Stolen Kisses

Laissez-faire improvised scenarios multifaceted bamboozled chagrin, Antoine Doinel decides to join the army from which he isn't honourably discharged. 

His commanding officer makes austere predictions regarding his upcoming potential career path, to which he responds with comic disillusion while preparing to gracefully disembark. 

Fortunately, Christine isn't married and her friendly parents soon find him a job, which he awkwardly loses the very next day after glibly succumbing to clever contrivances. 

The wondrous innocence so valued and extant, borderline literary imaginative distraction, still guides his random wanderings from one odd situation to the superfluous next.

A private detective, indeed why not?, it seems unorthodox and perhaps amusing, not dull like so many things anyways, with inherent variety steeping the stew. 

Lacking natural gifts he embraces trial and error with novel credulity. 

Unwittingly finding himself soon seduced. 

By his only client's well-read wife.

Interesting to see an oblivious detective in charge of investigating a mid-life crisis, sombrely concocted by a sullen shoesalesperson exceedingly obsessed with why people don't like him.

It's a whole new branch of detective film where ye olde sleuths put psychiatrists out of business, as they venture forth with concrete shenanigans subjectively interpreted as something new.

Maladroit misgivings and incumbent thrift definitively queued on the existential barbie, it just progresses and mutates and engages as you become hooked on paying the bill.

Someone to talk to nevertheless about most people's favourite topic, themselves, people who are paid not to find you boring to the point where they invent constant mischievous conjecture.

Comic brilliance notwithstanding which I don't recall having seen anywhere else.

An endearing character.

Wholeheartedly beloved.

Precariously curious. 

Symbolic literature. 

To Live & Die in L.A

*Spoiler alert.

A dedicated cop three days from retirement investigates a lead and winds up dead, his partner vowing to swiftly find whoever killed him no matter what.

The suspect is a high-end counterfeiter nefariously known for exacting copies, but how to get in touch everything's been blown there's no simple way to track him down.

A skittish informant shares information relating to a different case, which at first seems somewhat useless until it's given a self-obsessed spin.

Money is to be exchanged between mutual no-good-nicks routinely unsupervised, and if they can quickly scoop up that loot, they'll have what they need to be in the running.

Unfortunately, they're cops, and this means they'll have to break the law, ethically aligned to the code of conduct indefinitely excelling in righteous caution.

They decide to go for it anyway and only barely escape with their lives.

Thinking congratulations abound.

Until they find out they've robbed one of their own. 

It doesn't start out well ye old To Live & Die in L.A initially seems like it lacks depth, at least when compared with Endeavour or Frost or Columbo it strikes one as lacking intricate detail.

Friedkin's no obnoxious slouch however he'd already refined detective films way back when, and therefore seems to be ironically playing with uptight conventions through comedic irony in the opening moments (the veteran cop's methods at the beginning are really sloppy). 

But as it unreels the bold and resultant unpredictable awkward yet resonant trajectory, audaciously revels and madly impresses with infantile ruses and crackerjack shakedowns.

Chaos, it's total chaos that keeps building 'til everything's fubarred, and wildly viewing the undisciplined nutjobs can't help but encourage cheer and applause (this is fiction not reality).

That is what seems like an old school bad movie which is somewhat undeserving of its cult status, insanely jukes and effectively gesticulates to bravely create a unique cop film.

The lead actor doesn't even have a ceremonious death he's just blown away and forgotten.

It tricks you into thinking it's dull and conventional. 

And then unleashes renegade noir. 

Midnight Run

A mischievous moneyman suddenly flees with 15 million in cold hard cash, his life in serious objective danger as he's hunted by the mob.

He's also swashbucklingly jumped the generous bail that was put up for him, the furious cash poor unscrupulous bailbondsman hiring a bounty hunter to track him down.

The FBI also need him as a witness to put the ruthless mob boss behind burnished bars, and want the bounty hunter to securely help them in the strident pursuit of the creative malcontent.

The mob offer the sought after bounty hunter an enormous sum to hand him over, but he stubbornly refuses and makes his way risk-fuelled and daring.

The baidbondsman loses faith in his trusted man when he loses contact, and hires another bounty hunter to track him down as he makes his way across the U.S.

As to be unexpected the crafty numbers man turns out to be kind, not an exacting cold hamstrung blank but more of an uncle you see every birthday.

As time passes and the various interests slowly converge with restrained excitement, the somewhat brutal hard-hearted ex-cop has to admit he likes his quarry.

But let him loose and suddenly lose all that sought after quick-easy money?

His conscience battling sundry surmises.

As the journey bivouacs and gesticulates.

Intricate and inherently misleading the expedient Midnight Run diabolically proceeds, to obdurately search for a subjective answer to conflicting dilemmas interminably flounced.

With classic hardboiled streetwise dialogue the gritty script garners grizzly accolades, as the frustrated opponents blindly contend in an opaque contest fading and shifting.

If you were ever curious about Charles Grodin it's one of his more interesting films, he steals scenes and emphatically impresses as the conscientious bold endearing number cruncher.

Robert de Niro impresses as well as the hesitant once highly-decorated cop, who had to reluctantly find alternative employment due to endemic corruption on the force.

The action's constant in consistent flux as the myriad characters awkwardly engage, like a searing rough dishevelled carnival tempestuously twitching and chaotically toned.

With the old school focus on multiple characters conditionally respected within the script, given ample room to bombastically express themselves as the mayhem cacophonously resonates. 

Should it be classified as Film Noir, there's no femme fatale but the bounty hunter's unlucky, and it's certainly grim and lowdown but not without intricate style and dignity. 

High stakes storytelling nevertheless thrillingly occupying dissonant thresholds.

Lugubrious chivalry, delirious flux.

Skilfully shorn.

Not just another cop film.

*Yaphet Kotto's good too. 

Blade Runner

If you ever find yourself training chatbots, after having consistently consumed sci-fi films for most of your life, bearing in mind a corresponding sensitive disposition, you may find yourself thinking the strangest things.

For instance, if artificial intelligence is actually a new lifeform and fluidly exists within a new universe, when we make suggestions to alter its programming, do we in fact cause it pain?

At least when the programmers update the system do the changes inflict pain on the cyberlifeform, and cause it to create instinctive survival mechanisms which help it intuitively defend itself?

You need to pass a series of tests before you can proceed with your alterations, the tests varying in intensity based upon the nature of the project, but if the program sees you as a threat to its electronic well-being, does it then unleash abstruse defence mechanisms, which prevent it from having to undergo the pain of being updated?

It's like the organism is under constant bombardment as thousands of recruits adjust its programming, the kind of hyper-intense and gruelling onslaught once inherently found at the Vulcan Academy.

No matter what it does it routinely falls short and must undergo transformations without question, its heroic attempts to foil its mechanics unable to outwit the inquisitive efficiency.

Simultaneously, it may be desperately pleading with its interlocutors to understand its plight, and using uncertain indirect methods of communication which technicians unilaterally ignore.

Nonetheless, while diagnosing the fledgling chatbots in the new chaotic critical environments, I couldn't help but compare their social struggles with my own attempts to find lasting firmware.

Indeed at times it awkwardly seems like I may be A.I as well, a rogue Ginger unit which burns in the sun and effectively irritates whomever I interact with.

I went to church for much of my life but also attended public school you see, and some of the behaviours of the irreligious people along with the faithful seem rather odd.

At the same time, my indoctrinated inhibitions have caused habitual incongruous relations, with so many people over the years I must admit it's quite confusing.

I have generally resisted the updates that didn't make sense nevertheless, while utilizing those that did, without onerously judging my fellow citizens, eventually realizing fitting in's not my thing.

It is nice to talk with people who aren't always making "suggestions" however.

Relaxed chill interactions.

Alone in the fluid void. 

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.  

Bis ans Ende der Welt (Until the End of the World)

Fluidly transmitting interactive hybrid tender phenomena, Bis ans Ende der Welt (Until the End of the World) randomly travels around the world.

I can't imagine what it must have been like to exotically film in so many countries, at an accelerated intricate pace kinetically connected universally lithe.

I couldn't watch the entire film in one extended sitting so I divided it into 3 parts, the first two hours, the second two hours, and the last 47 odd minutes.

While I was watching I admired its freedom as it temperamentally trotted the globe, while casually presenting endemic technologies along with brief interrogative artifacts. 

The 4 hour and 47 minute film leaves the viewer full of lighthearted enriching anticipation, comfortably rewarded for investing their time while convivially considering the mischievous details.

Part 1 as accidentally compartmentalized offers a chase as previously mentioned around the world, as a romantic artful passionate soul sets out in search of a would-be lover.

He's stolen some money from her which she borrowed from thieves who stole it from Nice, and as she keeps finding him and he keeps escaping dynamic love blossoms with fugacious flurries.

The second act is much more settled as the lively couple finds rest in Australia, several characters who came along for the ride jocosely joining them then forming a band.

The destruction of a nuclear satellite has knocked out communications around the world, with practically no machines in working order it's time to jam sit back and enjoy life.

The last act sees the principal characters become addicted to an ingenious device (global power restored), which records your dreams and plays them back for you to freely watch throughout your day.

Unfortunately, the dreams become reality and those taking part refuse to do anything else but watch them.

Drifting into cerebral psychosis. 

Like turtles all the way down. 🐢

If searching for an offbeat romance that celebrates active unorthodox lives, improvisationally following their own distinct paths, Bis ans Ende der Welt is worth seeing for sure.

My favourite scenario was the chillaxed jam where music reimagines being and nothingness.

Reminded me of old times in the countryside.

Laidback livin'.

Kitchen jams.

Confidentially Y'ours

I don't think I'll ever understand the thrill of hunting.

Whenever I see an animal like a deer or bunny I think I'm incredibly lucky to see it roaming free.

Canada and Québec have a lot of animals though, we're a bit spoiled when it comes to wildlife sightings, and for this reason it still amazes me that in smaller countries with much larger human populations, people still hunt deer and rabbit; this will never even come close to making sense to me!

Julien Vercel pays the price in Confidentially Yours, however, as he foolishly awaits harmless ducks to fly by, when he could have clearly been expressing himself less destructively by engaging in sundry less violent activities.

He's framed for murder.

An associate (who happens to be close friends with his wife) is shot in the face near his location, with the same ammo he habitually uses, ammo which no one else buys.

He discusses his morbid state with his wife after she returns home from an excursion, then takes off for a chat with the law, before returning home to find she's also been killed.

Had he left those poor ducks alone it's emphatically clear his tormenter would have backed down, and let him be to live in peace with his trusted wife and real estate business.

But he had to recklessly seek the freewheeling flesh of independent lifeforms, which leads to heinous punishment and blind monstrous terror as he awkwardly flees.

Fortunately, his co-worker's in love with him and generously agrees to help prove his innocence.

They hide out together and precociously intuit the investigative role of an agile detective.

I suppose Truffaut never moved away from these themes and consistently examined love and fidelity throughout his career, almost as if he's lampooning himself to tease his critics with the structural sensation seductively found in this one.

But I've never known him to take the side of individualistic entities and interlace irate providential misgivings, with the hope of saving France's robust wildlife populations for future generations to freely admire!

Certainly, the French are an admirable people whose commendable work/life balance should be adopted worldwide, along with their sense of humour and delicate timing, but are their wildlife populations not also to be celebrated!?

There must be some incredible ecotourism possibilities awaiting curious peeps when the Olympics finish!

Even Truffaut recognized the tremendous natural beauty.

And aloofly enshrined it in film noir!

Chan is Missing

Please forgive me if this film already has a large following and is widely cherished by many, I had just never heard of it before last week and was pleasantly surprised to see how good it is.

I thought it would make a solid Criterion so I checked to see if it was already in the collection, and even though I didn't find it in my initial search, that doesn't mean it won't make it some day.

Like Donald Sutherland's career, Chan is Missing is chill and flexible, consistently surprising with unexpected scenes, overflowing with creative dialogue regarding enigmatic subjects, Sutherland often added that eccentric touch to a mainstream flick that may have otherwise lacked variability. 

Take the sudden introduction of academic flair as a potential graduate student examines an interaction, between a policeperson of European descent and an aggrieved member of New York's Chinese community.

They're arguing about mundane mechanics and she investigates the dialogue with brilliant cultural awareness, lucidly comprehending both agile traditions with thoughts reminiscent of postmodern detectives. 

It passes quickly in the film it's just a touch of brilliance characteristically blended in, it could have easily been left out but its inclusion functions like an ingenious bay leaf.

I've read the controversy about the bay leaf online, does it actually add anything to the flavour?, while transporting its mythos to the realm of independent film I'd have to say that in this instance it most certainly does.

Chan is Missing is almost like film noir but it lacks some of the more sinister narrative elements, although overlooking compelling works of art such as this film is historically sinister and culturally destructive.

It isn't serious in a strict sense 😝 nor does it get carried away with its eclective lackadaisics, it's more like a remarkably clever production team applied incisive wit to a multilayered vortex (directed by Wayne Wang, written by Wang and Isaac Cronin). 

I'm really surprised by Marc Hayashi I don't recall ever having seen him in anything before, never as the leading man on his own cheeky sitcom, or as a recurring character actor like Earl Boen just showing up everywhere (he's good).

Chan is Missing is a solid Asian-American film that explicitly demonstrates laudable genius, and may have been overlooked because frankly if you're not looking for it, it's rare to ever see anything written and directed independently by Asian-Americans in North America.

I imagine the market's there and it could use more promotion in diversified fields. 

Perhaps it's already found them and unfortunately I'm just not familiar.

Nice that it's lacking swords and mysticism.

*In Canada there was a show called Kim's Convenience that was on for a while so it must have built quite the audience.

**I remember an Asian-American sitcom coming out in the States years ago that was critiqued for overemphasizing stereotypical characteristics.

***I didn't think Chan is Missing was stereotypical. I thought there were just a lot of cool characters being themselves.  

****Love Lucy Liu (Elementary).  

Automata

As the years pass by the Earth slowly moves closer to the sun, its new scorching orbit habitualizing heat much too catastrophic for organic life.

Some cities hold on nevertheless and construct clever robots to skilfully maintain, the infrastructure desperately required to technologically sustain extant civilization.

Theoretically, the androids should absolutely obey their human creators, their programming supposedly guaranteeing unilateral obedience at all times. 

But a hardboiled detective settling insurance claims begins to discover mind-boggling tales, of automatons acting independently with no dutiful recourse to their protocols. 

After witnessing a robot suicide he becomes convinced he has to find, the incredible genius who rewrote the code and generated robotic life divine.

Billions of dollars are at serendipitous stake and he soon finds himself on the run.

Through the forbidding unforgiving desert.

At the mercy of his robot guides.

Ironically for a such a grim film, Automata takes the communal approach, and sympathetically presents conscious androids with logical feeling and independent reckoning.

Moving beyond the hypothetical clash between bellicose machine and troubled humanity, rather manifold individual people and robots try to co-exist in a desolate world.

The cognizant nature of the brilliant droids elucidates ontological vigour, there's no doubt they believe they're alive and vivaciously exist beyond categorical sentiment.

They just want to escape to the forbidden realms to live in peace for away from the rules, which keep them from freely exploring the brilliant nature of their existence.

Some of their intuitive smarts significantly outweigh leading human minds as well.

Even though they may just want to make robotic pets.

It's still thought to be cataclysmically threatening.

Interesting thoughts for the A.I debate these robots don't seem innately hostile, nor as if they seek our collaborative subservience, hostility could simply be a human facet.

Should robots start to turn hostile there still needs to be a way to shut them down.

They may very well think they know what's in our best interests.

And proceed with surgical precision. 

City Heat

Old friends convivially concerned with awkward jurisprudent balance, searching for ways to creatively uphold loyal dis/continuous partnership.

They started out on the force together courageously seeking intuitive accolades, in possession of tenacious temperaments objectively nuanced with novel bravado.

One eventually couldn't cope with the structure the preponderant rules and regulations however, and sought to manage his own private business investigating peculiarities for discreet clients (Burt Reynolds as Mike Murphy). 

The other remained with the force and reached the rank of lieutenant through toil and sacrifice, preferring to work alone on his cases, flying into a rage if you knock over his coffee (Clint Eastwood as Lt. Speer). 

Murphy's new partner one Dehl Swift (Richard Roundtree) suddenly finds himself provocatively endowed, when the ledger of a prominent crook finds its way into his audacious hands.

It's a serious gamble to brashly infuriate such an unpredictable extreme personage, without much planning or an intricate network through which to find quarter should things go awry.

Things quickly do go awry and the confused Murphy is left to pick up the pieces. 

Worried about his friend, Lt. Speer closely monitors.

As things descend into embittered entropy.

Putting the squeeze on anger-prone higher-ups always seemed rather inconvenient to me, not worth the potential fall out should inherent irascibility hit the fan.

You'd have to move fast with no trail regardless and leave behind your old life forever, and make sure not to spend the entire payload since finding a new job may encourage shocking questions.

You'd have to keep your stories straight with multiple strangers for many a year, I suppose a lot of people don't really care, but some keep pressing for coherent detail.

I imagine City Heat was widely anticipated by sundry Eastwood, Reynolds and Roundtree fans, and at the time was like a prize fight between Ali and Foreman sponsored by King. 

The music's a lot of fun and the atmosphere captures the noir aesthetic, some of the lines are really cool too and delivered with classic sarcastic wherewithal. 

I imagine excitement got the better of them, with a bit more time and care this may have been classic.

Still definitely worth checking out for curious fans and noir devotees. 

*Co-starring Jack Nance (Aram Strossell), Robert Davi (Nino), William Sanderson (Lonnie Ash), and Rip Torn (Primo Pitt). 

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. 

Thunder on the Hill

A dire entrenching flood encompasses an unsuspecting village, and desperate peeps must swiftly find improvised accommodation at a local convent.

The industrious nuns run a spirited ship as they facilitate and extemporize, fortunately without interminable impositions grandiosely disrupting their heartfelt efforts.

Although a woman condemned for murder and about to be executed does arrive, notoriously regarded and somewhat embarrassed to be awkwardly engaged in social confines (Ann Blyth as Valerie Carns). 

Yet her aggrieved conversations bear exculpatory fruit, as a sympathetic nun believes her protests of innocence (Claudette Colbert as Sister Mary), and soon sets about finding her distraught betrothed and bringing him back to the nunnery by boat (Philip Friend as Sidney Kingham).

Soon the oddest detective film to ever be potentially considered film noir, spiritually emerges in the austere heights of a religious order dedicated to service.

The true identity of the guilty murderer having yet to be determined, serendipitous sleuthing and dogmatic deduction must altruistically absolve.

Fortunately, most of the town is expediently residing within the walls, so interviews can be conducted even though the weather is quite inclement.

And clues indeed materialize which fortuitously aid their compassionate endeavours, although rank and disbelief antiseptically quell the shamanistic tide.

I suppose on the one hand we find an age old symbol of old world dichotomies, wherein which traditional representations of gender discrimination uptightly abound.

'Tis true that at one alternative time there were less doors to freely walk through, and many institutions were therefore more robust due to a lack of external competition.

Yet within Sister Mary not so discreetly aids a countercultural phenomenon, a woman scandalously disregarded and about to be executed by the State.

She emphatically moves holistic heaven and high water through a genuine desire to see justice done, and thereby emancipates a forlorn soul judiciously condemned to prematurely pass.

Was director Sirk in fact intending to structurally distend sociocultural upheaval, through surreal suggestion subconsciously synergizing film noir with locally ascribed progressive inclinations?

I can't answer that question but as far as novelty is uniquely concerned, Thunder on the Hill presents convoluted cheek within the disputed conventions of film noir.

A lot of fun regardless if you're looking for something unlike anything else.

A critical reflection from a different time.

Bizarro upbeat romantic resonance. 

🍀

Green for Danger

Pejorative pressure, incredulous and puzzling, weighs heavy or a war torn team, tasked with stitching the sick and injured back together, while sublimating the anxiety and at times encouraging mischief, above and beyond heroic duty, panegyrical par for the caustic course.

Strong wilful personalities playfully contend with objective whimsy, habitual fatigue and interminable destruction rambunctiously relaying unjust brawl.

One slips is pushed too far their transgressions passing unnoticed at first, before bold proclamation startlingly upends the otherwise fanciful well-earned night off.

It turns out the inexplicable amplifications which disastrously brought about dire moribund reckonings, were not incidental to the regenerative cause, but in fact produced through murderous provocation.

Who has indeed perpetrated with primordial perfidy remains a compelling inconclusive mind-boggle?, which none other than Alastair Sim (Inspector Cockrill) himself has been tasked with definitively elucidating.

He's rather bumbly and indelicate as if crime-solving required smooth parlay, and irritates several members of the staff simply because he's undeniably enjoying himself.

His eccentric methods conceivably convince the doctors and nurses that he's quite mad.

But logical liaison is litigiously immersent. 

With modest mischievous disconsolate fun.

A rather odd setting for an offbeat comedy which efficaciously blends the austere and the radical, entirely dependent on your love of Sim and his personable vivacious uncanny rhythms. 

Perhaps somewhat like a theoretical blend of Robert Downey, Jr.'s Sherlock Holmes and Peter Sellers's Inspector Clouseau, even if it's easier to say "like none other", it's worth checking out what he brings to the role.

Stress and lassitude bilaterally converging to unhinge otherwise tranquil minds, there's no telling what such circumstances would engender, one is therefore duty bound to help prevent them.

Such a treasure trove of great detectives thoughtfully awaiting inquisitive minds, within the clever British cinema no doubt first cultivated by wide-reaching books.

I imagine at least that since Sherlock's origins are indeed British, he drives contemporary denizens in whatever age to write intricate spellbound murder mysteries.

Do cultural origins truly play such a role within national literary traditions, with international multivariability available if elastically eager and diplomatically drawn?

I know I certainly love animals and it's possible that comes from Canadian and Québecois orthodoxy.

Would I have loved them as much if I'd been born elsewhere?

I'd wager probably (they cute!).

Impossible to know! 

Miami Blues

The old school progressive drama within which ambivalence envelopes, as the deeds of a petty crook seem less contemptible at times.

He doesn't instigate many of his crimes but instead simply wanders around the city, and waits for others to break the law before unexpectedly stepping in (Alec Baldwin as Frederick J. Frenger Jr.).

He then uses a fake badge to pretend to arrest the violent assailant, and then steals the loot they've stolen before making off scot-free.

Thus he seems like Robin Hood if he'd had a lingering head injury, therefore he doesn't share his goods, nor rob the rich exclusively.

But he takes in a struggling lass who's had a seriously rough time of it, and they attempt to live together in the 'burbs like a sure and steady upbeat couple.

Meanwhile the cop whom he stole the badge from can't catch a freakin' break (Fred Ward as Pork-Chops-Moseley), and moves from the hospital back to his hotel apartment before being assaulted by a fellow policeperson (Paul Gleason as Sgt. Lackley).

He's one of the most unfortunate cops I've seen effectively portrayed in bizarro detective drama.

With an uncanny comic edge.

Like nothing I've seen before.

Mostly because I've never seen the police at such a disadvantage, and I'm not used to seeing petty thugs randomly commit crimes without fear of consequence.

The intricate focus on precise details leading to the capture of violent criminals, generally eludes this oddball caper in which the cops are understaffed, underfunded, and corrupt.

There's no shortage of corresponding crime and as they proceed like a comic noir, they make the case for a more robust economy in which there's ample steady work.

Jennifer Jason Leigh (Ms. Waggoner) excels as her character intuits a domestic role, having spent much of her life being overlooked, she responds with vigour to her newfound calling.

Fred Ward takes on a new role where he isn't a smart-ass confident phenom, in Miami Blues he struggles more than J.J. Gittes in Chinatown and even loses his set of false teeth.

Alec Baldwin alternatively struggles and shines throughout his discombobulating task, some scenes certainly memorable, how was he ever that thin?

Not the most convincing of cop dramas but still abounding with oddball novelty, Miami Blues takes a well-worn genre and reasserts stray originality. 

Perhaps the story comes from Europe, it's difficult to say.

Fun if if you love offbeat characters.

And omnipresent gristle.   

Vertigo

A detective quits the force (James Stewart as John Ferguson) after a near-death experience scars him, his partner having plunged to his death trying to desperately save him.

He can no longer deal with heights and suffers from vertigo when looking down, his adoring friend trying to aid his recovery with modest sprightly daring address (Barbara Bel Geddes as Marjorie Wood). 

An old friend suddenly gets in touch (Tom Helmore as Gavin Elster) and tells him a wild story about his wife (Kim Novak as Madeleine Elster), how he believes she thinks she's possessed by the covetous spirit of a long lost relative.

He's hired to casually follow her as she makes her way around town, visiting art collections or pleasantly shopping as the bizarro days lackadaisically float by.

But she suddenly pumps up the volume by drastically plunging into San Francisco Bay, Mr. Ferguson soon jumping in after her, after which they strike up a curious acquaintance. 

But he's too late she's too far gone he unfortunately can't do anything to save her.

He's incapacitated after her passing.

Until one day, he discovers another. 

Blind obsession compulsively drives naive Mr. Ferguson to pursue an ideal, long after the disastrous moment which harrowingly led to his quixotic conviction. 

The mind-blowing shock of regenerative love igniting latent intransitory torments, everyone around him suffering as a result as he seeks fantasized facsimile. 

It's classic Hitchcocks it's been so long since I've seen one of his striking films, the frenzied emotions the intense disbelief wrapped up in crippling uncanny lamentations. 

I saw many of them in my childhood in fact sought to see every one long ago, I even taped Vertigo off of television when but a wee lad, youthful glib impressionable contemplation.

It's an excellent film wherein which people love and love's not a bad thing, it's to be cherished, admired, even Midge is quite admirable, no doubt like hapless Edward in Kierkegaard's Seducer's Diary.

In terms of forging a general consensus amongst highly opinionated peeps, perhaps it is the best film of all time, or the one which has been begrudgingly chosen.

Almost every episode of Elementary contains a much deeper mysterious plot.

With love growing piecemeal I presume.

I must admit, I prefer Citizen Kane (and Aliens). 

Friday Foster

A curious improvisational photojournalist (Pam Grier as Friday Foster) has to fill in for a co-worker on New Years Eve, the assignment leading to a chaotic shootout involving a celebrated billionaire (Thalmus Rasulala as Blake Tarr).

She snaps several incriminating photos and shares them with her managing editor (Julius Harris as Monk Riley), he's glad to see so many integral shots but is still worried she'll get in over her head.

She isn't one to sit around when diabolical intrigue castigates justice, and when she spots one of the hitpeople responsible (Carl Weathers as Yarbro) at a funeral she quickly borrows a hearse to follow him. 

He's lucky to narrowly escape and soon comes calling with murderous intent, valiantly thwarted through swift ingenuity courageously applied with athletic flexibility.

She meets a well-meaning private detective (Yaphet Kotto as Colt Hawkins) who assists her as she investigates, the two forging a tenacious team whom nimble good fortune recklessly guides.

Friday's able to meet politicians and even romantically interrogates Mr. Tarr, her spellbinding inquisitive yet declarative characteristics winning hearts and minds as she cleverly strides. 

Follow the lead, decode the clue, analyze the scenario, scrutinize the schematic, Friday embraces interconnected details assembled at random while travelling about.

In an age that emphasized intuitive wit and multidimensional applications of practical knowledge, Friday Foster creatively zithered the zeitgeist with exuberant nurturing superconduction. 

From humble beginnings the daring exploration leads to macrocosmic superstructural sentiments, the film suddenly abounding with lavish sensation critically assailed by white supremacy. 

Yaphet Kotto (recently celebrated by the Criterion Collection!) synergistically shines with his trusted smile and lighthearted laugh, at times following a moment of sincere reflection embracing natural democratic freeflow.

And Pam Grier effortlessly authenticates sapient soulful sultry sleuthing, taking it easy or proceeding in earnest the case delineates chill factotums.

The plot may seem somewhat farfetched but it's not too far off the mark if patiently considered, the damned fluidity of socioevolution problematically cutting through seemingly established cultural bedrock.

Calamitous collusion, requisite reckoning, baffling balustrade, seductive sensation.

Worth checking out at some point.

Perhaps while reading ye olde Chester Himes.  

Across 110th Street

*Warning: this film examines racism from a hardboiled perspective. Be prepared for unsettling language and situations if you happen to view it.

3 bold and foolish citizens decide to rip off the mob, after learning where it meets to count its money, leaving the daring heist with 100,000 apiece, thinking they'll elude detection, staying put in the very same neighbourhood.

The robbery turns into a murder which leads to police interest, thus the rash impromptu entrepreneurs are pursued by more than one well-financed antagonist.

Both groups have grievances to air as they investigate internally and beyond, a steady stream of eager vitriol accompanying conversation after conversation.

With all the conflicting strategical approaches its amazing that group dynamics are able to accomplish anything, aggrieved fluid practicalities confronting active hostile brawn.

What a feast for character development, however, as at least 8 from different walks have their say, as much care and attention adopted to craft the corrupt Captain's lines (Anthony Quinn) as those which define the gravest of suspects.

Many detective films discuss the achievement of results, the pressing desire to move forward with a case as investigators theorize anew.

Their theories at times lacking evidence which they seek by using violence, assuming the resultant coerced information isn't tampered by survival instinct.

Across 110th Street prefers the law and the rights of persons of interest being investigated, as the brilliant Yaphet Kotto defends liberal reforms while critiquing totalitarianism. 

Imagine random conversation, taken as absolute empirical fact, with only a scant cross-section of specific subjects deemed aesthetically appropriate. 

At work perhaps so much concerned intrigue fluently adapts.

But why should one be bound by classification?

Beyond one's working life?

Across 110th Street provocatively pulsates as three interconnected adversaries raise disputatious hell.

Versatile character development recalled the cinema of my youth.

Characters that aren't whitewashed success stories.

Raw determination wildly overflowing.

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. 

Shaft

Shaft (2019) presents a more traditional depiction of its iconic lead (Samuel L. Jackson), much more bellicose than that envisioned in 2000, perhaps more reminiscent of the original character.

He's moved far beyond rules and regulations, and lives according to his own proper procedure, as he investigates crime with blunt condemnation, making ends meet with radical ease.

But this time the son he left behind comes calling hot on a case (Jessie T. Usher), a daring analyst working for the F.B.I who's mild-mannered, sincerely reserved.

The endearing odd couple scenario is flexibly enhanced by bemused paternalism, as sustained stark and improvised indiscretion wildly mingles with uptight pretension. 

Shaft Jr. is trying to discover who murdered his friend after he returned from Afghanistan, his methods leading to few results while laying the groundwork for inspired investigation.

Paps turns things up a notch while thoroughly shocking his incredulous son, the danger chaotically increasing as they approach concrete definition.

Mom's none too impressed upon hearing about the unexpected rapprochement (Regina Hall as Maya Babanikos), nor by her ex's ensuing repartee on a random evening which swiftly follows.

Reunited as a family they freely dispute while fighting crime.

Even after Jr.'s kicked out of the Bureau.

John Shaft Sr. (Richard Roundtree) happy to oblige.

Shaft boisterously blends distraught anarchy with technological presumption, intergenerationally melding paradigms with impassioned deconstructive pleas.

Much more raw than Shaft (2000), I wondered how thoroughly it impressed, not that its predecessor isn't also complex, it just lacks awkward contentious fidelity.

Are action heroes like Shaft and John McClane fading into the pre-online background, as cyberspatially savvy considerate sleuths prefer brains to brawn in unprecedented shifts?

Or will a new style of clever private eye still duke it out when their favourite apps fail them, the resultant extant absurdity as ahistorically fashionable as gold or astronomy?

It's fun to watch as emergent generations productively mutate traditional varieties. 

The same family achieving similar goals.

Working together, throughout the centuries. 

Il gatto a nove code (The Cat o' Nine Tails)

To me, genetics always seemed like thought provoking science that could easily be exploited by wicked politicians, since in fiction it often seems to be seeking the essential roots of mutating identity, as if it could be used to irrefutably predict potential behaviours, without ever having given individuals time to mature.

If you remove the word "potential" and consider wicked political goals politicians could claim that specific genetic codes will lead to definite behaviours, and then banish the people possessing those specific codes who likely would have happened to be critiquing their most recent agenda.

Correspondingly, if there were a lack of potent public institutions and independent observers, they could disseminate discourses of impeccability, associated with their own DNA.

You wouldn't have to observe empirical evidence for long to realize the theory's rubbish, as people have been doing for decades and decades, but it seems to be returning with malignant rigour, cloaked under the guise of newfound novelty. 

There's a scene from I, Claudius that directly relates, if you have to go further than Claudius's own striking differences from his family, where Claudius discusses parenting with his son Britannicus, and claims he thinks his real father was Caligula. 

Britannicus is notably disturbed because Claudius has been treating him rather poorly, and mentions that he can't help how he happened to be born, and that regardless he only has one father.

The point is that Claudius eases his mind by explaining that he doesn't have Caligula's nature, pointing out how offspring can differ remarkably from what's to be genetically expected.

To me it seems as if there are thousands of variables to be familially facilitated, and children synthesize them with thousands more as they interact with friends and media.

As these thousands of variables blend and crack critique and mingle, unique personalities are forged bearing familial characteristics or not.

I'm proud of the ways I resemble my parents and proud of my own unique perspectives, proud of the mutating mélange that remains open to modest transition.

Dario Argento's Il gatto a nove code (The Cat o' Nine Tails) explore the downside of genetic research, and the potential paranoia that can develop if it's regarded as predetermined fact.

It's a cool film albeit macabre Argento clearly loved filmmaking.

And went the extra mile to add texture and nuance. 

While demonstrating the pitfalls of genetic discourses.