A first job suddenly presents itself after a regenerative run through town, good fortune having granted knowledge and opportunity to a curious unconnected youth, his eagerness to impress well-suited to his employer's bustle, a crash course in low-end horse racing following, with long days and nights spent learning the ropes on the road.
His grizzled boss (Steve Buscemi as Del) still knows a few tricks that keep him one step ahead.
But he misjudges Charley's (Charlie Plummer) love for old school grinder Lean on Pete, and doesn't realize how far he'll go to boldly prevent him coming unglued.
Soon the two are headed North through lands unknown in search of Charley's only remaining relative, an aunt whom his father (Travis Fimmel) lost touch with years ago.
A kind-hearted waitress, some vets, and a troubled homeless trickster await, off the beaten track trudged with neither supplies nor know-how, random commentaries on hardboiled living manifested, improvised action, spontaneously guiding the way.
Lean on Pete bluntly juxtaposes innocent open-minds with worldly calculation then roughly blends them just before the mild homestretch.
Like a fledgling existentialist learning to take flight, different gusts intensifying principled individualistic spirits, experientially gliding, diving, riding, swooping, the new flexibly adjusts with crafty aeronautical awareness, balancing ethics and expediency on the fly, before lightly merging with the breeze.
Harrowingly examining lawlessness while considering when to forgive, Charley maximizes his advantage in every situation, having been extemporaneously confronted with stricken mortality, having lost the foothold that taught him to love.
Thereby functioning like a classic Western.
Will Charley age to become like the man who murdered his father?
Does the elevation of tax-free individualism create a world within which ethics are solely applied to different personal conflicts composed of duelling participants each trying to instinctually endure, like self-preservation in the state of nature, or is there a cultural rule of objective law which socially coincides?
Like Candide crowned Leviathan, Charley outwits responsibility.
A patient thought provoking solemn coming of age tale, complete with mischievous characterizations diversifying hardboiled scenes, Andrew Haigh's Lean on Pete philosophically ponders life unbound, through an unexpected impulsive trek into the heart of wild humanistic existence.
Showing posts with label Andrew Haigh. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Andrew Haigh. Show all posts
Friday, May 4, 2018
Tuesday, February 2, 2016
45 Years
It all seemed so simple, growing up, you know.
Married couples loved each other. That's why they were married. Their vows functioned like impenetrable devout amorous stainless steel domestically upholding both excellence and virtue as a matter of enviable endurance over the years, level-heads making conscientious decisions to sublimely support one another, dignity through sacrifice, enriching everlasting love.
Due to the sacred nature of the bonds, it never occurred to me that jealousy could dishevel their peaceful harmonies by introducing unforeseen frenetics, tumultuous temptations, to ensure conflict degeneratively materialized, and invasively persisted evermore.
Odd how it's used like a regenerative distraction sometimes, rather than strolls along the beach or a weekend in the Laurentians, bizarre these frenzied fluctuations, confusingly chaotic resuscitative respirations.
Yet Mr. and Mrs. Mercer (Tom Courtenay and Charlotte Rampling) seem to have found a way to amicably co-exist old-school-style for close to a half-century in Andrew Haigh's 45 Years, subtly embracing different modest themes to maturely promote conjugal longevity, striving ever onwards on a path of cherished illuminated merriment, feisty yet docile, an eternal fountain of youth.
But even their upright stability is viscerally challenged after 45 years of sure and steady elasticity, 45 Years calmly and patiently injecting a jealous element and then slowly yet persistently intensifying its disillusionment.
Enough time has passed to theoretically compensate for wild romantic passions that lasciviously took hold 50 years ago, before Kate and Geoff ever met.
The film hauntingly rationalizes these sober emotions to strengthen their consistencies with delicate poignant gravity, the final scene ambiguously clad in brilliance, as you wonder if the moment is ecstatic and/or derelict, a reverberating disorienting dispute.
Married couples loved each other. That's why they were married. Their vows functioned like impenetrable devout amorous stainless steel domestically upholding both excellence and virtue as a matter of enviable endurance over the years, level-heads making conscientious decisions to sublimely support one another, dignity through sacrifice, enriching everlasting love.
Due to the sacred nature of the bonds, it never occurred to me that jealousy could dishevel their peaceful harmonies by introducing unforeseen frenetics, tumultuous temptations, to ensure conflict degeneratively materialized, and invasively persisted evermore.
Odd how it's used like a regenerative distraction sometimes, rather than strolls along the beach or a weekend in the Laurentians, bizarre these frenzied fluctuations, confusingly chaotic resuscitative respirations.
Yet Mr. and Mrs. Mercer (Tom Courtenay and Charlotte Rampling) seem to have found a way to amicably co-exist old-school-style for close to a half-century in Andrew Haigh's 45 Years, subtly embracing different modest themes to maturely promote conjugal longevity, striving ever onwards on a path of cherished illuminated merriment, feisty yet docile, an eternal fountain of youth.
But even their upright stability is viscerally challenged after 45 years of sure and steady elasticity, 45 Years calmly and patiently injecting a jealous element and then slowly yet persistently intensifying its disillusionment.
Enough time has passed to theoretically compensate for wild romantic passions that lasciviously took hold 50 years ago, before Kate and Geoff ever met.
The film hauntingly rationalizes these sober emotions to strengthen their consistencies with delicate poignant gravity, the final scene ambiguously clad in brilliance, as you wonder if the moment is ecstatic and/or derelict, a reverberating disorienting dispute.
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