Arizona Dream

Reliable independence eccentrically maneuvering from one spirited random job to the next, compelling experience artistically dispersing enigmatic vehicular labyrinthine waves. 

Freely lost in the intriguing maze with neither career-oriented objective nor financial goals motivating, the integral wonder of consistent experiment continuously riveting incremental strides. 

Until you're tricked into one day returning for an old school function off in the void, and your childhood hero emphatically tasks you with regular employment definitively supplied. 

Unobservant and oblique the following days psychologically distressing, until a suicidal heiress and her flamboyant step-mom suddenly stop by to purchase a Cadillac. 

Invited back to their oddball stronghold to mix and match variable witticisms, he of the mercurial artistic temperament viscerally seduces the uncanny widow.

Why not make a flying machine that aerodynely searches the skies, for no particular reason whatsoever but to lovingly embrace aeronautic freedom?

The moribund millionaire also falls for his otherworldly irresistible authenticity. 

His companion floundering in the flotsam. 

As exotic reveries concretely jettison. 

*Do you think dreams are sending us secret messages dad, that relate to everyday life?

**It's difficult to say, son, and it's different for different people. You can write down what happens in your dreams though, and then see if it becomes a reality. After a while a lot of people realize it doesn't, although, there's always the possibility they're misreading the signs.

*Who can read the signs accurately, dad? Do experts in the interpretation of signs exist?

**There are doctors who know something about it although they constantly bicker amongst themselves, and so many alternative theories exist that at the end of the day it comes down to faith.

*Like trust in the doctor?

**That's right, you see, they may be incorrect, but they know more about it than you, so their mistakes are likely more advanced than yours, and therefore to potentially be taken into consideration.

*What about popularity? Does popularity influence interpretation? 

**Well, the brightest of the doctors sometimes becomes the most popular, and since his or her mistakes are likely closer to being correct than his or her counterparts, they become what's known as, en vogue.

*So many people listen to others even though they're also incorrect?

**That's right son, that's correct.

*Strange, this world of dreams.

**Have a good sleep, son.

*Will do.   

The Fabulous Baron Munchausen

A fantastic fanciful tale eloquently embroidered with enigmatic elasticity, effervescently afloat in ethereal sentiments neigh nautically nebulous efficacious shrugs. 

The dawn of reason of scientific experiment was not without its spirited disclaimers, or at least those who still held fast to incorporeal invention lackadaisically improvised through rhythmic song.

No doubt fearful of lavish reliable widespread streams of revenue drying up, old school traditions wistfully wielded newfound technologies with regal candour.

The new realistic phenomenon most likely responded with fashionable devices (freezers, fridges), which in turn functioned like objective magic and called into question immaterial states.

The ingratiating practical convenience likely won over many orthodox critics, once wholesomely familiar with domestic trends so ubiquitously enveloping they seemed naturalistic.

But the innovative technologies hadn't innocently counted on devastating spiritual longing, or the intense desire to awkwardly believe in ornate grandiose fluid impossibility. 

Thus, wild literary tales continued to advance intangible tractability, for the recreational chez sensational cultivation of ludic flight.

Unfortunately, the collective will to absolutely choose one or the other, led to palpable global distress for many an onerous discordant decade.

Although one option did seem to incorporate facets of theology and agnosticism, and seemed less restrictive in the imposing long-run assuming you kept a level head.

It was ironic that gallant inconclusions rambunctiously led to strict adherence, the fledgling materialism theoretically disposed to communal liberality freeform disjunction. 

Yet obsessed with outmaneuvering their ancient agitators on the world stage, many freedoms were correspondingly denied while many educators bravely deemed otherwise.

Fortunately, there were cultivated realms who did indeed blend and mix and synthesize, to imaginatively create emancipatory domains wherein which bold freedom mischievously manifested.

Still caught between invasive impulses to chaotically rule with dull authority. 

Fearful of invention, loath to spin yarns. 

Over and over.

Ad infinitum. 

All the Little Animals

The loss of a loved one lugubriously leads to a new set of rigid familial schematics, and whereas his mother was kind and generous, Bobby's intimidating step-father's acrimonious.

He hurt his head as a child and grew up differently thereinafter, homeschooled in isolation yet still loving and chill and fond.

Not very worldly indeed and wholeheartedly despairing of mature procedures, with hardly any of the requisite knowledge temperamentally toned through objective realism.

His step-father wants his share of the business and all he really knows is not to sign anything, dear old dad threatening a secluded lifetime in a mental institution if he doesn't play ball.

He makes an awkward break for it and soon finds himself hitchhiking across the country, with Cornwall as his destination without any money or clothes or friends.

Yet fate lends a gentle hand after he escapes a life-threatening situation, and meets an eccentric lonesome wanderer who delicately spends his free time administering.

Not a business or office or government but the deceased animals found throughout the countryside.

Whom he gingerly finds and buries.

As he comes across them in his travels. 

Logic and reason and management and consequence take on alternative hues in All the Little Animals, where the most unlikely of protagonists exceedingly champion magnanimous essentials.

There's no doubt that life in all its forms deserves to flourish for the time it's given, but it's not that often you discover the cinema courageously celebrating badgers and moths.

It's not a children's film although they may find it quite endearing, it resolutely adores all animal life and was even made in animal-hating Britain.

I'm even trying not to step on the shoots enthusiastically sprouting from the ground at the moment, hoping not to prevent the dynamic emergence of blooming nimble evergreen plant life.

Inasmuch as I've never seen anything like All the Little Animals before, I have to admit to remaining spellbound regarding its altruistic import.

It's like David Suzuki or David Attenborough asked one of their grandchildren to write a movie.

And somehow it actually got commercially made.

With a stellar cast.

Love for books and animals. 

*I mean to say that it's incredible that this film was made and it would be great if there were more films like it.

**There must be many British people who like animals, all I know is bears went extinct there thousands of years ago (according to Google and a Bears book I read years ago). 

***Islands. 

Major League

The atypical gathering of eclectic characters subliminally motivating awestruck change, through random fluid mismatched architectures cohesively drawn and effervescently flexible.

It must be peculiar to sit back and watch as new agile team members come and go every year, wondering how they'll fit together in what's known as a unit out on the field-court-ice-or-diamond.

With moving parts and composite challenge the nimble athletic remodelling calibrates, edgy solemn yet energetic magnetism definitively nuanced in shifting vortex.

An organic balance fluctuates and fades before vital rebirth augments and accentuates, a mild hiccup a streak a slump a reinvigoration freely generating distance.

How to stay focused and lithe and playful week after week and month after month, routine exception high-stakes expenditures structural discipline emphatic renaissance. 

How to guide a union of adults all too familiar with speeches and pep-talks, who have heard every motivational strategy ever conceived from one match to the next.

How not to be weighed down by observations effectively emerging as time swiftly passes, which lead to malleable conclusions and definitive inexactitude diabolically speaking.

The media once widely limited to newspapers and critical televisual broadcasts, efficiently delivered by educated professionals widely recognized for knowledgeable accuracy. 

Now with the rise of social media excessive vitriol immediately spreads, and chaotically drives mad counterintuitive visions ingenuously improvised and ephemerally splayed.

Yet the team disputatiously endures and genuinely proceeds with inherent daring, as line-ups embrace wondrous orchestrations wildly testing alternative points of view.

Remarkable unexpected achievements boldly illustrating upbeat courage, the surprise substitution line-up modifications trending exciting unprecedented change.

Anticipating the unexpected.

Highlighting the trusted novelty.

Serendipitous schematics. 

Andromeda naysay epsilon.

Must be tough making a living in sports.

Good thing it's known to pay quite well. 

At times.

Alice in den Städten (Alice in the Cities)

A wandering writer discovers photography while driving around the United States, and takes sundry pictures his editor rejects when he attempts to submit them instead of his article.

He couldn't help not writing it, he was inspired by a different idea, and even though a task had been definitively set, he seductively swerved and creatively reimagined it.

He's out of money nevertheless and his editor won't give him any more, the decision to return to Germany suddenly presenting itself with frank appeal.

While purchasing his ticket he meets a single mom and her curious child, both of whom can't speak English yet also want to return to Northern Europe.

He agrees to awkwardly assist and then finds himself with no place to stay, the mother and daughter agreeing to put him up his habitual thanks most unpresuming. 

The mother is still in touch with her new partner who wants to remain in the United States, and leaves her daughter with the travelling writer and they proceed to sightsee around New York.

They agree to meet at the airport but surprisingly the mother doesn't show up.

But sends word she'll meet them in Europe.

When the next flight arrives, she's not on it.

The child doesn't remember where her grandmother lives and the two have quite the confusing adventure, the writer learning not to be so grumpy as he tries to accommodate youthful maturation.

It's an oddball misfit scenario the oblivious trio not consciously registering, the bohemian lifestyle making bold decisions through spontaneous planning as they make their way home.

As luck would have it, youthful spirit blossoming in friendship unceremoniously wins the day, the artist reluctantly embracing formalities to amusingly calm down the frightened youngster.

She notices his random scribblings and childishly wonders what they might be.

He bashfully plays the absent-minded father.

To improvise with unkempt austerity. 

Shin Zatôichi: Yabure! Tôjin-ken (Zatoichi and the One-Armed Swordsman)

Across the multivariable definitive lands of bellicose old school Japan, Zatoichi continues to awkwardly progress in search of honour and friendship and loyalty.

Unfortunately, his enduring prowess leads those who would traditionally salute his daring, to mistrust his holistic self-sacrifice as he haplessly seeks to help them.

Strict absolutes murderously upheld haunt his path in this instalment, as an adventurous family visiting from China runs afoul of ancient custom.

Indeed as the lauded clan leader austerely passes in procession along the road, those in front of him must free the way and humbly kneel and bow and worship.

But a Chinese child's long cherished kite suddenly takes off in front of them as they pass, the swordspeople immediately responding with rancour and consequently murdering strangers in their midst.

A one-armed swordsperson also visiting from China valiantly defends the un-armed innocents, only to be blamed for the resultant massacre and viciously hunted in the shocking aftermath.

Sometime after he flees he encounters Zatoichi with the aghast child, Zatoichi unable to understand his language, but as luck would have it, the boy can translate.

They stealthily stride and furtively fascinate until they find shelter amongst the survivors.

But after Zatoichi departs to gather supplies.

He's erroneously blamed for revealing their location. 

You see people who are interested in the same things curiously associating with one another online, without having to worry about nation or culture the similar interests promoting cohesive bonds.

Dispiritingly, the disseminators of widespread mistrust also prosper online, and miserably challenge the international forums within which global communities thrive and flourish.

Star Trek's universal translator certainly eases linguistic burdens, and makes cross-cultural convivial communication much more generally verbose and heartfelt.

We're not there yet but translating devices are consistently improving year after year, in twenty years I reasonably imagine a similar device may in fact exist.

Back in the day, such a miraculous enabling would have engendered dialogue between Zatoichi and the One-Armed Swordsman, and they would not have had to recklessly engage in a lethal death battle to settle the score.

Perhaps with ameliorated time and animate progressions we'll get there one day.

As the intuitive ideas of younger generations.

Make political headway worldwide. 

Clockwatchers

What to expect when finally deciding to join the local workforce?

With an unsustainable temp position.

And no knowledge of office politics.

It must seem strange indeed to suddenly enter the bureaucratic vortex, wherein which copies and pencil pushing generate austere glib efficiencies. 

Should one not know what to do many others will gladly make things more confusing, as multivariable personalities dramatically claim they understand everything.

As the contradictions abound try not to seek out rational cohesion, but rather take each enigmatic exchange as an objective lesson in awkward composure.

Getting noticed - doing something well - may lead to widespread jealousy, even if it's something accidental that you naturally do without thinking.

Beware the ides of smalltalk with people with whom you have nothing in common.

Who write you up accordingly.

Even though you like to work. 

Clockwatchers follows timid Iris as she embraces office space, and makes friends with the other temp workers bewilderingly engaged within the labyrinth.

The lack of a definitive playbook and the inconsistent interactive exchanges, have encouraged latent entropy which oddly accentuates the mentorship.

The one clear regulation involves traditional hierarchical order, or when someone higher up in the chain makes a reasonable request, it's best to try to accommodate them.

Are they Broncos fans, do they like the NHL, do they read books, do they still watch movies, no they likely have families and that's all there is to talk about!

Clockwatchers examines the lack of stability generally associated with temp work, and the unfortunate frustrations which eventually arise from the drastic uncertainty. 

It's even worse with unpaid internships which shouldn't be legal in my opinion. To turn one into a job, meticulously say the congenial right thing even if you haven't the slightest.

Try to keep busy, he's working too hard.

Go with the flow, he lacks ambition.

Aloofly acculturate, he doesn't know what to do.

Embrace friendship, he's always kissing up. 

🤣 🦝

Sweetie

Another imaginative exploration of creative random unhinged expenditure, wherein which therapeutic regimens lack generalized familial accord.

Thus two sisters unaccustomed to objectivity attempt to congenially cohabitate, with respective partners and alternate routines disputatiously abounding with cacophonous resonance. 

It's a cool look at regenerative eccentricity vividly applying itself to adulthood, there's no nightly newspaper anywhere to be found nor 9-5 signifiers reupholstered on television.

The one sister clandestinely gets what she wants and instinctively believes in reflexive fortune telling (Karen Colston as Kay), her adoring husband does his best to entertain and admits at times to incredulous longing (Tom Lycos as Louis [he's like the Australian Fred Ward]).

The other habitually chillaxes with neither plan nor propitious pattern, yet consistently amuses with innocent endeavour as she vigorously experiments with tactile temperaments (Geneviève Lemon as "Sweetie").

Her father is sincerely adoring and doesn't understand Joy's sincere criticism (Jon Darling as Gordon), a classic compassionate and understanding citizen perhaps a product of the Australian New Wave.

Yet even if I contend that said New Wave humanistically diversified the land down under, with a versatile continental spirit effervescently blooming with cascading retention, there's still somewhat of a stiff upper lip that prevents ye olde Sweetie from cohesively acculturating. 

Likely uninterested in running the gauntlet as a newfound immigrant where her unorthodox spirit may have met with less vitriol, while unsuccessfully living a non-traditional life (within reason), she succumbs to the pressures of bitter castigation and loses sociocultural mobility.

I suppose I don't know if I'm correct or if it's just a byproduct of cultural osmosis, but living beyond Anglo-American borders seemed to generate peace and tranquility.

After running the gauntlet I found people weren't that concerned with commercial life emphatically immured, there were still intensities but applied to different things, I certainly never would have cooked dinner for anyone.

As long as I kept things chill things proactively progressed and life was moderately rewarding.

Seemed like the way things were progressing in the '90s. 

Which I would have understood through alternative perspectives had I grown up there. 

The Millionairess

An exceptionally talented man of business gains a vast imposing fortune, and only has one adoring daughter after his life comes to an end.

A rather sporting man full of chide and eccentric flourish, conditions must be met to legitimately acquire his colossal resource.

Thus, his flamboyant progeny (Sophia Loren as Epifania) can only marry if rather fortunate, and her prospective husband can turn 500 pounds into 15,000 in just three weeks. She realizes she can fix things and proceeds to do so for a sheath of muscle. 

But he's unable to grin and bear it.

Soon she must find another.

As fate would have it, during a mock-suicide attempt she's saved by an impoverished doctor (Peter Sellers as Dr. Kabir), who's sincerely dedicated to the sick, and has no genuine interest in money.

The habitual "impertinence" soon ignites an inextinguishable flame, she's determined in hot pursuit to become his betrothed alluring patron.

He's a student of the mind and has not interest, nevertheless, but still gives Epifania a challenge which must be definitively met.

Yet in his disinterested haste he generously gives away the 500.

Leaving her to embrace despair.

And impecunious improvisation.

Strange to see a conscientious individual sternly refusing limitless abundance, not that such an occurrence itself is odd, but since there's so much obsession with material these days.

Indeed it seems the more difficult it becomes to astronomically endow oneself, the less ethical concerns emphatically refine an inner voice.

In terms of programming and aesthetic shallows which grossly overlook collective objectives, and blindly uphold vain personal strategies with misperceived monopolistic psychology.

The Millionairess presents an alternative time when respected self-sacrificing age old duty, still made its way to populist markets and produced miraculous effects.

It's like mass collaboration has been disingenuously disdained, and too much of an individualistic bias is creating a lack of faith in public institutions. 

Healthcare and education remain the backbone of a multivariable cultural thrust.

With millions of people developing interactive loci.

Structurally stable.

Resiliently sound. 

With Alastair Sim (Sagamore). 

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! 

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). 

L'Atalante

A lonesome ship captain (Jean Dasté as Jean) finds himself a daring bride (Dita Parlo as Juliette), who courageously agrees to move onboard without a confusing hassle. 

Wedded bliss initially abounds as they travel from port to port, stopping in different cities and towns to embrace the local culture.

The first mate's a gentle eccentric who's found a niche to creatively conjure (Michel Simon as Le père Jules), the chill and abiding distracted captain having no problem with all of his cats.

When at sea he playfully finds various ways to amuse and entertain, while instructing the other members of the crew, at times even causing mischief. 

Unless otherwise afflicted he freely engages with wondrous vigour, curious to see what tradespeople showcase in their different shops when browsing ashore.

His carefree life is abruptly unhinged, however, when the captain erupts in a jealous fury, after his wife goes shopping alone without having told him where she's going.

The ship departs without belovéd focus in a callous reckless rage, the bride confused and emphatically crestfallen when unsuspectingly remerging.

It's up to le père Jules to reunite them (and save their jobs) if tidings be.

His merriment thrust afoul.

He departs for search and rescue.

At times your diligence is rewarded with an unexpected brilliant trajectory, overflowing with convivial abundance thoroughly enriched by awestruck tremors.

Le père Jules is one such exemplar and Jean Vigo's L'Atalante one such film, with innate incomparable gravitational intensity delicately nurturing improvisation.

It's always a  mistake to imagine the present as holding an unparalleled take on originality, not that novel films and books don't reside within, but other epochs also flourished creatively.

Perhaps Jules was inspired by one of Dickens's many compelling eccentrics, I really can't say, but he's the earliest example of a virtuous rogue I think I've ever encountered in cinema (1934).

It would be cool to work on a boat but what's even more, a boat full of cats, on top of that, a room full of oddities randomly acquired from around the globe.

Fully capable in times of trouble at others much too agéd to take things seriously, Jules has become one of my favourite fictional characters, in his travelling home upon the sea.

Well deserving of a remake in different languages in different countries, I wholeheartedly recommend the joyous L'Atalante to celebrate chill ideas and endearing personality. 

Predestination

Difficult to say what you would have done differently if you had possessed prescient knowledge way back when, would there simply have been more of an enigmatic emphasis, or would things still have proceeded without grandiose change?

A self-indulgent question to be sure creatively occurring if you've ever had time to consider the past, hypothetical degrees of forlorn or joyous intensities increasing, depending on whether or not temporal interventions could have facilitated alternatives.

But such alternatives would have opened up unforeseen potentialities which may have been more prosperous if not worse, manifold striking unpredictable variables accompanying sundry indefinite outcomes.

Such a perspective almost makes the act of engaging in trivial decision making, seem much more epic in light of the infinite imperceptible comic echoes. 

Would I have wound up teaching in Paris or exploring the bush laidback in Chibougamau, peacefully working away at the Granby Zoo or fishing off the coast of Sept-Îles?

Predestination introduces a time machine and a somewhat invariable interdimensional occupation, wherein which operatives monitor the past to attempt to hinder voltaic malfeasance. 

The rules are quite strict no nonsense the agents are watched with meticulous scrutiny, one attempting to improvise nevertheless after a lifetime of loyal service (Ethan Hawke as the Barkeep).

He befriends a recruit who's alone living a generally solitary existence, having grown up in an orphanage unencumbered by the temptations of bourgeois life (Sarah Snook as the Unmarried Mother).

Could she make a good agent who knows! theory's quite different from work in the field, but at least they have something to talk about over a drink at random one evening.

Even if you had a time machine and could travel back and forth to different ages, how would you ever settle in without standing out like a shocking oddity?

Would you be able to understand the dialect or codes of conduct with enough fluent ease, to do simple things like find lodging or food, and wouldn't the smell be repellent?

I suppose like so many things you'd have to proceed with trial and error, the first jump somewhat overwhelming the second and third perhaps less of a shock (if heading to the same location).

Could a thorough interest in Star Trek help to prepare one for such endeavours, as a kind of theoretical support, perhaps lacking practical value?

Predestination travels time like no other narrative I've seen before, much more concerned with characterized mystery than grandiose spectacle fantastic intrigue.

If you were to meet yourself 25 years ago have you any idea what you'd say?

Predestination has a unique answer.

It's really well done.

A must see for time travel fans.

After Hours

A strait-laced data analyst embraces his routine (Griffin Dunne as Paul Hackett), predictability the 9 to 5 smoothly flowing trusted and disciplined. 

An imaginative co-worker dreams of something more (Bronson Pinchot as Lloyd), something beyond cold codes and programs, an open-minded journal that promotes diversity.

Paul dismisses the idea even though he likes to read, mundanely ensconced in static cynicism, unconcerned with creativity.

Yet while reading alone in a diner, a single lass takes compassionate interest (Rosanna Arquette as Marcy), and soon they've decided to meet up later, Mr. Hackett moving beyond his narrow confines.

But should he have left inanimate routine inexplicably behind with adventurous longing, to suddenly extend bland limitations past the stilted sure and steady?

How will he react to liaised limbo immersed in scintillating shock, as enigmatic interactions present uncanny striking novelties?

It's as if he's entered Lloyd's journal with blasé editorial intent, the artists suspicious of his lacking spry free-flowing flexibility.

Instinctually composed beyond traditional direction, oddball night owls offer conspicuous fervid nimble characterizations. 

Bourgeois logic remains irrelevant he can't make the adaptations, his hopeless attempts to assert control instigating chaotic tension.

The journal requires inherent variability latent unorthodox unawareness, without patterns pragmatic paradigms smoothly shifting random flux.

The desire to reasonably analyze in search of auspicious thematic cohesion, leaves him synchronistically stranded as he attempts to swiftly improvise.

But the unknown erratic elements adhesively unite through enthused criticism, generating instantaneous aggrieved startling multidisciplinary import.

Perhaps he'll be a manager some day but on this night he has no agency, and must adjust to the ironic insurrection of laidback generally accommodating peeps.

Thus the arrhythmic inconclusive intuitive chill spontaneous tangents, prove that they don't watch cable television or sit back and read the news.

A wondrous lively essential eclective naturally responding with unclassified stamina, finds momentary momentum uncategorized active spiritual flight.

I'm not sure if he's meant to be comic or if he's portrayed in a tragic light.

Which lends the film a bit of mysticism. 

When thinking about it later on. 

With Teri Garr, John Heard, Cheech & Chong, and Catherine O'Hara. 

Confidential Report

Spoiler alert.

A man of humble origins obtains astounding wealth, and lives the ostentatious lifestyle well-attuned to extravaganza (Orson Welles as Mr. Arkadin). 

But he has trouble living in the present for some self-obsessed depressing reason, free to do whatever he pleases, he decides to track down old associates.

With ill-intent.

He hires a somewhat clueless blunt do-gooding would-be detective, to discover where they've wound up and any additional information he can find (Robert Arden as Guy Van Stratten). 

He had hoped to blackmail Arkadin with his knowledge of an old school name, and managed to fortunately meet him after getting to know his carefree daughter (Paola Mori as Raina). 

He travels far and wide in search of crucial extant intel, leaving a well-trodden path to follow should one scrutinize his investigation.

He encounters several oddballs enigmatically versed in levity, who supply ample scandalous details of Mr. Arkadin's criminal past.

But he realizes too late that he's been followed and they've been murdered.

And he's been framed for a murder himself.

And there's nowhere left to hide.

Leave things be I say in terms of controversial fascinations, there's peace of mind in a steady job and a potentially loving fulfilling relationship.

After work, there are art museums and a fluid stream of homegrown spectacles at Place des arts, delicately blended with international intrigue the seductive synthesis viscerally reeling.

Plus sports.

A sudden inspired idea can generate piquant multilateral harmonies, ephemerally akin to serendipitous spectrums as genuinely concerned as they are suspicious. 

Perhaps the accumulation of wealth does beget a desire for public recognition, it seems to happen often enough in film and literature, even if the riches were acquired somewhat scandalously. 

Does nominal philanthropy exculpate suspect acquisitive propulsion, like secular sociopolitical tithing written off with a lack of pretence?

It seems like social media would lead to a less ambiguous historical take.

But there are so many competing narratives.

Who tells the most gripping story?

Confidential Report presents a cool cast of characters comically united through witless candour.

Live in the present I say.

Augmented tradition.

Novel change. 

Make Way for Tomorrow

A couple who has aged ensemble suddenly finds themselves torn apart, none of their children willing to take them both in, a dispiriting haunting rupture.

Yet since they have grown accustomed to fortitude they accept the news with unflinching resolve, physically separate yet spiritually stoic as they embrace disengaged psychologies.

The children whom they raised aren't as accommodating as one might expect, and abound with petty grievances rashly derived from a lack of sympathy.

Ma (Beulah Bondi) tries to make herself useful but is critiqued for having cared, and Pa's (Victor Moore) friends are strictly scrutinized should they stop by if he falls ill.

They dream of once again living together and send letters to that effect, age old romance blossoming invariably as they exceed from post to post.

But as time passes the lack of compassion ignominiously increases with discourteous candour, and related verbal and formal encumbrances make a tough situation grim.

Fortunately, just before Pa sets out to move to far off California, he meets up once again with his cynosure and they proceed to head out about town.

They're treated to a magnanimous evening at the hotel where they once honeymooned. 

As their children furiously wait across town. 

They call to announce they're not coming.

So important to make people feel useful no matter how young or how old, to make an effort to be somewhat agreeable and cater to difference as it quizzically thrives.

As long as the peeps aren't belligerent or obtusely jettisoning snarky vitriol, it's easy and fun to embrace alternatives as they curiously and thoughtfully arise.

Sometimes you notice efficiencies that have been overlooked or perhaps forgotten, but the headstrong valuation of their time saving reckonings may cause distress if abruptly disseminated. 

Sometimes the logic of a course of events may seem expeditiously unsound, but by proceeding through resonant jazz you find rich novelties unconsidered unwound.

Sometimes the delegation of duty should be enlivened through imagination, a recasting of mundane responsibilities invigorating quotidian echoes.

Just listening is paramount indubitably when negotiating interpersonal interactions, empathy and compassion resilient allies as you strive to nurture camaraderie. 

Self-sacrifice and sincere understanding make way for soulful synergies. 

No one wants to wind up in longterm care.

The related realities exposed are horrifying. 

Cold Dog Soup

An uptight sheltered individual (Frank Whaley as Michael Latchmer) unaccustomed to the underground flow finds himself suddenly embracing l'amour in Alan Metter's Cold Dog Soup.

His flirting skills clock timidity and uncertainty regarding self-worth, yet an act of daring assertion generates shocking relational mirth.

He's soon out for dinner at a love interest's (Christine Harnos as Sarah Hughes) with residing inquisitive mom (Sheree North as Mrs. Hughes), but as they begin to pass around victuals the family dog acrobatically passes.

He's tasked with the objective of burial and sets forth to find a chill park, but the cab in which he accelerates suggests alternative dispositions.

It's piloted by affirmation inclusively metering knowledge freewheeling (Randy Quaid as Jack Cloud), the chauffeur believing a commercial exchange may be more apt than confidential interment. 

Latchmer is ill-at-ease with the proposed moribund scenario, yet lacks the backbone required to refuse and soon attempts to fetch a fair price.

He does briefly escape then swiftly return to Sarah's apartment, but Cloud frenetically follows and enthusiastically enlists her.

They travel together far and wide in search of an appealing price, even contacting the frisky afterlife, learning lessons along the way.

Cold Dog Soup presents a voyage of discovery improvisationally attired, pursuing unorthodox financial goals through the heart of robust intrigue.

Worry and courage conflict throughout as it critiques austere pretensions, or vast categorical dismissals in relation to free-flowing life.

(I recommend taking it easy on the free-flowing these days. The virus isn't disappearing. I'm masking up and remaining cautious).

You could easily replace "worry" with "prudence" and "courage" with "recklessness" at times, but to do so would spoil the fun, which celebrates jazzy absurdist meaning.

It does so well, you'll be surprised by the budget, there's so much going on in this film, the trick is to acknowledge the latent realism without being fully subsumed.

It's sort of like The Warriors but instead of a gang fighting its way back to Coney Island throughout the night, you have a trio attempting to conduct business with different clients till the wee hours.

It's much more clever than it initially seems, the overt ridiculousness cloaks sly observation, beyond predictable commercial conceptions, at wild interactive free play.

A must see if you like independent filmmaking and the joys of why-did-they-make-this? cinema.

So many hilarious scenes.

Lampooning traditional discourse.

Bunny Lake is Missing

The routine act of registering a child in school is scandalously uprooted when it's discovered she's disappeared.

Her mother (Carol Lynley as Ann Lake) is confused when she finds out she's vanished, her brother (Keir Dullea as Steven Lake) offering support as they search the school.

The police are swiftly notified and an eccentric detective (Laurence Olivier as Superintendent Newhouse) takes the case, whose critical observations extend well beyond strict diagnoses.

Details are routinely compiled as the case becomes more and more disconcerting, an enigmatic school mistress offering her take (Martita Hunt as Ada Ford), a creepy landlord (Noël Coward as Horacio Wilson) a shoulder to cry on.

Bunny's things are missing too even after having been dropped off that morning, and the school never received their payment, and there's no record of her having entered England.

Her mother searches for tactile evidence as her brother castigates the police, who go about their sleuthing while ignoring vain caprice.

Deep ends derailed demonstrative vital ascertained stitched clues, alas the story preordains constituents bemused.

How anyone could have fabricated such a story leads to reasonable thought?

Which proves that logic's sometimes absent when discerning carnal plot.

The cogent disbelieving wildly plead and then persist.

But proof cannot be found that one dear Bunny Lake exists.

In terms of character, writing, cinematography, and otherworldliness, Bunny Lake is Missing mesmerizingly impresses.

If you like odd expressive moderately successful characters it's an essential tour de force.

The superintendent has dismissive or laudatory or bored or incisive comments for everything, and he'd be as easy going as a studio musician if he weren't investigating crime.

And you could put up with him.

The school mistress shares unorthodox yet keen views which upset those unfamiliar with her style, but don't mistake her candour for tomfoolery as she clarifies.

The scenes where she interacts with Olivier are priceless uncut gems, striding forth with striking brilliance that resplendently descends.

Then there's creepy Horacio Wilson, the pervy landlord who I thought was the inspiration for Repulsion, after concluding that Bunny Lake inspired Rosemary's Baby, but Lake and Repulsion were both released in the same year (1965).

I didn't check the months.

It's like you have bored yet vigorous intellectuals occupying non-traditional roles devoutly concerned with solving a crime that's preposterously conventional.

The mystery certainly drives the plot but it still abounds with striking detail (bus drivers, junket [yeah yeah], Welsh poetry, the Zombies, tips, book writing), what would working life be like without conversation that doesn't necessarily relate to the topic at hand?

It's like consequent absurdity that's as flamboyant as it is concrete, that demands you take it seriously while taunting you for doing so.

Outstanding writing (John & Penelope Mortimer and Ira Levin [adapted screenplay]) and sincere cinematography (Denys N. Coop) complement Otto Preminger's direction.

It's a bit creepy yet still a must see.

Olivier's range is mind-boggling.

Black Moon

If you're wondering how old school independent filmmakers used to envision alternative realities without computerized special effects, Louis Malle's Black Moon is a stunning working example.

Unless you want something lighter.

Cherished freedoms have been ravaged by fanatical elements violently spreading wanton destruction, as a terrified individual drives through the countryside intent on discovering sanctuary.

(I do not mean that the quarantine is something negative that is taking away freedoms. People are fighting a war in Black Moon. The quarantine is necessary to stop the spread of a virus that is killing thousands around the world. It's hard to spend so much time at home, but by staying at home you're saving lives).

To avoid the rage of trigger happy goons, she quickly swerves off the road, emerging in cloistered environs, fully-equipped with a grouchy unicorn.

Things seem real enough, or as if reality is traditionally composed, but as she spends more time freely exploring, things become more and more wild and creepy.

It's as if her perceptual awareness is attuned to the wrong potent frequency, unaccustomed to bizarro differences, which the residents clearly perceive.

She reacts with energetic confusion as she attempts to reasonably comprehend, acclimatizing to non-verbal communications, learning to speak with animals.

Perhaps Louis Malle rather disliked Disney's Alice in Wonderland, for Black Moon lacks its childish wonder, or at least depicts it somewhat obtusely, like it's been left outside in the cold.

Then again, perhaps Disney's Alice was frightening to many of the children who saw it, it does abound with inherent conflict, and phantasmagoric foundations.

From my middle-aged 21st century perspective, I don't find Black Moon that frightening, or at least not as haunting as Audition or Midsommar, it's not as intent on terrifying.

But if I had been raised in the fifties it may have indeed promoted despair, as Lily (Cathryn Harrison) encounters baleful beasties, and embraces disorientation.

I'm not sure if it should be classified as horror although the designation could snuggly fit, but it's perhaps beyond classification, as it transforms every time you view it.

It certainly lacks romance, or isn't enchantingly disposed, intertextual bedtime bedlam, like a fable without moral or lesson.

It tells its tale without ornate orchestration, without much statistical entitlements, creating unique innovations thereby, that leave a lasting impact.

With no concern for uplifting spirits, apart from an ethereal classical soirée, it by no means seeks happy endings, and seems to absurdly inter them.

Perfect for Halloween.

For considerations of low budget sci-fi.

Unorthodox strange elementals.

Acts of inspired independence.

L'Incroyable histoire du facteur Cheval

Purpose can be difficult to clarify.

Lots of actions seem reasonable enough, in terms of achieving or working towards short or long term goals, but repetition leads to logical flux, classifications of the indeterminate, and what once seemed spiritually sound, can lose its lustre if not reimagined.

Rediscovered.

If you ever find yourself sincerely bragging about something you found easy to do the first time, weeks or months or years later, it's perhaps time to find a new job, or spice up a relationship, such circumstances emerging in middle-age sometimes, which seems to go on forever and ever, and doesn't really change much overnight, unless someone's preparing bruschetta or enchiladas.

Things seem easier for this deer fly that just bit the bottom of my foot.

It's nourished itself on my lifeblood, and one would think, is about to digest the nutrients.

And it's hanging around.

It wants more.

I am now irritated and riled so I'm shooing more regularly, but even with the excessive shooing it returns, just dodges and lunges forward, perhaps seeking to limitlessly gorge him or herself to reckless epic proportions, as if my blood were an everlasting boon, and he or she was saturated with vampiric integrity.

It's bitten my ring toe too, the most useless of my toes, which has now found purpose, for it desperately desires eager scratching, I've noticed it for the first time since I last cut my toenails, and can honestly say that it's itchier than my other toes, it stands out indeed, like uninspired graffiti in an abandoned factory, that perhaps once produced socks, shoes, or bug spray, none of which adorned my foot before the lasting bites, which I must admit, are greatly disturbing the writing of this paragraph, I'm now itching with moss, rocks and nails.

Fingernails.

The deer fly just landed on my finger as I checked the time on my phone.

It won't relent and proceeds insatiably.

I cover myself in spray.

Remember why I had kayaked to this slab.

Joseph Ferdinand-Cheval (Jacques Gamblin) didn't have time for such distractions.

Was much more focused and driven.

L'Incroyable histoire du facteur Cheval chronicles how he slowly built a palace of rocks beside his home, for decades in his spare time, never wavering from his eccentric commitment, which was oft judged odd by curious surrounding townsfolk.

Tragedy strikes on several occasions yet he perseveres with herculean intensity, defining meaning through random exploration, purpose through awkward planning.

He never really says much, and when he speaks his words aren't that well chosen.

But he slowly learns it's important to say something, and not to worry about semantic injunctions, that a lot of people just like shootin' the breeze, and there's purpose in light conversation.

It complements the palace building.

Which proceeds with inspirational resolve.

Remarkably adept dedication.

A cool family film smoothly bringing it to life.

Nice.