The Assistant

The days go by, routine tasks, some like any other.

The assistant's (Julia Garner as Jane) glad to be working in the film industry but unaccustomed to what her fellows take for granted.

The days are long and peeps are on edge and even though it's never explicitly stated, hierarchy pervades each and every interaction.

Tensions suddenly lighten.

To whitewash something creepy.

Rats racing panopticon hashtag hydra disenchantment.

Will you be the one?

Can you appease the indignity?

It can't be like this in every environment but the Weinstein trial and the Me Too Movement bluntly state otherwise.

It's like Jane's motionless in a labyrinth and only the beast can facilitate movement, but it's so repellent that immobility's preferable inasmuch as it securely gestates.

You need to be focused upon to get anywhere but there's well-being if you're casually overlooked, as if the prize can't compensate for the anxiety unless you embrace ethical oblivion.

It seemed fascinating from the viewpoint of my youth to enter a working world wherein which there was professional respect for different cultures and genders, and I've worked in environments where this was the case (still do) and thoroughly enjoyed resultant routines.

I'm on my own (relatively) now which is amazing for travel and variety, but sometimes I miss seeing other people at work every day and the ways in which those stock conversations made me feel like part of a team.

You see Jane's quotidian confines slowly driving her nuts in The Assistant though, and I don't envy her position, how could it ever be appealing if you're on edge all the time?, with the prospect of stardom still a million to one shot?

There's peace of mind in bourgeois politesse.

The Assistant isn't the greatest film although its realism is frank and sincere. It pulls you into a harrowing reality where not much happens unfortunately. In reflecting upon the film I realize that it does a great job of making you feel Jane's struggles, living and breathing her shocks and fears as well as her courage and headstrong individualism. But for most of the film she cleans up or answers the phone or sends emails. It's too real, too boring, like I'm actually working instead of watching a film.

There's one scene that stands out, when she complains about the possible sexual assault of a new coworker, and it makes a strong albeit disheartening point as everyone else flippantly states nothing can be done.

I don't know what kind of narrative could actually generate change, I thought In the Company of Men would 23 years ago.

I find it's best to avoid relationships at work.

Seems like a potential solution to all this scandal.

I don't think that's how it works but it could work that way.

Perhaps social media's changing things.

Downhill

My apologies if Downhill was meant to be taken seriously, if it wasn't a clever attempt to make fun of itself for being so, um, unavailingly unorthodox. That's what it seemed like to me for a time but perhaps it wasn't meta-Will Ferrell (Pete) at all, perhaps it was a serious Will Ferrell film that was meant to be taken literally as a serious comedy? It seems like that at times. If so, I apologize for the misinterpretation. If I hadn't expected it to be purposely self-defeating after the scene where Pete and Billie (Julia Louis-Dreyfus) eat room service together early on, perhaps I would have been less likely to say anything positive, meaning if I did misinterpret the film that misinterpretation has lead to something more productive, not that much more productive, but I'll at least smooth out a silver-lined missed opportunity. It's like directors Nat Faxon and Jim Rash (two directors can be a bad sign) were trying to make a Will Ferrell film with an indie aesthetic that subtly lampooned Will Ferrell films generally while still making another Will Ferrell film, like they can't decide if this is a film making fun of Will Ferrell films or is in fact another one of his traditional films. For years I've been meaning to suggest that Ferrell should make a film about making a Will Ferrell film but haven't found the right moment. Downhill is something different yet still embodies that same spirit. It's like the directors know it struggles and they're making fun of that struggle (was a second director brought in to save it?) as suggested by the stock mountain images that keep showing up, accompanied by jaunty lighthearted doodles, as if their idea was to make an appealing comedy for mainstream audiences where a family vacations at an adult-oriented ski resort with non-traditional staff (perhaps traditional for the resort in question), but then realized their idea was much more independent and wouldn't catch on, leaving them caught in the crossfire as they sought to blend everything, and couldn't reasonably orient the resulting disharmonies. It becomes clear that Pete is a huge douche for multiple reasons so I started to think, wow, this is what Ferrell's usually like (or used to usually be like) in his films but he often has no responsibilities so it's kind of funny, but with the added responsibilities it seems grotesque, so it's like the film is trying to make older Will Ferrell films seem grotesque as he continues to act the same way even though he has a family, and it accomplishes this goal but then still seems like it's also making his predicament seem tragic, as if it's tragic that he's had to take on responsibilities, and can't continue to randomly drink, fight and fornicate whenever and with whomever the moment unwittingly presents. The key moment comes when Billie is propositioned by her ski instructor before she remembers her marital commitments and they head off on their separate ways. Meanwhile, Pete is getting drunk with a friend that he invited to meet him during their family holiday and revelling in the assumption that women still find him appealing, until he discovers he's been mistaken for another and then tries to punch him in a drunken stupor. If Billie had gone further, not much further but further, Downhill would have asserted itself as a master of just reckonings, and the ways in which it made fun of itself for being a bit lame would have become much more appealing. But she doesn't and Pete returns drunk to his family to have an awkward dinner where everyone's disappointed in him and he has trouble eating his red meat. Soon Billie finds a way to help him reestablish his respectability in his children's eyes (he bailed on them earlier during an avalanche and then engaged in critiqued horse play at a family-themed resort), and their marriage moves forward with Pete still regarded as patriarchal liege. For a moment it seems like Downhill really is sticking it to lifelong juvenile shenanigans, but in the end there's no consequence, even though it's clear there should be. Perhaps it's saying that the fact that there's no consequence is awful, and there should have been a consequence resolutely, but since there often aren't consequences for such behaviour in real life, they decided to mundanely lampoon this reality instead. But why go for the mundane lampoon? Why not have the strong female character assert herself instead? The answer lies in the response she's given after she complains about the avalanche: a man tells her, "it was done perfectly". So it's like Downhill uses the indie aesthetic to suggest there's something more while still giving juvenile shenanigans a free pass. Difficult to watch consequently and lacking the courage to go further, it falls flat in the face of Me Too, and leaves you wondering, why? For what purpose? Ding dong.

The Photograph

Nice to see a film that leaves you so relaxed and calm, afterwards, like life's serious yet still filled with wonder as thoughtful people seek a bit more spice.

No explosions, no bitterness, no grudges, no animosity, just moderately successful energetic joie de vivre experimentin' out and about without specific ends.

Potential though, the film contemplates potential, as if director Stella Meghie decided to concentrate more on possibility than proclamation to embrace how cool things can actually be.

As they develop.

Imagine a present wherein which innocence still hesitantly thrives, not that the professionals aren't struggling, bored, or challenged, they're just so active they don't focus on the negative, and harvest amicable yields accordingly.

There's the thrill of getting to know someone.

The enlivening sweet unknown.

That isn't trashy, jaded, or cynical.

But not cheesy or cookie cut either.

As if level-heads are still curiously engaged in soulful honest investigation, unconcerned with pasts or scores, or vainly trying to gain the upper hand.

Like the moment's just as invigorating as past endeavours or variable futures, because you like what you're doing and you're doing it, and there's no end to the novelty in sight (Place des Arts).

Perhaps Meghie asked herself if active spirits remain constantly refreshed, revitalized through curious engagement, because they're always seeking something new, even if they embrace steadfast traditions?

And decided to bring that idea to life through the art of romantic conversation?

There are so many cool scenes in The Photograph that celebrate the act of living, like learning about a partner's past relationships through an accidental conversation with his nieces, getting to know each other by discussing music, lighthearted pints to accompany different time zones, or mature agile professional understanding, contemplating difference, lamenting loss while generating renewal.

In a world often characterized through gloom and confrontation, The Photograph pushes it all aside to reimagine constructive life.

Productive R&D.

It's feel good but isn't ridiculous so the reasonability doesn't seem absurd, and the characters are making things work without grim ulterior motives.

A jewel of a romance that sharply contrasts so much that's out there, by introducing a bit of positivity, no expectations, no regrets.

Flowin' and growin'.

Perfect for mid-February.

Or any time of the year really.

It's like violence is completely absent from this film.

It'd be amazing if more filmmakers thought this way.

The Rhythm Section

Lost and alone overwhelmed by grief, a former A-list student struggles aimlessly to get by, no will, no drive, no purpose, no quarter, moribundly drifting through the years, until a Samaritan arrives.

He's familiar with her case and seeks to facilitate just closure, and at least has the means at his disposal to provide temporary soulful relief.

Coordinates and probabilities, nothing definitive, eager to learn, never having accepted the official account explaining what caused a fatal accident.

Soon her leads dry up though and she's back on the road researching further, eventually finding an ex-secret service agent, who still takes the time to work in the field.

He agrees to train her resolutely, her resolve quickly becoming an obsession, replete with fierce wherewithal, months later she's determined and ready.

She embarks naive yet feisty and soon takes on her first assignment.

Aware of possible limitations.

Seeking the truth regardless.

The Rhythm Section's quite primal, instinctual, reactive, brazen, there's little argument or variability, just raw unyielding focus.

It pulls you in with blunt alarm and keeps things rough and menaced, crazed and stressed, with striking backbeat discipline, it tenaciously accentuates.

But without the variability its plot's somewhat too thin, too reliant on what takes place considering not much happens.

When you see The Empire Strikes Back as a child you don't think that Luke is only trained by Yoda for a couple of days (is it even that long?) before he faces Vader.

But later you discover the Jedi were once educated from a very young age, for decades under the tutelage of masters, which would make Luke's emergence as a Jedi seem slightly absurd if he hadn't learned his profession under epic duress.

It's similar in The Rhythm Section inasmuch as there's too much improbability. It's a serious film so you're meant to take it seriously and the action's direct and grave so it doesn't promote generic misunderstanding.

At least for me.

I don't mean it would have been more probable if the lead had been a man. It just seems like anyone coming out of circumstances comparable to those The Rhythm Section's heroine finds herself within at the beginning, would have had quite the time suddenly transforming into an elite counterterrorist.

But whereas some films improve as you think about them after they've finished, The Rhythm Section seems more and more implausible, not that something similar couldn't have indeed taken place, but the odds of it actually happening are beyond me reasonable thresholds.

Of course good cinema excels as it takes you beyond such thresholds to present something different from typical life, but if it's meant to be persuasive, and goes out of its way to be grim and realistic, it becomes more difficult not to apply logic, the application of which doesn't aid The Rhythm Section (she fights someone who's breathing from a respirator?).

More characters and a more intricate script and it may have been more believable.

The novel's likely more gripping.

Others likely found it more appealing.

It's always a good idea to forge your own opinion.

Birds of Prey

A world wherein which consequence and repercussion have never been considered laments freewheelin' largesse as Harley Quinn (Margot Robbie) breaks up with the Joker.

Not a kind world by any means, as ill-composed as it is bellicose, supplying notions like wholesome and sentimental with animate vigour in their shocking absence.

She's sought after by many for different reasons artichoke, and must chaotically improvise to avoid painful brash comeuppance.

Yet she still visits local restaurants and chills at her trusty pad, having rescued a coveted pickpocket who's swallowed a precious diamond.

It contains instructions you see as to how to amass an enormous fortune, and crime boss Roman Sionis (horrible representation of gay people!) (Ewan McGregor) will pay 500 grand to get it.

So Quinn and others find themselves at odds with the irate extravagance, and the aggrieved forge a feisty clique as versatile as it is combat ready.

Those are structural facts although they're by no means determinate, the tale abounding with nuts and nuance intriguingly enunciated.

The clever albeit absurd script keeps at it with unnerving style, non-linear nimble necro accelerated cranked attire.

Not the place for guile or sympathy sorority notwithstanding, cruel worlds enraged colliding mistook madness high stakes shallows.

Necessitous individualism.

Nebulous crazed existence.

All goes well the first run through throughout the reckless merge, the alarming detonated detail shell-shocked, revealing, zesty.

Gotham's controlled by men whom the feminine contest not so shyly, exonerating tactile teamwork independent disputatious.

New characters abound so introductions are in order, the Canary (Jurnee Smollett-Bell), Renee Montoya (Rosie Perez), the Huntress (Mary Elizabeth Winstead), and Cassandra Cain (Ella Jay Basco), profiles crafted, futures fathomed.

DC is seriously impressing these days with Joker and now Birds of Prey, nothing that uplifting about either of the films, but they're still ironically well thought out comic book distractions.

Just need to work in the Justice League (or Deadpool) and maintain the creative style.

Birds of Prey keeps reinventing itself with observant discursive fury, right up 'til the traditional end, order out of groundless chaos, a bit repetitive but still compelling.

I hope the Birds have some more of their own films and don't just show up to aid the Batman.

Nice to see the change of pace.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Bad Boys for Life

Time has past and methods of fighting crime have adapted, yet Detective Mike Lowrey (Will Smith) still applies old school reckonings to the volatile realm within which he plays.

But he's been shot down by an unknown assailant who ballistically came calling during flippant carefree fun.

Distraught partner Marcus Burnett (Martin Lawrence) invokes divine intervention to aid his robust recovery, while settling into retired life, unsure of his stable routine.

And a new team lies in wait after Lowrey fully recovers, tech savvy yet lacking daring, led by precise pragmatic vision (Paola Nuñez as Rita).

Will the unstable mix of strategic planning and sheer impudence produce exclamatory results as the vengeful track and yearn?

Will Mr. Lowrey see something beyond the unattached ephemeral as his work with Rita progresses?

Will irresolvable speculation lead Mr. Burnett to once again contend, as clues manifest probabilities, and teamwork vests credulity?

Will Smith and Martin Lawrence irresistibly back at it and then some, bringing vocal spirits to the lively fore, after a considerably withdrawn hiatus.

They've still got it, that defiant spark from long ago, reciprocal mutually constructive disarray that contextualizes stark contention.

Lawrence's aggrieved summative evaluations add hyper-reactive humour, while Smith's intense driven presence keeps things seriously grounded, hewn.

It's like Martin and Fresh Prince still asserting themselves after all these years, a rare treat if you grew up watching both shows, still appealing to new audiences regardless.

The new recruits diversify its holdings and introduce less combative by-the-book character, not that they aren't ready to head out in the field, but their manners are much more reserved.

Unless provoked.

They even find remarkably well-integrated cover diggin' deep at local night clubs.

It's a solid 20th/21st century blend skilfully synthesized by Adil & Bilall.

It takes Lowrey and Burnett a long time to figure out who's oppressing them, and considering who's been shot their response time lacks speed, but the patient reflective struggle does build quite the crescendo (it's a cool ending), with a Vaderesque reversal, back before it all began.

Bad Boys for Life provides a fierce yet thoughtful narrative that reimagines age old themes, this variation as technologically infatuated as it is with mobile practice.

Okay, it's more infatuated with direct action which is certainly a good thing, a chillin' break from the cold calculation that qualifies so much daily life.

Judging by the responses of North American audiences there's still something to be said for interpersonal relations.

Technology may be astounding.

But it can't replace face-to-face conversation.

Dolittle

An eccentric doctor imprisoned by grief makes the most of his settled routine, taking care of an eclectic menagerie while managing a cloistered estate.

But his seclusion is to be interrupted as a royal patron beckons, she's fallen ill and can't find a cure and knows Dolittle's (Robert Downey Jr.) honest and true.

He's a gifted polyglot as it were who can speak with each and every animal, applying his unique talents to the inviolable veterinary, unravelling inextricable enlivening Beatrix.

Diplomatically assuaging instinct.

To facilitate communal fluencies.

Those who would dispose of the Queen (Jessie Buckley) are none too keen to see him enlisted, even if his quest is against all odds. It's been years since he's left his domain. But he proceeds with animate rigour.

They follow him anyway with villainous intent well-endowed with extraordinary resources, but he possesses adaptive extemporaneous finesse, and can make adjustments which variably avail.

Aided by another who also loves animal kind, they set forth with noble purpose, to break free from slack despondency, and seek robust unheralded virtues.

Clues have they which may lead to nimble fortune.

In defiance of time and tide.

As raccoons shift and sway.

Their voyage symbiotically commences.

The film excels at employing whale kind to assist with bold navigation, briefly granting services submerged to accelerate adventurous import.

Ravages wrought on fierce independence aren't overlooked or casually conveyed, for a tiger has been driven mad by his confinement, incarcerated in vengeful chains.

A cohesive group, gregarious gallantry, enables velveteen execution, a binding adherence to mutual respect reifying the superlative laissez-faire.

In surest action.

Melodiously disposed.

Avidly progressing from trial to predicament, the film perhaps revels in augmented haste, rarely pausing to rear and reflect, instantaneous unimpaired impacts.

Its target audience unperturbed by the steady alert quickening, direct meaning addressing identity, reactions brisk to untold considerations, Dolittle's less concerned with mature obfuscations, immersed in innocent wondrous candour.

Assured unbeknownst lackadaisical ingenuity, it may be easy to find faults, but would a 5-year-old care?

Cool animals.

Spirited goodwill.

Color Out of Space

A family bound together living far away from the closest town, goes about their habitual routines in a forest lush and haunting.

Lavinia (Madeleine Arthur) plays occultist, little Jack (Julian Hilliard) seeks clarification, Benny (Brendan Meyer) hides and smokes that reefer, while Mom and Dad (Joely Richardson as Theresa and Nicolas Cage as Nathan) sit back and dream.

As their idyllic bucolic hideaway suddenly receives a visitor from space, a giant meteor lighting up the heavens, remaining solid as it swiftly descends.

At first things seem quite ordinary, even if a local television crew comes calling, without much of a story to go on, apart from a comic lack of rehearsal.

But something's strangely spellbound and new flowers start to appear, the alpacas slightly on edge, their neighbour (Tommy Chong as Ezra) even more otherworldly.

For extraterrestrial entities have inhospitably stowed away, upon it, radiating inorganic rectitude, which mutates grassroots life.

Capable of transforming both solids and immaterials, without recourse to pattern or schematic, it virulently asserts conceited conflict, while transfusing spiritual venom.

Communications function no longer.

They're cut off from the outside world.

With only cohesivity to rely on.

As their family vouchsafes the nuclear.

I wonder what others thought of Richard Stanley's Color Out of Space?

I could only sort of get into it, I felt like it was missing something.

But I often don't get campy horror or fail to see what others cherish, their immersion in the genre more full-on, more attuned to shocking hysterics.

Perhaps I'm too old school, but I kept wishing the cast had been larger, that more characters had encountered the lifeforce, to be botanically decomposed.

John Carpenter's The Thing may have been released in 1982, but it's become somewhat of a classic, so it may be too early to be paying unacknowledged homage, its reverberations still starkly dishevelling.

I thought Ezra's first scene was all too short and brief, it didn't leave me hangin', wanting more, it left me frustrated that I'd have to wait.

For more.

It's clear they need to vacate as soon as humanly possible yet he crawls into the well? I'm thinking there was something cool there I didn't get, like most of Attack of the Killer Tomatoes, or Killer Klowns from Outer Space?

I did love Return of the Killer Tomatoes!

I was searching for some memorable lines chaotically delivered by an impassioned Nicolas Cage, too, which would have reminded me of old school Twin Peaks or even Q, but if they were there I didn't detect them, my loss, no doubt, to be certain.

Color Out of Space still appeared to be the genuine article, like bona fide midnight mayhem, my apologies for wandering adrift, I totally did not get it.

Even if I applaud the viral nature of its mysterious antagonist, like an enviroalien consciousness, like tangible biological thought, or the horrors of forever chemicals.

Toxic waste.

Fluorocarbons.

DEET.