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. 

Blood Simple

Ligament liturgy ecstatic entropy impassioned unleashed covert clandestine captions, fledgling fervour innocuous oater newfound necessities cradle crunch.

Resigned shamanatee hesitant harbinger grotesque gumption supine shutterbug, despotic disclosure tragic forbearance reluctant ransom accurséd accounts.

Vigorous fury toxic engagement outcomes unexpected incipient fugue, disgruntled affection fusillade photoshop disclaimed deceptions demonstrative nerve.

Serendipitous enterprise curmudgeon cashew expedient itinerary audacious embrasure, scurrilous sand-wedge lugubrious sigma gossamer getaway gallantine grief.

Accidental discovery mynock misfortune despondent discomfiture hyena hysterics, improvised onrush maladroit excavation environs entombed disconsolate guava.

Awkward ubiquity psychotic stern renegade reanimation potentate pulse, egregious centigrade uncharacteristic bellicose burmeasles inspired feeling.

Reticent explanation hardboiled anxiety encrypted confusion illiterate torque, bewildered bombastic diagnostic distress unwitting algorhythmic detrital spunk. 

Spontaneous chase forensic foreknowledge oblique discretion carcinogen clambake, ambivalent aloha nebulous necromancy beguiling glenigma otiose oblivion.

Gruesome unsettling ominous scenarios borderline barking mendacious maestros, frigid and frozen fugacious fumigation albeit squishy traumatic high tide.

To stay so dismally determined calabrese calculation pervasive ghouls, hemorrhaged matrimony unyielding formulae enervating exotic tollgate truncheon.

To go so wild and spirited jocose rejuvenation on the road, rekindled rebirth exuberant partner uncertain finances chillaxed extolled. 

Obsessive disabled bleak bland envy power-mad meticulous critical observation, lascivious lifestyle no curious family routine remonstrance dull disquietude. 

Darkly comic embalmed compulsion exhaled disillusion cadaverous consignments, concrete contusions objective misalignments worthwhile macabre mordant malaise.

Inchoate gambit excessively beloved calibrated careers acclaimed and distinguished, varicose variety perpetual motion delirious decades homegrown Americana.

*This is the Coen Brothers's first film.

**Noiresque. Worth checking out. 

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. 

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!

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. 

Stillwater

A father whose tumultuous routine led to an awkward relationship with his struggling family (Matt Damon as William), is consumed with obsessive guilt several years later when his daughter's arrested (Abigail Breslin as Allison). 

She's found guilty of resonant murder and sent to prison near the coast of Marseille, her father visiting her there when he can, the flights expensive, work hard to find.

She emphatically proclaims her innocence and on his most recent visit reveals a clue, which gives him reemergent hope as he soon tries to get her case reopened. 

Obdurately blocked however by pressing realities within the law, he buckles-down and radically adjudicates by trying to find the suspect himself.

Problems: he doesn't speak French and is oblivious to local custom, he's also spent most of his life in the rural American mid-west and is generally uncertain as to how to proceed.

Moving forward nevertheless fate soon secures a definitive lead, and provides shelter and cultural refinement not to mention employment and domestic salvation. 

But to find the irascible murderer he may have to pay too high a price.

Caught between cultures and families. 

He instinctually reacts with western-style gusto. 

Expediently extemporary the ethical dilemmas contract and metastasize, no easy answers no glib illumination as a hard-boiled family deals with its own.

As newfound chances wholesomely radiate and enlivened parenthood intricately seasons, bad decisions still surreally occupy a bitter frustrated entombed consciousness. 

He's willing to risk everything he's gained on an assuréd probability which crosses the streams, if things work out, tout va bien toujours, if they fall apart, it's worse than worst case.

Not only that, it soon becomes apparent that his daughter's innocence is not that clear-cut, and that the investigation held in accordance may not have been led quite so far astray.

I wouldn't have taken such a risk new life's far too precious for improvised risk management, it does bring about the sought after ends, but they could have been achieved through less threatening means. 

In terms of a neo-western-film-noir mind*^*& Tom McCarthy's Stillwater internationally succeeds nonetheless.

Nothing quite like amoral gristle.

Destitute detritus.

Mid-winter mayhem. 

New Rose Hotel

I've never really understood the allure of pursuing high stakes crime. Most related films make it clear that should you reach 50 having embraced such a life, you're remarkably fortunate if you're not locked up and still have a small army of troops protecting you. It's not passing before reaching old age that's disconcerting it's living while constantly worrying about outwitting your adversaries. That must grow tiresome after awhile. But I suppose the work may be more exciting.

In Abel Ferrara's New Rose Hotel, Fox/Christopher Walken celebrates the risk-fuelled life, and living without fear or limits, it's one of his best performances.

Perhaps there's something of the actor's lifestyle caught up with imaginative redefinition, the lucrative transference of artistic synergies inherently illuminating his authenticity. 

The film's well-cast, he's amicably joined by a less animated yet lithe Willem Dafoe (X), who works as his trusted partner engaging in lucrative industrial espionage.

Asia Argento (Sandii) luxuriously complements his smitten improvised amorous calling, the hopeless romantic having found yet another seemingly impressionable curious enthusiast.

But she may have more than one identity and may not seek the cloistered path.

So distressing these inspired freedoms.

Ethereal interconnected independence.

It's kind of like sci-fi noir although the detectives aren't what you'd expect, they're more like spies helping a science-genius move from one covetous corporation to the next.

The ominous sense of impending doom delicately blended with ebullient hope, shockingly seduces and destructively serenades as the jocose trio travels the globe.

Ah well, it doesn't seem like they're hiring poets although in the '90s we really believed, or I did anyways, that the old world stereotypes prejudicially preventing misfits from finding alternative trade routes would fade away.

Into banal feudal oblivion along with war and irritable class-bias.

Since Trump things have changed dramatically.

Not to mention the woeful pandemic.

Nevertheless, I imagined the poems I've been writing recently for several years as time progressed. 

When new rhymes seemed improbable, I rewrote the language.

For better or worse, I don't really know. 

I am still having as much fun, although I need to start transforming my film reviews too.

The future radiating indeterminate.

Just picked up some more horseradish. 

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). 

Criss Cross

Incumbent misfortune maladroitly radiates as a good natured local lad returns home from distant travels.

He's aware he shouldn't be visiting whom he can't help but want to see, his innate warm and friendly curiosity reimagining things as they've been.

But his love interest has tied the knot with a local entrepreneur who's none too impressed, as they still meet to catch up indiscreetly as if nothing's changed the palimpsest. 

Fortunately, he's found a way to cool things off before they get out of hand, for he works in an armoured car and is well aware of its routine.

With his knowledge of the vehicle's route he can plan a heist with his ex-partner's new husband, and they can all escape with plenty of dough to newfound lands malfeasant munchies. 

The plan is made even though stately trust still evades congenial understanding, the prosperous possibilities too tantalizing to ignore due to amorous prorated grievance.

But as the job is being pulled something's not quite right with the prized predicament.

Amicable relations remain unrestored.

Hospitalized convalescence pending. 

I suppose when you're writing a script like this you have to pile on the inherent should nots, character A should not have considered even more outcomes than character B or C and their devout minions.

The more radically preposterous and inimitably out of whack, the more likely the lugubrious outcome may surely seem like disastrous fact.

Imagine films like the disillusioning Criss Cross released in abundance each fiscal year, challenging sundry reliable westerns for box office cred impeccable sheer.

Makes you want to smoke cigars/cigarillos and drink whiskey/margaritas afield in the wilderness, perhaps cooking your meals on a campfire randomly fuelled by obstinate strain.

Has film noir ever taken off within space for an intergalactic aerodynamic decade, embracing comedy, tragedy, romance, beyond interplanetary conflict?

It is the age of globalization and it's taken on a disenchanting hue.

But rational applicability isn't so easily mis/construed. 

🔍 😜

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. 

🍀

Never Let Go

I suppose there are so many cool films from so many old school actors I've never seen, Never Let Go notably showcasing Peter Sellers (Lionel Meadows) in a rather unique uncharacteristic performance, in fact in full-on rank compulsive wickedness this one's shocking to say the least, certainly not ye olde Pink Panther, it may be a bit hush-hush. 

As it should be, the wretched villain knows no decent ethical limit, lovers of turtles and tortoises beware, for he takes his anger out on Testudinal kind, which left me most distressed indeed. 

I sought out the film to see more of Mervyn Johns's work, I had never seen him in anything else besides A Christmas Carol (1951).

Never Let Go is from 1960 and it looks like Johns may have been typecast post-Scrooge, for within he plays a similar character who's fallen upon even harder times.

He has what was known as a newspaper stand (or newsstand) where he sells a variety of papers, journals, and magazines, and lives in a rather modest apartment, his most cherished possession a pristine aquarium. 

He's even more mild-mannered than Cratchit and has unfortunately found little reward, even less after he witnesses a car theft and names names to local investigators. 

The car belonged to a cosmetic salesperson (Richard Todd as Mr. Cummings) who's hellbent on retrieving it, but he's never had much luck when bluntly asserting himself, and initially encounters snide disrespect. 

I can't recall anything else I've seen Todd in and may seek out more of his films, he's like a cross between Richard Burton and Russell Crowe, both of whom I've never seen in film noir. 

Sellers finds him a craftier competitor than he thought he would be at first, and slowly loses his ferocious temper as he comes aggressively calling again and again.

I always hope the Scrooge/Cratchit working relationship will pay dividends for commerce come January, and there's no doubt that for many it does while many more can't comprehend the message.

It was still nice to see Mervyn Johns back at it with that fiery loving habitual strife, but whereas Scrooge can never stifle his passion, the cruel Mr. Meadows befouls indignantly. 

An excessively grim morbid tale scandalously excelling through onerous confrontation, Never Let Go provides unruly disillusionment as everything within is tenaciously crushed.

Strong performances outweigh the lugubrity but still leave fair little preponderant hope.

That poor little innocent turtle.

How could anyone ever be so ruthless?

🐢

Blood & Wine

The lives of a somewhat traditional family descend into bitter vengeful chaos, after the thieving of a diamond necklace encourages too many unanswered questions.

Had the covetous husband (Jack Nicholson) not sought an uncharacteristic financial panacea, he could have continued selling his wine and perhaps turned his struggling business around.

He even provides his step-son (Stephen Dorff) with age old advice attempting to mean well, the youngster rather dismissive of his by-the-book step-dad and generally uninterested in commercial counsel. 

It's in fact an offbeat salute to disorganized youth and improvised dreams, as the adults prove rather immature and the young ones radiate unworldly competence.

I didn't find Blood & Wine comic while startlingly considering its inherent disillusionment, but when you compare who Mr. Gates tries to be in the film, with the contradictory results he rashly spawns, there's certainly dark humour afoot, that betrays lucid masterful mischief.

I was sad when Bob Rafelson passed away this year because Five Easy Pieces was one of the first independent films I saw, also the first to leave a significant impact no doubt it's a timeless gem that shouldn't be forgotten.

I likely would have still discovered independent cinema but it still definitively functioned like a productive catalyst, and I began to watch more and more underground exemplars of less general attempts to create mass amusement.

I imagine it's still a great place to start although there's no standard recipe for this sort of thing, with lifelong bizarro eclectic trial and error heuristically harkening holistic happenstance.

It was easier with video rental stores if the owners shared a wide ranging perspective, and with shows like Siskel & Ebert to playfully present honest heartfelt takes (still available on YouTube the last time I checked).

It's not that much more difficult now but finding quality films may require a little more effort, but if the desire's there, there shouldn't be barriers preventing you from finding tens of thousand of extant picks on iTunes and YouTube.

I suppose it's actually much easier to just rent films from iTunes or YouTube, if you do enough research. You can watch them from the comfort of your home and there's always a copy available. I found it much more fun to visit and compare individual rental stores, however. Some of them had incredible collections.

Blood & Wine showcases unleashed aggression from unwilling participants habitually docile, the results mind-boggling and incredibly awkward as unaccustomed emotion lacks orthodox sublimation.

Michael Caine (Victor) before finding his avuncular role as Bruce Wayne's stern but caring Alfred.

Jennifer Lopez (Gabriela), Stephen Dorff and Judy Davis also impress. 

Like film noir without a private detective.

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.   

The Glass Key

The Glass Key examines dependability from a grizzled volatile perspective, honest integrity effortlessly emerging through the proliferation of kindred spirits. 

Indeed, with praiseworthy pertinence it paradigmatically hails consistency, with foundations respectfully laid, long-lasting purpose integral commitment. 

Mr. Madvig (Brian Donlevy) has reached inspired heights and from his summit makes stern decisions, which at times irritate other higher-ups who have no wish to entertain options.

Correspondingly, a well-heeled challenger (Joesph Calleia as Mr. Varna) proceeds to kidnap his most trusted man (Alan Ladd as Mr. Beaumont), and offer him a lucrative deal that doesn't demand much extra work.

But loyal Ed unconditionally refuses and retains his credibility, friendship and values, virtue, integrity, much more important to his sense of self.

He's ruthlessly punished for his denial yet eventually rewarded for remaining true, the kind of generous modest confidante you don't often see adamantly succeeding.

But people used to dream of a world wherein which safe communities would flourish and prosper. 

Solid work their vital backbone.

As businesses excelled in sociosublimity. 

It's too bad the economy remains mysterious and whatever happens produces lateral results, wouldn't it be nice if prosperous good times could last much longer for more and more people.

Is the enigma that utterly baffling that little can be done to create lasting solutions, which produce exceptional value through the vigorous application of industrious labour?

But don't idyllic dreams of ubiquitous prosperity lead to chaos when things go sour, and the joyful robust euphoria suddenly transforms into bitter discomfiture?

But don't others resiliently prosper no matter what the 5-year plan, having resigned themselves to modest mobility through the artful cultivation of resonant spirit?

Aren't others miserable throughout the mutations and can't ever clearly detect varying degrees, their general dismissal of every manifestation a blind dismal crude animate forfeiture? 

These categories pervasively persist and still remain applicable this postmodern day.

Cool to view how often they materialize with rugged elegance and futile skepticism. 

Out of the Fog

Two agéd workers productively deal with routine life, having purchased themselves a boat to fish the Atlantic after work in the evenings.

I wonder if people still do this in cities if there are still ample public docks to use, to which peeps can tie up a boat which they can then launch after work at their leisure.

Hostility abounds, however, and soon a local racketeer requires payment, to prevent him from causing a scene which may indeed lead to less recreation.

It's outrageous, Jonah (Thomas Mitchell) and Olaf (John Qualen) don't make much money and their neighbours are chill, imagine leaving a boat tied up in a major city and trusting that no one will suddenly take it.

Must have been a more enlightened age within which goodwill played an important role, and blind distrust didn't ruin collectives who had ensured integrity for many a decade.

The racketeer (John Garfield) then has the nerve to start dating Jonah's daughter (Ida Lupino as Stella Goodwin), her old love interest none too impressed (Eddie Albert as George Watkins), she's hooked on the thrilling criminality.

Olaf and Jonah need a plan that may contradict their traditional habits. 

They may not be high flyin' men.

But can still respond if push comes to shove. 

Out of the Fog is a remarkable film inasmuch as it sincerely concerns itself with laidback seniority, and isn't obsessed with wealth or power and is instead rather critical of ill-gotten gains.

Imagine two heroes with no managerial insights cinematically lauded with genuine pride.

When do people living a modest life ever take centre stage nowadays, as they fight to maintain their lil slice from flagrant goons hellbent on violence?

There was a time when millions of these people got together and unified to challenge corruption, constructively working towards common goals like a 9 to 5 shift and weekends for family.

When the world changed in the '90s it seemed clear to me what peeps should do, the higher-ups and the leaders anyways should act compassionately to avoid a resurgence.

But they didn't of course no one learns instead they looked to the 19th century (we'll get away with it this time), and how well plutocrats and oligarchs had it before common people collectively organized. 

Thus, the cycle's repeating itself although there are millions of peeps trying to stop it.

Joe Biden is trying to stop it.

There's no doubt that he's a good man. 

Angel Heart

Chillaxed and calm, smoothly going with the flow, a laidback private detective steers clear of complications, preferring to investigate matters unrelated to serious crime, he saunters around Brooklyn, in fluidic flâneur (Mickey Rourke as Harry Angel). 

When suddenly one Louis Cyphre (Robert de Niro) requests his offbeat services, to locate a suspicious missing person, who owes him a significant debt.

It seems harmless enough initially so he follows what leads he can, finding his way to a care home for the critically ill, then to the abode of a drug addicted doctor.

But the doctor shockingly passes shortly after their brief discussion, which leads him to want to move on especially because he's a likely suspect.

Cyphre is determined however and offers him a crisp $5,000, to keep pushing to dig in deep at home in New York then off to Louisiana. 

You would think he would drop the case considering the insanity that follows, but he's hooked on solving the mystery even if it leads to nihilistic oblivion.

The local cops are on to him and he's been followed and encouraged to leave town, but it's like he's more involved then he ever would have imagined if he had stuck to his not-so-strict routine. 

Something drives him to keep on sleuthin' as the mayhem wildly intensifies. 

Mr. Cyphre keeping close tabs.

On the enigmatic spiritual contention. 

It can be important to critically review the ways in which you conduct your affairs, to develop worthwhile working evaluations as I was taught to do in school.

You have to be careful not to be too scathing in order to avoid entropy, but a healthy dose of vigilant self-criticism can help you adjust to phenomenal frenzies.

If no one else is doing this however and you seem to be the only one making adjustments, and your adaptations are generally ridiculed, it's perhaps a best practice to seek novel change, or peeps more amenable to lateral communication.

Fluctuating between the two paradigms in alternative realms or even within the same structure seems par for the course, each day bringing forth newfound surprises along with immutable recapitulations. 

When working life incorporates both self and well-meaning constructive criticism, it's great to stay and tough to leave.

Too much self-criticism is suffocating.

A constructive balance generates calm. 

*With Charlotte Rampling and Pruitt Taylor Vince. 

Sabita naifu

Witnesses to a crime must choose between cash and conscience, the police desperate to find a witness, the killer flagitiously roaming free.

There's more accommodation than you might expect but not if greed recklessly overflows, grievous tests of heinous hang-ups begetting morose mortal woes. 

The initial crime is callously compounded by further murderous malfeasance, as it becomes apparent that the very same culprit also terminated innocent true love.

When the bereaved forsakenly discovers the rampant illicit carnage, he sets off to furiously avenge his unsuspecting humble sweetheart.

It's much easier to suddenly confront higher-ups in this old school style of film, and soon an extended street fight reminds one of The Quiet Man or They Live. 

But by the belligerent declarative end it becomes despondently clear, that another is responsible heretofore delegating unscathed.

The despondent lover resolutely agrees to help the local constabulary, as does another witness who is soon grimly betrayed.

A crooked counsel distressfully dissembling is soon caught by just repose.

But can his intel make amends?

As righteousness implodes.

Modest nondescript bold filmmaking jurisprudently avails within, as corruption and rehabilitation mutually balliset unhinged.

Imposed amoral mechanization confronts conscientious betrayal, as upright balanced codes of conduct disenchantingly detect treachery.

Suppose that's the way things go as cultures cultivate civilization, alternative visions boisterously clashing swathed in disconsolate ideological conflict.

Those who enjoy the conflict chaotically prosper beyond reason, irreconcilable institutional sophistries ensuring unconcerned abstract elevations.

In the artistic realm such elevations make for compelling books, Proust et les signes (Deleuze) for instance which isn't too abstruse.

In politics however you would hope one outlook doesn't govern inherent multiplicities, unless such a viewpoint encourages multicultural lateral growth and inclusive sustainable employment (or there's a pandemic on and people need to wear masks, stick close to home, and social distance, in order to avoid catching and then spreading a deadly virus).

Too bad mutually constructive lateral growth so often gives way to imperial ambitions.

I'd rather chill in Parc Jeanne-Mance myself.

iTunes music.

Microbrasserie du Lac-Saint-Jean. 

Detour

Nestled in an imaginative enclave, precociously performing with enigmatic adrenaline, an artistic couple contemplates progression, alternative gigs, perhaps a move. 

The piano player entertains wedlock and dreams of resonant conjugal consummation, but the singer sets her sights on Hollywood and soon she's hit the road for L.A.

Inclined to romantically subsist on un/conscious conceptions of loyalty and devotion, her distraught beau haplessly hangs on until his presence is one day requested.

But he can't afford a bus ticket so it's time to hitchhike west, a crash course in random interpersonal attentive discourse phased ensuing.

But one of his jaded interlocutors passes away in the forlorn night, and Mr. Roberts (Tom Neal) doesn't know what to do, so he ditches the body, and keeps on drivin'.

He makes it through a routine scan before patiently stopping to shyly gas up, when he notices a wayward belle seeking passage off to the side (Ann Savage as Vera).

Their discussions are initially glib before she ferociously lays it on 'im, she's had a ride in this car before only with a different lonesome driver.

He emphatically insists that he is not a murderous criminal, yet she isn't the trusting kind, even if she doesn't fear for her life.

She's more interested in selling the car and using the money to go shopping, again, and won't let Mr. Roberts slip away or disappear without dire reckoning.

He's as unlucky as they come, prone to grand idealistic reveries, on his own without a network or an institution to back him up.

She swoops in on his fecund fervour and has soon assumed imperial prominence, the two forging an antithetical derelict dismal gender bias.

His hopes to one day wed and settle down and banally intrigue, mutated into anxious suspicions hysterically clad in verbose irritability. 

If looking for rarefied woe lugubriously distilled through befuddled dis/enchantment,  Detour strays from the master narrative to embalm disgruntled folds.

No chummy freewheeling joyrides or clever concise improvised amelioration, just a steady increasingly angst ridden rollout despondently trekked and touring. 

Not sure if you're really that into old school woebegone film noir, but Detour's a crushing exemplar of the disputed genre's disillusioned tropes.

A good book, canned soup, a recital, a walk through the park, a beanbag chair.

Detour revels in maligned microcosm.

Misguided mischief.

Visceral atrophy.

*I don't mean to be so glum, I just like film noir. And Dostoevsky. But I'm also loving Dickens more and more these days. Plus, Biden's administration seems tip top, and mass vaccinations are on the way. It's still the month of February, but positive things are on the horizon. 

The Big Heat

After a police officer's apparent suicide is determined to be suspicious, an honest detective sergeant uncompromisingly takes the case.

The clues point to a stern crime syndicate which is well entrenched within the town, but making arrests or acquiring evidence proves inextricably drawn and complicated.

Bannion (Glenn Ford) proceeds regardless with noble intent exceeding righteousness, directly to the established regime who's none too impressed with the inspired intrusion.

Soon his legitimate motives are questioned as he becomes a target for enraged thuggery, possessing commensurate headstrong wherewithal, things are bleak and rugged and ruthless. 

It's not inquisitive parlay, he's taken things right to the nerve stricken centre, without much forethought or investigation, like Kurtz he just thought it up and did it.

The repercussions are harsh, his resolve fierce and sympathetic, as he refuses to simply back down, attuned to paramount sublime ideals, and a bit of stubborn insanity.

But the world's by no means idyllic even if virtue is highly regarded.

In such a situation how does one proceed?

How do they induce potent logic?

Helps if you're not on your own and others appear offering tough helping hands, and the script's written to firmly uphold as you freely and nimbly engage.

It's perhaps too bluntly composed as Bannion boldly contends and interacts, too direct, to too the point, without moderate intervening placations. 

The Big Heat's stark contention examines polarized jurisprudence, but doesn't focus on the intermittent stages with much multifaceted concentration.

It's sort of like a football game where good and evil are the opposing teams, and while such a strategy works in sporty realms, it's somewhat disappointing when applied to film.

Realistic film anyways, or films that don't experiment with reality. You expect that kind of thing from superheroes but not from real world crime drama. You could argue that therefore The Big Heat presents the unexpected, which can be a positive thing, since it's important to tear down boundaries when considering alternatives.  Sometimes constabulary candour works well in less grandiose environs, but not when the situation requires depth to convincingly deconstruct the big picture.

Still, for a shout out to doing the right thing within the exceptional bounds of the superheroic, The Big Heat and Glenn Ford deliver.

Not without their share of sacrifice.

Not sure if it qualifies as film noir.   

Rancho Notorious

The future looks bright, overflowing with bounty, as a couple considers their upcoming marriage, happily thriving through steady employ, ensconced in blooming gleeful rapture.

Yet they live on the Western frontier and soon malevolence comes a' calling, the bride-to-be then passing on, her fiancé sworn to loyal vengeance.

He (Arthur Kennedy as Vern Haskell) sets off on the road following leads where he can engaging in bright conversation, or the eruption of bombast flourishing undaunted, should he ask the wrong person the right question.

He hears tales glamorous and bold deftly crafted through spry resignation, of a coveted socialite (Marlene Dietrich as Altar Keane) widely sought after who teamed up with a formidable gunman (Mel Ferrer as Fairmont).

Haskell discovers the whereabouts of the outlaw and ensures he winds up in the very same jail, soon accidentally aiding his escape, before setting out extrajudicially.

The identity of the killer he seeks still remains frustratingly mysterious, but he soon finds the locale wherein which he's supposed to unconscionably reside.

Alongside many others who have earned their livings through corrupt ill-gotten gains, Rancho Notorious revelling in shenanigans transformative vast illicit booty.

It's direct and hard-hitting like a Western bluntly concerned with irate justice, and works in elements of ye olde film noir, whose generic conventions command infatuated.

The femme fatale's by no means duplicitous and remains loosely hitched to the preeminent bandit, who's rather upright and honourable, as if Bonnie & Clyde had endured.

Haskell makes friends with the virtuous crook and seems like he might be at home casually robbing the odd bank (or stagecoach), but the sight of a striking brooch reminds him of goals which have not been forgotten.

The lines between good and evil are ambiguously forsaken as well-meaning townsfolk quickly back down, and no-good rapscallions ignite honest virtue, while vendettas reestablish antipodes.

Never thought I'd see Marlene Dietrich waxing light so home on the range, and didn't know Fritz Lang directed Westerns sans banal black and white refrains.

There's some minor character diversification but it generally sticks to its winning hand, more abundant less superficial interactions may still have cultivated grizzlier lands.

It excels when Haskell's sleuthing more so than when he hits the ranch, the flashbacks and their spirited horseplay generating crucial binding fragments.

There's a lively soundtrack that keeps things focused if not cleverly cloaking wry deception, Lang perhaps approaching generic overload and unable to keep sabotage at bay.

L'amour takes up much more time than hot pursuits or criminal gains.

Preponderantly peculiar.

Almost like comedic romance.