Dogmesticikitty

The snow refused to charitably yield and continued falling for weeks on end, the resultant piles indeed insurmountable as commerce and education could no longer function.

Even the army was unable to clear the vast voluminous onslaught of flakes, and people were locked down in grim seclusion with no emancipating end in sight.

For some, it was plain old February the dead of winter putrid and zombified, it was just a matter of one more board game before the resolute sun would resplendently shine.

But this time it didn't, the unabashed snow snidely fell with blanketing tempestuousness, as emphatic worries gradually increased with distressing implacable disregard. 

It felt like the time of the caveman as cloistered hysterics began to erupt, and too much time had awkwardly passed to relieve the tension with play and song.

When, to make matters worse, domestic cats and dogs revolted. 

And forged wild hunting parties of their own. 

From which safe refuge could not be found.

It's utterly absurd.

Like our cherished pets would ever wildly revolt against us!

It doesn't make sense if contemporary logic is keenly taken into universal account.

Still, the scene where the gigantic pack of dogs vehemently descended on the ________ team, was crazy intense and filled with emotion through the creative use of traditional plays. 

I suppose it was a bit cliché to have the army taken out first, to make the film that much more harrowing as the snow continued to fall.

The battle at the sequestered nunnery between the sisters and the barrage of cats, was spiritually sinister in its death-defying bedlam, no doubt ill-suited to Sunday school.

Throughout, the bewildered Trundle family oddly observes the ancient imbroglio, scholastically endowed and academically inclined they can't explain the pestilent reckoning.

I loved how the hibernating animals emerged from their slumber to save the town, passionately criticizing the dogs and cats for casting off their traditional domesticity. 

Ending the film with the bucolic, Just another god damn February, left me somewhat overcome with joy, the bizarro crisis having been averted, not bad for animation. 

Come and See

One of the most blunt traumatic films to ever illustrate Nazi World War II horrors, Elem Klimov's Come and See cacophonously presents sheer total war.

Seen through the eyes of a child who dreams of heroically saving his country, the horrifying effects of what he encounters enough to debilitate the strongest man (or woman).

He's left behind after being recruited since his boots fit an older soldier, so he makes the trip back home only to find his family has been slaughtered.

With another orphan he gradually makes the awkward journey to a secret hideaway, where they team up with humble survivors who are desperately struggling to find food.

He then heads out with some brave citizens to find supplies to ease their hunger, but the older individuals are soon shot down and he's eventually captured by the Nazis.

Who then take the citizens of another town and cruelly lock them in a barn.

Which they proceed to light on fire.

The boy narrowly escaping.

There's a visceral haunting grotesque evil effectively showcased in Come and See, which doesn't shy away from directly depicting the inherent terror of unleashed fascism.

As the monsters who wickedly believe they're the master race destroy and devastate, their sick malevolent point of view is thoroughly disputed and castrated.

The film isn't an exaggeration they murdered and butchered unarmed civilians like this, and sent many of the survivors to death camps where they fruitlessly laboured without end.

Such an ideology motivates psychotics who want to viciously and dismally demonstrate, that the openminded collective free world was unfortunately unable to vanquish hatred (it seemed so plausible before the internet).

And just as the Nazis terrorized the Soviet Union Russia currently attacks Ukraine, the victim so obsessed with its once hopeless position that it despicably embraces the oppressor's logic. 

If you want to see the fascist end game watch Come and See in stoic shock, and look on as people who could have been friends are wildly reduced to pestiferous ruin.

It angers up the blood and leaves one more determined than ever.

To embrace the olive branch. 

And stop such things from happening.

Old

Engaging thrilling prospects.

Resortful relaxation.

Pack up the fam, head down south.

Fare thee well road weary travellers.

The Cappa(bara) family takes such a spirited initiative, and soon arrives at a stunning locale, where others await and luxury accommodates, the stay promising to be uneventful. 

Briefly after settling in, a special opportunity is secretly presented, a coveted invitation to lounge for a day, reputedly favoured spry striking resiliency. 

Soon they're off with a gourmet spread stretched out and chillin' at the isolated beach, the families engaged in freeform conversation when it becomes apparent that many of them are sick.

Even worse, after an even shorter time it appears as if the young ones have suddenly sprouted, and that everyone is aging indeed, at a rapid unusual alarming pace!

Different methods of desperate escape naturally present themselves without much thinking, each of them as treacherous as the last as the woebegone venturers routinely phase.

And just as Horror Beach or Death Beach seems about to claim its final victims. 

Escape ideogrammatically matures. 

Having been nurtured throughout the ages.

Star Trek themes and plots terrestrially abound in the seductive Old, as rapid aging and medical malfeasance malpractically matricurate along the coast. 

Certainly a creepy caper reminding visitors never to leave the boat, for they may find a pandemic peculiarity contraceptively constructed with scampy decorum. 

Nazi scum experimented on humans as do the fascist Cardassian monsters, such a practice to be met with sincerest defiance, through the aggrievéd art of humanistic condemnation. 

Had the beach's unique capabilities been made strictly known to concerned public agencies, there's no doubt reasonable decorum would have efficiently encouraged effective recon.

It would have made a cool nature documentary since as far as I know nothing quite like it exists.

Just to learn about, like bears or wolverines. 

To remain aware, never to be forsaken. 

*The idea may have come from reckless government initiatives hoping to store toxic waste near vital aquatic resources. 

Im Westen nichts Neues (All Quiet on the Western Front)

Ideological exuberance devastatingly clashes with abysmal import, as new recruits head to the trenches mind-bogglingly eager to do their part.

The crushing realities having been kept generally tight-lipped amongst the influential, the daily terror and the resounding menace not quite as romantic as old school sword-fighting (see MacBeth).

But the adoring dreams jingoistically cultivated with envious furor and imperial venom, have concretely created joyous optimism overwhelmingly destined for chaotic discord.

How could those responsible continue the campaign, when only children were left to call up to refill the ranks that were clearly suffering?

How could monotonous ideals still stubbornly endure amidst the reckless bombardment, of mechanized condemnatory contradiction uniformly proving just recalcitrance?

But they do, they still do today, and they've once again become widespread and persuasive, notably within the war in Ukraine where Russia has clearly been deluded.

With a widespread dismissal of alternatives and a unilateral focus on master and slave, the fascists cruelly and abominably wage woebegone destruction with merciless rancour.

Fortunately, the free people of Ukraine are capable of multilateral thought, which inevitably outwits absolutism with inherent character and formidable verve.

People will argue that a cultural focus on the needs of the many is yet another form of absolutism, but how does food to eat and multivariable pastimes lead to a singular demarcation?

If manifold businesses with corresponding counterparts judiciously compete within a regulated sphere, antitrusts eventually level the field to promote newfound trajectories while nurturing tradition.

Thus, there is no absolutism, the absolute cannot coercively materialize, the checks and balances ensure constructive fluid motion and the liquidation of totalitarian trusts.

Do you really want only one store to buy clothes in, and only two or three restaurants where you can eat, and to accept what they provide with neither question nor critical infrastructure designed to inspect them?

Do you not want the liberating option to try new things regardless of race or income?

Do you want to transform a brilliant world full of life?

Into dull autocratic inertia?

Nightmare Alley

How far should someone go when seeking abundant easy money, where to clearly draw the line between entertainment and ecstatic despair?

People actively seek to believe in mystic supernatural antics, in worlds beyond the concrete material physically composing so much life.

How much of this is healthy or how much goes much too far, are manifest questions which consistently go unanswered, but if your belief in the afterlife provides you comfort, and doesn't cost you a fortune, and you don't make political decisions because a bee landed on your ice cream, and you don't force other people to believe, and you realize it might all be bullshit, I really don't see much of a problem, comfort's an important aspect of life.

Claudius's relationship with the Oracle of Delphi remains mysterious, but who knows how much was true, and how much conjured for dramatic flair?

I've often thought that renowned "oracles" or "fortune tellers" were students of history from the future, who somehow managed to fit in with the past without being locked up for witchcraft or heresy.

If genuine clairvoyants exist today, why aren't they world renowned?

Perhaps they've been sequestered by the highest bidder.

And are lavishly tucked away.

I play the sign game because that's how my mind's always worked, ever since I was but a wee lad, I remember playing the sign game.

But it's off a lot, it's sometimes correct, but isn't reliable enough to make wagers.

Plus, when people realize you're like this they constantly try to trick you. So it's difficult to detect anything that's genuine. Not that it isn't still fun trying.

Nightmare Alley may be a solid horror film but that doesn't mean it isn't revolting, do we really have to see an unfortunate soul bite the head off a live chicken (with special effects)?

Sick in the head, no holding back.

If you want a celebration of the most miserable aspects of existence, hopelessly wrapped up in abhorrent ethical decay, you may indeed prosper from a viewing of Nightmare Alley, which presents harsh lessons for light of heart ambitions.

Don't try to swindle the rich and famous, the brightest lights, don't take things too far.

Life's too precious and worth much more.

There's more value in a dragonfly's existence than overflowing riches.

Bride of Frankenstein

People continue to misunderstand Frankenstein's (Boris Karloff) harmless peaceful ambitions, and set out to thoroughly destroy him with distraught malevolent intent.

He's somewhat confused by the grandiose distress and realizes he must avoid the village, hiding out in the surrounding forest where he longs for inclusivity. 

Life's life and who's to challenge what lives if it co-exists with equanimity, securing an active balanced role within Earth's multidimensional nexus.

Frankenstein understands this and strives to harmoniously make friends, but fear and aesthetic prejudice lead to inhospitable conflict.

Meanwhile, another scientist takes wholesome pity on the troubled lad (Ernest Thesiger as Dr. Pretorius), and theorizes that traditional heteronormative constructs may lead to acculturation.

He enlists the reluctant aid of Frankenstein's industrious forefather (Colin Clive as Henry Frankenstein), and sets about creating a mate to appease tumultuous chaotic bearings.

Frankenstein seems somewhat relieved by the altruistic acclamation, having only known disarray since having been shockingly brought to life.

But there's no telling what will happen if the experiment's a success.

Conjugal communal courtly cohesion.

But what if she rejects him?

Few sequels disproportionately proceed with such ineffable progressive momentum, enticingly accelerating with riveting resonance immaculately distilled otherworldly genesis.

Few horror films possess such paramount cultural inoculations, as instinctual bellicose folly is disemboweled with airtight empathy.

The classic scenes where Frankenstein meets the visually impaired violinist living alone in the woods, modest heartfelt honest exemplars of innocent curious tame compassion.

The inspired unchecked ebullience emphatically exclaimed through experimentation, as both doctors philosophically articulate bold corporeal determinations.

Will a future filled with androids be relatively harmless as Picard hopes, or will The Terminator's prophetic bedlam come to calamitously pass?

Does the answer lie within this daring tragic Bride of Frankenstein?

Can animate life for mercy's sake . . .

Also apply to friendly robots?

The Black Cat

Spoiler alert.

A newlywed couple unwinds on their honeymoon, carefreely travelling throughout Eastern Europe, wilfully embracing romantic stratagems, to celebrate their new life together.

Suddenly a stranger joins them in their spacious train compartment, who happens to be heading to the same destination, with which he's intimately familiar (Bela Lugosi as Dr. Vitus Werdegast). 

Upon departure, he secures a ride, and they set off into a forbidding storm, dispiritingly crashing not so long after, lodging fortunately available nearby.

But Vitus has failed to tell them that he's recently returned from prison, and seeks vengeance at the very establishment where they happen to be spending the night.

The owner (Boris Karloff as Hjalmar Poelzig) cheated him during a war along with many of their brave compatriots, for he longed for Vitus's precious wife, and cowardly sought to save his own skin.

Vitus's wife perished shortly thereafter but their daughter enchantingly grew, and eventually wed the man who had ruined her family, lacking paramount prerequisite knowledge.

He also loyally worships Satan and conducts forbidden rituals with local elites at his home.

The young couple struggles to adapt.

Without preponderant divine mercy.

More concerned with character and mood than striking shocking spry special effects, The Black Cat haunts without graphic supplement, as old school legends face off for the first time.

Was this narrative frightening for audiences way back and does it still scare peeps to this very day, have there always been those who find it comic, or perhaps abounding with sardonic frights?

Horror certainly has become much more technical in terms of mind-bogglingly mad diabolics, if you went from finding The Black Cat startling what would you make of A Nightmare on Elm Street?

Is horror more suited to the censors of its time or can it function at random, ahistorically?, audiences from the '30s would have been less familiar with Freddy or Jason, but their world was much more accustomed to war torn strife.

Were censors more strict long ago because the world was still much more blunt and chaotic, and they refused to encourage theoretical bedlam because they distrusted aggrieved elementals?

Apart from the pandemic, the last 75 years haven't seen grandiose crazed distress, on a mass scale like World War II anyways, not that there haven't been sundry harrowing incidents.

Can't say I'll ever get used to lockdowns.

Although they're necessary when things get out of hand. 

I didn't find The Black Cat comic.

I thought it was a cool bit of offbeat storytelling.

Nightbooks

A thoughtful youth likes to write stories that are somewhat frightening if not supernatural (Winslow Fegley as Alex), his nascent creative literary endeavours misunderstood by his strait-laced classmates.

Unfortunately, on the night of his birthday party, no ones shows up to indulge and celebrate, his parents having gone to great lengths to materialize, a fitting festive otherworldly soirée.

They begin to doubt their motivations and callously vocalize their frustrated misgivings, Alex listening closely in the next room, he suddenly decides to run away.

Yet even more disastrous, he decides to burn his cherished books, a haughty witch intercepting him as he proceeds down (Krysten Ritter as Natacha), to his apartment's scalding incinerator. 

The witch is none too accommodating however and traps him inside her magical abode, demanding a new story each and every evening, happy endings strictly forbidden.

Due to his absolutist circumstances, he readily seeks wholehearted escape, with the aid of another resident child (Lidya Jewett as Yasmin), who had been hopeless for quite some time.

But a furless invisible cat watches their movements throughout the day.

And doesn't understand when they find: a spell encouraging slumbrous oblivion.

Nightbooks applauds the grim and macabre with sincere devout unlimited reckoning, securing spellbound enriched daunting fantasies for multivariable epochs to come. 

Firmly resolved to withstand criticism of the artistic desire to explore spooky realms, it champions bold incarnate conjuring perhaps with multidisciplinary respite.

If you're ever mundanely thinking that related genres are lacking forward momentum, I suggest checking out Montréal's Fantasia festival as well, where you'll find innovative stories from around the globe.

I have no idea at what age to start consuming frets and frights, they freaked me out when I was really young, but I was really into them throughout my teens and twenties.

Harry Potter offers fascinating insights into freedom of expression, within a robust world equipped with intricate complex plots and characterizations (what happened to J.K. Rowling?).

Nightbooks too, I really liked Nightbooks, and its stressful examination of writing.

If you're thinking of stories write them down.

Social prestige and criticism be damned. 

*The Dream Warriors was my favourite Nightmare on Elm Street film. I never saw numbers 2 or 5 however.

**Can't believe there's a Child's Play tv show/series coming out. That's mind-boggling considering how strict censors were way back when.

Black Moon

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

Unless you want something lighter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perfect for Halloween.

For considerations of low budget sci-fi.

Unorthodox strange elementals.

Acts of inspired independence.

Color Out of Space

A family bound together living far away from the closest town, goes about their habitual routines in a forest lush and haunting.

Lavinia (Madeleine Arthur) plays occultist, little Jack (Julian Hilliard) seeks clarification, Benny (Brendan Meyer) hides and smokes that reefer, while Mom and Dad (Joely Richardson as Theresa and Nicolas Cage as Nathan) sit back and dream.

As their idyllic bucolic hideaway suddenly receives a visitor from space, a giant meteor lighting up the heavens, remaining solid as it swiftly descends.

At first things seem quite ordinary, even if a local television crew comes calling, without much of a story to go on, apart from a comic lack of rehearsal.

But something's strangely spellbound and new flowers start to appear, the alpacas slightly on edge, their neighbour (Tommy Chong as Ezra) even more otherworldly.

For extraterrestrial entities have inhospitably stowed away, upon it, radiating inorganic rectitude, which mutates grassroots life.

Capable of transforming both solids and immaterials, without recourse to pattern or schematic, it virulently asserts conceited conflict, while transfusing spiritual venom.

Communications function no longer.

They're cut off from the outside world.

With only cohesivity to rely on.

As their family vouchsafes the nuclear.

I wonder what others thought of Richard Stanley's Color Out of Space?

I could only sort of get into it, I felt like it was missing something.

But I often don't get campy horror or fail to see what others cherish, their immersion in the genre more full-on, more attuned to shocking hysterics.

Perhaps I'm too old school, but I kept wishing the cast had been larger, that more characters had encountered the lifeforce, to be botanically decomposed.

John Carpenter's The Thing may have been released in 1982, but it's become somewhat of a classic, so it may be too early to be paying unacknowledged homage, its reverberations still starkly dishevelling.

I thought Ezra's first scene was all too short and brief, it didn't leave me hangin', wanting more, it left me frustrated that I'd have to wait.

For more.

It's clear they need to vacate as soon as humanly possible yet he crawls into the well? I'm thinking there was something cool there I didn't get, like most of Attack of the Killer Tomatoes, or Killer Klowns from Outer Space?

I did love Return of the Killer Tomatoes!

I was searching for some memorable lines chaotically delivered by an impassioned Nicolas Cage, too, which would have reminded me of old school Twin Peaks or even Q, but if they were there I didn't detect them, my loss, no doubt, to be certain.

Color Out of Space still appeared to be the genuine article, like bona fide midnight mayhem, my apologies for wandering adrift, I totally did not get it.

Even if I applaud the viral nature of its mysterious antagonist, like an enviroalien consciousness, like tangible biological thought, or the horrors of forever chemicals.

Toxic waste.

Fluorocarbons.

DEET.

It - Chapter Two

A disturbed slumber, 27 years of rest woebegone, sedate irascibility, contumely comas, hellbent on dispensing despotic discontent, extremely confident of his monstrous prowess, as the virtuous gather, somewhat unsure of their deadly purpose, most of their lives having briskly moved on, careers and love, duty and responsibility, adulthood, maturity, they've forgotten what once fiercely threatened them, although one remained staunch and vigilant, conducting devout immersed freelance research, constructing a strategy to fight round 2, sure and steady, carrying on, assured and brave unwavering commitment, adroitly aware confined productive obsession.

He makes the calls.

They are awkwardly heeded.

But with what seems like miraculous good fortune, they return to Derry minus one, the details of their trauma somewhat hazy, a refresher dynastically awaiting.

Mike Hanlon (Isaiah Mustafa/Chosen Jacobs) believes he's discovered the secret to defeating Pennywise (Bill Skarsgård), but it's complicated if not unnerving.

After visiting local First Nations, who have known of Pennywise since time immemorial, he discovered that they each must locate something personal, they'll just know it when they see it, and that each of these personalized items must then be burned together as one, within a cavern deep below ground, to which the beast will be immediately summoned.

But Pennywise has thought of little else over the years, throughout the tormenting intervening period, and is ready to plague them with fear, as they set out in search of nostalgic essentials.

Alone.

Even though the errors of proceeding individually are pointed out, Hanlon states that the ritual requires personalized sleuthing, Pennywise conscious of their adversarial intent, and everything else that they're blindly thinking.

If you saw the made-for-tv version of It as a child, you can't miss the new cinematic enterprise, which supplies fresh hearty chilling frights, and a corresponding sense of unease.

The narrative's compact, it focuses almost entirely on the adults who defeated Pennywise as children, or were psychologically enslaved by him, there's no police or community at large, just a monster and its courageous foes.

Even though it's 2 hours and 49 minutes long, it still unreels with startling brevity, the wayward adults returning to Derry rapidly, leaving work etc. behind far too quickly.

Except for Mrs. Marsh (Jessica Chastain/Sophia Lillis), who needs to get the *&#* out of there.

The scenes are kind of hokey, passing too abruptly to nurture the genuine.

They each encounter Pennywise again, however, on their own, and these scenes are more lengthy and convincing, the film less concerned with matters beyond the terrifying world of Derry, a tight knit group keeping things crisp, shipshape.

The hasty returns, individual pursuits, and lack of community-at-large involvement, make It - Chapter Two seem a bit slapdash, scary and morbid yet slapdash, especially since each character must accomplish a difficult task after suddenly finding themselves in a frightening inhospitable world they left long ago, and they all succeed while only suffering slight mental distress.

But if the realism isn't going to cut it, or will at least only lead to banal shocks, the ridiculous can indeed be relied upon, fantastic excess outwitting routine expectations.

If horror films are supposed to leave you feeling ill afterwards, It - Chapter Two is a blunt success.

Even if it's kind of corny.

And the Henry Bowers (Teach Grant/Nicholas Hamilton) subplot doesn't add much.

Midsommar

Spoiler alert.

Extreme tragedy strikes, and a young student is torn asunder (Florence Pugh as Dani).

In her hour of need, her partner steps up (Jack Reynor as Christian), providing dependable loving care, even though things would have ended otherwise.

A trip.

A vacation.

A friend invites them and others to visit the Swedish community that reared him (Vilhelm Blomgren as Pelle), an anthropological opportunity adored and beckoning, a remote adventure which seems harmless enough.

They gather and set off, unsuspicious and unaware.

They're greeted with somnambulistic sustenance, and proceed in the interests of friendship.

Yet something's not quite right as they settle in to total isolation, and strange rituals harrowingly bewilder, with no explanations genuinely forthcoming.

Nausea.

Disappearances.

Pure utter terror.

Ari Aster's Midsommar cultivates occultist acculturation, as realistic as one two three.

It's the best horror film I've seen in years, in the same league as The Exorcist or The Omen.

Better even.

I don't even really watch horror films anymore, unless it's Halloween, and never thought it would impress so monstrously.

It maintains an innocent carefree aesthetic throughout, as it slowly matriculates ubiquitous discretion.

Alternative ideas guide the insulated community.

The magnitude of the shock is too severe for outsiders, and even though things don't make sense, nothing is done to countermand or break free.

Thus, rather than spending time and effort presenting a failed escape followed by woeful incarceration, Midsommar's characters incredulously stay put, awaiting what can't possibly be, in confused awestruck senseless immersion.

There's no heroes, no heroics.

No passion. No universal code.

An ancient offbeat strictly orthodox idiosyncrasy has wickedly endured, as manifold perspectives would likely view it, and it recruits new members with neither pretence nor precaution, convinced that once they arrive, they'll never be able to set themselves free.

Even if they aren't kept waiting long.

The realism haunts you afterward since it's difficult to quickly dismiss, it isn't improbable or ridiculous or insane, it's more like vibrant documentary fiction, highlighting novelty's dark side.

Proceed with caution.

Perhaps view with a friend.

Freedoms require limitations.

Through limitations, set yourself free.

😌

High Life

Sequestered interstellar impudence botanically inseminating raw delinquent justice.

Claustrophobic encapsulations reanimating grouse grizzled seared begrudged camaraderie fertilizing angst consoled.

Mutaric verse.

Holistic cross-section.

Experimental cortical recalibrated resonance reverberating frontiers jejune meaningless runes.

On the sly, roll out, acculturate, condition, speculative tiers definitively impacted, like an age old feudal grave.

A star.

A quasar.

Something compelling evokes infinite something drastic disillusions hallows.

Past the point of inspiration far beyond exhausted fears, nihilistic contamination endemically engineered.

Chill in the garden. Keep chillin' in the garden. The plants grow, nurture, conserve, bustle. There's a celebration of life inasmuch as it flourishes. Why not dig something, play? Comment? Construct? Observe? Sparrows. Leafy green bouquets. Chomp chomp. Chatter. Stretch.

New birth.

Regenerative life.

Space child infinitesimally engrossed caught up waylaid.

Through no fault of their own were they locked up inside, in test tubes of ambient Jekyll & Hyde, lost in the galaxy stars set adrift, with freedoms inherent, candidly pitched.

Elaborate databases.

Books.

Perhaps.

Monte's (Robert Pattinson) devotion.

Travelling forever through astronomical climes, a unique descriptive vocabulary characterizing understated variation.

Like the Inuit describing snow.

Proust delineating obsession.

Interplanetary lullabies.

Velveteen moons.

Remarkably original unsettling independent sci-fi, creating its own unique codes, as if it was extraterrestrially conceived, born of the abstract candelabra.

Keep an open mind.

And proceed with caution.

Strange film.

Solemn incarcerated imagination.

André Benjamin (Tcherny) stands out.

Us

Spoiler Alert.

A family attends a local carnival in Summer, and as the father claims a winning prize, his daughter blindly wanders off.

She takes in the sights and sounds with quaint innocent wonder, before finding herself on the beach, approaching a mysterious funhouse.

Undaunted by her lack of adult accompaniment, and curious to see what amusingly jests inside, she boldly enters comma one two three, then delights in both razzle and dazzle.

Yet, ominously awaiting in the house of mirrors, as unaware of its fateful reckoning as its unsuspecting daylit lifeblood, is a startled provocative doppelgänger, who's never known true warmth or joy.

What happens next is concealed as time travels to the present day.

Upon which a family has returned to the same destination, without concern for its treacherous echoes.

Which they have often done, it appears they have often travelled there before, Jordan Peele's Us revelling in auspicious tradition, overflowing with romance embalmed.

People are somewhat happy.

There's cheer, mirth, goodwill, adventure.

They often get along well with one another.

A community, a pact.

A team.

But what if every inhabitant of the Earth, rich or poor, black, white, Asian, First Nations, in fact had a covetous doppelgänger, and they didn't exist in an imperceptible alternative dimension, but lived somewhere deep within the Earth indeed?

And what if the delineations demarcating the ontological zones dematerialized in chaotic rupture, and being became inherently combative, as neither group attempted to understand the other?

Us examines this dilemma through the lens of sedate horror, macroscopically manifested in stark haunting menace, improbability rationalized through dismal absurdity, disquieting comforts, confrontationally invested.

Like Star Trek's Mirror, Mirror if it was somewhat zombie.

More cerebral than it is terrifying, it still harrowingly gestates mayhem.

But without reasons explaining its dire conceit, apart from the mention of abandoned networks of tunnels at the beginning, sparse dialogue, clunky conversation, its narrative is somewhat comic, although the film isn't really that funny.

It's well-crafted nevertheless, and doesn't rely on sensation to tell its tale.

But its apocalyptic ambient cunning falls short of Get Out's daring shocks, a gripping tale in the moment no less, but not something I can't wait to see again.

Flatliners

I suppose Flatliners passes as a chilling representation of mainstream sci-fi/horror, its 5 med students adventurously engaged in supernatural experimentation, recklessly bringing about their own deaths to pioneer forbidden im/mortal disciplines, risking their coveted careers to entertainingly tantalize, while unwittingly materializing vengeful sociohistorical menace.

It excites eager film lovers by affixing its characters with ingenious analytical and creative abilities, real world superpowers which delineate discriminate diagnoses, yet simultaneously terrifies them by monstrously calling into question the means by which they obtained them, metaphorically speaking, "say no to drugs."

It's as if after flatlining everything they've ever done, read, intuited, or considered, is computationally available, capable of being accessed and applied with immediate inspirational virtuosity, however, since each character has effectively ruined, even ended the lives of others, their genius is maddeningly guilt ridden, and their aspirations spiritually overwhelming.

Like Limitless meets Final Destination, Flatliners packs a potent cerebrally stunning punch, but it gets down to it a little too quickly for my tastes, instantaneously invigorating its narrative without having thoughtfully justified why it's bothering to do so.

Perhaps an additional 15 minutes spent clarifying why the characters are so willingly embracing death enriched with a reflective dialogue concerning the merits of their moribund undertakings would have been too cumbersome, too boring, too intellectual, but it's not like they're thinking about taking a road trip here, or heading to the casino or skipping class.

Or making out in the library.

They be killing themselves to suicidally synergize prohibited prognostics and vivacious versatilities, and methinks that deserves a bit more discussion as the story unfolds, even if it unreels contemptuously thereafter.

Is that middle-aged bias?

Wait, Flatliner's religious underpinnings suggest explanations are unnecessary, so the rash undiscussed experimental adolescent death drive is therefore subconsciously sustained.

However, they're all med students using science to make breakthroughs within earthly realms, and should therefore be questioning everything they do.

Perhaps the soul searching yet practically attuned Ray (Diego Luna), who, unlike his colleagues, worked his way up through bold honest labour, presents a way out of this deadlock, for he's the only character whose past doesn't haunt him, and he's also the only one who doesn't flatline.

But doesn't the person of the world who never seeks to comprehend occult mysteries function like Indiana Jones and Marion at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, never seeking to understand the divine even if it is bluntly presented, out of unacknowledged religious humility, or existential acculturation?

And therefore can't assist?

Beats me.

*I watched Kingdom of the Crystal Skull again last night for the first time since it came out. I liked it a lot more the second time although things get pretty ridiculous near the end. And suggesting aliens taught ancient cultures everything they knew is ethnocentric. Our superbrains created the internet. Theirs created the Pyramids, the Great Wall etc.

**I wrote this last February and forgot that I had mentioned Indiana Jones. I didn't read it again until tonight, the night I had planned to post it on last February (well, I had planned to post it on a Monday in November). And I just recently finished watching all the Indiana Jones movies again.  As in yesterday. Weird.

Summer of 84

An innocent mind rationally filled with suspicion detects neighbourly crime in the Summer of 84.

With no condemnatory evidence, and only his teenage imagination to support his accusations, Davey Armstrong (Graham Verchere) must cleverly engage in covert ops, with a little help from his most trusted closest friends.

In an age synthetically flourishing (not) long before the world went viral, known to many as the most joyous wondrous adventurous decade in world history, complete with physical newspapers and programs regularly broadcast on television, the odd sensational headline grabbing everyone's critical attention, the foolhardy nature of which was lampooned by an aware North American public staunchly versed in peaceful collectivity, a Foucauldean analysis of the times notwithstanding, but things didn't seem so divisive back then, 4 teens set out to secretively prove wrongdoing, using (not so) ancient reliable methodologies such as activity based disguises (manhunt), maneuverable modes of transportation (bikes), non-electronic technologies (binoculars), and inclusive dialogues leaving behind no detectable trace (conversation), as investigatory aids.

The suspect: a police officer living alone within a suburban dwelling, highly respected by neighbourhood families, thought to be dependable for many untroubled yesteryears.

The love interest: in a plot development that's absolutely perfect, an older beautiful resident female (Tiera Skovbye as Nikki Kaszuba) takes a shine to inquisitive young Davey, who is eager to reciprocate her interrogatory mannerisms, much to the amazement of his incredulous retinue.

Classic nerd love (see Meatballs 3).

Conveniently introduced to defy expectations.

Throughout most of the film I was thinking, "okay, this is solid low-budget storytelling skillfully operating within realistically extraordinary circumstances supported by strong characters, music, plot developments, and historical fascinations, but where's the horror?, this seems much more like heavy teen crime drama than a horror film, or even a nail-biting thriller."

Note: ginger wasn't a widespread term in the 80s (in my neighbourhood anyways) and it wasn't so easy to watch a movie late at night in 1984 unless you actually had a VCR and were able to rent what you wanted to see at a local video store, which likely didn't own twenty to thirty copies, or it happened to be on television and your parents didn't mind you staying up to watch it.

But the horror kicks in big time near the end and its impact is much more terrifying due to the intensity of the unexpected shocks.

Actual frights as opposed to campy humour.

A local family also declares political support for a new candidate around the same time.

To learn more about additional related horrors, see Michael Moore's Capitalism: A Love Story.

Yikes!

Get Out

Racist idiocy is taken to its ludicrous point of no return in Jordan Peele's terrifying Get Out, wherein which science-fiction theorizes immortality, and horror practically applies it.

Intergenerationally.

An African American is seduced by a Caucasian beauty, and after months of seemingly harmless courtship, is invited to her country home.

Little does he know that the logic underlying his initial misgivings is in fact fuelling her emotional duplicity.

Fundamentally speaking.

For what was formerly dismissed and despised by the reprehensible has been transformed into an object of veneration, or what was once loathed is now admired, even coveted in the corporeal sense.

He soon finds himself designated somnambulistic person of interest, over a cup of late evening tea, and left plunged deep below the subconscious surface.

Floating in limbo.

His closest friend immediately grasps his peril, employing relevant pop cultural analyses to comprehend, but can assist not, from his digs in the heart of the city.

As a result, only improvised ingenuity can psychologically save him, physically speaking, as the operating table is prepped, and shackles retain fear enraged.

Perfidy.

Misjudging friendship.

A mind-boggling manifestation of the Machiavellian macabre, Get Out succeeds where so many horror films fail.

Its absurd plot is rationally realized through a dramatic commitment that is neither forced nor exaggerated.

It doesn't rely on the supernatural and therefore resonates with harrowing plausibility.

More than a weekend was spent writing the script, and the resultant social commentary is less shocking, until the truth emerges.

And clues are presented and analyzed, deductive aids invoked, as the awkward sleuths eternal, confronting dismissive ridicule through haunting contemplation.

It's nice to see so much time and care put into the creation of thought provoking horror.

The social commentary isn't as ridiculous as it seems, in fact it's quite reasonable, mad jealousy taken to the extreme, the insane application of unscientific conjecture.

I always thought you see a lot of African Americans on professional sports teams because institutional racism keeps their communities poor, and when you're poor you have a lot more time to focus on sport, if you aren't working, and more drive to be the best, because you aren't growing up surrounded by luxurious distractions and potential opportunities.

That's the logical explanation anyways.

As upsetting as such a point remains.

It

Plagued by an ingratiating ravenous monstrosity, a team of creative outcasts struggles to envision.

It preys upon them in isolation, shockingly manifesting their most potent fears in trepidatious real-time after they've been discovered alone.

Or at least passing by unnoticed, adults being immune to the clown's pestiferous ploys, and unable to assist their young as they struggle to outwit vicious appetite.

Yet one boy (Jaeden Lieberher as Bill Denbrough) boldly decides he will not yield and convinces the others to affirm contention.

Thereby emerging as leader.

Having realized they are stronger if they resolutely unite as one, they set out in search of conflict, whether engaging with the malevolent Pennywise (Bill Skarsgård), their parents, or other unhelpful adults, things are bleak, castigating apprehensions woebegone, they eventually strike with vehement poise.

Umbilical.

They mustn't be afraid you see, and contending as a group helps them face then overcome their fears, Pennywise functioning as the haunting prospect of a spoiled unproductive lonely maladjusted youth, it doesn't necessarily kill them but transforms them into mature horrors, mired in a revolving stasis, the sought after younglings organized in It, finding friendship like an antidote to venom.

Articulate idiosyncrasies.

Improvised bedlam.

It's unconcerned restrained yet volatile examination of unsung heroism shyly elevates the versatility of teamwork while cohesively combatting bullying and rumour.

It's a matter of timing, strategizing, envisioning, coordinating, communicating, adjusting, adapting.

The film mechanically delivers some solid frights while still developing young adult character and plot without overemphasizing the grotesque or understating childhood trauma.

All around bad, being a kid in It's filmscape.

That is one crappy fictional town.

Annabelle: Creation

Horror awaits a group of female religious orphans in David F. Sandberg's Annabelle: Creation, as they find sanctuary with a childless family whose husband once made a living crafting dolls.

Unfortunately, his daughter was lost in a tragic accident, and emphatic prayers for reanimation were made to whomever would mercifully listen.

Yet in their desperation, Mr. and Mrs. Mullins (Anthony LaPaglia and Miranda Otto) accepted the aid of Satan, and one of his unholy minions was unleashed upon earthly realms.

Eventually captured and incarcerated within biblical shackles, it malevolently waits for ingenuous release, calling out to the unsuspecting, as they attempt to innocently slumber.

Why was there no exorcism?

Why was pure evil so lackadaisically contained?

Seriously, an exorcism and a wild grizzled priest would have added a lot to Annabelle: Creation, which performs some rudimentary tricks but by no means stands out as a testifying treat.

An exorcism perhaps would have made the film seem too derivative, but it's not like it represents supernatural authenticity in its current threadbare confines.

Many episodes of The X-Files are more frightening and thought provoking for instance.

If Sister Charlotte (Stephanie Sigman) had boldly and resonantly stood against the demon and dealt it a discombobulating blow, feminine strength would have been more actively asserted.

Thus, in its current state it's little more than a light bit of distraction, whose latent thematic potential might resonate more profoundly in subsequent instalments.

Blair Witch

Disbelieving ingenuous pups curiously travel to the woods at play, bark bark, in search of a sister long lost in legend, guided by hoaxes on trial by fire, unaware of omnipresent psychotic denizens, gleefully clattering while setting up camp.

And what to make of the legend, of the menace, the malevolence, terrorizing the Black Hills Forest for centuries, misguided punishments generating extremes eternal, no reasoning, no guilt, just blind infinite pernicious ambition, for anyone who comes near, for everyone entering the forsaken domain?

Be good they say, well-mannered, tip-top.

Criticize they say, contradict, rise up.

Occupy middle ground, regard each encounter as a fresh set of downs, proceed seriously, jovially, mischievously, passively, formidably, keep that yap shut, freely express every thought, beware of unknown exhilarations of maniacal metaphorical interpretations of attired discourse, as you seek that coupling, that panoramic, as punishment after punishment punishes your unwilful disobedience, and the subjects you choose to stitch and braise.

And flay.

The weather.

It was nice today.

Talk more.

Revolting.

Why are you so quiet?

You must be a snob.

I suppose the film's alright.

Not much to it besides what's to be expected and a clash between locals and outsiders.

And drones.

Classic let's do it again and cash-in.

Contextually.

Indubitably.

Happy Halloween!