A Beautiful Life

A resilient fisherman makes a day-to-day living helping some friends down at the nearby docks, living on a sweet boat that his parents left him after they wound up in a tragic accident.

One of his mates likes to play music and he assists at his gigs around town, one night impressing a legendary widow with his exceptional singing and practical songwriting. 

She likes him so much that she invites him to patiently record at her in-house studio, with her daughter producing the songs, it's an incredible opportunity.

But he isn't ready at first the temperamental transition playing with his head, he still doubts his homegrown talent and trepidatiously remains hyper-critically unsure.

His songs are solid however and as he records them enthusiasm blossoms, and after the first release is met with applause self-assured belief tantalizingly manifests.

Moving from the wharf to superstardom in a couple of months still takes quite the heavy toll.

With newfound relationship responsibilities. 

Tantamount tension.

Consummate joy.

I suppose a lot of people are shy and it's difficult to prepare for mass observation, the overwhelming scrutiny of every micromovement generating controversy, buzz, and takeaway. 

I see the most ridiculous stuff in the For You news section on my cell (can someone hook me up with better articles?), it's like Malibu Stacy getting a new hat, I'm really just not that into it.

Nonetheless, I recognize that people are and that mundane trivialities build community, or through the relationships and fashionable choices of famous stars conversations matriculate.

I worry that fame can alter an otherwise innocent unique trajectory, that it's easy to filter out distractions when you aren't being meticulously criticized. 

If you can harness that tumultuous energy and use it to fuel your celebrated progression, I imagine that things would work out and that your outputs would consistently diversify. 

That's what the Beatles did anyways, they took that worldwide hysteria and responded impeccably. 

It's mind-boggling what they achieved from 1965 to 1970.

So many bands would deal with Satan for the albums Help! and Let it Be.

And for The Beatles, those aren't even the good ones.

Insanely good band.

Cool film too.

*Seriously, between 1965 and 1969 The Beatles released Rubber Soul, Revolver, Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, The Magical Mystery Tour, The White Album (a crazy good double), and Abbey Road. With Yellow Submarine thrown in the mix too. Plus a bunch of hit singles that weren't on the LPs. It baffles the mind how anyone could have ever produced so much amazing pop in such a short period of time. I can't find anyone to compare them with. Plus their sound consistently changed throughout. How did they pull that off? They did stop touring early on. That may have played an instrumental role. 

Plácido

A bustling bright town nimbly nestled in the Spanish countryside, hectically prepares for an unusual Christmas Eve, the local council having coordinated an imaginative spiritual initiative, wherein which the wealthy and impoverished dine together, to celebrate the season.

Other higher-ups have taken note of the concordant equanimity, and sent movie stars to take part, with an adoring crew to film and frolic.

Industrious Plácido (Cassen) has been tasked to drive a ceremonious auto, but he's rather worried throughout the day since the next payment's almost due.

He's trying to acquire enough to deal and encounters set back after set back, rhyme and reason no doubt merciless since he thinks they'll repossess on Christmas.

Within his determined struggle lies inherent ingenuity, clashing with authoritative conceit, which requires absurd motivation.

As you watch what he goes through the impossibility of attaining wealth, satirizes the festivities with uptight stultifying flair.

The cameras on, the vedettes beaming, so many hoping they won't miss church.

While age old prejudice obscures the message: it shouldn't be an imposition.

Plácido presents perpetual motion with innovative active meticulous style, it's rare to see such a fast paced film preponderantly overflowing with vital detail.

Form capturing Plácido's struggles along with his family's and those of the village, you can't help but feel latently disillusioned yet manifestly glib and chipper.

Through the abandonment of discretion he's able to attain his reasonable goal, to be repeated ad infinitum, resolute rigorous particulars.

Few complaints throughout the film it alertly instructs through grand immersion, interpretive duels intently following no doubt lively and everlasting.

With Christmas on the horizon director Luis García Berlanga points out, that the genuine communal message is unfortunately overlooked at times.

The resplendent spirit which ubiquitously unites the adoring Whos in tranquil Whoville, is ostentatiously dismissed as irony deconstructs munificence.

No doubt duties are performed and responsibilities met sans tension.

But would there be less of a need for distinct strata?

Through democratic invention?

Remarkable difference multiplied by millions exceptional mirth expressive volubility. 

Livelier communities, resonant pastimes.

The sprightly flow of offbeat goods. 

Notting Hill

Relaxed and calm a modest income something to do throughout the day, friends and family puttering close by refined chillaxed communal orchestration.

An amazing guy so easygoing so generally tolerant of diverse personality, capable of providing well-reasoned advice or simply listening with enthused sympathy.

No partner to speak of unfortunately his passivity perhaps sounding alarms, elaborate dreaming jocose imagination unaccustomed to the practical life.

But Notting Hill isn't actively critical of well-meaning culture and sublime compassion, William Thacker (Hugh Grant) isn't hiding a body in his basement nor is he consumed by some monstrous fetish.

In fact he's a genuine nice guy inhabiting a world that doesn't find this frightening, such an odd state of mature affairs wherein which the lighthearted aren't considered maniacal. 

How it goes at times, however, look for the signs, be prepared to move on, and if time passes and the familiar patterns don't reemerge, you know you've found something solid, durable.

William is surprised one afternoon when a startling lass takes a shine to his bookshop, they find themselves out on what is known as a date, and even seem to be enjoying each other's company (Julia Roberts as Anna Scott).

But she's a film star, a rather famous one at that, who's managed to avoid the paparazzi in London, as they amicably mosey throughout Notting Hill congenially disposed to romantic endeavours. 

Nevertheless, after Mr. Thacker's less discreet flatmate (Rhys Ifans as Spike) discovers _______ happens to be spending the night, he has something to discuss at the pub and the press come hounding the very next morn.

Uncertain as to why they've appeared Anna instinctually senses ambitious wrongdoing.

She's also rather shocked and embarrassed. 

World's collide, what can he do?

It's a light thought provoking illustration of convivial paradigmatic in/compatibility, practical realities spoiling the fun while patiently building rapports unprecedented. 

So long since I've seen Julia Roberts laugh universally celebrating something quirky (prefer it to Streep or Hepburn).

I loved Hugh Grant's line, "this is a very strange reality to be faced with".

The classic Anglo/American synthesis. 

Such interrelations are underexplored. 

La Bolduc

During tough economic times, a soulful voice emerges, writing hit pop singles like butter on toast, performing with a voice that streams as it schmoozes, transforming birch and bustle into jive and pith and pluck, abreast with no time to think about it, writin' it all down, exhaling rhythm with raw crisp feeling, instinctually creating carefree nimble blooms.

A different time characterized by traditional roles and religious sentiment, the resourceful Mary Travers-Bolduc (Debbie Lynch-White) didn't set out to become a musician.

She stayed home to raise a family while her husband worked, nurturing several children with scant means at her disposal, the strength of their bonds helping them through tough times, love flourishing amidst economic hardship as a result of unnerving trials.

They tried moving to the States, had to get groceries on credit, there wasn't much/any time for rest, and laws prevented women from voting or working.

Yet Mme. Travers-Bolduc suddenly found herself with a huge disposable income after her songs caught fire and she turned into a star.

Her sympathetic producer clarified a loophole which enabled her to hold on to her earnings, and her foolish husband, overcome by his reduced position in their household, and a lack of work, unfortunately turned to drink instead of celebrating their good fortune.

Their example highlights a peculiar feature of religion.

If God is monitoring the world (doubtful), and a woman suddenly finds herself enriched within a patriarchal cultural construction, isn't it God's will that that woman should be enriched, and isn't he or she saying that women should be able to work and support themselves just as reliably as men?

If a patriarchal conception dominates sociopolitical life and derives its authority from earthly conceptions of God, when a woman is successful within such a system isn't God trying to say that there's something wrong with strict patriarchal religious conceptions?

Does God's will only apply to men?

Rubbish.

Québec isn't like that anymore, and its current composition functions as an example for jurisdictions looking to redefine themselves after periods of restrictive patriarchal obsessions.

Mary Travers represents a strong female voice excelling within a male dominated society, even if she succumbed later in life to the logic she had been bombarded with since birth, and prevented her talented daughter (Laurence Deschênes and Rose-Marie Perreault as Denise Bolduc) from following her dreams.

After having experienced massive head trauma.

Film Stars Don't Die in Liverpool

A trip, an excursion, an itinerant vocation, dazzling and wooing, inspiring and enticing, at the actor's discretion, exuberantly, around the globe, a marriage a liaison a fling, an assignation, redefined convergence impertinently penetrating curious hearts and minds with interpretive variability and starstruck quivers, paramount mercurial mischief seductively invested and tantalizingly outfitted, a song bird, a siren, fervid fledgling sweetly swooning, hesitantly marooning, eternal embraces jockeying for illumination lightly treading chaotic chasms with resplendent divination, resting, nesting, flocking, guilty pleasures routinely exonerated, a cue, applause.

Gloria Grahame (Annette Bening) finds herself in England in Paul McGuigan's Film Stars Don't Die in Liverpool, dating an aspiring local actor (Jamie Bell as Peter Turner) while reimagining herself on the British stage.

She's sick however, no one knows that but her, and her secret confuses young Pete as he tries to romantically conjure.

The film compassionately reveals an agile professional resiliently refining her art, continuously seeking new challenges to sustain hardboiled momentum, brilliantly unaccustomed to the demands of routine structures, suddenly forced, to withdraw bedridden.

Flashbacks.

There's a wonderful scene where her and Mr. Turner authenticate on a beach beneath a cavalier sky, discussing life and love and fortune, as fish begin to frolic in the nearby sea.

Another which captures her radiantly celebrating a performance.

She seems like she must have been fun to hang out with until you got too close or demanded too much attention.

Peter must have meant something, but his expectations clashed with her carefully hidden secrets, which were concealed to promote her career, to ensure she would never have to stop working.

She knew that, not him, she knew what she had to do to maintain her image, her mystique, her fame, Pete does eventually acknowledge this, even if it unintentionally tears him up deep down.

I read an article the other day/month/year which stated that love was like an addiction and people require medical aid after breakups.

This article.

Not the most romantic way to examine loves lost.

Proust's Fugitive may function as a literary counterbalance.

Which proves the scientific point.

Without sterilizing the poetic dysfunction.

Good film.

Sully

Bring along a hearty appetite and get ready for a film that plummets down to earth, as Clint Eastwood's Sully presents bread and butter filmmaking, toasted with a side of marmalade, that's as straight and narrow as a prairie turnpike and as hard-hitting as a goal line stand.

It humbly elevates the courageous work of brilliant pilot Chesley Sullenberger (Tom Hanks), whose resolute calm under mortal pressure reflexively saved the lives of 155 people by improvisationally landing his plane in the hostile Hudson River below.

But he didn't do it alone, he was eagerly assisted by his capable staff and all the rescue workers who quickly came to their aid.

A real time jazzy impeccable work of practical art, his methods were inevitably questioned then investigated by a legion of computational suspicions.

Bottom lines having been unprofitably effected, Sully has to prove his innocence and thereby revitalize the knowledge of the human factor.

The models his detractors create to analyze his decision lack the input of common sense even though dozens of people likely took part in their creation and execution.

Sully's input wasn't requested, even though he was there, reacting with stoic impeccability.

The film's alright, an accessible well-acted well-written everyperson film that's easy to follow and celebrates a well deserving team.

The reenactment of the plane's descent into the Hudson eats up a lot of screentime though, and, even though Eastwood takes time to briefly introduce some of the passengers, because we know their lives aren't in danger, and the depicted descent is smooth and uneventful, it's more like a textbook display than a mainstream artistic articulation, which, considering the risk factor lying at the heart of Sully's action, doesn't formally give enough credit to the heroic act itself, it's too stale, too abc.

If Sully had began with the passengers entering the airport only to descend into the Hudson shortly thereafter rather than sticking the extended scene in the middle, it would have made more of an impact, according to me, and they could have been seen at other points afterwards throughout as Sully clears his good name.

After the film explains what happened with a brief illustration of Sully's bold decision making and then turns into a cat and mouse insurers and airline reps versus competent workers game, the actual descent into the Hudson seemed unnecessary, and could have been captured instead in chill haunting flashbacks.

Perhaps I'm being too generic.

A competent 21st century David and Goliath tale that picturesquely promotes active rational immediacy, in flight, I sometimes wonder how much money companies lose trying to discredit their employees instead of simply listening to what they actually have to say.

Is there an app for that?

Trusts.

Burdens of proof.

Critical counterstrikes.

Decent filmmaking.

Glad to know pilots like that be surfin' the skies.

One flight at a time.

Mahler auf der Couch (Mahler on the Couch)

Felix and Percy Aldon's Mahler auf der Couch is well orchestrated.

They take a predictable story, let you know what's going to happen from the outset (the scores shown during the opening credits covered in prose), challenge you to pay attention anyways, and then provide a sombre, despondently energetic, physically and psychologically active rendition of a successful composer's troubled personal life, complete with a traditional Freudian (Proustian) resolution, minimalistically yet grandiosely conveyed.

The narrative follows a traditional artist who humbly employs a Highlander maxim both professionally and conjugally which simultaneously propels and curtails his development.

The film's form is noteworthy insofar as it biographically serenades the standard interviewing technique comedically nuanced in Mike Clattenburg's and Ricky Gervais's/Stephan Merchant's (Trailer Park Boys and The Office having been released contemporaneously) different mockumentary television shows, within an autobiographical soundscape, as Mahler (Johannes Silberschneider) attempts to reestablish an I with Freud's (Karl Markovics) help while referencing data based upon the ways in which his psyche has internalized the potential praise/disdain/indifference/misgivings of his admirers/competitors/friends/family, thereby atonally harmonizing its classical unconscious rhythms with multiple indeterminate perspectives (while remaining ripe with emotion).

Barbara Romaner (Alma Mahler) impresses as 'she' attempts to break through.

If I've ever heard anything written by Mahler, I'm unaware.