The Madness of King George

Foucauldian investigation pending, I still find it odd to see a film from the '90s heavily invested in the monarchy, even though its cherished king briefly loses his mind, and an upstart layabout may indefinitely displace him.

Here you have a critical problem relating to monarchy or autocracy laid bare, what if the king loses his mind and sill continues to fluidly take an active role in government?

I'm more familiar with narratives that take a much more severe look at such potentialities, in order to wisely advocate for democratic institutions, which usually saturate tyrannical ambitions.

The king in this film is adorable however with an encyclopedic knowledge of his domain, he likes animals and knows the details of the intimate lives of even his most theoretically insignificant subjects. 

He finds custom and formality irritating and openly wishes to be less strict, amidst an observant displeased retinue compulsively obsessed with monarchical routine.

Unfortunately, as he becomes more and more friendly and more becoming to democratic sensibilities, he's considered more and more insane and eventually locked up for his communal troubles.

The doctor hired to cure him contrasts his personality with democratic incongruity, he's never read Shakespeare and has no time for pomp but understands his work with utilitarian efficacy. 

Thus the king who is more like a commoner hires a commoner who is more like a king, to save his mind from withering away into petulant unrehearsed trivial lunacy.

The treatment indeed is much less fun than the childish mad king ruling his kingdom, but it does work he's able to return to the head of government without excessive comment.

But even if the king is loveable and wise and caring and erudite, does the potential for debased absolutism not reside inherently within?

How strong are the democratic forces collectively aligned to challenge such aberrations, as absolutist sentiment widely spreads and eventually subsides in cultural familiarity?

Familiarity is no doubt ingratiating but what if it starts illegal wars that ruin the global economy?

Does the familiar become say fruitless? 

To be challenged by the feverish unknown? 

The Borg

They were faced with the frustrating problem of seamlessly blending the organic with the technological, through the use of invasive brain implants designed to hardwire collective life.

They asked themselves the question is the organic itself technological?, is there an artificial component of the living, and if there indeed is so, why can't the technobiological function?

Ghastly experiments took place.

Thousands butchered in the name of science.

Before enough was learned about the brain to create synthetic computer models with which to experiment, the painstakingly acquired computational data eventually field tested with live specimens. 

The remodelling and recalibrations were just as horrifying as before, the experimental surgeries leaving thousands with untreatable enigmatic brain trauma.

There were mass protests critiquing the phenomenon but the technocratic state dismissed them, and preferred to believe they were definitively facilitating the evolution of their species. 

Many people followed them and as their research progressed they approved, they began to have more success which led to conflicting visions of the future.

Thought or spirit however was most indefinitely troubling, direct connections between thinking minds so thoughts could be shared without limits or boundaries.

The mechanical nature of the organic synthetically suggested there was a way, that remote psychological manifestations could be biologically linked through technoinnovations. 

Rather than continuing to experiment on live people, it was soon collectively decided, to use their research to precisely craft working individualistic models.

Finding the exacting blueprints the computer program delineating life itself, wherein which thought also existed alongside atemporal animal being, produced thousands of random creatures before they finally got it right, and the production of animate life softened the need for experimentation. 

Having succumbed to idealistic preaching the few inevitably chosen to link their minds, accepted their duty with resignation after seeing so much loss of life.

But as their minds were linked they omnisciently felt like they embodied absolutism. 

And called themselves the Borg.

Their mission intensifying ever after. 

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. 

Voyage to the End of the Universe

A multifaceted communal space vessel patiently travels throughout the universe, destined to land on Alpha Centauri with the hopes of encountering alien life.

They harmoniously deal with the consistent boredom and stoically embrace their interminable routine, remaining awake for most of the journey instead of simply sleeping in cryo chambers. 

With 40 crew members the potential for multiple different conversations and interactive alternatives, leaves many contented and active enough to overcome haunting claustrophobic anxieties. 

They exist hundreds of years in the future where free thinking minds have championed peace, and as they smoothly accelerate through different solar systems they meet phenomena unknown yet familiar.

An old spaceship from Earth in fact which was wildly occupied by thrill seeking gamblers, which wasn't ready for the journey to deep space and slowly succumbed to murderous sickness.

An unforeseen deadly dark star adamantly blocks their progress as well.

Its radiation causing the entire crew to slumber.

Adventurers frightened they'll never wake up. 

Not often you see celebrated commie cinema from the vilified Eastern Bloc no less, with its lucid focus on communal life and general commitment to studious exploration. 

It's pioneering sci-fi a cut above what I've seen so far from that distant time (the 1960s), its elaborate sets and reasonable schematics not as antiquated as some older movies.

The introduction of the "capitalist" spacecraft with its reckless gambling and weapons of mass destruction, makes a clever differentiation from the less volatile communists who sought newfound knowledge and peaceful integration (in the movies). 

It would be exciting to head into space on a miraculous ship destined for unknown galaxies, but the small town nature of its restrictive boundaries may have driven me crazy as time went by.

With no nature walks or animal sightings it would be like winter all the time, difficult to generate the same robust enthusiasm when there's little hope of extracurricular excursions. 

But if you could consistently descend to uncharted planets that would totally be motivating, and go for walks through rugged bush never before encountered while searching for food.

Star Trek does make spacelife sound fascinating if don't face destruction every episode. 

It would still be distressingly confined though.

Unlike the metropolitan island. 

Der siebente Kontinent (The Seventh Continent)

Difficult to know where to find spiritual fulfillment within cultures dominated by dubious markets, consistently disseminating similar messages decade after decade epoch after epoch.

Nevertheless, if you cast a wide cultural net you may find remarkable alternative variability, assuming you don't limit yourself to the present and sample manifold styles and rhythms. 

If your culture micromanages music and only lets certain styles and messages get through, it could certainly become excessively tedious as the years slowly pass and nothing changes.

If your culture does accept new styles and genres and continuously strives to develop new markets, as long as the difference thoughtfully compels, it can be much less depressing than totalitarianism.

I watched a ton of television in my youth and became quite adept at channel surfing, finding shows that became lasting favourites which I regularly watched and routinely recorded.

The world of television made perfect sense and I could predict things that were going to happen, having un/consciously consumed so many narratives that entertaining developments became shockingly familiar.

I eventually moved away though started travelling around the country, and many of the places I stayed had no cable television, so I slowly moved away from the once cherished medium.

Eventually, more than a decade had gone by and I found that when I had the opportunity to turn on the TV, I wasn't as impressed as I had been in my youth, and questioned why I had spent so much time watching it.

I had actually found other cool things to do which imaginatively nurtured less manufactured thoughts, and although hardly anyone ever wanted to talk to me, I still found different ways to randomly express them.

It was like my mind was energized and my spirit enjoyed its liberation, you may not understand what a lot of people are talking about, but there's an uplifting world far beyond mainstream television.

Instrumental music made a big difference too as I imagined different scenarios in differing degrees, laidback listening to the incredible solos the inspired teamwork the emphatic orchestrations. 

Silent walks in natural environments made a huge difference as well with cool animal sightings. 

Defying the totalitarian void.

Unlike the family in The Seventh Continent. 

*Criterion keyword: chilli. 

The Cars that Ate Paris

It's tough to say what's bound to happen if you leave isolated communities on their own. 

Should representatives of a central government keep in consistent contact as they blossom?

If they had in The Cars that Ate Paris, the situation may have been different, and the thriving supplemental auto parts industry may not have flourished so devastatingly. 

The leader would have been proactively concerned.

He's attempting to facilitate familial community.

Local inhabitants can routinely depend on an uplifting speech to keep them motivated. 

He's not particularly adept at generating sincere enthusiasm, yet still attempts to absolutely encourage village-wide co-operation and understanding.

Inhabitants have grown to be somewhat restless due to a lack of sure and steady employment, and have taken to recklessly engage in spirited acts of hard-driven disjunction. 

One individual survives and isn't sent to the local hospital, where outsiders are usually lobotomized after their cars are blown off the road. 

He lacks vision and focus and usually seems quite friendly and unobtrusive, and is therefore permitted to live in the town assuming he doesn't cause any mischief.

Xenophobia is taken to ridiculous degrees as the murderous townsfolk routinely express themselves, alone and forgotten in the far distant Outback where rarely a traveller comes passing through.

Absurd no doubt but indubitably commensurate with low-budget frights from around the world, its innovative use of vehicular vocation demonstrating odd technoautomotive authenticity.

The ways in which they doctor up their cars with intricate designs and supplemental parts, reminded me of Fury Road and I wondered if The Cars that Ate Paris had been historically instructional. 

Then it occurred to me that the phenom's likely widespread across the sweltering resourceful Outback, and that these films are artistic examples of something I've never seen in North America. 

I would argue that the moment when the clueless lobotomized outsiders show up at the mandatory town dance, transports The Cars that Ate Paris to another level, that's as shocking as it is original.

A challenge if you like old school cult films the existence of which encourage disbelief.

Before heading out on the road.

Destination carefree and uncharted. 

Frankenstein

Once again, literate compassion for the soulful and tender reanimated beast, stitched together reconstituted to forever cheat vainglorious mortality.

When left alone far off and sheltered his innate world-weary warm-heart shines through, his resplendent inner-beauty impeccably beaming with forthright enriching illuminated humanism.

Such a shame that fleeting appearances mean so so so much in the eyes of so many, when countless wise and spiritual educators proactively rationalize the sheer illusion.

At times, it applies both ways to sights pleasant or disagreeable to the eye, both generally distasteful to tenacious treatises and their orthodox criticisms of aesthetics and disconcertment. 

But acting without concern for the inherent nature of unalterable characteristics, leads to much more pleasant thoughtful dialogue in terms of multivariable individual expression.

Through the mass cultivation of the many the reliance on appearance wholeheartedly fades, and sprightly exclamatory universals collectively diversify through latent whimsy.

Thus the blind inclinations which recklessly lead towards herd classifications, relatively loosen their stubborn prejudices and once again nurture the youthful life.

But Frankenstein's creation is herded and ruthlessly attacked through no fault of his own, and then elaborately made to suffer for having striven to defend himself.

That was what struck me from the novel anyways as I imagine I've mentioned before, the poor isolated creature alone and scared secretly monitoring the woodland family.

Completely unaware of his strength and innocently oblivious to old world hatreds, still faintly hoping to engage in conversation to not have to dwell forsaken in shadow.

That's always been the story for me not the depressing antagonistic aftermath. 

Which The Dodo challenges every day. 

Through the heartwarming preservation of life. 

Aguirre, der Zorn Gottes (Aguirre, the Wrath of God)

As colonialism expands in the jungles of South America, the Indigenous inhabitants engage in trickery, wholeheartedly convincing several of the invaders that a vast city of gold exists deep within, the tale too tantalizing to ignore, soon a diverse outfit departs in pursuit.

Unaccustomed to the haunting jungle with its sweltering heat and bugs and mud, the ensemble makes slow progress initially until confronting a hostile river.

Here the group splits up with many of the party remaining behind, as a courageous group virtuously led bravely sets out alone down its course.

Virtuous ideals clashing with blunt pragmatism such strained relations when people don't value life, ironically tormenting the high-minded colonialists who had already instigated so much Native carnage.

Conflict abounds as the lethal Aguirre soon disagrees with his captain, and plans a much less sympathetic voyage weak on heart and strong on ambition.

He's able to persuade most of the company to boldly adhere to his brutal methods, as they drift deeper into the jungle on their adventurous own without knowledge or know-how.

Their rafts are detected by Natives hoping not to suffer like their enslaved brethren. 

Arrows picking the Spanish off one by one.

As Aguirre's madness irascibly intensifies.

A remarkable feat of filmmaking which took considerable risks to accomplish its goals, hats off to the daring cast and crew (plus Herzog) who set out on the river expedition.

It mustn't be as dangerous as it looks or else I doubt anyone would have agreed to do it, and how did the camera crew get all those shots as the wild river raged with absolutist fervour?

A former prince even travels amongst them and bitterly complains about his newfound bearing, not much is made of the dynamic character but he does show up from time to time.

Adorable animals occasionally adorn the blood-soaked verse with contradictory tender, but at times they aren't treated humanely most notably the awkward rebellious horse scene.

Music also interrupts the flow of augmented acidic despondent mutiny, as mellifluous sounds generously erupt from an endemic pipe playfully attuned.

When you stare into Kinski's eyes it really is like you're sailing through an abyss, it's like he spent so much time furiously exclaiming when they weren't filming that he forgot to radicalize his lines on set.

A marvel of cinematic industry that likely never would have been made if the mechanics had been scrutinized, I can sincerely applaud its visceral fortitude assuming the cast and crew knew what they were getting into. 

📽🎞

Bullet Train

What a strange film.

There's no doubt it's well done. It seems the more critics lambaste gratuitously violent films, the more clever and entertaining they become, consistently challenging their audiences to duel with themselves as they come to reckless terms with their own narrative preferences. 

Bullet Train even interweaves Thomas the Tank Engine, as a paid assassin uses its inherent lessons to frame and construct his sociocultural views, a tender embrace no doubt endearing as he shoots his way through the chaotic frenzy, even sharing the most violent sequence from the film as he and his brother argue about how many people they took out during their most recent job, their dispute graphically and reminiscently depicted, it's insane, it's just insane.

Another nice guy with a gift for killing shares his therapist's advice throughout, and consistently attempts to talk rather than fight, his wise complaints neither brokered nor adhered to.

Überviolent psychological brainy dramatic comedies are no doubt a 21st century speciality, it's clear decades of vertical mutation have enhanced their intricate design, but are there not consequences to such manifestations?

Most people know the difference between psycho film and playful reality, and don't turn into bellicose beasts just because they saw a violent movie.

But you often hear about mass shootings in the States, so you have to wonder if permitting your populace to purchase multivariable assault weapons, while idealizing mass unattainable wealth, and then constantly showcasing brilliant and hilarious violent films, is not a seriously bad idea, even if you're making billions (are hundreds of millions not enough?).

Take away the mass availability of assault weapons and the mass shootings decrease proportionately, borrowing stats from Bowling for Columbine, and the distressing onslaught that's proceeded unabated since.

Then nerd men can get back to thematically impressing nerd women with their bombastic theatrics, and the next generation of eccentric children can constructively flourish in the librarial thunderground.

It's always the same story. ⛄

If your culture isn't prone to routine psychotic outbursts furiously unleashed on the unsuspecting public, and films like this one are reserved for more mature audiences who like gangster movies, Bullet Train is somewhat of a masterpiece, which still goes a bit overboard.

What would The Godfather or Scarface (1983) have been like if they'd been released at a later date?

They still seem a lot more profound.

And it's clear that they're not comedies. 

The Great Dictator

I find the introduction of disclaimers (although at times necessary) provides an unfortunate layer of stress to an otherwise upbeat festivity, but nevertheless, please note that when I write about abounding mesmerizing life, I'm doing so to celebrate the fleeting natural world and critique flagitious warmongers. As humans encroach further and further into natural realms they become more and more precious, as does celebrating their vivid wonders with elastic readiness and proactive verve. Simultaneously, as a new generation far removed from the horrors of World War II ignorantly and childishly plays with the world like the Dictator of Tomania (Charlie Chaplin), with no regard for human frailty, the celebration of life becomes inclusively paramount especially concerning the bombarded Ukraine.  I'm not trying to secretly make an argument that is pro-life in regards to abortion, since I believe it is a woman's right to choose and that men have no say in the unfortunate scheme of things. The argument laid-out in (the now unfortunately titled) Freakonomics makes a strong practical case for the sociocultural benefits of permitting abortion within reason, and the ways in which poverty and starvation significantly decrease in jurisdictions where it's allowed.

But it's still an untoward topic when lauding the return of ebullient spring, as the animals wake up from their slumbers and venture forth to see the world again.

I sometimes wonder what their dreams are like while they efficiently sleep throughout the winter, and if they're indeed more inclined to hibernate than they are to reemerge.

There's even an animal dream sequence in Jean-Jacques Annaud's sympathetic The Bear, the idea perhaps deserving of longer treatment within feature length animated films.

It's wonderful to see different life forms the shapes and sizes the species and families, each one of them a thoughtful miracle effervescently composing holistic community.

Although there are many beautiful things various people have crafted throughout the centuries, they'll never be more radiant than a dragonfly, or more worthy of respect than a resilient wombat (as others have noted).

But the cultivation of brilliance at times leads to the dismissal of other life forms, since they struggle with advanced calculus and have never constructed an ornate palace.

As Chaplin relates in The Great Dictator's climax as he presents his bold attempt to end World War II, while intelligence is indeed a remarkable gift, it still shouldn't lead to widespread cynicism. 

I always thought it was the duty of the naturally gifted to nurture the flock and wholeheartedly care for them, notably taking into consideration the lessons they've learned through practical experience. 

It wasn't just to sit in an empty room and listen to fawning praise lacking constructive nerve.

Lost in self-obsessed blunder. 

Lacking animate resonant vitality.

Into the Deep

It was difficult to take Into the Deep seriously until a friend verified it wasn't a mockumentary, it seemed so definitively rehearsed that I had trouble believing real people were being interviewed.

I read on Wikipedia that several people didn't want to be involved with the film after what happened, and that they asked for their scenes to be removed to avoid being exposed to public scrutiny.

It looks like their scenes were then reshot with real actors trying to seem as if their interviews were authentic, but it appears as if actors are trying to fake real life and it doesn't work at all.

Then there's what actually took place which seems even more improbable, a mad genius takes a reporter out for a ride in his submarine and then murders her and dumps the body.

He had been planning a trip to space and hoped to get there before his rivals, whom he had recently worked for until the disputes grew too intense.

Since he was hoping to travel to space, he inspired bright documentary filmmaker Emma Sullivan to follow him, and create a movie about his life for peeps curious about bold endeavour.

As she filmed she captured raw footage of a fledgling psychopath perhaps emboldened, by his sudden emergence into pop culture and its corresponding associations of invincibility. 

Which of course are rather misguided but if the film is true (honestly, I'm still not convinced), he thought he could murder someone in his submarine and then dump the body and get away with it.

When parts of the body are found shortly thereafter he has a wild tale for the police, which continues to change every time they find fresh evidence, until he's finally locked away.

I'm not sure if it's a syndrome, but with the ubiquitous flourishing of social media, along with ye olde traditional televisual outlets, it seems like many will take mad risks to go viral.

Supported by a culture which elevates malevolence and consistently associates it with power through film (even winning Oscars), when people find themselves in the popular spotlight, they may do whatever it takes to go viral.

Reality TV never faded either and with Twitter and Facebook its sphere of influence expanded significantly, whereas on the one hand you have people trained to work in media (CBC, BBC, CNN, NBC . . .), and on the other, a mass improvised colossus 😎.

Perhaps that's why the people being interviewed in Into the Deep seem like ragtag actors, they're trying to be real like their favourite reality TV stars while forgetting they are aren't acting (or are they?).

The story's no doubt incredible how did something like this ever take place?

The world has fundamentally mutated.

There's so much freedom if you live offline. 

Yajû no seishun (Youth of the Beast)

Incomparable daring resolution irradiating hard earned trust disdaining compromise, a freelance undercover policeperson infiltrates the yakuza in search of reckoning.

All he knows is that his friend has passed away under suspicious circumstances, said friend a man of upstanding character who would ne'er dwell on treacherous familiarities. 

He was of great assistance during a period of intense sorrow, and supplied financial aid beyond his means to facilitate nourishment and budgetary well-being.

The yakuza are rather impressed with his unparalleled hardcore finesse, and swiftly offer him what he wants and then provide ample chaotic bearing.

But since he's convinced this specific organization is solely responsible for his friend's death, he sells them out to their small-time rivals and gives them precise highly valued information.

Amidst the eye of the storm his good fortune the product of immaculate self-confidence, he continues to dig deeper and deeper as the high stakes dissonance devastatingly disturbs.

The seemingly impossible scenario hyperreactively progresses, from one potentially disastrous debacle to the next as the hardboiled liturgies illuminate.

No doubt inspiring superpowers or larger-than-life realistic resonance, Yajû no seishun (Youth of the Beast) magnetically mystifies incumbent undercover loci.

Joe Shishido (Jô Shishido) reacts with animate composure and sheer definitive wiry wherewithal, the latent clasped kinetic combat discursive diabolic delirium.

With so much impersonal disorganization generally lacking an effective rationale, it's no wonder the invincible improvised ingenious active cynosure reverberates.

It's well done so its incredibility contemporizes extant bravado, leading to renewed revered antitrusts and less monopolistic sentiment.

Without much legwork just shocking audacity the officer suddenly gets 'er done, while intuitively remodelling volatile non-traditional infrastructure. 

I'd have to say I liked it although its voltage shocks and certifies.

In the pursuit of honourable friendship.

Amidst pervasive perfidy. 

*Forgot to mention: the music in this film is outstanding!

Joker

A confused man who struggles to fit in suddenly responds with unhinged fury, to those who snidely provoke him.

He tries to socialize at work, to enjoy the friendly influence of camaraderie, but is attuned to a different wavelength that pushes others swiftly away.

He sees a psychiatrist on a regular basis to air grievances and seek shelter, but she's ill-equipped to deal with his issues and their encounters increase his frustration.

Before budget cuts bring them to an abrupt end.

He goes off his meds and starts researching his past after reading a letter written by his mother (Frances Conroy as Penny Fleck) to Bruce Wayne's father (Brett Cullen).

And as the woe disparagingly intensifies, he embraces reckless spleen, proceeding wild-eyed and menacing, with neither recourse nor path nor guilt.

Gotham's elite have developed an unsympathetic attitude regarding its impoverished citizens, who find solace in the Joker's (Joaquin Phoenix) rampage.

The result is incredibly bleak.

As despondent as it is abandoned.

A dangerous film, this Joker, released at the worst of times.

Characters like the Joker are often exceptions are they not?, but in recent decades the U.S has seen so much distressing carnage.

Joker could easily be dismissed if it wasn't so well done, and didn't reach such a wild wide audience.

Compassion abounds for the Joker within.

And Batman's father's a condescending jerk.

From the perspective of film, it's easily the best comic book movie, like mainstream tragic arthouse psychological horror abounding with sensitive emotion.

Not just sensational superheroes predictably poised and pouncing, Joker leaves behind both razzle and dazzle to distill nocturnal desperation.

You feel for him as he daydreams, as his explanations are dismissed at work, as he makes friends with a neighbour down the hall, as he traces the roots of his identity.

Perhaps nothing will come of it.

Perhaps people harbouring dark thoughts will see the horrifying nature of their outcomes and be emphatically deterred, like parents who teach children to respect alcohol by getting them drunk, school of hard knocksy pedagogical bedlam.

But hopefully people like Bruce Wayne or his father, people occupying positions of power in the U.S, will consider a more equitable distribution of wealth, and uphold institutions which aid the unfortunate.

It's not perfect in Canada and Québec, Britain, France or Ireland, but there is much less violence, according to Michael Moore's films.

Because these countries have elites who care about the unfortunate, like Bernie Sanders.

And encourage them to be productive team members.

Much harder to own your own weapons too.

Less idealistic.

Much more practical.

Laissez bronzer les cadavres

Auriferously enveloped in taut supernatural ubiquity suddenly thrust into periscopical freelance tight-knit plans crisply cropped chaos inveterate beam brightly brandished ancient shivers.

Plot embryonically subsumed ambient malcontenants gargoylically grouped in febrile homely ruins spacious interiors accents flush endemic verisimilitude hearty chipped consummates.

Exacting detail poised petulance amassed misfortune spastic swathe.

Grim spirit haunted hospice brisk hashtag extrinsic vessel.

No escape alternative thought quotidian distraction nostalgic reminiscence, ambient gravity supersaturated magnetism cartesian lockdown enraptured immobility.

Beyond the interrogative enriching strict declaration I've never been here before exalted purest articulate perfidy, sensual stream insouciant sultry sunbathed nomenclature, emotive instinct lucrative goals breathless contempt perpetual motion perspicaciously exhaled saturated elevations arterial wavelength transisting thatch.

Velveteen.

Freedoms frenetically composed casked and coaxed immersion purloined Serengeti paradisaical taunts surveyed disemboweled allegiance.

Primordial improvisations midnight magnates circumstantially asphyxiating engrained accords, bleak prospects menacingly heckle options baleful non-negotiable arrest.

Brilliance generously applied atypically tailored to a weathered realm, its incumbent creative frenzies extracting copious iron clad ligaments.

You couldn't create something this tight without meticulous drive, but inasmuch as the mad notoriously evades reasonable discourse, Laissez bronzer les cadavres outwits generic overtures.

Refreshing.

What Free Fire could have been without the humour and more style.

Much more style.

It would be oppressively immersive if it wasn't so laissez-faire, bold unique cinematic reckoning polished and selective like precious blackmarket diamonds.

Maltese falcons.

Soaring through unparalleled wilds.

Ravenous and sheer.

Disillusioned incarnate yields.

A must see.

*Happy Halloween!

Papillon

Entrenched plutocrats, none too pleased with having been fooled, frame a specialized romantic thief with most scandalous murder.

As lucrative sums casually discern culpability, a bright future slowly fades into unimaginative oblivion.

Banished from France and sent to live in an isolated penal colony, Henri 'Papillon' Charrière (Charlie Hunnam) sets his aggrieved broken heart on escaping.

Fellow less pugilistic prisoner Louis Dega (Rami Malek) provides financial backing in exchange for loyal security, having been rightfully convicted for counterfeiting, the proceeds of which he's partially brought along.

But careless plans, foolish declarations, inclement weather, and treacherous saviours incrementally spoil their impromptu soliloquies, extended time in solitary confinement awaiting, for as long as an excruciating non-negotiable 5 years.

Many spent in total darkness.

Yet Papillon will not forget his cherished homeland (or Québec perhaps [it doesn't come up {would it have been that hard to include a scene where he considers settling in Montréal?}]) nor curtail his efforts to one day return.

As stubborn and incorrigible as he is death-defying, he embraces the unknown with devout frenzied reverence.

If only a love of nature had been inculcated at a young age, the jungles of French Guiana no doubt would have overflowed with tropical sustenance.

But as things would have it, or rather as this somewhat bland account would present them, Papillon continues to trust the small closely-knit members of his colonialist enclave's upper echelons, rather than the bounty of the forbidden wild, only to see severe punishments increase as time lugubriously passes by.

Papillon's somewhat too light for such grave subject matter, too bare, too superficial.

I wanted to learn more about its fascinating characters and listen as they plotted while getting to know one another, but the film only develops one individual diminutively, and it's not even Papillon, the resultant blunt dialogues leaving little room to manoeuvre, even though for decades they must have had nothing but conversation to console themselves.

The crafty Rami Malek effortlessly steals every scene he's in, adding multifaceted flourishes throughout which prove his voice would extoll first rate animation.

But he's like the gold particles in a dull textbook slab of cinematic ore, brilliantly shining through before fading as it's lit up explicitly.

With possibly the least surreal dream sequence I've ever seen.

Hardened inmates innocently greeting one another like they're at Summer camp.

Hardly any time spent actually planning their escapes.

Even less considering the outside world.

Papillon's much more like a caterpillar, covering far too long a period without managing to produce much depth.

Lots of fighting though, nobility of spirit versus basic instinct and such, and even if they dependably relied on one another, it still seems as if they were simply chugging along.

Shizam.

Avengers: Infinity War

Seeing this film made me wish I had been around 7 years old when the first Iron Man movie was released.

And I had been allowed to watch it.

I still loved watching Avengers: Infinity War, and there were moments when I looked on with the uncompromised emotional intensity that rapturously flourished in my youth, but if I had watched every Marvel film with commensurate innocent intensity and then suddenly sat back to watch Avengers: Infinity War around the age of 17, the film that brings them all together, unites them with wild improvised spontaneous universal synergies, the energy from a star even harnessed within for manufacturing purposes, I think it would have seemed like 149 minutes of pure unadulterated joy, even if so much distress accompanies its beloved characters.

I don't mean to argue that there isn't a lot of brilliant television out there, or series is perhaps a better word to use these days, I love The Frankenstein Chronicles, Star Trek: Discovery, and Myths & Monsters for instance, and I'm hooked on Zoo and Frontier, but television is usually trying to be as good as film, whereas exceptionally bad films seem like they should have been released on television, creative mixes of the 2 mediums notwithstanding, Netflix currently attempting to bridge the gap.

But it's like the geniuses at Marvel asked themselves, "what if we create multiple films, always bearing in mind that we're creating films specifically, yet envision their totality like an incredible television series, patiently stitched together over the course of a decade?

That might bear ecstatic fruit.

And simmer the ultimate cliffhanger."

To be young and see so many cherished characters packed into one epic syntheses may have been both shocking and overwhelming, but would it not have also been mindbogglingly awe inspiring, like having millions of recordings from around the world available on your computer for $9.99 a month?

Perhaps I misjudge the intensity of the theoretical emotion.

I'm looking back and imagining what it would have been like if the pop cultural coordinates of the early 21st Century had been superimposed on the late 20th, but if they had been alternatively superimposed before I had acquired knowledge of both timelines, I may not have noticed a difference, and may have assumed frequent loosely unified instalments from a thoughtfully orchestrated pyrotechnic colossus were as natural as Sam falling for Diane, or George moving back in with his parents, since I wouldn't have known that I was taking an alternative timeline for granted, and therefore would have assumed my foundations were unilaterally temporal.

If Marvel is like Star Trek squared, what the heck is Star Trek cubed?

Avengers: Infinity War, if Orwellianly titled, malheureusement, worked for me.

There's the inevitable cheese associated with bringing so so many distinct characters into one film, but the cool smoothly devours it, grates it into an exhilarating intergalactic artisanal soirée.

I especially loved how Tony Stark (Robert Downey, Jr.) immediately decides to just stow away on an alien spacecraft in order to surprise attack the universe's most threatening villain.

Classic amelioration.

Star-Lord's (Chris Pratt) ideas also impress.

As do those of the Wakandans.

Not to mention the inherent self-sacrifice built into the script.

And pairing-up Thor (Chris Hemsworth) with feisty Rocket (Bradley Cooper).

I'm sure there's a plan for the intervening years, but Infinity War boldly erases billions in profit in order to make a more realistic film.

That's damn commendable.

I've been watching a groundhog eat grass for the entire time I've been writing this.

It keeps running back to his hole when people walk past.

And then comes back shortly thereafter.

He'll probably be shyer in Summer.

So I'm lucky I chose this spot for today.

Macbeth

A loyal man, a bold man, his mettle proven in battle like explicit prosperous ironclad invincibility, his enemies, the enemies of his King, thoroughly ruined, honesty guiding his sword's righteous judgments with dignity and will beknownst to the clairvoyant, who follow his progress with vision, with awe, with inveterate claws, clawing at his conscience to ensure it withdraws, it, submits, submits to the darkness consuming his integrity as ambition commands he ignominiously strike, strike at he who loved him, who cherished and honoured his fierce fidelity, madness the harvest of such grievous misdeeds, in allegiance with infamy, a prophecy fulfilled.

Would it be fulfilled either way, even if he had done nothing, would he still have been proclaimed King?

Encouraged in the act by his restless wife, they plot to ponder virtue askew.

Ravaged.

Betrayed.

In the Scottish Highlands, a tale peculiar to the realm yet pervasive in its cinematography takes shape once again, all power flagitiously corrupting, shallowly reaching out to its vengeful doom.

Focused primarily on primary characters, as opposed to other investments which would have broadened the spectrum, Fassbender, Cotillard, and Harris enrich their acts with multidimensional perplexities, yet Banquo (Paddy Considine), Rosse (Ross Anderson) and Malcolm (Jack Reynor) are sewn into the background like unacknowledged afterthoughts, to digest a pretence to royalty.

The outdoors, the wilderness, the sense of suffocating desolation, how did these people feed themselves?, how did they carry on?, haunts the film with supernatural astonishment, the absurdity of power, fickle and disobedient, revolving extolled gradations.

Justin Kurzel's Macbeth acclimatizes its audiences to considerations of the play's rough isolation, its principal inhabitants becoming pointless as they pointlessly seek out pointlessness, creating that which would have been created had they rested abreast, harbingers of decay, impatience fraught with void.

Cinematography by Adam Arkapaw.

Diplomatie

The abominations of the Third Reich in ruins, the allies surrounding and closing in on Nazi Germany, General von Choltitz (Niels Arestrup) is tasked to obliterate Paris, ordered, commanded, focusing on its most prestigious architectural venison, to aggrandize Berlin, as it shatters, and prepares for annihilation.

But his command centre betrays him.

A Swedish consul has been watching (André Dussollier as Raoul Nordling), listening, strategically planning his alimentary counterstrikes, voyeuristic rhetoric, announced, risked, deployed.

Competing ethical disciplinary conceptions argumentatively converse, the fate of one of the world's most cherished cities hanging in the balance, militaristic and magnanimous aesthetics desperately franchising disparate souvenirs, time has run out, every syllable must be weighted and choreographed, quickly, rapidly, while seeming logical and scientific, prolongated micropassions, iron set aflame, rigid principled adherence, to jingoistic madness, roasting on the pyre.

He must be saved.

His subordinates would lack his discretion.

Minuscule macromovements.

Abeyance in the heavens.

Diplomatie pokes and prods the cultural and the historical like saintly pensive prose, fortune, tact, and understanding, coalesced to spindle posterity.

Embattled importunate persuasion.

Sailing in the wings.

Borgman

The bourgeois patriarchy finds unconditional support in Alex van Warmerdam's Borgman, a poignantly pointless florescent canker, rifle at the ready, red alert middle-class aesthetics.

While viewing, you may find yourself considering at least two questions, the first, why in hell would anyone make something like this?, the second, is this the pinnacle of paranoid stereotyped fabled uncensored grit, the beast aimlessly targeting the beauty, the arrogance of a stifled hypodermic, unreeling like a Criterion in the making?

The only film to ever remind me of Jerzy Skolimowski's The Shout.

It could have been an after school special direly warning teens not to hitchhike.

Or a film where a plane crashes in Alaska and wolves communally hunt down the survivors.

Instead, suburban peace and tranquility is infiltrated by a troupe of travelling possibly demonic psychopaths, who, in this instance, seek employment in order to use the tools at their disposal to create a platform upon which they intend to put on a show, the couple's wife residing in their grip, the husband, completely oblivious.

Discontent is sewn.

I'm assuming Warmerdam has worked a Dutch fairy tale or legend of some kind into his script, the film seeming as if it's a crisp contemporary take on a medieval horror, with cars and cellphones, although the fact that it seemed that way to me is based on my assumption.

Off they go, into the forest.

If there were still bears in the Netherlands, keeping with the fairy tale hypothesis, they would be on the lookout.

Bears were obviously guardians of the forest in Dutch fairy tales/legends.

I know nothing about the Netherlands.

The Master

His personality trailing behind, obliviously, inquisitively and contendedly basking in the wake, quietly lounging in his own residual perpetual motion, with a sun he fails to see warmly beating down on his inebriated candour, Freddie Quell's (Joaquin Phoenix) proclivities for the peculiar lead to transformative miscues while the narrative which he inhabits, Paul Thomas Anderson's The Master, derisively lambastes its own nostalgic attachment to film's longing for nostalgic attachments (through its initial choice of music).

Mr. Quell's sense of buoyancy has been quasi-permanently kept afloat due to his wartime experience, as has his creative knack for improvisationally concocting alcoholic beverages.

He also seeks partnership.

Fortunately, he stows away on a ship by chance which has been rented by a carefree spirit (Philip Seymour Hoffman as Lancaster Dodd) and his followers, many of whom share his desire to circumvent sobriety.

They have taken things one step further, though, having devotedly conjured a flexible theoretical fundamental foundation, whose profits have secured a fantastic incorruptibility.

As these two tinkerers intersect, pseudoestablished faith-based charlatanism attempts to absorb obstinate itinerant (restrained, undirected, generally harmless) epicurean anarchy through a series of mind tricks, the confident modest inclusive yet principled performance expertly executed by Mr. Hoffman in their first obligatory interaction sophisticatedly counterbalanced by Joaquin Phoenix's focused resistant exactitude.

As Freddie is lured in, the film's structure attempts to grab hold of its audience's recalcitrance and transfer it deep within its hallucinatory consciousness, as if it's relying on the sheer conviction of its form alone, regardless of what form it takes, to transcribe potential transgressions of the post-modern through personal investments of hesitant, guilt-ridden trust, incipiently causing a cult to appear happy-go-lucky, and attempting to internally harness a distilled independent rationality.

The best American film I've seen so far this year.

Amy Adams puts in a great performance too.