La Bête Humaine

At times I imagine the cultivation of intimacy within a constructive working relationship produces festivity, the successive manifestation of wholesome merriment gradually narrativized through song, as the years pass and traditions mutate inherent variability naturally acquiesces, interactive quid pro quos lightheartedly diversifying, through manifold variations on trusted themes.

Work and family, old friends and new, congenial shopkeeps and studious professionals, ebb and flow within the matrimonial history, with varying degrees of effervescence stipulated.

The sharing of enriching meals elaborately composed through reverential daring, infinitely attuned to proportional abundance as innate novelty bipartisanly radiates.

The local galleries continuously revitalized through seemingly miraculous unique invention, the vivacious versatile vicissitudes curiously curated through inspired enchantment.

Games of chance and athletic expenditure effectively galvanizing intrepid spirits, endearingly awaiting that incredible moment when victorious accolades impeccably echo.

Sure and steady determined endeavour consistently transformed into chill alternatives, mutual accommodation and reliable perseverance subliminally suturing communal resolve.

Latent improvisation ensuring progressive unexpected ameliorations, efficiently subduing excessive routine with exotic cultured unpredictable largesse. 

The natural world dynamically rambunctiously enlivening hearts and minds throughout the land, as different species modestly excel within alternative complex environments.

Classical music still respectfully played hundreds of years later by compelling symphonies, the musical genius indubitably reverberating within contemporary interpretive zounds.

But why not Lionel Hampton and Benny Goodman, should these great jazz musicians not also enigmatically regenerate, is their music not on par with Mozart and Beethoven and not also worthy of historical chronicle?

I would argue it's in fact preferable but that's accounting for particular taste.

Incrementally adjusted, interwoven.

Much more work.

Not to mention relaxed venues.

Our Hospitality

Age old insuperable intransigence malignantly motivates unforgiving distemper, a feud established so long ago no one knows why it began in the first place.

Over the years, as stubbornness seethed, convivial enterprise vigorously adapted, and widespread prosperity and temperate goodwill socioculturally spread across the fruitful land.

But not before two inconsolable brouhahas inscrupulously dealt each other fatal blows, their families left to struggle without fathers at a time when few theoretically remarried.

The one child is sent far away to be industriously raised in an oblivious city, wherein which the disillusioning feud no longer holds insalubrious sway.

He learns the subtle and occasionally rambunctious urbane arts of metropolitan life, blissfully unaware of the agéd imbroglio still unctuously upheld by brooding strangers.

It's really just one person cantankerously clinging to tradition best forgotten, the world having changed and diversified everywhere else leaving the children he cares for judiciously unconcerned.

They still want to please their family and abide by old school oligarchic orthodoxies, but they're close to asking themselves why bother? when we can take the train to Cleveland!

After learning of his enticing inheritance Willie McKay (Buster Keaton) returns to his family's domain, completely unaware of the histrionics that once cruelly governed their active degeneration. 

Unfortunately, his malcontent rivals still hold fast to the disenchanting dispute.

Even though their sister's invited him to dinner.

And he soon comes calling inquisitive resolute.

Honesty and integrity must still reverberate within consistently shifting sociopolitical sentiments, as if tawdry banal disingenuous cynicism has yet to overwhelm pleasant endeavour worldwide.

Why hold on to the carnal irreconcilability as it lays waste to generous collective innocence, cultivating a nation of vicious wolves with nothing to feed on but each other?

Note the habitual contentment of endemic zebree and industrious thriving aloof water buffalo, who agreeably eat various plants and efficiently prosper with genuine bemused sincerity. 

The animals who prey upon them strike primarily at the young and old as well as the weak and the infirm, why is such behaviour honourably regarded, is it not intensely revolting?

In a complex film still remarkably relevant Buster Keaton challenges grievous prejudice, and finds an hospitable amorous alternative upon metamorphosing Victorian currents.

Incredible how well each intricate scene is multidimensionally and playfully constructed.

Still an effective way to tell stories.

Such a shame, the warlike reemergence. 

Criss Cross

Incumbent misfortune maladroitly radiates as a good natured local lad returns home from distant travels.

He's aware he shouldn't be visiting whom he can't help but want to see, his innate warm and friendly curiosity reimagining things as they've been.

But his love interest has tied the knot with a local entrepreneur who's none too impressed, as they still meet to catch up indiscreetly as if nothing's changed the palimpsest. 

Fortunately, he's found a way to cool things off before they get out of hand, for he works in an armoured car and is well aware of its routine.

With his knowledge of the vehicle's route he can plan a heist with his ex-partner's new husband, and they can all escape with plenty of dough to newfound lands malfeasant munchies. 

The plan is made even though stately trust still evades congenial understanding, the prosperous possibilities too tantalizing to ignore due to amorous prorated grievance.

But as the job is being pulled something's not quite right with the prized predicament.

Amicable relations remain unrestored.

Hospitalized convalescence pending. 

I suppose when you're writing a script like this you have to pile on the inherent should nots, character A should not have considered even more outcomes than character B or C and their devout minions.

The more radically preposterous and inimitably out of whack, the more likely the lugubrious outcome may surely seem like disastrous fact.

Imagine films like the disillusioning Criss Cross released in abundance each fiscal year, challenging sundry reliable westerns for box office cred impeccable sheer.

Makes you want to smoke cigars/cigarillos and drink whiskey/margaritas afield in the wilderness, perhaps cooking your meals on a campfire randomly fuelled by obstinate strain.

Has film noir ever taken off within space for an intergalactic aerodynamic decade, embracing comedy, tragedy, romance, beyond interplanetary conflict?

It is the age of globalization and it's taken on a disenchanting hue.

But rational applicability isn't so easily mis/construed. 

🔍 😜

Mandabi

The potential acquisition of a significant sum encourages excitement within a devout family, wives eager to eat rather well, a husband thinking about making loans to his friends. 

A grievous problem distresses nevertheless since he has no identification to speak of, and needs a birth certificate to cash the money order, and has no experience with bureaucracy.

It's awkward to watch as a predatory legion of pouncing perpetrators cheat and swindle him, his innate good nature abounding with trust yet rather unaccustomed to banks and business.

His heart's a good one and he encourages charity and likes to help out whenever he can, the arguments he makes to justify his largesse soundly structured and honestly thriven. 

But his country has yet to introduce public education and many are unfamiliar with dissolute tricks, remaining faithful and full of goodwill yet at times oblivious to the wolves surrounding.

Even with sound education the situation mutates and new issues develop, imagine how much simpler and more enjoyable things would be if you didn't have to take so many possibilities into consideration.

It's baffling to see so many of the same issues still manifesting within the news, as thoughts of progression from one's memorable childhood tempt thoughts of sociocultural disillusionment.

Teachers often genuinely care for the cultural well-being of their students, and provide relevant applicable advice that can be of great benefit in the world at large.

They can teach you a lot about advertising and how various schemes are trying to cheat you, if you learn how to spot them you may save a great deal and not look foolish from time to time.

Unfortunately, the world of commerce is intently aware of the challenge of teachers, and the ways in which such challenges decrease their profits and make it harder for them to trick you.

I often imagine that's why teaching is so severely criticized in the U.S and not as well-paid in some jurisdictions as it is in continental Europe.

As teachers try to help people learn how to avoid being cheated, the people cheating them accuse them of treachery and decrease their wages and credibility in turn.

Does a trusty glass of red wine every evening attempt to cheat you within such a scenario, or does it deconstruct the inconsistency with relevant ethereal coherent reckoning?  

Good music aligned with your tastes makes a strong complement harmoniously speaking. 

A figure eight, another Jets playoff win.

A walk down the boulevard.

The most recent exhibit. 

The Great Dictator

I find the introduction of disclaimers (although at times necessary) provides an unfortunate layer of stress to an otherwise upbeat festivity, but nevertheless, please note that when I write about abounding mesmerizing life, I'm doing so to celebrate the fleeting natural world and critique flagitious warmongers. As humans encroach further and further into natural realms they become more and more precious, as does celebrating their vivid wonders with elastic readiness and proactive verve. Simultaneously, as a new generation far removed from the horrors of World War II ignorantly and childishly plays with the world like the Dictator of Tomania (Charlie Chaplin), with no regard for human frailty, the celebration of life becomes inclusively paramount especially concerning the bombarded Ukraine.  I'm not trying to secretly make an argument that is pro-life in regards to abortion, since I believe it is a woman's right to choose and that men have no say in the unfortunate scheme of things. The argument laid-out in (the now unfortunately titled) Freakonomics makes a strong practical case for the sociocultural benefits of permitting abortion within reason, and the ways in which poverty and starvation significantly decrease in jurisdictions where it's allowed.

But it's still an untoward topic when lauding the return of ebullient spring, as the animals wake up from their slumbers and venture forth to see the world again.

I sometimes wonder what their dreams are like while they efficiently sleep throughout the winter, and if they're indeed more inclined to hibernate than they are to reemerge.

There's even an animal dream sequence in Jean-Jacques Annaud's sympathetic The Bear, the idea perhaps deserving of longer treatment within feature length animated films.

It's wonderful to see different life forms the shapes and sizes the species and families, each one of them a thoughtful miracle effervescently composing holistic community.

Although there are many beautiful things various people have crafted throughout the centuries, they'll never be more radiant than a dragonfly, or more worthy of respect than a resilient wombat (as others have noted).

But the cultivation of brilliance at times leads to the dismissal of other life forms, since they struggle with advanced calculus and have never constructed an ornate palace.

As Chaplin relates in The Great Dictator's climax as he presents his bold attempt to end World War II, while intelligence is indeed a remarkable gift, it still shouldn't lead to widespread cynicism. 

I always thought it was the duty of the naturally gifted to nurture the flock and wholeheartedly care for them, notably taking into consideration the lessons they've learned through practical experience. 

It wasn't just to sit in an empty room and listen to fawning praise lacking constructive nerve.

Lost in self-obsessed blunder. 

Lacking animate resonant vitality.

A King in New York

The freedom to think whatever remains universally appealing, assuming you aren't infringing upon the rights of others to freely work and actively play.

It makes for a robust globe overflowing with novel ideas, abounding with compelling variety as productively showcased at bookstores and libraries.

It's the inherent multivariability that makes democracies so enriching, eclectically attuned to collective vigour through individualistic endeavour.

The groups demographically ebb and flow as constructive fluidity naturally composes, stability and routine still widely cherished the reliable economic expenditures.

It's easy to write about the benefits of inclusive sociocultural initiatives, you just have to entertain heartfelt vitality as judiciously applied to peaceful life.

It's a shame such tolerant impulses have lost public ground in recent years, as childish imprudent brash extremists have refused to embrace versatile community.

Or even frustratingly bewildered it with sundry ineffective rules, stilting suffocating melodious free verse by rashly promoting social regulation.

I'm not as familiar with the era as I should be, but from what I've heard Chaplin once ruled incarnate, artistically evidencing his cultivated resonance with practical imaginative enticing foresight. 

But as times changed and new trends and fashions provocatively prospered in old school cinema, a revolution rigorously challenged his exceptionality with fluent discord.

Thus, in the opening moments of A King in New York the King of Estonia (Charlie Chaplin) is forced to flee, and take up residence in the Big Apple where he eventually has to work in advertising.

After having been banned himself from the United States where he had entertained millions for decades, extremist thugs having coercively arisen to stifle the chill cooperative left.

To think that someone so genuinely concerned with innocent goodwill and characteristic savvy, couldn't return to the American heartland fills one with loathing for McCarthyism. 

Chaplin got them back in this film with a funny scene near the lively end, where he douses the brigands down with extensive literal saturated import.

He was just exercising his rights to pursue non-violent modes of communication.

A bold statement by cinematic royalty.

No doubt a friend.

To athletic accords.

The Circus

Jedi training indeed paramount for sundry peeps across the land, prosperous schooling discovering brilliant intrepid bold corresponding padawans. 

But at times the educational system loses track of its young Jedi, and while their powers continue to develop, they have no mentor to lend a hand (see Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them). 

They remain remarkably powerful but have no definitive direction, and while attempting to culturally acclimatize can wind up engaged with routine farce.

Take the Little Tramp's (Charlie Chaplin) brief flirtation with improvised ragtag dissolution, which leads to imperial entanglements throughout his otherwise carefree days.

While trying to escape, he makes his way to the local circus, and accidentally proves miraculous, his raw unfiltered Jedi talent naturally sensational.

He has inherent multivariability which flexibly thrives and athletically entices, the resulting versatile wondrous artistry as mesmerizing as any virtuoso. 

Awareness remains a problem as he consciously realizes his strength, and must apply thought to consistently supply what he never meant to deliver in the first place.

He must intuit the way of the Jedi in front of a live audience no less, and habitually manifest the rowdy chaos instinctually engendered with his waking mind.

How many times when you didn't realize you were good at something did it become difficult to reproduce when animately expected, what was perceived to be nothing more than natural blundering instantly upheld as cultural craft?

To learn to continuously supply captivating comedy without any training, to consciously mimic accidental innovation, can take time and practice at that.

For Charlie Chaplin's The Circus the oblivious Jedi struggles upon the stage, after a period of incomparable productivity widely acclaimed by diverse audiences.

He was doing incredibly well until eavesdropping upon his love interest, and assuming the worst for his amorous ambitions lost that salient carefree initiative.

Having never learned to corral his freeform wild imaginative entertaining thoughts, within an expedient objective enclosure, his performance reflexively struggles.

The frustrating endemic throes of people with talent as they learn to develop, doesn't love always seem unattainable and then supernatural if suddenly requited. 

Fret not, a day will dawn when romantic dreams no longer complicate things.

And you can concentrate solely on your work.

It's not nearly as bad as it sounds. 

*In Chaplin's case, it's like he instinctually wrote the sacred Jedi texts during filmmaking's early days. Texts that were in fact page turners. Still to this postmodern age. 

A Woman of Paris

A curious belle habitually considers the manifold opportunities awaiting in Paris, should she be able to cleverly break free from the dismal prison her father's constructed.

A local lad to whom she's betrothed ventures forth one evening in aid, and after her father discovers she's fallen in love he locks his door to her forever.

The lad's own father is also unimpressed and refuses to provide his heartfelt blessing, but as she buys their dependable train tickets, he suffers a fatal collapse.

She doesn't wait around however and years later she's settled à Paris, dating the richest man in town and rather taken with the luxury.

He's quite the cad notwithstanding and even though he does enjoy her company, he's too much of a carefree schmoozer to seek her hand in objective commitment.

Her former belovéd arrives in town and hasn't forgotten how things once were, hoping to secure a rapprochement yet somewhat crestfallen by how much things have changed.

The plutocrat finds it rather comic until he discovers he's quite distraught.

Tragedy awkwardly ensuing.

Remarkably different how things might have been.

I suppose if you're born into a family that takes particular guidelines seriously, and you mature respecting various categories that may have been established regarding oblivion, the earliest ones encountered being somewhat less scandalous, that when you consider historical narrative conventions, one naturally concludes that in the past they must have been stricter.

Since the past indeed took place at an earlier stage and your earliest stages were indeed quite wholesome, the emergence of contemporary scandal a hundred years ago seems out of touch with spiritual computation.

I've heard from time to time that comedic actors hope for dramatic roles, and want to break through in serious films from a desire to develop increasing clout.

But should contemporary comedians consider Charlie Chaplin's genius, what a great thought I had the other day, just watch Chaplin's films for weeks, and the ways in which his comedic films far outweigh his dramatic endeavours, and, to add further emphasis, remain more appealing than so many contemporary dramas, perhaps such comedians shouldn't feel quite so downtrodden, should they rarely abandon humour.

Although comedy has changed remarkably what would Chaplin be creating this postmodern day?

That's a question that should be asked.

I enjoy his dramatic films, but his comedies usurp reason.