The Alchemist's Cookbook

I reckon many imaginative people find the idea of alchemy appealing, the ancient search for magical realism 😎 as exceptionally alluring in any century.

It'd be worth taking a bit of time to compile a comprehensive bibliography, to see how often it's shown up in fiction, I'd wager one exists already.

Or several perhaps, multilaterally speaking, I'm unaware how realistically it was taken by yesteryear, there may even be whole sections in the British and French national libraries, Canadian and American history perhaps not as robust.

You would think it would have once been a dependable subject for versatile comedians, or illusionist/buffoon teams who put their heads together to entertain.

The romantic in me shyly wonders if anyone ever achieved the goal.

Such incredible knowledge of the natural world.

Long before taxonomical exasperation.

But I have no wish to see romance turn to dread like the lead's (Ty Hickson) experience in The Alchemist's Cookbook, his grand misfortune superstitiously compounded by an untutored embrace of the age old discipline. 

He seems to have been of two minds regarding the spirit and the secular, and even though he excelled at chemistry was still routinely bewildered by angels & demons.

Wouldn't it be wonderful if so many people didn't manipulate spiritual authenticity, making it generally impossible to trust any lucid supernatural symbiosis? 

You don't want to trust and be made a fool of, but manifest belief foils bland cynicism, the dismissal of everything consistently dull, the wholehearted embrace a contradictory blur.

I guess you can't feed all the animals in the forest, but if you see one who's injured it's cool to help out, perhaps some tropical forests come equipped with year round bounty, the northern forests of Canada and Québec a challenging struggle.

I wasn't going to watch a macabre flick in 2022 since dad passed away last year around this time, but frights still feverishly found me with mind-boggling active dialectic fervour (I wasn't expecting this film at all).

The age of reason certainly is much less of an inherent habitual gong show, I imagine.

But are people having less fun?

Could be a cool book, it's tough to say.

I imagine an alchemist would see through it regardless of epoch, trend, century, or stigma.

I wonder how raccoons relate to alchemy?

Through multidisciplinary agile play? 

🦝

Un 32 août sur terre (August 32nd on Earth)

A near death experience regenerates instincts to daringly embark on the path of motherhood, a coveted model having barely survived after falling asleep at the treacherous wheel (Pascale Bussières as Simone). 

To suddenly go about the definitive business of engaging in acts which will lead to pregnancy, she relies on the dedication of a trusted friend who has been obsessed for many a year (Alexis Martin as Philippe).

He's somewhat uncertain as to how to proceed and his closest friend recommends refusal, yet even though he's found a new loving partner, he maddeningly can't find the guts to say no.

So it's off to peaceful Utah to accomplish the deed in the heralded salt flats, but they're unable to rent a car and must depend on a suspicious cab driver.

Unfortunately, the offbeat romantic isolation fails to inspire spry animate parlay, the shocking nature of the surprise interconnection leaving studious Philippe shaken not stirred.

The cab driver returns and ups the price, they refuse to pay and are left in the wild.

With nothing but time on their hands.

Incarnate impromptu fascination.

An unorthodox take on romantic true love clad in crazed cheeky carbonite crucible, habitual discussions regarding procreation generally absconded in abstentia.

What lengths will anyone go to if their compulsive daydreaming miraculously matriculates, and a conducive schematic instantaneously materializes out of thin air ze reified rapscallion?

'Tis a tantamount tale for romantic young adults perhaps too prone to radical reverie, highly charged through amorous immediacy the inherent amusement disenchanting fact.

Although to engage in random speculation, I would wager that at least 60% of newborns emerge by accident, and that such an off-putting yet versatile possibility keeps the gene pool rich in non-determination. 

So many thoughtful reasonable people sterilize particularity through prudent planning, and even though they resonate lucidity, lack the wild random vivacities of life.

Do these vivacities produce more novelty than steady reflection and scientific trial and error, I've never heard anyone who lives that way complain, in fact pointing out discrepancies is anathema. 

But why worry about what might have been?, it serves no useful productive purpose.

The present is much more interesting. 

Just have to stay constructively active. 

Maelström

Conflicting emotions morosely problematize picturesque drab conducive momentum, difficult decisions unconscious mourning requisite paramount agile time off.

Through unfortunate circumstance trouble cruelly abounds with the mobile lucrative family business, cascading crucibles Klingon clutches awkwardly aided by a hit and run.

Classic down and out comic lugubrity staggeringly keen to romanticize coincidence, the stars aligned postmodern im/permanence gritty irritable cosmic practicality.

Constant motion demonstrative clarity intuitively reacting to frustrating stimuli, her (Marie-Josée Croze as Bibiane Champagne) family renowned the pressure abrasive outputs enduringly vague inconclusive.

Why all the hassle for simply engaging with piquant particulars precipitous life, the haunting austere adamant duties discernibly daunting lighthearted lackadaisics?

If only taking time off was much simpler a sudden sojourn a querulous jaunt, some place remote perhaps unfamiliar fortuitous fashions restorative calm. 

Not in the cards in this instance as the habitual play grinds dolorous doldrums, although the free sharing of genuine grief begets newfound friendship and lithe l’amour.

A grizzled sizzling disparaging humour harrowingly harks with dissonant certitude, narrated by a fish who keeps losing his head, like your belch tastes like sardines and lime whiskey.

As if the consistent clash of disparate ethics unconsciously produces animate haze, within which peeps must continuously make decisions based upon theories, pragmatism, and expediency.

Within this inherently confusing pinball polemic reason resides, each situation convolutedly clarified through recourse to multivariable mayhem.

The confident decision made can lead to enigmatic trust, any hesitation and everything’s lost even if negatives shake things up.

Social media takes this potentiality to panopticonic levels, like a byzantine web a’ squelched and sticky wherein which myriad strata interconnect.

The clear and rational diagnosis can’t be relied upon to be popular, unless of course it’s fashionable for a monuments brief intersection.

There seems to be less convivial reliance on the sustainability of the collective, as divisive narratives creatively collude to exalt absolute rights.

But Ukraine’s standing tall and fighting off the Russian army.

Wish I could develop a clearer picture.

But then there'd be no maelström.

The Old Man and the Sea

At times the bounty seems neverending as if lavish munificence resonates incarnate, while at others it all dries up and leaves you prone to grievous frustration. 

The dialectics of oceanic endeavours inevitably provoke chaotic equilibrium, the wild tumultuous overcast bearing as furtively belittling as it is advantageous.

What would it be like to make a living aboard a sturdy seafaring vessel, as the weather habitually transforms form one mighty distillation to the next?

The process of change invigoratingly clear as one boldly navigates infinite waters, tried and true dependable depths give way to currents ne'er indefatigable. 

Animate conjecture indubitably delineates creative indisposed spry spectrums, endemic mystics imaginatively endowed with fervid spirits indelicately alighting.

But to actually head out and search when nothing was truly known or proven, before taxonomies within classifications ubiquitously catalogued geographic universals.

I imagine there were whales everywhere frequently emerging to breathe in jest, a trip across the bustling Atlantic producing perhaps as many as 200 sightings.

Not to mention what must have seemed like indeterminate frisky billions, casually adorning limitless shores with unconcernéd and innocent dalliance. 

The Old Man and the Sea picks up some years later and follows a humble fisherperson, who calmly goes with the ebb and flow to earn some bread and lighthearted meals.

He has a chill modest pad unassumingly situated off the beaten track, and a boat and the requisite skill to coast the ocean in search of booty.

But he's been rather unlucky as of late and hasn't managed to catch a thing, his perseverance remaining strong through the potentially enervating drastic drought.

Nature however in its eminence has saved him a colossal agile catch. He just has to haul it in.

After finding himself lost at sea.

Not to take away from its legend, the story was widely popular in my youth, but the film and narrative seemed outdated to me, it's hatred of sharks much too overbearing.

Sharks indeed frighten many but it's certainly rare that they take a human life, in fact for every human life a bloodthirsty shark takes we probably kill around 10 million (ball parkin' based upon stats I've seen on TV of around 250 million sharks being killed a year).

I can't imagine a shark fin making anything taste good.

Sharks maintain the ocean's delicate ecobalance.

And they're being treated with sincere disrespect. 

Thus, I appreciated the tale for it encouraged romantic wonder, but I could never kill so many sharks if they tried to eat my catch.

I'd probably just give my catch to the sharks and would be happy for making them happy.

Sigh. Couldn't cut it as a fisherperson methinks. 

Although I would absolutely love working at sea.

Yajû no seishun (Youth of the Beast)

Incomparable daring resolution irradiating hard earned trust disdaining compromise, a freelance undercover policeperson infiltrates the yakuza in search of reckoning.

All he knows is that his friend has passed away under suspicious circumstances, said friend a man of upstanding character who would ne'er dwell on treacherous familiarities. 

He was of great assistance during a period of intense sorrow, and supplied financial aid beyond his means to facilitate nourishment and budgetary well-being.

The yakuza are rather impressed with his unparalleled hardcore finesse, and swiftly offer him what he wants and then provide ample chaotic bearing.

But since he's convinced this specific organization is solely responsible for his friend's death, he sells them out to their small-time rivals and gives them precise highly valued information.

Amidst the eye of the storm his good fortune the product of immaculate self-confidence, he continues to dig deeper and deeper as the high stakes dissonance devastatingly disturbs.

The seemingly impossible scenario hyperreactively progresses, from one potentially disastrous debacle to the next as the hardboiled liturgies illuminate.

No doubt inspiring superpowers or larger-than-life realistic resonance, Yajû no seishun (Youth of the Beast) magnetically mystifies incumbent undercover loci.

Joe Shishido (Jô Shishido) reacts with animate composure and sheer definitive wiry wherewithal, the latent clasped kinetic combat discursive diabolic delirium.

With so much impersonal disorganization generally lacking an effective rationale, it's no wonder the invincible improvised ingenious active cynosure reverberates.

It's well done so its incredibility contemporizes extant bravado, leading to renewed revered antitrusts and less monopolistic sentiment.

Without much legwork just shocking audacity the officer suddenly gets 'er done, while intuitively remodelling volatile non-traditional infrastructure. 

I'd have to say I liked it although its voltage shocks and certifies.

In the pursuit of honourable friendship.

Amidst pervasive perfidy. 

*Forgot to mention: the music in this film is outstanding!

Sword of the Beast

During a period of volatile change, many samurai seek reform, to promote egalitarian civility and democratic justice, or clans less prone to autocratic caprice.

Yuuki Gennosuke (Mikijirô Hira) thinks his actions will lead to the cultivation of fairness throughout his clan, but after he disposes of its counsellor with his associates, the ambitious incumbent seeks their ruin.

The incumbent had convinced them to do it with promises of wealth and social prestige, Yuuki indubitably furious as he blindly flees to live as a fugitive in the fertile countryside.

He's zealously pursued by the ex-counsellor's daughter and many of the personnel he once considered friends, labelled an outcast bereft of sanctuary he's consistently betrayed everywhere he goes.

But he does find one independent man amusingly hoping to steal gold from a nearby mountain, in search of stalwart protection as he pans, Gennosuke can't deny it's a good place to lie low.

But another samurai has the same idea and already resides on the auriferous slopes, his wife assisting his painstaking efforts as they covet the haughty forbidden.

They've accumulated a vast sum but if they're suddenly caught they'll swiftly lose everything.

Will the two rogue samurai bond?

Before succumbing to age old destiny?

Hideo Gosha's Sword of the Beast illuminates chaos to deconstruct logic, as courageous honourable spirits innocently contend with mature corruption. 

The sundry enticing twists and turns cacophonously layered with magnetic disillusion, keep the frenzied imbroglio basting with aggrieved vehemence and eternal reckoning.

Not without a comic edge, its youthful characters at times light of heart, even while relentlessly pursued they still find time for love and play.

I imagine they mischievously reflect the carefree confidence of the young adult warrior, never fearing death or injury and ready to fight at any given moment.

Gosha gives these daring samurai manifold opportunities to prove their valour, in a celebration of just independence bravely challenging engrained malfeasance. 

With so-much death-defying animation it's impossible to tear yourself away.

Aligned with intricate ethical dilemmas. 

Who is the beast indeed?

Uncommon Valor

At the end of the Vietnam War, loose ends abound with distressing familiarity, notably American Prisoners or War left behind, including one Colonel Jason Rhodes's (Gene Hackman) only son (Todd Allen as Frank Rhodes). 

Negotiations ploddingly proceed with no concrete results diplomatically forthcoming, grieving loved ones left with nothing to hold onto but sterile rhetoric and ineffective bureaucracy.

Rhodes grows tired of the process and decides to find an alternative solution, taking off for Bangkok posthaste in a valiant effort to locate his son.

Disappointment flourishes eruditely as the years interminably pass, until a definitive lead finally reckons with commanding tactile vehemence.

A team of dedicated soldiers soon gathers to train for the mission, even if they lack the army's support and must rely on private funding.

Colonel Rhodes's son has been found but government reps seek to halt the proceedings, by continuously harassing his honourable efforts and eventually confiscating his gear in southern Asia.

The only way to refinance their mission is to spend every dime they have.

And move forward together as one. 

Back into the heart of the jungle.

Their situation is certainly uncommon but how does one qualify valour's exceptionality?, it seems it's not fair to refer to one's bravery as common if directly engaged in hostile combat. 

It rather seems that difference applies starting with an initial exceptional value, valour distinguishing itself as generally exceptional and nothing less immutably moving forward.

Nonetheless, the soldiers in this film do go beyond the exceptional, and pursue überintense exceptionality as thoroughly demonstrated by one Mr. Wilkes (Fred Ward). 

In fact, the entire team along with their daring courageous local support, distinguishes themselves multilaterally when directly challenged by volatile resistance.

They discuss the enduring friendships which cohesively convinced them to heed the call, bonds distinctively forged like none other amidst daunting peril and shocking uncertainty (as discussed in the film). 

I find the best practice is to advocate against the eruption of war in general, but when madmen do lose control and start them peeps have to be ready to formidably respond.

To see the reduction of someone's life to an acceptable loss is most distasteful. 

Who profits from bellicose engagements?

Should they not be objectively penalized?

Vertigo

A detective quits the force (James Stewart as John Ferguson) after a near-death experience scars him, his partner having plunged to his death trying to desperately save him.

He can no longer deal with heights and suffers from vertigo when looking down, his adoring friend trying to aid his recovery with modest sprightly daring address (Barbara Bel Geddes as Marjorie Wood). 

An old friend suddenly gets in touch (Tom Helmore as Gavin Elster) and tells him a wild story about his wife (Kim Novak as Madeleine Elster), how he believes she thinks she's possessed by the covetous spirit of a long lost relative.

He's hired to casually follow her as she makes her way around town, visiting art collections or pleasantly shopping as the bizarro days lackadaisically float by.

But she suddenly pumps up the volume by drastically plunging into San Francisco Bay, Mr. Ferguson soon jumping in after her, after which they strike up a curious acquaintance. 

But he's too late she's too far gone he unfortunately can't do anything to save her.

He's incapacitated after her passing.

Until one day, he discovers another. 

Blind obsession compulsively drives naive Mr. Ferguson to pursue an ideal, long after the disastrous moment which harrowingly led to his quixotic conviction. 

The mind-blowing shock of regenerative love igniting latent intransitory torments, everyone around him suffering as a result as he seeks fantasized facsimile. 

It's classic Hitchcocks it's been so long since I've seen one of his striking films, the frenzied emotions the intense disbelief wrapped up in crippling uncanny lamentations. 

I saw many of them in my childhood in fact sought to see every one long ago, I even taped Vertigo off of television when but a wee lad, youthful glib impressionable contemplation.

It's an excellent film wherein which people love and love's not a bad thing, it's to be cherished, admired, even Midge is quite admirable, no doubt like hapless Edward in Kierkegaard's Seducer's Diary.

In terms of forging a general consensus amongst highly opinionated peeps, perhaps it is the best film of all time, or the one which has been begrudgingly chosen.

Almost every episode of Elementary contains a much deeper mysterious plot.

With love growing piecemeal I presume.

I must admit, I prefer Citizen Kane (and Aliens).