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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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".

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.

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.