Black Panther: Wakanda Forever

Pink Floyd was in a bind after their leading member became incapacitated. But they regrouped and dug in deep and years later wrote Dark Side of the Moon (and Atom Heart Mother and Meddle).

I can't think of another band that held it together after their leading person sort of passed, and even went on to improve upon his work, not that I still don't love listening to Piper.

In a similar way, but under much different circumstances, Marvel's Black Panther lost Chadwick Boseman, and likely had to make considerable adjustments to keep things real to narratively excel.

And I couldn't believe it.

Flabbergasted, if I'm not mistaken, is the word.

Wakanda Forever is like limitless joy radiating infinite happiness in a never-ending ocean of strength, illuminatingly upheld with fluidic fortunes nascently enabling elaborate forum. 

A major takeaway for anyone whose ever been pissed off about what happened to Indigenous South and Central America.

I try not to think about it because it's so uniformly frustrating that it obscures clear thought, and opens doors to distressing depression especially when you see it happening again.

Nothing can be done about it, but fiction doesn't play by the same mortal rules, and in Marvel's Wakanda Forever, Indigenous South Americans are a potent factor.

They survived thanks to a special flower the existence of which was revealed to them by their god, which transformed them into vibrant merpeople, who then made their home far beneath the open sea.

Not just a home, there's so much respect, like the respect given to African Americans through the creation of Wakanda, the extant versatile Mayas and Incas having built a formidable civilization under the sea.

They also ride whales and admire turtles Wakanda Forever totally jamming with Whale Rider, not only by introducing integral whales but also by championing prominent female characters.

It's like a monumental Indigenous/Feminist/African inherent feat of incredibility, with total respect given within, in terms of equality, ingenuity, and innovation.

Nature isn't forgotten as well the miraculous existence of any given species, is venerably compared to Wakandan and Talokonil technology, the cultures prospering through cultural symbioses. 

Like Pink Floyd, Marvel held it together and created another action packed inspiring phenom. 

The ocean is undeniably vast. 

Who knows what lies underneath?

*If Namor wants to buy Black Panther Shuri a present, I recommend picking up a really cool bike.

**Wrote this on Friday night after having a swim. 

***I know humpback and orcas get the most press because watching them jump is amazing, but don't forget about all the other whale (and turtle) species out there. They need representation too!

****There are a lot of bad things happening in the ocean, considering the infamous garbage patch and the intense underwater sound disturbances. The Talokonil (and the Metkayina) could tackle some of those issues in these films. I can't believe how much I love them. 

Brainstorm

So far, I've had trouble getting into virtual reality. Don't get me wrong, it's kind of cool, but as a substitute for the real thing, it disappoints. Perhaps the technology has significantly advanced in the last 15 years, I haven't checked it out for a long time. But way back when I was highly critical, criticism accepted, I could have have been more open.

I do like watching nature documentaries as a substitute for the real thing, since there are so many places around the world I'll never get to see. I know it's not the same thing, they're not meant to be holistically immersive, but since it's unlikely that I'll ever visit Indonesia or Vietnam 😢, I appreciate being able to watch related wildlife programming.

Brainstorm is some cool old-school sci-fi (1983) that takes an imaginary look at virtual reality, wherein which ingenious scientists actually create realistic virtual experiences.

At first, the genius is rewarded with scientific applause and technological accolades, but soon disreputable agencies seek to weaponize its potential.

It's classic innovative idealistic scientists confronting the corruption of their work, with Christopher Walken erupting in fury near the beginning of his outstanding career.

Fortunately, it predates internet hypotheses so it's still possible to hide the work. It's like they're trying to take out SkyNet before it has the ability to shift and mutate.

If you're fascinated by old school special effects or varying degrees of authentic realism, effects that were made without the total reliance on computers, effects relying on the creative manipulation of the dynamic production qualities of the time, and an erudite knowledge of electronics, Brainstorm's concluding moments are fun to watch, scientific artistry chaotically applied.

Directed by Douglas Trumball, who worked on the special effects for Blade Runner, 2001, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, and Star Trek: The Motion Picture (it still has cool effects), it's nice to see a tech wiz at the helm, don't recall ever hearing of a similar transition.

I still feel like virtual reality is cheating when it comes to interpersonal experience, I still like talking to people and don't mind getting burned regularly for being honest.

Sometimes I'll ask a question that I know the answer to because I can't think of anything else to say, and then I'll be ridiculed for having asked the question, sigh, it's always the same old story.

Brainstorm isn't Inception but still makes a cool historical impact.

A pioneering look at this type of story.

When special effects were really starting to take off. 

Calabuch

Perhaps a playful precursor for the age old mischievous Prisoner, Calabuch examines similar themes from a much less lethal angle. 

Thus, rather than finding himself cloistered away in a remote coastal village, every movement monitored by sympathetic yet grasping authorities, Calabuch's lead successfully escapes from his panopticonic confines, and finds amusing sanctuary along the isolated Spanish coast (while spending his nights in the local jail).

He's like a child at play and has no criticisms to impart, he's productively enthusiastic beyond vitriol or lament, it's classic emancipation, without forlorn regret.

The small town's rambunctiously engaged in harmless reverential mischief, the police and smugglers no doubt at odds even if they've been friends for some time.

The doctor (Edmund Gwenn) having left behind ceremonious stilted shackles, a leading nuclear scientist indeed, in possession of multidimensional clinical knowledge, and eager to help out in any way he can.

It's an absurd scenario generating lucid compassion for the locked-down doc, who clearly wishes he could freely engage with the world at large without reservation. 

He does possess valuable secrets which call into question his largesse however.

In a comic duel between individual and nation.

With lighthearted trim finesse.

It must be unnerving at times to possess highly specialized volatile knowledge, violently sought after by entrenched no-goodniks hoping to capitalize on cultural misfortune.

I suppose you can't just trot off to the market or delicately chill unmonitored at the beach, you would hope you would have access to some kind of private facility but who knows how often you'd get to go there.

You may be stuck in meetings overflowing with polemical tactical verbiage, extremely serious all the time, imagine you could escape!

That's what Luis García Berlanga did in this remarkably entertaining comedy, which may revel in grand distortion, but certainly does so with grand vivacity. 

Must even the hardworking public's precious time off be subject to rigorous scrutiny!, with no constructive comedic outlets, like it was throughout the pandemic?

Imagine years of bleak totalitarian experimental pestilent intrigue, only broken up by even crazier conspiracy theories which are still troublingly shockingly popular.

What to make of the independent cinema which takes them seriously in the forbidding future?

I thoroughly loved the romantic Calabuch.

Throughout which they still listen to doctors. 

Hobson's Choice

A prosperous shopkeep enjoys the comforts of gregarious bourgeois living, his agile workforce securing fresh profits, his lovely daughters managing his home (Charles Laughton as Mr. Hobson).

He gorges himself on plenty with ample criticisms and bumptious dismissals, boasting wildly down at Moonrakers, where he drinks too much on occasion. 

His lordly litanies cumbrously forget the lively existence of others, however, notably his eldest daughter Maggie (Brenda de Banzie) whom he assumes is bound for spinsterhood. 

She's been taking care of the business and is none too fond of the assumption, nor the incumbent caretaking it presumes, nor her lack of daily wages.

She's also aware that one of their employees is a brilliant natural bootmaker, who lacks worldly pretentious ambition, and could use a patron to his advance his skill (John Mills as William Mossop).

So she makes the bold decision to demand he quit and accompany her elsewhere, to open up a new bootshop in fact, and to take her hand in marriage. 

Soon they've lured much of her father's discerning clients to their innovative new brand, and even serendipitously composed an even more vivacious plan.

Take each film on its own nimble merits without drawing conclusions about family or gender, for in so many men have disavowed gallantry, while in many others women have done the same.

It's not my place to generally conclude which sex embraces banality more often, but rather to analyze proposed fictional and truthful evidence to ascertain who has spoiled particular instances.

It's not the safest way to proceed insofar as you wind up critiquing both sides, the level-headed amongst them appreciating the honesty, both sexes at times proceeding in error.

I think the secret is to revel in the difference the opposite gender provides, assuming they aren't physically or psychologically violent, as that gender manifests so many alternative aspects, over the course of a productive lifetime.

I suspect men who love women and women who love men find it much easier to productively live together.

Creating boundaries and mischievous rules for playfully crossing/breaking through rapt contradiction. 

Hobson knows only one boundary that which asserts authoritarian prominence, his subjects none too pleased with his grandiose postures, and willing to daringly challenge and disrupt them.

If you wish to proceed like Hobson, David Lean's Hobson's Choice may be perilous, for it champions multilateral fair play, within which multiple stakeholders prosper.

But if you seek to enjoy a well-crafted film wherein which democratic impulse constructively asserts itself, you may be rather impressed by this Hobson's Choice, which captures the spirit of resilient open-mindedness. 

At Eternity's Gate

Light streaming through the window, dreamy reckoning, exotic pause, patient nimble expression sparrow soaring eyes adoring, vortex, texture, blends, illuminated unconscious spiritually orchestrated canvas, brush strokes, supernatural brevity denoted enchantingly, floral vigour, spellbound charm, relaxed contemplative feeling, emotion, embrasure, less concerned with exacting aesthetics, less enamoured with splayed bedazzle, shyly swaddling landscapes in waves, in vivid undulating coy windswept waves.

Unaccustomed to traditional lifestyles, he struggles to say the right thing.

Unaware of what he's done, he rests for brief periods at times.

It can be very dark, how you have to think to understand what drives some people, sometimes, not everyone by any means, but some people care about such meaningless things, and seem to find motivation through ill-willed spite.

At times.

Many people don't fit roles that suggest they should act a specific way.

Many people which advocate for these roles don't fit them well either.

The roles exist to avoid confusion, I suppose, although I imagine broadening them, expanding them to include more spice, more variability, would make both spice and variability seem just as natural as rigid structure, and communities would correspondingly benefit from the increased diversity, teaching those whom it frightens to have no fear, regardless of whether or not everyone liked the same things.

Vincent van Gogh's (Willem Dafoe) actions are out of line at times and he doesn't realize it. But the violence he encounters doesn't teach him anything, in fact only makes things much much worse.

In the film.

His style, like intuitive observations of incorporeal intangible invisible imperceptible resonances, carefully balancing the sincere and the awkward with realistically composed imagination, perhaps mistaken for humorous representatives of inarticulate blooms in his time, clearly synthesizing wonder with amazement through recourse to the mundane to me, tasks hesitant poetic lucidity, the unobserved omnipresent joys that pass unnoticed as one ages, as dismissals of innocence replace innate fascinations, they never did with Vincent van Gogh, and, according to the two films I've seen about him, he remained unassuming till the end.

Perhaps touched, ingenious, perspicacious, naive, he had a vision anyways and worked hard to clarify it, as if he could never quite realize what it was, but sought to enliven it nonetheless.

The film's a carefully crafted thoughtful investigation of Van Gogh the artist, rich with performances from great actors, the dialogue perhaps too lofty and condensed at times but poignant and revealing at others, Julian Schnabel presenting his own artistic gifts most prominently perhaps when nothing's being said at all.

A gifted filmmaker.

A wonderful film.

The Girl in the Spider's Web

Ideas that should have been shelved.

Desire that should have been sublimated.

Illicit ingenious technology.

Too tempting for sheer mortal vice.

Its mastermind (Stephen Merchant as Frans Balder) comprehends its extreme power and foolishly seeks its destruction.

Alone.

Yet he requires impeccable stealth to retrieve it and possesses not the requisite skill, nor the essential rationalized paranoia that should accompany such rash endeavours.

Considering the value.

His plan relies on a presumed lack of suspicion.

Steal it, acquire it, destroy it, quickly, before anyone realizes what's been done.

He wants to destroy FireWall to keep it out of the hands of those who covet it, without realizing they're watching at all times.

And soon a device which can unlock the codes for nuclear weapons worldwide is in terrorist hands, along with its gifted creator's son (Christopher Convery as August Balder), his father's accomplice related to their cypher (Sylvia Hoeks as Camilla Salander).

One Lisbeth Salander (Claire Foy) must resiliently contend nothing more, backed up by the loyal Mikael Blomkvist (Sverrir Gudnason) plus an agile unknown thoughtful factor (Lakeith Stanfield as Ed Needham).

The room for error's non-existent and the playing field's level, driven experts coldly strategizing, extreme limits, boldly reached.

If actual people were thinking of creating something like FireWall, I would state, "please don't create something like FireWall, existent geniuses capable of doing so."

Would it not be cooler to find a way to use computers to learn dolphin?

Or animal in general.

I was listening to lynx calls online one day and thought they sounded similar to the static you used to hear while devices communicated with one another through phone lines in the days of dial-up internet, which led me to the idea that an electronic device could be created to interpret what animal sounds mean, one which perhaps utilizes digital twin technologies albeit without comprehensible linguistic references (I suppose if such a device worked without references it could solve many communication problems).

I thought this idea was likely quite ridiculous and was going to keep it to myself but then saw Clara, wherein which a fictitious professor challenges his students to find the sound of the data, and thought perhaps I had accidentally found something.

And added the digital twin stuff today.

The Girl in the Spider's Web diabolically impresses, fast-paced cerebral orchestrations delineating cause in flux.

Ye olde, whoops, we really shouldn't have done that, anxiously seething sans menacing pause.

Globalized recourse imagines a Bond film with a rogue self-reliant female agent, its intrigue an international spectre, its ingenuity a bespeculative double o.

Held to crippling account for the one victim she left behind, two sisters fuzed adroitly adjudicate misperception.

I liked the characters and the situations they found themselves within, clever action ploys catch and release, creative use of the all-seeing panopticon.

Didn't there used to be laws about watching everyone everywhere they went all the time?

They weren't discredited were they?

On the last page of a paper copy of a newspaper that no one bought?

Lost in the twitter deluge?

Suppressed by great blue cries?

The Predator

The Predator franchise having adjourned several years past on a rather unexpected bone-trilling high note, I was quite eager to entertain its brave successor, inasmuch as it seemed reasonable that it would reach even greater heights, hope logically characterized through lighthearted thrift, the lack of prolonged accompanying anticipatory proclamations (trailers) further augmenting wondrous presumption,  I imagined it would impress, if not at least, mischievously diversify.

Yet it seems as if the new team was somewhat overwhelmed by their preceding act, and therefore sought transformative comedic consolidations, the resultant feature perhaps shocking resigned traditionalists, who no doubt stayed till the campy end regardless.

Not to say that Shane Black's unique approach lacks merit, but the Predator films do generally attempt to frighten, relying more heavily on horror than the absurd, often tending to terrify demonstrously.

Within elite commandoes find themselves replaced with a duty-free band of misfits, who have the audacity to tell jokes and exalt mischief, the rapidly paced loosely structured plot maladroitly reflecting their shenanigans, the resulting synthesis bizarrely endearing, typically tantalizing withheld revelations, bluntly shared, unabashed, tomfoolery.

It's more like a keg party than a night out at Saint-Bock, enthusiasm and excess carelessly abounding without taking much time to consider effect, mood, ambience, or likelihood.

Correspondingly, solutions readily present themselves, albeit in an inebriated way, chaotic resiliencies flying high on adrenaline, a family caught up in the jetstreamed carnage.

It's like Joes who haven't done much research suddenly find themselves experientially reaching ingenious conclusions, heavily saturated with kitschy ingenuity, as unconcerned as they are bewildered.

But even if they charmingly hypothesize, they can't outwit the film's brazen capacity.

It is fun though.

I like what they're trying to do, i.e, write a critical horror/comedy, and they mention all kinds of cool things like buses and science and global warming.

Plus it's co-starring Jake Busey (Keyes).

But the script could have perhaps used another round of edits, during which perhaps the predator dog idea would have been reimagined or left out.

A courageous attempt not lacking in ambition that still goes way too far, while mischievously diversifying no less, The Predator may have seriously impressed had it been crafted with more critical insight.

It may convince people to start thinking more seriously about climate change though.

Climate change is definitely real within.

And hopefully still will be in upcoming sequels.

*I never even listened to the Yardbirds!

Harrumph!

Mission: Impossible - Fallout

The sacrifices Tom Cruise (Ethan Hunt) makes for his Mission: Impossible franchise add an authentic dimension to its outputs that ironically causes them to appear plausible even if they versatilely redefine the extraordinary.

The effort he puts into making these films is incredible.

If you watch a lot of action adventure movies there are times where some of their plots seem quite ridiculous, obviously enough, which is part of the fun assuming the laws of physics aren't utterly ignored, GoldenEye.

If they are utterly ignored you need strong supporting intelligent possibly wacky characters presenting theoretical justifications for the inaccuracies, numerous Star Trek episodes providing fitting instructive examples, man those shows must be fun to write.

But since Mr. Cruise does his own stunts, the impossible seems attainable, the ridiculousness appears rational, and if his character is thought to metaphorically represent high stakes success, however you choose to define it (a small business, exceptional narratives delivered during cruises, a butter tart that knows no equal, a pot of chili), the fact that he does his own stunts synthesizes the imaginary and the realistic in a compelling way that parallels Jackie Chan himself, who would make a wonderful addition to the franchise.

Fallout sees the return of Hunt's dependable team, Benji Dunn (Simon Pegg) and Luther Stickell (Ving Rhames [how can neighbours not recognize Ving Rhames?]) excelling at consistently delivering opposites-platonically-attract-interactions, their characters asking pertinent questions, performing exceptional feats, freely conceptualizing reliability, while indisputably materializing assured structural cool.

Alan Hunley (Alec Baldwin) and Ilsa Faust (Rebecca Ferguson) spicing things up as well.

Fallout presents a solid instalment complete with an intricate constantly evolving embrace of active efficient improvised deconstruction, new personalities (notably Henry Cavill as August Walker and Vanessa Kirby as the White Widow) chaotically introduced to the mayhem, a classic focus on nuclear weapons (fitting for contemporary times) fuelling the intensity, historical romance complicating mission prerogatives, traditional character traits present but not frustratingly exaggerated (a downfall of so many sequels), blunt seemingly foolish observations cloaking discerning intellects, improbable goals pursued regardless of demanding setbacks, level-heads tying everything together in a manner that isn't difficult to stomach (directed by Christopher McQuarrie), the sixth constituent of a franchise focusing too heavily on its own internal dynamics at times.

Make sure each instalment in a franchise simultaneously appeals to fans and people who have never heard of it and you're moving in a Wrath of Khan direction.

Mission: Impossible still hasn't had a Captain America: Civil War or Wrath of Khan moment, but there's still plenty of time.

Fallout's still a motivating thought provoking film that will likely appeal to eager fans along with new recruits unfamiliar with its unique style.

Voluminous aftershocks.

Realistic proofs.

Raw spontaneity.

Damned impressive.

If you want sincerity in an action film, Mission: Impossible distinctly delivers.

Back in the day I thought they'd stop making them after number III.

That was 12 years ago.

Crazy.

Transformers: The Last Knight

Can science, myth, religion, history, the aristocracy, the people, the British, Americans, the privileged, the self-made, the men, the women, humankind, and Autobots, be chaotically yet adventurously, ideologically yet practically, intergalactically yet locally, or quite simply extracurricularly brought together in a wild brainiacally styled jewelled Nile Summertime extravaganza, complete with a spellbinding mix of the brash and the delicate which epically unites risk, love, service and dedication, to thoroughly entertain while multilaterally seeking knowledge, like a trip to New York, or a voyage down under?

Yes.

I would say, "yes, yes they can."

"Affirmative" even.

A constructive ebb and flow.

It's always fun when the new Transformers films are released but I'll admit I've never enjoyed one as much as The Last Knight.

I mean, I'll actually watch this one again.

It's number 5 too.

So many metamorphic developments.

Plucky little Izabella (Isabela Moner), resiliently in search of friends and family.

The hyperreactive robotic butler (Jim Carter as Cogman), who flamboyantly yet earnestly adds neurotic inspirational spice.

Agent Simmons (Jon Turturro) is back, theorizing and analyzing his way to the heart of the narrative's conceit.

Sir Edmund Burton (Anthony Hopkins), youthfully and mischievously contemporizing more than a millennia of British legend.

England and the United States romantically come to terms?, the couple in question perhaps creating an invincible universal super being?

Plus secret entrances, spontaneous sushi, cheeky self-reflexive criticisms of blockbuster music, Cuba once again warmly featured in a 2017 American mainstream release, prophetic books preserved, getting-away-with-it explanations, scenarios, Bumblebee (Erik Aadahl), First Nations fluidity, Tony Hale (JPL Engineer), whales.

The wild script energetically shifts from sentiment to shock to certitude to sensation, manifold short scenes eclectically yet straightforwardly stitched together with (en)lightninglike speed and ornate dishevelled awareness.

Fascinated, 'twas I.

I've often thought these films don't focus enough on Transformers, but Last Knight presents a solid shapeshifting/organic blend, its biological proclivities overwhelming desires to see Transformers discursively deliberating, relevant contributing human factors, caught up in the thick of it, creating solutions intuitively their own.

In fact, the subplot involving Optimus Prime (Peter Cullen) was my least favourite part of the film.

The extraordinary examination of British History and its relationship to transforming-lifeforms-from-space easily made up for it though.

I'd love to see Stonehenge on the Summer Solstice during the witching hour.

How did they move those rocks?

They be pretty freakin' huge.

The Book of Henry

Analyzing, classifying, observing, planning strategically, effortlessly clarifying complicated commentaries with lucid logistics and rational rummaging, holistically heartstrung self-sacrificing harmonies configuring chisels, conundrums, reimb(o)ursements, just desserts, a boy 11-years-old with genius adult skills contemplating, growing with his community emancipated as one, desiring no exceptions, isolation, esteemed status resolute, living a quiet life with his mother and brother, chill, nonabrasive.

He's born witness to disgusting abuse involving an upstanding high ranking local official, however, and has recorded every detail collected in a condemnatory notebook, complete with pertinent verbal accompaniment.

He's sought to see the beast enchained but his pleas have been ignored by those he's been brought up to trust.

Will the sudden realization that he's seriously ill prevent justice from courageously awakening?

And can Henry's (Jaeden Lieberher) devoted mom (Naomi Watts) aid his covert endeavours, bravely commanding truthful woes compiled?

Recalcitrance.

Shouldn't you help single moms with children below-leave-raking-age rake their leaves if you're able and they clearly aren't doing it?

The Book of Henry tenderly yet incisively enlivens small town life from a caring youthful perspective intent on altruistically discovering.

Capable of multifacetedly adorning seemingly disparate variables with warm cohesive easy to understand expression, Henry immerses to nurture his home town's native strength.

Like Jessica Chastain in The Zookeeper's Wife, Naomi Watts demonstrates her profound versatility by dynamically bringing to life scenes which may have held less impact if they had been crafted with less patient conscience.

Not to say The Book of Henry doesn't present first rate storytelling.

The bright script, scintillating cinematography, sure and steady direction, and serious acting, impressionably blend to provoke both adolescent curiosity and age old thought.

Solid for youths and adults alike.

It portrays the big picture with heavy yet innocent brush strokes which lightly yet solemnly define an inclusive social aesthetic.

Hopeless cynicism fades in the wake of its proactive swathe.

Sleuthing hunches and intuitions, verifiably bold and confident.

Hidden Figures

On occasion, if you're asked to work longer hours for the same amount of money, the company you're working for is trying to ensure their profits increase every month/quarter/etc. and targeting your unpaid overproduction as a source of intangible revenue.

Red flag.

Make sure you're trying to find a new job if stuck in such a situation.

However, if you happen to be working for NASA (or have a stable professional position) and you're immersed in a reasonably wild competition with the Soviet Union to do all kinds of crazy space stuff, suppose that competition would be with China these days, and the Soviets are winning, as they are in Hidden Figures, I suppose spending some extra unpaid time at work wouldn't be that bad, if there are no available public funds to pay for the overtime, and you are capable of taking part in something vital.

In space.

Not necessarily in space, but Hidden Figures uses ye olde space race to cleverly promote congenial race relations as a matter of national integrity.

It's too bad a member from a minority group has to be Einstein-smart to break down racial barriers.

You would think common democratic decency would have done that centuries ago.

The film's solid, a feel good family friendly examination of three highly intelligent African American women that's neither too sentimental, nor too fluffy.

I love Octavia Spencer (Dorothy Vaughan).

The women boldly yet humbly challenge institutional bigotry through hard work and determination as opposed to violence to make changes in their stilted dismissive working environment.

Some cool features.

Rage and passive resistance are matrimonially engendered as Mary (Janelle Monáe) and Levi Jackson (Aldis Hodge) discuss inflammatory political subjects.

She loves expressing herself yet also loves Levi so she intelligently lets him know when her boiling point has been reached before passionately pontificating with resolute clarification.

He works with his hands but is impressed with her desire to become an engineer and buys her some new pencils out of respect for her mind and the difficulties associated with her approaching studies (she becomes the first African American woman to study at a white school in Virginia).

Dorothy creatively borrows a book from the white section of her local library which she uses to remain employed as computers show up on the scene.

She learns so much that she's able to save 30 odd jobs after teaching the people working for her how to adapt, thereby making their contributions operationally essential.

She doesn't just take the money and run.

She gives back to her community.

Katherine G. Johnson (Taraji P. Henson), whose mathematical gifts intergalactically defy limitations, demonstrates why it's so important to never dismiss pieces of information that seem out of date (thereby promoting technical libraries), by using ancient knowledge to solve a contemporary puzzle, proving that sometimes inventing the new means discovering something that was contemplated thousands of years ago.

And Kevin Costner (Al Harrison) kicks ass throughout.

What a great role to play.

I'm going to watch Waterworld again.

I tried that with Alexander last winter (although I had never seen it before).

Double whoops!

I bet Waterworld's better.

Hidden Figures is a wonderful film.

El hombre de las mil caras (Smoke and Mirrors)

Cast adrift by the Spanish secret service, disgraced Francisco Paesa (Eduard Fernández) must find other ways to earn a living, his reputation for profound cunning immersed in subterfuge still resonating however, as a crooked formal national police commissioner seeks his admonishing aid.

A plan.

A forecast.

Subordinate reliability a troubling factor, as indelicate months pass and pressures mount, every detail of the plan covertly constructed, contingencies classified with hypothetical clarity.

Interminable patience required by all players, Paesa's foreseen a possible outcome, that leaves him assuredly stacked in the black.

Yet he remains loyal, faithful, truthful, subservient, theoretically, resolute calm submerged and breaching, extrajudicial outcomes speculatively splayed, thatched, patched, acrobatic burlap, either way he's set free, unless he winds up in prison.

For the rest of his life.

Interstitial estuaries.

Comet and cupid.

Compacted nerve.

Expeditiously invigorating cerebral texts and phalanxes, Alberto Rodríguez's El hombre de las mil caras (Smoke and Mirrors) keeps things smooth and steady.

It masterfully pulls you in and then harkingly hails in lockdown.

Penetratingly equipped with pertinent plights enabled, multiple primary and secondary familial and professional plot threads fading then reappearing with expert cinematic timing, thereby effortlessly attaching sub/conscious depth to its politicoethical imbroglio, El hombre de las mil caras is far beyond most of what I've seen this year, another outstanding film from M. Rodríguez.

Immaculately composed.

That's/He's still so much fun to watch.

Verifiable.

*Was into Spanish music last week. Damn it!

Mr. Turner

Summits submerged then skewered sequestered, holland holistic immersed treasured method, polished in grizzled and gruff pirouettes, subsiding colliding opining subtexts, vertigo, vertiginous, response grounded encompassing consumed, independent refuge, disabled domestic docility, specialization, a willingness to extemporaneously compose candour spawn candlelight, candelabras, regenerative concessions superseding convalescent impecunity, harnessed tempestuous incidental asseveration, gravitational in flux, fluttering foundational finessed fossilized fulcrum, heavyweight prehensile sturgeon, immaculately dispersing, paramount proof of life.

Mr. Turner examines one J.M.W. Turner (Timothy Spall), a brilliant British painter from the 19th century.

Shackled to nothing besides his intuition's visceral duty, he devotedly worked to theorize imagination.

People like this can't live within bourgeois constraints, or can perhaps, with loose reigns.

I suppose such partners, due to the extraordinary success of their coveted loved ones, have difficulty sharing them with horns of plenty, jealousy maddeningly provoking feuds to compensate for feelings of worthlessness.

Outspoken.

Perhaps not, not really sure, that seems to happen in books and films and songs sometimes though, and from what I gather, you're supposed to unequivocally disavow such yearnings, if in a bohemian relationship.

Burnished in bedlam.

It's a great film, intelligently written, good thing I started reading Dickens again recently.

It covers neither too much nor too little, rather presenting finely crafted intellectual biospec sequences which blend the tragic and the critical, the penetrating and the porous.

Probably would have cut the last half hour.

There's a tendency in biographical films to elevate the principal character while reducing his contemporaries to trite one-dimensional cheerios.

The greeting.

Mr. Turner doesn't do this, but watch for it because it takes generally complex interconnected diverse personal/professional/romantic/. . . relationships and counterpointingly disembowels them, which, if you're trying to film something swift, leaves your viewer soberly cocktailed.

Mr. Turner's quite rough.

In sympathy.

Genius

Agonizing labour mingling with the bewildered ethereal basks in potential obscured, a neverending stream of doubtful/joyous speculations as incendiary as they are preposterous, throngingly detached from the chattering corporeal, suddenly projecting auditory flashes of verisimilitude.

Acknowledgements.

Discoveries.

Versatile editor Max Perkins (Colin Firth) embraces eccentric self-obsessed writer Thomas Wolfe's (Jude Law) text with encouraging flattery and fetchingly suppressed awe, the two forging a working friendship that leads to eventual publication.

With a granite gristful, Perkins incisively vets to encourage digestion, while Wolfe thoughtfully considers his arguments with jubilant patience and restrained celerity.

Momentum matriculating.

Existential peculiarities haunt Perkins's purpose, as he wonders if his insights hold back the genius for which he dedicatedly advocates.

The director's cut of The Chronicles of Riddick isn't as good.

Mommy, is very good.

Once free, Wolfe is attached to no one, his loving support, his devoted patroness (Nicole Kidman as Aline Bernstein [it's like she hasn't aged since Billy Bathgate]), crippled by his callous insouciance.

His carefree hedonism.

Her sacrifices shut out.

F. Scott Fitzgerald (Guy Pearce) offers begrudging consul as Wolfe's spite begins to deride Perkins, Fitzgerald critiquing Wolfe's Highlander spirit, his divine gravitational pretensions.

To Genius, the film taking something as unappealing as editing a novel then turning it into a multidimensional commentary on loyalty, fame, artistic expression, family, wantonness, friendship, blending trajectories which eventually polarize, fragile confiscated freedoms, collaborative literary identities, Fitzgerald functioning as synthesis.

Editorial toil.

Sometimes you write something that clearly requires no changes for about three days, others you arduously tear a document to shreds to make the improvements you're not sure it needs, most of the time it's just patience, purpose, progress, perplexion.

I actually find writing something, then working out all day, then editing in a state of exhaustion to work quite well as a technique on occasion.

Usually, if I enjoyed writing a poem or a review it needs serious work although that's not always the case.

Fugacious formulae.

Fleeting fancies.

Rock-solid reliability.

Temporal pressures.

Fragmentary fusions.

Consumption.

Silliness.

Reserve.

Should you just let it tear you apart?

For utility's sake?

Checkered Chattanooga.

Undecided.

*I'm wondering if purchased copies will include a conversation between director Michael Grandage and editor Chris Dickens as a bonus feature.

The Man Who Knew Infinity

Transcendently calculating with pure artistic spirituality, rarefied inspiration, crystalline caricatures, an East Indian genius leaves loved ones behind to study mathematics abroad, challenging racial and cultural stereotypes to do so, undeniably unique and innocent, picturesque prognostic in plume.

A gift beyond reason, like Proust, Shakespeare, Dickens or Joyce, he miraculously finds a patron at Trinity College, who sets out to formalize his spry romantic methods.

Malheureusement, academic rigour has its own contentions, and G.H. Hardy (Jeremy Irons) and his jealous colleagues initially distrust/dismiss Srinivasa Ramanujan's (Dev Patel) revelations.

Obsessions with the genuine.

Could he be the one?

There is no one, but mathematical proof is required (Ramanujan writes mathematical formulas at the highest level like squirrels climb trees or cheetahs swiftly accelerate), but would Srinivasa have written more profusely had Hardy sat back to obtain those proofs himself, giving his correspondent more freedom to think, thereby preventing the sterilization of genius?

Training Ramanujan to become an academic would have transformed him from dust devil to tornado, but in terms of both knowledge and refined intuitive creativity, it may have been better to leave him be, with a stipend, to maximize his unaccounted for mystifications.

These thoughts loosely reflect conversations held between Hardy and Prof. Littlewood (Toby Jones) as The Man Who Knew Infinity examines detections of the exceptional.

I thought it was a great film, comfortably blending brilliance and banality with modest poise and tenacious dignity.

Even at that level, amongst what Bowie called the elite and first, racist attitudes still obscure understandings, enviously orchestrating a fermented xenophobic squelch, as opposed to idealizing grand authentic freedom. 

Curious this 1729.

A modest proposal?

*Saw Alfred everywhere in this film.

High-Rise

Quiescently ensconced in an eccentric microcosm, floor upon floor of economically ranked struggles, celebrations, sacrifices, autarky inclined to divine judgment, electrical exclusivity dividing the aggrieved populace, factions and punishments and discourse, threats, rebellion, single Laing (Tom Hiddleston) remains professionally detached as the disdain of the upper levels begets a crusading demagogue, a brilliant attempt to self-sufficiently endure, chaotically chained to the repercussions of decay.

Experimental empowerment.

Entitled vengeance.

Daring to dream.

Ben Wheatley's High-Rise possesses a peculiar ambivalence which consistently deconstructs attempts to clarify its underlying motivations, inhabiting the illusive intersection where horror, comedy, and tragedy collude, where everything remains uncertain, and spectres illuminate aberrations.

Quick draw.

Technically, the film's outstanding. The production design (Mark Tildesley), cinematography (Laurie Rose), and editing (Amy Jump and Wheatley) shine forth with undeniable cheek and variability.

A team assembled.

At points the writing (Jump) struggles however, excelling at crafting believable impoverished and bourgeois dialogues, but failing to convince when enabling plutocratic mysticism.

Obviously a closer study of In Search of Lost Time is in order.

It's like a really tight elementary first or second script, Jump demonstrating that she has the ability to win awards, High-Rise impressing like Blood Simple or J'ai tué ma mère, Between the Buttons or David Bowie's self-titled album.

Childlike brilliance.

High-Rise sacrifices sophistication for shock and ordure, the script still excelling at not bothering to explain things which left me full of sardonic amelioration.

Cool cast of varied characters.

At its best when it's genuinely unconcerned, at its worst when it just doesn't care.

Winky face.

For such a massive apartment building, High-Rise doesn't showcase much of its commercial enterprise, only focusing on a totalitarian grocery store and some perfunctory athletic accompaniments.

Inflammatory reflections of hierarchical obsessions.

Sociopolitically speaking.

*Loved the quick-French-learning grocery clerk.

La hérisson (The Hedgehog)

The film version of Muriel Barbary's L'elégance du hérisson (The Elegance of the Hedgehog) presents several of the novel's intriguing developments in a necessarily condensed form. Paloma (Garance Le Guillermic) still wishes to commit suicide and Renée Michel (Josiane Balasko) is still the secretly atypical concierge, reluctant to engage in personal social interactions with her clients. Screenwriter and director Mona Achache negotiates the tempestuous gulf providentially cultivated between a character's thoughts in a novel and their depiction in a film by having Paloma shoot and narrate a documentary throughout, thereby maximizing the number of literary ideas transmitted without relying to heavily on intrusive objective narration. The introduction of Mr. Ozu (Togo Igawa) is much more subtle in the novel and his perspicacious intuition comes across as somewhat larger than life (if not forgivably endearing). Paloma's acute perceptively dour psychological observations incisively and playfully occupy its forefront, while Renée's metamorphosis gradually picks up steam. Not sure what either Barbary or Achache are saying by having Renée die as soon as she begins to transcend her preoccupations with her thoroughly researched conceptions of her culture's general attitude concerning her personality as it relates to her job, apart from the fact that it dissuades Paloma from committing suicide, but that's another matter. Thoroughly entertaining, piquantly quizzical, and enigmatically enlightening, Achache's film compliments Barbary's novel even if their relationship could be a little less direct.