Haranglutton

Disenchantingly, the voracious craze for oil & gas having yet subsided, the forlorn day melancholically came when planet Earth had no more oil.

Level heads had pleaded for centuries to smoothly facilitate a transition plan, but inherent greed and inestimable faith in the status quo were insurmountable.

Cultures had begun to rely on AI to make their decisions for them, and it had not foreseen the inevitable scarcity nor uttered warnings about its hardships.

It was highly relied upon as billions of people asked it relevant questions, and followed its advice with openminded standing throughout the complexities of daily life.

Without oil there was no AI and people had to think once again, the grand overbearing gloomy imposition leading to madness in the most domesticated. 

The well-off had found subjective ways to creatively preserve their way of life, individually cut off from communities at large they made their way far off in the country.

Seeing their chance, the most ambitious of the disenfranchised raised their voices. 

And exclaimed in heartfelt crescendo. 

Their visionary ideas for a sustainable future. 

Time and care is articulated taken to passionately construct the alternative speeches, opposing ideologies steadfastly interwoven within their stately verbose orthodoxies.

The lofty presentation of high-minded ideals makes an impact amongst the faithful, and seems to be winning the derelict day before it's exoterically confronted. 

The here and now, the stresses of the moment the discovery of food for winter impressing, many people in its vigorous plea to indefinitely champion wants and needs.

It is a film I suppose, so what can be done when another group militaristically imposes, its brutal discipline and absolutist fervour throughout the helpless indoctrinated lands.

Unity of ideals and spirit still thriving.

In a mad doomsday Shakespearian scenario. 

With a steady focus on a struggling family.

Loved the bear strolling through the woods in the end.

Sicario

Revenge.

Obsession.

Law.

Order.

The big picture, international intrigue, drugs smuggled in from Mexico to the United States, 20% of the American population consuming them while the profits fuel domestic violence south of the border, the number of sequestered kingpins having expanded in recent decades, too many to control, too deadly to ignore.

Stats and info provided by Sicario.

The film indirectly comments on ISIL, on Saddam Hussein, the theory that he was the strongperson who kept the extremists in check, who maintained Iraqi order regardless of his methods, the vacuum created after his removal having led to ISIL, who is currently seeking to control much more than Kuwait.

Plutocratic blunders.

It's the same thing in Sicario, the Americans having had more success monitoring/controlling the drug trade when there was only one kingping narcotically nesting, according to the film, a multidimensional marketplace full of alluring alternatives working well for the sale of computers or jeans, but not for the trafficking of drugs.

Wolves eating wolves.

Victims menaced and menacing.

Sicario fictionalizes tough decisions, capital gains, as Alejandro (Benicio Del Toro) seeks to assassinate a leading man, and Kate Macer (Emily Blunt) idealistically monitors his actions, the masculine and the feminine conflicting thereby.

A Mexican policeperson, a father, enters the narrative to ask the question "do Alejandro's methods justify his results, do his means justify his ends"?, the violent violently infernalizing social spheres, do as you're told or you'll never grow old, dig in deep and try to exist, extreme unlicensed ego, upheld by any means necessary.

No exceptions.

No limits.

No humour.

Behind the scenes kings and queens.

À la carte.

I liked the film; thought that it could have been more menacing.

Shades of Zero Dark Thirty. 

Bullhead

Symptomatically and jaggedly pluralizing the personal psychological affects of a sudden all-encompassing disillusionment, while intricately stratifying a diverse bombastic barrage, literally interjecting his film with bellicose doses of testosterone, Michaël R. Roskam takes Bullhead and cacophonically synthesizes a man with his husbandry, as he tries whatever he can to surreptitiously distend.

An event. A transformation. Perseverance. Sublimation. Shock. Disintegration.

The wind in the willows.

Or the cyclone in the spruces in this instance. Jacky Vanmarsenille (Matthias Schoenaerts) is one volatile powder keg lacking the deflammatory passions which may have softened the blow.

But apart from scintillatingly nocturnalizing a tragic character study, Bullhead complacently, cerebrally, and chaotically economizes its 'subject matter,' potently intensifying a somewhat underrepresented particular submergence, while using it to indirectly comment upon Belgian social interactions.

If Mr. Vanmarsenille represents the local, then the local is diversified, then regionalized (the regional possessing a nationalistic nuance), and then subjectively traumatized, historicized, and atemporalized, while the film retains a selective degree of objectivity (which dissipates near the end), the catalyst of said trauma triumvirately functioning within the local, regional, and national domains, with romantic, familial, comic and veterinary issues exhaustively adorning its multiplicity.

Mr. Roskam knows how to get things done (screenplay by Michaël R. Roskam). 

It offers a potential counterpoint to Darren Aronofsky's The Wrestler, one film focused primarily on a individual's parenting struggles within an environment theoretically dominated by the personal, the other's less subject-centric caricature working within one hypothetically attempting to produce a less hostile bilateral congregation, both lamenting static subjective growth.

Stress. They're both, full, of stress.

I recommend Bullhead for lovers of multidimensional cinema but be prepared cause it's rather dark.

I kind of think of it as a stubborn grouchy emasculated subdued rowdy intellectual action film to which you must pay strict attention.

Calamitizing the maintenance of an ideal.

Which blindly obscures what's beautiful.