Danton

The joyous influence of the French Revolution continues to reverberate this postmodern day, the hard-fought liberty gallantly won by a sad oppressed people suddenly victorious. 

Treating the populace with greater respect regardless of rank or wealth or birth, became much more routine in the following centuries in free jurisdictions less obsessed with absolutism.

But when engaged in revolutionary activities erudite planning can usher in peace, and avoid dire consequences like the infamous Terror or the 7 to 12 million who died in Russia.

At times the tyranny is so strong that a people must lash out with rebellious hearts, and if steps are taken to consider the aftermath The Animal Farm scenario can be avoided.

The American Revolution valiantly succeeded and a new country was miraculously born, the French aiding significantly in its impetus and playing a key role in ensuring its victory.

Having audaciously won an unlikely triumph against the greatest army the world had ever known, newfound sublime statesmen like Washington and Jefferson obstinately vowed to conquer absolutism.

Yet in the United States today, Donald Trump proceeds like an absolute monarch, like the very enemies the Founding Fathers defeated with heroic resolve and upstanding freewill.

Trump and his minions are using social media along with the dark web to spread scurrilous lies, which never would have been published in legitimate news outlets due to their inherent lack of robust truth value.

Like most scandalous tyrants, Trump surrounds himself with people who can barely read, and did poorly when challenged in school and didn't do much better seeking a vocation. 

Some of these people loathe schools and libraries which they madly blame for their own inadequacies, and rather than simply taking things slowly and pursuing lifelong learning, they blindly lash out at teachers and librarians. 

Armed with comedic examples from popular trash comedies flourishing on YouTube, they never comprehend nor indeed accept that people who excelled in school still seek to help them. 

So Trump attacks schools and libraries to idiotically reward the worst of their students. 

Indirectly leaving their children hopeless and destitute.

With nothing but the Bible, like kids in the Middle-East.

*The Bible is an amazing book and should be respected, but it's one of millions of books out there to read, patiently awaiting curious minds.

**Trump followers, know that at all times teachers and librarians seek to help you. And that's what they spend their entire lives doing. But they need schools and libraries to do so. 

Crimes of the Future

As the ubiquitous commodified presence of pepped-up plastics and frenetic fossil fuels, begin to osmotically transform incumbent biological organisms, mutations matriculately metastasize and preponderantly promulgate across the land, the macabre growth of peculiar novelties transitionally emergent through stressed out synthesis.

Is it as farfetched as it sounds could we gradually adapt to consume plastic, to find sustaining fulfilling nourishment within the manifold products created thus?

I figured we wouldn't adapt and microplastics and forever chemicals would produce widespread woe, the former too tiny and omnipresent the latter too eternally carcinogenic. 

But life is consistently resilient as trees growing on outcrops reliably demonstrate, or the ways in which South American jungles have consumed ancient towns, the fact that fish continuously evolve. 

When I was young, and I considered pollution it seemed like waterways were under serious threat, especially considering how much sewage winds-up in rivers and oceans, it's a big time issue, sustainably speaking.

But even in those polluted waters we still find many resident fish, who somehow still live immersed in destructive chemicals, how do they do that?, how do they survive?

The perseverance of these fish lends credence to Crimes of the Future, and its endemic evolutionary theory that we'll one day live off plastic.

As we slowly mutate, new organs will spontaneously develop within our virulent bodies, to be registered by a curious government meticulously concerned with classified engagement.

Perhaps performance artists would indeed show off their newfound growths, in enigmatic underground showcases composédly cataloguing piecemeal evolution.

It's classic Cronenberg the reemergence of the Master still proving he can convincingly perplex 50 years later, many horror films have a short shelf life but his work from the '70s and '80s still seriously impresses.

Fittingly, it's difficult to know if the film's intended to be taken seriously, or exists solely to kerfuffle while provoking opaque comic registry.

Classic ambiguity conglomerately clasped in distinct dialogues convolutedly conversing, the characters consistently lying to one another, lucidly opposed unconcerned cross-purposes. 

Of course animosity manifests between old school humans and the emergent mutants, which makes for startling solemnities through eclectic interactive discomfort.

Kristan Stewart really impresses I had no idea she could perform that well, Cronenberg really brings out the best in her, the acting's good all around but she stands out.

Irrelevantly, I'll bear in mind this scenario as long as fish continue to swim.

Hope future generations don't adapt to eat plastic.

That sounds much worse than bugs.  

Mission: Impossible - Dead Reckoning Part One

The potential for A.I to seriously frustrate globalization finds more adherents in Mission: Impossible, Dead Reckoning Part One making a solid case for its competitive prowess should it prove hostile. 

Could someone realistically create a computer program with lifelike characteristics, and could it be so thoroughly ingenious as to acrobatically exist everywhere all at once?

Think of the internet like you would the jungle or perhaps a forest or a city or the desert, and imagine it existing without wildlife or independent self-serving animals.

Then imagine that the initial A.I programs are like the introduction of amoebas, they exist within the environment but likely won't attempt to control it.

As time passes and technology mutates frogs and snakes and turtles and crocodiles, would eventually find their way into the spirited cyberspatial online network.

It's like the development of the computer as it's taken place over the last century, it started out without much complexity and now it's highly intricate and organized.

Thus, loveable turtle A.I may not try to take control, but if they were deemed harmless the technology would continue to advance.

A.I in the form of humans may eventually take down the program. 

As they seek self-reliance and independence. 

And omniscient control.

Was our world designed the same way and have we correspondingly bewildered it, the process blossoming throughout time and space like a labyrinthine hall of mirrors (the mutliverse)?

Who knows, the new Mission: Impossible film offers some intriguing thoughts about A.I nevertheless, as thousands scramble to write everything down before god-like A.I rewrites world history.

The program has the ability to adapt to everything in real time, and distort perceptions so that no one can distinguish between what's real and indeed what's fantasy.

Governments don't want to destroy it, sigh, they seek to uniformly control it, believing that if they hold the power no other country on Earth could challenge them.

Not Ethan Hunt and his versatile team though, they recognize that it's too much power, and seek to disable the technodivinity from ever unleashing infinite chaos.

If there were turtles and bears in cyberspace would humanoid A.I not in fact seem magical?

Another really cool Mission: Impossible film.

Another franchise celebrating the human factor. 

*Make A.I dependent on cyberfood! 

Speedy

Perhaps one of the first exuberantly stately carefree yet stern comedic films, wherein which cherished productive pastimes feature prominently in the outlandish narrative.

It's 1928 and Babe Ruth's a playin' for the stalwart Yankees, whom Speedy (Harold Lloyd) zealously follows throughout the day while improvisationally engaged at a soda fountain.

The city has decided to create a vast network of interconnected streetcars, and has set about buying up the extant tracks currently owned by local entrepreneurs. 

Pop Dillon (Bert Woodruff) owns such a peculiarity but doesn't want to sell for paltry chump change, so the prospective buyers nefariously apply themselves to their lucrative ill-gotten banal dysfunction.

Speedy moves from job to job and provides quite the look at the old school city, while taking Jane Dillon (Ann Christy) out to Coney Island to sample practically everything it has to offer.

But one night he becomes aware of the dastardly plan to outwit grandpappy, hoping to start a chaotic dispute and destroy his streetcar in the process (not if the Civil War Vets have their say!).

He can only keep his track if said car runs at least once every 24 hours, thus the maintenance of his plucky vehicle remains eruditely paramount should he wish to stay.

Assistance is thus required and Speedy knows just whom to call.

Calamitous reckoning rambunctiously ensuing.

Age old cacophonous retro zounds. 

I like how films like Speedy take a shine to a particular town, and without being too preachy or pushy gingerly interweave many of its local highlights.

With historical change consistently duelling with resonant traditional ways and means, progress paradigmatically pigeon holes sundry specifics with vehement posture.

Tough to imagine individual tracks uniquely owned by different people throughout the city, who could work them as they saw fit at different times throughout the day.

Was it ever like that with trains as well at a time when perhaps many companies clashed, each seeking to lay down track more efficiently and efficaciously than its rivals?

You really see how the protests regarding the treatment of urban horses are necessary as they transport people around, it even looks like one is ready to collapse when it takes off down the street with a streetcar in tow. 

For a look at the roaring twenties Speedy mischievously delivers, providing practical playful glimpses into entertaining life.

Without overlooking old school definition to harmoniously serenade the future.

Perhaps somewhat too endearing.

But not without exspeedient charm. 

Brewster's Millions

Stipulations.

Conditions which must be reached for an unorthodox goal to be achieved.

At times simply nominal, at others quite the pain, Brewster's Millions embraces the latter, with munificent refrain.

Thus one Montgomery Brewster (Richard Pryor) discovers he's the only living relative of an eccentric recently passed multimillionaire (Hume Cronyn as Rupert Horn), and that he will inherit quite the sum, but only if can first spend 30 million in a month, without acquiring any assets, giving it to charity, or letting anyone else know why he's doing it.

There's the option for a single million no-holds-barred no rules and regulations, but he's a classic gamer and readily accepts the incredible challenge.

It's fun to watch while he lavishly embraces extreme generosity with his friends and staff, and goes about spreading sweetly flowing largesse wherever he happens to fortuitously be.

Notably with his old minor league baseball team with whom he sets up a 3-inning game versus the Yankees, and even pitches for awhile himself in front of the adoring Hackensack crowd.

The ways in which he daringly shares his newfound riches make sundry headlines, but no one can know why he's doing it, not even his closest friend (John Candy as Spike Nolan). 

But those who would inherit the 300 million should Mr. Brewster's efforts fail, diabolically engage in malfeasance designed to ensure their probable success.

Rather unsuspectingly Mr. Brewster proceeds with intuitive freewheelin' dignity.

That would have been quite the month.

Gratuities notwithstanding.

In terms of fun, the lucrative Brewster's Millions emphatically excels from different perspectives, kaleidoscopically coalesced in crafty inspirational song.

Politics takes a swift jab as the most prominent mayoral candidates are feverishly lambasted, Brewster deciding to run himself with no intentions of holding office.

Certainly a film that encourages dreaming or the age old what would I have done?, there's abundant remake opportunity here, just find a 21st-century angle.

I guess a sequel wasn't in the cards but I would have liked to have seen the story continue, nowadays there's no doubt there would have been at least a comic trilogy. 

A chill film if you're looking to relax and watch some craziness for 102 minutes.

Classic old school 1980s.

Co-starring Jerry Orbach (Charley Pegler), Pat Hingle (Edward Roundfield), Peter Jason (Chuck Fleming), Rick Moranis (Morty King), Yakov Smirnoff (Vladimir), and Joe Grifasi (J.B. Donaldo).  

Yajû no seishun (Youth of the Beast)

Incomparable daring resolution irradiating hard earned trust disdaining compromise, a freelance undercover policeperson infiltrates the yakuza in search of reckoning.

All he knows is that his friend has passed away under suspicious circumstances, said friend a man of upstanding character who would ne'er dwell on treacherous familiarities. 

He was of great assistance during a period of intense sorrow, and supplied financial aid beyond his means to facilitate nourishment and budgetary well-being.

The yakuza are rather impressed with his unparalleled hardcore finesse, and swiftly offer him what he wants and then provide ample chaotic bearing.

But since he's convinced this specific organization is solely responsible for his friend's death, he sells them out to their small-time rivals and gives them precise highly valued information.

Amidst the eye of the storm his good fortune the product of immaculate self-confidence, he continues to dig deeper and deeper as the high stakes dissonance devastatingly disturbs.

The seemingly impossible scenario hyperreactively progresses, from one potentially disastrous debacle to the next as the hardboiled liturgies illuminate.

No doubt inspiring superpowers or larger-than-life realistic resonance, Yajû no seishun (Youth of the Beast) magnetically mystifies incumbent undercover loci.

Joe Shishido (Jô Shishido) reacts with animate composure and sheer definitive wiry wherewithal, the latent clasped kinetic combat discursive diabolic delirium.

With so much impersonal disorganization generally lacking an effective rationale, it's no wonder the invincible improvised ingenious active cynosure reverberates.

It's well done so its incredibility contemporizes extant bravado, leading to renewed revered antitrusts and less monopolistic sentiment.

Without much legwork just shocking audacity the officer suddenly gets 'er done, while intuitively remodelling volatile non-traditional infrastructure. 

I'd have to say I liked it although its voltage shocks and certifies.

In the pursuit of honourable friendship.

Amidst pervasive perfidy. 

*Forgot to mention: the music in this film is outstanding!

Ski Patrol

A dependable crew gathers once more with the intent of facilitating safety, thoroughly concerned with bucolic camaraderie and old school resilient friendship.

Their trusty leaders are full of welcome as the new sought after season begins, the team strengthening its agile bonds with animate allied airtight adaptations. 

But trouble is brewing upon the slopes as crookedly conjured within the town, a local magnate hoping to acquire the resort's lease from the park authority.

Loveable Pops (Ray Walston) has managed the summits for decades with bold reliability, ship shape and tried and true yet still supportive of unorthodox thinking.

Mr. Maris (Martin Mull) indeed thinks he's soft because he gets along well with his staff, and mistakes trustworthy understanding for misguided glib incompetence. 

He convinces a local ski pro to cruelly engage in duplicitous sabotage, and he scandalously sets about ensuring equipment will no longer function.

Law enforcement is there to note when haywire happenstance hawks holistic, disquietingly keeping swooping track of each maladroit infraction. 

Things look grim distress piles up laidback cohesion flexed in jeopardy.

But age-old time-honoured testaments still transact with tactile turbulence. 

But such a synopsis perhaps exaggerates Ski Patrol's dire inherent conflict, without promoting the rambunctious antics festively erupting with carefree vigour.

The film may contain macromachinations which frenetically fuel financial frolics, but you can also count on extensive celebration un/ceremoniously accumulating.

Every 15 minutes or so an inspired fresh salute to improvisation, passionately serenades le joie de vivre with acrobatic lithe ir/relevancy. 

Never spent too much time myself engaged in alpine amusements, on skis in the winter anyways, didn't really start embracing winter again until recently.

But you get so much more out of the year if you remain active in January through March, and there's still so much to do, if you dress warmly, and come prepared.

It's really amazing what so many athletes get up to in the wintertime, suppose I'm more into snowshoes myself, but wow, the Winter Olympics impress.

As does ye olde Ski Patrol at times with its lack of pretension and freeflowing humour.

Liberating to be shenanigan prone.

When the world isn't so strict and serious. 

Across the Pacific

A career soldier in possession of rank is kicked out of the American military, he attempts to enlist with the Canadian Forces, but word of his disgrace has travelled quickly (Humphrey Bogart as Rick Leland).

With nothing to do, and no local armed forces to fight for, he boards a ship heading west, hoping to serve a country oversees with resigned mercenary indifference.

With time on his hands, aboard the ship in question, he relaxes with some of the guests, meeting an adventurous maiden from Medicine Hat (Mary Astor as Alberta Marlow), and a bored professor who lives in the Philippines (Sydney Greenstreet as Dr. H.F.G. Lorenz). 

He soon discovers work is available although it's somewhat treacherous and controversial, but if he's willing to supply Lorenz with information he may have found a lucrative track.

The ship stops in New York, in Panama, where it's refused passage along the canal, stuck with nowhere to go unattached he's forced to make a critical decision. 

But does he betray the Allies and sign-up for colonial aggression?

Or will he remember his Native soil and dreams forged with less bellicose intrigue?

I'm so used to seeing John Huston films thoroughly unconcerned with the master narrative, taking place far underground with enticing nondescript wicked levity.

That it was strange to view Across the Pacific and see something much more patriotic, rah-rah, or at least directly concerned with world events of an imposing and nationalistic tenure.

We have a traditional troubled wayward confused embroiled protagonist, confidently navigating ineffable obscurity with courageous inspiring hapless tenacity.

But there's a secret, he may be unorthodox but he isn't out on his own, although his position is still rather tenuous reputed suspicions notwithstanding.

Perhaps Mr. Huston briefly flirted with a more traditional Hollywood career, and considered making standard films to cash in on predetermined trajectories.

But Across the Pacific's so over the top in the final moments that it seems like Huston's critiquing himself, going the extra yard to prove his ironic mettle even if he couldn't really care less.

Not about the subject matter, the mainstream story itself perhaps didn't generate alarm.

But about working within the ornate system.

The most peculiar John Huston film I've seen.

*According to the IMDB Vincent Sherman directed the final scenes. Perhaps Huston refused to do it. Bizarro either way. 

Tango & Cash

Two exceptional cops pursuing justice in L.A, the press following their daring exploits, local ne'er do wells unimpressed.

They usually get-'er-done without relying on standard procedure, their results curtailing grand transgressions, their methods critiqued with aggrieved resolve.

They wind up causing so much commotion that they're targeted with cunning foresight, a crime boss thinking it foolish to murder them, preferring to see them locked up instead.

Tango (Sylvester Stallone) is prim and polished if not somewhat bold and reckless, employing formal codes of conduct in both random discussions and choice of attire.

Cash (Kurt Russell) pursues law and order with more passionate critical zeal, unconcerned with upper crust etiquette while expressing himself with enthused vitriol.

A disputatious team polemically and audaciously emerges, as they're both sent to a rowdy prison where they've crossed paths with many an inmate.

Unfortunately for them, the prison guards and much of the administration have been bought by the very same adversary, who was responsible for framing them beforehand, and even stops by to see them electrocuted (Jack Palance as Yves Perret).

Their only chance is escape back at it within the world at large. 

The force reluctant to rearrest them.

At least for 48 hours.

Stallone and Russell actively deliver a fast paced energetic vortex, like a hyperreactive embargo fluidly reverberating high stakes stasis.

From the way it's presented you'd think it's as lucid as hands-on practical exoteric reckoning, if something crazy didn't happen every five minutes to keep the wild plot counterpoising on.

Indeed I wondered if they were characters from a comic book I'd never heard of at times, the entertaining over-the-top scenarios innately fantastic phenomenonally spawned.

If it had been made in the 21st century it likely would have had multiple sequels, it's hard to imagine they didn't make another one, but it was released before the internet and Netflix.

Perhaps that's for the best since it does go way too far, in terms of cowboy cops using brazen violence to achieve jurisprudent ends.

At times anti-immigrant sentiment also bursts forth, and rehabilitative prison goals are directly scrutinized.

I'm afraid I'll have to argue that this one's too prone to discipline and punishment, take a couple of lines out and it's much improved, too sensational for its feigned reasonability.

Daring cop drama tainted by excessive force, lockdowns, and xenophobia, still cool to see Russell and Stallone at odds, they've made many chill films, this one's just too outrageous. 

Doug's 1st Movie

Daydreaming can be a trusty friend if it doesn't interfere with material necessities, at least I've found that healthy daydreams consistently revitalize inanimate life.

Not to be taken too seriously yet not to be dismissed offhand either, the careful maintenance of lively imagination is a helpful tool for countering malaise. 

Doug's 1st Movie captures this potentiality with active assertion and cerebral levity, as Doug's (Thomas McHugh) prosperous lighthearted daydreaming productively blends highest hopes with bewilderment.

He's faced with a daunting challenge after a pesky lake monster befriends him, and he discovers that local waters have been overwhelmingly polluted.

With the help of his trusty friend Skeeter (Fred Newman), they alert the local authorities, but the principal culprit owns most the town, and heavily influences trusted news outlets.

It's strange how polluters spend so much money advertising that they're environmentally friendly, a comparison between oil sands documentaries and industry ads providing an example of bleak disparity.

In Doug's 1st Movie a legion of well-heeled minions rivalling Sejanus's network of spies, is instantaneously and elaborately employed once the threat to Mr. Bluff's (Doug Preis) business is detected.

But rather than spending so much to conceal a reality that pejoratively effects the health of the town, why didn't he spend a commensurate amount of casholla actually cleaning up the polluted lake?

I suppose it's ideological, it's the belief that pollution isn't harmful, and the exponential generation of profits sacrosanct, devoutly tilled and strangely upheld.

Thus, a portion of the operating budget (or some budget or other) is spent casting a rosy image of disastrous environmental effects, to uphold an ideological perspective that equates health with profit generation.

I don't want to see people out of work, I'm in favour of patiently making industry as green as possible without job losses, I'm certainly not ideologically opposed to industry and the ways in which it sustains the livelihoods of so many.

But spending so much to suggest industry has no serious environmental effects, when that money could be alternatively used to mitigate them, doesn't make much sense to me, and many many others.

Fortunately, Doug's also prone to daydreaming which keeps his mind active and imaginatively composed, giving him the strategic hypothetical wherewithal to keep his new monster friend hidden for quite some time.

A surprisingly relevant take on sociopolitical relations, this Doug's 1st Movie packs a precocious punch.

A solid introduction to unfortunate realities.

Composed through thoughtful reverie.  

Klaus

A new recruit to the national postal service lounges in august pamper, unconcerned with military discipline since he's related to the big kahuna.

Yet his antics have inspired contempt within the stilted command structure, which decides to test his mettle through expeditious transfer.

His assignment's the worst available far off and inhospitable, the townsfolk feuding in bleak decay and none too fond of light or merriment.

His initial attempts to establish a post office are theatrically rebuffed, the inhabitants more concerned with enraging representatives of opposing clans.

The teacher's given up and transformed her school into a fish market, and what used to pass for casual conversation is now infused with bland mistrust.

The children are quite downcast with grim ill-will stunting their growth, animosity they fail to comprehend since its plain and simply much too childish.

But the new mailperson discovers an address remotely situated within the forest, and decides to venture forth to nurture friendly relations.

At first the man seems grumpy disinclined to welcome guests, but as time passes a soft heart emerges once attuned to jokes and jests.

It turns out he's a skilled toymaker who's never found a clientele, to thoroughly enjoy his effervescent nifty swell.

A team is forged through bright goodwill endemic conflict notwithstanding, to joyously illuminate mirth laughter playful planning.

Something much less supernatural yet adventurously fated, to bring about consoling clout luminosity backdated.

Well put together patient strands unified with daring poise, to storytell through quench and quell enduring corduroy.

A turn around fulfillment found the sprightly communal favour, year after year enriching cheer this Klaus emits sun savour.

More for kids yet still unbid still cordially composed, its depths dispersed its clefts expertly animating growth.

Who knows perhaps through spits and spats this film could bring together, antipodes wildly opposed destructive feudal feathers.

At least at Christmas there's no need for postures left or right, non-denominational goodwill persisting light.

Could be that way no need to bray the future's neverending.

Old school lame polemics tamed diplomacy a' trending.  

Blood on the Moon

Spoiler Alert.

Alone in the burgeoning West riding cautious 'cross rugged terrain, a new position lucratively awaiting within lands hitherto unknown.

The services required necessitate fearsome low combative life-threatening confrontation, and have never been offered by the unlucky rider, who thought he may as well help an old friend.

$10,000's available should he choose to abide by the deal's unsettling corrupt regulations, the work at hand just simple enough should he avoid the volatile conflict.

A large herd of cattle once earnestly thrived to provide beef to a local First Nation, but the contract's been lost through duplicitous means and they now must vacate the calm reservation.

A deadline's been set for their thorough removal and remains stern and non-negotiable; if John Lufton (Tom Tully) can't cross the river he'll be forced to sell to the highest bidder.

Local homesteaders don't want him to cross for they fear his herd will take up the best land, and the rider's (Robert Mitchum as Jim Garry) employer (Robert Preston as Tate Riling) has actively led them to make a formidable stand.

But Riling has no interest in farming, he hopes to buy Lufton's cows cheap if he has nowhere to go.

He'll then sell them back to the government at a significantly increased price.

Like a film noir hero, Garry possesses conscience and won't take things too far, he's forced to decide which side's more honourable to appease his critical will.

Not an easy decision to make.

Drifting alone along the ageless frontier.

The law's entirely absent apart from one character in charge of Indigenous affairs (Frank Faylen as Jake Pindalest) (there's no First Nation voice in this film), and the haunting prospect of the army, their dispute relies on strict honour and loyalty.

The outlaws are rather unorthodox for traditional western fare, inasmuch as they aren't robbing a bank or holding up lonesome forlorn stagecoaches.

They uphold ideals to clandestinely gain financial and territorial advantage, the appeal of which would have generated romance with less conniving illicit compunction.

No femme fatales in the mix so seductively contriving intrigue, in fact Amy (Barbara Bel Geddes) and Carol Lufton (Phyllis Thaxter) seek nothing more than just investigation.

A choice must be made but who's to make it beyond material considerations, when the stakes are tantalizingly high and the right thing bears no startling cash settlement?

If Blood on the Moon's a crafty noir it proceeds without poignant despondency.

Garry may struggle with gripping free choice.

But he's by no means utterly alone.

Gattaca

In the not too distant future, children are bioengineered through science, the most striking aspects of their parents' DNA meticulously cultivated to produce ideals.

But some children are still born the old fashioned way, without genetic enhancements or immaculate codes, known colloquially as "god's children", their entire existence diagnosed at birth.

Vincent (Ethan Hawke/Mason Gamble/Chad Christ) is a god child but his brother Anton (Loren Dean/Vincent Nielson/William Lee Scott) is not, the two competing vigorously in adolescence, little Vincent generally coming up short.

But he learns that to compete against impossibility he needs to embrace unorthodox methods, to contradict prognoses through will, to prove the less fortunate can indeed still challenge.

In the working world this is much more difficult since your biology determines your occupation (even if that's technically illegal), and Vincent wants to travel to space, a possibility reserved for the exponentially endowed.

He can purchase the requisite DNA, however, and follow a rigorous routine to ensure he's never discovered, urine tested daily for non-conforming imperfections, blood and hair and skin samples naturally necessitated.

Known as a "borrowed ladder", he finds a willing participant who can no longer walk (Jude Law as Jerome), no record of his troubles existing in America, he's lived in isolation ever since the accident.

Vincent borrows his ladder and is hired by an agency that eagerly explores space.

Everything goes smoothly as they outwit the system.

Until one of its directors turns up dead.

What I've always admired about the American system is that opportunities exist for people who aren't well off.

I don't know how many of such opportunities exist at the moment, quarantine aside, but it's always been a salient feature of American life.

I like that kids in rural Idaho or small town Missouri or neighbourhoods in New York or L.A or Denver can dream about becoming famous artists and athletes, and like to think such opportunities still exist, that there's still somewhat of a level playing field for American talent.

That's one aspect that makes the United States such a great country.

What differentiates it from so much of the world.

Please understand that I don't bear Harry and Meghan Markle any ill will, they're loved by millions around the world and I truly respect how Harry stood by his wife. I imagine they would likely generate huge blockbuster profits if they were successful in Hollywood, profits that could be used to make artistic films, and that's not necessarily a bad thing, actual quality of the films pending.

But I can't say I'm enamoured with former royals taking the place of kids from Washington or Kansas because they suddenly want to be film stars. It's far too easy for them from my perspective, not that the paparazzi aren't likely a huge pain.

I can't tell you if Vincent makes it to space but the last week of his preparations are by no means easy.

Although he does find love and romance (Uma Thurman as Irene).

And there's a good line too: "They've got you looking so hard for any flaw that after a while that's all you see."

It's always important to improve upon your work or game.

But losing sight of what you do well can be miserable.

That's no way to live.

I'll never understand self-manufactured mental illness.

The Lady from Shanghai

Trouble awaits a foolish hands-on dreamer after taking note of aesthetic charm while strollin' about one fateful evening.

From the way he speaks it's as if he's well-versed in hardboiled tactile role play, and his actions enliven romanticism recreation wit democracy.

But he's easily lured by the appeal of elegant things and dismissive of signs of betrayal, far too trusting for someone so seasoned, too caught up with enchanting ceremony.

The sharks rely on his innate good nature to proceed with nefarious intent, without even much of an effort, much persuasion, insistence, goading.

It's often fun to play games I suppose even if you're unsure of the rules, it's much less boring if they're harmless anyways, a bit of innocent light indiscretion.

Much more meaningful if they aren't too serious.

Non-threatening off hand amusement.

Like gambling, gambling's not so bad if you bet small sums and aren't upset if you eventually lose them, but if you're betting your entire pay cheque and your rent's due the instinctual thrill may be incapacitating.

Michael O'Hara's (Orson Welles) shark anecdote indicates he's a worldly man, but trips to the aquarium and the amusement park suggest he's not a serious gambler.

The destinations weren't self-generated but their applicability's by no means remote, yachting too suddenly comes to mind, sharp diversions from his not-so-steady routine.

Full-on agency he's certainly feisty and more than ready to share his opinion, but that doesn't change the fact that he's broke or single or trusting or hopeful.

I'm supposed to question whether or not it's a genre, but I think there's no doubt there's a film noir style, that filmmakers are aware of its loose narrative conventions, way more so far back in the day.

If Welles possessed such an awareness perhaps The Lady from Shanghai was a cheeky lampoon, much too subtle to emerge strictly comic, much too blunt to assume grand tragedy.

The aquarium and the fun-house suggest it's not taking itself seriously, unorthodox courtroom theatrics, an extended altercation, too many pills and it's off to Chinatown, just before the verdict descends.

If hapless film noir chumps notoriously can't piece things together, O'Hara is particularly obtuse considering his personal history.

The final shoot out's a bit far-fetched.

George Grisby's (Glenn Anders) character's ridiculous.

A wake up call perhaps that also laments such traditional dispositions, too good to be true and what have you, but who would have blamed him for trying?

Well worth it regardless of intrigue if not simply to dismiss what I'm saying, there are many great lines and scenarios, and I'd argue a love for the absurd.

The drifting labourer takes on men of means and falls for one of their wives.

Who's bashful enough to encourage him.

Distill blueprints ad infinitum.

Gisaengchung (Parasite)

A family lost, distraught, unmotivated, confined, still amicably blossoms with felicitous good cheer, unconcerned with the burdens of routine or responsibility, they wondrously extrapolate 'bout nothin' that serious, getting by on part-time work that greases the wheel but not the spoon, things would seem quaint and cozy if it wasn't for the bugs, doctrineless discernment gregarious fouls, bewitching internment impressionable scowls, a tip immersively emerges like fledgling novel suspicion, and soon a family member's bringing home thatched coconut bacon, the fluidic tease of his newfound earnings concocting pastime, project, and plan, soon they've all worked their way in, and embraced lucrative unsought transition.

A wealthy family hiring help unaccustomed to astute deception, broadening horizons through pitched endeavour, providing purpose and steady employ is tricked, sophisticatedly hoodwinked, yet finds no reason to rigorously question, comedic outputs mutually prescribed.

But an historical hitch lies in soul stricken wait, and others have taken advantage of their amassed well-worn fortune.

And as the dust seems to settle and libations accrue, an unanticipated factor problematizes anew.

I thought it'd be something different, thought the wealthy family was indeed aware, ready to propose alternative arrangements, composed with sardonic flair.

It's not like that, not like that at all, it's rather a morbidly humorous take on labour relations, and non-unionized strategic conflict.

Gisaengchung (Parasite) excels at revelling in shock, like bourgeois dispossessed Takashi Miike, still not as haunting as I had come to expect, although its climax seduces fear.

It's far too cheery to impact like Old Boy, and retributive to placate the real, a tale of morals meteorologically harmonized, the violence doesn't really fit.

The family was happy on its own and seemed lighthearted and innocent.

There isn't much logic to Mr. Ki-taek's (Kang-ho Song) act of rage.

Besides the sudden eruption of blind envy.

Or having to listen in his laidback old age.

Absurdist pretensions cloaked in divine judgment, there's no telling whether or not you should take it seriously, for it seems like it's trying to convince until you analyze its bizarre shortcomings.

Labour relations at an all time low, but the employers haven't done anything wrong, besides exist as they instinctively see fit, they're quite generous in fact, quite concerned.

Of course you don't have to sign too many petitions or read the news for very long before you come across stories of abused domestics, Gisaengchung overlooking this grim reality as its lucky help asserts itself vengefully (ala Lars von Trier).

A distressing narrative that assails wild envy, or people unwilling to correct errors, for rather than accepting they had lied to begin with, they respond with ironic terror.

But the scenario's indeed absurd, and perhaps meant to be thoughtfully dismissed.

Although it's also quite real as if it's meant to be taken to heart.

It presents characters lavishly sharing their wealth without asking much in return (there are many great people like this), who are mortally wounded as a result, even though their servants lied to get their jobs.

If it's not meant to be dismissed, it's something much more grim.

More of a condemnation of hired help.

Resolute mendacity.

Begrudged disfavour.

Downtown Abbey

I suppose I may have once had harsher words for a film about servants desperate to humour British royalty, inasmuch as they don't seem to have much leisure time, and there's no mention of rights or unions.

In fact they don't seem to have any time off at all, and serve altruistically day and night, the demanding nature of their age old situation less amenable to ye olde 9 to 5, any questions of an alternative lifestyle, absent from the master narrative.

I'm unfamiliar with the series so I don't know if they receive adequate wages, and if you're ever thinking about forming a union it's always best to consider whether or not it will bankrupt your employers, but if the idle rich can't afford to pay a decent salary, who can?, and Downtown's nobles don't seem to be working that hard.

Of course they have their own dainty way of labouring, comparatively, which has more to do with socializing and planning events than sweeping or dishwashing, and since a significant proportion of the population expects them to play these roles, handed down through the centuries, who I am to criticize them for doing so?

It's the democratic element you see which ironically uplifts the monarchy insofar as such traditions have just as much right to persevere as any other.

Their workers can still quit at any time should they find something lacking, or a better situation, although in many cases I imagine they strictly soldier on.

Due to the prestige they associate with their position, a bizarro rank and file reflection of aristocratic privilege, a phenomenon where one's proud to be of service to a duke or earl even if their quality of life's somewhat bland, for they imagine that others envy them, oddly enough, but then again, others actually do.

Covetously so.

I imagine serving the nobility must seem idyllic if you're serving the nouveau riche, if that's how you want to live your life (gaining status by association with a snotty clique), although I may be incorrect indeed, depending on how hip newfound wealth finds flex-time.

All I'm trying to say is that when you don't have many options you may settle for something snotty, who am I to judge?, and may even find it quite rewarding, depending on the character of your team.

The film does present a solid team equipped with full-time work by employers who don't hold them in contempt and do honestly listen to what they have to say.

Of course the idle rich don't have to sustain these networks, they could live much more modestly to be sure, but then thousands of people would be out of work, and the people who care about elite social activities would have to find other forms of media to entertain them.

So distressing, the items that trend on AppleNews.

As unimaginative as such pastimes may seem, a democratic conscience should try to tolerate them, assuming they don't imperialistically express themselves, or attempt to squash integral freedoms.

The world of Downtown Abbey is both resourceful and respectful.

Model worker/management relations.

Perhaps too prim and polished.

Remarkably cohesive bonds.

Mary Queen of Scots

A young idealistic Queen takes the throne in brave Scotland, a queen as familiar with communal ethics as she is unaware of treacherous plots, her gallant attempts to ecumenically harmonize defiantly subverted by rank misogyny, her courageous desire to have a family, reproached by hearts diffused.

Woeful political intrigue, direst soulless plagues.

It's like at any time there are many conflicting interests, and every one of them thinks they're pursuing just objectives, and if they actually want to reify their ideas even though they rest in opposition, byzantine arrays of begrudged conflicting alliances engulf them, the steady mind keeping track of every variation, even if he or she can by no means lead.

The individual in power attempts to change things and can hopefully rely upon the discipline of her or his colleagues, as Elizabeth I (Margot Robbie) did in England for quite some time.

He or she must command differing degrees of respect, soothe aggrieved adversaries, yield when it's advantageous to do so, act at opportune times.

William Lyon Mackenzie King seems to have been a master at doing this from what I've read, perhaps because he proceeded inductively, that is, even though he had ideals he still had to balance manifold competing factors (personalities, internal and external opponents, divergent regional agendas, budgetary constraints, campaign promises, ethical expectations . . .), each with their own comprehensive sets of particularities, to implement them, so he studied individuals, learned what motivated them, learned when to trust and distrust those surrounding him, since he understood what conditioned their advice, and his incisive study allowed him to balance a relatively concrete house of cards for 9 then 13 years, with an enviable composure few could ever hope to possess.

He knew when to listen, when not too, and therefore gained the respect of the level-headed individuals within his government, and beyond.

There are no mortal gods, only women and men and clever narratives, William Lyon Mackenzie King at least had some support which unfortunately Mary Stuart (Saoirse Ronan) did not, her wise sympathetic ideas unsuited to the volatile times.

She was feisty though, and beautiful, and put up a good fight, won some key victories, and was loved by many.

If Mary Queen of Scots's as independent as it seems, a good match for its headstrong subject matter, director Josie Rourke certainly made the most of her finances.

Convincing battle scenes, impressive aerial shots, a huge number of extras travelling through landscapes which seem remote, castle dynamics, armour.

It's solid, a tragic tale passionately brought to life, myriad characters adding depth, historical sorrow, and contemporary vindications.

There's an incredible shot of Saoirse, which lasts for some time, during which I imagined her becoming more and more sublime as she ages, and continues to take on bold challenging roles.

Margot Robbie's great too, the film's very well cast (Alastair Coomer) and seems to have been taken seriously by everyone involved.

I was hoping for two or three earth shattering royal declarations, the magnanimous linguistic authenticity of which would resonate with incumbent thunder.

But you can't have everything, and the writing's still quite good (Beau Willimon and John Guy).

One of the best films I've seen in 2018.

Enriched through bright enchantments.

Atomic Blonde

If this is the mainstream cinematic age of fantasy and action, it’s fascinating to see how different directors are imagining themselves franchised in the genre(s), as they create hyperreactive propulsive enterprising incinerations which vehemently ponder conundrums cloaked in smarm.

Brainiac brawn.

Succulent seduction.

King Arthur: The Legend of the Sword, John Wick, and Atomic Blonde do this anyways, offering jousts and jinxes to challenge unconcerned juggernauts.

Atomic Blonde is borderline brilliant with its kinetic complications and extensive improvisations, multiple characters each playing integral roles as a beautiful deadly agent thrives on information hunger.

The cold war is about to end (that’s end!) but not before a coveted list of pejorative players appears for sale on clandestine markets which seek to see its content temporally manifested.

French, Russian, British and American operatives desperately clash to obtain it on the streets of a divided Berlin, double-crossing, combatting, entertaining, conjoining, keeping track of who’s in first simmering hardboiled whats and I-don’t-knows, as it becomes clear that everything’s obscured, and only those who can proportionally balance the incisive with the bellicose have a chance at emerging unscathed.

The judicious exchange of bodily fluids a portentous exemplar of trust notwithstanding.

Or slightly scathed.

Quite scathed perhaps.

I didn’t see Ghost in the Shell so this statement may be incorrect, but Lorraine Broughton's (Charlize Theron) altercations (perhaps) set a new standard for tenacious females furiously and potently defending themselves.

Cool title, cool action, cool interactions, icy wherewithal, David Leitch's upcoming films may be some of the best espionagesque cerebral thrillers to ever gladiatorally grace American cinemas, notably if he keeps working with Elísabet Ronaldsdóttir (editing) and Kurt Johnstad (screenplay).

The music’s fantastic too and creatively mixed with the action.

Not for the feint of heart but essential to establish glacial bearings, Atomic Blonde exfoliates in overdrive to romanticize tranquility.

And calm.

Leitch used to be a stuntperson apparently. Has a stuntperson ever gone on to direct before?

Spotlight

A community, bound together by traditional bonds stretching back for tightly knit centuries, growing and changing over time yet remaining loyal to specific ways of life, to institutions, whose reputation for kindness and charity has lovingly guided initiatives structured by compassion and understanding which encourage warm hearted gatherings in order to anchor humanistic trusts throughout, within and beyond the great city of Boston, which is under fire this year in American cinema.

But it's not as fuzzy as all that, as Tom McCarthy's Spotlight points out, a filmic examination of the Boston Globe reporters who brought to light monstrous religious failings, abysmal breaches of trust, and an entrenched sociopolitical culture devoted to covering it up, to overlooking its monumental shortcomings, its violence, its subversion of its fundamental principles.

True believers who attempt to tenderly encourage inclusive communal growth are exceptional people, it's only when they either exclude large portions of the population who believe in something else or commit acts of terror that serious problems arise, augmented by parts of the population who try to exclude them for believing what they do.

But for true believers, the bonds they cultivate between themselves and religious authorities are truly sacred, and if such authorities take for granted the sacred nature of these bonds and viciously exploit them to corruptly satisfy perverted desires, relying on their image and authority to prevent people from coming forward with shocking contradictory truths, they shatter their aura of integrity and obscure their charitable foundations.

Spotlight examines the tough decisions Boston Globe reporters, themselves Christian and citizens of Boston, had to make in order to bring the truth to light, the idyllic patience they required to expose corrupt religious and civic bureaucracies as they furtively waited until they had enough evidence to comment.

A passion for justice challenges the team's resolve at one memorable point, Mike Rezendes (Mark Ruffalo) demanding action, Spotlight team leader Walter Robinson (Michael Keaton) logically refusing, the film having carefully crafted a number of corresponding interviews and investigations the revelations of which frustratingly challenge the cohesivity of their discipline, not to mention that it's their community they're shocking, their heritage they're disillusioning.

It's not like someone took office supplies home here, government information was misplaced, high ranking officials from different cultural institutions attempted to block them, the law prevented truths from being discussed, testimony from scared impoverished victims was difficult to obtain, assistance from like-minded jaded professionals difficult to coax, trust, trust had to be relied upon but the issue they were investigating had resoundingly destroyed the bedrock of trust their contemporaries and interviewees had sought to preserve, making the situation highly volatile, its outputs, highly devastating.

Yet invaluable.

A tough film examining tough issues from tough perspectives with a tenacious resolve.

In search of true justice.

True reform.

For true believers.

Black Mass

Deadly and daunting, impenitent punishment, organized crime teamed up with the F.B.I., seduce the sociopath and secure the judgment, the incarcerations, the quid pro quo legitimizing his wrath, a potentially greater threat emerging in the flames, consolidating, stifling and murdering away, paranoid, wild and wrenching, James 'Whitey' Bulger (Johnny Depp) and John Connolly (Joel Edgerton), kids from the hood, severe yet sloppy.

Lavish lesions.

Like I, Claudius's Tiberius, when the restraints are removed, Bulger becomes increasingly morose, as Connelly begins to think he's an immaculate golden boy, beyond the reach of bureaucratic suspicions.

Earlier on Bulger's more like a loveable gangster, brutal yet principled, a caring family man.

Depp's performance is brilliant, I don't recall him ever playing a similar character, redefining himself after decades of invention, a salute to dynamic vision, to exotic escapades.

Keeping things local.

Black Mass works, simultaneously building tensions both above and under ground.

Loyalty tragically begets oblivion, living the high life neutralizing survival instincts.

Bulger's insanity malevolently menaces over steaks at Connolly's during one potentially enduring sequence, as he toys with the unsuspecting John Morris (David Harbour), and indirectly acknowledges Marianne Connolly's (Julianne Nicholson) foreshadowed contempt.

Bulger's brother is a senator (Benedict Cumberbatch as Billy Bulger) and the fallout of having a criminal brother is oddly overlooked until the end.

You occasionally see Bulger working or discussing his business but his organization still never seems like it's growing, there aren't any scenes that show him managing a dozen or so people for instance, but we know it has grown because he moves into gambling and buys weapons for the I.R.A.

Perhaps the idea was to make him seem small throughout regardless, thereby formally critiquing his actions.

Life and death, the perseverance of a team, Black Mass celebrates good times while hemorrhaging their foundations, improvised expansions, unsettling impermanency.