Free Fire

There's something different about this pointless indolent thrashy debacle, an art to not caring at all that transcends the actual output and haphazardly generates an irradiating flame.

Like the rebellious walrus who spontaneously decides to find new lodgings, or the lackadaisical raccoon who still outwits grandpa every Sunday, Ben Wheatley's Free Fire accidentally harnesses that wild raw pulsating energy that is undeniably up to no good, yet still mercilessly elucidates congenital deviant awe.

Resignedly.

It's not really that funny, the points it makes aren't particularly profound, the action sequence/s lack hyper-reactively intricate multivariable momentum, and none of the characters possess enigmatic appeal.

It's sort of like riding the métro late at night and watching while someone who drank too much vomits, and then penitently slips and falls into that vomit while his or her friends recklessly cheer.

Or when you're sitting in class and someone farts and you can tell that they're embarrassed but it's a stinker and the stink doesn't fade and soon the teacher can smell it but they wind up counterintuitively smirking to the culprit's chagrin.

They may have been hoping their lack of a plan, their free fire, would extemporaneously implicate jarring vindicated chartreuse, correct, yet, instead, the backlash ends up courteously refining clumsy awkwardness astern, collegially asking their audience to digest pestilent penpersonship in order to stentoriously belch, gaseously unscrew, or squeamishly bellow, as a matter of loyalty to the director and cast under examination.

It's like a struggle, a struggle to achieve that which they never intended to accomplish, to not do anything, a nihilistic neologism necromantically jaded and spry.

As it succeeded at doing next to nothing blandly, I couldn't help but think its murky blend of flash and crash was more refreshing than similar more engaged comedies, form cacophonously duelling with content, to circuitously disappoint while chugging back another 6.

Tally-Ho.

Incendiary inanity.

High-Rise

Quiescently ensconced in an eccentric microcosm, floor upon floor of economically ranked struggles, celebrations, sacrifices, autarky inclined to divine judgment, electrical exclusivity dividing the aggrieved populace, factions and punishments and discourse, threats, rebellion, single Laing (Tom Hiddleston) remains professionally detached as the disdain of the upper levels begets a crusading demagogue, a brilliant attempt to self-sufficiently endure, chaotically chained to the repercussions of decay.

Experimental empowerment.

Entitled vengeance.

Daring to dream.

Ben Wheatley's High-Rise possesses a peculiar ambivalence which consistently deconstructs attempts to clarify its underlying motivations, inhabiting the illusive intersection where horror, comedy, and tragedy collude, where everything remains uncertain, and spectres illuminate aberrations.

Quick draw.

Technically, the film's outstanding. The production design (Mark Tildesley), cinematography (Laurie Rose), and editing (Amy Jump and Wheatley) shine forth with undeniable cheek and variability.

A team assembled.

At points the writing (Jump) struggles however, excelling at crafting believable impoverished and bourgeois dialogues, but failing to convince when enabling plutocratic mysticism.

Obviously a closer study of In Search of Lost Time is in order.

It's like a really tight elementary first or second script, Jump demonstrating that she has the ability to win awards, High-Rise impressing like Blood Simple or J'ai tué ma mère, Between the Buttons or David Bowie's self-titled album.

Childlike brilliance.

High-Rise sacrifices sophistication for shock and ordure, the script still excelling at not bothering to explain things which left me full of sardonic amelioration.

Cool cast of varied characters.

At its best when it's genuinely unconcerned, at its worst when it just doesn't care.

Winky face.

For such a massive apartment building, High-Rise doesn't showcase much of its commercial enterprise, only focusing on a totalitarian grocery store and some perfunctory athletic accompaniments.

Inflammatory reflections of hierarchical obsessions.

Sociopolitically speaking.

*Loved the quick-French-learning grocery clerk.