Abigail's Party

There's more to the appreciation of art than the ready-made exemplars designated famous, personal choice and inspirational lounging eclectically factoring in novel unpredictability. 

It's therefore important to make your own choices based upon what you specifically enjoy, not simply a work that's been historically lauded, but rather something you genuinely love.

There is the cocktail party game where you're supposed to recall celebrated painters and writers, and correspondingly list their famous works while modestly reciting what's been written about them.

It's not such a bad thing to be well-informed and aware of the critical continuum, but if you start to gather a collection of your own, are you doing so because you like it, or someone else does?

I admit to having more respect for the kitschy aficionado than the literate snob, even if I disagree with many of their choices, I still highly value their unabashed individuality.

If you can learn the categorical distinctions while also cultivating your own subtle voice, you may develop enviable taste that for a time may clearly fascinate.

It's not about being right or wrong you see it's more like romance or falling in love, it's difficult to find cherished longing in a textbook when you could be globetrotting with a Nickelback fan. 

When you start to read all the conflicting accounts that defiantly challenge the encyclopedic status quo, and become immersed in the critical maelstrom thoughtfully keeping things fresh and active, it becomes apparent that there really aren't any foundations although manifold traditions joyfully emerge, but with the lack of organic resonance, why do your own preferences not also matter?

Thus, there is vitriolic criticism passionately unleashed in Abigail's Party, regarding the elevation of paintings exuberantly categorized through aggrieved sincere textbook learning.

I feel bad because he's trying to educate himself and I widely support such scholarly ambitions, but he loves and brags about things simply because he's rather quite certain that he's supposed to.

His wife's more into the modern and couldn't care less what anyone thinks.

She's still rather cruel to him however.

So hard to hold it together.

If you're ever critiquing your personal decision to indeed never marry perhaps watch this film, and chant decisively with the blessed thereafter since really thank god that isn't your life.

Not that married life doesn't certainly have discerning benefits bachelors miss out on.

But you eventually reach a certain age.

Where it no longer holds much mischievous meaning. 

*Criterion keyword: beaver 🦫 

Mr. Turner

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

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

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

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

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

Outspoken.

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

Burnished in bedlam.

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

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

Probably would have cut the last half hour.

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

The greeting.

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

Mr. Turner's quite rough.

In sympathy.