Creed II

Strange how seriously people take sports sometimes.

I always thought if you were playing in a big game, a playoff game, a game against a division rival, any game really, you did everything you could to win, training hard, listening to your coaches, sticking to the game plan, improvising if it's not working, supporting your teammates, using all your skill and talent to put up another win, while hoping you were playing against opponents who were genuinely doing the same.

If you didn't let up and did everything you could to win without cheating, then if you unfortunately didn't, it didn't matter so much, even if it still stung, still hurt a bit afterwards.

There was usually another game the following week, night, month, at some point, and winning all the time didn't make much sense, was improbable, even if it would have been nice to pull off a perfect season, or go up by 20 early to take the edge off and settle it down.

In a big game.

Some people aren't like that though, losing against solid competition even though they've trained just as hard drives them a bit mad even after they've done their best competing at a high level.

It doesn't help if their support networks collapse like Ivan Drago's (Dolph Lundgren) did after he lost to Rocky, and they lose a style of life they've grown accustomed to, as well as the contacts who made it so dear.

They came down hard on the Drago.

But he came down equally hard on himself.

I don't see the differences between Rocky (Sylvester Stallone) and Drago's situations in terms of nation, however, but rather in the ways in which they were supported by friends and family after their losses.

Every nation has people who know how to win.

Every nation has people who don't know how to lose.

Every nation has people who are there when you lose.

Every nation has people who freakin' love sports.

I don't see the arts in terms of winning and losing so much, more like a realm where your work's appealing or unappealing, interpreted differently according to individual tastes.

It surprises me when people are upset because I didn't like a film, or confused because I did.

Different people have different tastes and having different tastes in film has nothing to do with being right or wrong.

I don't get why people don't like some movies.

But I'm not insulted if they don't like my favourites.

Creed II lacks subtlety and daring yet still delivers something reliable, something durable.

The situations are familiar and the formula's a bit worn but that doesn't mean I don't like seeing Rocky back at it, or watching as Adonis (Michael B. Jordan) and Bianca's (Tessa Thompson) lives change and grow.

They change and grow in very conventional ways and their struggles don't remind me much of Adrian and Rocky's.

They're kind of tame in comparison.

Where's Creed's Paulie?

I think their lives need less traditional complications.

Wasn't the first Rocky one of the best American movies ever made though, so many life lessons built into its original script?

Rocky Balboa too?

Creed III's got its work cut out for it if it's goanna make it without Stallone.

In genres where a lot of artists seem similar at times, there's truly no one else like him.

At his best when he lets his heart speak.

I may have an Over the Top postcard stuck to my fridge.

Which no longer works.

There be another fridge though, close at hand.

Stuffed full of cheese.

And a rice/veggie medley.

It's good in soup.

With sour cream and blue cheese.

Yum.

The Nutcracker and the Four Realms

The loss of a loved one haunts gifted Clara's (Mackenzie Foy) heart, and her grief stricken father (Matthew Macfadyen) struggles to comfort her.

Festive ceremonies can't ease her troubled mind, nor can appeals to the breadth of tradition, nor the temptation to snuggle away.

Honestly immersed in dire bleak emotion, she visits a trustworthy friend (Morgan Freeman as Drosselmeyer).

And his supportive counsel and sympathetic understanding miraculously ignite her imagination, which magically blooms thereafter, a fantastic realm inadvertently emerging, wherein which she's respected as Queen.

Yet dark forces have set about undermining her rule, forces which take advantage of her naivety.

But those who remain loyal to her innate justice refuse to yield as the usurper rises, the rag tag as composed as they are outnumbered, united with the formerly influential.

Known as Mother Ginger (Helen Mirren).

As darkness descends.

In The Nutcracker and the Four Realms, an enchanting tale wildly revelling in solemn majesty, its embroiled burnished brightness boldly bursting the bland banal.

Within, inherent characteristics predisposed to leisure and play must outwit irreverent subjugation while clashing with concrete woe.

Is it so hard to enjoy the peaceful refinements a culture enlightens without being threatened by their jests?

Enamoured impulse, commercial spontaneity, sportspersonlike intrigue, a weekly night out?

Who doesn't like Mexican food?

The realization that the limitless nature of the democratic arts, as opposed to one-dimensional all-powerful commands they may be, produces much more lively overtures, which can creatively inspire curious hearts and minds, who produce much more clever material when given room to play, and freed from mind-numbing stereotypes, enlivens dull predictable routines, and lets you appreciate Birdman and Ferris Bueller sans hesitation, depending on complementary moods.

No one ever really listens to anyone who uses violence to assert themselves, although they pretend to to avoid pain.

I see smart men and women whose families respect them precisely because they don't micromanage things all the time.

They seem happy because their families are happy, and are always ready to provide assistance when required.

Perhaps Clara realizes her father is like that after contending with thoughtless Sugar Plum (Keira Knightley).

And agrees to dance with him lightly.

Caught up in spirited flight.

Green Book

It's fun when you have a job and you get to work with people from around the world.

You get all these fascinating insights into remarkably diverse cultures many of which are quite similar to your own if you make respectful comparisons.

Try new things.

You grow up eating specific foods for instance, and as you age, because you continue to eat these specific foods, it seems like eating them is natural, inasmuch as habits come to culturally qualify the term.

But when you work with people from different countries and begin to realize that they feel the same way about the food they grew up eating, the term natural becomes less organic, or is at least internationally diversified.

If you begin to try all the delicious foods they grew up eating and learn to appreciate the differences, while still enjoying your favourite local dishes, your options succulently expand tenfold, and your palette becomes much more global.

And you can ask questions like, "how do I turn this into a sandwich?", or, "can you melt cheese on this?", etc.

Plus, you're always eating.

I started cooking rice all the time.

Mixing in green lentils and potato.

In Peter Farrelly's Green Book, a gifted African American musician (Mahershala Ali as Dr. Don Shirley) takes his melodies on the road to the Southern U.S., hoping to build bridges of trust.

He hires a feisty bouncer from the Bronx to drive him (Viggo Mortensen as Tony Lip), and the two productively clash along the way.

As refined ethical viewpoints find themselves immersed in worlds where they don't apply, a more practical approach is begrudgingly sought, which, unfortunately, while necessary at points, does less to change hearts and minds.

And also causes serious problems.

The film cleverly embraces this pact and gradually synthesizes gentle and rough pretensions, Tony learning to react less instinctually, Dr. Shirley learning to take more precautions.

They slowly become friends as the film unreels and learn to appreciate each other precisely because of their differences.

Experience having taught them respect.

Green Book also examines the old "chummy" racial slurs that are often built into social interactions.

Tony makes the point that people "don't worry about" these slurs when they hear them but doesn't realize he's speaking from a position of privilege.

When the slurs are directed at him in the deep South he does worry about it and soon winds up in jail.

Different cultures often have different traditions which when appreciated add so much peaceful character to a neighbourhood/city/nation/world.

The casual slurs can make hard times worse.

And may not be as harmless to the people who let things slide.

As people in positions of privilege think.

Can You Ever Forgive Me?

A struggling writer (Melissa McCarthy) finds herself burdened with debt and stuck in the unmarketable fringe.

The rent's three months overdue, her cat's sick, her agent insults her, and she's just lost her job.

Somewhat of a recluse, a misfit, a misanthrope, a prickly pear, she sticks to her preferred hard liquor and settles down to stiffly agitate.

When suddenly an old acquaintance emerges (Richard E. Grant), a holds-nothing-back consume-whatever rough-and-tumble maelstrom, the two cultivating hospitable least resistance as they begin revelling in blunt parched mischief, a literary filmic modus operandi insouciantly scarifying thereafter, like a perky hangover maladroitly banished, or a banana split covered in red wine gravy.

Boldly.

She begins forging letters from deceased prominent authors and he helps her sell them after the FBI catches wind.

She likely would have written something noteworthy of her own beforehand had she just sat back and written something.

Setting her own limits then challenging them.

Like Captain Jean-Luc Picard.

Read other books though, enjoy them, devour them, don't worry if people criticize you.

Proust even wrote, "mediocre people generally believe that to let oneself be guided by books one admires takes away some of one's independence of judgment, [whereas the best people] feel that their power to understand and feel is infinitely increased [by contact with greatness]"(from "On Reading" as quoted in Benjamin Taylor's Proust: The Search).

Proust has an ingenious quote for so many demotivating doubts artists face.

And the judgments they encounter.

Peppered throughout his writings like garlic infused bannock.

Impoverished enrichment.

Incandescent flow.

Marielle Heller's Can You Ever Forgive Me? comedically enriches sloth to parasitically bewilder recrudescence.

Its poetic good times inflate the freewheeling to emancipate hope and thwart desperation.

Melissa McCarthy finally has a companion piece for Bridesmaids and Richard E. Grant keeps things spry.

I disagree with Lee's methods but can't deny her talent, a lazy way to imaginatively conjure, which revitalized dull conversations nonetheless, even if their contents were strictly anathema.

Worth seeing.

Venom

Having harvested interstellar phenomena, and obtained coveted extraterrestrial booty, a courageous spacecraft swiftly descends towards Earth, and none of its crew survives.

The alien lifeforms discovered bond with various hosts, begrudgingly commandeering their bodies, with intent most disruptive and grievous.

Including, but not limited to, heading back to space to find their fellow mucus-like beings, in order to one day return, and devour humanity.

Whole.

Or from the inside out.

It depends.

Both conscientious reporter Eddie Brock (Tom Hardy) and technocratic phenom Carlton Drake (Riz Ahmed) eventually find themselves hosting representatives of the species, reps whose personality differences closely match those of Brock and Drake, the reps in fact searching for unique personalities, even if corresponding storylines can't withstand the symmetry.

Not Marvel's finest hour.

I thought perhaps the buzz was off, preferring to see it for myself before adding an opinion, but Venom misses 8.25 times out of 10, although there's something to be said for such a complete lack of refinement.

Something bad.

In a nutshell, the story's too blunt, too direct, too surface level.

It's not that you can't write a great story that's blunt and direct, many appealing stories are, as many have noted, Venom's lacking the aesthetic expertise that held those stories together though, everything's condensed into purposeful formulaic probabilities for instance, which unfortunately assumed they required nothing more.

It happens.

Ruben Fleisher's usually quite good, I don't know what happened here but I suspect his hands were too tied, his independent spirit was exorcized throughout production, and the result fell far short of his audience's expectations, since independent spirits often lack inspiration when conventionally constrained.

Took one for the team perhaps.

I suppose every Marvel film isn't destined to present a deep convincing narrative that cerebrally shocks and actively theorizes, but Venom does neither, and metaphorically secretes jingoistic protoplasm.

I suppose you need deadlines and a production schedule but when you're bound to make multimillions regardless, do you need to follow them/it so strictly?

You probably do.

I don't work in film.

It's kind of funny when Venom discusses his sociohistorical misfortunes with Eddie.

Too little too late though.

But something cool for round 2.

Mid90s

One's first encounter with other people.

Outside of school.

A curious child not prone to mischief suddenly finds himself ensconced with peeps of whom his mom (Katherine Waterston) may disapprove.

They aren't thieves or thugs or dealers or bigots, but homework still isn't really their thing, and they aren't exactly that interested in much, besides chillin'.

And skateboarding and girls.

His brother's (Lucas Hedges) a bit macho though and lays down a strict beating should he continue to exist and enter his much older presence.

A bit of a dick, until Stevie's (Sunny Suljic) recreational pursuits become too disruptive, at which point he actually says something which isn't pejorative or obtuse.

Surprise and shock.

Indiscrimination.

Jonah Hill's Mid90s is a heartfelt deep gritty super real account of youth as it breaks away too quickly.

Hill excels at presenting scenes that aren't overly preachy, or sentimental, or ridiculously exaggerated, or lame, both his writing and directing masterfully blended to craft an exceptionally thoughtful independent comedy that makes you think as it lips off, like cheeky unconcerned conscientious bright crossroads.

It's edgy, it's not provocative or loud or volatile, it's more subtle in its orchestrations as if its characters are aware they don't know much but still seek non-academic experiences that can inspire if not at least entertain them.

Actively.

Even the older ones who offer Stevie advice.

There's judgment but it isn't final, there's support but it isn't blind, there's experimentation but it isn't reckless, until they all get into a car whose driver's intoxicated.

Always a bad idea.

Hill does an amazing job.

I'd say he's the real deal.

Outstanding.

Mid90s sincerely celebrates friendship and camaraderie by having fun without causing too much trouble.

The limits it presents, i.e. don't drink and drive, are as reasonable as they are not foolish, and as realistic as death or paralysis.

Haunting.

First Man

I don't know what to make of space travel.

Would I like to travel to space?

Yes.

Would I like to explore space?

Yes.

Would I like to meet alien lifeforms?

Yes.

Do I wish extraterrestrial animals were featured more prominently on Star Trek?

Definitely yes.

It seems like an awfully expensive trip though, and since money hasn't been replaced as it has on Star Trek, in the Federation anyway, I would rather see trillions of dollars used to clean up the oceans, and feed the world's poor, and promote birth control worldwide, and proactively fight climate change.

Given the current state of the geopolitical scene, I unfortunately can't see any of those things happening soon, or at least until a cataclysmic environmental disaster dismally shakes things up.

I imagine if there was a God, and he or she did return, her or his first act would be to force us to clean up the planet.

While spending most of his or her time chillin' with dolphins.

However, I suppose if that happened the religious right would try to kill God.

Instead of just recycling things, consuming less, embracing flex-time, and marketing disposable containers.

I think I got that idea from South Park.

The science of space travel, the practical theoretical brilliance of the mathematicians, engineers, scientists, and technicians who managed to land a space craft on the moon, is still compelling nevertheless, perhaps the most risky unparalleled ingenious voyage ever hypothesized, even more important than whatever Donald Trump had for breakfast today, which I'm sure will intrigue historians and political scientists for upcoming untold millennia.

First Man doesn't focus on the math though, choosing rather to intently examine the brave astronauts who risked their lives to pioneer space travel, and they really did risk their lives when you consider how experimental the space program was, and rushed, incredibly brilliant no doubt, but still experimental and rushed, would you like to fly this ship we just made and aren't really sure about, not across the ocean, but into the stars themselves, and courageously embrace eternity with the fleeting awe of starstruck munificence?

True daring.

Yes.

It's a sure and steady meaningful account of the Armstrongs, beginning with the tragic death of their first daughter, and ending after Neil (Ryan Gosling) lands on the moon.

Mr. Armstrong is presented as an introverted somewhat cold yet loving man who lost a lot after Karen (Lucy Stafford) passed, but still remained a hard-working devoted husband.

Janet Armstrong (Claire Foy) struggles with the realities of being an astronaut's wife, when so many husbands aren't coming home, and the film reasonably showcases her frustrations at the rare moments when she presents them, her logical suggestions embraced by her husband, as the two practically exemplify self-sacrificing commitment and understanding.

First Man covers a long period of time but its snapshots are well chosen.

It's not overflowing with emotion or exclamation or patriotism, it's a much more sombre illustration of achievement that depicts determination objectively.

The events showcased within patiently generate their own significance while crafting a brave narrative that's much more familial than national.

I wouldn't have included only one black character as a voice of protest though, especially considering the resilient African Americans who worked on the space program, some of whom were poetically illuminated by Theodore Melfi's Hidden Figures, brilliant minds given deserved respect.

Nonetheless, First Man's temperate, generally formal calculus still makes you feel like you're really there, landing on the moon, taking steps in the most otherworldly of environments.

That we've visited this side of the galaxy.

I've heard Madagascar's pretty wild too.

I really felt like I was there, checking things out, wandering around, collecting samples.

I think we should clean up this planet first before heading to Mars or beyond.

I have the utmost respect for the people who risk their lives travelling to space though.

And the math that makes it all possible.

Imagine your team thought all that up and was right.

Too bad space travel's so expensive.

Although I've heard hemp can be used for just about anything.

Even to make fuel.

And it grows like a weed.

So it likely doesn't require pesticides.

Damn.

*Okay, I suppose there's room for ambiguity by writing, "rivetingly so, 😏", so I took it out, to avoid confusion. In my head I thought, "wait, use the word 'rivetingly,' you rarely use that word because you think it's used too often and people will obviously understand that and know that you're being facetious, because everyone knows that's the reason why you rarely use that word." After heading out for a bit, I realized no one could possibly understand that besides me, and rushed home after my appointment to correct my error.

The Predator

The Predator franchise having adjourned several years past on a rather unexpected bone-trilling high note, I was quite eager to entertain its brave successor, inasmuch as it seemed reasonable that it would reach even greater heights, hope logically characterized through lighthearted thrift, the lack of prolonged accompanying anticipatory proclamations (trailers) further augmenting wondrous presumption,  I imagined it would impress, if not at least, mischievously diversify.

Yet it seems as if the new team was somewhat overwhelmed by their preceding act, and therefore sought transformative comedic consolidations, the resultant feature perhaps shocking resigned traditionalists, who no doubt stayed till the campy end regardless.

Not to say that Shane Black's unique approach lacks merit, but the Predator films do generally attempt to frighten, relying more heavily on horror than the absurd, often tending to terrify demonstrously.

Within elite commandoes find themselves replaced with a duty-free band of misfits, who have the audacity to tell jokes and exalt mischief, the rapidly paced loosely structured plot maladroitly reflecting their shenanigans, the resulting synthesis bizarrely endearing, typically tantalizing withheld revelations, bluntly shared, unabashed, tomfoolery.

It's more like a keg party than a night out at Saint-Bock, enthusiasm and excess carelessly abounding without taking much time to consider effect, mood, ambience, or likelihood.

Correspondingly, solutions readily present themselves, albeit in an inebriated way, chaotic resiliencies flying high on adrenaline, a family caught up in the jetstreamed carnage.

It's like Joes who haven't done much research suddenly find themselves experientially reaching ingenious conclusions, heavily saturated with kitschy ingenuity, as unconcerned as they are bewildered.

But even if they charmingly hypothesize, they can't outwit the film's brazen capacity.

It is fun though.

I like what they're trying to do, i.e, write a critical horror/comedy, and they mention all kinds of cool things like buses and science and global warming.

Plus it's co-starring Jake Busey (Keyes).

But the script could have perhaps used another round of edits, during which perhaps the predator dog idea would have been reimagined or left out.

A courageous attempt not lacking in ambition that still goes way too far, while mischievously diversifying no less, The Predator may have seriously impressed had it been crafted with more critical insight.

It may convince people to start thinking more seriously about climate change though.

Climate change is definitely real within.

And hopefully still will be in upcoming sequels.

*I never even listened to the Yardbirds!

Harrumph!

The Spy Who Dumped Me

Two girls, comfortably enacting stoic routines, nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary, a settled unsuspecting cozy blasé existence, latent talents uncultivated, bland assumption unjustified, not expecting nor risking nor desiring nor challenging much, while making the most of so-be-it circumstances, prescribed limits multilaterally defined.

When fate introduces ludicrous motivating implausibility, a situation so extraordinary it unfastens harnessed contention.

As definitively improbable as it is boundlessly distinct, their complete lack of applicable knowledge ensures unpredictable success.

Yet tasks can't be resiliently accomplished on their own, and soon trust must be relied upon, to spontaneously outmaneuver.

Their objectives are of the utmost importance and cruel adversaries seek their demise.

Amidst astounding world renown.

Reflexive potence, enduring instinct.

Sometimes the ridiculous awkwardly gesticulates with more disheveling ironic leverage, however, The Spy Who Dumped Me's serendipitous shenanigans perhaps too reliant on realistic pretensions.

Not that many of the scenarios aren't strange or fantastic, or that its boldness would lack succulence if it weren't so stern, but its quaint impressions and audacious ingenuity still don't mix well, like your uncle's homemade cream soda, or a cinnamon cilantro shake, you try them yet remain skeptical, and further experimentation bewilders all the more.

Not that there aren't redeeming factors.

Paul Reiser (Arnie) and Jane Curtain (Carol) add some laughs even if they're underutilized.

The Finnish backpacker they meet in the hostel (Ólafur Darri Ólafsson) should have a cameo in every sequel.

And Mila Kunis (Audrey) and Kate McKinnon (Morgan) work really well together, at times generating the captivating risky eloquence you expect from Hollywood's leading comedic duos.

Especially when they discuss likes and dislikes.

I went to see the film based on McKinnon's leading role alone.

Nevertheless, the blend's still too lumpy.

Extract the strengths for round two.

The talent's there.

Just gotta pull it together.

The Hate U Give

When I was really young I never really wanted to leave the house.

It seemed, *as M. T_______ has observed, come to think of it, totally unfair that every weekday I'd be carted off to a centralized hub wherein which I'd have to negotiate terms and conditions with a select group of strangers many of whom were impolite and none too impressed with my habitual timidity.

Having yet to learn that being able to count was frowned upon and that you had to listen to people who were bigger than you, I had a rather tough go of it before settling into an obnoxious yet less beating-prone comedic routine, which was also difficult to grow out of as changing circumstances created new socially acceptable codes of conduct.

But eventually I reached middle-age and found that my desire to impress people outside of work had almost entirely disappeared, and although I didn't shy away from outings or conversation, I cared much less about whether or not I was appealing, catchy, suitable.

Sought after.

The Hate U Give's Starr Carter (Amandla Stenberg) is still in the thick of it though, uploading different psychological applications to fit sundry social situations, still attending school, going to parties, pursuing amorous relations, a student from a modest background attending a solid private school cleverly going with the flow, smoothly fitting in, hyperaware of precisely what not to say, managing rage, desire, curiosity, and confusion, with the adroit composure of a surefire sagelike symphony.

Flexible and highly strung.

She's still a kid though and therefore likes to do things kids like to do, as do her friends and siblings.

But when gun shots ring out at a party attended, she flees with an old companion with whom she once enjoyed playing Harry Potter.

Their youthful ambitions hold no sway after they're pulled over for no reason, however, and Starr's friend Khalil (Algee Smith) is soon dead on the ground after having spontaneously decided to simply comb his hair.

He may have been 17 and had a lot of potential.

How often do I read about events like this in the news?

How many of these tragedies could have been avoided?

Starr suffers extreme shock mixed with helplessness and the film gracefully supports her as systemic injustice generates activist passions.

It's a tight multifaceted narrative that soulfully blends kids playfully trying to live their lives, a hardworking father who's served time for drugs and won't go back (Russell Hornsby as Maverick Carter), a local drug dealer who's worried about exposure (Anthony Mackie as King), a caring mom who supports her daughter's decision (Regina Hall as Lisa Carter), a black cop caught up in the system (Common as Carlos), a supportive privileged boyfriend who's willing to take risks for Starr even though it's a world he doesn't understand (K.J. Apa as Chris), Starr's close school friend who doesn't try to understand (Sabrina Carpenter as Hailey), media reports that don't try to understand, underfunded public schools that can't keep the drugs out, an activist who understands how hard it is to speak out but knows how essential it is to do so (Issa Rae as April Ofrah), a family's local struggle to get by transformed by national attention which is none too appreciated by the thugs, many of whom tried, but could never find anything better to do.

Starr unites these elements and bravely makes tough decisions to help her community.

I loved the film's positive focus, convincingly letting the light shine through so much demotivating darkness.

The light is out there and it is shining brightly.

A lot of people who try to make it big selling drugs wind up in jail.

A lot of people who put in an honest day's work and keep looking forward, building a business or helping others build businesses, can still make good money, and don't have to be scared all the time.

Can enjoy time spent with friends and family.

Chill out a bit even.

Joke around.

Read books and watch movies.

Flatliners

I suppose Flatliners passes as a chilling representation of mainstream sci-fi/horror, its 5 med students adventurously engaged in supernatural experimentation, recklessly bringing about their own deaths to pioneer forbidden im/mortal disciplines, risking their coveted careers to entertainingly tantalize, while unwittingly materializing vengeful sociohistorical menace.

It excites eager film lovers by affixing its characters with ingenious analytical and creative abilities, real world superpowers which delineate discriminate diagnoses, yet simultaneously terrifies them by monstrously calling into question the means by which they obtained them, metaphorically speaking, "say no to drugs."

It's as if after flatlining everything they've ever done, read, intuited, or considered, is computationally available, capable of being accessed and applied with immediate inspirational virtuosity, however, since each character has effectively ruined, even ended the lives of others, their genius is maddeningly guilt ridden, and their aspirations spiritually overwhelming.

Like Limitless meets Final Destination, Flatliners packs a potent cerebrally stunning punch, but it gets down to it a little too quickly for my tastes, instantaneously invigorating its narrative without having thoughtfully justified why it's bothering to do so.

Perhaps an additional 15 minutes spent clarifying why the characters are so willingly embracing death enriched with a reflective dialogue concerning the merits of their moribund undertakings would have been too cumbersome, too boring, too intellectual, but it's not like they're thinking about taking a road trip here, or heading to the casino or skipping class.

Or making out in the library.

They be killing themselves to suicidally synergize prohibited prognostics and vivacious versatilities, and methinks that deserves a bit more discussion as the story unfolds, even if it unreels contemptuously thereafter.

Is that middle-aged bias?

Wait, Flatliner's religious underpinnings suggest explanations are unnecessary, so the rash undiscussed experimental adolescent death drive is therefore subconsciously sustained.

However, they're all med students using science to make breakthroughs within earthly realms, and should therefore be questioning everything they do.

Perhaps the soul searching yet practically attuned Ray (Diego Luna), who, unlike his colleagues, worked his way up through bold honest labour, presents a way out of this deadlock, for he's the only character whose past doesn't haunt him, and he's also the only one who doesn't flatline.

But doesn't the person of the world who never seeks to comprehend occult mysteries function like Indiana Jones and Marion at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, never seeking to understand the divine even if it is bluntly presented, out of unacknowledged religious humility, or existential acculturation?

And therefore can't assist?

Beats me.

*I watched Kingdom of the Crystal Skull again last night for the first time since it came out. I liked it a lot more the second time although things get pretty ridiculous near the end. And suggesting aliens taught ancient cultures everything they knew is ethnocentric. Our superbrains created the internet. Theirs created the Pyramids, the Great Wall etc.

**I wrote this last February and forgot that I had mentioned Indiana Jones. I didn't read it again until tonight, the night I had planned to post it on last February (well, I had planned to post it on a Monday in November). And I just recently finished watching all the Indiana Jones movies again.  As in yesterday. Weird.

A Star is Born

With a voice as multifaceted as Brooklyn or a night out on Duluth, effervescently reverberating with transformative emotional characterization, sweetly orchestrating discursive labyrinths, purpose delineating fluctuating climax, the in/conclusive communally narrativizing, the independent meteorologically summarizing, Lady Gaga (Ally) firmly embraces the silver screen, irrepressibly showcasing her vast talent, chanting out with distinct virtuosity, enlightened like a seaside glade, I've never listened to her before, what an exceptionally mesmerizing performer.

Starring in a film that struggles to match up.

Although it starts out well as an alcoholic superstar (Bradley Cooper) suddenly decides to check out the local nightlife after another successful performance.

To his immense good fortune, he's lucky enough to discover a local talent whose versatility is as profound as it is unknown (Gaga).

The film excels as the two meet and Ally is instantaneously recognized.

But as the praise keeps rolling in, and rolling in, and rolling in, its gritty edge is blandly dulled, and as Jack's addictions correspondingly get the better of him, the result is a depressing descent into cold reckless shadow.

A Star is Born is just too obvious, not in the good we know this is tacky and we're making fun of ourselves kind of way, but in the bad you're supposed to be taking this seriously kind of way.

And it's super long.

Often when I see something this bad I'll go see something else and write about it instead, to avoid hurting feelings, but I don't have time to do that this month, and therefore, must proceed.

But I won't say much more.

Immediacy can be a useful device but when things are this instantaneous everything just falls apart.

Rapidly.

In terms of making a film, not going with the flow when performing live.

Man.

My mind's too full of negativity.

I think the expression is, field day, or you could have a field day with this one.

Some great performances though.

And some funny family moments.

The first 40 minutes are really good.

Bummer.

Wolfe

Summations surmised in shock smothered sick suffering scorn.

Pronounced pertinent enriched bewilderment interrogative analytics revelations inconclusive.

Serial addendums.

Emotions recollected quixotic exhilaration scarlet iris peerless pathways authentic articles embraced innate pandemonium.

Mutual affection tempestuously tantalized whispers whirlwinds bliss.

Substitutions recitals realignments electrolysis solutes snickers flow, spastic momentum definitive increments narratively isolating cloyed vignettes.

Fortunes resentments antecedents exclamations.

An artist observing amongst them.

Discerning apt poetic reflections in pitched photogenic verse.

Much younger ignored pushed aside.

Still generating pith, catharsis.

Still secreting verdant environs.

Friends struggle to understand why a confidant takes her own life as an outsider questions them in Francis Bordeleau's Wolfe.

It unreels like less of a search for meaning than an attempt to obscure guilt.

It's like there was significance but they couldn't comprehend it and in a tragic attempt to provoke lucidity everything became much less clear.

Until an individual possessing true feeling honestly presented unabashed sincerity.

Wolfe subtly criticizes instinctual unreflective existence through experimental elucidation.

Unable to find resolutions, it suggests a lack of purpose can be overcome through artistic witness.

The violence the artist faces in the beginning fades as he befriends the two spirits also affected by its presumption.

A less depressing film might have solely focused on the good times, celebrating carefree creative progression as opposed to stark misfortune.

Presenting sundry outputs from local artists within.

Like a xylophone.

A soundboard.

A rainforest.

A café.

Colette

Lavish living, routinely enjoying the most sumptuous victuals to play the role your standing traditionally authenticates, variable inspired expenses infusing a literary aura with the carefree bravado of limitless production, malleability, ceremonial constants, presumed ostentation auriferously manifesting guilds, assumed impeccability unerringly suspecting intrigue, lashed foibles pronounced yet overlooked inasmuch as they characterize, at home amidst scandal and rumour, brash confidence supposed, instinctually attuned to grasped levitational predicament, brazen yet steadfast, polished yoke adjourned.

Suddenly married.

To a partner less docile than anticipated.

Eventually comprehending her worth, her value to the Parisian imagination, she challenges her freewheeling worldly spouse, who's become dependent on her novel individualism.

Wondering if the art's progress solely by chance or accident?

It seems that many well read erudite professionals reasonably publish that which they believe will profitably sustain them, their understanding of the arts being generally more reliable than a gambler's knowledge of cards or horse racing, and by reading public tastes or those of private audiences thereby, a cultural continuum emerges within which it's possible to earn a living.

Thus Willy (Dominic West) initially dismisses Colette's (Keira Knightley) first novel, thinking it won't tastefully fit the literate French spirit as he distills it, but as bills pile up and nothing appealing conveniently presents itself, he eventually pursues its publication, and it's an immediate success.

Who knows really?

J. K. Rowling, rejected.

Proust, rejected.

You can't assume novelty and experimentation will cultivate financial freedoms without worry, perhaps there are publishing houses who can with whom I'm unfamiliar, but regardless every so often that magical narrative seductively hits the shelves and its unique unbridled perfectly fitting plots, ideas, characters, and settings, impassion stoic readers who have otherwise succumbed to the piquant yet predictable.

Colette's novels sell with the unmitigated fury of an exclamatory tempest, generating revenues most sound for her foolish spendthrift husband.

She puts up with it for quite some time before finally bidding adieu and heading out on her own.

The film critiques M. Gauthier-Villars but not too severely, preferring to dis/harmoniously celebrate the times during which they excelled together to dwelling upon their inevitable break.

How could you go that far?

Such betrayal.

For a miserly pittance.

A lively entertaining clever examination of a voice which slowly learns to independently express itself, complete with a critical yet unpretentious account of conjugal versatility, straddling the upper stratosphere, agitating deals, drafts, dogmas.

Indoctrinations.

Mischievous celebratory circumnavigation afloat.

Disenchanting yet enticing.

Love Keira Knightley's outrage.