The Presidio

A military policeperson (Jenette Goldstein as Patti Jean Lynch) is shot during a routine call, her death possibly related to another misguided crime.

Her ex-partner is assigned to investigate (Mark Harmon as Jay Austin) but jurisdiction leads to conflict, as he questions army personnel without respect for rank or standing.

Lieutenant Colonel Alan Caldwell (Sean Connery) realizes they'll have to have work together, a joint military/police operation with irate tensions steeping.

Lynch and Austin once arrested Colonel Paul Lawrence (Dana Gladstone) for disgraceful conduct, but when their work was scrutinized, Caldwell didn't support them.

Thus Austin left the army but now finds himself once again, in a position to arrest Mr. Lawrence if the evidence proves compelling.

Caldwell struggles to assist while calling attention to unwritten codes, thereby curtailing cowboy antics liberally applied notwithstanding. 

Austin starts dating his daughter (Meg Ryan as Donna Caldwell) much to his dismay, as the ancient clashes of stubborn cultures take on newfound ballistics.

The Presidio is very direct in search of blunt disgruntling fact, with no concern for feints or subtlety it blatantly marches on.

In a democracy there's room for manifold styles of film, and if one genre eclipses the others it can lead to incestuous deluge.

Thus I've kept an open-mind when freely viewing service films, to strangely embrace agile difference as composed through upheld traditions.

Frank exchanges between honest men often have otherworldly impacts, especially when immersed in rigid strata where trusted honesty is anathema.

It doesn't work so well in The Presidio at least it's not The Rock or Pulp Fiction, it works along the same lines but misses the mark unfortunately.

Still, remember that's just my impression and you shouldn't feel bad if you disagree, like what you like, get into it, artistic criticism isn't objectively orchestrated.

I've met people who had different tastes and at times I was surprised they liked certain films, but I always admired how earnestly they defended them since they weren't trying to impress.

Thus if you happen to love The Presidio I may be somewhat surprised.

Don't be annoyed by my alternative take.

Relativity upholds thriving democracies.  

The Peanut Butter Falcon

Crafty strategic planning critical timing pugnacious pudding.

An iron clad tenacious second round deftly wrought greased up leviathan.

Another proceeds in error, thieving what could have been his, rather irritated by austere repercussions, well aware that he's truly at fault.

He responds with fury, as if he were legion and not mortal man, this time raging beyond heartfelt mercy, courageous reckless madness.

He has a good heart, he's just slightly insane, or at least doesn't recognize law, or authority, of any kind, unless it's done right by him.

He then saves a stranger from drowning, and they head out on the resplendent run, applying homegrown irate grassroots logic, heartwarmingly bidden, they build quite a raft.

Another proceeds in hot pursuit, unaware she's given herself away, do-gooding yet friendly and sympathetic, disillusioned by rules, expediency.

Does the wrestling school they seek still exist?, and is the Salt Water Redneck (Thomas Haden Church) still there to train them?

They're sought after with sadistic scorn.

Which doesn't mean they can't fall in love.

The Peanut Butter Falcon flips the bird to prudence and regulations, and celebrates primordial will.

Self-righteous magnetism, as adamant as it is impulsive, organically orchestrates as it blindly flexes.

Tenderness and warmth await as compassion and understanding embrace agile elasticity, improvised reason contemplating with raw passionate substance, like wayward soulful jazz, harnessing modernist themes.

Paramount absurdity realistically toned in stereo, jukebox genesis ebullient bayou, madcap maestros unbound and breathless.

Luminescent unrestrained unrestricted dis/orientation, plunging to suffer quixotically, soaked in ir/reverent s(pl)urge.

Reemerging in familial consensus.

Ready for the great wild unknown.

Glad this wasn't made by Scorsese.

Why should forethought have all the fun?

Okay, one character applies forethought. He thinks he's locked down for life, and is therefore reasonably frustrated because he hasn't done anything wrong. The institution where he lives should have taken him out from time to time. A road trip or a day at the beach. Not just two or three rooms forever. That doesn't make any sense.

There's a cool fun sort of vibe within that you don't often see work so successfully.

Like an old school Larry Cohen film.

I think they had fun while they made Peanut Butter Falcon but still took everything seriously.

The feisty spirit of independence.

I highly recommend it.

The Hitman's Bodyguard

Hitperson nobility chaotically clashes on the way to trial after two bitter rivals begrudgingly team up to ensure evidence is produced that will incriminate a tyrant.

In Patrick Hughes's The Hitman's Bodyguard.

Independently affixed, one smoothly flowing while the other meticulously researches every operation's specialized nanoaspects, their contradictory approaches enraging the more assiduously inclined, much to his immortally gifted interlocutor's amusement, the bodies reflexively pile up as the bromance intensifies, discourses of the huggable ironically embracing acutely accented vitriol, voice two highly successful underground phenoms, unaccustomed to negotiating viscid bonds of true friendship.

Because they're usually out killing people.

And rarely have time.

To love.

The tyrant's henchpeople at least try to make things difficult, even going so far as to instigate the best most intelligently and intricately edited (Jake Roberts) high speed chase I've seen in years, involving boats in Amsterdam, plus Salma Hayek (Sonia Kincaid) versatilely delivers, and Elodie Yung (Amelia Roussel) tantalizes with less bravado.

The international policing community is betrayed.

Vengeance pontificates while reacting condemnatorially.

Just tell her you love her.

This joyful Christmas/Festive season.

So close to entering the realm of the cult classic, one day, perhaps it will, I don't know, but, although both Samuel L. Jackson (Darius Kincaid) and Ryan Reynolds (Michael Bryce) captivatingly execute, casting by Elaine Grainger and Marianne Stanicheva, I couldn't help but wish Robert Rodriguez or Quentin Tarantino had edited the script, which is oddly still a bit light considering (a chummy bloodbath for the entire family?), although there are moments of comedic genius, Reynolds uncharacteristically laying it down to a bartender before reentering the fray for one, and the line, "he ruined the [phrase] mother fucker."

Can't one of these films that torches a car, or, building, have a self-reflexive moment where the controversial ponder their consequent environmental impact?

A sequel seems apt since Jackson and Reynolds work so well together.

I would suggest not bringing them closer together as it progresses.

Rather, I'd replace the tendency to strengthen familial or bromantic feelings in round two with a two minute scene, after some pyrotechnic shenanigans, where they actually stop talking and just stare at one another for awhile, their looks encapsulating thirty awkward cheesy moments of convivial intrigue, to give it more of an edge, make it more furious, more vital.

That's what I'd do.

L'Outsider (Team Spirit)

No limits, no borders, astronomically inclined lucrative instinct wildly cashing in on risk at play, financial fecundity, articulate gumption, stereoscopic synergies in blissful shocked contagion, extraordinary, unprecedented, steady surefire streak, secretively securing nest eggs niched necessities, excessively consisting of self-obsessed belief, the unimaginable success encouraging chaotic exposure, an investigation, oversight, interrogation, one month's extravagance comes woefully crashing down, as France's greatest trader harshly hits ground.

But what a flight.

M. Jérȏme Kerviel (Arthur Dupont) learns quickly and trades and trades and trades until he's up 1.5 billion.

1.5 billion dollars.

Yet his unorthodox propensities cause problems for his private life as feelings of invincibility clash with social codes of conduct.

Having settled into the wolf pack, he is unconditionally respected, although even the most unrestrained amongst them fear his cold audacity.

His reserve.

Unwilling.

L'Outsider (Team Spirit [terrible English title]) playfully examines calculation to add and subtract legerdemain ;) while multiplying cryptic divisions.

Its bromantic aspects are more well developed than its heteronormatively amorous characteristics, although the latter are required to diversify Kerviel's portfolio.

Unalloyed wildman.

He had it all banked and locked away with hundreds of millions to spare.

Steerike!

Like a rowdy blend of The Big Short and Owning Mahowny, L'Outsider investigates the limitations and/or exasperations of addiction to criticize impatience while castigating excess.

I suppose some of the most successful people retain a degree a humility that prevents them from blowing it.

Not the case often however.

It seems like a "you blew it whatevs here's another shot" tacit union sometimes.

Hey, I love unions. Sign me up.

Maybe not to that union.

There's still humility within the abrasive if you know how to detect it (it's a matter of risk management).

Enduring it consistently is another matter.

Find the midpoint between French and English civil law.

Think up some characters.

Proceed.