A young idealistic Queen takes the throne in brave Scotland, a queen as familiar with communal ethics as she is unaware of treacherous plots, her gallant attempts to ecumenically harmonize defiantly subverted by rank misogyny, her courageous desire to have a family, reproached by hearts diffused.
Woeful political intrigue, direst soulless plagues.
It's like at any time there are many conflicting interests, and every one of them thinks they're pursuing just objectives, and if they actually want to reify their ideas even though they rest in opposition, byzantine arrays of begrudged conflicting alliances engulf them, the steady mind keeping track of every variation, even if he or she can by no means lead.
The individual in power attempts to change things and can hopefully rely upon the discipline of her or his colleagues, as Elizabeth I (Margot Robbie) did in England for quite some time.
He or she must command differing degrees of respect, soothe aggrieved adversaries, yield when it's advantageous to do so, act at opportune times.
William Lyon Mackenzie King seems to have been a master at doing this from what I've read, perhaps because he proceeded inductively, that is, even though he had ideals he still had to balance manifold competing factors (personalities, internal and external opponents, divergent regional agendas, budgetary constraints, campaign promises, ethical expectations . . .), each with their own comprehensive sets of particularities, to implement them, so he studied individuals, learned what motivated them, learned when to trust and distrust those surrounding him, since he understood what conditioned their advice, and his incisive study allowed him to balance a relatively concrete house of cards for 9 then 13 years, with an enviable composure few could ever hope to possess.
He knew when to listen, when not too, and therefore gained the respect of the level-headed individuals within his government, and beyond.
There are no mortal gods, only women and men and clever narratives, William Lyon Mackenzie King at least had some support which unfortunately Mary Stuart (Saoirse Ronan) did not, her wise sympathetic ideas unsuited to the volatile times.
She was feisty though, and beautiful, and put up a good fight, won some key victories, and was loved by many.
If Mary Queen of Scots's as independent as it seems, a good match for its headstrong subject matter, director Josie Rourke certainly made the most of her finances.
Convincing battle scenes, impressive aerial shots, a huge number of extras travelling through landscapes which seem remote, castle dynamics, armour.
It's solid, a tragic tale passionately brought to life, myriad characters adding depth, historical sorrow, and contemporary vindications.
There's an incredible shot of Saoirse, which lasts for some time, during which I imagined her becoming more and more sublime as she ages, and continues to take on bold challenging roles.
Margot Robbie's great too, the film's very well cast (Alastair Coomer) and seems to have been taken seriously by everyone involved.
I was hoping for two or three earth shattering royal declarations, the magnanimous linguistic authenticity of which would resonate with incumbent thunder.
But you can't have everything, and the writing's still quite good (Beau Willimon and John Guy).
One of the best films I've seen in 2018.
Enriched through bright enchantments.
Friday, December 28, 2018
Wednesday, December 26, 2018
Under the Silver Lake
Bored, drifting, idle, amenable, overwhelmed by absolutely nothing, sought after and welcome everywhere, not awkward or creepy or uptight or dismissive, never really sayin' much, never that sure of what you mean or are trying to say, searching for something without knowledge or method yet providing fresh insights into that which you seek, no matter what you try, no matter where you go, the subject of your investigation closely tied to what you've been watching on tv, your favourite video games, the women who love you, your raw unfiltered instinct, solutions to random conspiracy theories discovered along the way, carefree choice deterministically diagnosed, skunk stink bears no repercussions, as if you are, undeniably, L.A's stablest, most heroic bro.
You have everything you need without working.
You're desired everywhere.
You achieve your goals without thinking.
No matter what, you succeed.
Your goals aren't lofty, you're just looking for the blonde who used to swim in your apartment's pool before she suddenly disappeared, but intertwined with your humble slightly pervy objectives are those sought by men and women throughout human history, as if you've accidentally substantialized grasped sociohistorical meaninglessness.
In unsung purest Dada.
It's like you're in a library and you randomly choose different books from diverse sections to prove a thesis you didn't know existed prior to waking up hungover.
Like every innuendo you ever speculated upon bore cohesive communal fruit which was as succulent as it was crowd pleasing.
Like you were at the centre of manifold concentric circles the alignment of which generated personalized interstellar phenomenon harnessed inclusively, just for you.
The kind of narrative which demands its director includes his or her middle name.
Random synergies chaotically cultivated ask, "what's Under the Silver Lake?", in David Robert Mitchell's latest film.
It's film noiry.
It's coming of age.
It's David Lynchy.
It's a bit nutso.
Still, if you're wondering if you can fall for another hapless protagonist who accomplishes much more during his miraculous quest than his ends ever intended, you'll likely enjoy it as much as I did, indubitably, by all means.
Essential undergrad viewing.
Well suited to late August.
You have everything you need without working.
You're desired everywhere.
You achieve your goals without thinking.
No matter what, you succeed.
Your goals aren't lofty, you're just looking for the blonde who used to swim in your apartment's pool before she suddenly disappeared, but intertwined with your humble slightly pervy objectives are those sought by men and women throughout human history, as if you've accidentally substantialized grasped sociohistorical meaninglessness.
In unsung purest Dada.
It's like you're in a library and you randomly choose different books from diverse sections to prove a thesis you didn't know existed prior to waking up hungover.
Like every innuendo you ever speculated upon bore cohesive communal fruit which was as succulent as it was crowd pleasing.
Like you were at the centre of manifold concentric circles the alignment of which generated personalized interstellar phenomenon harnessed inclusively, just for you.
The kind of narrative which demands its director includes his or her middle name.
Random synergies chaotically cultivated ask, "what's Under the Silver Lake?", in David Robert Mitchell's latest film.
It's film noiry.
It's coming of age.
It's David Lynchy.
It's a bit nutso.
Still, if you're wondering if you can fall for another hapless protagonist who accomplishes much more during his miraculous quest than his ends ever intended, you'll likely enjoy it as much as I did, indubitably, by all means.
Essential undergrad viewing.
Well suited to late August.
Friday, December 21, 2018
At Eternity's Gate
Light streaming through the window, dreamy reckoning, exotic pause, patient nimble expression sparrow soaring eyes adoring, vortex, texture, blends, illuminated unconscious spiritually orchestrated canvas, brush strokes, supernatural brevity denoted enchantingly, floral vigour, spellbound charm, relaxed contemplative feeling, emotion, embrasure, less concerned with exacting aesthetics, less enamoured with splayed bedazzle, shyly swaddling landscapes in waves, in vivid undulating coy windswept waves.
Unaccustomed to traditional lifestyles, he struggles to say the right thing.
Unaware of what he's done, he rests for brief periods at times.
It can be very dark, how you have to think to understand what drives some people, sometimes, not everyone by any means, but some people care about such meaningless things, and seem to find motivation through ill-willed spite.
At times.
Many people don't fit roles that suggest they should act a specific way.
Many people which advocate for these roles don't fit them well either.
The roles exist to avoid confusion, I suppose, although I imagine broadening them, expanding them to include more spice, more variability, would make both spice and variability seem just as natural as rigid structure, and communities would correspondingly benefit from the increased diversity, teaching those whom it frightens to have no fear, regardless of whether or not everyone liked the same things.
Vincent van Gogh's (Willem Dafoe) actions are out of line at times and he doesn't realize it. But the violence he encounters doesn't teach him anything, in fact only makes things much much worse.
In the film.
His style, like intuitive observations of incorporeal intangible invisible imperceptible resonances, carefully balancing the sincere and the awkward with realistically composed imagination, perhaps mistaken for humorous representatives of inarticulate blooms in his time, clearly synthesizing wonder with amazement through recourse to the mundane to me, tasks hesitant poetic lucidity, the unobserved omnipresent joys that pass unnoticed as one ages, as dismissals of innocence replace innate fascinations, they never did with Vincent van Gogh, and, according to the two films I've seen about him, he remained unassuming till the end.
Perhaps touched, ingenious, perspicacious, naive, he had a vision anyways and worked hard to clarify it, as if he could never quite realize what it was, but sought to enliven it nonetheless.
The film's a carefully crafted thoughtful investigation of Van Gogh the artist, rich with performances from great actors, the dialogue perhaps too lofty and condensed at times but poignant and revealing at others, Julian Schnabel presenting his own artistic gifts most prominently perhaps when nothing's being said at all.
A gifted filmmaker.
A wonderful film.
Unaccustomed to traditional lifestyles, he struggles to say the right thing.
Unaware of what he's done, he rests for brief periods at times.
It can be very dark, how you have to think to understand what drives some people, sometimes, not everyone by any means, but some people care about such meaningless things, and seem to find motivation through ill-willed spite.
At times.
Many people don't fit roles that suggest they should act a specific way.
Many people which advocate for these roles don't fit them well either.
The roles exist to avoid confusion, I suppose, although I imagine broadening them, expanding them to include more spice, more variability, would make both spice and variability seem just as natural as rigid structure, and communities would correspondingly benefit from the increased diversity, teaching those whom it frightens to have no fear, regardless of whether or not everyone liked the same things.
Vincent van Gogh's (Willem Dafoe) actions are out of line at times and he doesn't realize it. But the violence he encounters doesn't teach him anything, in fact only makes things much much worse.
In the film.
His style, like intuitive observations of incorporeal intangible invisible imperceptible resonances, carefully balancing the sincere and the awkward with realistically composed imagination, perhaps mistaken for humorous representatives of inarticulate blooms in his time, clearly synthesizing wonder with amazement through recourse to the mundane to me, tasks hesitant poetic lucidity, the unobserved omnipresent joys that pass unnoticed as one ages, as dismissals of innocence replace innate fascinations, they never did with Vincent van Gogh, and, according to the two films I've seen about him, he remained unassuming till the end.
Perhaps touched, ingenious, perspicacious, naive, he had a vision anyways and worked hard to clarify it, as if he could never quite realize what it was, but sought to enliven it nonetheless.
The film's a carefully crafted thoughtful investigation of Van Gogh the artist, rich with performances from great actors, the dialogue perhaps too lofty and condensed at times but poignant and revealing at others, Julian Schnabel presenting his own artistic gifts most prominently perhaps when nothing's being said at all.
A gifted filmmaker.
A wonderful film.
Wednesday, December 19, 2018
The Christmas Chronicles
The Christmas spirit has hit a critical low as people across North America stubbornly refuse to believe.
And Santa's (Kurt Russell) in trouble.
His sleigh having encountered unexpected turbulence, he's lost touch with his reindeer, and crash landed in Chicago.
He needs help, and even though he provides the adult world with ample evidence to prove he's authentic, expressing himself in different languages and reflexively presenting the perfect gift, its cold shoulder is still bluntly given, and he must therefore improvise distraught on the road.
Those who have stowed away for the journey, or part of the journey, find themselves lost in hostile streets alone, within which wits must be developed then relied upon, as potential ends for corrupt pastimes ring true.
While Santa heads to prison.
His characteristic charm and overflowing goodwill ensure he still makes the most of it, but at points things do seem rather grim, like Who-ville on lockdown, or blind commercial obsessions.
Yet true believers still remain committed to setting him free.
With hopes he will finish his work.
And save the Holiday Season yet again.
In The Christmas Chronicles.
Wherein innocence is exonerated.
A bit too hasty, perhaps, time is an issue, but naive assumptions don't compensate for productive tension.
If Santa's appeals in the restaurant had been less confident, and his audience had been more willing to listen, for instance, the result wouldn't have seemed so rushed, and stronger emotions could have been sincerely generated.
Chronicles excels at critiquing hard-hearted dismissals of the season, but still stuffers from a surplus of disbelief, which creates a bleak atmosphere, much less infused with seasonal mirth making.
Santa can't do it all himself, although Russell impresses.
Try not to misunderstand, as far as Christmas films go, it's better than many, and Santa's blunt spirited enthusiasm is endearing.
But the film's more like a video game than a movie, like Santa has to boldly pass level after level, quickly, instead of just reacting and commenting within a deep narrative.
The binge viewing aesthetic is oddly like a video game, or at least much less like a broadcast television show.
Rather than lure viewers in with great stories, perhaps binge oriented series are trying to make them feel just as great for having finished an episode as they would have had they passed a level?
Thus, although presenting hearty protagonists reverently dedicated to the holiday season, The Christmas Chronicles would have benefitted from a little more time and patience.
That perfect gift doesn't just materialize out of thin air or show up thanks to formulae or speculation.
It takes love, foresight, originality, and spontaneity, to demand it be purchased.
Or placed upon a heartfelt wish list.
Written with care.
Mailed due North.
And Santa's (Kurt Russell) in trouble.
His sleigh having encountered unexpected turbulence, he's lost touch with his reindeer, and crash landed in Chicago.
He needs help, and even though he provides the adult world with ample evidence to prove he's authentic, expressing himself in different languages and reflexively presenting the perfect gift, its cold shoulder is still bluntly given, and he must therefore improvise distraught on the road.
Those who have stowed away for the journey, or part of the journey, find themselves lost in hostile streets alone, within which wits must be developed then relied upon, as potential ends for corrupt pastimes ring true.
While Santa heads to prison.
His characteristic charm and overflowing goodwill ensure he still makes the most of it, but at points things do seem rather grim, like Who-ville on lockdown, or blind commercial obsessions.
Yet true believers still remain committed to setting him free.
With hopes he will finish his work.
And save the Holiday Season yet again.
In The Christmas Chronicles.
Wherein innocence is exonerated.
A bit too hasty, perhaps, time is an issue, but naive assumptions don't compensate for productive tension.
If Santa's appeals in the restaurant had been less confident, and his audience had been more willing to listen, for instance, the result wouldn't have seemed so rushed, and stronger emotions could have been sincerely generated.
Chronicles excels at critiquing hard-hearted dismissals of the season, but still stuffers from a surplus of disbelief, which creates a bleak atmosphere, much less infused with seasonal mirth making.
Santa can't do it all himself, although Russell impresses.
Try not to misunderstand, as far as Christmas films go, it's better than many, and Santa's blunt spirited enthusiasm is endearing.
But the film's more like a video game than a movie, like Santa has to boldly pass level after level, quickly, instead of just reacting and commenting within a deep narrative.
The binge viewing aesthetic is oddly like a video game, or at least much less like a broadcast television show.
Rather than lure viewers in with great stories, perhaps binge oriented series are trying to make them feel just as great for having finished an episode as they would have had they passed a level?
Thus, although presenting hearty protagonists reverently dedicated to the holiday season, The Christmas Chronicles would have benefitted from a little more time and patience.
That perfect gift doesn't just materialize out of thin air or show up thanks to formulae or speculation.
It takes love, foresight, originality, and spontaneity, to demand it be purchased.
Or placed upon a heartfelt wish list.
Written with care.
Mailed due North.
Tuesday, December 18, 2018
Bohemian Rhapsody
Struggling with upheld established traditions, a creative singer songwriter enchants serendipity.
It's not that their guidelines are obtuse or ill-defined, their associated codes and mannerisms just stress him the *&%$ out.
Even if he doesn't respond delinquently.
Not at a loss for words, he soon finds himself loquaciously disposed, and boldly makes known his desire to join a band.
They hit it off, hit the ground running, shake things up, let it all hang loose, every member contributing to their success, critical inquiries fuelling their momentum.
Cohesively.
Indeed, Bohemian Rhapsody excels at presenting Queen the band as they sternly work to synchronously perform and compose.
Focusing heavily on Freddie Mercury's (Rami Malek) life, he still isn't depicted as the band's sole driving force.
They wrote so many unique songs, songs that don't even come close to sounding like anything else, not even Bowie, some experimental bands forgetting that music needs to be appealing in some way (Bowie was very appealing), not Queen, who had a rare gift for balancing the experimental and the commercial which still influences today, let's throw in an operatic section, and later write two of the most stunning jock anthems of all time, undeniable diversity exuberantly exemplifying innovative resolve, the film suggesting it's the product of their union, and that no one ever unilaterally took control.
Mercury even critiques his solo career precisely because the studio musicians he worked with never challenged him with the same bravado he'd taken for granted in Queen (I imagine many studio musicians do challenge the artists they work with, but within the film that point helps cultivate its emphasis on unity).
While the film celebrates Mercury's strong character, the ways in which he enriched peoples lives in alternative ways to those promoted by his upbringing, which he still respected, things become very dark when he embraces his difference, as if the film is indirectly critiquing it.
Queen and his family and his eventual life partner (Aaron McCusker) and his first wife (Lucy Boynton) were no doubt essential features of his life, but I wonder if he was as lost as they grew apart as Bohemian Rhapsody suggests?
I'm not trying to say he should have partied as hard as he did, I'm not promoting wild lifelong partying, I'm just pointing out that the film becomes very dark as Mercury's alternative lifestyle becomes the focus, and I imagine he likely made many supportive friends when he came out, many of whom were likely also there to support him.
And were his bandmates as angelic as depicted within?
Outstanding musicians who redefined pop music and understood that music was their career nevertheless, Bohemian Rhapsody pays tribute to their indelible impact while celebrating loyalty and composition.
Many cool cat shots too.
Hardly anyone seems to age in the film, like pop music is a fountain of youth.
Although hairstyles and outfits do change.
It's not that their guidelines are obtuse or ill-defined, their associated codes and mannerisms just stress him the *&%$ out.
Even if he doesn't respond delinquently.
Not at a loss for words, he soon finds himself loquaciously disposed, and boldly makes known his desire to join a band.
They hit it off, hit the ground running, shake things up, let it all hang loose, every member contributing to their success, critical inquiries fuelling their momentum.
Cohesively.
Indeed, Bohemian Rhapsody excels at presenting Queen the band as they sternly work to synchronously perform and compose.
Focusing heavily on Freddie Mercury's (Rami Malek) life, he still isn't depicted as the band's sole driving force.
They wrote so many unique songs, songs that don't even come close to sounding like anything else, not even Bowie, some experimental bands forgetting that music needs to be appealing in some way (Bowie was very appealing), not Queen, who had a rare gift for balancing the experimental and the commercial which still influences today, let's throw in an operatic section, and later write two of the most stunning jock anthems of all time, undeniable diversity exuberantly exemplifying innovative resolve, the film suggesting it's the product of their union, and that no one ever unilaterally took control.
Mercury even critiques his solo career precisely because the studio musicians he worked with never challenged him with the same bravado he'd taken for granted in Queen (I imagine many studio musicians do challenge the artists they work with, but within the film that point helps cultivate its emphasis on unity).
While the film celebrates Mercury's strong character, the ways in which he enriched peoples lives in alternative ways to those promoted by his upbringing, which he still respected, things become very dark when he embraces his difference, as if the film is indirectly critiquing it.
Queen and his family and his eventual life partner (Aaron McCusker) and his first wife (Lucy Boynton) were no doubt essential features of his life, but I wonder if he was as lost as they grew apart as Bohemian Rhapsody suggests?
I'm not trying to say he should have partied as hard as he did, I'm not promoting wild lifelong partying, I'm just pointing out that the film becomes very dark as Mercury's alternative lifestyle becomes the focus, and I imagine he likely made many supportive friends when he came out, many of whom were likely also there to support him.
And were his bandmates as angelic as depicted within?
Outstanding musicians who redefined pop music and understood that music was their career nevertheless, Bohemian Rhapsody pays tribute to their indelible impact while celebrating loyalty and composition.
Many cool cat shots too.
Hardly anyone seems to age in the film, like pop music is a fountain of youth.
Although hairstyles and outfits do change.
Friday, December 14, 2018
Clara
Vigorous contemplation astronomically acclimated objectively focused on enigmatic night skies.
The loss of a loved one, the end of a marriage, caught up in one's work, cold obsession wears thin.
Pedagogically anyway, those are the kinds of unimaginative questions purposeless fools think up in bland appeals to flippant provocation, having nothing that drives them themselves they seek recognition in blasé slander, as they rigidly capsize then flounder away.
No matter.
Perhaps Dr. Isaac Bruno (Patrick J. Adams) did need a break, but his uninterrupted logical obsession does lead to prosperous discoveries.
With Clara (Troian Bellisario), an independent spirit emboldening itinerant fascination, having travelled the globe she applies to work with Dr. Bruno, bringing passion and impulse and style to their studies, cooly adopting romantic methods, warmly embracing emotions age old.
Imaginary numbers.
Heart.
Spawn of the universe interdimensionally abstracting to practically envision passage, spiritual transference incorporeally transmitting commensurate extraterrestrial caches, juxtaposed entities interpreting as one coyly generating crinkly bifrost, the bond of the inexplicable reciting interplanetary sun drenched dawns.
Sci-fi love, intergalactically conceptualized, resoundingly researched, indiscriminately developed.
This Clara, Akash Sherman's Clara, true synthesis of art and science, like a seashell or desert haze.
Posing questions with no reasonable response, intercessions padded feasible parlance, cool realistic bonsai that values stoic discipline, charmed cogent romance which denotes with precision.
With academically inclined composed characters well suited to dreamy wild cards, Clara contrasts teaching with research, the lab with the world at large, objective analysis with inspired intuition, and dismal grief with resilient hope.
Dr. Durant (Ennis Esmer) and Dr. Bruno's approaches to higher education complement each other well, and even though misfortune has ended Dr. Jenkins (Kristen Hager) and Dr. Bruno's marriage, they still maintain a professional relationship as time slowly goes by.
Alternative thinking and experimental readings lead to rational conclusions which reclassify ontological taxonomies.
I have no idea how to find them, or contact them, but there must be other lifeforms out there.
I don't know how much should be spent trying to find them.
But hopefully some's spent on dolphins, improbability.
The sea.
The loss of a loved one, the end of a marriage, caught up in one's work, cold obsession wears thin.
Pedagogically anyway, those are the kinds of unimaginative questions purposeless fools think up in bland appeals to flippant provocation, having nothing that drives them themselves they seek recognition in blasé slander, as they rigidly capsize then flounder away.
No matter.
Perhaps Dr. Isaac Bruno (Patrick J. Adams) did need a break, but his uninterrupted logical obsession does lead to prosperous discoveries.
With Clara (Troian Bellisario), an independent spirit emboldening itinerant fascination, having travelled the globe she applies to work with Dr. Bruno, bringing passion and impulse and style to their studies, cooly adopting romantic methods, warmly embracing emotions age old.
Imaginary numbers.
Heart.
Spawn of the universe interdimensionally abstracting to practically envision passage, spiritual transference incorporeally transmitting commensurate extraterrestrial caches, juxtaposed entities interpreting as one coyly generating crinkly bifrost, the bond of the inexplicable reciting interplanetary sun drenched dawns.
Sci-fi love, intergalactically conceptualized, resoundingly researched, indiscriminately developed.
This Clara, Akash Sherman's Clara, true synthesis of art and science, like a seashell or desert haze.
Posing questions with no reasonable response, intercessions padded feasible parlance, cool realistic bonsai that values stoic discipline, charmed cogent romance which denotes with precision.
With academically inclined composed characters well suited to dreamy wild cards, Clara contrasts teaching with research, the lab with the world at large, objective analysis with inspired intuition, and dismal grief with resilient hope.
Dr. Durant (Ennis Esmer) and Dr. Bruno's approaches to higher education complement each other well, and even though misfortune has ended Dr. Jenkins (Kristen Hager) and Dr. Bruno's marriage, they still maintain a professional relationship as time slowly goes by.
Alternative thinking and experimental readings lead to rational conclusions which reclassify ontological taxonomies.
I have no idea how to find them, or contact them, but there must be other lifeforms out there.
I don't know how much should be spent trying to find them.
But hopefully some's spent on dolphins, improbability.
The sea.
Wednesday, December 12, 2018
The Grinch
The Holiday Season taunts the miserly Grinch (Benedict Cumberbatch) yet again, its festive goodwill and celebratory merrymaking envisioned as definitive signs of hedonistic excess, unable to distinguish joyous relaxation from essential work undone, he sets out to ruin everything for the dear innocent unsuspecting Whos, their innate playfulness an affront to his cynical brooding, their kindness and sympathy misguided petulance unresolved, barest immaterial austere thrift left in stubborn, jealous mean-spirits, with no one to nurture or provide counsel, he villainously calculates, in the latest stubborn Grinch.
Although it's not as intense as all that, this amusing grinchy manifestation, the new Grinch much less menacing than his animated forefather, much less wicked, much less cruel, even if he pursues the same goals in the end, even if he categorically denies the Holiday Season, his will still grouchy but not cantankerous, his evil existent but not Barad-Dûr.
Esque.
Rather than demonizing the Grinch as purest incarnate evil, this version presents him as more of a comic figure, still in possession of sundry implements of ill-will, still quite disparaging when in the company of others, he also clearly loves his resident companions, and relies on them as would have Scrooge upon nothing.
He bumbles as he broils, stumbles as he strategizes, admits to making bad decisions, perhaps even goes with the flow.
And shares things.
Thus, while the atmosphere of this reimagined Grinch isn't as solemn as that found in the iconic cartoon, it's also much more balanced, and downright cheerful at times, as if everyone involved had adequate resources at their disposal and was not adverse to carolling lightly.
I never saw Jim Carrey's version.
At that time I was angry about the remake.
However, Cindy-Lou Who's (Cameron Seely) Mom (Rashida Jones) is stuck working nights, and rarely has time to sleep after caring for her young family.
They aren't wanting but she's wiped, although the Holidays still regenerate her spirit of loving self-sacrifice.
Whoville itself overflows with seasonal ingenuity and although its ingenious gifts for creating unique means through which to revel aren't showcased as often as I would have liked, there are still moments of aged brilliance, inventive gesticulation seamless and smooth.
The new Grinch film therefore functions like a thoughtful bourgeois paradigm, goods available for all without constant feasting, cultural particularities present but not circumspect, good times waxing at brisk beckoned calls, chillin' and distillin', radioactive heartbeat bliss.
The elation during the film's final moments, the classic ending that wondrously captures the spirit of the Holidays, still rejoices with unrestrained contentment, still abounds with effervescent cheer.
The Grinch may even find himself more sympathetic, even somewhat gracious as he basks in its blithe comforts.
Is it that hard to love generous spirits?
To embrace warmth and friendliness anew?
Although it's not as intense as all that, this amusing grinchy manifestation, the new Grinch much less menacing than his animated forefather, much less wicked, much less cruel, even if he pursues the same goals in the end, even if he categorically denies the Holiday Season, his will still grouchy but not cantankerous, his evil existent but not Barad-Dûr.
Esque.
Rather than demonizing the Grinch as purest incarnate evil, this version presents him as more of a comic figure, still in possession of sundry implements of ill-will, still quite disparaging when in the company of others, he also clearly loves his resident companions, and relies on them as would have Scrooge upon nothing.
He bumbles as he broils, stumbles as he strategizes, admits to making bad decisions, perhaps even goes with the flow.
And shares things.
Thus, while the atmosphere of this reimagined Grinch isn't as solemn as that found in the iconic cartoon, it's also much more balanced, and downright cheerful at times, as if everyone involved had adequate resources at their disposal and was not adverse to carolling lightly.
I never saw Jim Carrey's version.
At that time I was angry about the remake.
However, Cindy-Lou Who's (Cameron Seely) Mom (Rashida Jones) is stuck working nights, and rarely has time to sleep after caring for her young family.
They aren't wanting but she's wiped, although the Holidays still regenerate her spirit of loving self-sacrifice.
Whoville itself overflows with seasonal ingenuity and although its ingenious gifts for creating unique means through which to revel aren't showcased as often as I would have liked, there are still moments of aged brilliance, inventive gesticulation seamless and smooth.
The new Grinch film therefore functions like a thoughtful bourgeois paradigm, goods available for all without constant feasting, cultural particularities present but not circumspect, good times waxing at brisk beckoned calls, chillin' and distillin', radioactive heartbeat bliss.
The elation during the film's final moments, the classic ending that wondrously captures the spirit of the Holidays, still rejoices with unrestrained contentment, still abounds with effervescent cheer.
The Grinch may even find himself more sympathetic, even somewhat gracious as he basks in its blithe comforts.
Is it that hard to love generous spirits?
To embrace warmth and friendliness anew?
Tuesday, December 11, 2018
The Ballad of Buster Scruggs
Ebullient rapscallion itinerantly drawn serenades the horizon with erudite simplicity.
Appearances deceive a would be thief as a sage brush sure thing demonstratively bites back.
Age old sombre reflections resignedly ponder lonesome frontiers, emotion declaratively withdrawn, investment genuinely striking.
Disingenuous prospects confront honest labour as fortunes are struck grasped thrills excavated.
Marriage tempts thoughtful homesteaders as imagination riffs down the line.
A forlorn stagecoach elastic in bitters trudges wearily on towards stoked paradigms.
Nimble eclectic horseplay.
Erratic collected brawn.
Snug fits, misperceptions, testaments, shift and sway, the wild west conceptually exceeded, yet realistic, solemn, grey.
Invincible pretensions fade into soulful longings as diverse embellishments slowly manifest fear.
The writing's exceptional at times and it's a Coen Brothers film so I wondered why The Ballad of Buster Scruggs skipped theatres, and am still glibly wondering why? why? why?
Scruggs does excel when it's wildly boasting or forlornly lamenting or just simply reckoning, but then the lights suddenly dim, unfortunately, after awhile, although 4 out of 6 ain't bad.
That could explain it.
Harry Melling (The Artist) puts in a great performance as a solo act that's as versatile as its narrative's thought provoking.
Tim Blake Nelson (Buster Scruggs) also impresses, with an active style that wildly contrasts Mr. Melling's.
The film slips up when it considers civility, character, domestic matters, as if Western decorum has yet to transcend Hobbes's leviathan.
Not much screentime given to First Nations either, and they're only depicted as a stereotyped nuisance.
Nevertheless, it's still disturbing that a Coen Brothers film wasn't released in theatres, Barton Fink, Buster Scruggs is not, but they're still one of the best creative teams Hollywood's ever taken on.
I've annoyed many over the years and lost contacts and spoiled friendships by pointing out how good the Coen Brothers are, when they confidently state, "Hollywood only makes crap."
The creativity on Netflix is theoretically ideal because I can't think of any deadlines its creators have nor any timelines it'd be best to follow.
Just post it when it's finished.
It's kind of cool when something new shows up.
If it doesn't, I'll watch something else.
Still, a lot of the material I've seen that's been created by and for Netflix lacks the networked touch.
Remember, you're trying to find ways to make me like your show and tune in week after week, even if that logic doesn't apply.
I'm not just going to binge watch anything, even if the idea's really cool and it's starring actors I love (that's happened several times).
There are too many alternatives available.
In way too many other formats.
The Itunes store is incredible for movie renting for instance.
And it's the exception when they don't have what I'm looking for.
Appearances deceive a would be thief as a sage brush sure thing demonstratively bites back.
Age old sombre reflections resignedly ponder lonesome frontiers, emotion declaratively withdrawn, investment genuinely striking.
Disingenuous prospects confront honest labour as fortunes are struck grasped thrills excavated.
Marriage tempts thoughtful homesteaders as imagination riffs down the line.
A forlorn stagecoach elastic in bitters trudges wearily on towards stoked paradigms.
Nimble eclectic horseplay.
Erratic collected brawn.
Snug fits, misperceptions, testaments, shift and sway, the wild west conceptually exceeded, yet realistic, solemn, grey.
Invincible pretensions fade into soulful longings as diverse embellishments slowly manifest fear.
The writing's exceptional at times and it's a Coen Brothers film so I wondered why The Ballad of Buster Scruggs skipped theatres, and am still glibly wondering why? why? why?
Scruggs does excel when it's wildly boasting or forlornly lamenting or just simply reckoning, but then the lights suddenly dim, unfortunately, after awhile, although 4 out of 6 ain't bad.
That could explain it.
Harry Melling (The Artist) puts in a great performance as a solo act that's as versatile as its narrative's thought provoking.
Tim Blake Nelson (Buster Scruggs) also impresses, with an active style that wildly contrasts Mr. Melling's.
The film slips up when it considers civility, character, domestic matters, as if Western decorum has yet to transcend Hobbes's leviathan.
Not much screentime given to First Nations either, and they're only depicted as a stereotyped nuisance.
Nevertheless, it's still disturbing that a Coen Brothers film wasn't released in theatres, Barton Fink, Buster Scruggs is not, but they're still one of the best creative teams Hollywood's ever taken on.
I've annoyed many over the years and lost contacts and spoiled friendships by pointing out how good the Coen Brothers are, when they confidently state, "Hollywood only makes crap."
The creativity on Netflix is theoretically ideal because I can't think of any deadlines its creators have nor any timelines it'd be best to follow.
Just post it when it's finished.
It's kind of cool when something new shows up.
If it doesn't, I'll watch something else.
Still, a lot of the material I've seen that's been created by and for Netflix lacks the networked touch.
Remember, you're trying to find ways to make me like your show and tune in week after week, even if that logic doesn't apply.
I'm not just going to binge watch anything, even if the idea's really cool and it's starring actors I love (that's happened several times).
There are too many alternatives available.
In way too many other formats.
The Itunes store is incredible for movie renting for instance.
And it's the exception when they don't have what I'm looking for.
Friday, December 7, 2018
The Girl in the Spider's Web
Ideas that should have been shelved.
Desire that should have been sublimated.
Illicit ingenious technology.
Too tempting for sheer mortal vice.
Its mastermind (Stephen Merchant as Frans Balder) comprehends its extreme power and foolishly seeks its destruction.
Alone.
Yet he requires impeccable stealth to retrieve it and possesses not the requisite skill, nor the essential rationalized paranoia that should accompany such rash endeavours.
Considering the value.
His plan relies on a presumed lack of suspicion.
Steal it, acquire it, destroy it, quickly, before anyone realizes what's been done.
He wants to destroy FireWall to keep it out of the hands of those who covet it, without realizing they're watching at all times.
And soon a device which can unlock the codes for nuclear weapons worldwide is in terrorist hands, along with its gifted creator's son (Christopher Convery as August Balder), his father's accomplice related to their cypher (Sylvia Hoeks as Camilla Salander).
One Lisbeth Salander (Claire Foy) must resiliently contend nothing more, backed up by the loyal Mikael Blomkvist (Sverrir Gudnason) plus an agile unknown thoughtful factor (Lakeith Stanfield as Ed Needham).
The room for error's non-existent and the playing field's level, driven experts coldly strategizing, extreme limits, boldly reached.
If actual people were thinking of creating something like FireWall, I would state, "please don't create something like FireWall, existent geniuses capable of doing so."
Would it not be cooler to find a way to use computers to learn dolphin?
Or animal in general.
I was listening to lynx calls online one day and thought they sounded similar to the static you used to hear while devices communicated with one another through phone lines in the days of dial-up internet, which led me to the idea that an electronic device could be created to interpret what animal sounds mean, one which perhaps utilizes digital twin technologies albeit without comprehensible linguistic references (I suppose if such a device worked without references it could solve many communication problems).
I thought this idea was likely quite ridiculous and was going to keep it to myself but then saw Clara, wherein which a fictitious professor challenges his students to find the sound of the data, and thought perhaps I had accidentally found something.
And added the digital twin stuff today.
The Girl in the Spider's Web diabolically impresses, fast-paced cerebral orchestrations delineating cause in flux.
Ye olde, whoops, we really shouldn't have done that, anxiously seething sans menacing pause.
Globalized recourse imagines a Bond film with a rogue self-reliant female agent, its intrigue an international spectre, its ingenuity a bespeculative double o.
Held to crippling account for the one victim she left behind, two sisters fuzed adroitly adjudicate misperception.
I liked the characters and the situations they found themselves within, clever action ploys catch and release, creative use of the all-seeing panopticon.
Didn't there used to be laws about watching everyone everywhere they went all the time?
They weren't discredited were they?
On the last page of a paper copy of a newspaper that no one bought?
Lost in the twitter deluge?
Suppressed by great blue cries?
Desire that should have been sublimated.
Illicit ingenious technology.
Too tempting for sheer mortal vice.
Its mastermind (Stephen Merchant as Frans Balder) comprehends its extreme power and foolishly seeks its destruction.
Alone.
Yet he requires impeccable stealth to retrieve it and possesses not the requisite skill, nor the essential rationalized paranoia that should accompany such rash endeavours.
Considering the value.
His plan relies on a presumed lack of suspicion.
Steal it, acquire it, destroy it, quickly, before anyone realizes what's been done.
He wants to destroy FireWall to keep it out of the hands of those who covet it, without realizing they're watching at all times.
And soon a device which can unlock the codes for nuclear weapons worldwide is in terrorist hands, along with its gifted creator's son (Christopher Convery as August Balder), his father's accomplice related to their cypher (Sylvia Hoeks as Camilla Salander).
One Lisbeth Salander (Claire Foy) must resiliently contend nothing more, backed up by the loyal Mikael Blomkvist (Sverrir Gudnason) plus an agile unknown thoughtful factor (Lakeith Stanfield as Ed Needham).
The room for error's non-existent and the playing field's level, driven experts coldly strategizing, extreme limits, boldly reached.
If actual people were thinking of creating something like FireWall, I would state, "please don't create something like FireWall, existent geniuses capable of doing so."
Would it not be cooler to find a way to use computers to learn dolphin?
Or animal in general.
I was listening to lynx calls online one day and thought they sounded similar to the static you used to hear while devices communicated with one another through phone lines in the days of dial-up internet, which led me to the idea that an electronic device could be created to interpret what animal sounds mean, one which perhaps utilizes digital twin technologies albeit without comprehensible linguistic references (I suppose if such a device worked without references it could solve many communication problems).
I thought this idea was likely quite ridiculous and was going to keep it to myself but then saw Clara, wherein which a fictitious professor challenges his students to find the sound of the data, and thought perhaps I had accidentally found something.
And added the digital twin stuff today.
The Girl in the Spider's Web diabolically impresses, fast-paced cerebral orchestrations delineating cause in flux.
Ye olde, whoops, we really shouldn't have done that, anxiously seething sans menacing pause.
Globalized recourse imagines a Bond film with a rogue self-reliant female agent, its intrigue an international spectre, its ingenuity a bespeculative double o.
Held to crippling account for the one victim she left behind, two sisters fuzed adroitly adjudicate misperception.
I liked the characters and the situations they found themselves within, clever action ploys catch and release, creative use of the all-seeing panopticon.
Didn't there used to be laws about watching everyone everywhere they went all the time?
They weren't discredited were they?
On the last page of a paper copy of a newspaper that no one bought?
Lost in the twitter deluge?
Suppressed by great blue cries?
Wednesday, December 5, 2018
Widows
Left behind after a job gone wrong, a widow (Viola Davis as Veronica) weighs her unsettling options.
She's not alone, her husband's (Liam Neeson as Harry) entire crew having perished under hot pursuit, although she's a little more willing to embrace unorthodox ideas than her fellow despondent sisters (Michelle Rodriguez as Linda and Elizabeth Debicki as Alice).
After she finds plans for another heist.
And is coercively emboldened.
It's election time in her riding as well, the heir to its political dynasty (Colin Farrell as Jack Mulligan) not as ruthless as his jaded father (Robert Duvall as Tom Mulligan).
Realigned boundaries have cost him thousands of relied upon votes, however, and his strategy must broaden homegrown horizons.
His opponent's (Brian Tyree Henry as Jamal Manning) more familiar with his constituency's grievances, but runs into financial difficulties after his nest egg's ripped off.
Uncertainty ubiquitously abounds.
While goodwill beckons, lightly.
Multiple pieces composing a high stakes puzzle lacking definitive images agitate throughout Steve McQueen's Widows.
Roles, objectives, risk, and betrayal, highlight disingenuous motivations as tempting freedoms advocate.
It's as if those who were stealing everything assumed the people they were stealing from were stealing it from them anyway and therefore had no misgivings.
Serendipitous strategies aligned.
Suspended cause.
Expediency permeates Widows's calling with robust grim integrity.
As long as you only seek change for those who are only helping you, millions of supporters who don't know how or are unable to assist are left assuming everything's vague.
That no one cares.
Widows's ethics may be bleak but its script's still profound and it demands your strict attention.
Left in such situations it's difficult to imagine what one might do, but McQueen crafts several striking hypotheses which provocatively grill emulsion.
Grizzled and real.
Multilayered and invested.
She's not alone, her husband's (Liam Neeson as Harry) entire crew having perished under hot pursuit, although she's a little more willing to embrace unorthodox ideas than her fellow despondent sisters (Michelle Rodriguez as Linda and Elizabeth Debicki as Alice).
After she finds plans for another heist.
And is coercively emboldened.
It's election time in her riding as well, the heir to its political dynasty (Colin Farrell as Jack Mulligan) not as ruthless as his jaded father (Robert Duvall as Tom Mulligan).
Realigned boundaries have cost him thousands of relied upon votes, however, and his strategy must broaden homegrown horizons.
His opponent's (Brian Tyree Henry as Jamal Manning) more familiar with his constituency's grievances, but runs into financial difficulties after his nest egg's ripped off.
Uncertainty ubiquitously abounds.
While goodwill beckons, lightly.
Multiple pieces composing a high stakes puzzle lacking definitive images agitate throughout Steve McQueen's Widows.
Roles, objectives, risk, and betrayal, highlight disingenuous motivations as tempting freedoms advocate.
It's as if those who were stealing everything assumed the people they were stealing from were stealing it from them anyway and therefore had no misgivings.
Serendipitous strategies aligned.
Suspended cause.
Expediency permeates Widows's calling with robust grim integrity.
As long as you only seek change for those who are only helping you, millions of supporters who don't know how or are unable to assist are left assuming everything's vague.
That no one cares.
Widows's ethics may be bleak but its script's still profound and it demands your strict attention.
Left in such situations it's difficult to imagine what one might do, but McQueen crafts several striking hypotheses which provocatively grill emulsion.
Grizzled and real.
Multilayered and invested.
Tuesday, December 4, 2018
Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald
You hear it often enough, or perhaps read it would be more precise, "no one is bigger than the party," no single woman or man is bigger than the political entity to which they belong, present predicaments, as interminable as they seem, tax ephemeral in relation to its longevity, whose preservation remains crisp and paramount, whose agitations are as speculative as they seem foregone.
It's not that the speculations aren't sound or qualified by alluring probabilities, but multidimensional environments, those multifaceted enough to withstand authoritarian attempts to corral them, constantly change, thereby introducing unforeseen characteristics which can modify projected estimates and tarnish reasonable assumptions, some of them as wicked as Rowling's Grindelwald (Johnny Depp) or as progressive as Bernie Sanders, the point being that unless your jurisdiction lacks variety, your best laid plans may resoundingly fluctuate.
If you can't manage the fluctuation.
Politics isn't an individual branch of Esso or a fast food chain, although I wish it was much more boring again after seeing what it's wildly become.
Grindelwald isn't like most populists.
He's respectful and sympathetic and calm and rational, at least when he first meets someone and goes out of his way to woo them.
He's like the populist who catches more flies with honey, likely because he's grown tired of hiring new staff and training people who may quit anyway.
His song's sweet and humble and unassuming and non-confrontational, and it appeals to many of the upset or lost or downtrodden wizards and witches he meets behind the scenes.
As the first Fantastic Beasts film and the Harry Potter novels point out, he's clearly deluded himself into thinking bureaucratic dysfunction should by divinely remedied, and his remarkable power should be the agent which foments healing, the storm he unleashes at the end of Crimes telling another story, although Rowling doesn't shy away from bluntly critiquing stubborn decisions made by ministries emboldened by systemic pride.
Thus, the derelict and the disaffected find the lure of the populists enticing inasmuch as they promise order and utility for those have been objectively cast aside, an order that would be impossible to control even loosely without an efficient bureaucracy, the absence of which would likely cause their followers to dreamily recall bygone days of ill-temperament.
In the aftermath.
You can slowly take down a powerful establishment by gradually downsizing it for 20 years or so, but if you cut it all at once and destroy its infrastructure, the infrastructure your followers rely on to feed themselves and find shelter, their euphoria will quickly turn to disillusion when they realize there's nothing good left to eat.
Which they can afford.
Having a credit card bill that's hard to pay off is different from not being able to buy something.
The Crimes of Grindelwald paints a grim portrait upon which misfits are canvassed.
Newt Scamander (Eddie Redmayne), Tina Goldstein (Katherine Waterston), Queenie Goldstein (Alison Sudol), and Jacob Kowalski (Dan Fogler) persist interdimensionally within, as mad ambition contends with institutional privilege, and distraught lovers merge hopes and regrets.
I was sad when I realized "the greater good" was a double entendre, i.e., you can be altruistic like Spock at the end of Star Trek II, at all times really, which I initially thought was its sole meaning, or you can pursue good for the greater, or transfer all power and privilege to an unaccountable few.
The ministry may be somewhat obtuse but they maintain a peaceful mildly prosperous status quo.
And you can disagree with them.
It's quite strange, this disagreement that's supposedly so highly valued.
It's like if you disagree with the government you're delegitimized even if it simultaneously seeks profound criticisms.
The key is to not try to make sense of it, or at least not to think you've made sense of it, even if you've written or are writing a book that claims to have made sense of it, because it will never ever make much sense, at least for a very long time.
Keeps things interesting though.
Keeps things real.
Bewildering.
Mysterious.
It's not that the speculations aren't sound or qualified by alluring probabilities, but multidimensional environments, those multifaceted enough to withstand authoritarian attempts to corral them, constantly change, thereby introducing unforeseen characteristics which can modify projected estimates and tarnish reasonable assumptions, some of them as wicked as Rowling's Grindelwald (Johnny Depp) or as progressive as Bernie Sanders, the point being that unless your jurisdiction lacks variety, your best laid plans may resoundingly fluctuate.
If you can't manage the fluctuation.
Politics isn't an individual branch of Esso or a fast food chain, although I wish it was much more boring again after seeing what it's wildly become.
Grindelwald isn't like most populists.
He's respectful and sympathetic and calm and rational, at least when he first meets someone and goes out of his way to woo them.
He's like the populist who catches more flies with honey, likely because he's grown tired of hiring new staff and training people who may quit anyway.
His song's sweet and humble and unassuming and non-confrontational, and it appeals to many of the upset or lost or downtrodden wizards and witches he meets behind the scenes.
As the first Fantastic Beasts film and the Harry Potter novels point out, he's clearly deluded himself into thinking bureaucratic dysfunction should by divinely remedied, and his remarkable power should be the agent which foments healing, the storm he unleashes at the end of Crimes telling another story, although Rowling doesn't shy away from bluntly critiquing stubborn decisions made by ministries emboldened by systemic pride.
Thus, the derelict and the disaffected find the lure of the populists enticing inasmuch as they promise order and utility for those have been objectively cast aside, an order that would be impossible to control even loosely without an efficient bureaucracy, the absence of which would likely cause their followers to dreamily recall bygone days of ill-temperament.
In the aftermath.
You can slowly take down a powerful establishment by gradually downsizing it for 20 years or so, but if you cut it all at once and destroy its infrastructure, the infrastructure your followers rely on to feed themselves and find shelter, their euphoria will quickly turn to disillusion when they realize there's nothing good left to eat.
Which they can afford.
Having a credit card bill that's hard to pay off is different from not being able to buy something.
The Crimes of Grindelwald paints a grim portrait upon which misfits are canvassed.
Newt Scamander (Eddie Redmayne), Tina Goldstein (Katherine Waterston), Queenie Goldstein (Alison Sudol), and Jacob Kowalski (Dan Fogler) persist interdimensionally within, as mad ambition contends with institutional privilege, and distraught lovers merge hopes and regrets.
I was sad when I realized "the greater good" was a double entendre, i.e., you can be altruistic like Spock at the end of Star Trek II, at all times really, which I initially thought was its sole meaning, or you can pursue good for the greater, or transfer all power and privilege to an unaccountable few.
The ministry may be somewhat obtuse but they maintain a peaceful mildly prosperous status quo.
And you can disagree with them.
It's quite strange, this disagreement that's supposedly so highly valued.
It's like if you disagree with the government you're delegitimized even if it simultaneously seeks profound criticisms.
The key is to not try to make sense of it, or at least not to think you've made sense of it, even if you've written or are writing a book that claims to have made sense of it, because it will never ever make much sense, at least for a very long time.
Keeps things interesting though.
Keeps things real.
Bewildering.
Mysterious.
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