Good Morning

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Lay back.

Give a demonstration. 

Casually observe.

Reiterate. 

Ripley's Game

Hardboiled sociopath Tom Ripley (John Malkovich) has moved to the peaceful suburbs, where he's intent on making friends, even taking the time to show up at social gatherings, playfully evoking gentility. 

At one such gathering however, a neighbour starts to confidently ridicule him, unaware that he's in the room, and listening with disaffection. 

Not one to let things go, the next time he's propositioned to commit murder, he remembers his unprovoked disparagement, and conceives a wicked plan.

He knows his unsuspecting assailant is terminally ill and could use good news on the home front, so he suggests that his underground contact asks him to commit the murder instead.

In exchange, a meeting with a coveted specialist will be serendipitously set up, where perhaps the new diagnosis will ease his family's despair.

He reluctantly agrees and soon it's off for feisty Berlin, where he timorously performs his newfound duty to his target's mortal chagrin.

But round 2 proves more of a challenge so Mr. Ripley lends a hand.

Where he makes a critical error.

And an unexpected friend.

A fictional glimpse into high functioning psychosis, Ripley's Game lacks ethical cohesion, everything passing by so quickly that morality languishes in ruin.

It's still an intriguing film controversially abounding with radical conscience, like a theatrical response to a philosophical question no ethicist ever thought to ask.

Ripley considers himself charming and likes to indulge in pretentious luxury, yet hasn't lost the quotidian touch which helped him amass his modest fortune.

He's like a jealous predator who sadistically taunts through practical experiment, and if his victims react with flexible accord he learns to cherish them like age old friends.

These friends become intoxicated with the shocking amoral venom, and lose sight of peaceful rationalities as the complacency consumes them.

A chilling examination of untethered ambition monstrously aligned with lavish desire, not entirely lacking in remorse, like a tiger seeking ardent companionship. 

Everything's a logical puzzle requiring a fresh improvised solution.

Like haunting impulsive calculation. 

Devoid of wholesome life. 

Hubie Halloween

As Halloween ascends, devout Hubie (Adam Sandler) prepares to celebrate, decorating his yard with festive rigour, taking the time to trust and care.

He also instructs local children at the high school he once attended, and even if they respond critically to his counsel, he still persists with animate declamation.

He still longs for his childhood crush whom he still has difficulty approaching (Julie Bowen as Violet Valentine), although he can string verbal loci together, when tasked with delicate comment.

His mom (June Squibb) does her best to encourage his loyal safety-oriented verbose reckonings, even if the rest of the town has taken to responding with varied projectiles.

But a new neighbour has recently moved in who's unfamiliar with traditional testaments (Steve Buscemi as Walter Lambert), and advises against disturbing him even if noise proves dire and irksome.

Local police are well-versed in Hubie as he consistently warns them of danger, and have developed related protocols designed to rapidly appease his qualms.

But on the particular Halloween in question Hubie's unease is more on the ball.

As people begin to disappear around town.

People known to lambaste his self-sacrifice.

It's been a long time since I've seen an Adam Sandler film, and I was wholeheartedly impressed, the old school magic still playfully enchanting as the ridiculousness flows unhinged.

Well-attuned to the rowdy shenanigans freely generated by social interactions, Hubie Halloween proceeds unabashed for another round of Sandlerian mischief.

A narrative such as this could have shifted and swerved into harrowing hysterical heartache, but it was hewn by less psychotic impulses to emerge imaginatively constructive.

As is often the case, the do-gooding lack versatile camaraderie, and struggle to cohesively integrate as they pursue less raunchy endeavours.

But Hubie's actions do not pass unnoticed as he employs freeform unsupervised tutelage, for members of the community do respond to his altruistic forgiving theatrics.

Hubie Halloween transported me back to a time less schizoid and volatile, when statespeople seemed to care more about governance than likes and shares on Twitter and Instagram.

When things seemed like they were moving forward far beyond O'Doyle's rules, consistent current manifestations mind-boggling grim unfathomable reversals. 

I'd say Sandler's still got it, can still teach while having some fun.

The urine stained sheet, the would be werewolf.

Nice to see a Halloween film that's a bit more lighthearted.  

*Buscemi doesn't show up in spellcheck. 😎

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.

Where'd You Go, Bernadette?

Crushed by a devastating thoughtless blow, a brilliant artist can no longer create, and although she finds solace in her loving daughter, and aloof husband, her interactions with neighbours and local professionals perspire maladroit dysfunction, and as time passes, repressed creative impulses manifest scorn, imaginatively characterized and robustly contorted, then transformed into bitter confrontation.

An old colleague (Laurence Fishburne as Paul Jellinek) explains how she's become a menace to society, with a particularly astute caricature, which cleverly outwits diagnoses and accusations, hits the nail on the head as it incisively were sir, observant synopses, regenerative calm.

But her husband's taken a more traditional route, and enlisted the aid of mainstream psychiatry, which does produce effective results at times, but is unfortunately ill-equipped for his wife's distemper.

It's a shame that he resorts to seeking outside help considering how strong their marriage appears earlier on in the film.

They're mutually supportive, they pleasantly talk to one another, they're both full of love for their daughter, they seem like a conjugal success.

But they've lost touch deep down, as some playful editing emphasizes, and even though they consistently converse, they do so without saying anything.

If they had just been talking to each other in the concurrent scenes.

Elgie's (Billy Crudup) 20 years of constant work have left him blind to his wife's grief, caused him to forget what she gave up long ago, that she needs outlets, projects, challenges.

Work.

Thankfully the film's quite level-headed even as locales switch to Antarctica.

It's a charming adventurous warm and friendly soul search that concentrates on understanding as it's refined by insightful youth.

Listening.

Where'd You Go, Bernadette? does air grievances as it diversifies Ms. Fox's (Cate Blanchett) portfolio, her exchanges with superkeen PTA neighbour Audrey (Kirsten Wiig) bearing disputatious fruit, her sharp dismissal of a curious admirer suggesting she could be somewhat less anti-social.

But she's totally not PTA, she isn't interested in textbook trajectories, she could likely write a book that no one would understand, with the same ingenious mischievousness found in Ulysses.

Categorically beyond expression, she's still devoted to her loving family, her daughter Bee's (Emma Nelson) sincerest bestie, she's grounded yet requires initiative.

Projects.

Their daughter teaches them to listen and because they're chill they hear what she's saying, finding fun working solutions down the road, realized with core resiliency.

The penguins and sea lions are worked in well.

They just kind of show up and aren't focused on with adoration.

Cutting back the rug to find the sprout is impressive.

As is Bernadette and Audrey's rapprochement.

A feel good family film that isn't cheesy or gross, Where'd You Go, Bernadette? remodels mature compassion.

It's a lot of fun too.

Can't wait to see it again.

Would have chosen a flavour instead of naming the dog Ice Cream (Inception). 😉

With Judy Greer (Dr. Kurtz [mainstream solutions are like Bernadette's Heart of Darkness?] and David Paymer (Jay Ross).

Once Upon a Time . . . in Hollywood

Blending realism and fantasy with convincing creative bombast, Quentin Tarantino's Once Upon a Time . . . in Hollywood masterfully cloaks the absurd.

Closely following Rick Dalton (Leonardo DiCaprio) and Cliff Booth's (Brad Pitt) declining filmic fortunes, it patiently develops resounding depth where a closed mind might only breed shallows.

It's quite long.

I asked myself, why are we following Booth home for 7 to 10 minutes to watch him feed his dog and eat Kraft Dinner? The sequence establishes him as a loveable everyman, but this characteristic could have been highlighted without taking up so much time.

Similarly, Sharon Tate (Margot Robbie) goes to the movies. Her visit doesn't seem to have much purpose besides paying visceral tribute to a star who's life was cut brutally short, but it's there, again and again, taking up ample sensuous space, it's kind of cool to see an actress go out to see her own film, but couldn't the scenes have only lasted for a minute or two, in total, or been removed entirely without effecting the plot?

In less gifted hands, these scenes may have seemed trite, and the film might have become unbearable after the 45th minute, but they add so much character to Once Upon a Time without really saying anything at all, like essential gratuitous indulgement, generating agile lucid meaninglessness.

It's quite long, but also quite good.

What first drew me to Proust's Search was the ways in which he seemed to enable every one of his ingenious indulgements no matter what happened to be taking place in the story, and there's a little of that bold genius at work in Once Upon a Time . . . 's sweet nothings, so much of it could have been cut, but the film's so much stronger because it was left in.

The whole Manson subplot could have been cut, and you'd still have a tragic tale of a struggling actor who may have blown it unreeling for 100 minutes or so (he could have met Polanski [Rafal Zawierucha] in a different way), Tarantino's love of genre actors shining through with understated ease, Dalton's trials heartfelt and revealing, DiCaprio exemplifying generic tenacity.

Sort of wish his character had been played by Michael Biehn.

Dalton gives the film its strength as he strives to keep keepin' on, delivering a powerful performance for a pilot no one will remember.

But here I've written, "no one will remember", and it's precisely that kind of snobbery Tarantino critiques, he truly loves television with all its wondrous diversity, whether it's genius or ridiculous or hokey, the ideas networks come up with and for who knows what reason decide to share (see They Live?), whether the stories are haphazardly crafted, or the narratives expertly hewn. 

Where would I be without Cheers, a show where everyone hung out in a bar for 11 seasons praising shenanigans that were generally lighthearted?

Clone High? Parker Lewis? Star Trek? Twin Peaks (The Original Series)?

Once Upon a Time . . . absurdly plays with history but genuinely brings struggling actors to life, forging an imaginative dreamy mélange that's as otherworldly as it is down to earth.

It's the first Tarantino film I've liked since The Basterds, but unfortunately it's still too toxic to recommend.

One of the protagonists murdered his wife and got away with it and this is supposed to be okay, the other lost his license for drunk driving and still gets wasted all the time, hippies are one-dimensionally vilified, Bruce Lee (Mike Moh) comes across as a flake and he's the only ethnic character to be found, Dalton stars in a filmic adaption of The Only Good Indian is a Dead Indian, and violence often solves the problem.

Perhaps it's just a product of its time, but the film is ultra-violent, and doesn't offer alternative points of view.

He diversifies dimensions that are often one-dimensionally depicted (Westerns) while one-dimensionally depicting others to exaggerate the distinction.

A more balanced approach would have generated higher yields.

Especially in light of MeToo, and the intensifying climate crisis.

Kitschy insubstantial cool yet chilling art, obsessed with things that look pretty, putting a capital P back in patriarchal.

Why spend so much time thinking to wind up thoughtless?

Still better than so many of his films.

The House with a Clock in its Walls

Tragedy strikes, and an orphaned youth (Owen Vaccaro as Lewis Barnavelt) must move to his estranged uncle's, an eccentric man (Jack Black as Jonathon Barnavelt) whose specialized gifts were vilified by his once adoring family, although his devoted sister truly never stopped loving him.

His house is somewhat peculiar, and as young Lewis settles in, manifold bewitching anthropomorphized elements poetically particularize at random, his uncle and encyclopaedic neighbour (Cate Blanchett as Florence Zimmerman) living distinctly spellbound lives, Lewis's own attuned well-defined semantic inquiries suggesting he will make an apt pupil indeed, they forge an enchanting inclusive didactic openminded consensus, freely uplifting curious minds, unstructured tutelage impacting at play, fantastically composed, like any local library.

Perhaps Lewis may have benefitted from more guidance, however, for soon, in an effort to make friends, he's broken his uncle's only rule, and an evil warlock (Kyle MacLachlan as Isaac Izard) has returned from the grave.

Hellbent on destroying the world which nonetheless seems intent on self-destructing, his spirit crushed after fighting in World War II, he moves back to his once joyous abode, unleashing mayhem despotically thereafter.

Crimson glade.

The House with a Clock in its Walls could have been so much more.

Does every fantasy film have to prevent the destruction of the world these days, or has it simply always been a fundamental aspect?

Is anyone making independent hip artsy fantasy films that aren't animated?

Here we have a wonderful film rich with artful eccentricity overflowing with creative synergies still blindly focused on the end of the world.

Can't fantasy concentrate on creating narratives that are a bit less prone to armageddon, because it really just seems tacked on to this one?

Does the end of the world in fact symbolize the end of one's youth, and is that why fantastic heroes must nimbly face it?

Still though, every time?

Instead of Lewis developing a friendship that's diversified throughout with sympathetic Rose Rita Pottinger (Vanessa Anne Williams), it doesn't happen until the film's final moments.

Instead of Lewis spending at least 7 minutes inspecting his new home by himself, replete with tension and bewilderment and frights and disbelief, a sequence which emphasizes that he's just moved to a new house in a new town following a tragic event, he simply looks around a bit, and freaks when he discovers magic's real.

Denying the auspices of the forbidden.

Clock in its Walls is too blunt, everything happens too quickly, there aren't any build-ups/questions that-go-unanswered/jigsaws/mysteries, it's much too obvious for a film that celebrates originality and never even really decoratively surpasses Pee-wee's Playhouse, even with all its technological expertise.

Why doesn't Florence have a memorable moment where she resplendently shines and figuratively pays back her tyrannical oppressors?

It would have been so #metoo!

Why is the only serious obstacle the trio faces a patch of vicious pumpkins near the end?

Details!

A film as appealing as this one would have benefitted from at least 78 more details/references to cleverly expand upon its traditional yet compelling premise.

The seeds are sewn but don't take root.

Isn't it blasé to make everything so global in the age of globalization?

Another 40 minutes would have been great.

A fun film to watch that misses out on incredible opportunities.

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!

Neighbours 2: Sorority Rising

Ambience.

New beginnings.

The Radner family continues to shed light on erroneous child rearing trials, practices, reflexively adapting to unpredictable circumstances with cohesive charm and salacious whimsy.

But another flock of rambunctious young adults is intent on wantonly expressing themselves next door, a blossoming sorority playing by their own rules to un/consciously break new emancipatory ground, unconcerned with the fact that Mac (Seth Rogen) and Kelly (Rose Byrne) are trying to sell their home, convivially coached by arch rival Teddy Sanders (Zac Efron).

Who's let go shortly thereafter.

Conflicted and forlorn, finding solace on the opposing team.

The result is a rushed collection of combative criticisms, relationship constructs, implausible rationalizations, and bold active dreams, dreams clashing as they seek definitive realization, the film heavy on good intentions, light on aerobic integrations.

Sloppy sequel.

On the one hand, there's a progressive element which depicts young women trying to succeed by asserting themselves using non-traditional means (that's cool), unfortunately relying on a man to start things up, on the other there's the typical sophomoric approach that utilizes tried and true marketable probabilities to sell the film, although sex isn't one of the main selling points.

The opposition doesn't blend well.

Like reading the newspaper on the toilet, Neighbours 2: Sorority Rising doesn't really progress even if moving forward's built into the narrative and it never slows down to encourage reflection, conflicting lifestyles producing some laughs, but still lacking the lubricants that irritably fuelled the original.

Even if it's a carbon copy.

Efron steals the show.

The Lady in the Van

Lickety-script, parlourized parlay, respective reflections respondents embrayed, a guest, a neighbour, interrupting the labour, coaching a fabler, ultrasounding enabler.

The savour.

A lady moves in in her van, parking on the street then in the driveway, a compassionate suburb, she becomes a distinct curiosity, troubled yet pluminescent, in her wayward harmless upbraid.

Alright, there's this writer who talks to himself, splits it between literary and day-to-day preoccupations, the imaginative side earning the scratch, the other forced to handle bills, conversation, too sympathetic to turn the lady away, too conflicted to stop thinking he should, writing the story as it unreels, thought unified in action.

It works, fussy yet comfortable comedic communal kerfuffles, both characters lost in transition diversifying their conditions to mutually suspend, mystery driving Alex Jennings (Alan Bennett) to understand Miss Shepherd's (Maggie Smith) past, tragedy romantically polishing its unveiling.

Warmhearted comedy you know, strong communities, not so obsessed with sleaze, such obsessions perhaps indicating decadence, yet still, often, hilarious.

I like these stories that write themselves without trumping everything up to exercise extreme bravado.

It does drag for 15 minutes or so but then picks up and limberly compensates.

Heart, it's great to see films with heart that aren't tearjerkingly sentimental, or, if they are like that, say in the final moments, they at least recognize such indulgences with ecstatic free-spirited self-deprecating smarm.

Gradually revealing Shepherd's past while contrasting it with current circumstances generally keeps the pace moving at a productive contemplative putter.

Assembling this and that.

Rascals.

A film that's being written while it unreels that can't get past the first 5 minutes due to all the conflicting voices might work.

It's probably been done.

Neighbours

The questions of how loud one can party is tempered by bourgeois infiltrations as a rowdy fraternity moves in next door to a married couple in Nicholas Stoller's Neighbours.

The fraternity is well versed in the Dionysian arts.

Their goal is to throw a brazen bash nutso enough to ensure their enshrinement on their wall of fame.

Their neighbours, the Radners, are not impressed.

Engaged in the practice of child-rearing, and hoping to maximize what they can of a good night's sleep, they utilize logic and persuasion in an attempt to famish the insatiability.

Their plan backfires however, leading them to employ alternative methods to achieve their sought after repose.

What follows is a diabolical exchange of quintessential quid pro quo, devious in its conceptual understatements, wherein the past congenitally confronts history.

Robust and adroitly wound.

This isn't a typical frat-boy romp.

Residing in its reels are unexpected lessons regarding the cultivation of one's career and the absurdity of dipsomanic progressions.

Teams frat and bourgeois are therefore divided into the successful and the stumbling, as the mayhem imbues.

Neighbours is somewhat tame in its gambits, but these tame gambits lay a reasonably ecstatic foundation, upon which multiple avenues of inquiry merge, to simultaneously question while enabling.

Embligmatic clues.

It's difficult to say who's having more fun.