Aquarela

Recalcitrant rhythms resonantly radiating, extant titans in solace and storm.

Oceanic depths demonstrously reckoning, with iron clad rigour, tempestuous, torn.

Meaninglessness instantaneously manifested like unexpected irate judgment, lost in languorous indecipherable fathoms undulating 'cross sundry shivers, timbral shock declaring ubiquity unstable impacting environs, slow and steady primordial pace, intuitive galactic prayer.

Empirical algebraic reduction.

Coldly, chaotically, induced.

Windswept whispers elusively locked down glacial permanence reconcilable embrace, polar movements unpredictably sculpted, incessant vibes, transport routed.

Clues in/determinately emerge obscured in novel revelation, patterns, designs, coordinates, attuned in isolated drafts, unfiltered divined tidal blooms.

Forlorn physicist.

Iceberg embers.

Proceed with caution, with no definitive structure subsumed in sunstruck substance.

Perennial voyage, distinct discovery, august illusion, as a matter of fact.

Built up bulbous bewilderments belittlingly break free, unseasoned shards of dissonant longevity, set adrift to shyly spree.

Ride fickle withering waves in jagged awestruck miniature, your momentum erratically fissured, your contention like fitful shrouds.

Steering through known logical flux, carefree yet crucibly ground, raw pure unkempt asseveration, viscounted, inveterate, cortical.

Washed ashore.

So that the world would resign to forget what it's trying so hard to remember.

Ambrosia, aeronautic amnesia.

Synchronistically bound.

Viktor Kossakovsky takes impressive risks in Aquarela to film the unparalleled power of water.

Around the aqueous globe.

As it overflows with stubborn caprice.

And hesitantly taunts conception.

Voluminously.

Toy Story 4

Toy Story 4 takes a less menacing look at life beyond suburbia, as Woody (Tom Hanks) and the gang make friends with a new toy (Tony Hale as Forky) before heading out on an ill-defined road trip.

The new toy was created by Bonnie (Madeleine McGraw) during kindergarten orientation, and even though he now breathes life, he still seeks wide-eyed independence, with neither code-bound duty nor congregational chore, and one night he escapes, rashly jumping from a speedy camper's window, leaving loyal Woody no choice but to follow, to bring Bonnie back her most beloved possession.

But after locating Forky and encouraging him to return, he notices signs of a lost love in a local shop.

Hopeful to see how she's doing, and overwhelmed with feelings of good luck, he carefreely and quickly enters, only to discover envious misfortune.

For a doll whose voice box has never worked lies covetously waiting within, a doll who's never known the thrill of companionship, nor the love of enraptured being.

Woody's voice box still functions, and it's indeed a miraculous match, altercations maladroitly ensuing, Forky laid-back and none the wiser.

But Toy Story 4 isn't as traditional as its predecessor, there's room for change and compromise.

Bo (Annie Potts) shows Woody that life can flourish in the wild unknown, if one's attuned to wit and invention.

Times are tough for Woody, even if he's turned a blind eye.

He's not as popular as he was once was, and is sometimes left behind in the closet during playtime.

He's still as determined as ever, nevertheless, and does everything he can to delight little Bonnie, honourably exemplifying unyielding fidelity, in the pursuit of irrefutable happiness.

But there's also Bo, with whom he intuitively prospers, with a different kind of love he's never explored, in realms that could nurture alternative thought, where his exceeding talent could find new meaning.

Plus he's been loved throughout his entire existence, he's known the comforts of well-defined responsibility.

And understands that Gabby Gabby (Christina Hendricks) never has, even though she's ever so adorable.

Toy Story 4 considers identity in flux perhaps as its original youthful audience comes of age.

The film's still innocent enough for the next generation of youngsters, but also introduces mature thought for ye olde old school devotees.

I suppose if they saw the first Toy Story when they were 5 they'd be 29 now, so no. 4 may have been released a bit too late.

But so many young adults are living at home for so much longer these days, many who perhaps have never considered moving out.

With rents soaring sky high in many places, I can see why they've chosen to stay.

It's alright living at home a lot of the time too, if your lifestyle isn't too disruptive.

There's no clear path, no precisely defined pattern, just extremely confidant justifications for whatever path you've chosen.

Just gotta choose one and give 'er.

'Til something else comes along down the way.

*Loved Toy Story 4's Canadiana.

**And Buzz Lightyear's (Tim Allen) commanding inner voice.

Where'd You Go, Bernadette?

Crushed by a devastating thoughtless blow, a brilliant artist can no longer create, and although she finds solace in her loving daughter, and aloof husband, her interactions with neighbours and local professionals perspire maladroit dysfunction, and as time passes, repressed creative impulses manifest scorn, imaginatively characterized and robustly contorted, then transformed into bitter confrontation.

An old colleague (Laurence Fishburne as Paul Jellinek) explains how she's become a menace to society, with a particularly astute caricature, which cleverly outwits diagnoses and accusations, hits the nail on the head as it incisively were sir, observant synopses, regenerative calm.

But her husband's taken a more traditional route, and enlisted the aid of mainstream psychiatry, which does produce effective results at times, but is unfortunately ill-equipped for his wife's distemper.

It's a shame that he resorts to seeking outside help considering how strong their marriage appears earlier on in the film.

They're mutually supportive, they pleasantly talk to one another, they're both full of love for their daughter, they seem like a conjugal success.

But they've lost touch deep down, as some playful editing emphasizes, and even though they consistently converse, they do so without saying anything.

If they had just been talking to each other in the concurrent scenes.

Elgie's (Billy Crudup) 20 years of constant work have left him blind to his wife's grief, caused him to forget what she gave up long ago, that she needs outlets, projects, challenges.

Work.

Thankfully the film's quite level-headed even as locales switch to Antarctica.

It's a charming adventurous warm and friendly soul search that concentrates on understanding as it's refined by insightful youth.

Listening.

Where'd You Go, Bernadette? does air grievances as it diversifies Ms. Fox's (Cate Blanchett) portfolio, her exchanges with superkeen PTA neighbour Audrey (Kirsten Wiig) bearing disputatious fruit, her sharp dismissal of a curious admirer suggesting she could be somewhat less anti-social.

But she's totally not PTA, she isn't interested in textbook trajectories, she could likely write a book that no one would understand, with the same ingenious mischievousness found in Ulysses.

Categorically beyond expression, she's still devoted to her loving family, her daughter Bee's (Emma Nelson) sincerest bestie, she's grounded yet requires initiative.

Projects.

Their daughter teaches them to listen and because they're chill they hear what she's saying, finding fun working solutions down the road, realized with core resiliency.

The penguins and sea lions are worked in well.

They just kind of show up and aren't focused on with adoration.

Cutting back the rug to find the sprout is impressive.

As is Bernadette and Audrey's rapprochement.

A feel good family film that isn't cheesy or gross, Where'd You Go, Bernadette? remodels mature compassion.

It's a lot of fun too.

Can't wait to see it again.

Would have chosen a flavour instead of naming the dog Ice Cream (Inception). 😉

With Judy Greer (Dr. Kurtz [mainstream solutions are like Bernadette's Heart of Darkness?] and David Paymer (Jay Ross).

Stuber

The friend secretly absorbed with each and every amiable interaction, from the request for a ride to the desire for advice, overwhelmed with romantic longing, as futile as it is interminable.

The work obsessed dad blindly caught up in locked down affairs, his commitments demanding fidel ubiquity, a daughter used to absent-minded gruff brooding.

The blunt co-worker, in possession of more authority, who brands nicknames and thinks you love them, and revels in economic gloom.

Corruption on the force creating volatile deadly conflicts, needs for versatile flexibility, chaotic discredited isolation.

Vic Manning (Dave Bautista) still needs a ride.

And Stu (Kumail Nanjiani) is there to pejoratively provide one.

He's even recruited to take part in the action, and rapidly learns to take disturbed risks.

His protests register even if they're ignored, as leads are followed and clues deciphered.

Parenting and personal relationships introduce romantic distractions, as they briskly Uber around town, from one total disaster to the next.

In search of a monstrous killer.

Who's escaped Manning's clutches before.

Stuber crosses mild-mannered and hardboiled streams to track down supernatural malevolence, generously disputing in begrudged mismatch, reluctantly computing with forlorn self-sacrifice.

It's a bit far-fetched.

Stu has never fired a gun before and Vic can hardly see yet they outperform the competition with soul searching relative ease, the showdowns not as slapstick as they could have been, disbelief acutely shuddering in echo.

In order to suspend disbelief, situations should be genuinely ridiculous, and when they blend in too much realism, they disrespect fantasy and simply seem improbable.

Not cool improbable, improbable improbable.

Cool improbable like when Stu's ride blows up in the end.

Could have ran with that throughout.

Batista and Nanjiani work well together though, and it's fun to watch as they mindfully meld.

Stuber is another film where the nice guy learns to be manly by being forced to engage in violent combat, however, but the man's man also learns to be more of a nice guy by having to rely upon gentle grief within.

Which almost gets them killed at times, but works out well when they aren't battling, Manning eventually coming to terms with his past, then strengthening his relationship with his passionate daughter.

A bit too ra ra but slightly saved by an unlikely duo, Stuber's full of head shaking novelty, that wildly plays with contemporary phenomena.

Some laughs but of the "wow that must have hurt" variety, Stuber could make a cool Ride Along crossover, especially if they leave rationed reason far behind.

Majo no takkyȗbin (Kiki's Delivery Service)

Sometimes you get lucky.

I didn't find what I was looking for earlier this Summer when I went out to see Die kleine hexe (The Little Witch), but decided to see Majo no takkyȗbin (Kiki's Delivery Service) last week on a whim, and I'd be lying if I didn't say it was exactly what I'd been searching for, apart from the fact that it was released in 1989, and therefore lacking in contemporary applicability.

If it was indeed contemporary, it would have ideally and bewilderingly fit.

Not that I'm complaining.

Finding something in the present that produces an affect you cherished long ago reliably revels in enigmatic ecstasy, but finding something from the past that commensurately impresses, shouldn't be dismissed for ye olde bygone praise.

I'm reminded of people dismissing classic films because they aren't contemporary, the assumption being that the current moment must be the most advanced, because the arts evolve in an unerring progression.

I've tried to explain that the arts are more like a mutation, and that seminal works emerge at different intervals regardless of what mesmerized the past, or will dazzle the future, by citing several well known examples (Citizen Kane, Dr. Zhivago, Casablanca, Dr. Strangelove), and arguing passionately to the viable contrary.

I've never gotten very far, but it's true if you can wrap your head around it, although it was much easier to access classic films in my youth (many are available on Itunes) at what were called "video stores", where you went to rent movies, some of them having better collections than others, many of them wiped out as Blockbuster rose.

It's even hard to come by a film from back in the day that disseminates age old wonder, for I'm sure you've watched some of the beloved films of your youth in recent years, and found them lacking in tantalizing appeal.

Or you've streamed films you missed way back to reimmerse yourself within an old school aesthetic, and found some of the exemplars lacking in eccentric magnetism, or at least not as spellbinding as you had hoped they would be.

Majo no takkyȗbin (Kiki's Delivery Service) resonates with that innocent yet risk-fuelled ageless atemporal fluidity you find in Dickens and Proust however, as the little witch Kiki (Minami Takayama) heads out on her own, to build a life abounding in unchecked novelty.

With her wise contradictory cat Jiji (Rei Sakuma), who supplies grumpy yet pertinent commentary.

It's like otherworldly cool and alternative pluck were joyously yet controversially distilled to craft a regenerative narrative elixir, as intergenerational as it is unique, as wondrous as it is compelling.

I'll have to see every film crafted by Ghibli Studios I'm afraid, and share observations from time to time.

I could have just as easily seen something else that night.

Good fortune when that kind of thing happens.

The Farewell

A matriarch is stricken with illness, and a family overwhelmed with grief, but she isn't told of her dire affliction, to avoid distressing emotions of fear.

They decide to gather, back home in China, one brother having spent his life in Japan, the other far away in North America.

She's ecstatic to see them, even if her joy's somewhat reserved, everyone assembled to celebrate a wedding, the bride and groom full of flowing good cheer.

It's a bit of a shock.

They've only known each other three months.

But a sense of responsibility motivates their actions, and they play intergenerational ball, Grandma excited to cater and plan, dutiful reckonings, improvised romance.

Granddaughter Billi (Awkwafina) may blow it all though, for she's unaccustomed to hiding her feelings, her relatives hoping she won't attend, and spoil everything with distraught candour.

The Farewell invigorates familial concerns, thoughtfully composed honest observations, blending in harmless well-meaning lies, to uphold sincere age old integrity.

Within a specific context.

Fully aware of the pressures of truth.

The sons feel guilty for having left home, for having left their loving mom far behind. They didn't just leave for another city close by, they made their ways in far off foreign lands.

She's tough though, and doesn't critique or condemn, is rather proud of her children, who modestly succeeded in the great wild unknown.

Grievances aren't absent from the film, in fact they're aired with heartfelt lucidity, less obsessed with who's right or wrong, than acknowledging tension to facilitate healing.

Perhaps they are just a little obsessed with who's right, but their mutual remorseful feelings betray unsure convictions, their conversations relieving pent up grief, embraced maturely by people who get over things.

Perhaps the West is more obsessed with individual desires, and its personal pursuits often overlook family ties.

However I know a lot of people who genuinely love their families, and make sacrifices to spend quality time with them.

Not just at Christmas or on Mother's or Father's Day, or on birthdays, but the whole year through, thanks to the miracle of web based communication.

I find familial bonds transcend the religious and the secular, and that people who have never been to church are just as loving as those who tithe.

My stats are based on conversation and personal experience.

I like to listen to the things people say.

Plus well rounded novels and films.

I don't know much about domestic life in China.

Once Upon a Time . . . in Hollywood

Blending realism and fantasy with convincing creative bombast, Quentin Tarantino's Once Upon a Time . . . in Hollywood masterfully cloaks the absurd.

Closely following Rick Dalton (Leonardo DiCaprio) and Cliff Booth's (Brad Pitt) declining filmic fortunes, it patiently develops resounding depth where a closed mind might only breed shallows.

It's quite long.

I asked myself, why are we following Booth home for 7 to 10 minutes to watch him feed his dog and eat Kraft Dinner? The sequence establishes him as a loveable everyman, but this characteristic could have been highlighted without taking up so much time.

Similarly, Sharon Tate (Margot Robbie) goes to the movies. Her visit doesn't seem to have much purpose besides paying visceral tribute to a star who's life was cut brutally short, but it's there, again and again, taking up ample sensuous space, it's kind of cool to see an actress go out to see her own film, but couldn't the scenes have only lasted for a minute or two, in total, or been removed entirely without effecting the plot?

In less gifted hands, these scenes may have seemed trite, and the film might have become unbearable after the 45th minute, but they add so much character to Once Upon a Time without really saying anything at all, like essential gratuitous indulgement, generating agile lucid meaninglessness.

It's quite long, but also quite good.

What first drew me to Proust's Search was the ways in which he seemed to enable every one of his ingenious indulgements no matter what happened to be taking place in the story, and there's a little of that bold genius at work in Once Upon a Time . . . 's sweet nothings, so much of it could have been cut, but the film's so much stronger because it was left in.

The whole Manson subplot could have been cut, and you'd still have a tragic tale of a struggling actor who may have blown it unreeling for 100 minutes or so (he could have met Polanski [Rafal Zawierucha] in a different way), Tarantino's love of genre actors shining through with understated ease, Dalton's trials heartfelt and revealing, DiCaprio exemplifying generic tenacity.

Sort of wish his character had been played by Michael Biehn.

Dalton gives the film its strength as he strives to keep keepin' on, delivering a powerful performance for a pilot no one will remember.

But here I've written, "no one will remember", and it's precisely that kind of snobbery Tarantino critiques, he truly loves television with all its wondrous diversity, whether it's genius or ridiculous or hokey, the ideas networks come up with and for who knows what reason decide to share (see They Live?), whether the stories are haphazardly crafted, or the narratives expertly hewn. 

Where would I be without Cheers, a show where everyone hung out in a bar for 11 seasons praising shenanigans that were generally lighthearted?

Clone High? Parker Lewis? Star Trek? Twin Peaks (The Original Series)?

Once Upon a Time . . . absurdly plays with history but genuinely brings struggling actors to life, forging an imaginative dreamy mélange that's as otherworldly as it is down to earth.

It's the first Tarantino film I've liked since The Basterds, but unfortunately it's still too toxic to recommend.

One of the protagonists murdered his wife and got away with it and this is supposed to be okay, the other lost his license for drunk driving and still gets wasted all the time, hippies are one-dimensionally vilified, Bruce Lee (Mike Moh) comes across as a flake and he's the only ethnic character to be found, Dalton stars in a filmic adaption of The Only Good Indian is a Dead Indian, and violence often solves the problem.

Perhaps it's just a product of its time, but the film is ultra-violent, and doesn't offer alternative points of view.

He diversifies dimensions that are often one-dimensionally depicted (Westerns) while one-dimensionally depicting others to exaggerate the distinction.

A more balanced approach would have generated higher yields.

Especially in light of MeToo, and the intensifying climate crisis.

Kitschy insubstantial cool yet chilling art, obsessed with things that look pretty, putting a capital P back in patriarchal.

Why spend so much time thinking to wind up thoughtless?

Still better than so many of his films.

The Last Black Man in San Francisco

Two friends chillin', creative paths, the days go by.

One, a gentle artist, the other immersed in local history.

His old family home, in fact, built generations ago, in which a new family now resides, whom he visits all too frequently.

To do housework, to maintain its atemporal integrity, a bewildering skyline nurtured with tact, the confused owners not quite sure what to do.

'Til tragedy strikes and they have to move out, leaving the age old mansion empty, at which point Jimmie (Jimmie Fails) and Montgomery (Jonathan Majors) move in, and make plans for a not so certain future.

Livin' it up.

Integral crosshair chronicles.

Dreams and reality quizzically coincide within, as a harmless inability to let go nurtures tactile belief.

It may be absurd in terms of expectations, but it's poetic as a matter of fact, as romantic people seek solutions beyond the law, and loving sympathy promotes amiable construction.

There's enough reality to challenge accusations of the ludicrous, inasmuch as traditional criticisms gradually emerge, but it's an old school brand of spiritually enriching understanding, that builds warm communal bonds, and encourages compassion as opposed to conflict.

Perhaps it's somewhat naive or a little too innocent, but wouldn't more innocence and less condemnation develop a less violent world, a thoughtful embrace, a declaration of love, or one less prone to desensitized destructive carnage?

The film isn't solely concerned with a house and who happens to own it.

Lives living adorn its fantastic frames with inquisitive dynamic yields, which add multidimensional depth.

A group of struggling youth question if not heckle on a disputatious daily basis.

Atomic legend and environmental impacts validate feisty folklore, as conversations define the moment, and move beyond the strictly personal.

An impassioned preacher assails injustice with mesmerizing soulful beats.

Subtly attired pedestrians and other curious randoms shake things up with unorthodox flax and thought provoking comic contrariety.

Montgomery ties so much together in a remarkable performance held in Jimmie's home, attended by friends and family, perhaps cut much too short.

Captivating in the moment nevertheless, observant vivacious infinites.

Joe Talbot's directorial skills erupt in the opening moments as he roller coasters through the community, struggling to get by yet still overflowing with life.

If you're looking for law and order and a predictable clamp down on bizarre behaviour, this film may not suffice, who looks for that?, but if you enjoy non-violent alternatives flush with lively independence, you may thoroughly enjoy it, as much as I did.

Abounding with creative grace.

Damned impressive.

L'Incroyable histoire du facteur Cheval

Purpose can be difficult to clarify.

Lots of actions seem reasonable enough, in terms of achieving or working towards short or long term goals, but repetition leads to logical flux, classifications of the indeterminate, and what once seemed spiritually sound, can lose its lustre if not reimagined.

Rediscovered.

If you ever find yourself sincerely bragging about something you found easy to do the first time, weeks or months or years later, it's perhaps time to find a new job, or spice up a relationship, such circumstances emerging in middle-age sometimes, which seems to go on forever and ever, and doesn't really change much overnight, unless someone's preparing bruschetta or enchiladas.

Things seem easier for this deer fly that just bit the bottom of my foot.

It's nourished itself on my lifeblood, and one would think, is about to digest the nutrients.

And it's hanging around.

It wants more.

I am now irritated and riled so I'm shooing more regularly, but even with the excessive shooing it returns, just dodges and lunges forward, perhaps seeking to limitlessly gorge him or herself to reckless epic proportions, as if my blood were an everlasting boon, and he or she was saturated with vampiric integrity.

It's bitten my ring toe too, the most useless of my toes, which has now found purpose, for it desperately desires eager scratching, I've noticed it for the first time since I last cut my toenails, and can honestly say that it's itchier than my other toes, it stands out indeed, like uninspired graffiti in an abandoned factory, that perhaps once produced socks, shoes, or bug spray, none of which adorned my foot before the lasting bites, which I must admit, are greatly disturbing the writing of this paragraph, I'm now itching with moss, rocks and nails.

Fingernails.

The deer fly just landed on my finger as I checked the time on my phone.

It won't relent and proceeds insatiably.

I cover myself in spray.

Remember why I had kayaked to this slab.

Joseph Ferdinand-Cheval (Jacques Gamblin) didn't have time for such distractions.

Was much more focused and driven.

L'Incroyable histoire du facteur Cheval chronicles how he slowly built a palace of rocks beside his home, for decades in his spare time, never wavering from his eccentric commitment, which was oft judged odd by curious surrounding townsfolk.

Tragedy strikes on several occasions yet he perseveres with herculean intensity, defining meaning through random exploration, purpose through awkward planning.

He never really says much, and when he speaks his words aren't that well chosen.

But he slowly learns it's important to say something, and not to worry about semantic injunctions, that a lot of people just like shootin' the breeze, and there's purpose in light conversation.

It complements the palace building.

Which proceeds with inspirational resolve.

Remarkably adept dedication.

A cool family film smoothly bringing it to life.

Nice.