Don't Play Us Cheap

Lo and behold, a classic dinner party festively abounding with rhythmic song, the random celebratory inspired exclamations as unconcerned and versatile as they are contagious!

But the laidback chill and welcoming get-together has found its pernicious carnal adversaries, uptight individuals austerely prone to bombastically break up the tranquil merrymaking.

Imps from Hell in fact who can instantaneously change their shape and form, initially existing as vainglorious bats before diabolically transforming into humanoid revellers.

They strive to impress the Dark Lord by ruining an otherwise felicitous night, seeking reward recompense and favour in abysmal pits ominously inhabited. 

Fortunately, the guests assembled are far too good natured to fall for their traps, and easily find reflexive criticisms carefreely capable of sustaining the fun.

Most of the characters have a song to sing that's full of harmonious hard-working accords, mellifluous tales of united resplendency avidly coaxing freeflowing rebellion. 

Salt-of-the-Earth recitals fluidly enchant with gracious exactitude, Melvin Van Peebles having written the songs while expertly directing the feature as well (originally performed as a live musical).

I loved it so much I found the soundtrack and listened to many of the songs again, impressive soulful collaborative music gossamer gospel Motown motivation.

The music continuously innovates the feverish climax bewitching ensemble, as many of the characters gather together and sing several songs at the same chillaxed time.

It starts out humble and modest and slow then virtuously builds as other artists join in, before suddenly emerging as a bona fide fulcrum of synergistic spectacular stardust.

Why not simultaneously compose mischievous quotidian narrative accompaniments, cheerfully championing hard work and play and teamwork and friendship and family and Christmas (not technically a Christmas movie)?

The food looks so good too and there's so so so much of it freely available.

Fortuitously praising one more Saturday night.

Tantalizing treatise.

Mind-blowing maestros.

Abigail's Party

There's more to the appreciation of art than the ready-made exemplars designated famous, personal choice and inspirational lounging eclectically factoring in novel unpredictability. 

It's therefore important to make your own choices based upon what you specifically enjoy, not simply a work that's been historically lauded, but rather something you genuinely love.

There is the cocktail party game where you're supposed to recall celebrated painters and writers, and correspondingly list their famous works while modestly reciting what's been written about them.

It's not such a bad thing to be well-informed and aware of the critical continuum, but if you start to gather a collection of your own, are you doing so because you like it, or someone else does?

I admit to having more respect for the kitschy aficionado than the literate snob, even if I disagree with many of their choices, I still highly value their unabashed individuality.

If you can learn the categorical distinctions while also cultivating your own subtle voice, you may develop enviable taste that for a time may clearly fascinate.

It's not about being right or wrong you see it's more like romance or falling in love, it's difficult to find cherished longing in a textbook when you could be globetrotting with a Nickelback fan. 

When you start to read all the conflicting accounts that defiantly challenge the encyclopedic status quo, and become immersed in the critical maelstrom thoughtfully keeping things fresh and active, it becomes apparent that there really aren't any foundations although manifold traditions joyfully emerge, but with the lack of organic resonance, why do your own preferences not also matter?

Thus, there is vitriolic criticism passionately unleashed in Abigail's Party, regarding the elevation of paintings exuberantly categorized through aggrieved sincere textbook learning.

I feel bad because he's trying to educate himself and I widely support such scholarly ambitions, but he loves and brags about things simply because he's rather quite certain that he's supposed to.

His wife's more into the modern and couldn't care less what anyone thinks.

She's still rather cruel to him however.

So hard to hold it together.

If you're ever critiquing your personal decision to indeed never marry perhaps watch this film, and chant decisively with the blessed thereafter since really thank god that isn't your life.

Not that married life doesn't certainly have discerning benefits bachelors miss out on.

But you eventually reach a certain age.

Where it no longer holds much mischievous meaning. 

*Criterion keyword: beaver 🦫 

The Exterminating Angel

As times change and different political aesthetics present themselves, a dinner party is held for Mexican elites in Luis Buñuel's The Exterminating Angel. Everyone gathers for a delightful evening accompanied by delicious food items and accomplished musical entertainments.

There's just one problem.

For some indeterminate reason, the majority of workers feel compelled to leave before dinner is served and after dinner none of the guests is capable of leaving the room within which the festivities have expired. Confined together with nothing but their social relations to sustain themselves as the limited resources at their disposal are slowly consumed/utilized, those theoretically possessing a heightened sense of proper and refined conduct descend into madness, as the pet bear freely wanders to and fro.

At his or her leisure.

The external world becomes curious regarding the status of the imprisoned professionals but also find themselves unable to penetrate the invisible, intangible barrier.

As if a feudal set of social divisions has been challenged by a mischievous deity who demands that the well-to-do intimately embrace the circumstances which those who uphold their lavish caprice negotiate daily.

Unable to acknowledge a system wherein opportunity is available to all, or the fact that their luminescence is dependent upon semantic classifications which have designated the activities of working others as undesirable, time exasperatingly passes, and knowledge desperately self-destructs.