Hauru no ugoku shiro (Howl's Moving Castle)

I suppose watching Ghibli films is like moving to a new city, assuming you're intent on exploring.

The imaginative transitions and unexpected revelations disseminate inherent constructive flux, producing gemini ensemble; it's not chaotic or turbulent or nutso, it just takes some time to make sense of it, and because the dynamics are always changing, new hypotheses consistently accrue.

Patterns precociously present themselves which embrace diversification exclaimed, staunch traditions dependably mutated as the unforeseen glibly freely fascinates.

Since cities are vast like Ghibli's repertoire there's plenty of room for cultural investigation, different neighbourhoods/themes influencing one another through variable grassroots multiplicities. 

Changing jobs from time to time can encourage synergistic sleuthing, especially if the jobs demand travel to previously unheard of quarters.

Local cuisine and enticing craftspersonship generate curious reflective lore, folksy fashions and animate complements melodically streaming eclectic impulse.

From scene to scene Ghibli regenerates and humbly presents something unanticipated, like a store that only sells mushrooms or vegan sushi or doorknobs or vinyl. 

Throw in a new language and it's wildly unpredictable as practically everything reverberates fresh meaning. By no means a walk in the park. But illuminating as time slowly passes.

Howl's Moving Castle habitually transfigures from one mobile scene to the next, thematic variation in nimble motion denoting canvas and rhythm and text.

Unfortunately their nation's at war and wizards and witches have been conscripted, before a young adult is suddenly transformed into an aged contemplative constellation.

Howl disrupts the fighting as best he can as it rashly insists, seeing no point in taking a side since they're both hellbent on destruction.

But the most powerful sorceress demands he yield and fight in the rank and file.

Even if his heart's just not in it (not me, this makes more sense if you see the film).

If he's too much of a chill elemental (see The Chronicles of Riddick).

The beautiful intricate scenes overflowing with compelling detail aptly highlight war's thoughtless menace as the bombs abruptly fall.

But many are still intent on living regardless of imperial hubris.

A romantic tale abounding with wonder that won't relent in tumultuous times, it illustrates poetic convection, while harvesting paramount mischief (not looting and destroying things but peaceful protests and critical analysis).

Sen to Chihiro no kamikakushi (Spirited Away)

A traditional family moves to the countryside to embrace less hectic surroundings, the daughter noticeably upset at having left her friends behind.

Upon trying to locate their new home, they steer down a foreboding country lane, only to stop several kilometres on down, at the sign of a diminutive statue.

Uncertain of where they are, exploration seems in order, father believing they've found an (abandoned) amusement park, where they may find something to eat.

Food awaits their lavish appetites and soon mom and dad are feasting, unaware they're gorging upon meals prepared for visiting spirits.

For they have entered an alternative dimension wherein which gods and monsters composedly bathe, their bathhouse managed by a haughty witch (Suzanne Pleshette) who's none too fond of humans.

Chihiro's (Daveigh Chase) parents are transformed into pigs for supping 'pon victuals forbidden, and she's soon looking for work, as advised by the helpful Haku (Jason Marsden). 

But it's tough to settle in since she's never laboured before, and bathing a shy stink spirit proves a vast malodorous chore.

She may be able to escape and set her parents free indeed.

But not before the greedy witch has successfully decreed. 

Sen to Chihiro no kamikakushi (Spirited Away) investigates incorporeal phenomena, substantiated on their own terms, without overlooking endemic economies.

Chihiro soon learns she was wrong to critique her cozy creature comforts, as the prospect of ceaseless work suddenly materializes. Fortunately she makes friends who don't lack sympathy or compassion, and isn't strictly monitored throughout the day, has a bit of time to roam.

Ghibli Studios presents another world overflowing with narrative innovation, unexpected otherworldly creations untethered unleashed at play.

Its characteristic light heart brightly beats as the current doth flow, but it's somewhat less innocent more frightening than some of its equally wondrous contemporaries.

As genuine affection shines through and even monsters slowly relent, the strong bonds forged between workers wholeheartedly freely cement.

In practically every scene throughout the film there's something new to charmingly ponder, even if it's comically startling or slightly stressed or wild or fearful.

As if the peeps at graceful Ghibli were concerned with chill enchantments.

The spellbinding glib green light.

Ethereally expanding.

L'amour en fuite (Love on the Run)

The lighter side of romantic inhibition comically elaborates (through flashback) in Truffaut's L'amour en fuite (Love on the Run).

Antoine (Jean-Pierre Léaud) once again finds himself pursuing the irresistible shortly following his divorce after love interest Sabine (Dororthée) punishes him. 

Driven by genuine liberated invention, his expositions know no bounds, and proceed posthaste wholeheartedly, zephyristic zounds. 

I suppose this goes without saying if you're familiar with the narrative thread, which becomes much more endearing with each instalment frisked and fled.

Indomitable infatuation regal flush disposed curiosity, multivariable assumed inconstant freeform precious jocose romance.

In L'amour en fuite so prone to accident he rediscovers love lost forgotten, who's just purchased the sultry novel he's been writing from film to film.

He takes inquisitive note and seeks rapprochement upon a train, where the details of his book encounter critical acclaim.

He generates appeal beholden flourishes notwithstanding, but can't escape the legal shrewd exotic reprimanding.

Even though he's just incapable of remaining honest, loyal, and true, his partners still adore him unabrasive through and through.

Not to the point where they'll let him get away with it but they still can't deny their feelings, and the lack of boredom he freely generates as he ascertains impulsively.

There's no doubt that creative explanations are his supple imaginative forte, nor that if one enjoys a passionate argument he graciously accommodates.

If so much of life's caught up with routine I suppose there's excitement in experimentation, although it's by no means a general rule but how else to explain the reality?

I'm uncertain as to how feminists or Me Too would respond to the charming Antoine, is he to be condemned for his indiscretions or upheld through honest light?

His inexhaustible enthusiasm demonstrates a thorough love of women, and he isn't forceful or mean or brutal, he's rather quite innocent, inquisitive, enamoured. 

Rascally. 

Is such genuine affection preferable at times to duty and is this why feminists don't condemn him (in fiction), or has Truffaut simply gotten away with it scandalous film after scandalous film?

Antoine certainly means well as he honestly follows his instinct, and doesn't lack ideal sincerity in his explorations of l'amour.

Perhaps just a childish fantasy exaggerating infidelity, to lighten the austere mood that proliferates at times?

Either way it's a funny ending to a story that went way too far.

Not as much depth as Domicile conjugal.

But still traditionally entertaining.  

Things to Come

In 1936, H.G. Wells, in the aftermath of World War I, amidst increasing global tensions, considered Things to Come.

Celebration abounds in the present as another Holiday Season wondrously invigorates, families and friends laidback ensemble to regenerate anew.

But mad imperialistic ambition soon disrupts the lighthearted revelling, and the world descends into total chaos for woebegone cataclysmic decades.

Torn apart, global networks in ruin, a plague ignominiously spreads, and feudal discourse slowly reemerges, as "might-is-right" bluntly takes control.

They see no need for peace in Britain and conflict continues to rage indiscriminately, but since industry is strictly nominal mutual armaments remain indisposed.

On the continent, a different ethos takes hold as cultures regroup, dedicated to scientific expenditure aligned with utilitarian progress.

As time passes innovation ascends, and worldwide reckonings muse collegial, but too much of an emphasis on work eventually ignites inspired criticism.

An apocalyptic vision of the future wildly ascertaining in the film, well versed in grim foreboding and utopian desire.

I'm wary of utopian impulses myself, these days, which lack sincere considerations of the present, too much of a focus on futures unforeseen ignoring blatant systemic disparities.

The ends too often justify cold calculating austere means, which fit well within specific formulae lacking cohesive particularity.

Too many variables to take into account to assure viable collective movement, without forceful binding shackles predisposed to dis/integration.

The desire for change the fluidic instinct grows weary of perennial plans, the constant elevation of rhetoric whose meaning fades without results.

If you consider utopia periodically as opposed to an eternal strain, it does pop up from time to time like mutated verdant grains.

Inasmuch as periods even decades flourish with general prosperity, but sustaining that prosperity indefinitely remains generally elusive.

Perhaps it's spiritually profitable to maintain some lofty goals on the horizon, in order to dispel depression if the present seems rather bleak.

But obsessing about them or defining yourself through them or conspiring to obtain them can leave you blind, to everything else that's happening as steady robust lives unwind.

Perhaps focusing on the present and patiently rockin' it with reasonable means, generates vibrant contemporary futures for daily grindin' dreams.

Many have written about how happy people are in less well-off countries, despite comparable incomes or goods and services. 

If you aren't considering the future how does anything ever change?

If you're living within a prosperous racially-inclusive generally-employed sporty well-educated environmentally-sound present, is there much need for tectonic shifts or grand prophetic technological innovations?

Museum Hours

The active mind having aged to reimagine engagement through interpretive fluid rapt multivariable impression.

A rambunctious youth clad in melodic calculi (managing and touring with bands), then ruminative middle-age embracing quiet illustration (monitoring different rooms in Vienna's Kunsthistorisches Art Museum).

Living a thoughtful solitary life well-attuned to simple pleasures (Bobby Sommer as Johann), he meets a curious tourist one day visiting from Montréal (Mary Margaret O'Hara as Anne).

She's in town to watch over her cousin who's fallen into a coma, and would love to see the sights but doesn't know where to begin.

The film loosely follows their interactions as they travel in and about town, different features brought to life through historical exposition. It's not just the Kunsthistorisches that shines, Vienna's contemporary spirit enlivens as well, evocatively situated in past and present, replete with urban wildlife.

As Anne and Johann converse reflections on art evanescently materialize, not as if they're searching for essentials, more like chill jazzy random observation.

In fact it's like Museum Hours aesthetically cherishes the chill and random, as various images are freely showcased without a particular focus.

It's not presenting a specific thesis arguing for a point of view, but rather sharing different images to let Vienna thrive on through.

According to individual tastes, a clever seminar in artistic analysis attempts to lead visitors away from cocktail clichés, to more expansive literary compositions, as they observe different paintings, like there isn't an essence to be extracted but rather a variety of compelling interpretive exports.

Johann looks on in studious wonder as a guide imaginatively elucidates, her insights applicable to Jem Cohen's style which doesn't seek to blandly distill.

He observes that the right has made things much more serious, and made casual conversation much less prevalent, if the left loses sight of lighthearted argument, don't you wind up with The Lobster?

If the emphasis is on the correct interpretation of a shifting multivariable phenomenon, aren't such aggressive and violent evaluations highly dubious and irrational?

Taking absurd comedic outputs that clearly lack exhaustive scope, and treating them with biblical import, can lead to an unwillingness for people to participate in sustained and vigorous debate.

If they aren't treated with biblical import but rather as just another form of expression, then you have something much less frightening, and more amenable to inclusive discourse.

Under the Volcano

Lost in lounging Kazonned bitterness maladroitly grossly soaked through.

Cajoled intransigent declamatory renown, submerged and settled ripe repository.

Embellished cranky lewd itinerant coy romantic tidal yearning, grim gargantuan grouchy gurgle disembodied unconcern.

Rugged rapids constant thirst evasive rapt recourse insatiable, lucid rash unshorn ebullient wayward raucous exhibition.

Clad austere informative upbeat plaid imposed distraught decorum, quartered diplomatic engagements prim and proper pristine palate.

Abandoned perhaps misplaced paradigmatic imperilled logistics, rhapsodic infidelity satchels sordid crazed acknowledgement. 

Portly purpose in/animate poise discordant rest imbibed resuscitation, fate forlorn contaminant drawn spruced emboldened consummate elixir.

What a performance a ride a calling a cataclysmic egad catastrophe, tragic melancholic brinkspersonship, some of the best acting I've ever seen (Albert Finney as Geoffrey Firmin).

The question of sobriety remains unanswered cloaked in marigold misapprehension, like lathered erudite haze sorely spread in enigmatic disjunction.

Woeful discourse, sincere regret, sheer limitless august mourning, blended with reprieve albeit slightly as his cherished wife (Jacqueline Bisset as Yvonne Firmin) returns.

Yvonne once proceeded freely and then caught his wandering eye, the noble falling for the ingenue who knew nothing of his cozy cluster.

Which was forgotten some time ago in periodic stifled remonstrance, and replaced with unchecked revelling sold surpassing primordial bounds. 

Moments of rich endearing tenderness and bold adventurous distraction attempt to alter his rash behaviour with delicate daring calm.

But he can't forget the affair and proceeds with reckless frank credulity.

Like a comet that's lost its light.

Constellated swath exasper.   

A Scandal in Paris

Career criminals stretch out laidback in prison, as a fortuitous cake emerges, celebrations encoding style.

Having escaped they seek anonymity upon the open road, yet lend their images to a portrait depicting extant legend.

Soon they're reunited with Emile Vernet's (Akim Tamiroff) large outlaw family, who fears for their hard fought freedom, and recommends they join the army.

False identities are procured and they set off to aid Napoleon, still noticing jewels along the way whose brilliance generates temptation.

Years later they've left the service yet still scorn an honest living, and find themselves sheltered in a lavish chateau, presided over by the Minister of Police (Alan Napier as Houdon de Pierremont). 

They decide to rob him anyway and enact an audacious plan, switching the location of the jewels through agnostic sleight of hand.

The Prefect of Police (Gene Lockhart) cannot discover them and is relieved of duty, but Eugéne Vidocq (George Sanders) knows their whereabouts and leads the Minister straight indubitably. 

For his exceptional deductive skill he's generously rewarded, and given the post of Prefect of Police, securing Vernet's relatives jobs thereafter, at the bustling Bank of Paris. 

But his identity remains known to at least 2 adoring love interests, who fortunately enjoy his company, and seek not his instant ruin.

A Scandal in Paris invests striking charm with bewitching clever schematics, which assuage freeform displacements as a matter of upright cause.

Taking things too seriously is not so subtly critiqued throughout, even if Vidocq must watch his back as he nimbly cascades clout.

It seems too farfetched to believe yet is at least partially verifiable, taken from Vidocq's very own memoirs, the validity of which I cannot speak to.

He understood people well no doubt, a master of effortless seduction, freely winning hearts and minds through open-minded grand induction.

Those lacking social graces or appealing fanned conceit, fell swiftly to his daring bold and animate spry feats.

There's a series here within these reels commanding grand detection, each episode a marigold shy intimate selection.

Why not engage a stunning sleuth who once lacked honest virtue, to come to terms with pachyderms investigate the Dooku?

A stunning tale lightly regaled the shocking fluent candour, a charméd life akin to strife concocting goose and gander. 

Flavour.

What a life. 

Paris Blues

Ram Bowen (Paul Newman) and Eddie Cook (Sidney Poitier) have smoothly settled in Paris, where they work as jazz musicians at a local club most working nights.

Their reputation's solid and they work hard to maintain it, routine practise honing creativity, regular performance hot damn experiment, the vibrant chill nightlife.

Bowen's interested in musical composition and Cook tries to help him write, consistently generating new ideas inordinate spirited bright material.

Their act's established, they're part of the scene, living the life in grooves composing, when two American tourists show up one night in search of improvised l'amour.

They're on a well-earned two week vacation and didn't know what to readily expect, but Ram and Eddie weren't prepared for them either, and their resonant domestic echo.

Different traditions contend as they converse, as they consider relationships long-lasting, sure and steady conjugal comportment, the cookie cut stuck out in the 'burbs.

It's a lot to give up but there's so much to gain but everything's happening so quickly, and Bowen's the leader of his nimble band and his fellow musicians rely on him heavily.

He looks out for them anyways and tries to steer them away from soulless excess, relying on them like a coach or trainer, who works for the same productive team.

Was that a regular thing in the '60s, the '50s, the '40s, whenever?

Professional musicians working the same club every night and wildly drawing them in?

Does it still happen in Paris and New York or somewhere in Montréal that I'm unaware of?, if not I'd argue something's been lost, something beyond commercial value.

Imagine what you'd create if you worked that hard, what you'd routinely exceptionally come up with, if you never stopped to rest on your laurels, if life was a constant improvised rhythm?

I think old school musicians were more concerned with sounding good than with not sounding bad, but that's just a casual observation that isn't supported by vigorous research (does the absence of working class vitality within artistic spheres lead to a general spirit that's more academic than artistic?).

Imagine there were several exceptional bands that regularly played the same clubs in Montréal, and you could see them any night of the week, and they never gave anything less than outstanding?

Imagine they still played their instruments too and sought to etherealize with mad reckless solos, or jam here and there at times, as the drive of their audience compelled them?

Paris Blues captures a rhythmic lifestyle caught up with domestic and political intrigue, and celebrates musician's lives without focusing intently on the negative.

The negative taunts in every domain and it's great to see a film that celebrates the artistic life.

Relationships tempt and tantalize.

Resolute competing responsibilities.  

*Duke Ellington's music's incredible and there's an amazing scene where Louis Armstrong (Wild Man Moore) stops by to jam.