Malone

Endurance.

Strength.

Confidence.

Reliability.

The airtight Malone sees the introduction of a hard-boiled trusted dependable soldier, who's worked covert operations for many a year and finally decided it's time to retire.

But it's a job you can't walk away from he knows too much and is much too valuable, his old school no-nonsense management team unwilling to simply let him go.

He's been in the service for decades and has finally started to find murder distasteful, even if he's taking out scurrilous atrocities he's no longer thrilled to surgically discombobulate. 

Unfortunately his car breaks down in a beautiful small town as he tries to disappear, a town which is slowly being bought up by a jingoistic millionaire with fascist dreams.

The people were initially glad when he arrived because they thought he would reopen the mine, but after he pushed so many off their land grand disillusion distressingly set in.

Malone just tries to peacefully exist but the plutocrat's goons try to push him around.

Even after they realize they're far outmatched.

Bring on the classic 1980s ending.

Malone offers an entertaining case study in different conceptions of the man's man, the one brutal and monopolizing, the other fierce but kind at heart.

With good intentions, the well-meaning man seeks integration within his community, and to peacefully exist alongside others generally seeking communal development.

He's confident and trustworthy but can still be hurt if caught off guard, diligent and steady, rigorous and bold, but not full-on invincible.

Thought to potentially be a huge dickhole by people worried he'll seek absolute control, but more attuned to mutual cooperation and the democratic rights of the individual.

Not such a bad ideal to live up to if you ever consider tempestuous codes.

A cool old school traditional action film.

Modest and endearing.

Inherently wild.

Sambizanga

When extremist politicians start routinely flouting and ignoring the law, the haunting spectre of the secret police gothically looms in the grim imagination.

A stand out feature universally despised of the Eastern Bloc in old school Europe, the hated and ruthless clandestine cops belligerently sought ideological adherence. 

Extremist right wing governments in Spain and Germany used similar tactics which were also condemned, the ubiquitous totalitarian panopticon stifling not only dissent but also freeflowing conversation. 

Extremist governments brutalize their people until they're so beat down they no longer resist, and attempt to abide by the imposing dictates of stubborn and obstinate draconian laws.

They even meticulously monitor what people say which effectively prohibits irony and role play, you can't pretend or hypothesize or joke without having to worry about being arrested. 

Such governments employ people in the community often extremist zealots whom nobody likes, to listen to what people are saying and then inform the police about 'unsettling' developments.

They don't have to tell the truth and can effectively lie about what's been said, the resultant network of miserable mendacity cacophonously stifling honest public discourse. 

As the years wearily drudge by and the widespread injustice is routinely compounded, people long for alternative means to legitimately fight for social freedoms.

In Sambizanga, a resistance forms in the heart of bitter Angola, to protest colonial rule and furtively take back their Native country.

A bold member of a resistance network is viciously taken one dismal morning, his wife and child left to desperately find where he's suddenly been brought without any warning.

He's questioned within the prison and cruelly beaten with abysmal tactics, his body unable to withstand the punishment eventually suffering an unnatural death.

Seeing a country as free and proud of its traditions as the celebrated United States of America, sheepishly succumb to such a state under Trump is reminiscent of revolutionary times. 

Did Washington, Jefferson, and Adams not lead their people away from despotism?

To create a free and democratic nation.

Once the envy of the Western World.

*Is Jared Polis (Governor of Colorado) a candidate for the Democratic Nomination? 

Arsenault & Fils (Arsenault & Sons)

The patriarchy's up to its old tricks again, this time in Rafaël Ouellet's Arsenault & Fils, wherein which a family of ruthless poachers is thoroughly and counterintuitively whitewashed.

Think of all the families who play by the rules to maintain healthy animal populations. The Arsenault's poach so much that sometimes nothing's left for their neighbours during hunting season. A lot of woodland people can save heavily on their winter grocery bills if they're able to harvest a deer or moose from such a population. But if some rogue family of jackasses shoots everything in the nearby forest (while claiming kinship with nature) including curious bears there's nothing left for thrifty locals to catch. The Arsenault's don't even keep the meat for themselves or distribute it to their community.

They sell it to far off restaurants. 

And when the heat's on they dump it in the forest.

It's basic math, well-meaning bright people have created a system to manage the hunt, and ensure it continues for generation after generation, just as long as you don't fucking kill everything.

As the saying goes, one family poaching for scraps is negligible.

5 million poachers will destroy a forest.

Look at Britain.

What a catastrophe. 

Although a lot of people are bringin' it back.

When we aren't supposed to be falling for the loveable family that's trying to change, while killing innocent bears and moose with high-tech weapons outside of hunting season!, a beautiful lass infiltrates the unit with hopes of bringing them down.

Undercover and at one time conscious of the adorable 4-legged residents of the forest, she witnesses several transgressions and compiles enough evidence to put them away.

But it's classic patriarchy.

In the short amount of time she's spent chillin' with the family, she's unconsciously fallen for them, especially the one who cares little for his appearance (the true patriarch needn't do anything to attract devoted beautiful mates), and she even cares for his nutjob brother.

Worried that they'll die in a confrontation with the cops, she blows her cover and ruins everything.

The writers suggesting she couldn't overcome.

Her natural dependence on lawless men.

I was so angry while watching the production team try to cultivate sympathy for such a way of life, that I thought committing myself to the animal protection squad may just be a great way to live.

I have lots of ideas like that though and I don't know if I'm ruthless enough for the job.

It'd be nice to save animal lives though.

Wish the UN paid more attention.  

Enigma

You wonder how many billions are wasted every year spying on other countries, without producing many results, imagine there was more of a consensus to productively get along, and those billions could be spent on jazz music and preponderant culture.

Were things much more worse off during the obsessed and stealthy brutal Cold War?

Or is there even more multilateral distrust cloaking international relations these days?

Hopefully not, a rather distressing subject such a shame it still persists, banal compulsions to preen and promulgate through listless superlative desire.

Enigma takes place during the Cold War in ye olde locked down strict East Germany, wherein which a covert operative seeks a coveted code scrambler.

The scrambler will theoretically give the West unlimited access to Soviet communications, and help them foil a pressing plot to murder 5 outspoken troublesome dissidents. 

Alex Holbeck (Martin Sheen) can hide in plain sight and has the luxury of remaining anonymous, even as his radio show consistently lambasted censure within the Iron Curtain, agents were never able to identify him, which left him somewhat of a free hand.

He has several contacts in East Germany to provide aid during his hour of need, but Russia has learned of his infiltration and sent their best man to intercept him (Sam Neill as Dimitri Vasilikov). 

A clever clandestine tale multilaterally results, resolute bravery and headstrong conviction guiding initiatives on either side.

Does the cultivation of novelty continuously have to adapt to fads and forums, do goodwill and peace not ethically transcend the cheeky impetus to shake things up?

Shouldn't resource provision and modest comfort not lead the way, with quality goods at affordable prices reasonably presented with dignified poise?

I suppose if trillions weren't spent every year on spying and the military you'd have to find something else for those people to do, notably the ones who weren't good enough to play football yet still sought volatile means at their disposal.

In the interests of taste, it would likely be a disaster if millions of them started to play the guitar, and endless songs about discipline and loyalty interminably bombarded television and the internet.

But I can sacrifice good taste if it means the curation of world peace.

What a strange world in which we live.

The animals couldn't think less of us. 

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!

Inside Man

A detective gets his shot since he's the only one around when the call comes in (Denzel Washington), his captain less willing to throw work his way after a recent erroneous routine rupture.

But a bank's being robbed and they want to negotiate the robbers taking their forbidden time, many hostages struggling nerve-wracked within, a smooth flowing exchange stretched out stressed suspicion.

Meanwhile, the bank's agéd owner (Christopher Plummer) hires an alternative negotiating team (Jodie Foster), to recover an ancient safety deposit box he's worried the thieves have set in their sights.

She exists in the theoretical ether wherein which higher-ups employ extreme discretion, to tidy up raunchy embarrassing mishaps, or in this lofty case, World War II profiteering.

The detective doesn't like it when she shows up with answers to questions he wasn't considering, but the communicative green light is still freely given and soon it seems the bank owner's fears weren't that off base.

Afterwards, chaos ensues, with emboldened predicaments furtively enabling, the concealment of the hypothetical thieves whose plutocratic endeavours indeed prove fruitful. 

The detective still needs to piece things together with precocious puzzling and reasonable riffs.

Interviews discourse entanglements hyperbole.

Thoroughly reckoned with guttural instinct.

A cool suave exoteric rigamarole effortlessly enriches voltaic vehemence, as the opposite ends of Inside Man's investigative continuums cohort and calumnize courtly contusions.

Critically clasped clandestine camaraderie sincerely conversing cross calculi composites, war profiteering is reckless abuse of a world controlled by volatile wickedness. 

I haven't seen any recent related articles covering political condemnations of war profiteering in Ukraine, but you would think some bureaucrat would have thought up something to passionately critique it in the last couple of weeks. 

Many business have pulled out of Russia and I imagine sanctions are making routine life difficult in the massive country, but weeks into the brutal conflict and it's still raging with destructive frenzy.

If businesses and individuals are profiting from Russia's continued vicious bombardment, it would be nice to know they'll be held accountable with sincere constricting jurisprudent venom.

How to monitor myriad factors multidimensionally mired in mad malfeasance, is hopefully being taken care of at the maniacal moment with exceptional haste and sentient synergies. 

Uptown Saturday Night

The allure of chic amenities tantalizes a bold cab driver (_____ ______ as Wardell Franklin), but he needs an earnest wingperson to attempt to gain entry into the club.

Mr. Jackson (Sidney Poitier) has reservations concerning the somewhat elevated price tag, but he also can't deny he's curious, and doesn't want to disappoint his friend.

Their clever ruse proves rather prosperous the following adventurous Saturday night, but just as they're joyfully raking it in, several thugs crookedly come a' callin'.

Disillusion lugubriously abounds but even more so the very next day, when Jackson discovers he's won the lottery, and the winning ticket's in his wallet.

While he had reservations about the club, the massive payload generates audacity, and he decides to search for the thieving no-goodniks, in the unfamiliar underground. 

Franklin comes along for the ride and after a private detective exasperates their frustration (Richard Pryor as Sharp Eye Washington), it's off to question notorious phenoms with a plan as blunt as it is distressing.

But fate rewards them for embracing daring and soon they've found a compelling lead, even found the individuals responsible, an enormous return without much of an effort.

They find themselves enabling the brokerage of a new criminal partnership for their troubles, which even leads to a game of baseball, at a local church BBQ.

Hapless celebrity serendipitous success with a lack of consideration for the resonant danger, Sidney Poitier's Uptown Saturday Night placates stilted severe stresses.

Ye olde versatile implausibility efficiently achieving herculean goals, without letting disputatious doubts defile their frank dissimulation.

Like the bumbling Inspector Clouseau or the maladroit MacGruber, Jackson and Franklin find working solutions to problems they never wished they'd had.

The absurd situations generate levity which in turn manufacture humour, as humble laidback domestic reticence embraces virile volatility.

Some of the additional plot devices contemporary audiences take for granted (security at the club, others searching for the stolen goods), may be difficult to find within the film, but there's still a pioneering sense of improvised good fortune which characteristically excels.

Probably wouldn't have gone to such lengths myself but who's to say what's to be done?

Didn't know Sidney Poitier directed so many films.

What a career.

What a lifetime. 

Nightbooks

A thoughtful youth likes to write stories that are somewhat frightening if not supernatural (Winslow Fegley as Alex), his nascent creative literary endeavours misunderstood by his strait-laced classmates.

Unfortunately, on the night of his birthday party, no ones shows up to indulge and celebrate, his parents having gone to great lengths to materialize, a fitting festive otherworldly soirée.

They begin to doubt their motivations and callously vocalize their frustrated misgivings, Alex listening closely in the next room, he suddenly decides to run away.

Yet even more disastrous, he decides to burn his cherished books, a haughty witch intercepting him as he proceeds down (Krysten Ritter as Natacha), to his apartment's scalding incinerator. 

The witch is none too accommodating however and traps him inside her magical abode, demanding a new story each and every evening, happy endings strictly forbidden.

Due to his absolutist circumstances, he readily seeks wholehearted escape, with the aid of another resident child (Lidya Jewett as Yasmin), who had been hopeless for quite some time.

But a furless invisible cat watches their movements throughout the day.

And doesn't understand when they find: a spell encouraging slumbrous oblivion.

Nightbooks applauds the grim and macabre with sincere devout unlimited reckoning, securing spellbound enriched daunting fantasies for multivariable epochs to come. 

Firmly resolved to withstand criticism of the artistic desire to explore spooky realms, it champions bold incarnate conjuring perhaps with multidisciplinary respite.

If you're ever mundanely thinking that related genres are lacking forward momentum, I suggest checking out Montréal's Fantasia festival as well, where you'll find innovative stories from around the globe.

I have no idea at what age to start consuming frets and frights, they freaked me out when I was really young, but I was really into them throughout my teens and twenties.

Harry Potter offers fascinating insights into freedom of expression, within a robust world equipped with intricate complex plots and characterizations (what happened to J.K. Rowling?).

Nightbooks too, I really liked Nightbooks, and its stressful examination of writing.

If you're thinking of stories write them down.

Social prestige and criticism be damned. 

*The Dream Warriors was my favourite Nightmare on Elm Street film. I never saw numbers 2 or 5 however.

**Can't believe there's a Child's Play tv show/series coming out. That's mind-boggling considering how strict censors were way back when.

The Sleepover

A day proceeds according to routine habitual chill random expectations 😜, imaginary impulses confidently broadcast, friends consulted, schoolwork resumed.

For a sister the evening's provocative inasmuch as a wild party awaits (Sadie Stanley as Clancy Finch), her brother looking forward to a wholesome sleepover camped out in his old school backyard (Maxwell Simkins as Kevin). 

But earlier in the day, he was caught on video, randomly gesticulating with animate poise, his mother critiquing the mean-spirited cinematographer, who posted the private moment to YouTube.

Par for the course, although potentially harmful to his budding young developing self-esteem, he isn't phased, content and casual, back at it self-aware renditions.

Yet calamity strikes through shocking revelation later on in the laidback night, for his mom was also featured in the cantankerous clip (Malin Åkerman as Margot), which was viewed by curious millions.

Including the old gang of thieves she once led in an alternative life, before relocating to witness protection, they attempt to make larcenous headway.

Assertive coercion reluctant submission an awkward reunion impacting immediacy, her newfound cherished bourgeois family life haunting imposed begrudged nostalgia. 

Her husband's been kidnapped too and is unaccustomed to reckless crime (Ken Marino as Ron). 

He enjoys running his bakery.

Ordering pizza, PTA meetings.

High stakes shenanigans jocosely materialize inordinately spastically ensue, as requisite improbability seeks fortuitous fortune, by any spirited means necessary.

The mood is lightheartedly salient insofar as it lacks ostentatious pretensions, preferring to harness lackadaisical endearment as it crafts ill-conceived adventure.

Youthful trials are mischievously mixed with sober mature yet resigned matriculation, the resultant intergenerational mayhem concocting playful atemporal innocence.

The application of logic seems ill-suited to this specific endeavour, since applications of reasonability would instantly stultify its joie de vivre. 

Simkins delivers a performance that tumultuously holds things together, his intense emphatic enthusiasm as joyful as it is productively mischievous.

So important to embrace freeform unabashed inspired horseplay at times, as long as it isn't causing a ruckus, that results in grievous discernment.

It's great to see exuberant expression overflowing with novel unconcern.

Untamed and unrestrained.

Absurd creative momentum.

The Rock

Decided to revisit The Rock last Summer after stopping by a local thrift store, and impressed was I as it chaotically unreeled.

It reminded me of a time when I still considered blockbusters to represent the best of what cinema had to offer, long before I discovered non-British European movies (I already knew about British films), Québec's vital film industry, Takashi Miike, Kurosawa, or Criterions.

Blockbusters are still kind of fun, especially when they're deep, the big picture critiqued in miniature, striking slices of stark sensation.

After the insane number of sequels released last Summer I even found myself wishing another Skyscraper was in the works, not a Skyscraper sequel, to be precise, but something sort of different that at least attempted to start something new.

Even if it channelled Die Hard.

I've mentioned this before.

Stuber filled the gap meanwhile.

The Rock never had any sequels and if it had they likely would have seemed preposterous, or at least too logically improbable, if they had sought to reunite Cage (Stanley Goodspeed) and Connery (John Patrick Mason).

The film's actual plot still likely seems preposterous if you read or talk to people about it, or see it I suppose, even if it rationalizes insanity well.

If you don't like action films or sports I imagine watching The Rock would be excruciating, 20 plus years later no less, some of its best lines as ra ra as they are hyper-reactively appropriate, like watching solid Monday Night Football, a Raptors/Clippers showdown, the Leafs facing off in Montréal, or Hamilton taking on the Argos.

As far as I remember, it was released before globalization took off, or just as it was taking off, when America was examining itself critically, even from militaristic perspectives.

And the hero's a green nerd (Cage) who'll pay $600 for one of the Beatles's worst albums (old vinyl though), his partner a dangerous Brit who's been locked up for at least 30 years, like Michael Bay of all directors was deeply concerned with creating something memorable, something that had never been seen before, in sharp contrast to so many new action films.

Take some of these scenes.

After some tourists find themselves locked up on the Rock, there's a really short moment that lasts long enough for one of them to say, "what kind of fucked up tour is this?"

It's funny, and could have easily been left out, but Bay realized how cool it was, and kept it in to generate humour and tension.

I've never seen anything like it in a Marvel film, even if they excel at multidimensionally entertaining.

There's also a high speed chase through San Francisco that revels in cinematic mayhem, that introduces a tour of the city, on a trolly, as everything goes to hell.

Then, as an elite group of Navy SEALs prepares to take on well-heeled Marines on Alcatraz, and Mr. Goodspeed seeks a breakdown of what's going on, one of the SEALS (Danny Nucci as Lieutenant Shepard), a relatively unknown actor at the time who had yet to say anything in the film, delivers an extremely precise borderline passionate synopsis, that startles as it summarizes, and shocks with exhilarating brevity.

What an opportunity for a young actor.

Nucci totally nails it.

There's nothing like that scene, that moment, in current action films, like the lines were created to give someone the opportunity to build a career, instead of all the roles going to world cinema's best and brightest.

It's like the actors in The Rock are fighting to build or sustain a career, from Vanessa Marcil (Carla Pestalozzi) to Tony Todd (Captain Darrow) to David Morse (Major Tom Baxter) to John C. McGinley (Captain Hendrix), no one holding back or resting on old school precedent, just givin' 'er hardcore with ample opportunity to do so.

There are at least 17 actors who stand out in this film.

That's a script that cultivates 1990s diversity (written by David Weisberg, Douglas Cook and Mark Rosner).

Cage and Connery work well together, the former frenetically perspiring athleticism, as he's suddenly thrust into the frenzied fray, replete with doubt, inexperience, and a pregnant partner, Michael Biehn (Commander Anderson), Ed Harris (General Francis X. Hummel), and William Forsythe (Ernest Paxton) givin' 'er too, the film's just so damned professional.

With a ne'er-do-well landing on a spike near the end.

This is what blockbusters could be like before pirating.

Greater risks.

Greater reward.

I'm recommending The Rock.

And watching it again this Winter.

Captive State

Chaos descends as aliens invade and overwhelm Earth's defences.

Possessing unassailable strength and intergalactically advanced technology, the planet succumbs to their rule, and must dismally embrace monstrous will.

Only a scant few escape extreme poverty, and they're self-destructively tasked with brainstorming their own ruin.

The aliens seek to extract everything the Earth has to offer, every last microbe they can voraciously steal, and what happens to its inhabitants in the meantime, is indeed of little concern.

In the opening moments, a family seeks escape, but is cut down immediately after breaking through local improvised defences.

Captive State unreels years later, the children having grown up meanwhile, each day a struggle to survive, every moment despairing combat.

The police manage relations between organic and extraterrestrial life and find themselves in a miserable position.

But William Mulligan (John Goodman) does his best to look out for troubled Gabriel (Ashton Sanders), whose father was once his partner, before everything drastically changed.

The result is first rate sci-fi, with an ending that brought me to tears.

How do you make cutting edge realistic science-fiction that doesn't heavily rely on special effects?

You contact Rupert Wyatt and his crew after synthesizing Captive State's distillations.

There are no moments in its present where you feel at ease, where there's a break from the rotting tension.

And without the visual effects, the aesthetic acrimony, knowledge of interstellar hubris, a focus on messianic maestros, the film tills biodiverse grassroots, and produces authentic desperation.

Not without hope.

Nothing utopian or grotesque or supernatural, just hope that the aliens can be defeated, or at least held in check or at bay.

Strictly confined.

It's unclear what happens in the end.

Even without the special effects, the budget's bigger than a lot of independent sci-fi, but the money was well spent on realistic settings, which augment the film's resourceless ambience.

The ending's brilliant and heartbreaking, a masterstroke of revelatory storytelling.

Takes Cloverfield up a notch.

A couple of notches.

A bunch of notches.

With Vera Farmiga (Jane Doe).

And Mr. Alan Ruck (Charles Rittenhouse).

BlacKkKlansman

Do you remember when you were really young and differences between peoples weren't emphasized, criticized, aggrandized, socialized, when everyone you met was just someone you were meeting and there weren't any ridiculous stereotypes ruining cultural communications?

Before small-minded misperceptions with hateful agendas attempted to dismally attach specific labels to races and ethnicities, when things were rather peaceful and calm, when there weren't any differences between peoples?

I attended an anti-racism seminar years ago and its facilitator emphasized this point along with many others that logically broke down hate fuelled ideologies.

It's still absolutely clear to me, no matter what the racists try to claim, that there are no specific differences amongst peoples themselves, just alternative cultural traditions, which both enrich one's life when curiously explored, and celebrate the constructivity of intellect across the globe.

You can educate yourselves about them online or at your local library or by attending various cultural events, there's an infinite number of positive community-building materials freely available for curious minds, in a variety of different formats, the constructive peaceful materials themselves functioning like a chill multicultural spirit, which enlivens and emancipates minds with carefree convivial charm.

The world can be quite cruel of course and many conflicts are so complex finding solutions for them is a herculean task as long as both sides won't lay down their weapons.

Spike Lee's BlacKkKlansman examines both sides of the African/European American racial or ethnocentric divide to shed sombre light on how divided many black and white peoples living within the same community are in the United States.

An intelligent caring African American individual (John David Washington as Ron Stallworth) joins the local police force within, and soon finds himself working covert operations.

He sees what the world could be like if racial and ethnocentric stereotypes didn't divide so many peoples, and agilely walks the razor's edge to promote less confrontational ways of living.

He's aided on the force by a brave cop named Flip Zimmerman (Adam Driver), who infiltrates the Ku Klux Klan in order to find out what they're up to.

They're assisted by a multicultural team dedicated to both preventing violence and promoting sustainable living, even if some members of the force don't see it that way.

I know the police often act foolishly because people often catch them acting foolishly in videos posted online.

But don't forget that there are many cops out there who are dedicated to both preventing violence and promoting sustainable living as well, and they're there to serve and protect regardless of race or ethnicity or sexuality.

Why would police promote a violent world when it's their lives that are on the line when violence erupts?

It doesn't make sense.

Doesn't make any sense at all.

Spike Lee emphasizes this in BlacKkKlansman, an edgy film that lampoons the KKK and celebrates strong individuals dedicated to fighting racism.

Perhaps too light for subject matter this volatile, it still takes the reckless, thoughtless, unethical comedy that's erupted in the U.S in recent years and turns it on its head to formally deconstruct it.

I don't know how many people will understand that that's what he's doing, or even if that was his intention, I'm not Spike Lee, but in the final moments it's clear that BlacKkKlansman is meant to be taken seriously.

Extremists take peaceful inclinations and use fear to transform them into paranoid disillusion.

The key is to simply stop listening.

And focus on continuing to cultivate communities where their nonsense need never apply.

Period.

Destroyer

Overwhelmingly consumed by guilt and vengeance, a forlorn detective wearily trudges on.

Notoriously dishevelled, she struggles to deal while attempting to advise her restless daughter.

Having once infiltrated a heist prone entity, she lost everything after she failed to act.

And the individual who's haunted her for 16 years has finally resurfaced, within her reckless domain, his sights set on lucrative crime, boldly flaunting arrogant tension.

She continues to break the rules she's never followed to desperately gain an edge, and accidentally finds herself mired in steep misfortune.

Spiralling swiftly down.

Wildly reckoning sincere uncertainty.

Destroyer flexes gritty wayward concrete confrontation to adjudicate chaotic perception.

From flesh wound to break to hemorrhage to paralysis, it scoops up the lugubrity in piles of distraught doom.

Aptly succeeding at presenting direst woe, it's a little too blunt for my tastes, the intervening scenes lacking the visceral nuances that hold films like To Live and Die in L.A. or French Connection together, shocking violence erupting like periodic head shots every 8 minutes or so, or body checks in a hockey game, except that after each check the play stops and doesn't resume again, and then it suddenly starts back up and there's another check shortly thereafter before it stops again, this pattern repeating until the film's solid ending.

It's obvious that the filmmakers are capable of crafting something more subtle and nuanced and steady and memorable, something less discontinuous, or something that artistically cultivates discontinuity, but perhaps budget constraints got in the way or Destroyer's an initial offering from a fledgling craftperson, still learning to brew something less pulpy and generic.

It does function as an effective warning against both corruption and revenge however, Erin Bell's (Nicole Kidman) dismal distillation a potent reminder to let things go, no matter your gender, to move forward at some point after a period of grieving, and apply yourself with resurgent vigour to whatever tasks eventually present themselves.

Books and films and paintings and television provide limitless options to promote either contemporary or retro lifestyles.

As do sports and the daily news.

Even if even The Guardian is remarkably grim these days.

That used to be the advantage it held over The New York Times for me.  It wasn't so grim. And didn't focus on the United States so much.

It's nice when you meet people who are also living in the present regardless.

A present that isn't consumed with grasses greener.

Where resilient people make the most of their present means.

And occasionally sit back chillin'.

When all their work is done.

The Predator

The Predator franchise having adjourned several years past on a rather unexpected bone-trilling high note, I was quite eager to entertain its brave successor, inasmuch as it seemed reasonable that it would reach even greater heights, hope logically characterized through lighthearted thrift, the lack of prolonged accompanying anticipatory proclamations (trailers) further augmenting wondrous presumption,  I imagined it would impress, if not at least, mischievously diversify.

Yet it seems as if the new team was somewhat overwhelmed by their preceding act, and therefore sought transformative comedic consolidations, the resultant feature perhaps shocking resigned traditionalists, who no doubt stayed till the campy end regardless.

Not to say that Shane Black's unique approach lacks merit, but the Predator films do generally attempt to frighten, relying more heavily on horror than the absurd, often tending to terrify demonstrously.

Within elite commandoes find themselves replaced with a duty-free band of misfits, who have the audacity to tell jokes and exalt mischief, the rapidly paced loosely structured plot maladroitly reflecting their shenanigans, the resulting synthesis bizarrely endearing, typically tantalizing withheld revelations, bluntly shared, unabashed, tomfoolery.

It's more like a keg party than a night out at Saint-Bock, enthusiasm and excess carelessly abounding without taking much time to consider effect, mood, ambience, or likelihood.

Correspondingly, solutions readily present themselves, albeit in an inebriated way, chaotic resiliencies flying high on adrenaline, a family caught up in the jetstreamed carnage.

It's like Joes who haven't done much research suddenly find themselves experientially reaching ingenious conclusions, heavily saturated with kitschy ingenuity, as unconcerned as they are bewildered.

But even if they charmingly hypothesize, they can't outwit the film's brazen capacity.

It is fun though.

I like what they're trying to do, i.e, write a critical horror/comedy, and they mention all kinds of cool things like buses and science and global warming.

Plus it's co-starring Jake Busey (Keyes).

But the script could have perhaps used another round of edits, during which perhaps the predator dog idea would have been reimagined or left out.

A courageous attempt not lacking in ambition that still goes way too far, while mischievously diversifying no less, The Predator may have seriously impressed had it been crafted with more critical insight.

It may convince people to start thinking more seriously about climate change though.

Climate change is definitely real within.

And hopefully still will be in upcoming sequels.

*I never even listened to the Yardbirds!

Harrumph!

At First Light

True love gone astray, withheld honest feelings bottled-up deep down proudly mired in distraught stasis as adhesive as it is cold.

A sighting, soulful regeneration, wondrous mischief suddenly appears levitating thoughts light and playful, so much time having been spent thinking of the right thing to say leaves him speechless, inarticulate, defensive, rude, thaws thick manifest in waking daydream, fears heartfelt quakes waxing dunes.

Translucent phase.

Image and status, communal narratives, blind rumour, blasé treatise.

Still that spark of ecstatic longing, that shimmering eternal flame, persevered in joyous depths, always, enraptures bright communication.

Before she's gone, disappears.

Then wakes having emerged divine.

Extraterrestrially wandering, At First Light.

Wherein romantic science-fiction illuminates superpowers, as ethereal precipitation saturates disbelief.

Confusion, answers which provoke quandary, a mystery lacking clues, codes, constructs, chords, gradually revealed in thoughtful awestruck miniature.

A tight script technologically economized inspires creative storytelling.

Desires to live freely contending with control.

Radioactive metamorphosis ironically humanizing elemental nuclei.

First contact made with ancient interstellar vocals.

It's as if the heights to which one raises their beloved are enigmatically reified within, godlike characteristics exotically pronounced.

Sean (Théodore Pellerin) sits back in wonder as Alex Lainey (Stefanie Scott) electrifies, thunderous awareness coyly emancipated, untilled.

That which is to be expected is present, is sewn, but At First Light reimagines these conventions to its credit, recharging their form with enlightening elastic appeal.

Supporting characters diversify its filmscape while adding narrative texture and nuance, the local transformed into the intergalactic piecemeal as events impressionably unfold.

Make the most of your talents and budgets increase tenfold.

I imagine.

Like amorous independence.

Galvanized gale force solar.

Summer of 84

An innocent mind rationally filled with suspicion detects neighbourly crime in the Summer of 84.

With no condemnatory evidence, and only his teenage imagination to support his accusations, Davey Armstrong (Graham Verchere) must cleverly engage in covert ops, with a little help from his most trusted closest friends.

In an age synthetically flourishing (not) long before the world went viral, known to many as the most joyous wondrous adventurous decade in world history, complete with physical newspapers and programs regularly broadcast on television, the odd sensational headline grabbing everyone's critical attention, the foolhardy nature of which was lampooned by an aware North American public staunchly versed in peaceful collectivity, a Foucauldean analysis of the times notwithstanding, but things didn't seem so divisive back then, 4 teens set out to secretively prove wrongdoing, using (not so) ancient reliable methodologies such as activity based disguises (manhunt), maneuverable modes of transportation (bikes), non-electronic technologies (binoculars), and inclusive dialogues leaving behind no detectable trace (conversation), as investigatory aids.

The suspect: a police officer living alone within a suburban dwelling, highly respected by neighbourhood families, thought to be dependable for many untroubled yesteryears.

The love interest: in a plot development that's absolutely perfect, an older beautiful resident female (Tiera Skovbye as Nikki Kaszuba) takes a shine to inquisitive young Davey, who is eager to reciprocate her interrogatory mannerisms, much to the amazement of his incredulous retinue.

Classic nerd love (see Meatballs 3).

Conveniently introduced to defy expectations.

Throughout most of the film I was thinking, "okay, this is solid low-budget storytelling skillfully operating within realistically extraordinary circumstances supported by strong characters, music, plot developments, and historical fascinations, but where's the horror?, this seems much more like heavy teen crime drama than a horror film, or even a nail-biting thriller."

Note: ginger wasn't a widespread term in the 80s (in my neighbourhood anyways) and it wasn't so easy to watch a movie late at night in 1984 unless you actually had a VCR and were able to rent what you wanted to see at a local video store, which likely didn't own twenty to thirty copies, or it happened to be on television and your parents didn't mind you staying up to watch it.

But the horror kicks in big time near the end and its impact is much more terrifying due to the intensity of the unexpected shocks.

Actual frights as opposed to campy humour.

A local family also declares political support for a new candidate around the same time.

To learn more about additional related horrors, see Michael Moore's Capitalism: A Love Story.

Yikes!

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?

The Fate of the Furious

A mad evil genius, hellbent on disabling geopolitical individuality, captures Dom (Vin Diesel) in The Fate of the Furious, in a loathsome attempt to make his honourable good nature her own.

Having recently proven to the Cuban people that he can indeed be trusted, aligning repute with action in victory aflame, his team can't understand why he's betrayed them, as the clandestine Mr. Nobody (Kurt Russell) greenlights their cold pursuit.

The independence of so many reliable furiousae imminently threatened by sheer nuclear arithmetic, it's imperative that high octane risk potential variably triggers alarm.

The team still excels without its leader, while said maestro recalibrates slipstream, Cipher (Charlize Theron) exposing them to coerced extreme disorder, fraught with maniacal familial leverage.

They must assemble in accordance with the abilities that have enabled them to defy the blasé and the mediocre, a baker's half dozen all-pro renegades, continuously eclipsing radially refined exuberance, caught up in arch-villainous bluster, acrobatically shifting gears thermoclined.

Masterminds.

Bringin' it.

Expounding.

The ill-tempered quickly regain their composure to regally embrace destiny punch maximum overdrive within.

Searching for new ways to exhaustively entertain, they battle a submarine no less, and a legion of remotely controlled ghost cars.

If practically everything is technologically outfitted, in the future, even raking, will every upcoming detective film and television show revolve around how a seemingly secure system was hacked, driverless cars being potentially used to commit murder, every crime solved thereafter by a neuromantic cybersleuth, potentially named, Chevron Wikireseau?

Nanosyntheses.

Enjoyed The Fate of the Furious and definitely preferred it to part 7.

Dom's compelling blend of tenacity and tenderness is reconstituted au début, and the massive accompanying cast has an intricate role to play, minor and major denizens alike, notably the subplot involving Deckard (Jason Statham) and his mom (Helen Mirren)(if Judi Dench can rock Philomena, Helen Mirren bejewels Magdalene Shaw), new fast learning by-the-book toehead (initially) Little Nobody (Scott Eastwood), and a frustrated Roman (Tyrese Gibson) who's been disrespectfully seven/elevened.

There are so many characters to take into consideration when writing these scripts.

Plus an incarcerated Dwayne Johnson (Hobbs) of course.

Tej Parker (Ludacris) could have had a bigger moment.

Risky to play freebird with Interpol?

Fast, furious, frenetic, freewheeling.

If you don't like these films, why do you go see them?

Tough to top the submarine, the torpedo.

Can't wait to see what happens next.

I don't even drive. I ride the bus.

The entire world's after them but they sort of work for the government.

Is that 21st century?

High stakes heuristics.

Barrellin' on down.

Bon Cop Bad Cop 2

Bon Cop Bad Cop 2 playfully revels in the aggrandized extravagance to be expected from an over-the-top sequel, the higher stakes like the going rate for energetic extrinsic jukes, personality charismatically fuelling covert operations, with enough clandestine viscosity to effervescently lubricate cool.

David Bouchard (Patrick Huard) and Martin Ward (Colm Feore) accidentally meet once again when Martin shows up one night to obliviously bust Bouchard's cover.

But spur of the moment strategization pugnaciously preserves David's stealth, and he's even able to infiltrate the underground more securely thereafter, or at least in the wild immediate aftermath.

Back at it again.

They're a bit too chummy throughout parts of the film though.

Bouchard's working undercover for Sȗreté du Québec while Ward monitors his activities for the RCMP, a situation that allows them to cleverly comment on Canadian Federal/Provincial relations, but they meet in person so frequently over the course of a few days that at times it seems more like a buddy comedy than serious cloak and dagger artifice.

But I'm missing the point here, for I did want to see these characters constructively and/or contentiously interact throughout, with a latent French/English cross-cultural subtext warmly characterizing their debates, so it was fun if not odd to see them start up new chats so regularly, inasmuch as it delivered what I was after.

A rowdy new character named MC (Mariana Mazza) adds a lot of synergistic technological spunk to their conversations as well.

Intergenerational acuity.

Hyperreactive charm.

Bon Cop Bad Cop 2 not only poses the question, "how can I be bonner and badasser than Bon Cop Bad Cop," but also asks if it can simultaneously lampoon sequels that ostentatiously rely on such a stratagem by incredibly taking things to supreme heroic levels which maximize the immaculacies of coy endearing pith!

Loved it.

I've never seen a Canadian/Québecois film go bigger, and I applaud similar initiatives to come, initiatives that even barely approach that which Bon Cop Bad Cop 2 has achieved, has accomplished, as international ambassadors of campy Northern wit.

Look for Jameson Kraemer (Middle Brook Police Officer 1).

He impressed with his scene on the bridge.

It's hilarious when Bouchard finds himself locked up in a small town American jail, the English/French Canadian fluencies from the first film enlightening Canadian/American diplomatic ties in the second.

Go big.

It would be hard to go much bigger.

But I would love to see them in space!

Trying to take down intergalactic warlords Xavier Dolan and Don McKellar?

Familial dynamics continue to codify a compellingly complicated filmscape.

Anthropoid

Penetrating im/pounding extremes, every micromovement scrutinized, every act commanding pressure, evasion, occupying hostility, bestial barbarous butcher, the Czechoslovakian resistance responds with succinct furtive gravity, a clandestine mission necessitating collective stealth, probable reprisals hauntingly staggering, the goal inter/nationally paramount, assassinate Reinhard Heydrich, and deliver a devastating blow to Nazi Germany.

Expedient precision.

Resilient nerve.

Sean Ellis's Anthropoid is a serious war film.

In fact it's the best war film I've seen in years.

There aren't any chummy exaggerated shenanigans, no consistent bombastic explosions, the soldiers barely have any resources, they're organized but years of grotesque repercussions have left them divided, there's a complicated objective requiring superhuman strength but its subjects are realistically afraid and hesitant, which inculcates sage humanity, cool heads still prevailing to keep things discreet enough to avoid despotic detection, ordinary people making extraordinary sacrifices like the recruits described by Saint-Loup, almost every character given a crucial role, courageous exceptional multifaceted desperation, like they really are fighting a war, and proceeding with requisite solemnity.

Heads kept level even as love's warm embrace lightens the tension, loss still generating overwhelming emotion, kindred spirits who would have otherwise been at play.

Goals motivating ubiquitously.

The different ages of the characters are written remarkably well.

Imperfect markspersonship.

Horrifying punishments.

Maturity comes of age.

Poise.