult to get an accurate picture of what's happening in the U.S, apart from the fact that Trump is likely crazy, because so many different journalists are writing about so many different aspects of a labyrinthine abstract construction, physically existing within specific boundaries no doubt, yet truly so vast, so incredibly complex, that I doubt anyone has ever understood the big picture.

Although the ending to Sean Baker's The Florida Project makes a lasting impression.

Just because something is incredible, seems beyond comprehension, even if you read all the latest books about it, doesn't mean you don't try to comprehend it, I only mention the abstract colossus because so many people are currently working in the United States and that is indeed a good thing.

I don't like Trump, he's turned a relatively stable world into a contentious polemic, and I don't know if his policies are directly responsible for the thousands of jobs that have been created down South, and I don't know how many of those jobs are steady 9-5 positions complete with decent wages, breaks, and benefits, but I do consistently read that thousands of people are back to work, and I can't dismiss that categorically even if I support different approaches to politics.

I love that people are working again even if I rather strongly dislike Mr. Trump.

Fahrenheit 11/9 breaks contemporary American politics down with unabashed Moorian vigour, uplifting progressive statistics tragically juxtaposed with downtrodden initiatives, myriad stunning examples as breathtaking as they are horrifying.

The picture painted is bleak to say the least, and I'm not here to contradict his assessment.

His examples aren't numerous enough to definitively frame the Democratic Party within the portrait he depicts, but they are revealing enough to start making reasonable accusations about the ways in which it goes about choosing its candidates.

If you can't allow your members to freely choose who represents you, even if a candidate doesn't fit a specific mold, it's distressing, and prone to manifest disillusion.

Trump rode unpredictability straight to the White House, and hasn't let up since for an instant.

Moore castigates the Democratic Party, Barack Obama, The New York Times, Union Leadership in West Virginia, and his rational enough presentation, which should be accompanied by a recommended reading list (it may have been in the end credits), seems generally hopeless, apart from its praise for Bernie Sanders and rising young Democratic candidates.

I started following Sanders on Instagram and he is incredible, the real deal, the genuine article, Jack Laytonesque.

He's as active as Trump but I rarely read about him in The New York Times.

It's like The New York Times is suicidally linked with Trump, like they're so dependent upon the revenue his antics generate, antics which constantly deride and attempt to ruin them, that they're afraid to take a financial hit and start backing a politician whom they would theoretically adore.

The people clearly love him.

His actions should be making headlines every day.

Scripted, Moore makes everything seem scripted, like people who don't subscribe to The New York Times don't matter, like they've stopped trying to find alternative means to generate revenue, and the Democratic Party is sticking too closely to a worn out formula.

But Sanders, the young alternative Democratic politicians, the teachers, and the workers Moore interviews are first rate, and I admire the ways in which they boldly stand up for hardworking Americans.

At the same time, should the situation become even more bleak, people can always look beyond politics.

You can form community groups which take communal action, work with each other to exemplify dreams elites have cynically classified unattainable, focus on taking non-violent actions that can lead to progressive change, the key perhaps being to simply listen to each other without sarcastically dismissing points of view or making others look ridiculous, and recognizing that within a democracy everyone's voice matters, regardless of income, education, race, gender, or sexual orientation.

If people create what they're hoping the government will create themselves, when a government finally comes along which supports their objectives there could be an extended period of widespread bliss casually sashaying through Congress for an extended period.

It's happened before, even if when people say the system's broken they're technically right.

Always.

To paraphrase Plato, and, I, Claudius, the system has always been broken, there never was a golden age where harmony prospered everywhere and everyone got along harmoniously.

Political systems aren't trucks.

You can take a truck in to be fixed.

One, two, maybe three mechanics work on it, not thousands of people from different regions with different backgrounds.

It's much less complicated to fix a truck.

A truck is real.

It exists physically.

That doesn't mean you don't stop trying to fix political systems.

If you stop trying to fix them, true darkness descends, and, to quote Pink Floyd, [you have to] get out of the road if you want to grow old (Sheep, Animals).

I believe in governments who want to help their citizens prosper and are committed to creating societies where it is possible for everyone to have the opportunity to do so.

But with a situation as grim as that presented in Fahrenheit 11/9, it looks like a lot of American people need to start creating paradise on Earth themselves, one self-sacrificing step soberly taken at a time.

*Idea for grassroots politicians hoping to make a difference: stop campaigning traditionally. Stop going door to door. Find a super rough demanding job and start working hard labour. Not for an afternoon, not for a coffee break in the morning, but for months at a time, tweeting and posting videos all the way. Then you'll really learn what it's like to live that kind of life and be so much more ready to defend those who do in Congress. Plus, you'll get to know so many wonderful people whom you may have never met otherwise. And learn what they really want and why they really want it. Remember. You're not the boss. You need the job. Your family's struggling. And you can't quit. That's my suggestion for new campaigning methods. According to Michael Moore's oeuvre, nothing else is working.

The House with a Clock in its Walls

Tragedy strikes, and an orphaned youth (Owen Vaccaro as Lewis Barnavelt) must move to his estranged uncle's, an eccentric man (Jack Black as Jonathon Barnavelt) whose specialized gifts were vilified by his once adoring family, although his devoted sister truly never stopped loving him.

His house is somewhat peculiar, and as young Lewis settles in, manifold bewitching anthropomorphized elements poetically particularize at random, his uncle and encyclopaedic neighbour (Cate Blanchett as Florence Zimmerman) living distinctly spellbound lives, Lewis's own attuned well-defined semantic inquiries suggesting he will make an apt pupil indeed, they forge an enchanting inclusive didactic openminded consensus, freely uplifting curious minds, unstructured tutelage impacting at play, fantastically composed, like any local library.

Perhaps Lewis may have benefitted from more guidance, however, for soon, in an effort to make friends, he's broken his uncle's only rule, and an evil warlock (Kyle MacLachlan as Isaac Izard) has returned from the grave.

Hellbent on destroying the world which nonetheless seems intent on self-destructing, his spirit crushed after fighting in World War II, he moves back to his once joyous abode, unleashing mayhem despotically thereafter.

Crimson glade.

The House with a Clock in its Walls could have been so much more.

Does every fantasy film have to prevent the destruction of the world these days, or has it simply always been a fundamental aspect?

Is anyone making independent hip artsy fantasy films that aren't animated?

Here we have a wonderful film rich with artful eccentricity overflowing with creative synergies still blindly focused on the end of the world.

Can't fantasy concentrate on creating narratives that are a bit less prone to armageddon, because it really just seems tacked on to this one?

Does the end of the world in fact symbolize the end of one's youth, and is that why fantastic heroes must nimbly face it?

Still though, every time?

Instead of Lewis developing a friendship that's diversified throughout with sympathetic Rose Rita Pottinger (Vanessa Anne Williams), it doesn't happen until the film's final moments.

Instead of Lewis spending at least 7 minutes inspecting his new home by himself, replete with tension and bewilderment and frights and disbelief, a sequence which emphasizes that he's just moved to a new house in a new town following a tragic event, he simply looks around a bit, and freaks when he discovers magic's real.

Denying the auspices of the forbidden.

Clock in its Walls is too blunt, everything happens too quickly, there aren't any build-ups/questions that-go-unanswered/jigsaws/mysteries, it's much too obvious for a film that celebrates originality and never even really decoratively surpasses Pee-wee's Playhouse, even with all its technological expertise.

Why doesn't Florence have a memorable moment where she resplendently shines and figuratively pays back her tyrannical oppressors?

It would have been so #metoo!

Why is the only serious obstacle the trio faces a patch of vicious pumpkins near the end?

Details!

A film as appealing as this one would have benefitted from at least 78 more details/references to cleverly expand upon its traditional yet compelling premise.

The seeds are sewn but don't take root.

Isn't it blasé to make everything so global in the age of globalization?

Another 40 minutes would have been great.

A fun film to watch that misses out on incredible opportunities.

Don't Worry, He Won't Get Far on Foot

I suppose I write about pastis, or red wine, or craft beer, from time to time.

This may give the wrong impression.

Do I enjoy drinking the exceptional craft beer brewed in Québec and elsewhere?

Yes, many of them are quite good.

Red wine and pastis, also quite good.

But, after one too many parties 15-20 years ago, I found ways to generally limit my drinking that enabled me to actually enjoy what I drink, instead of just drinking whatever.

Moving to a city where English isn't the primary means of communication and having to find work helped, as does having to start work between 5 and 6:30am most of the time.

The most important rule: stay away from the hard stuff.

Just one if there's a brand you particularly like, and enjoy it slowly after a hard week of dedicated work.

Plus never drink if you're sad or you feel like you have to, and take your time while you have a drink, take it easy, orinoco flow.

If you feel like you really have to have a drink try drinking something non-alcoholic like soda or orange juice or something with pineapple. Drink 4 or 5 of them. Keep your thirst occupied.

It's way less expensive than alcohol.

And can be healthy in some instances.

There's also non-alcoholic beer.

But come on.

That's disgusting.

Gus Van Sant's Don't Worry, He Won't Get Far on Foot looks at several lives destroyed by alcoholism, focusing primarily on a quadriplegic cartoonist named John Callahan (Joaquin Phoenix).

He hit the hard stuff full-speed-ahead one night and wound up immobilized for life.

He's super mischievous though, he doesn't let the misfortune get him too down, zipping through town on his motorized wheelchair like it's a Lamborghini, finding artistic ways to express himself and a corresponding job at a local paper.

It helps that he finds a cool partner (Rooney Mara as Annu), and an Alcoholics Anonymous group whose grizzly empathy helps him tone it down a notch or two.

Strange film

Tough fucker.

It defies expectations inasmuch as you'd expect it to depict John suffering intensely, despair pervading throughout in order to function as a solemn indictment.

It's still gloomy, Callahan's confined to a wheelchair and can hardly move, and he does break down at times, but Van Sant showcases his inspiring resilience as well, like an odd blend of the Le scaphandre et le papillon and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, with hints of Almodóvar.

Well-acted, directed, perhaps too light considering the gravity of the situation, but there are some heartfelt moments of acknowledged bitter regret too.

And teams.

Teamwork.

The cartoons are funny but remember making light of the intense suffering of others can have horrendous consequences if it's applied politically.

If you can't come up with something else that's funny, it's possible that, you suck.

Or are extremely lazy.

A glass of wine and then bed for me.

I swear cultural osmosis has taught me a French secret.

I also spend more freely than I used to.

And still like going out from time to time.