Im Westen nichts Neues (All Quiet on the Western Front)

Ideological exuberance devastatingly clashes with abysmal import, as new recruits head to the trenches mind-bogglingly eager to do their part.

The crushing realities having been kept generally tight-lipped amongst the influential, the daily terror and the resounding menace not quite as romantic as old school sword-fighting (see MacBeth).

But the adoring dreams jingoistically cultivated with envious furor and imperial venom, have concretely created joyous optimism overwhelmingly destined for chaotic discord.

How could those responsible continue the campaign, when only children were left to call up to refill the ranks that were clearly suffering?

How could monotonous ideals still stubbornly endure amidst the reckless bombardment, of mechanized condemnatory contradiction uniformly proving just recalcitrance?

But they do, they still do today, and they've once again become widespread and persuasive, notably within the war in Ukraine where Russia has clearly been deluded.

With a widespread dismissal of alternatives and a unilateral focus on master and slave, the fascists cruelly and abominably wage woebegone destruction with merciless rancour.

Fortunately, the free people of Ukraine are capable of multilateral thought, which inevitably outwits absolutism with inherent character and formidable verve.

People will argue that a cultural focus on the needs of the many is yet another form of absolutism, but how does food to eat and multivariable pastimes lead to a singular demarcation?

If manifold businesses with corresponding counterparts judiciously compete within a regulated sphere, antitrusts eventually level the field to promote newfound trajectories while nurturing tradition.

Thus, there is no absolutism, the absolute cannot coercively materialize, the checks and balances ensure constructive fluid motion and the liquidation of totalitarian trusts.

Do you really want only one store to buy clothes in, and only two or three restaurants where you can eat, and to accept what they provide with neither question nor critical infrastructure designed to inspect them?

Do you not want the liberating option to try new things regardless of race or income?

Do you want to transform a brilliant world full of life?

Into dull autocratic inertia?

Meshi (Repast)

The rigid structure once naturalized since time immemorial so it seemed, the man diligently thriving at work, the wife taking care of the home.

It now appears rather out of touch with fluid non-specific schematics, which see both partners animately working while sharing household chores at the end of the day.

I'm not entirely sure how it works, but I imagine contemporary partners function multilaterally, perhaps cooking on alternate nights, and cleaning together on the weekend.

As time passes, I reckon the division of labour organically corresponds to habitual preference, within relevant temporal constraints, incorporating time and variability.

Do couples indeed function this way as time progresses and patterns emerge?

Or is it only read about in books and newspapers?

Has corresponding data been reasonably compiled?

In Meshi (Repast), there isn't much of an alternative for Michiyo (Setsuko Hara) besides the life of a traditional housewife, the socioeconomic style of the times having yet to embrace gender equality. 

She finds her life rather dull and becomes frightened by her future prospects (they live in suburbia), especially after her husband's (Uehara as Hatsunosuke) pretty cousin (Yukiko Shimazaki as Satoko) comes to visit, and he engages her in conversation.

Michiyo leaves to stay with family and her husband is left to monotonously deal, he's actually not such a bad guy though, and patiently accepts his solitary predicament.

He certainly has the more active role empirically equipped with inherent mobility, but he isn't cruel and dismissive either, he loves his wife and doesn't flaunt his advantage.

She eventually realizes he's a catch even though he's dependable and trustworthy, and the two reestablish their conjugal trajectory, director Mikio Naruse presenting their union idyllically. 

Her husband's rather chill and accepting and would likely have played a role in instigating change (Meshi's from 1951). 

And perhaps would have learned to be more spontaneous as well.

To take Michiyo out to dinner more often. 

Girl with Green Eyes

Who knows how to orchestrate equanimous relations amongst the genders, perhaps the hottest topic throughout multidisciplinary millennia, although I have my suspicions that if you're thinking about it you've missed the gregarious point, successful couples finding a steady routine, which generally dismisses such questions. 

Although I suppose that's just best case, I don't have real world marriage stats to consult, and I usually only see couples on festive occasions, when they're theoretically much less disposed to argument.

Nevertheless, the constructive ebb and flow of power relations and the means of production, seem to prosper when listening is encouraged and both parties reasonably yield, yin and yang harmoniously hypothesizing as heartstrings harken holistic, while some things remain immutable, lucidity of paramount import.

Although seeing things clearly can infuriate at times, mistakes and rash decisions, even impromptu reckoning, encouraging excitement and irrational versatility (romance).

The cultural codes Kate Brady (Rita Tushingham) rebels against are much too bland and dishonourably restrictive, you can see why so many women are furious when immersed within such environments. 

Every aspect of her entire life is to be controlled and managed by men, and should she attempt to stray from the path dire convictions warrant sincere distress.

She embraces manifest courage and makes a break for it into the void, wherein which she encounters reasonability of a flexible nature and appealing uncertainty. 

There's no doubt that her initial circumstances are severe and unsustainable, and that it's cruel to imprison anyone within such a bona fide panopticon. 

Not to suggest there should be no boundaries upholding stable regenerative consistency, unless two or more people fortuitously meet who can resourcefully function without guide or structure, but when such boundaries stiltedly stifle latent creativity and flourishing imagination, they should indubitably face passionate scrutiny, in order to encourage interactive athleticism. 

Brady learns difficult lessons through tantamount trial and exacting error, and seems much more naturally resilient thanks to her experimental resolve.

It's difficult to imagine how intolerant things must have been way off way back when.

She doesn't even set out to be rebellious.

Glad there's much more freedom these days. 

When We Were Kings

It's tough to determine the varying degrees through which codes classify sensations, but the boxing legend introduced in When We Were Kings as Muhammad Ali is like the bona fide quintessential genuine.

I've never seen an athlete so at ease while rapidly sharing points of view, with pinpoint provocative picturesque poignancy, I have to admit, I was a bit overwhelmed.

Without rehearsing he sincerely presents multiple compelling thoughts and observations, without worrying how they'll be interpreted, or what people might shockingly think.

It's pure ironclad honest discourse which doesn't hesitate or pause, and also has cool things to say, what an incredible entertainer.

With idyllic public relations, Ali expertly holds the crowd, with carefree innocent freeform inspiration, like he truly was touched by God.

Perhaps brought about by character gained by his refusal to fight in Vietnam, the essential prominent humanistic integrity righteously disseminating goodwill and purpose.

With the advent of social media and the extra layer of thoughtful scrutiny, media sensations face quite the struggle when suddenly engaging the critical public.

And even though you would think remarkable variability would generally spread with unconcerned expression, the age old mass marketed commercial prejudice still seems to be manifesting one-dimensional stereotypes.

It seemed like within an open-minded spectrum composed with respect and multilateral dignity, alternative ideas would resoundingly flourish in what's oft referred to as friendly conversation.

Not in terms of the monstrous dissonance chaotically cultivated by the resurgent far right, nor the exceedingly suffocating rules prudishly administered by the far left.

But a less lucrative and spellbinding continuum bound to sell far fewer newspapers, wherein which less sarcastic and vitriolic peeps fluently inquire and delve and reckon.

Nevertheless, I imagine that even within the quasi-totalitarian discourse, Muhammad Ali's imaginative voice still would have wondrously shone through.

With ethical poise and cultural understanding, literally like no other mass media sensation, it's like smoothly flowing poetic jazz music freely offered with upstanding nerve.

I wholeheartedly recommend When We Were Kings to anyone who deals with media.

A crash course in vital fluidity.

Presented in verdant balm.

Sounder

Full of well-meaning spirits and calm regenerative congeniality, a trusted backwoods family resiliently scrapes by, working hard but not left with much due to the colour of their skin, wage equality still a long ways off, along with equal opportunity.

Generally speaking, reasonable goodwill assurédly structures their social relations, Paps (Paul Winfield) even pitching for a local baseball team, his family adoringly watching close by.

But one night temptation assails his oft self-sacrificing composure, and frustration from a lack of success hunting leads him to steal meat from the town's local smokehouse.

Had he earned more from the most recent harvest he wouldn't have been so uncharacteristically covetous, poverty rationally driving people to extremes especially when it's regarded with cultural invariability. 

He's taken to a local work camp where he's forced to spend a year toiling, his oldest son (Kevin Hooks) stricken with wholesome regret, his resourceful mom (Cicely Tyson) offering loving counsel.

When his son comes trying to find him he stumbles upon an African-American school, with a dedicated inspirational teacher (Myrl Sharkey) who takes a curious supportive shine.

She loans him some rather thick books and offers him a place to sit back and learn.

But to take it he'll have to move.

After his father returns with a salient injury.

The feisty ingenuity of learning and education constructively reverberates in Martin Ritt's Sounder, where schooling and bold instruction foster change and imaginative verve.

It's motivating to see the enthusiastic student overflowing with determination to improve, in a respectful and challenging environment creatively founded by genuine altruism.

It's a wonderful time the school days when you're surrounded by multivariability, and several different subjects to study, with other students also keenly appreciative.

So much diversified potentiality eagerly disseminating widespread fascination, with practical knowledge and theoretical know-how manifestly awaiting novel syntheses.

Through active engagement with the storytelling arts such inquisitive wonder is proactively sustained. 

So many ideas so much latent productivity.

Sincerely brought about.

By compassionate educators. 💗

Top Gun: Maverick

In terms of successful careers, of maintaining an enviable cool for 35 to 40 years, Tom Cruise is practically in a class of his own, only Tom Hanks perhaps as comparable, it's incredible how many solid films they've made in my lifetime.

As far as I know, Cruise has never starred alongside a dog, nor engaged in nonsensical shenanigans, he's been sure and steady throughout most of my life, and in terms of action-adventure, in a league of his own.

Regarding consistency, his films are usually cool with numerous elaborate death-defying sequences, to make so many over such a long span of time is a definitive salute to finesse and professionalism. 

Take Top Gun: Maverick, within there's a new generation of actors one of whom may have a career that rivals his own, and it's his responsibility to guide them on a dangerous highly-specialized mission.

His character's idyllic cool he's been playing by his own rules for impressive decades, in the armed forces no less, that's an outstanding feat.

But can he trust these younger pilots to execute their mission with impeccable precision, as he teaches them what no one else can efficiently transmit through heroic calm and legendary expenditure? 

In the end, no, a way is found for him to take part in the mission itself, an indefatigable challenge to the youth of today to have a Hollywood run as successful as his own (that is just an interpretation and by no means reflects what Tom Cruise actually intended).

I suppose when engaging in extremely precise and resoundingly requisite covert missions, the first run should be trusted to the most gifted personnel, who have passed the unrelenting onslaught of multivariable tests designed to flexibly discover the most loyal and battle worthy.

But there's still what I (and probably many others) call game time instincts, the skills that can only be developed in the field against intense opposition, and a well-rounded spectrum of diverse soldiers and pilots can perhaps ensure greater success under such conditions.

I'm thinking of Saint-Loup's admiration for the bakers and other less aristocratic soldiers in World War I (In Search of Lost Time), and the British pilots who extemporaneously arose during the Battle of Britain to outmaneuver Nazi scum.

Had a wide spectrum of diverse capability not been trusted to exceptionally command (isn't this why the American economy has traditionally functioned so well?), would the haughty Nazis or even Putin's Russians have had greater success on the field of battle?

You can no doubt simulate similar conditions but there's no substitute for direct engagement.

Will anyone ever perform as well for such a long period of time as Mr. Cruise?

I doubt I'll see it again in my lifetime. 

Perennially committed to entertaining through cinema. 

Elvis

It's surprising more films haven't been made about Elvis (Austin Butler), and that it took so long for this one to come out, but I suppose rock bioflicks aren't really that common, or that I don't recall one having been made about the Beatles or Rolling Stones.

A big one anyways.

You'd think there'd be a huge market for stylistic glimpses into chaotic yesteryear, but perhaps said fans no longer care much for movies, and multigenerational appeal remains too risky (The Doors was cool in my youth).

Elvis's influence was waning when I was younger but he was still widely regarded as The King, and no other musical performer ever rivalled his incredible American popularity, there were certainly dozens of potential candidates, but no one else commensurately captured that sensational spotlight so smoothly.

So pervasively.

I liked many of his songs and even enjoyed playing them on the piano, but I wasn't that interested in the phenomenon, I was way more into Brit pop.

He had kind of been identified with the more straight and narrow path, and I often associated his music with study, which made it less appealing.

Baz Luhrmann is no doubt aware of this crisp commercial characterization, his film focusing on controversies from Elvis's life, where he spoke out against the grain.

Like a passionate devoted fan, he chronicles the less wholesome aspects of the King, and serializes his sultry swagger in contumacious cordial conflict.

Although I really don't know how seriously a non-traditional Christmas special challenged Woodstock, but it seemed to work according to the film, and helped him regain the centre stage, I wholeheartedly feel no shame for my love of Christmas specials.

The film focuses much of its attention on Elvis's relationship with his manager (Tom Hanks as Colonel Tom Parker), who took advantage of the singer's naivety to earn an astronomical income.

Everything starts off well but things become tricky when it comes to international travel, since the Colonel has no legal identity and can't leave America, he consistently tricks Elvis into remaining stateside.

Such a shame the managerial aspects the real-world greed that complicates art.

Elvis still never stopped givin' 'er.

Even when he was forced to do so practically every night.

Some of his songs seem truly timeless and I'll still stop and listen like that guy on Seinfeld. 

Staple tradition. Consistent change. 

Shouldn't lyrics have been used in the title?

The Horse's Mouth

I imagine The Horse's Mouth has been inspiring cheek for generations, as it magnanimously schemes through stray ludicrous accord.

Hark then, take offhand note, an imaginative artist is released from prison, immediately resuming the stress thereafter which initially led to his foul distemper.

Thus, with no income at hand and no commission retroactively forthcoming, a theoretical deal which may have merit seductively swelters in sordid cynosure.

Strange how someone so sought after just wildly wanders half-starved and disputative, you would think there'd be some kind of role for him to adequately play with solemn disinterest?

But wandering salubriously suits him with soliloquized synergies short and syncopated, the odd connoisseur taking distracted note, random deals struck fugaciously unaltered.

Inspiration indeed surely struts and mischievously materializes maelström and mayhem, as it does within The Horse's Mouth when idyllic lustre illustriously liaises. 

Indubitably, a frenzied subaltern is even enlisted with aggrieved bravado, the lack of orthodox laborious blueprints producing reluctant starstruck nebulae. 

No doubt encouraging flagrant entropy resiliently mutating into adamant verse. 

At times some things go amiss.

Textiles tantamount cantankered probity.

You wonder where he's headed in the auspicious final moments, imagine having a boat fortuitously buoyant and inquisitively seafaring.

I suppose if you can catch your dinner with moderate success there's no horizon, puzzling predicaments at times bemoaning yet still loose and lithe and limber.

With abundant material work may flourish beyond reckless trope and placated gale, regenerative lapse demonstrative brine lopsided latitude elegant shades.

Romance wasn't once so dangerous although tremulous realism distorts as well, without hope how do you ever achieve assuming a hearty practical frailty? 

Sometimes things relax and tactile comforts efficiently abound.

Soak it in, time for a breather.

It may even last.

'About on the seas.

*Essential viewing for Alec Guinness fans. It's like Obi-Wan Kenobi if he'd never had Jedi training.