Great to see another fascinating Scorsese film, it takes you back to another time that cinema clearly hasn't forgotten, he's still got it, the skills that led him to success with Mean Streets 46 years ago, and has even improved on films like Casino (24 years ago), The Irishman's like a time warp folding 5 remarkable filmmaking decades into one, it would have been shocking to see something this good released by Scorsese in 2019 if I had ever thought he'd lost a step, or stopped givin' 'er with exacting intensity, damned impressive, hopefully for many more decades to come.
The same can be said for Steven Spielberg who continues to impress like he did in the '70s.
I can't believe it's almost been 20 years since Y2K.
It's amazing how much things have changed in the last 20 years, how practically everything has moved online, even in the country, how a device that fits in my pocket functions as walkman (with access to every album in the Apple Music catalogue), flashlight, alarm clock, I'm writing about how much I love my cellphone again, mailbox, newsstand (with newspapers from around the world), internet service provider (I access the web more on my phone now than I do on my computer), calendar, camera, health promoter, wallet, weather network, world map repository (you don't even need to know where you're going anymore), music studio, translator, calculator, compass, stock market ticker, and phone, it's strange when you watch older films or new films set in the past and characters aren't casually checking their cellphones from time to time, even if I certainly spend too much time on my cell, although I rarely do if I'm on vacation.
Working vacation.
The net may even solve housing crises in cities if rural environments can offer steady internet access and people can then move there and work online from home.
The technology's already available in some locations but it's very expensive.
Mindboggling how much things have changed.
Not all for the good of course, what used to seem like deranged lunacy regularly pops up in the public sphere these days, passing itself off as rational discourse, and sensation's lost its edge as the quotidian embraces incredible daily scandal, politics used to at least seem much more responsible, as if the greater good didn't only apply to an elite few.
There used to be more of a humanitarian edge in the public sphere, a much stronger willingness to promote peaceful harmonies, which aren't as naive as provocateurs make them sound, even in Canada someone as loveable as Justin Trudeau is under constant attack, he has made mistakes, but still promotes compassion and understanding likes it's 1967.
Perhaps the next 20 years will see a shift away from petroleum based products as the producers find new ways to profit off biodegradable alternatives, and the world will embrace peace without ever having gone to war as world leaders come to redefine hope and optimism.
It's clear that that's what we need to do.
Doesn't it make more sense than drilling in the Arctic?
There has to be a will to keep people working without laying waste to the environment.
Thankfully they have such a will in Québec.
And elsewhere around the world, I imagine.
Tuesday, December 31, 2019
Friday, December 27, 2019
Star Wars: Episode IX - The Rise of Skywalker
Rian Johnson's The Last Jedi has become my third favourite Star Wars film, behind A New Hope and The Empire Strikes Back, but far ahead of all the others, except Return of the Jedi.
I've watched it several times now and it doesn't get old, in fact it gets better every time I view it, and it's wonderful to once again have a Star Wars film to look forward to watching, again and again and again.
And again.
I still watch episodes I-III again when I see them on television, but with less enthusiasm. However, I've come to prefer them to episodes VII and IX for the following risk-fuelled reasons.
It's not that episodes VII and IX are particularly bad, or lack entertainment value, but they're so heavily reminiscent of episodes IV through VI, that they lack the imaginative characteristics of Luca's bold second trilogy.
Take Episode IX, where Emperor Palpatine (Ian McDiarmid) reemerges.
Could they not have thought of another villain to fill the gap left by Snoke, one who perhaps hadn't met his electric end so many decades ago?
Or made Kylo Ren (Adam Driver) all the more wicked?
An elaborate explanation as to how he comes back to life isn't even provided, we're just supposed to accept that he was so powerful he was able to return from death, and build a massive fleet of star destroyers with planet annihilating capabilities.
Is this a Star Wars film or low budget television?
People may be calling this period of time the post-explanatory age, or the post-Truth age or what have you, but does that mean film narratives with the highest budgets imaginable aren't even going to provide explanations for their controversial plot developments anymore, and fans are just supposed to accept them without thought or thinking?
There's more continuity between episodes I through VI as well, they flow more harmoniously together.
Episode IX may be entertaining, but it doesn't flow well with Episode VIII. At the end of The Last Jedi, for instance, the entire rebel complement can fit on the Millennium Falcon, but their numbers don't seem to have been drastically reduced in Episode IX, or at least it proceeds as if everything's fine. Rose Tico (Kelly Marie Tran) adds so much to The Last Jedi and I thought earned a place at the forefront of subsequent narratives, but she's largely forgotten in The Rise of Skywalker, like Katherine Brewster in Terminator Salvation. As are the children on planet Cantonica. And the notorious codebreaker DJ.
It's like J.J. Abrams took the criticisms of The Last Jedi, which sees new strong female characters with prominent roles and critiques the manufacture of weapons and the eating of meat, and wanted to make a clean break with it in The Rise of Skywalker (note how Rey soothes the pain of a giant snake within), and the result's more like separate films than a trilogy, George Lucas had much more resolve.
Episodes I-III may be cheesy and some scenes are difficult to watch again and again, but their narratives are still highly complex and the result of in-depth brave storytelling.
They provide reasons for what takes place for instance.
They smoothly flow from one to another.
And Lucas significantly expanded upon the world he created within A New Hope, adding multiple layers of legendary depth, councils and federations and clones and mysticism, the films may have been melodramatic, but they weren't derivative or one-dimensional.
Lucas took brave risks when he created Episodes I-III and didn't back down when faced with bitter criticism.
He ironically didn't rely on what had come before because he was spending too much time creating it.
Episodes VII and IX may be entertaining, but I don't want to watch them again so much, because they aren't complicated or controversial, they're much too free and easy.
Episode IX is jam-packed with action for instance, it rarely slows down unless Rey (Daisy Ridley) is searching for something, but several of the scenes unreel far too quickly, notably the demise of General Hux (Domhnall Gleeson), a ginger, and Kylo Ren's torture of a disagreeable bureaucrat. Lucas had a much better sense of timing and pacing and his films were edited with much more care.
The Last Jedi was too.
Take the moments when Rey and Kylo Ren are being inspected by Snoke, Finn (John Boyega) and Rose are about to be executed, and the Rebel transports are being picked off one by one.
The editing for these three parts of the narrative is exceptionally well done, and keeps you hanging on the edge of your seat as you eagerly await what's going to happen next, and the film doesn't lose sight of the three components of its narrative, and keeps interweaving them with compelling precision.
The Rise of Skywalker loses sight of Finn trying to destroy the super star destroyer for far too long during its exciting climax.
It leaves it hanging as if fans aren't concerned.
While Rey battles the Emperor, who is also her grandfather, come on!, and Lando (Billy Dee Williams) predictably shows up with reinforcements.
One of the coolest aspects of Episodes I-III is that they pointed out how there's no such thing as Jedi blood, how Jedi are born throughout the galaxy at random and if discovered have the opportunity to develop their skills to avoid the risks of becoming obscurii.
It's an aspect this trilogy overlooks, except for the fact that Luke had students besides Kylo Ren who disappear after their cataclysmic falling out.
The Jedi can't end.
There will always be individuals capable of skilfully using the Force.
The Jedi Order may come to an end after which future Jedi may call themselves something different, but they will still technically be Jedi if they don't become Sith, even if they have to train themselves.
You wait 32 years for The Force Awakens with the hopes of seeing more Luke Skywalker and then he doesn't show up till the end, and he's abandoned the rebellion and is living alone on a remote island, on a planet that can't be found.
And Han Solo dies.
Disappointing to say the least.
The relationship between Kylo Ren and Rey is well-developed in the new trilogy and I really like Finn's character, but Episodes VII and IX just seem like they're more concerned with not slipping up than trying to create something new.
It's like they're so worried about not making a bad film that they forgot to make good ones.
Too much "supposed to", not enough, "totally".
Which is what Episodes I-III, with all their issues, tried to do.
It's a shame the latest trilogy completely ignored them (they're ceremoniously discredited in The Force Awakens).
Plus, Episode IX sees gay actor Richard E. Grant take the stage as General Pryde, and he's in charge of the new planet destroying star destroyer fleet.
I didn't think a new Star Wars film would be homophobic.
But there you have it.
Two lesbians kissing for a split-second near the end doesn't make up for this.
Finn should have ended up with Rose too, but instead it looks like he'll hook up with a fellow African American (Naomie Ackie as Jannah).
A New Hope, The Empire Strikes Back, and Return of the Jedi all had different directors, but they were also consistent and flowed well together.
Totally loved The Last Jedi.
The Rise of Skywalker could have been so much more.
I've watched it several times now and it doesn't get old, in fact it gets better every time I view it, and it's wonderful to once again have a Star Wars film to look forward to watching, again and again and again.
And again.
I still watch episodes I-III again when I see them on television, but with less enthusiasm. However, I've come to prefer them to episodes VII and IX for the following risk-fuelled reasons.
It's not that episodes VII and IX are particularly bad, or lack entertainment value, but they're so heavily reminiscent of episodes IV through VI, that they lack the imaginative characteristics of Luca's bold second trilogy.
Take Episode IX, where Emperor Palpatine (Ian McDiarmid) reemerges.
Could they not have thought of another villain to fill the gap left by Snoke, one who perhaps hadn't met his electric end so many decades ago?
Or made Kylo Ren (Adam Driver) all the more wicked?
An elaborate explanation as to how he comes back to life isn't even provided, we're just supposed to accept that he was so powerful he was able to return from death, and build a massive fleet of star destroyers with planet annihilating capabilities.
Is this a Star Wars film or low budget television?
People may be calling this period of time the post-explanatory age, or the post-Truth age or what have you, but does that mean film narratives with the highest budgets imaginable aren't even going to provide explanations for their controversial plot developments anymore, and fans are just supposed to accept them without thought or thinking?
There's more continuity between episodes I through VI as well, they flow more harmoniously together.
Episode IX may be entertaining, but it doesn't flow well with Episode VIII. At the end of The Last Jedi, for instance, the entire rebel complement can fit on the Millennium Falcon, but their numbers don't seem to have been drastically reduced in Episode IX, or at least it proceeds as if everything's fine. Rose Tico (Kelly Marie Tran) adds so much to The Last Jedi and I thought earned a place at the forefront of subsequent narratives, but she's largely forgotten in The Rise of Skywalker, like Katherine Brewster in Terminator Salvation. As are the children on planet Cantonica. And the notorious codebreaker DJ.
It's like J.J. Abrams took the criticisms of The Last Jedi, which sees new strong female characters with prominent roles and critiques the manufacture of weapons and the eating of meat, and wanted to make a clean break with it in The Rise of Skywalker (note how Rey soothes the pain of a giant snake within), and the result's more like separate films than a trilogy, George Lucas had much more resolve.
Episodes I-III may be cheesy and some scenes are difficult to watch again and again, but their narratives are still highly complex and the result of in-depth brave storytelling.
They provide reasons for what takes place for instance.
They smoothly flow from one to another.
And Lucas significantly expanded upon the world he created within A New Hope, adding multiple layers of legendary depth, councils and federations and clones and mysticism, the films may have been melodramatic, but they weren't derivative or one-dimensional.
Lucas took brave risks when he created Episodes I-III and didn't back down when faced with bitter criticism.
He ironically didn't rely on what had come before because he was spending too much time creating it.
Episodes VII and IX may be entertaining, but I don't want to watch them again so much, because they aren't complicated or controversial, they're much too free and easy.
Episode IX is jam-packed with action for instance, it rarely slows down unless Rey (Daisy Ridley) is searching for something, but several of the scenes unreel far too quickly, notably the demise of General Hux (Domhnall Gleeson), a ginger, and Kylo Ren's torture of a disagreeable bureaucrat. Lucas had a much better sense of timing and pacing and his films were edited with much more care.
The Last Jedi was too.
Take the moments when Rey and Kylo Ren are being inspected by Snoke, Finn (John Boyega) and Rose are about to be executed, and the Rebel transports are being picked off one by one.
The editing for these three parts of the narrative is exceptionally well done, and keeps you hanging on the edge of your seat as you eagerly await what's going to happen next, and the film doesn't lose sight of the three components of its narrative, and keeps interweaving them with compelling precision.
The Rise of Skywalker loses sight of Finn trying to destroy the super star destroyer for far too long during its exciting climax.
It leaves it hanging as if fans aren't concerned.
While Rey battles the Emperor, who is also her grandfather, come on!, and Lando (Billy Dee Williams) predictably shows up with reinforcements.
One of the coolest aspects of Episodes I-III is that they pointed out how there's no such thing as Jedi blood, how Jedi are born throughout the galaxy at random and if discovered have the opportunity to develop their skills to avoid the risks of becoming obscurii.
It's an aspect this trilogy overlooks, except for the fact that Luke had students besides Kylo Ren who disappear after their cataclysmic falling out.
The Jedi can't end.
There will always be individuals capable of skilfully using the Force.
The Jedi Order may come to an end after which future Jedi may call themselves something different, but they will still technically be Jedi if they don't become Sith, even if they have to train themselves.
You wait 32 years for The Force Awakens with the hopes of seeing more Luke Skywalker and then he doesn't show up till the end, and he's abandoned the rebellion and is living alone on a remote island, on a planet that can't be found.
And Han Solo dies.
Disappointing to say the least.
The relationship between Kylo Ren and Rey is well-developed in the new trilogy and I really like Finn's character, but Episodes VII and IX just seem like they're more concerned with not slipping up than trying to create something new.
It's like they're so worried about not making a bad film that they forgot to make good ones.
Too much "supposed to", not enough, "totally".
Which is what Episodes I-III, with all their issues, tried to do.
It's a shame the latest trilogy completely ignored them (they're ceremoniously discredited in The Force Awakens).
Plus, Episode IX sees gay actor Richard E. Grant take the stage as General Pryde, and he's in charge of the new planet destroying star destroyer fleet.
I didn't think a new Star Wars film would be homophobic.
But there you have it.
Two lesbians kissing for a split-second near the end doesn't make up for this.
Finn should have ended up with Rose too, but instead it looks like he'll hook up with a fellow African American (Naomie Ackie as Jannah).
A New Hope, The Empire Strikes Back, and Return of the Jedi all had different directors, but they were also consistent and flowed well together.
Totally loved The Last Jedi.
The Rise of Skywalker could have been so much more.
Tuesday, December 24, 2019
Last Christmas
Carefree actions solipsistically proceed provoking criticism from friends and family, as an angelic ingenue can't adapt to grown up surroundings, yet still seeks age old immersions, repercussions notwithstanding.
Plus a place to crash for a while.
She could be doing well if she focused a bit more intently, but she's mastered everything at work (not me, Emilia Clarke as Kate), and doesn't realize she's full-on bored.
The dating scene provides nightly distractions replete with unpredictable highs and lows, but everyone she knows is pairing off, and don't have time for young adult shenanigans.
Yet as she flounders and misperceives a kindhearted beau comes a sweetly calling, appearing at opportune times, looking for more than just random repartee (Henry Golding as Tom).
He's nice so he's initially ignored but that doesn't mean he's not making a good impression, something reliable like grandma's home cookin', the Parc 80 bus, Cinéma du Parc, or Parc Jeanne-Mance.
Yet even as things start to seem perfect, and realignments lead to deep rapprochements, something bewilders anon beyond expression, with otherworldly immaterial spirit.
Could it be that the stars have aligned and Kate's begun to accept motivational absurdities, work fuelling her bright recrudescence, with biodegradable salubrious levity?
That she's rediscovered longlasting momentum?
Just in time for Christmas?
I can't say for certain, although Last Christmas is a very cool Christmas film, reimagining traditional themes with endearing revelation, stratified with delectable felicity.
Evaluating a Christmas film according to less festive criteria, misses the supernatural sentiment, inasmuch as it's something different from standard verbose ephemera, that's enthused with yuletide counterpoint.
The supernatural elements in Christmas films arise from less contemporary ingenious distillations, elements that can still dazzle and innocently sway, if they aren't considered realistically verifiable.
If you take a vibrant culture aligned with realistic endeavours and wipe out all its predilections for fantasy, you risk the same errors a theocracy generates as it uniformly glorifies legendary impossibility.
The Holiday Season adds a bit of harmless realistic fantasy to a world that's often obsessed with logic, and it's not that logic's a bad thing, but without fantastic distractions it can breed depression.
There's a book there.
Last Christmas blends reality and fantasy with charming even hardboiled engagement, introducing multiple relatable realities, enlivened through tangible spirit.
It's not hard to let loose and enjoy traditions that may indeed seem somewhat absurd.
Is it better to always laud materialism?
There's too much coincidence to suggest that's all there is.
Even if it's foolhardy to try to classify it.
Happy Holidays everyone, whatever you celebrate this time of year!
I hope you're enjoying time with friends and family.
Chillin' a bit with elastic cheer.
Plus a place to crash for a while.
She could be doing well if she focused a bit more intently, but she's mastered everything at work (not me, Emilia Clarke as Kate), and doesn't realize she's full-on bored.
The dating scene provides nightly distractions replete with unpredictable highs and lows, but everyone she knows is pairing off, and don't have time for young adult shenanigans.
Yet as she flounders and misperceives a kindhearted beau comes a sweetly calling, appearing at opportune times, looking for more than just random repartee (Henry Golding as Tom).
He's nice so he's initially ignored but that doesn't mean he's not making a good impression, something reliable like grandma's home cookin', the Parc 80 bus, Cinéma du Parc, or Parc Jeanne-Mance.
Yet even as things start to seem perfect, and realignments lead to deep rapprochements, something bewilders anon beyond expression, with otherworldly immaterial spirit.
Could it be that the stars have aligned and Kate's begun to accept motivational absurdities, work fuelling her bright recrudescence, with biodegradable salubrious levity?
That she's rediscovered longlasting momentum?
Just in time for Christmas?
I can't say for certain, although Last Christmas is a very cool Christmas film, reimagining traditional themes with endearing revelation, stratified with delectable felicity.
Evaluating a Christmas film according to less festive criteria, misses the supernatural sentiment, inasmuch as it's something different from standard verbose ephemera, that's enthused with yuletide counterpoint.
The supernatural elements in Christmas films arise from less contemporary ingenious distillations, elements that can still dazzle and innocently sway, if they aren't considered realistically verifiable.
If you take a vibrant culture aligned with realistic endeavours and wipe out all its predilections for fantasy, you risk the same errors a theocracy generates as it uniformly glorifies legendary impossibility.
The Holiday Season adds a bit of harmless realistic fantasy to a world that's often obsessed with logic, and it's not that logic's a bad thing, but without fantastic distractions it can breed depression.
There's a book there.
Last Christmas blends reality and fantasy with charming even hardboiled engagement, introducing multiple relatable realities, enlivened through tangible spirit.
It's not hard to let loose and enjoy traditions that may indeed seem somewhat absurd.
Is it better to always laud materialism?
There's too much coincidence to suggest that's all there is.
Even if it's foolhardy to try to classify it.
Happy Holidays everyone, whatever you celebrate this time of year!
I hope you're enjoying time with friends and family.
Chillin' a bit with elastic cheer.
Friday, December 20, 2019
Great Bear Rainforest
British Columbia's ancient coastal biodiversity, realm of the Great Bear Rainforest, home to wondrous species and the humans who study them, overflowing with composite symbiotic life, a treasure trove of enchanting dense resiliency, where the freshwater of B.C.'s interior blends with oceanic rhythms.
Incredibly.
A very rare type of temperate rainforest found in few locations around the globe, it nourishes unique lifeforms, its currents spiritual fuel.
Not this blog peeps, the forest, I'm writing about the Great Bear Rainforest here, I don't see why I have to explain this, again, but some people just don't get it.
Although this blog does have its charms.
Ian McAllister's Great Bear Rainforest highlights significant features of its bounteous titular domain.
The graceful sea otter, who has flourished since being extirpated from the region, insatiable fashionable greed voraciously hunting it to extinction, its reintroduction coinciding with less rapacious commercial stratagems, as if people suddenly realized they're ever so cute, and left them alone to flourish in wonder.
The majestic humpback whale, who returns every year to dine on herring, its numbers also bouncing back from voracious hunting, although ever so slowly due to low reproductive rates.
Slippery seals, accustomed to gliding through enriching submerged jurisdictions, as focused as they are elastic, in search of scaling symphonic synergies.
Grizzly, black, and spirit bears, the latter in fact a subspecies of the black bear, disharmoniously cohabitating at times, yet still sharing good fortune as they see fit.
I was hoping to see what animals benefit from the ways in which bears alter their landscapes as they dig for food, detecting this and that with their great sense of smell, depending on what nature's currently providing, as they cover vast distances à la carte.
Another time perhaps.
It's cool to see the healthy relationships local First Nations people still cultivate with their environment within, going on 14,000 years, why is sustainable harvesting such a difficult concept to grasp?, fish sustainably and keep fishing forever, overfish, and the resource disappears.
Great Bear Rainforest emphasizes that salmon leaping up waterfalls is the equivalent of humans jumping over four-story buildings (narration by Ryan Reynolds), and then proceeds to share some of the best shots of salmon jumping I've seen.
Bears perched to catch them.
Cinematography by Andy Maser, Ian McAllister, Jeff Turner, and Darren West.
It's a cool introduction to B.C.'s Great Bear Rainforest that depicts nature overflowing with life.
Along with the occasional hardships.
And the robust dynamics of adorable bear families.
Incredibly.
A very rare type of temperate rainforest found in few locations around the globe, it nourishes unique lifeforms, its currents spiritual fuel.
Not this blog peeps, the forest, I'm writing about the Great Bear Rainforest here, I don't see why I have to explain this, again, but some people just don't get it.
Although this blog does have its charms.
Ian McAllister's Great Bear Rainforest highlights significant features of its bounteous titular domain.
The graceful sea otter, who has flourished since being extirpated from the region, insatiable fashionable greed voraciously hunting it to extinction, its reintroduction coinciding with less rapacious commercial stratagems, as if people suddenly realized they're ever so cute, and left them alone to flourish in wonder.
The majestic humpback whale, who returns every year to dine on herring, its numbers also bouncing back from voracious hunting, although ever so slowly due to low reproductive rates.
Slippery seals, accustomed to gliding through enriching submerged jurisdictions, as focused as they are elastic, in search of scaling symphonic synergies.
Grizzly, black, and spirit bears, the latter in fact a subspecies of the black bear, disharmoniously cohabitating at times, yet still sharing good fortune as they see fit.
I was hoping to see what animals benefit from the ways in which bears alter their landscapes as they dig for food, detecting this and that with their great sense of smell, depending on what nature's currently providing, as they cover vast distances à la carte.
Another time perhaps.
It's cool to see the healthy relationships local First Nations people still cultivate with their environment within, going on 14,000 years, why is sustainable harvesting such a difficult concept to grasp?, fish sustainably and keep fishing forever, overfish, and the resource disappears.
Great Bear Rainforest emphasizes that salmon leaping up waterfalls is the equivalent of humans jumping over four-story buildings (narration by Ryan Reynolds), and then proceeds to share some of the best shots of salmon jumping I've seen.
Bears perched to catch them.
Cinematography by Andy Maser, Ian McAllister, Jeff Turner, and Darren West.
It's a cool introduction to B.C.'s Great Bear Rainforest that depicts nature overflowing with life.
Along with the occasional hardships.
And the robust dynamics of adorable bear families.
Wednesday, December 18, 2019
Reversal of Fortune
Snap judgments based upon agitated reckonings lead to pejorative sensationalized repute in Barbet Schroeder's Reversal of Fortune.
How to make someone appear guilty without making it look like you're attempting to make someone appear guilty, if they are in fact not guilty?
If they are in fact not guilty, how do you convincingly make it look like someone has attempted to make them look guilty without looking as if they were attempting to make them look guilty, before cold judicial verdicts descend?
It's basic Columbo, the televisual and cinematic world worse off without a regular dose of Columbo, and its freewheeling composed articulate dishevelled discourse, perhaps channeled by Professor Alan Dershowitz (Ron Silver) and his team in this inclusion, which asks if maligned bourgeois sentiment has predetermined an aesthete's obituary?
It's certainly quite the team.
It's incredible how many people can come together to defend or prosecute, many of them working pro bono, out of devoted respect for the law.
Engrained malfeasance.
People in positions of power exploit that power since no one holds them to account, but then someone does, it seems obvious that they're guilty, and justice adjudicates, condemning the reckless individual.
But it's still quite the task, the required reading voluminously dissonant, to transform every link into a succinct gripping narrative no small feat albeit thrilling for a motivated legal team, in possession of the facts, and interpretive plausibility, expert testimony, meticulous mechanics, it must be like playing a stable integral role in a constantly shifting production, not improvised, still rehearsed, but unaware of specific counterarguments, the speculation part of the fun, bold jurisprudent research and development.
Reversal of Fortune takes place in such a frame as Claus von Bulow (Jeremy Irons) seeks legal counsel, he's been convicted once already, and his lawyer's none too sympathetic.
He takes the case though, assembles his team, and finds evidence which contradicts his assumptions.
Upon appeal, another round of judicial observation considers the alternative facts, and the second reading makes Claus seem as innocent as he was once thought definitively guilty, differing detailed composite accounts, instructive rhetorical consommé.
People observe thousands of minute details distilled into an accessible format that leads them to make claims which back up narrative threads.
Hoping there isn't some technical distortion.
While theatrically duelling in shades.
How to make someone appear guilty without making it look like you're attempting to make someone appear guilty, if they are in fact not guilty?
If they are in fact not guilty, how do you convincingly make it look like someone has attempted to make them look guilty without looking as if they were attempting to make them look guilty, before cold judicial verdicts descend?
It's basic Columbo, the televisual and cinematic world worse off without a regular dose of Columbo, and its freewheeling composed articulate dishevelled discourse, perhaps channeled by Professor Alan Dershowitz (Ron Silver) and his team in this inclusion, which asks if maligned bourgeois sentiment has predetermined an aesthete's obituary?
It's certainly quite the team.
It's incredible how many people can come together to defend or prosecute, many of them working pro bono, out of devoted respect for the law.
Engrained malfeasance.
People in positions of power exploit that power since no one holds them to account, but then someone does, it seems obvious that they're guilty, and justice adjudicates, condemning the reckless individual.
But it's still quite the task, the required reading voluminously dissonant, to transform every link into a succinct gripping narrative no small feat albeit thrilling for a motivated legal team, in possession of the facts, and interpretive plausibility, expert testimony, meticulous mechanics, it must be like playing a stable integral role in a constantly shifting production, not improvised, still rehearsed, but unaware of specific counterarguments, the speculation part of the fun, bold jurisprudent research and development.
Reversal of Fortune takes place in such a frame as Claus von Bulow (Jeremy Irons) seeks legal counsel, he's been convicted once already, and his lawyer's none too sympathetic.
He takes the case though, assembles his team, and finds evidence which contradicts his assumptions.
Upon appeal, another round of judicial observation considers the alternative facts, and the second reading makes Claus seem as innocent as he was once thought definitively guilty, differing detailed composite accounts, instructive rhetorical consommé.
People observe thousands of minute details distilled into an accessible format that leads them to make claims which back up narrative threads.
Hoping there isn't some technical distortion.
While theatrically duelling in shades.
Tuesday, December 17, 2019
Waves
As much as you may want to debate it, it's her choice, her decision.
Not an easy decision to make if you haven't prepared for it, and support is key to easing the pressure if uncertainty's fogging things up.
There's no easy way to discuss these things, if you don't like discussing them, but if you are sexually active you should be prepared for the possibility of childbirth, and there are steps you can take to make sure pregnancy's highly unlikely, if you're not ready to have a child and are hoping to finish school or get a promotion, beforehand.
I'd use condoms even if my partner was on the pill to ensure a double line of defence, until such a time as we were both ready to child rear; it's probably the most serious responsibility there is.
But if I didn't want to have a child and she did, I would respect her decision. If she asked for my counsel, I would present my arguments, but it's her decision in the end, either way, and certainly not mine. Upon hearing her decision, I would do my best to prepare for fatherhood (nothing can prepare you for it) should she have chosen to have the child, and accept my nascent responsibilities. You may find as you grow older that you like having the little ones around. I certainly didn't way back when, as I was studying and working while travelling.
It's important to respect her decision.
That's the price for all the carefree fun.
Sincerest woe descends in Trey Edward Shults's Waves after confrontation leads to animosity, as two high school seniors discuss unplanned parenthood and can't come close to seeing eye to eye.
Opioid addiction clouds Tyler Williams's (Kelvin Harrison Jr.) judgment as he struggles to comprehend, an unfortunate injury jeopardizing his wrestling career too, he can't deal, even as people try to help him.
The film's quite well done, with the best cinematography I've seen in a while (Drew Daniels), the camerawork delicately louring you in to its breezy narrative flow, the current heaving as it helplessly adjusts to wayward distraught cataclysm, so felicitous early on, heartfelt ebb and flow.
Waves.
It spends one act presenting a golden road that's fraught with peril and distraction, the other romanticizing first love as a family comes to terms with its grief.
The father's (Sterling K. Brown as Ronald Williams) a good provider but also super, "this is my house!", which frustrates his teenage son who's constantly under his watchful eye.
It's a shame it takes extreme hardship for him to learn to apply the messages he absorbs without thinking, habitually.
But as he lets go of himself and stops trying to control things, as he waits for solutions to be organically presented instead of trying to generate them through authority, his family begins to heal through logical/emotional balance, and he starts to listen to what others have to say instead of just telling them what to do.
Family isn't the army or work.
I've always thought family was a safe haven beyond strict codes of conduct.
Where you learn responsibility at play.
Without having to worry about being fired.
Brought to light at special times of the year.
Sweet lattes.
Eggnog shakes.
Not an easy decision to make if you haven't prepared for it, and support is key to easing the pressure if uncertainty's fogging things up.
There's no easy way to discuss these things, if you don't like discussing them, but if you are sexually active you should be prepared for the possibility of childbirth, and there are steps you can take to make sure pregnancy's highly unlikely, if you're not ready to have a child and are hoping to finish school or get a promotion, beforehand.
I'd use condoms even if my partner was on the pill to ensure a double line of defence, until such a time as we were both ready to child rear; it's probably the most serious responsibility there is.
But if I didn't want to have a child and she did, I would respect her decision. If she asked for my counsel, I would present my arguments, but it's her decision in the end, either way, and certainly not mine. Upon hearing her decision, I would do my best to prepare for fatherhood (nothing can prepare you for it) should she have chosen to have the child, and accept my nascent responsibilities. You may find as you grow older that you like having the little ones around. I certainly didn't way back when, as I was studying and working while travelling.
It's important to respect her decision.
That's the price for all the carefree fun.
Sincerest woe descends in Trey Edward Shults's Waves after confrontation leads to animosity, as two high school seniors discuss unplanned parenthood and can't come close to seeing eye to eye.
Opioid addiction clouds Tyler Williams's (Kelvin Harrison Jr.) judgment as he struggles to comprehend, an unfortunate injury jeopardizing his wrestling career too, he can't deal, even as people try to help him.
The film's quite well done, with the best cinematography I've seen in a while (Drew Daniels), the camerawork delicately louring you in to its breezy narrative flow, the current heaving as it helplessly adjusts to wayward distraught cataclysm, so felicitous early on, heartfelt ebb and flow.
Waves.
It spends one act presenting a golden road that's fraught with peril and distraction, the other romanticizing first love as a family comes to terms with its grief.
The father's (Sterling K. Brown as Ronald Williams) a good provider but also super, "this is my house!", which frustrates his teenage son who's constantly under his watchful eye.
It's a shame it takes extreme hardship for him to learn to apply the messages he absorbs without thinking, habitually.
But as he lets go of himself and stops trying to control things, as he waits for solutions to be organically presented instead of trying to generate them through authority, his family begins to heal through logical/emotional balance, and he starts to listen to what others have to say instead of just telling them what to do.
Family isn't the army or work.
I've always thought family was a safe haven beyond strict codes of conduct.
Where you learn responsibility at play.
Without having to worry about being fired.
Brought to light at special times of the year.
Sweet lattes.
Eggnog shakes.
Friday, December 13, 2019
Dark Waters
It seems to me like if you're generating a billion dollars in profit every year just from one product in your vast catalogue, and you don't pay your workforce that much comparatively, as they loyally manifest that revenue, and you know that product is making them sick because you've done the research and it's raised multiple red flags, you should tell them they'll likely become seriously ill if they work for you, so they know what they're signing up for, and pay for their medical bills if they eventually do breakdown as well.
A scant fraction of the profits.
It seems to me like if you know the product you're creating is an environmental disaster that doesn't decompose and will make anything that encounters it seriously ill, possibly forever, that you should take steps to dispose of it properly (a scant fraction of the profits), if that's even possible, or perhaps abandon your plans to market it to the public entirely.
Lifeforms who became extinct prior to our experimentations with fossil fuels could at least blame environmental factors for their disappearance, post-existence.
They didn't or don't have to say, well, we knew we were creating lethal substances that were making people who used them sick, and that they wouldn't breakdown in the environment, ever, but we kept making them anyways because we were raking it in, and were highly unlikely to ever suffer from the ground level consequences ourselves.
Could you imagine we went out not because a meteor struck or a virulent plague emerged, but because we wanted to use frying pans that nothing stuck to and eat cheap food at fast food restaurants?
If there is an afterlife for extinct species we'd be a laughing stock for all eternity.
If we're to become extinct some day, let it happen another way.
The current path that we're on's so shortsighted.
Even though the available research is 20/20.
If you think the companies responsible for creating this mess are unstoppable, your thoughts are by no means misguided, but take note that they can indeed be held to account, and be made to address their actions.
As Todd Haynes's Dark Waters demonstrates.
The film presents dedicated lawyer Robert Bilott (Mark Ruffalo) and his fight against DuPont, who knowingly poisoned their Parkersburg West Virginia workforce and environment, for decades, and were none too pleased when they were taken to court.
Bilott took them to court though and didn't let up even as things became more and more challenging.
He sacrificed a lot to stand up for people's rights and kept on 'till he won a settlement that cultivated fertile grassroots.
His family stood by him throughout and dealt with the despondent gloom, unyielding support and commitment, intense cohesive telemetry.
Dark Waters isn't about ideologically or politically motivated avengers, it's about a god-fearing straight edge family who took plutocrats to court to help a struggling farmer (Bill Camp as Wilbur Tennant).
It calls into question categorial delineations.
While harvesting democratic crops.
Beyond popularity.
More films like this please.
A scant fraction of the profits.
It seems to me like if you know the product you're creating is an environmental disaster that doesn't decompose and will make anything that encounters it seriously ill, possibly forever, that you should take steps to dispose of it properly (a scant fraction of the profits), if that's even possible, or perhaps abandon your plans to market it to the public entirely.
Lifeforms who became extinct prior to our experimentations with fossil fuels could at least blame environmental factors for their disappearance, post-existence.
They didn't or don't have to say, well, we knew we were creating lethal substances that were making people who used them sick, and that they wouldn't breakdown in the environment, ever, but we kept making them anyways because we were raking it in, and were highly unlikely to ever suffer from the ground level consequences ourselves.
Could you imagine we went out not because a meteor struck or a virulent plague emerged, but because we wanted to use frying pans that nothing stuck to and eat cheap food at fast food restaurants?
If there is an afterlife for extinct species we'd be a laughing stock for all eternity.
If we're to become extinct some day, let it happen another way.
The current path that we're on's so shortsighted.
Even though the available research is 20/20.
If you think the companies responsible for creating this mess are unstoppable, your thoughts are by no means misguided, but take note that they can indeed be held to account, and be made to address their actions.
As Todd Haynes's Dark Waters demonstrates.
The film presents dedicated lawyer Robert Bilott (Mark Ruffalo) and his fight against DuPont, who knowingly poisoned their Parkersburg West Virginia workforce and environment, for decades, and were none too pleased when they were taken to court.
Bilott took them to court though and didn't let up even as things became more and more challenging.
He sacrificed a lot to stand up for people's rights and kept on 'till he won a settlement that cultivated fertile grassroots.
His family stood by him throughout and dealt with the despondent gloom, unyielding support and commitment, intense cohesive telemetry.
Dark Waters isn't about ideologically or politically motivated avengers, it's about a god-fearing straight edge family who took plutocrats to court to help a struggling farmer (Bill Camp as Wilbur Tennant).
It calls into question categorial delineations.
While harvesting democratic crops.
Beyond popularity.
More films like this please.
Wednesday, December 11, 2019
Frozen II
The difficulties of mastering flawless positive speech that outmanoeuvres misinterpretation, finds itself humorously depicted in Frozen II, as an enamoured lad seeks conjugal union, and a mysterious voice beckons far away.
It can be a delicate art requiring stealth and foresight, the rewards of which may be as enduring as the punishments severe.
Best to accustom today's youth with non-threatening exemplars of the phenomenon, to instruct them in courtship ritual without disparaging l'amour.
Preparation can no doubt come in handy but the challenge thinks for itself and analyzes, while in sport there's often subsequent opportunities that are much more grave and emotionless.
Fortunately, as time passes, and expectations lower through habitual frustration, disbelief may transform into cheek, which can be more pleasant in conversation.
Nevertheless, the pleasant and playful nature of the cheek can cut deep if lines are crossed, and discovering the character of such lines can be baffling, if you proceed in sarcastic error.
Blunt hopelessness can also generate fervour thanks to the preponderance of alluring sitcoms, but your inner caveperson can't be too savage if it's to feast 'pon nimble nuptials, not that it still can't wax blunt and beastly while applying scandalous enchantments, just a matter of discovering that line, and its various malleable preferences.
If the beast doth find itself wed, said enchantments may slowly lose their lustre, at which point a more robust appeal to enthused gentility, approaching but never realizing neutrality, may encourage less animated hostilities, or perhaps even reincarnate charm.
Of course it can help if your partner once indeed found you fascinating, and isn't interested in shaking things up, going through the whole process again a tedious bother, if you can't simply forgive and take.
I admit that without the fascination it can be bewildering as to how to proceed, and perhaps not worth the effort, if it must be relied upon in perpetuity.
But arranged marriages do seem to flourish at times as the couple engenders divine trial and error, although so many stunning passionate texts have been crafted as they fray.
Best not to think about it perhaps, natural blundering oft preferred to rehearsed theatrics, are they jazzy or strictly classical?, or a bountiful counterpoised mix of the two?
Changing as the years pass.
Clues help.
Decipherable clues.
Correct assumption besting bewildered resonance.
I suppose it's fun, it's supposed to be fun.
Keep that in mind, remain light of heart.
Frozen II!
*I've been single most of my life.
It can be a delicate art requiring stealth and foresight, the rewards of which may be as enduring as the punishments severe.
Best to accustom today's youth with non-threatening exemplars of the phenomenon, to instruct them in courtship ritual without disparaging l'amour.
Preparation can no doubt come in handy but the challenge thinks for itself and analyzes, while in sport there's often subsequent opportunities that are much more grave and emotionless.
Fortunately, as time passes, and expectations lower through habitual frustration, disbelief may transform into cheek, which can be more pleasant in conversation.
Nevertheless, the pleasant and playful nature of the cheek can cut deep if lines are crossed, and discovering the character of such lines can be baffling, if you proceed in sarcastic error.
Blunt hopelessness can also generate fervour thanks to the preponderance of alluring sitcoms, but your inner caveperson can't be too savage if it's to feast 'pon nimble nuptials, not that it still can't wax blunt and beastly while applying scandalous enchantments, just a matter of discovering that line, and its various malleable preferences.
If the beast doth find itself wed, said enchantments may slowly lose their lustre, at which point a more robust appeal to enthused gentility, approaching but never realizing neutrality, may encourage less animated hostilities, or perhaps even reincarnate charm.
Of course it can help if your partner once indeed found you fascinating, and isn't interested in shaking things up, going through the whole process again a tedious bother, if you can't simply forgive and take.
I admit that without the fascination it can be bewildering as to how to proceed, and perhaps not worth the effort, if it must be relied upon in perpetuity.
But arranged marriages do seem to flourish at times as the couple engenders divine trial and error, although so many stunning passionate texts have been crafted as they fray.
Best not to think about it perhaps, natural blundering oft preferred to rehearsed theatrics, are they jazzy or strictly classical?, or a bountiful counterpoised mix of the two?
Changing as the years pass.
Clues help.
Decipherable clues.
Correct assumption besting bewildered resonance.
I suppose it's fun, it's supposed to be fun.
Keep that in mind, remain light of heart.
Frozen II!
*I've been single most of my life.
Tuesday, December 10, 2019
The Rock
Decided to revisit The Rock last Summer after stopping by a local thrift store, and impressed was I as it chaotically unreeled.
It reminded me of a time when I still considered blockbusters to represent the best of what cinema had to offer, long before I discovered non-British European movies (I already knew about British films), Québec's vital film industry, Takashi Miike, Kurosawa, or Criterions.
Blockbusters are still kind of fun, especially when they're deep, the big picture critiqued in miniature, striking slices of stark sensation.
After the insane number of sequels released last Summer I even found myself wishing another Skyscraper was in the works, not a Skyscraper sequel, to be precise, but something sort of different that at least attempted to start something new.
Even if it channelled Die Hard.
I've mentioned this before.
Stuber filled the gap meanwhile.
The Rock never had any sequels and if it had they likely would have seemed preposterous, or at least too logically improbable, if they had sought to reunite Cage (Stanley Goodspeed) and Connery (John Patrick Mason).
The film's actual plot still likely seems preposterous if you read or talk to people about it, or see it I suppose, even if it rationalizes insanity well.
If you don't like action films or sports I imagine watching The Rock would be excruciating, 20 plus years later no less, some of its best lines as ra ra as they are hyper-reactively appropriate, like watching solid Monday Night Football, a Raptors/Clippers showdown, the Leafs facing off in Montréal, or Hamilton taking on the Argos.
As far as I remember, it was released before globalization took off, or just as it was taking off, when America was examining itself critically, even from militaristic perspectives.
And the hero's a green nerd (Cage) who'll pay $600 for one of the Beatles's worst albums (old vinyl though), his partner a dangerous Brit who's been locked up for at least 30 years, like Michael Bay of all directors was deeply concerned with creating something memorable, something that had never been seen before, in sharp contrast to so many new action films.
Take some of these scenes.
After some tourists find themselves locked up on the Rock, there's a really short moment that lasts long enough for one of them to say, "what kind of fucked up tour is this?"
It's funny, and could have easily been left out, but Bay realized how cool it was, and kept it in to generate humour and tension.
I've never seen anything like it in a Marvel film, even if they excel at multidimensionally entertaining.
There's also a high speed chase through San Francisco that revels in cinematic mayhem, that introduces a tour of the city, on a trolly, as everything goes to hell.
Then, as an elite group of Navy SEALs prepares to take on well-heeled Marines on Alcatraz, and Mr. Goodspeed seeks a breakdown of what's going on, one of the SEALS (Danny Nucci as Lieutenant Shepard), a relatively unknown actor at the time who had yet to say anything in the film, delivers an extremely precise borderline passionate synopsis, that startles as it summarizes, and shocks with exhilarating brevity.
What an opportunity for a young actor.
Nucci totally nails it.
There's nothing like that scene, that moment, in current action films, like the lines were created to give someone the opportunity to build a career, instead of all the roles going to world cinema's best and brightest.
It's like the actors in The Rock are fighting to build or sustain a career, from Vanessa Marcil (Carla Pestalozzi) to Tony Todd (Captain Darrow) to David Morse (Major Tom Baxter) to John C. McGinley (Captain Hendrix), no one holding back or resting on old school precedent, just givin' 'er hardcore with ample opportunity to do so.
There are at least 17 actors who stand out in this film.
That's a script that cultivates 1990s diversity (written by David Weisberg, Douglas Cook and Mark Rosner).
Cage and Connery work well together, the former frenetically perspiring athleticism, as he's suddenly thrust into the frenzied fray, replete with doubt, inexperience, and a pregnant partner, Michael Biehn (Commander Anderson), Ed Harris (General Francis X. Hummel), and William Forsythe (Ernest Paxton) givin' 'er too, the film's just so damned professional.
With a ne'er-do-well landing on a spike near the end.
This is what blockbusters could be like before pirating.
Greater risks.
Greater reward.
I'm recommending The Rock.
And watching it again this Winter.
It reminded me of a time when I still considered blockbusters to represent the best of what cinema had to offer, long before I discovered non-British European movies (I already knew about British films), Québec's vital film industry, Takashi Miike, Kurosawa, or Criterions.
Blockbusters are still kind of fun, especially when they're deep, the big picture critiqued in miniature, striking slices of stark sensation.
After the insane number of sequels released last Summer I even found myself wishing another Skyscraper was in the works, not a Skyscraper sequel, to be precise, but something sort of different that at least attempted to start something new.
Even if it channelled Die Hard.
I've mentioned this before.
Stuber filled the gap meanwhile.
The Rock never had any sequels and if it had they likely would have seemed preposterous, or at least too logically improbable, if they had sought to reunite Cage (Stanley Goodspeed) and Connery (John Patrick Mason).
The film's actual plot still likely seems preposterous if you read or talk to people about it, or see it I suppose, even if it rationalizes insanity well.
If you don't like action films or sports I imagine watching The Rock would be excruciating, 20 plus years later no less, some of its best lines as ra ra as they are hyper-reactively appropriate, like watching solid Monday Night Football, a Raptors/Clippers showdown, the Leafs facing off in Montréal, or Hamilton taking on the Argos.
As far as I remember, it was released before globalization took off, or just as it was taking off, when America was examining itself critically, even from militaristic perspectives.
And the hero's a green nerd (Cage) who'll pay $600 for one of the Beatles's worst albums (old vinyl though), his partner a dangerous Brit who's been locked up for at least 30 years, like Michael Bay of all directors was deeply concerned with creating something memorable, something that had never been seen before, in sharp contrast to so many new action films.
Take some of these scenes.
After some tourists find themselves locked up on the Rock, there's a really short moment that lasts long enough for one of them to say, "what kind of fucked up tour is this?"
It's funny, and could have easily been left out, but Bay realized how cool it was, and kept it in to generate humour and tension.
I've never seen anything like it in a Marvel film, even if they excel at multidimensionally entertaining.
There's also a high speed chase through San Francisco that revels in cinematic mayhem, that introduces a tour of the city, on a trolly, as everything goes to hell.
Then, as an elite group of Navy SEALs prepares to take on well-heeled Marines on Alcatraz, and Mr. Goodspeed seeks a breakdown of what's going on, one of the SEALS (Danny Nucci as Lieutenant Shepard), a relatively unknown actor at the time who had yet to say anything in the film, delivers an extremely precise borderline passionate synopsis, that startles as it summarizes, and shocks with exhilarating brevity.
What an opportunity for a young actor.
Nucci totally nails it.
There's nothing like that scene, that moment, in current action films, like the lines were created to give someone the opportunity to build a career, instead of all the roles going to world cinema's best and brightest.
It's like the actors in The Rock are fighting to build or sustain a career, from Vanessa Marcil (Carla Pestalozzi) to Tony Todd (Captain Darrow) to David Morse (Major Tom Baxter) to John C. McGinley (Captain Hendrix), no one holding back or resting on old school precedent, just givin' 'er hardcore with ample opportunity to do so.
There are at least 17 actors who stand out in this film.
That's a script that cultivates 1990s diversity (written by David Weisberg, Douglas Cook and Mark Rosner).
Cage and Connery work well together, the former frenetically perspiring athleticism, as he's suddenly thrust into the frenzied fray, replete with doubt, inexperience, and a pregnant partner, Michael Biehn (Commander Anderson), Ed Harris (General Francis X. Hummel), and William Forsythe (Ernest Paxton) givin' 'er too, the film's just so damned professional.
With a ne'er-do-well landing on a spike near the end.
This is what blockbusters could be like before pirating.
Greater risks.
Greater reward.
I'm recommending The Rock.
And watching it again this Winter.
Friday, December 6, 2019
Antigone
Tragedy strikes an immigrant family as their eldest son (Hakim Brahimi as Étéocle) is shot down while protesting his brother's arrest.
His brother (Rawad El-Zein as Polynice) sees what has taken place and responds with violence, adding assaulting a police officer to his crimes, which may lead to his deportation.
Their family bonds are tight and strong, and his sister Antigone (Nahéma Ricci) has a plan, to secure his dauntless release, even if it means she'll have to do time.
Her plan's a success, he escapes, she's arrested, and she settles in at the juvenile detention centre.
Where her brave actions are swiftly called out, in consideration of her brother's transgressions.
She's determined, dedicated, feisty, immutable, her conscience uprightly resolved.
Her partner (Antoine Desrochers as Hémon) fights for her integral freedom.
Stirring up quite the intense media frenzy.
No easy answers in this one.
The classic compelling mind*&%#.
Ethical issues abound as hearts clash in Sophie Deraspe's Antigone, a brilliant reimagining of the play, creatively and controversially brought to life, through the art of aggrieved contemplation.
Antigone's somewhat well-integrated.
She even won a scholarly prize.
She's by the book, constructive, rational, no-nonsense, the film critically absolved by her defiant reserve.
It's puzzling that she takes such risks for a career ne'er-do-well, yet provocative inasmuch as she avails.
The film intermittently interrupts the action with clever feverish pop-cultural analyzes, energetically presenting high octane observations, situating the narrative in the world at large, a broader multicultural context, that expands as the trial gets underway.
It's a convincing drama that excels at realistically depicting youthful and aged antagonisms, clearly in touch with the alternative views, and the ways in which peeps struggle to understand them.
Although Antigone's youthful rebellion ironically upholds old patriarchal schools, a cunning syntheses on behalf of Deraspe, who boldly articulates so many sharp distinctions, without seeming sentimental or preachy.
I'd argue Antigone upholds a great Québecois tradition of crafting rebellious films which make you think, like Mommy, Vic + Flo ont vu un ours, Quand l'amour se creuse un trou, or 1er amour, a unique style that's totally its own, that asks hard questions that have no answer.
But it's in trying to answer them that these films imaginatively assert themselves, as life presents impenetrable codes, as disconcerting as they are enlivening, basking in comprehensive intrigue.
There's no frosty sugar coating.
Just reality, action, dilemmas, mistakes.
Life.
Active living.
Insert The Matrix.
Bewilder.
His brother (Rawad El-Zein as Polynice) sees what has taken place and responds with violence, adding assaulting a police officer to his crimes, which may lead to his deportation.
Their family bonds are tight and strong, and his sister Antigone (Nahéma Ricci) has a plan, to secure his dauntless release, even if it means she'll have to do time.
Her plan's a success, he escapes, she's arrested, and she settles in at the juvenile detention centre.
Where her brave actions are swiftly called out, in consideration of her brother's transgressions.
She's determined, dedicated, feisty, immutable, her conscience uprightly resolved.
Her partner (Antoine Desrochers as Hémon) fights for her integral freedom.
Stirring up quite the intense media frenzy.
No easy answers in this one.
The classic compelling mind*&%#.
Ethical issues abound as hearts clash in Sophie Deraspe's Antigone, a brilliant reimagining of the play, creatively and controversially brought to life, through the art of aggrieved contemplation.
Antigone's somewhat well-integrated.
She even won a scholarly prize.
She's by the book, constructive, rational, no-nonsense, the film critically absolved by her defiant reserve.
It's puzzling that she takes such risks for a career ne'er-do-well, yet provocative inasmuch as she avails.
The film intermittently interrupts the action with clever feverish pop-cultural analyzes, energetically presenting high octane observations, situating the narrative in the world at large, a broader multicultural context, that expands as the trial gets underway.
It's a convincing drama that excels at realistically depicting youthful and aged antagonisms, clearly in touch with the alternative views, and the ways in which peeps struggle to understand them.
Although Antigone's youthful rebellion ironically upholds old patriarchal schools, a cunning syntheses on behalf of Deraspe, who boldly articulates so many sharp distinctions, without seeming sentimental or preachy.
I'd argue Antigone upholds a great Québecois tradition of crafting rebellious films which make you think, like Mommy, Vic + Flo ont vu un ours, Quand l'amour se creuse un trou, or 1er amour, a unique style that's totally its own, that asks hard questions that have no answer.
But it's in trying to answer them that these films imaginatively assert themselves, as life presents impenetrable codes, as disconcerting as they are enlivening, basking in comprehensive intrigue.
There's no frosty sugar coating.
Just reality, action, dilemmas, mistakes.
Life.
Active living.
Insert The Matrix.
Bewilder.
Wednesday, December 4, 2019
The Good Liar
A reptilian overture preys on aged innocence, moving from one lonely widow to the next, as he amasses prim misfortune, too incorrigible to ever give it up (Ian McKellen as Roy Courtnay).
Lifelong aggressive tremens, no friend to terms or tact, slipped through the cracks for many a year, avoided wayward trim detection.
He's quite hawkish, rather diligent, a partner lending a helping hand (Jim Carter as Vincent), watching out for eager fools all too willing to softly land.
Romance by night, fraternizing by day, not one to take time off, he's insatiably disposed, as voracious as they come, an emotionless career psycho.
He meets another unsuspecting victim (Helen Mirren as Betty McLeish) all too happy to make a new friend, she's so overcome with infatuation it's not long 'til he's movin' in.
Her grandson's (Russell Tovey as Stephen) more suspicious and proceeds to make historical inquiries, uncovering a gruesome awkward scandal dating back to World War II.
But explanations are forthcoming and life's less bitter if you can forgive, the two making it up on the shifty spot, and carrying on as if nothing's unhinged.
But if the title's none the wiser, there may be more surprises in store, The Good Liar as composed as its enmity, begetting bitter strikes richly scored.
It's straightforward yet tough from the get-go, but neither textbook nor boring, a brisk pace highlighting the novelty, of high stakes octogenarian high-jinx.
The couple's half bourgeois, half streetwise, at times they pleasantly blend, Betty's sympathy keeping things afloat, providing excuses for Roy's demeanour.
I think a particularly vile realm in hell should be reserved for those who prey on the elderly, if such a place exists, and it's odd to see the elderly preying upon each other in this one, sheer proof of the ageless psychopath.
Certainly a good idea for a film and I can't think of anything else like it, although if it had been shot like a creepy indie, it likely would have made more of an impact.
It's a bit farfetched that Roy is still at large at his age, can you always work in a British detective?
Still enjoyed it, a bit of irreverent controversy, nice to see Helen Mirren and Ian McKellen in something dramatic, without fast cars or apocalyptic agendas.
Some unexpected twists keep it moving along as their coupling becomes more intense, neither too poised nor that full-on thug, without ever displaying much feeling.
Is this a date movie?
Lifelong aggressive tremens, no friend to terms or tact, slipped through the cracks for many a year, avoided wayward trim detection.
He's quite hawkish, rather diligent, a partner lending a helping hand (Jim Carter as Vincent), watching out for eager fools all too willing to softly land.
Romance by night, fraternizing by day, not one to take time off, he's insatiably disposed, as voracious as they come, an emotionless career psycho.
He meets another unsuspecting victim (Helen Mirren as Betty McLeish) all too happy to make a new friend, she's so overcome with infatuation it's not long 'til he's movin' in.
Her grandson's (Russell Tovey as Stephen) more suspicious and proceeds to make historical inquiries, uncovering a gruesome awkward scandal dating back to World War II.
But explanations are forthcoming and life's less bitter if you can forgive, the two making it up on the shifty spot, and carrying on as if nothing's unhinged.
But if the title's none the wiser, there may be more surprises in store, The Good Liar as composed as its enmity, begetting bitter strikes richly scored.
It's straightforward yet tough from the get-go, but neither textbook nor boring, a brisk pace highlighting the novelty, of high stakes octogenarian high-jinx.
The couple's half bourgeois, half streetwise, at times they pleasantly blend, Betty's sympathy keeping things afloat, providing excuses for Roy's demeanour.
I think a particularly vile realm in hell should be reserved for those who prey on the elderly, if such a place exists, and it's odd to see the elderly preying upon each other in this one, sheer proof of the ageless psychopath.
Certainly a good idea for a film and I can't think of anything else like it, although if it had been shot like a creepy indie, it likely would have made more of an impact.
It's a bit farfetched that Roy is still at large at his age, can you always work in a British detective?
Still enjoyed it, a bit of irreverent controversy, nice to see Helen Mirren and Ian McKellen in something dramatic, without fast cars or apocalyptic agendas.
Some unexpected twists keep it moving along as their coupling becomes more intense, neither too poised nor that full-on thug, without ever displaying much feeling.
Is this a date movie?
Tuesday, December 3, 2019
Knives Out
The details of a significant literary fortune gravely concern a renowned P.I., after its author passes away.
For multiple motivations could have driven his children to murder, although things seem quite prim and proper during preliminary investigations.
But bold personalities have lied about particulars to appear both innocent and ready to please, their uncoordinated individualized tales melodramatically unwinding under further examination.
Classic lackadaisical mischief improvisationally askew, a bit of lacklustre stiff-lipped cerveza effervescent undrafted clues.
An ingenue accompanies Benoit Blanc (Daniel Craig) as hypotheticals brashly accumulate, her involvement hushed up meanwhile while others clash and conciliate.
Unnerved as if something's counterpoised, or shifty, ill-gotten, extraneous, her own misdeeds wouldn't be so incriminating, if they weren't so exceedingly awkward.
Disbelief as inherently relied upon as stealth or disingenuous inquisition, what's to be said is difficult to say, if everything isn't just brought right back up.
Veracity assuming verisimilitude.
Awaiting redoubtable spectre.
A murder mystery not as stealthy as I had expected, still induces endearing alarm, more commercial than Frost, Morse, or Vera, its lighthearted humour in sharp cheeky contrast.
Almost as if writer/director Rian Johnson is aware of the appeal of astute British sleuths, yet sought something less traditional for his star-studded Knives Out, then hired Daniel Craig (James Bond) to detect with a Southern accent, to craft something much more American.
It's first rate unperturbed spice mélange, unconcerned yet still strict and serious, bashful yet residually haunting, determined to make things up as it goes along.
It generates enough interest early on to still entice as it gives itself away, cleverly concealing less evident alternatives, to sustain reanimating perspectives.
If there ever was an old world its conception disputes the new, as the media picks up the scoop, and youth habitually makes the right moves.
It's cool to see a film that finds a physical image to sum up its form in the end, although I can't mention what it is, although from what I've said it should be somewhat obvious.
Neither too light nor too dark and damning, another creative film from the versatile Rian Johnson.
Not as edgy or grim as Looper.
But certainly a lot more fun.
For multiple motivations could have driven his children to murder, although things seem quite prim and proper during preliminary investigations.
But bold personalities have lied about particulars to appear both innocent and ready to please, their uncoordinated individualized tales melodramatically unwinding under further examination.
Classic lackadaisical mischief improvisationally askew, a bit of lacklustre stiff-lipped cerveza effervescent undrafted clues.
An ingenue accompanies Benoit Blanc (Daniel Craig) as hypotheticals brashly accumulate, her involvement hushed up meanwhile while others clash and conciliate.
Unnerved as if something's counterpoised, or shifty, ill-gotten, extraneous, her own misdeeds wouldn't be so incriminating, if they weren't so exceedingly awkward.
Disbelief as inherently relied upon as stealth or disingenuous inquisition, what's to be said is difficult to say, if everything isn't just brought right back up.
Veracity assuming verisimilitude.
Awaiting redoubtable spectre.
A murder mystery not as stealthy as I had expected, still induces endearing alarm, more commercial than Frost, Morse, or Vera, its lighthearted humour in sharp cheeky contrast.
Almost as if writer/director Rian Johnson is aware of the appeal of astute British sleuths, yet sought something less traditional for his star-studded Knives Out, then hired Daniel Craig (James Bond) to detect with a Southern accent, to craft something much more American.
It's first rate unperturbed spice mélange, unconcerned yet still strict and serious, bashful yet residually haunting, determined to make things up as it goes along.
It generates enough interest early on to still entice as it gives itself away, cleverly concealing less evident alternatives, to sustain reanimating perspectives.
If there ever was an old world its conception disputes the new, as the media picks up the scoop, and youth habitually makes the right moves.
It's cool to see a film that finds a physical image to sum up its form in the end, although I can't mention what it is, although from what I've said it should be somewhat obvious.
Neither too light nor too dark and damning, another creative film from the versatile Rian Johnson.
Not as edgy or grim as Looper.
But certainly a lot more fun.
Friday, November 29, 2019
A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood
True kindness and understanding, humbly presented with compassionate care, eager to learn new things and listen, according to the preferences of his friends and colleagues, willing to encourage an idea within reason, or curiously lend a helping hand, accustomed to supporting friends in startled need, or sitting back to shoot the breeze, perhaps ready to share a contradiction, but not with offensive intent, offered without seeking to contest or duel, but to passively suggest an alternative option, full of thanks and amicable reward, he frankly yet pleasantly proceeds, truly interested in what you have to say, unconcerned with rank or bias, sincere sympathy reflexively conveyed, clear positive energy, an anti-sophist, a remarkably thoughtful and genuine teacher, a good neighbor, one Mr. Fred Rogers (Tom Hanks).
Meets Mr. Angry (Matthew Rhys as Lloyd Vogel), a grown-up devoid of youth, consumed by hopeless cynicism, blind to lighthearts and forgiveness.
It's sad because Angry's in a position to spread hope and good cheer, not simply for merriment's sake, but to encourage less hostile relations, since if the people who are concerned with spreading the truth only see greed and envy, and emphasize the preponderance of these vices in everything they write, even though they have influence, they'll create communities void of trust, especially if they always focus on people like Trump, who bring it on themselves, and don't showcase less grotesque alternatives, Trump's world is certainly violent, and needs to be forthrightly exposed, but if nothing is offered as a less corrupt alternative, because he's selling all the papers, and the news still shapes people's worldview, then there's nothing but individualized angst to rely on, and the world becomes Trump's forbidding place.
I suppose stories about philanthropists and less controversial figures don't sell as many papers, but if the news is entirely focused on death and destruction, and people learn how to behave in response, is it not more ethical to risk less revenue, and share more stories about warmth and compassion?
If the news is saying it's wrong to live within an expedient void wherein which there are no principles or standards, and it shies away from sharing stories which reflect goodwill and sympathy, sharing them along with those it disseminates to expose political corruption, because they want to earn higher profits, does it not also exist in an expedient void where there's nothing but disgrace and corruption?
If they're to be relied upon as the promoters of a better world, should they not also do something to promote that world?
As did Mr. Rogers?
I understand this point in time is particularly bleak, but there must still be noteworthy stories out there about people spreading the light, and your first instinct shouldn't be to denounce them as hypocrites because of something they did 20 years ago, but to perhaps build them up as champions of peace fighting blatant corruption.
If there are no leaders who are worthy of respect what's the point in respecting anything?
Isn't that what Trump wants? Doesn't he suggest there's no point in respecting anyone so you may as well follow him?
I understand life isn't a box of chocolates, but it's not a razor's edge either. There's room for light as well as dark. And people like stories about honest folks.
I'm not looking for a share of the spotlight, I'm just thinking about these kinds of things.
The news often seems so grim.
Other people have messages besides Trump.
Meets Mr. Angry (Matthew Rhys as Lloyd Vogel), a grown-up devoid of youth, consumed by hopeless cynicism, blind to lighthearts and forgiveness.
It's sad because Angry's in a position to spread hope and good cheer, not simply for merriment's sake, but to encourage less hostile relations, since if the people who are concerned with spreading the truth only see greed and envy, and emphasize the preponderance of these vices in everything they write, even though they have influence, they'll create communities void of trust, especially if they always focus on people like Trump, who bring it on themselves, and don't showcase less grotesque alternatives, Trump's world is certainly violent, and needs to be forthrightly exposed, but if nothing is offered as a less corrupt alternative, because he's selling all the papers, and the news still shapes people's worldview, then there's nothing but individualized angst to rely on, and the world becomes Trump's forbidding place.
I suppose stories about philanthropists and less controversial figures don't sell as many papers, but if the news is entirely focused on death and destruction, and people learn how to behave in response, is it not more ethical to risk less revenue, and share more stories about warmth and compassion?
If the news is saying it's wrong to live within an expedient void wherein which there are no principles or standards, and it shies away from sharing stories which reflect goodwill and sympathy, sharing them along with those it disseminates to expose political corruption, because they want to earn higher profits, does it not also exist in an expedient void where there's nothing but disgrace and corruption?
If they're to be relied upon as the promoters of a better world, should they not also do something to promote that world?
As did Mr. Rogers?
I understand this point in time is particularly bleak, but there must still be noteworthy stories out there about people spreading the light, and your first instinct shouldn't be to denounce them as hypocrites because of something they did 20 years ago, but to perhaps build them up as champions of peace fighting blatant corruption.
If there are no leaders who are worthy of respect what's the point in respecting anything?
Isn't that what Trump wants? Doesn't he suggest there's no point in respecting anyone so you may as well follow him?
I understand life isn't a box of chocolates, but it's not a razor's edge either. There's room for light as well as dark. And people like stories about honest folks.
I'm not looking for a share of the spotlight, I'm just thinking about these kinds of things.
The news often seems so grim.
Other people have messages besides Trump.
Thursday, November 28, 2019
The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension
Do the spaces found within seemingly docile solid materials in fact house inordinate extraterrestrials imprisoned forlorn and ever after?
And have they been transported there by advanced alien beings who curiously monitor life on Earth to ensure the galaxy is not imperilled?
The answers to these questions, like so many others, remain uncertain, for who's to say what inhabits the imperceptible if it indeed cannot be perceived?
Yet science, perennially sleuthing, is undaunted by such perplexities, bold Buckaroo Banzai (Peter Weller) deciphering clues to what may in fact lathe mathematical convention, as he applies piquant planetary particulars to unheard of galactic synergies, his momentum unconsciously driven, by repute, cogito ergo sum.
In so doing he travels across the 8th dimension, within which evil restrictively resides, returning with proof of biological protocol, and visual records of alternative life.
He still makes it to a gig with his supporting band later that evening, where a despondent lovelorn fan (Ellen Barkin as Penny Priddy) makes known her sincere distress.
As rival Emilio Lizardo (John Lithgow) madly reemerges, to join forces with despotic largesse, another group of aliens who seek to free their incarcerated brethren, who lack the knowledge to penetrate the realm themselves, who desperately covet Buckaroo's secret formula, not to mention his chill sporty ride.
But if they get the formula, the friendly aliens will destroy planet Earth to prevent the forces of tyranny from escaping, a high price to pay for unbound innovation, as unsettling as it is battle-scarred.
1984 was a different time, and I can't speak to how well Buckaroo was received then, if it was known for bold hilarity or hapless head shakes, if it prospered, or just slipped aside.
It has a great cast including Weller, Lithgow, Barkin, Christopher Lloyd (John Bigbooté), Jeff Goldblum (New Jersey), Dan Hedaya (John Gomez), Vincent Schiavelli (John O'Connor), Clancy Brown (Rawhide), Matt Clark (The Secretary of Defense), and Jonathan Banks (Lizardo Hospital Guard), but it doesn't do much with their chaotic expertise.
It spoofs how seriously sci-fi takes itself at times and the ludicrous plot is wildly nuanced with brains, but there's too much thought worked into the interstellar shenanigans to let the laughs lackadaisically let loose.
It's like Buckaroo spent more time calculating what it means to be funny rather than just simply telling jokes or presenting foolish situations.
New Jersey is a good example of what I mean here, the cowboy's totally out of place and seems like he should be funny, but he really isn't at all because he doesn't have solid material to work with.
Buckaroo makes science-fiction seem ridiculous, its succeeds at achieving this goal, but it forgets to do so with disarming levity, as Spaceballs did so remarkably well.
But I may be missing comedic points that were more versatile at the time, and I imagine what I didn't find funny was once well-received.
Sometimes cool casts like this wind up in a stinker too.
That still happens.
Not all the time though.
And have they been transported there by advanced alien beings who curiously monitor life on Earth to ensure the galaxy is not imperilled?
The answers to these questions, like so many others, remain uncertain, for who's to say what inhabits the imperceptible if it indeed cannot be perceived?
Yet science, perennially sleuthing, is undaunted by such perplexities, bold Buckaroo Banzai (Peter Weller) deciphering clues to what may in fact lathe mathematical convention, as he applies piquant planetary particulars to unheard of galactic synergies, his momentum unconsciously driven, by repute, cogito ergo sum.
In so doing he travels across the 8th dimension, within which evil restrictively resides, returning with proof of biological protocol, and visual records of alternative life.
He still makes it to a gig with his supporting band later that evening, where a despondent lovelorn fan (Ellen Barkin as Penny Priddy) makes known her sincere distress.
As rival Emilio Lizardo (John Lithgow) madly reemerges, to join forces with despotic largesse, another group of aliens who seek to free their incarcerated brethren, who lack the knowledge to penetrate the realm themselves, who desperately covet Buckaroo's secret formula, not to mention his chill sporty ride.
But if they get the formula, the friendly aliens will destroy planet Earth to prevent the forces of tyranny from escaping, a high price to pay for unbound innovation, as unsettling as it is battle-scarred.
1984 was a different time, and I can't speak to how well Buckaroo was received then, if it was known for bold hilarity or hapless head shakes, if it prospered, or just slipped aside.
It has a great cast including Weller, Lithgow, Barkin, Christopher Lloyd (John Bigbooté), Jeff Goldblum (New Jersey), Dan Hedaya (John Gomez), Vincent Schiavelli (John O'Connor), Clancy Brown (Rawhide), Matt Clark (The Secretary of Defense), and Jonathan Banks (Lizardo Hospital Guard), but it doesn't do much with their chaotic expertise.
It spoofs how seriously sci-fi takes itself at times and the ludicrous plot is wildly nuanced with brains, but there's too much thought worked into the interstellar shenanigans to let the laughs lackadaisically let loose.
It's like Buckaroo spent more time calculating what it means to be funny rather than just simply telling jokes or presenting foolish situations.
New Jersey is a good example of what I mean here, the cowboy's totally out of place and seems like he should be funny, but he really isn't at all because he doesn't have solid material to work with.
Buckaroo makes science-fiction seem ridiculous, its succeeds at achieving this goal, but it forgets to do so with disarming levity, as Spaceballs did so remarkably well.
But I may be missing comedic points that were more versatile at the time, and I imagine what I didn't find funny was once well-received.
Sometimes cool casts like this wind up in a stinker too.
That still happens.
Not all the time though.
Wednesday, November 27, 2019
Dead Ringers
Symbiotically existing in enriched systemic ecology, unwavering strict calisthenic sophistication, enraptured cozy charismatic extroversion, hesitant timid imaginative reserve, it's nice to share things, to openly bond with your closest friends, to have someone who listens intently, no matter what, with supportive perceptive inquisitive professionalism, inflating recourse to the sensual, with compelling jocose trust.
But from a rigid analysis of the potent data provided, it's clear they've never fallen in love, nor entertained the influence of an other, nor experimented outside of work.
Fraternal camaraderie bromantically heeled and coalesced, a love interest offers escape, from nothing other than endemic exclusion.
And as one twin rises, the other falls apart, the two still irrevocably united, as jealousy struts and strays.
Dark reckonings hark the one, as wild recreation threatens everything he's worked for, the other firmly relying on his research, and their unyielding warm fidelity.
If only he hadn't introduced temptation.
If only they'd persisted in nascent womb.
Dead Ringers bluntly interrogates duality, as purest electrosynthesis meets dialectical destruction.
Infusing interstellar heights with nebulous oblivion, it diagnostically conceives a tragic provocation.
The blend of successful starstruck elegance and distraught candid mayhem produces an unsettling effect, purest material Cronenberg, even as he approaches the lofty mainstream.
I actually skipped this one years ago when I was eagerly renting his early films, because I was worried it'd be too bourgeois, like he'd done something John Waters or John Carpenter would never do, for which I could find no categorical compulsion.
I remained deathly afraid.
But the result's nothing too scary, although it's quite different from Scanners or Videodrome, it's like Cronenberg's trying to do something more traditional (a drama) but still can't restrain himself, so it unreels like a high brow slightly grotesque farce, that's descended into chaos by the end.
Would have been cool if they had found partners at the same time, or had pursued l'amour less sophomorically.
Cohesive reflexive unity.
Extensively engrained.
Socioculturally cocooned.
Still not enough Jeremy Irons (Beverly and Elliot Mantle).
Don't wait an extra 15 years.
But from a rigid analysis of the potent data provided, it's clear they've never fallen in love, nor entertained the influence of an other, nor experimented outside of work.
Fraternal camaraderie bromantically heeled and coalesced, a love interest offers escape, from nothing other than endemic exclusion.
And as one twin rises, the other falls apart, the two still irrevocably united, as jealousy struts and strays.
Dark reckonings hark the one, as wild recreation threatens everything he's worked for, the other firmly relying on his research, and their unyielding warm fidelity.
If only he hadn't introduced temptation.
If only they'd persisted in nascent womb.
Dead Ringers bluntly interrogates duality, as purest electrosynthesis meets dialectical destruction.
Infusing interstellar heights with nebulous oblivion, it diagnostically conceives a tragic provocation.
The blend of successful starstruck elegance and distraught candid mayhem produces an unsettling effect, purest material Cronenberg, even as he approaches the lofty mainstream.
I actually skipped this one years ago when I was eagerly renting his early films, because I was worried it'd be too bourgeois, like he'd done something John Waters or John Carpenter would never do, for which I could find no categorical compulsion.
I remained deathly afraid.
But the result's nothing too scary, although it's quite different from Scanners or Videodrome, it's like Cronenberg's trying to do something more traditional (a drama) but still can't restrain himself, so it unreels like a high brow slightly grotesque farce, that's descended into chaos by the end.
Would have been cool if they had found partners at the same time, or had pursued l'amour less sophomorically.
Cohesive reflexive unity.
Extensively engrained.
Socioculturally cocooned.
Still not enough Jeremy Irons (Beverly and Elliot Mantle).
Don't wait an extra 15 years.
Tuesday, November 26, 2019
Gisaengchung (Parasite)
A family lost, distraught, unmotivated, confined, still amicably blossoms with felicitous good cheer, unconcerned with the burdens of routine or responsibility, they wondrously extrapolate 'bout nothin' that serious, getting by on part-time work that greases the wheel but not the spoon, things would seem quaint and cozy if it wasn't for the bugs, doctrineless discernment gregarious fouls, bewitching internment impressionable scowls, a tip immersively emerges like fledgling novel suspicion, and soon a family member's bringing home thatched coconut bacon, the fluidic tease of his newfound earnings concocting pastime, project, and plan, soon they've all worked their way in, and embraced lucrative unsought transition.
A wealthy family hiring help unaccustomed to astute deception, broadening horizons through pitched endeavour, providing purpose and steady employ is tricked, sophisticatedly hoodwinked, yet finds no reason to rigorously question, comedic outputs mutually prescribed.
But an historical hitch lies in soul stricken wait, and others have taken advantage of their amassed well-worn fortune.
And as the dust seems to settle and libations accrue, an unanticipated factor problematizes anew.
I thought it'd be something different, thought the wealthy family was indeed aware, ready to propose alternative arrangements, composed with sardonic flair.
It's not like that, not like that at all, it's rather a morbidly humorous take on labour relations, and non-unionized strategic conflict.
Gisaengchung (Parasite) excels at revelling in shock, like bourgeois dispossessed Takashi Miike, still not as haunting as I had come to expect, although its climax seduces fear.
It's far too cheery to impact like Old Boy, and retributive to placate the real, a tale of morals meteorologically harmonized, the violence doesn't really fit.
The family was happy on its own and seemed lighthearted and innocent.
There isn't much logic to Mr. Ki-taek's (Kang-ho Song) act of rage.
Besides the sudden eruption of blind envy.
Or having to listen in his laidback old age.
Absurdist pretensions cloaked in divine judgment, there's no telling whether or not you should take it seriously, for it seems like it's trying to convince until you analyze its bizarre shortcomings.
Labour relations at an all time low, but the employers haven't done anything wrong, besides exist as they instinctively see fit, they're quite generous in fact, quite concerned.
Of course you don't have to sign too many petitions or read the news for very long before you come across stories of abused domestics, Gisaengchung overlooking this grim reality as its lucky help asserts itself vengefully (ala Lars von Trier).
A distressing narrative that assails wild envy, or people unwilling to correct errors, for rather than accepting they had lied to begin with, they respond with ironic terror.
But the scenario's indeed absurd, and perhaps meant to be thoughtfully dismissed.
Although it's also quite real as if it's meant to be taken to heart.
It presents characters lavishly sharing their wealth without asking much in return (there are many great people like this), who are mortally wounded as a result, even though their servants lied to get their jobs.
If it's not meant to be dismissed, it's something much more grim.
More of a condemnation of hired help.
Resolute mendacity.
Begrudged disfavour.
A wealthy family hiring help unaccustomed to astute deception, broadening horizons through pitched endeavour, providing purpose and steady employ is tricked, sophisticatedly hoodwinked, yet finds no reason to rigorously question, comedic outputs mutually prescribed.
But an historical hitch lies in soul stricken wait, and others have taken advantage of their amassed well-worn fortune.
And as the dust seems to settle and libations accrue, an unanticipated factor problematizes anew.
I thought it'd be something different, thought the wealthy family was indeed aware, ready to propose alternative arrangements, composed with sardonic flair.
It's not like that, not like that at all, it's rather a morbidly humorous take on labour relations, and non-unionized strategic conflict.
Gisaengchung (Parasite) excels at revelling in shock, like bourgeois dispossessed Takashi Miike, still not as haunting as I had come to expect, although its climax seduces fear.
It's far too cheery to impact like Old Boy, and retributive to placate the real, a tale of morals meteorologically harmonized, the violence doesn't really fit.
The family was happy on its own and seemed lighthearted and innocent.
There isn't much logic to Mr. Ki-taek's (Kang-ho Song) act of rage.
Besides the sudden eruption of blind envy.
Or having to listen in his laidback old age.
Absurdist pretensions cloaked in divine judgment, there's no telling whether or not you should take it seriously, for it seems like it's trying to convince until you analyze its bizarre shortcomings.
Labour relations at an all time low, but the employers haven't done anything wrong, besides exist as they instinctively see fit, they're quite generous in fact, quite concerned.
Of course you don't have to sign too many petitions or read the news for very long before you come across stories of abused domestics, Gisaengchung overlooking this grim reality as its lucky help asserts itself vengefully (ala Lars von Trier).
A distressing narrative that assails wild envy, or people unwilling to correct errors, for rather than accepting they had lied to begin with, they respond with ironic terror.
But the scenario's indeed absurd, and perhaps meant to be thoughtfully dismissed.
Although it's also quite real as if it's meant to be taken to heart.
It presents characters lavishly sharing their wealth without asking much in return (there are many great people like this), who are mortally wounded as a result, even though their servants lied to get their jobs.
If it's not meant to be dismissed, it's something much more grim.
More of a condemnation of hired help.
Resolute mendacity.
Begrudged disfavour.
Friday, November 22, 2019
Witness
A young Amish child (Lukas Haas as Samuel) on his first trip to the big city, finds himself immersed in high level corruption, after witnessing a brutal murder, while waiting for his train to depart.
As unaware of the repercussions as the honest cop who takes his statement (Harrison Ford as John Book), he's soon revealed the identity of the killer, and it's indeed one of New York's finest (Danny Glover as McFee).
Book soon transfers the knowledge to his supervisor, but he's placed his trust in the wrong elite cop, shots fired shortly thereafter, moments later he's on the crazed run.
To Amish country.
Where no one will find him.
If he can keep that yap shut.
And refrain from scandalous endeavours.
Work abounds in the old school surroundings, as does temptation, and orthodox rules.
Surveillance haunts disputed emotion.
There's no quarter, no frank ergo sum.
Long before cellphones guaranteed law enforcement could ubiquitously monitor the population, public movements were still often scrutinized, private pastimes uprightly presumed.
In tight-knit communities anyways, and at work, and at home, the concept of privacy still had much more meaning, and could at least be theoretically conceived.
Without vast resources.
Headstrong individualism meets its panoptic particulars in Peter Weir's forbidding Witness, as a trustworthy by the book policeperson closely follows established rules.
Having once taken procedure for granted, he struggles to meticulously adjust, his genuine goodness guiding the way, his bold temper begetting comeuppance.
A sympathetic depiction of the Amish unreels within, beyond sociopolitical constructs, a simple existence with nothing to hide, harmless living for strict rule followers.
The disruption may indeed be controversial, but it's integrated without fuss or alarm, peaceful ways still cognizant of justice, willing to aid distraught virtue in peril.
L'amour.
Restraint.
Confinements of the hypothetical.
Urban tempers so feisty condoned.
An odd mix that could have been more controversial.
As unaware of the repercussions as the honest cop who takes his statement (Harrison Ford as John Book), he's soon revealed the identity of the killer, and it's indeed one of New York's finest (Danny Glover as McFee).
Book soon transfers the knowledge to his supervisor, but he's placed his trust in the wrong elite cop, shots fired shortly thereafter, moments later he's on the crazed run.
To Amish country.
Where no one will find him.
If he can keep that yap shut.
And refrain from scandalous endeavours.
Work abounds in the old school surroundings, as does temptation, and orthodox rules.
Surveillance haunts disputed emotion.
There's no quarter, no frank ergo sum.
Long before cellphones guaranteed law enforcement could ubiquitously monitor the population, public movements were still often scrutinized, private pastimes uprightly presumed.
In tight-knit communities anyways, and at work, and at home, the concept of privacy still had much more meaning, and could at least be theoretically conceived.
Without vast resources.
Headstrong individualism meets its panoptic particulars in Peter Weir's forbidding Witness, as a trustworthy by the book policeperson closely follows established rules.
Having once taken procedure for granted, he struggles to meticulously adjust, his genuine goodness guiding the way, his bold temper begetting comeuppance.
A sympathetic depiction of the Amish unreels within, beyond sociopolitical constructs, a simple existence with nothing to hide, harmless living for strict rule followers.
The disruption may indeed be controversial, but it's integrated without fuss or alarm, peaceful ways still cognizant of justice, willing to aid distraught virtue in peril.
L'amour.
Restraint.
Confinements of the hypothetical.
Urban tempers so feisty condoned.
An odd mix that could have been more controversial.
Thursday, November 21, 2019
Working Girl
Caught up in a fast-paced sleazy biased combustion, unafraid to bite back but running out of options, a creative, imaginative, brave cutting edge ingenue, moves forward with bold reckoning, to wildly make definitive things happen (Melanie Griffith as Tess McGill).
Her new boss (Sigourney Weaver as Katharine Parker) breaks her leg skiing so she's tasked with managing her affairs, and while taking care of this and that, discovers one of her ideas was stolen.
Since her boss is immobile and was likely going to pass her work off as her own, she decides to pursue it herself, improvising in nondescript motion.
Daringly poised on the boundless shifty breach, she accidentally makes first contact, and he's as enamoured as he is intrigued (Harrison Ford as Jack Trainer).
But she can't let him know she's technically not an executive, and can't believe her bad luck when she finds out whom he's dating.
Back home her steady beau has thoughtlessly found someone else (Alec Baldwin as Mick Dugan), and her plucky best friend (Joan Cusack as Cyn) wonders if she's gone too far.
But this is her chance and she's set on success, and her idea's a good one, even if she struggles ill-composed.
Unaccustomed to high flying competitive hostility, she still elegantly disarrays.
The results are mixed if not edgy inasmuch as Working Girl invokes sentimental style.
Since Tess is uncertain, as she applies the knowledge she's learned in school, without professional backing, it makes sense that the film should be a little bit wobbly, somewhat disjointed, like a working form in contextual motion.
As she becomes more sure of herself, Griffith and Ford piece together some convincing scenes, and the ending's sure and steady, as it soothes the latent aftershocks.
It's a sympathetic tumultuous testament to feminine strength, which sincerely values Tess's trials, and sincerely sways their sombre projection.
She's tough, and doesn't put up with nonsense, even though she's clearly dug in deep, and lacks a wide ranging social network, and has betrayed the only person who would hire her.
But even if the film's disjointed pulse aptly reflects genuine attempts to define oneself, some of the scenes still fall a bit flat, without enigmatically enriching the staccato.
There's one where Tess stands alone at night surrounded by mist for instance, that would have seemed much more classical if it hadn't been so sentimentally hewn (a number of solid scenes that don't fit well together at times coalescing in the end, is different from several solid scenes added to some melodramatic downers that don't fit well together at times stitched together in the end).
Mike Nichol's has made many great films but he's a bit off in this one.
It would have been stronger if Tess's boss had been a man.
And Griffith had received top billing.
It's still a solid examination of willful resolve struggling under realistic hardships.
With many endearing scenes.
Where the actors work so well together.
Her new boss (Sigourney Weaver as Katharine Parker) breaks her leg skiing so she's tasked with managing her affairs, and while taking care of this and that, discovers one of her ideas was stolen.
Since her boss is immobile and was likely going to pass her work off as her own, she decides to pursue it herself, improvising in nondescript motion.
Daringly poised on the boundless shifty breach, she accidentally makes first contact, and he's as enamoured as he is intrigued (Harrison Ford as Jack Trainer).
But she can't let him know she's technically not an executive, and can't believe her bad luck when she finds out whom he's dating.
Back home her steady beau has thoughtlessly found someone else (Alec Baldwin as Mick Dugan), and her plucky best friend (Joan Cusack as Cyn) wonders if she's gone too far.
But this is her chance and she's set on success, and her idea's a good one, even if she struggles ill-composed.
Unaccustomed to high flying competitive hostility, she still elegantly disarrays.
The results are mixed if not edgy inasmuch as Working Girl invokes sentimental style.
Since Tess is uncertain, as she applies the knowledge she's learned in school, without professional backing, it makes sense that the film should be a little bit wobbly, somewhat disjointed, like a working form in contextual motion.
As she becomes more sure of herself, Griffith and Ford piece together some convincing scenes, and the ending's sure and steady, as it soothes the latent aftershocks.
It's a sympathetic tumultuous testament to feminine strength, which sincerely values Tess's trials, and sincerely sways their sombre projection.
She's tough, and doesn't put up with nonsense, even though she's clearly dug in deep, and lacks a wide ranging social network, and has betrayed the only person who would hire her.
But even if the film's disjointed pulse aptly reflects genuine attempts to define oneself, some of the scenes still fall a bit flat, without enigmatically enriching the staccato.
There's one where Tess stands alone at night surrounded by mist for instance, that would have seemed much more classical if it hadn't been so sentimentally hewn (a number of solid scenes that don't fit well together at times coalescing in the end, is different from several solid scenes added to some melodramatic downers that don't fit well together at times stitched together in the end).
Mike Nichol's has made many great films but he's a bit off in this one.
It would have been stronger if Tess's boss had been a man.
And Griffith had received top billing.
It's still a solid examination of willful resolve struggling under realistic hardships.
With many endearing scenes.
Where the actors work so well together.
Wednesday, November 20, 2019
Postcards from the Edge
Constant motion, exceptional circumstances, wild indulgence, disorienting repercussions.
A blossoming actress well-versed in cinematic intrigue takes things multiple steps too far, and is sentenced to move back home.
She can therefore continue working after her overdose, even if incumbent oversight bewilders her resolve.
Things remain relatively calm, in Ms. Vale's (Meryl Streep) case anyways, but jealousy and deception neither flounder nor subside, as her mom (Shirley MacLaine) and newfound beau Jack Faulkner (Dennis Quaid) contend and philander respectively.
Explanations or reasons why disputatiously illuminate, as the struggling actress carries on.
Her strength is most impressive.
Her talent, undeniable.
Postcards from the Edge honestly presents a cerebral state of affairs.
Even though the situation's quite serious, lighthearted charm reveals resilient subtle character.
Blending in both sympathy and censure.
It resists impulses to sound too preachy and consequently doesn't infantalize.
It doesn't let anyone off the hook, but doesn't overflow with guilt or blame either.
I didn't know Carrie Fisher was such a good writer.
Postcards excels at offering versatile soul searching conversations between parent and young, examining the thought provoking envy that aggrandized their lives in show business.
But it's not simply envy, the envy's mixed with support and compassion, these beacons emitting clever conversational poise that tries not to offend as it resists temptation.
If it's blunt, it isn't overstated.
The conversations become more and more genuine as the film progresses, and director Mike Nichols gives them plenty of time to bloom as they patiently generate their own lifeforce.
Vale and Faulkner have some good arguments as well.
Some people who overdose don't get to return to work so shortly thereafter, so Postcards is a bit hands-on fairy tale.
But if forgiveness and mercy are to constructively abound, who's to critique such remarkable developments?
Cool film.
Wasn't on me radar way back when.
A blossoming actress well-versed in cinematic intrigue takes things multiple steps too far, and is sentenced to move back home.
She can therefore continue working after her overdose, even if incumbent oversight bewilders her resolve.
Things remain relatively calm, in Ms. Vale's (Meryl Streep) case anyways, but jealousy and deception neither flounder nor subside, as her mom (Shirley MacLaine) and newfound beau Jack Faulkner (Dennis Quaid) contend and philander respectively.
Explanations or reasons why disputatiously illuminate, as the struggling actress carries on.
Her strength is most impressive.
Her talent, undeniable.
Postcards from the Edge honestly presents a cerebral state of affairs.
Even though the situation's quite serious, lighthearted charm reveals resilient subtle character.
Blending in both sympathy and censure.
It resists impulses to sound too preachy and consequently doesn't infantalize.
It doesn't let anyone off the hook, but doesn't overflow with guilt or blame either.
I didn't know Carrie Fisher was such a good writer.
Postcards excels at offering versatile soul searching conversations between parent and young, examining the thought provoking envy that aggrandized their lives in show business.
But it's not simply envy, the envy's mixed with support and compassion, these beacons emitting clever conversational poise that tries not to offend as it resists temptation.
If it's blunt, it isn't overstated.
The conversations become more and more genuine as the film progresses, and director Mike Nichols gives them plenty of time to bloom as they patiently generate their own lifeforce.
Vale and Faulkner have some good arguments as well.
Some people who overdose don't get to return to work so shortly thereafter, so Postcards is a bit hands-on fairy tale.
But if forgiveness and mercy are to constructively abound, who's to critique such remarkable developments?
Cool film.
Wasn't on me radar way back when.
Tuesday, November 19, 2019
Terminator: Dark Fate
Liked the new Terminator film.
I was surprised in the opening moments to see a beloved character shot down, and would have been angrier if that had happened much earlier, say in the 1990s, and then thought the initial terminator battle which followed was too textbook, too hasty, but after things settled down and the new parameters became clear, clearer, it took on a life of its own, and at times, seriously impressed.
I admit that I love Rise of the Machines, as I mentioned several times years ago, and Salvation isn't that bad either, although I'm not too fond of Genisys anymore.
I was partial to seeing John Connor chaotically embrace his messianic future, I suppose because it's cool to see the same characters reimagined in successive sequels, even if improbability ridiculously assails strict logic thereby, but that's the trick then, certainly, isn't it?, to make the impossible seem reasonably sound?
Rise of the Machines embraces the ridiculous aspect of reasonable improbabilities and perhaps therefore seems farcical to some, insufficiently serious in fact, lacking sombre and solemn composure.
Although I still think it does a great job of bringing Connor and Kate Brewster together, Arnold Schwarzenegger encouraging reluctant pair bonding, and as far as romantic-comedy-action-sci-fi goes, I can't think of another film that even remotely compares.
But Dark Fate works in the classic Terminator revelations well, the moments when its characters suddenly find themselves subsumed by ludicrous fact, reliant on a team they've never met before, and a plan laid out like a derelict jazz solo.
It did seem illogical that John Connor could be the only one to save the future, that no one else would rise up if he fell, especially considering how eager so many are to assert themselves, against all odds, in oppressive circumstances.
Thus, alternative computations perhaps make more sense than Highlander reckonings, uncharted territory reinvigorating discovery, a traditional plot realigned and recalibrated, repopulated with narrative variation.
It's nice to see Sarah Connor (Linda Hamilton) back at it. She adds a lot of depth and hasn't missed a beat.
Plus the new characters define themselves well.
Mr. Schwarzenegger lightens the mood.
And is reintroduced with paramount timing.
I suppose it's tough to diversify these films without setting them in the future like Salvation, as long as a terminator travels through time to hunt, and a future leader awaits unaware.
But if you want to keep things solemn while blending in a slight comedic touch, Dark Fate provides a noteworthy template, the dam doesn't burst, humanity fights back, and don't forget the convincing revelation scenes.
Tim Miller and his crew clearly care about the characters and sought to deliver a cool film for its fans.
Theatre troops have been performing Hamlet for centuries.
Working in contemporary themes.
Or reimagining historical authenticity.
As artificial intelligence becomes more prominent, don't Terminator films become more relevant?
So much time wasted in paranoid conflict.
Why isn't it clear there can be more than one?
I was surprised in the opening moments to see a beloved character shot down, and would have been angrier if that had happened much earlier, say in the 1990s, and then thought the initial terminator battle which followed was too textbook, too hasty, but after things settled down and the new parameters became clear, clearer, it took on a life of its own, and at times, seriously impressed.
I admit that I love Rise of the Machines, as I mentioned several times years ago, and Salvation isn't that bad either, although I'm not too fond of Genisys anymore.
I was partial to seeing John Connor chaotically embrace his messianic future, I suppose because it's cool to see the same characters reimagined in successive sequels, even if improbability ridiculously assails strict logic thereby, but that's the trick then, certainly, isn't it?, to make the impossible seem reasonably sound?
Rise of the Machines embraces the ridiculous aspect of reasonable improbabilities and perhaps therefore seems farcical to some, insufficiently serious in fact, lacking sombre and solemn composure.
Although I still think it does a great job of bringing Connor and Kate Brewster together, Arnold Schwarzenegger encouraging reluctant pair bonding, and as far as romantic-comedy-action-sci-fi goes, I can't think of another film that even remotely compares.
But Dark Fate works in the classic Terminator revelations well, the moments when its characters suddenly find themselves subsumed by ludicrous fact, reliant on a team they've never met before, and a plan laid out like a derelict jazz solo.
It did seem illogical that John Connor could be the only one to save the future, that no one else would rise up if he fell, especially considering how eager so many are to assert themselves, against all odds, in oppressive circumstances.
Thus, alternative computations perhaps make more sense than Highlander reckonings, uncharted territory reinvigorating discovery, a traditional plot realigned and recalibrated, repopulated with narrative variation.
It's nice to see Sarah Connor (Linda Hamilton) back at it. She adds a lot of depth and hasn't missed a beat.
Plus the new characters define themselves well.
Mr. Schwarzenegger lightens the mood.
And is reintroduced with paramount timing.
I suppose it's tough to diversify these films without setting them in the future like Salvation, as long as a terminator travels through time to hunt, and a future leader awaits unaware.
But if you want to keep things solemn while blending in a slight comedic touch, Dark Fate provides a noteworthy template, the dam doesn't burst, humanity fights back, and don't forget the convincing revelation scenes.
Tim Miller and his crew clearly care about the characters and sought to deliver a cool film for its fans.
Theatre troops have been performing Hamlet for centuries.
Working in contemporary themes.
Or reimagining historical authenticity.
As artificial intelligence becomes more prominent, don't Terminator films become more relevant?
So much time wasted in paranoid conflict.
Why isn't it clear there can be more than one?
Monday, November 18, 2019
Mystic Pizza
Three friends brought together through the healing power of pizza, lament relationship woes while waitressing one Summer, a mystic parlour facilitating their love as they ponder the years ahead, a caring matron (Conchata Ferrell as Leona) supplying warmth and compassion, and perhaps one day, her coveted secret recipes.
Sprightly Jojo (Lili Taylor) has been asked to wed by the reliable Bill (Vincent D'Onofrio), yet she's still not ready to embrace adult responsibilities.
Directionless Daisy (Julia Roberts) is sought by a carefree plutocrat (Adam Storke as Charles), whose rebellious ways have encouraged discontent and paternal reprimands.
Dependable Kat (Annabeth Gish) is heading to Yale and earning some extra scratch babysitting beforehand, the pervy father (William R. Moses as Tim) of the scampy child full of related scholarly advice.
As males and females attempt to pair bond competing rationalities resound.
Starlit swoons, incensed shenanigans, and whitewashed criminal activities ensue, Mystic Pizza enlivening two traditional and one disturbing romantic scenario/s, with the light dreamy distress of ill-tempered young adult conflict.
The film excels at commentating on bucolic realities without appearing as if it's doing so, the crowd cheering as Jojo airs grievances, a positive review potentially leading to increased business.
The secret recipe for Leona's eagerly devoured pizza perhaps sheds light on the tumultuous nature of the film's l'amour, inasmuch as its tantalizing details are only known by one successful entrepreneur, who also happens to be happily married.
Perhaps it subtly introduces this unknown yet prized mysterious factor, to evoke that the secret to maintaining a long-lasting relationship lies in exotic spices clandestinely applied, to predictable routines, suggesting each couple seeking to spend their lives together must cultivate their own specific spices, in order to one day consistently dine, on soul sustaining, reliable za.
Or burgers and fries perhaps.
Of course, for those who aren't conjugally attired, there's the sure and steady unaltered motivating self-sustaining idiosyncratic impulses that improvisationally choose random novel cherished inspirations.
As rewarding as the daily paper, or a glass of red wine before bed, sometimes Dale Cooper's daily treat is just something you love to do every day, regardless of wedded or solitary bliss, that for some reason never grows tiresome, and endearingly augments daily tasks accomplished.
Hot mustard perhaps?
The traditional clad in multivariable fuze?
There has to be a mutual understanding to at least try and make things work.
If you're so inclined.
As many people won't dispute.
Sprightly Jojo (Lili Taylor) has been asked to wed by the reliable Bill (Vincent D'Onofrio), yet she's still not ready to embrace adult responsibilities.
Directionless Daisy (Julia Roberts) is sought by a carefree plutocrat (Adam Storke as Charles), whose rebellious ways have encouraged discontent and paternal reprimands.
Dependable Kat (Annabeth Gish) is heading to Yale and earning some extra scratch babysitting beforehand, the pervy father (William R. Moses as Tim) of the scampy child full of related scholarly advice.
As males and females attempt to pair bond competing rationalities resound.
Starlit swoons, incensed shenanigans, and whitewashed criminal activities ensue, Mystic Pizza enlivening two traditional and one disturbing romantic scenario/s, with the light dreamy distress of ill-tempered young adult conflict.
The film excels at commentating on bucolic realities without appearing as if it's doing so, the crowd cheering as Jojo airs grievances, a positive review potentially leading to increased business.
The secret recipe for Leona's eagerly devoured pizza perhaps sheds light on the tumultuous nature of the film's l'amour, inasmuch as its tantalizing details are only known by one successful entrepreneur, who also happens to be happily married.
Perhaps it subtly introduces this unknown yet prized mysterious factor, to evoke that the secret to maintaining a long-lasting relationship lies in exotic spices clandestinely applied, to predictable routines, suggesting each couple seeking to spend their lives together must cultivate their own specific spices, in order to one day consistently dine, on soul sustaining, reliable za.
Or burgers and fries perhaps.
Of course, for those who aren't conjugally attired, there's the sure and steady unaltered motivating self-sustaining idiosyncratic impulses that improvisationally choose random novel cherished inspirations.
As rewarding as the daily paper, or a glass of red wine before bed, sometimes Dale Cooper's daily treat is just something you love to do every day, regardless of wedded or solitary bliss, that for some reason never grows tiresome, and endearingly augments daily tasks accomplished.
Hot mustard perhaps?
The traditional clad in multivariable fuze?
There has to be a mutual understanding to at least try and make things work.
If you're so inclined.
As many people won't dispute.
Friday, November 15, 2019
Matthias & Maxime
Friends gather to celebrate life within secluded surroundings, artistic expression boldly reconstituting unspoken sublimated desire, an accord harmlessly struck, a shock recomposed endeavours, worst case in light of expectations, shy protests crafting haunts.
A return to urban routines, mild vast driven stoked responsibilities, one friend making ends meet in a bar, another focused on strict legalese.
Not that simple, neither cradled nor binary, distinct multiple clasped characterizations, intermingling nuanced intermediaries, conscious delegates a crew a neighbourhood.
Young adult cultural instinct, twenty something perspicacious reflexivity, not the fight like I've come to understand it, less jagged, less aggressive, less blunt.
A son struggles to take care of a parent who's recovering from drug addiction.
Lofty heights beckon as a visitor hails difference.
Lighthearted yet solemn and serious.
Exploration, presumption, discovery.
Matthias & Maxime, Xavier Dolan's latest, more in touch with something real, less volatile than Mommy or Tom à la ferme, but more impacting than Fin du monde or John F. Donovan.
I was hoping he'd make a film like this, a transition to something new, not that similar themes don't abound, it's just less wild, less chaotic, less psycho.
He does psycho well, but it started to seem like most of his films were going to be about nutters expressing themselves violently, so it's nice to see something laidback and chill, something relatable, something frisky, something calm.
It's not bourgeois by any means, although it has sure and steady elements, his characters still struggling to define themselves even if they aren't concerned with identity politics.
Exist is perhaps a better word, the film's concerned with thoughtful experimental existence, as threadbare as it is brisk and versatile, quite practical for something so imaginative.
I mean there aren't many bells and whistles, its sets more quotidian, less ornately endowed, characters spiritually composed and thriving in clever situations that don't overtly display intellect, don't draw attention to their value-added observations, just converse like they aren't trying to say something, the western character for example.
Matthias & Maxime (don't like the title) opens up fertile narrative ground that no other filmmaker is traversing, that can't be as easily criticized for being over the top, and requires more hands-on subtle innovations.
Still bet he could make one hell of a horror film.
Note: Québec could use more sci-fi.
It's great to watch films made by directors who care about their characters.
And work sympathy into their stories.
Introducing unexpected impulse.
Solid grizzled and gritty romanticism.
A return to urban routines, mild vast driven stoked responsibilities, one friend making ends meet in a bar, another focused on strict legalese.
Not that simple, neither cradled nor binary, distinct multiple clasped characterizations, intermingling nuanced intermediaries, conscious delegates a crew a neighbourhood.
Young adult cultural instinct, twenty something perspicacious reflexivity, not the fight like I've come to understand it, less jagged, less aggressive, less blunt.
A son struggles to take care of a parent who's recovering from drug addiction.
Lofty heights beckon as a visitor hails difference.
Lighthearted yet solemn and serious.
Exploration, presumption, discovery.
Matthias & Maxime, Xavier Dolan's latest, more in touch with something real, less volatile than Mommy or Tom à la ferme, but more impacting than Fin du monde or John F. Donovan.
I was hoping he'd make a film like this, a transition to something new, not that similar themes don't abound, it's just less wild, less chaotic, less psycho.
He does psycho well, but it started to seem like most of his films were going to be about nutters expressing themselves violently, so it's nice to see something laidback and chill, something relatable, something frisky, something calm.
It's not bourgeois by any means, although it has sure and steady elements, his characters still struggling to define themselves even if they aren't concerned with identity politics.
Exist is perhaps a better word, the film's concerned with thoughtful experimental existence, as threadbare as it is brisk and versatile, quite practical for something so imaginative.
I mean there aren't many bells and whistles, its sets more quotidian, less ornately endowed, characters spiritually composed and thriving in clever situations that don't overtly display intellect, don't draw attention to their value-added observations, just converse like they aren't trying to say something, the western character for example.
Matthias & Maxime (don't like the title) opens up fertile narrative ground that no other filmmaker is traversing, that can't be as easily criticized for being over the top, and requires more hands-on subtle innovations.
Still bet he could make one hell of a horror film.
Note: Québec could use more sci-fi.
It's great to watch films made by directors who care about their characters.
And work sympathy into their stories.
Introducing unexpected impulse.
Solid grizzled and gritty romanticism.
Tuesday, November 12, 2019
The Death and Life of John F. Donovan
A child reaches out to his favourite television star, and as fate would have it, he amicably responds.
Years later, transformed into an assertive young man, the fan discusses their correspondence with a none-too-keen reporter.
For something as innocent as a literary exchange, frail controversy abounds, the boy's life at school assailed, the star denying any involvement.
He was transitioning at the time to augmented cultured renown, replete with haywire strained theatrics, and their accompanying dis/enchantments.
As isolated feelings shocked and enervated, he became increasingly fraught and torn.
Both troubled penpals engage in heated exchanges with their mothers, youthful angst exploding, less dramatic knots unnerving.
Neither quite at home yet settled.
Pronounced and blunt misgivings.
The Death and Life of John F. Donovan tills new mainstream ground, its innovative form both strength and weakness, as thought duels with emotive viscerals.
Impassioned feeling erupts at times, defined by aggrieved adolescence, and it makes an impact inasmuch as it startles, and critiques with unhinged fury.
These scenes aptly reflect wild destructive rage, and they make dismal embittered sense, and they're rarely encountered with such derisive vehemence, like sure sighted succinct storms.
When I think about the scenes, their style indeed seems quite well-chosen, especially if you've ever lost or seen someone lose your/their temper, and let loose vitriolic condemnation.
But they're a classic example of honest hands-on realism clashing with deceptive fantasy, insofar as the raw echoing sincerity doesn't fit the upscale production.
I can't criticize them for being histrionic because the situations they dispute are akin to exaggeration, but it's still discomforting to watch as they shriek and tantrum, and the poor mother looks on despondent.
Dolan's arguably a master of such scenes and it's nice to see they weren't held back, to see him workin' his style pseudo-studio, and I'm wondering if a rushed schedule left him directing in haste, because his more independent features capture such frenzies with ironic delicacy, and leave you overwhelmed with comatose disbelief.
A learning experience.
A stepping stone.
Who knows what happened here?
It's a cool enough story that's super melodramatic.
But the abrupt pace lacks the composure of his earlier work.
So it depends on how you like your melodrama.
I like refined melodramatic ridiculousness.
Missed the boat on John F. Donovan I'm afraid.
Years later, transformed into an assertive young man, the fan discusses their correspondence with a none-too-keen reporter.
For something as innocent as a literary exchange, frail controversy abounds, the boy's life at school assailed, the star denying any involvement.
He was transitioning at the time to augmented cultured renown, replete with haywire strained theatrics, and their accompanying dis/enchantments.
As isolated feelings shocked and enervated, he became increasingly fraught and torn.
Both troubled penpals engage in heated exchanges with their mothers, youthful angst exploding, less dramatic knots unnerving.
Neither quite at home yet settled.
Pronounced and blunt misgivings.
The Death and Life of John F. Donovan tills new mainstream ground, its innovative form both strength and weakness, as thought duels with emotive viscerals.
Impassioned feeling erupts at times, defined by aggrieved adolescence, and it makes an impact inasmuch as it startles, and critiques with unhinged fury.
These scenes aptly reflect wild destructive rage, and they make dismal embittered sense, and they're rarely encountered with such derisive vehemence, like sure sighted succinct storms.
When I think about the scenes, their style indeed seems quite well-chosen, especially if you've ever lost or seen someone lose your/their temper, and let loose vitriolic condemnation.
But they're a classic example of honest hands-on realism clashing with deceptive fantasy, insofar as the raw echoing sincerity doesn't fit the upscale production.
I can't criticize them for being histrionic because the situations they dispute are akin to exaggeration, but it's still discomforting to watch as they shriek and tantrum, and the poor mother looks on despondent.
Dolan's arguably a master of such scenes and it's nice to see they weren't held back, to see him workin' his style pseudo-studio, and I'm wondering if a rushed schedule left him directing in haste, because his more independent features capture such frenzies with ironic delicacy, and leave you overwhelmed with comatose disbelief.
A learning experience.
A stepping stone.
Who knows what happened here?
It's a cool enough story that's super melodramatic.
But the abrupt pace lacks the composure of his earlier work.
So it depends on how you like your melodrama.
I like refined melodramatic ridiculousness.
Missed the boat on John F. Donovan I'm afraid.
Friday, November 8, 2019
Diqiu zuihou de yewan (Long Day's Journey into Night)
Anxieties of the inconsequential reimagine derelict desires, as guilt and a lack of purpose approach disdained oblivion.
Time to recollect, take stock, rediscover, make amends, recapture to crisply qualify, invigorate verbose loose ends.
Down the line, burlap breadcrumbs, wayward whispers coaxed, reclassified, far more questions than awkward answers, far more mystery than concrete clues, a fountainhead dissembling rations, the tracks followed arresting news.
What things were like when it seemed invincible, when life thrilled with chaotic refrain, as if freedom were nimbly tangible, disseminating secreted exclaim.
Ironclad substantial remonstrance disrupting carefree joys, bittersweet and bumptious longing, thick glacial abeyance.
Luo Hongwu (Jue Huang) navigates vague memories to adjust and define a feeling he can't recall, as if there's something ecstatically slumbering within exhaled mnemonic mists.
But the path isn't viscid or binding, there's still room for alternative flair, perhaps since the shoreline's receding, he's finally found something there.
Labyrinthine waking dream.
Not as unconscious as Bergman or Lynch, but still more surreal than shocked or cerebral, Gan Bi's Diqiu zuihou de yewan (Long Day's Journey into Night) reminisces to invoke cheer, without revealing aims or objectives.
There's a narrative, a story, but it's broken up like a cryptic jigsaw, with striking flashbacks that emerge unbidden, which winds clarify with mortal gravity.
Like a series of vignettes prevailingly bizarre, you can agilely pick and choose your favourites, then comatosely piece them together, with variable enlightening savour.
It approaches the macabre but never loses sight of the real, or at least what I've come to associate with logic, keeping rooted yet ready to blast off, like scaled traditional tracks mutating.
Search for the lost kernel.
Diversify breadth lengthwise.
Keep your mind active and open.
Feel free to lose sight of your goal.
*Not if you're playing professional sports.
There are shades of Inception artistically interwoven within, to keep you dislodged and uncertain, without structured definitive gains.
Have to start somewhere though, it's verifiable, at some point you have to write those first words, phrases, sentences, with some sort of goal in mind perhaps, that's bound to conjure innumerable alternatives.
Endemically.
Good companion film for Inception or Lost Highway.
I stand by my use of the word "cheer".
Time to recollect, take stock, rediscover, make amends, recapture to crisply qualify, invigorate verbose loose ends.
Down the line, burlap breadcrumbs, wayward whispers coaxed, reclassified, far more questions than awkward answers, far more mystery than concrete clues, a fountainhead dissembling rations, the tracks followed arresting news.
What things were like when it seemed invincible, when life thrilled with chaotic refrain, as if freedom were nimbly tangible, disseminating secreted exclaim.
Ironclad substantial remonstrance disrupting carefree joys, bittersweet and bumptious longing, thick glacial abeyance.
Luo Hongwu (Jue Huang) navigates vague memories to adjust and define a feeling he can't recall, as if there's something ecstatically slumbering within exhaled mnemonic mists.
But the path isn't viscid or binding, there's still room for alternative flair, perhaps since the shoreline's receding, he's finally found something there.
Labyrinthine waking dream.
Not as unconscious as Bergman or Lynch, but still more surreal than shocked or cerebral, Gan Bi's Diqiu zuihou de yewan (Long Day's Journey into Night) reminisces to invoke cheer, without revealing aims or objectives.
There's a narrative, a story, but it's broken up like a cryptic jigsaw, with striking flashbacks that emerge unbidden, which winds clarify with mortal gravity.
Like a series of vignettes prevailingly bizarre, you can agilely pick and choose your favourites, then comatosely piece them together, with variable enlightening savour.
It approaches the macabre but never loses sight of the real, or at least what I've come to associate with logic, keeping rooted yet ready to blast off, like scaled traditional tracks mutating.
Search for the lost kernel.
Diversify breadth lengthwise.
Keep your mind active and open.
Feel free to lose sight of your goal.
*Not if you're playing professional sports.
There are shades of Inception artistically interwoven within, to keep you dislodged and uncertain, without structured definitive gains.
Have to start somewhere though, it's verifiable, at some point you have to write those first words, phrases, sentences, with some sort of goal in mind perhaps, that's bound to conjure innumerable alternatives.
Endemically.
Good companion film for Inception or Lost Highway.
I stand by my use of the word "cheer".
Tuesday, November 5, 2019
Zombieland: Double Tap
Zombies continue to terrify the living and have even grimly mutated in the ravenous Double Tap.
Rules and regulations still provide psychoshelter as predictable routines and collegial cheer augment feisty brainiac exhilarations.
The new zombies fall into 4 categories, none more deadly than the T-800, who can dodge bullets and employ martial arts, with more ferocity than the agile ninja.
While hunting insatiably en masse.
Or scouring the land strict and solo.
Zombieland's heroes have resiliently returned to face the undead once more, but youth has blossomed with age, and seeks less old school jejune internships.
And after argumentatively co-existing for combative years on end, group members set out in search of riled alternatives.
Like bears opposed to sleuthing.
Uplifting independence, unpasteurized brays.
If you've forgotten what took place in the original, fret not, for you will be reminded, about so much of what transpired in fact, exceeding recourse to novel genealogy.
And somehow, even though the internet has lost its edge, and most of the planet has been infected, news still travels remarkably fast, and stats still motivate restless recollections.
Without maps or GPS peeps travel instinctively far and wide, always aware of where they're going, often sticking to backwoods paths.
The next generation has yet to materialize but good relations remain free from censure, and even conjugally express their bold rewards, extant shenanigans of a secular age.
Non-perishables uphold and sustain commercial values, and nothing seems to have run out after all this perilous time.
Platonically speaking, healthy appetite flourishes unrestrained, the loyal spirit still courageously defending a laid-back immured intelligentsia.
Who peacefully refrain.
With warm impassioned jouissance.
There are some new developments and I won't deny that it's fun to watch, but Zombieland 2 still relies too heavily on source material, and makes way less sense so many years later.
I suppose a zombie horror-comedy sequel doesn't have to abound with plausibility.
But its focus on rules still rationally suggests otherwise.
A bit too much spirit.
Not enough strategy.
Effervescent clandestine innocence.
Free to fluster, exile, array.
Rules and regulations still provide psychoshelter as predictable routines and collegial cheer augment feisty brainiac exhilarations.
The new zombies fall into 4 categories, none more deadly than the T-800, who can dodge bullets and employ martial arts, with more ferocity than the agile ninja.
While hunting insatiably en masse.
Or scouring the land strict and solo.
Zombieland's heroes have resiliently returned to face the undead once more, but youth has blossomed with age, and seeks less old school jejune internships.
And after argumentatively co-existing for combative years on end, group members set out in search of riled alternatives.
Like bears opposed to sleuthing.
Uplifting independence, unpasteurized brays.
If you've forgotten what took place in the original, fret not, for you will be reminded, about so much of what transpired in fact, exceeding recourse to novel genealogy.
And somehow, even though the internet has lost its edge, and most of the planet has been infected, news still travels remarkably fast, and stats still motivate restless recollections.
Without maps or GPS peeps travel instinctively far and wide, always aware of where they're going, often sticking to backwoods paths.
The next generation has yet to materialize but good relations remain free from censure, and even conjugally express their bold rewards, extant shenanigans of a secular age.
Non-perishables uphold and sustain commercial values, and nothing seems to have run out after all this perilous time.
Platonically speaking, healthy appetite flourishes unrestrained, the loyal spirit still courageously defending a laid-back immured intelligentsia.
Who peacefully refrain.
With warm impassioned jouissance.
There are some new developments and I won't deny that it's fun to watch, but Zombieland 2 still relies too heavily on source material, and makes way less sense so many years later.
I suppose a zombie horror-comedy sequel doesn't have to abound with plausibility.
But its focus on rules still rationally suggests otherwise.
A bit too much spirit.
Not enough strategy.
Effervescent clandestine innocence.
Free to fluster, exile, array.
Friday, November 1, 2019
The Lighthouse
Strict definitions classifying purpose, semantic utility assessed disfavour, forlorn yet productive acclimatized assertions, grim dismal chortling lugubrity, solar solace sequestered soliloquy, new days dawning in spectral quotes, quibbles quays seaside haze interrogative, must abide, attuned dactyl duties, caught up unaware, latent anger irascible breeze, Unicron scribbled courtly disclosure, endemic disputes surveyed frayed delirium, albeit the shock teeter totters and sways, as incumbent reason fritters away, the boundaries dividing labours concoct, dependable shaved categorical flocks.
Uplifted.
Upheld.
Within Robert Eggers's The Lighthouse.
Wherein legend and superstition frenetically fuze, with old school and ancient praised biblical dues, no comment no quarter no quarry no flight, just master and slave excavating the night.
A friend. A drinking buddy. Not so shy. Not so supple.
Who creates the casts and codes and who then seeks authoritative clarification?
To yield invokes oblivion.
To provoke kindles madness.
Yield provoke, yield provoke, yield provoke, yield provoke.
Resigned inarticulate fever promulgating brands upon brains, the dreamlike hierarchical breakdown dishevelled unfathomed treatise, stately astute confined delineations ill-prepared for potent protest, reproachful uninspired lamentation ill-equipped to lead to follow.
The film locks you down in sombre isolation, presents setting and character, inaugurates daily routine.
But how well can a film with only 2 characters tightly hold itself together for 109 minutes?
It starts off bored, slowly becomes more bleak, then increasingly dire, before settling for full-on nutso.
Fortunately time and care were taken with this one; I'm wondering if there'll be Oscar nominations?
Willem Dafoe is outstanding.
It's tough to tear yourself away, immersed in fog and storm, distressing syntheses hemorrhaging detail.
Like Lucy in the Sky, it sides with the straight and narrow, not without critiquing caprice, or hauntingly assailing rule.
Should have never touched a drop.
Should have kept it real notwithstanding.
A tragedy if you consider how easy it must have been.
To just not be a dick.
Relax.
Extrinsically.
*What's with the details? They give everything away.
Uplifted.
Upheld.
Within Robert Eggers's The Lighthouse.
Wherein legend and superstition frenetically fuze, with old school and ancient praised biblical dues, no comment no quarter no quarry no flight, just master and slave excavating the night.
A friend. A drinking buddy. Not so shy. Not so supple.
Who creates the casts and codes and who then seeks authoritative clarification?
To yield invokes oblivion.
To provoke kindles madness.
Yield provoke, yield provoke, yield provoke, yield provoke.
Resigned inarticulate fever promulgating brands upon brains, the dreamlike hierarchical breakdown dishevelled unfathomed treatise, stately astute confined delineations ill-prepared for potent protest, reproachful uninspired lamentation ill-equipped to lead to follow.
The film locks you down in sombre isolation, presents setting and character, inaugurates daily routine.
But how well can a film with only 2 characters tightly hold itself together for 109 minutes?
It starts off bored, slowly becomes more bleak, then increasingly dire, before settling for full-on nutso.
Fortunately time and care were taken with this one; I'm wondering if there'll be Oscar nominations?
Willem Dafoe is outstanding.
It's tough to tear yourself away, immersed in fog and storm, distressing syntheses hemorrhaging detail.
Like Lucy in the Sky, it sides with the straight and narrow, not without critiquing caprice, or hauntingly assailing rule.
Should have never touched a drop.
Should have kept it real notwithstanding.
A tragedy if you consider how easy it must have been.
To just not be a dick.
Relax.
Extrinsically.
*What's with the details? They give everything away.
Tuesday, October 29, 2019
Joker
A confused man who struggles to fit in suddenly responds with unhinged fury, to those who snidely provoke him.
He tries to socialize at work, to enjoy the friendly influence of camaraderie, but is attuned to a different wavelength that pushes others swiftly away.
He sees a psychiatrist on a regular basis to air grievances and seek shelter, but she's ill-equipped to deal with his issues and their encounters increase his frustration.
Before budget cuts bring them to an abrupt end.
He goes off his meds and starts researching his past after reading a letter written by his mother (Frances Conroy as Penny Fleck) to Bruce Wayne's father (Brett Cullen).
And as the woe disparagingly intensifies, he embraces reckless spleen, proceeding wild-eyed and menacing, with neither recourse nor path nor guilt.
Gotham's elite have developed an unsympathetic attitude regarding its impoverished citizens, who find solace in the Joker's (Joaquin Phoenix) rampage.
The result is incredibly bleak.
As despondent as it is abandoned.
A dangerous film, this Joker, released at the worst of times.
Characters like the Joker are often exceptions are they not?, but in recent decades the U.S has seen so much distressing carnage.
Joker could easily be dismissed if it wasn't so well done, and didn't reach such a wild wide audience.
Compassion abounds for the Joker within.
And Batman's father's a condescending jerk.
From the perspective of film, it's easily the best comic book movie, like mainstream tragic arthouse psychological horror abounding with sensitive emotion.
Not just sensational superheroes predictably poised and pouncing, Joker leaves behind both razzle and dazzle to distill nocturnal desperation.
You feel for him as he daydreams, as his explanations are dismissed at work, as he makes friends with a neighbour down the hall, as he traces the roots of his identity.
Perhaps nothing will come of it.
Perhaps people harbouring dark thoughts will see the horrifying nature of their outcomes and be emphatically deterred, like parents who teach children to respect alcohol by getting them drunk, school of hard knocksy pedagogical bedlam.
But hopefully people like Bruce Wayne or his father, people occupying positions of power in the U.S, will consider a more equitable distribution of wealth, and uphold institutions which aid the unfortunate.
It's not perfect in Canada and Québec, Britain, France or Ireland, but there is much less violence, according to Michael Moore's films.
Because these countries have elites who care about the unfortunate, like Bernie Sanders.
And encourage them to be productive team members.
Much harder to own your own weapons too.
Less idealistic.
Much more practical.
He tries to socialize at work, to enjoy the friendly influence of camaraderie, but is attuned to a different wavelength that pushes others swiftly away.
He sees a psychiatrist on a regular basis to air grievances and seek shelter, but she's ill-equipped to deal with his issues and their encounters increase his frustration.
Before budget cuts bring them to an abrupt end.
He goes off his meds and starts researching his past after reading a letter written by his mother (Frances Conroy as Penny Fleck) to Bruce Wayne's father (Brett Cullen).
And as the woe disparagingly intensifies, he embraces reckless spleen, proceeding wild-eyed and menacing, with neither recourse nor path nor guilt.
Gotham's elite have developed an unsympathetic attitude regarding its impoverished citizens, who find solace in the Joker's (Joaquin Phoenix) rampage.
The result is incredibly bleak.
As despondent as it is abandoned.
A dangerous film, this Joker, released at the worst of times.
Characters like the Joker are often exceptions are they not?, but in recent decades the U.S has seen so much distressing carnage.
Joker could easily be dismissed if it wasn't so well done, and didn't reach such a wild wide audience.
Compassion abounds for the Joker within.
And Batman's father's a condescending jerk.
From the perspective of film, it's easily the best comic book movie, like mainstream tragic arthouse psychological horror abounding with sensitive emotion.
Not just sensational superheroes predictably poised and pouncing, Joker leaves behind both razzle and dazzle to distill nocturnal desperation.
You feel for him as he daydreams, as his explanations are dismissed at work, as he makes friends with a neighbour down the hall, as he traces the roots of his identity.
Perhaps nothing will come of it.
Perhaps people harbouring dark thoughts will see the horrifying nature of their outcomes and be emphatically deterred, like parents who teach children to respect alcohol by getting them drunk, school of hard knocksy pedagogical bedlam.
But hopefully people like Bruce Wayne or his father, people occupying positions of power in the U.S, will consider a more equitable distribution of wealth, and uphold institutions which aid the unfortunate.
It's not perfect in Canada and Québec, Britain, France or Ireland, but there is much less violence, according to Michael Moore's films.
Because these countries have elites who care about the unfortunate, like Bernie Sanders.
And encourage them to be productive team members.
Much harder to own your own weapons too.
Less idealistic.
Much more practical.
Friday, October 25, 2019
Lucy in the Sky
The mind-blowing levitations of supersonic space travel leave go-getting astronaut Lucy (Natalie Portman) high and dry.
Overwhelmed by joyous reckoning astronomically substantiated, she can't readjust to terrestrial tremens and slips up where she once shone.
Asked to join a prestigious club well-attuned to astral planes, she spares time she's never had for spontaneous acts forbidden.
Coaxed on by hulking brawn, which opportunistically sways euphoric, she soon embraces chance, deception, caught up with gracious praise.
Ill-equipped to negotiate raw emotion, while making snap judgments which make things worse, psychosis dawns and fiercely beckons, she's never lost, can't let go, recede.
He is a huge tool (Jon Hamm as Mark Goodwin) who must haven known something like this would happen.
Eventually.
A lot of people live this way though.
If it's not your style, best leave it alone.
Especially if you're prone to obsession.
Lucy's prone in Lucy in the Sky and the results are grim yet fascinating, the whole world innovating unaware, a moment's slack mind-melded menace.
It's like the film's critiquing drug abuse in a way, but rather than deride narcotics, it looks at post-ecstatic stress, if that's a thing, I've never heard of it.
Adulterous sensations reinvigorate the high, but then lead to stark addiction, that's destructive, by and by.
If the other's unresponsive.
Natalie Portman's revitalizing her career by portraying elite achievement recklessly abandoned, her roles rich with intense emotion as they wildly yearn and contemplate.
There's a mystical element in Lucy in the Sky that could have been explored with more depth, as if travelling in space gives Lucy superhuman power, its unknown effects increasing the tension, but it's left behind with vengeful cause.
Perhaps watching as she slowly developed superpowers would have been cheesier than seeing loss drive her mad, although not necessarily so, depending on narrative finesse (even an idea that seems fated to be incredibly cheesy may not turn out so if crafted with thought and care).
Sad to see such an accomplished woman self-destruct so, nevertheless.
A warning to stick to the path you've chosen.
And beware of sedate sensation.
*Of course, who knows, who knows what path to follow, perhaps best not to even consider it, honestly. I find that when change gradually occurs it's less disruptive in terms of serious things like relationships, unlike choosing a restaurant, or a film to go see.
**Bananas.
***Grapes.
Overwhelmed by joyous reckoning astronomically substantiated, she can't readjust to terrestrial tremens and slips up where she once shone.
Asked to join a prestigious club well-attuned to astral planes, she spares time she's never had for spontaneous acts forbidden.
Coaxed on by hulking brawn, which opportunistically sways euphoric, she soon embraces chance, deception, caught up with gracious praise.
Ill-equipped to negotiate raw emotion, while making snap judgments which make things worse, psychosis dawns and fiercely beckons, she's never lost, can't let go, recede.
He is a huge tool (Jon Hamm as Mark Goodwin) who must haven known something like this would happen.
Eventually.
A lot of people live this way though.
If it's not your style, best leave it alone.
Especially if you're prone to obsession.
Lucy's prone in Lucy in the Sky and the results are grim yet fascinating, the whole world innovating unaware, a moment's slack mind-melded menace.
It's like the film's critiquing drug abuse in a way, but rather than deride narcotics, it looks at post-ecstatic stress, if that's a thing, I've never heard of it.
Adulterous sensations reinvigorate the high, but then lead to stark addiction, that's destructive, by and by.
If the other's unresponsive.
Natalie Portman's revitalizing her career by portraying elite achievement recklessly abandoned, her roles rich with intense emotion as they wildly yearn and contemplate.
There's a mystical element in Lucy in the Sky that could have been explored with more depth, as if travelling in space gives Lucy superhuman power, its unknown effects increasing the tension, but it's left behind with vengeful cause.
Perhaps watching as she slowly developed superpowers would have been cheesier than seeing loss drive her mad, although not necessarily so, depending on narrative finesse (even an idea that seems fated to be incredibly cheesy may not turn out so if crafted with thought and care).
Sad to see such an accomplished woman self-destruct so, nevertheless.
A warning to stick to the path you've chosen.
And beware of sedate sensation.
*Of course, who knows, who knows what path to follow, perhaps best not to even consider it, honestly. I find that when change gradually occurs it's less disruptive in terms of serious things like relationships, unlike choosing a restaurant, or a film to go see.
**Bananas.
***Grapes.
Tuesday, October 22, 2019
Wo he wo de zu guo (My People, My Country)
Wo he wo de zu guo (My People, My Country) celebrates significant events that have taken place in China in recent years.
7 events in fact, each brought to life by different directors and writers, courageous stories elevating community and teamwork, the ways in which people forge the backbone of any nation, and how every story, no matter how small, has a role to play in refining plot and character.
As I was watching these gifted filmmakers tell their compelling tales, I couldn't help but wonder about significant Canadian and Québecois events that have helped me to define my personal fluctuating conception of the Canadian and Québecois identity?
Here's a look at the top 7.
Presented in no particular order.
Except the first one.
The last spike: must have been strange way back when in Canada and Québec when there weren't many roads and certainly no cars or airplanes. A bunch of super tough hombres cleared a path from coast to coast over the years, however, and created Canada and Québec's first railway. I doubt many people took the train to B.C back then, it's still prohibitively expensive to travel there, but the colonies were nevertheless linked, which helped generate imagination, travel was at least possible if not probable, and various goods could be interprovincially exchanged. Not bad.
Hydro-Québec: I love living in a nation province that has no nuclear reactors, the radioactive waste generated by such means a health hazard for millennia to come. Québec had the rivers and the will to dam them up and they now provide vital clean power and energy to millions. The sale of Québecois power to neighbouring jurisdictions is quite the cash cow as well. I understand there are environmental impacts. But they're nothing compared to nuclear fallout.
Universal Healthcare: having learned about how horrible it can be to live in a country that doesn't provide universal healthcare, I'll always cherish the fact that everyone has access to medicine in Canada and Québec (brought about by a Liberal/NDP coalition I've heard!). Could you imagine working hard and saving throughout your entire life while raising a family only to find you lost everything and still couldn't afford to pay your medical bills because you got sick? It often happens in the United States. Thank God it rarely happens here.
The Charter of Rights and Freedoms: whole lotta freedom worked into this document. A brilliant stroke of ethical thought, masterfully illuminating post-World War II reckonings.
The Nature of Things: I loved watching The Nature of Things as a kid and was borderline ecstatic when I realized it was still on 15 years later, and had become even more diverse and relevant. You never really know what the next episode's going to be about; it's constantly updating its playbook. Solid, hard-hitting, impacting informative journalism, freely broadcast on the CBC, as incredible in middle-age as it is during childhood, a national treasure often overlooked.
The CFL: my favourite sport's football and I love our version of the game. Only having three downs makes every first all the more precious, the wider field invigorates special teams, the 20 yard end zone adds to the excitement, and who knows when someone will win by a rouge. It would be cool to see the league expand in upcoming years as our population continues to increase. Québec City could use a team. I'm also thinking about ye olde Brampton.
The French Canadian Essay: write what you will but don't expect big things. Appreciate what you've got. Don't be afraid to share an opinion.
The Winters may be long but it's a paradise in Summer.
A wonderful country we've collectively created.
This old school Northern Canada and Québec.
Not so bad when you think about it.
Could use speed trains like the ones in Europe.
😌
7 events in fact, each brought to life by different directors and writers, courageous stories elevating community and teamwork, the ways in which people forge the backbone of any nation, and how every story, no matter how small, has a role to play in refining plot and character.
As I was watching these gifted filmmakers tell their compelling tales, I couldn't help but wonder about significant Canadian and Québecois events that have helped me to define my personal fluctuating conception of the Canadian and Québecois identity?
Here's a look at the top 7.
Presented in no particular order.
Except the first one.
The last spike: must have been strange way back when in Canada and Québec when there weren't many roads and certainly no cars or airplanes. A bunch of super tough hombres cleared a path from coast to coast over the years, however, and created Canada and Québec's first railway. I doubt many people took the train to B.C back then, it's still prohibitively expensive to travel there, but the colonies were nevertheless linked, which helped generate imagination, travel was at least possible if not probable, and various goods could be interprovincially exchanged. Not bad.
Hydro-Québec: I love living in a nation province that has no nuclear reactors, the radioactive waste generated by such means a health hazard for millennia to come. Québec had the rivers and the will to dam them up and they now provide vital clean power and energy to millions. The sale of Québecois power to neighbouring jurisdictions is quite the cash cow as well. I understand there are environmental impacts. But they're nothing compared to nuclear fallout.
Universal Healthcare: having learned about how horrible it can be to live in a country that doesn't provide universal healthcare, I'll always cherish the fact that everyone has access to medicine in Canada and Québec (brought about by a Liberal/NDP coalition I've heard!). Could you imagine working hard and saving throughout your entire life while raising a family only to find you lost everything and still couldn't afford to pay your medical bills because you got sick? It often happens in the United States. Thank God it rarely happens here.
The Charter of Rights and Freedoms: whole lotta freedom worked into this document. A brilliant stroke of ethical thought, masterfully illuminating post-World War II reckonings.
The Nature of Things: I loved watching The Nature of Things as a kid and was borderline ecstatic when I realized it was still on 15 years later, and had become even more diverse and relevant. You never really know what the next episode's going to be about; it's constantly updating its playbook. Solid, hard-hitting, impacting informative journalism, freely broadcast on the CBC, as incredible in middle-age as it is during childhood, a national treasure often overlooked.
The CFL: my favourite sport's football and I love our version of the game. Only having three downs makes every first all the more precious, the wider field invigorates special teams, the 20 yard end zone adds to the excitement, and who knows when someone will win by a rouge. It would be cool to see the league expand in upcoming years as our population continues to increase. Québec City could use a team. I'm also thinking about ye olde Brampton.
The French Canadian Essay: write what you will but don't expect big things. Appreciate what you've got. Don't be afraid to share an opinion.
The Winters may be long but it's a paradise in Summer.
A wonderful country we've collectively created.
This old school Northern Canada and Québec.
Not so bad when you think about it.
Could use speed trains like the ones in Europe.
😌
Friday, October 18, 2019
Downtown Abbey
I suppose I may have once had harsher words for a film about servants desperate to humour British royalty, inasmuch as they don't seem to have much leisure time, and there's no mention of rights or unions.
In fact they don't seem to have any time off at all, and serve altruistically day and night, the demanding nature of their age old situation less amenable to ye olde 9 to 5, any questions of an alternative lifestyle, absent from the master narrative.
I'm unfamiliar with the series so I don't know if they receive adequate wages, and if you're ever thinking about forming a union it's always best to consider whether or not it will bankrupt your employers, but if the idle rich can't afford to pay a decent salary, who can?, and Downtown's nobles don't seem to be working that hard.
Of course they have their own dainty way of labouring, comparatively, which has more to do with socializing and planning events than sweeping or dishwashing, and since a significant proportion of the population expects them to play these roles, handed down through the centuries, who I am to criticize them for doing so?
It's the democratic element you see which ironically uplifts the monarchy insofar as such traditions have just as much right to persevere as any other.
Their workers can still quit at any time should they find something lacking, or a better situation, although in many cases I imagine they strictly soldier on.
Due to the prestige they associate with their position, a bizarro rank and file reflection of aristocratic privilege, a phenomenon where one's proud to be of service to a duke or earl even if their quality of life's somewhat bland, for they imagine that others envy them, oddly enough, but then again, others actually do.
Covetously so.
I imagine serving the nobility must seem idyllic if you're serving the nouveau riche, if that's how you want to live your life (gaining status by association with a snotty clique), although I may be incorrect indeed, depending on how hip newfound wealth finds flex-time.
All I'm trying to say is that when you don't have many options you may settle for something snotty, who am I to judge?, and may even find it quite rewarding, depending on the character of your team.
The film does present a solid team equipped with full-time work by employers who don't hold them in contempt and do honestly listen to what they have to say.
Of course the idle rich don't have to sustain these networks, they could live much more modestly to be sure, but then thousands of people would be out of work, and the people who care about elite social activities would have to find other forms of media to entertain them.
So distressing, the items that trend on AppleNews.
As unimaginative as such pastimes may seem, a democratic conscience should try to tolerate them, assuming they don't imperialistically express themselves, or attempt to squash integral freedoms.
The world of Downtown Abbey is both resourceful and respectful.
Model worker/management relations.
Perhaps too prim and polished.
Remarkably cohesive bonds.
In fact they don't seem to have any time off at all, and serve altruistically day and night, the demanding nature of their age old situation less amenable to ye olde 9 to 5, any questions of an alternative lifestyle, absent from the master narrative.
I'm unfamiliar with the series so I don't know if they receive adequate wages, and if you're ever thinking about forming a union it's always best to consider whether or not it will bankrupt your employers, but if the idle rich can't afford to pay a decent salary, who can?, and Downtown's nobles don't seem to be working that hard.
Of course they have their own dainty way of labouring, comparatively, which has more to do with socializing and planning events than sweeping or dishwashing, and since a significant proportion of the population expects them to play these roles, handed down through the centuries, who I am to criticize them for doing so?
It's the democratic element you see which ironically uplifts the monarchy insofar as such traditions have just as much right to persevere as any other.
Their workers can still quit at any time should they find something lacking, or a better situation, although in many cases I imagine they strictly soldier on.
Due to the prestige they associate with their position, a bizarro rank and file reflection of aristocratic privilege, a phenomenon where one's proud to be of service to a duke or earl even if their quality of life's somewhat bland, for they imagine that others envy them, oddly enough, but then again, others actually do.
Covetously so.
I imagine serving the nobility must seem idyllic if you're serving the nouveau riche, if that's how you want to live your life (gaining status by association with a snotty clique), although I may be incorrect indeed, depending on how hip newfound wealth finds flex-time.
All I'm trying to say is that when you don't have many options you may settle for something snotty, who am I to judge?, and may even find it quite rewarding, depending on the character of your team.
The film does present a solid team equipped with full-time work by employers who don't hold them in contempt and do honestly listen to what they have to say.
Of course the idle rich don't have to sustain these networks, they could live much more modestly to be sure, but then thousands of people would be out of work, and the people who care about elite social activities would have to find other forms of media to entertain them.
So distressing, the items that trend on AppleNews.
As unimaginative as such pastimes may seem, a democratic conscience should try to tolerate them, assuming they don't imperialistically express themselves, or attempt to squash integral freedoms.
The world of Downtown Abbey is both resourceful and respectful.
Model worker/management relations.
Perhaps too prim and polished.
Remarkably cohesive bonds.
Tuesday, October 15, 2019
Abominable
The loss of a loved one drives an innocent youth to seek distraction through work, her bounteous labours distraught self-exclusion, her family concerned, her friends highly critical.
In the evenings, after refusing to sit down for a nice meal, she still regales the slumberous masses with passionate violin song, her emotions as tender as kitten cuddles, her insights conjuring tone, a melancholic im/material maestro, grieving through derelict soul.
One night a mind-boggling surprise timidly awaits her, for a frightened yeti has sought refuge on her rooftop, unaccustomed to concrete or chaos, yet abounding with love for music.
Yi (Chloe Bennet) soon realizes ne'er-do-wells are in hot pursuit, and adjusts her routine accordingly, to facilitate his agile escape, and embrace the forbidding unknown.
But not before friends discover what they're up to, and wind up hitching along for the ride.
There is a slight problem though, for they have to improvise their way from Shanghai to the Himalayas.
With those who would exploit them tracking their every move.
But sometimes risk engenders adventure, and uncertainty begets innovation, saturated with enriching magic, inventing wondrous epic reflex.
Rationally pitched through wild variety.
Blending novelty and convention.
The youngsters indeed strive to reach the legendary Himalayas in DreamWorks's jazzy Abominable, three youths and a gifted yeti cub, exercising latent imagination.
The skills they never knew they had.
The integrity they had been blindly overlooking.
Sometimes you need challenge to awaken vigour and voice, as Paul Atreides does in Dune, although it need not involve interplanetary conflict.
Build a cabinet.
Learn to make pasta from scratch.
It helps if your resolve or your team has recourse to magic, as the lads and lass and yeti do in Abominable, but you can always substitute the word "books" for "magic", and find myriad aids at your local library.
Or libraries if you travel.
Of course conflict demotivates and you need a thick skin to bounce back or continue to move forward, the kids in Abominable persevering against unfavourable odds, assisted by fortuitous transformations.
Perhaps their journey's too cozy, or lacking discombobulation, but it's still fun to watch as they swiftly outmanoeuvre, friendship and family esteemed on the fly.
They're interested in life and living, not cashing in on exploiting difference, and they do what they can to help the yeti regain freedom, proactively managing warm and friendly initiatives.
Inspiring depth.
Like the mysterious yeti.
*It would be nice to have a roommate who played the violin. Just sit back, read or write as he or she practices. That would be amazing.
**With a pet cat too.
In the evenings, after refusing to sit down for a nice meal, she still regales the slumberous masses with passionate violin song, her emotions as tender as kitten cuddles, her insights conjuring tone, a melancholic im/material maestro, grieving through derelict soul.
One night a mind-boggling surprise timidly awaits her, for a frightened yeti has sought refuge on her rooftop, unaccustomed to concrete or chaos, yet abounding with love for music.
Yi (Chloe Bennet) soon realizes ne'er-do-wells are in hot pursuit, and adjusts her routine accordingly, to facilitate his agile escape, and embrace the forbidding unknown.
But not before friends discover what they're up to, and wind up hitching along for the ride.
There is a slight problem though, for they have to improvise their way from Shanghai to the Himalayas.
With those who would exploit them tracking their every move.
But sometimes risk engenders adventure, and uncertainty begets innovation, saturated with enriching magic, inventing wondrous epic reflex.
Rationally pitched through wild variety.
Blending novelty and convention.
The youngsters indeed strive to reach the legendary Himalayas in DreamWorks's jazzy Abominable, three youths and a gifted yeti cub, exercising latent imagination.
The skills they never knew they had.
The integrity they had been blindly overlooking.
Sometimes you need challenge to awaken vigour and voice, as Paul Atreides does in Dune, although it need not involve interplanetary conflict.
Build a cabinet.
Learn to make pasta from scratch.
It helps if your resolve or your team has recourse to magic, as the lads and lass and yeti do in Abominable, but you can always substitute the word "books" for "magic", and find myriad aids at your local library.
Or libraries if you travel.
Of course conflict demotivates and you need a thick skin to bounce back or continue to move forward, the kids in Abominable persevering against unfavourable odds, assisted by fortuitous transformations.
Perhaps their journey's too cozy, or lacking discombobulation, but it's still fun to watch as they swiftly outmanoeuvre, friendship and family esteemed on the fly.
They're interested in life and living, not cashing in on exploiting difference, and they do what they can to help the yeti regain freedom, proactively managing warm and friendly initiatives.
Inspiring depth.
Like the mysterious yeti.
*It would be nice to have a roommate who played the violin. Just sit back, read or write as he or she practices. That would be amazing.
**With a pet cat too.
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