What About Bob?

The traditional meeting once a week between the maladjusted and their doctors, the routine format innocently encouraging freeflowing thoughts and observations.

A set time-limit producing boundaries within which to fluidly optimize potential, the information shared creating a narrative through which diagnoses can be stipulated.

The expansion or contraction of the framework occasionally necessary confidentially speaking, as dull humdrum repetitive stasis ridiculously shifts into ludicrous gear.

The quaint determination of coordinates bringing psychiatrist and patient together outside the office, likely universally frowned upon as far as professional relationships go, the possibility of misguided friction leading to awkward unorthodox quandaries, inherently structured by comic accident but at times reaching obsessed despondency.

The giving of advice so often unrewarded and intermittently resented by the genuinely insane, who can't accept a humble position within any sociocultural contract.

Tender affection can also characterize habitual desires to play or fraternize, degrees of comfort misread misinterpreted as unexpected meetings flow.

While the offering of modest counsel hopes to clarify points of confusion, the continuous embrace of unsolicited comment forged through madness can churn and fluster.

What seems irritating to you in consistent surprising recurrent conversation, may seem much less irksome to others who only entertain it in modest intervals.

As you point out your irritation and they swiftly counter with disbelief, the vexation itself can exemplify the obnoxious development of a syndrome.

If typically ensconced meaningfully within a reasonable scientific realm, burgeoning unacademic study may stifle clear-headed lucid imagination. 

Generally confined to the family unit it seems rather harmless as expressed by children, but continual confrontation with compulsive lunacy can sincerely obfuscate acute illustrations.

Steadfast reason having maladroitly transformed into random illogical glib orchestrations, dependable equilibrium wildly shuts down and leaves incoherent tense bewilderment.

Thank god for the onset of summer gleefully shouts parents everywhere.

Who have hopefully found enough time.

To regroup, decompress, and sterilize. 

Star Trek: Generations

I wonder how those old shows that I grew up watching every day, for so many years of my life, are currently regarded by the viewing public.

No doubt the manifest enthusiasm ebbs and flows from realm to juridiction, and even within open-minded circles trends and novelties come and go.

Without conducting a Foucauldian investigation I imagine interest is still strong nevertheless, and I recall seeing The Original Series trending on Netflix less than 5 years ago.

It doesn't age, especially after you stop watching TV for years and then one day find yourself sitting down to watch an episode, the VHS copy you recently found at a thrift store in far reaching wholesome working condition.

It was a Next Generation cassette and humbly featured Jean-Luc Picard, whose leadership style wholeheartedly disseminates a virtuous contradiction to Trump.

He listens closely to what others are saying and sincerely values their opinions, and looks forward to fair negotiations that treat different parties with mutual respect.

He's as anti-Trump as they come and a solid example for leaders to follow, the show's called Star Trek: The Next Generation, and it presents administrators who aren't buffoons.

But back in the day, The Original Series generally ruled the cultural roost, and was usually regarded as the cherished frontrunner when it came to comparisons between the series.

People were therefore uncertain how The Next Generation films would do, having to follow the trusted footsteps of the original widespread broadcast sensation. 

In hindsight, The Original Series showcases potentially timeless episodes, that I still love to watch every 5 years or so, unlike so much old school television.

It was cancelled early though perhaps dues to the interracial kiss, and religious criticisms of a popular world so far beyond rigid biblical discipline.

The Next Generation had a longer run and was able to do a lot more consequently.

So many clever intricate storylines.

I can't believe they didn't make more films.

It's tempting to just watch the movies because watching movies is always tempting, but try to save Star Trek: Generations until you've watched The Original Series, the first six Star Trek films, and the entire Next Generation run.

You'll appreciate Kirk meeting Picard so much more if this is the course you follow.

It's not as bad as some critics claim.

There are some issues (how can you just leave the Nexus and physically go anywhere you want in time for instance?).

But it's still really cool year after year. 

The Suitor

A young bachelor eccentrically lives the imaginative life of the daydreaming mind, and sees no need to embrace the rituals generally distinguishing adult life.

His books and posters and music and films are artistically preferable to in-depth discussions, and inspire less quotidian materialistic dialogues throughout the idle instructional day.

But his parents see a difficult future for their adored son if he doesn't marry, and adamantly encourage him to seek relationships and stop obsessing about pop music.

Unfortunately, he's constructively lived most of his life at play in his room, and has no idea how to talk to others or indeed even start a conversation.

A series of awkward random shenanigans mischievously and haphazardly ensure, but nothing compares to the stunning stars he routinely sees on television.

He often proposes to the striking tenant who rents a room downstairs in his house, but she can't understand a word he's saying and they remain linguistically divided.

In a last ditch effort he seeks to meet his heart's desire, a famous singer.

Working his way in behind the scenes.

To his grand existential disillusionment. 

You don't see this subject taken seriously in that many sympathetic feature length films, the sequestered perennial youth at habitual odds with relational maturity.

But rather than lump him in with wild lunatics which at times happens in such scenarios, a way is found to compassionately showcase his alternative manners and social expressions.

The behaviour isn't vilified there's sympathy for the amorous non-conformist, a comic account much more conducive to eventual communal integration. 

I suppose I've never investigated how often this type of narrative shows up in film, I just know I rarely see it and have only really heard it mentioned in British pop songs. 

I'm therefore quite impressed with Pierre Étaix's lighthearted cinematic début. 

Not as elaborate as the versatile Yoyo.

Still sewing the seeds of daring exhibition. 

Údolí vcel (The Valley of the Bees)

The austere shadow of strict devotion objectively haunts upright ideology, as severe disciples refuse to compromise regarding life or blossoming community.

An adolescent enrages his newlywed father as he scandalously marries a teenage girl, after which he is sent to live in a religious order near the swelling sea so far away.

Life is strict and devout and disciplined but the brothers and knights care for one another, the passage of time accompanied by learning as they forge a nuanced unity of one.

Their vows are absolute however and changes of mind don't factor in, for some the endless praise and self-flagellation depressingly tedious as the years pass.

The boy, now an observant young man, loses faith with the order eventually, notably after a friend tries to escape and is then caught and fed to mad dogs.

Such an occurrence seems sincerely at odds with the Christian calling so he swiftly leaves, and heads back home to his old school castle to freely start life over once again.

But he's strictly chased by a fanatical knight who's gone mad and won't give him up.

No matter how bluntly he's adamantly rejected.

He refuses to ignore the Order's dogma. 

Another more worldly priest less emphatically consumed by absolute pretensions, lives in the world albeit a holy one and attempts to reasonably dissuade him.

His arguments are simple and wholesome temperately generated by communal life, the practical observations of unorthodox realities which still humbly fit with a loving God's teachings.

He reminds the passionate ideologue that the absolute application of religious teachings, will result in collective despondency since so many people simply can't live that way.

Isn't it better to live and attempt to follow the rules as best one can, and not to seek objective justifications to punish the people who've caused no harm?

The knight can't rationally stand the friendly and curious unafraid enclaves, as he meets them in a strange country where they aren't as pious as his native land.

When he hears that his old companion the one he's too blind to see he's in love with, has taken up with his father's widow and seeks to marry her with the priest's consent, he loses his mind in the "offending" foreknowledge that his friend will live an honest just life, likely even surrounded by a loving family strictly forbidden by the Order.

Madness follows, the furious yearning to end his object of desire's fruitful bearings.

The ending as tragic as so much ideology. 

As it imposes absolute calamity 

(There were so many more potential friends in the Order).

(I've mentioned this before but in case there's any confusion, I'm no longer looking to get married).

Criterion keyword: dogma (I was searching for the old school "Dogma Films").

Burden of Dreams

If you're ever under a lot of pressure to achieve a difficult goal, which seems beyond accomplishing too impossible to ever attain, perhaps watch Les Blank's Burden of Dreams as it films the making of Fitzcarraldo, and Werner Herzog's Herculean labours trying to finish the chaotic anti-epic.

Then watch Fitzcarraldo itself and consider that he actually did finish it. With setbacks that would have sent Olympic athletes home in exasperation. No matter what he got 'er done.

I don't know if these films are part of a master class in improvisational independent filmmaking, where the students study Herzog's endeavours and reach conclusions as to his methods.

Or arduously research grand ambition as applied to making international films, where extremely complicated and delicate agreements must be reached with critical Natives.

Or practically study the provision of supplies to an isolated camp deep in the jungle, where hundreds of extras and film personnel had to be well-fed to fend off the boredom.

With the deep pockets of a Hollywood studio it would have perhaps been a different story, although I imagine they would have backed out after the setbacks became too outrageous (punitive raids etc.).

Credit to Herzog for never backing down and to every cast and crew member who stuck it out till the end. 

Hyperintense ominous immersion. 

Ineffable formidable frustration. 

Heart of Darkness comes to mind and Apocalypse Now as well no doubt, as if Herzog was somewhat like Kurtz madly delegating lost in the jungle.

Interviews capture distinct moments alternative viewpoints his different moods, many of them courageous and vigorously defiant while some give way to augmented misery. 

The diaries of Les Blank and Maureen Gosling excerpts of which come with the Criterion Edition of Burden of Dreams (they used to anyway, I bought my copy 20 years ago), offer disenchanting insights into the chaos and some of the decisions that had to be made.

Still to make them to be so artistically obsessed the bona-fide-mad-genius expediently concocting, reflexively adjusting to constant insane pressure, with everyone confused seeking guidance and instruction.

While Kinski erupts in fury (Blank doesn't focus much on Kinski but you can see it in Herzog's My Best Fiend) and the threat of mutiny ubiquitously languishes. 

The absolute pursuit of compulsive artistry. 

People actually risking their lives.

I don't know if there ever was what could be considered a plan.

If there was and it was written down it should be in a museum.

Copies available for study.

With mind-bogglingly resilient discipline. 

*Cool shots of jungle animals at times. 

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. 

Jalsaghar (The Music Room)

Traditional techno prestigious glamour entrenched nobility inalienable birthright, delicately maintaining vast ancient customs once thoroughly sought to uphold righteous honour.

The royal in question elaborately ensconced within his palatial discreet colossus, known for entertaining and leisure and horseplay as were his forefathers so much of his kin.

But times change, new ideas and philosophies begin to prosper throughout the land, and new markets new ways to earn money latently tempt inherent ambitions.

As the economy undergoes transformation and the nouveau riche seek respect and authority, the ocean encroaches upon his old lands and leaves him with no means to take in revenue.

Dispiritingly, his wife and only son travel by water to rendez-vous with her family, tragically suffering a moribund fate when caught in a hurricane on their way home.

Left with no rightful heir and too uptight and proud to start over again, he settles into a depressed routine which sees no income or family or friend.

The world erupting in kitschy novelty borderline insouciant bewitching pandemonium. 

He embraces the passing of the years.

Rarely emerging from his elegant den.

There must be an arthouse tradition imaginatively awaiting curious enthusiasts, who aren't as interested in Bollywood's sensation but still directly crave tactile Indian genius. 

Jalsaghar (The Music Room) seductively showcasing the despondent struggle of a political system, as those who can't adapt to the newfound democracy suffer in silence while their wealth slowly fades.

But more than that, if ever there was a relevant film to challenge boredom and decay, Satyajit Ray's cataclysmic masterpiece indirectly applauds diversification.

The industrious Dutch have held back the sea for such a long time their techniques transmissible, had the aging royal simply adopted them he may have kept his people on the land.

Perhaps due to obsessive bearings he never became aware of such maritime difference, but had he focused intently on generating an income, and hired innovative people accordingly, he likely would have continued to profit from his holdings, and never would have had to sell his sacred possessions.

Thus, beware the sedentary life should you find yourself enamoured with rest and relaxation.

As the saying goes, don't rest on your laurels.

Notably if so many rely on your industry.

The Adults

A close family constructively enjoys a creative childhood dynamically engaged, during which characters and acts and plays are imaginatively shared with receptive audiences. 

The two older siblings have an unspoken rivalry but the youngest generously co-exists, angelically posturing with unselfish sincerity she forges a bridge between the feuding duo. 

As time moves on, and their parents pass, the brother packs his things and leaves one day, their tightened bonds tritely cast aside as he travels the country playing poker and working.

Unable to process his hard-pounding grief he stays away for many a year, hardly calling and showing little interest in the resourceful sisters who made up his home.

But one remorseful soul-searching day he decides to return with undetermined intention, certainly to play poker with ye old school friends, still genuinely curious about his family's goings on.

The older sister who had to embrace responsibility after their mother's passing to save the house, isn't exactly pleased to see him when he suddenly shows up having never lent a hand.

To make things worse he strictly divides his precious free time between family and poker, heading out to intense games in the evenings, sleeping late, and vouchsafing afternoons. 

A habitually logical man attempting to abide by rational guidelines, who once embraced artistic endeavours, must consciously manifest spirit. 

Or suffer cataclysmic austere dissonance.

The Adults perhaps adding a hands-on French touch.

It seems to respect Band à part anyways with random inspired improvised dancing, not sure if that was just a coincidence or an intertextual shout out to independent hommage. 

The film excels at patiently observing the unpleasant difficulties associated with maturity, and the inherent frustrating cold calculated reckoning attributed to derivatives and distant dividends. 

As he slowly comes to realize he's somewhat of an artist playing real world at times, the film warms up and becomes more cute and cuddly, not without pressure and argument and confrontation.

Brought together through soulful reminiscence times creatively conjuring collective cohesion.

Adulthood having presented a lasting challenge.

Stronger united.

To non-traditionally age. 

Oppenheimer

Nuclear weapons are a horrible thing.

They're easily the most reckless anything anyone has ever created, and it's an international miracle the secrets of their creation have been kept under lock and key to this present day.

For a while it seemed like their manufacture would become a thing of the past, as Russia and the United States struck accord after accord, and seemed ready to cultivate lasting peace throughout a united interactive world, wherein which difference wasn't something to be feared, and absolutes were nothing more than sewage.

But this historical epoch is partially defining itself in opposition to the last 30 years, as Trump has arisen to challenge them, so instead of a brilliant film like Planet of the Apes (1968), which effectively obliterated arguments in their defence, we have Christopher Nolan's Oppenheimer, which revels and glorifies in their creation, overlooking the ill-fated Planet of the Apes sequel, Beneath the Planet of the Apes. 

Paying disingenuous lip service to the ways in which madmen can use them to coordinate mass destruction on a planetary scale, it instead introduces several powerful independent scientists, and examines various controversies as they jockey for position.

Thus, two prominent individuals see their reputations slowly ruined as the film bureaucratically concerns itself with bilateral character assassination, without really generating much character along the way, besides that associated with blind innocence and petty grievances. 

It's more like an academic paper with no sense of objectivity than a convincing film.

Prometheus taught the people to make fire so they could cook their own food and have warmth and entertainment.

Anyone who would have denied them such knowledge is certainly not worthy of divinity. 

Oppenheimer coordinated a team that built a nuclear weapon with the power to kill hundreds of thousands that select military officials can use hopefully only as a deterrent. 

Do you see how Prometheus is not like Oppenheimer? How the comparison is ridiculous?

It does seem more and more like Christopher Nolan is the military industrial complex's darling, as they note in Barbie, the patriarchy just hides its hegemony more effectively these days, and whereas Oliver Stone actually made an incredible film looking at the ways in which JFK's murder was covered up, Nolan's Oppenheimer creates a Republican rib roast to be saluted for years to come, while presumably catering to democratic sympathies (JFK didn't win best picture when it should have [Oliver Stone also made a film that lauded Edward Snowden, it didn't make the case for the mass institutional invasion of privacy through cellphones like Nolan did at the end of The Dark Knight]).

I used to have a friend who was nice to talk to but sometimes didn't take her meds, and thought she heard voices in the walls of people discussing this and that.

I tried to ease her mind when these thoughts would overwhelm her late at night, and even though nothing could convince her that the voices weren't real, the conversation helped lighten the anxious mood.

In turn, it was nice to have someone to talk to, to know someone who didn't quickly change their tune, to have a sympathetic yet mischievous outlook to clarify trajectories and nothing in particular.

She tolerated my French too and even taught me a couple of words. 

I like being nobody in Québec.

And I'll always love working and living there. 

Gedo senki (Tales from Earthsea)

It's fun to throw around terms like immortality or magic at times, to take part in mythological shenanigans as reputedly envisaged in fermenting fashion.

But if reality needs be materialistically applied, I've never been interested in living forever, it seems like it would be incredibly dull in fact, and if you kept growing older, an encumbering plight. 

Vampires apparently don't age but who would want to live forever without the sun?, that would be an extremely unfortunate predicament certainly not to be genuinely envied.

I do believe in life after death perhaps sustained through the potent dreamworld, your dreams persisting perhaps like purgatory until you reach some form of nirvana. 

The belief in life after death does solve several concrete problems, and leaves you less burdened by temporal considerations throughout the rapid progression of time.

Make sure you're not too much of a prick and worries of damnation fade as well, the congenial afterlife even animal heaven I imagine sustained by decent people across the land.

I don't think repenting on your death bed or absolution late in life prevents the onset of hell for the truly wicked.

They're punished ruthlessly post-mortality.

Somewhat like Jacob Marley.

But I don't think the punishment is indefinite the chance to rise again indeed enlightening, I've always intuitively believed in reincarnation (as I've mentioned before) for which I was reprimanded at a young age.

Perhaps there is nothing else perhaps just the dirt and ashes follow, after a fertile robust life inquisitively lived through cultural sleuthing.

I find it much less depressing and much more constructive to think otherwise however, there really is no way to determine the answer, and a future filled with multiple lives and multiverses leads to more pleasant thoughts throughout mortal life.

I don't mean for such thoughts to influence government spending or tax-based initiatives, practical reality indeed paramount when trying to spend hard-earned vital incomes.

With competing ideologies in the democratic realm unfortunately the phrase practical realities becomes more abstract, but it's still less corrupt than a one-party system and at least you can still critique and disagree.

Imagine immortality during an ice age, who knows, perhaps that's how we survived!

Like many others, I believe death's a natural part of life.

Not that it means I want to stop living.

Cool film. 

Vertigo

A detective quits the force (James Stewart as John Ferguson) after a near-death experience scars him, his partner having plunged to his death trying to desperately save him.

He can no longer deal with heights and suffers from vertigo when looking down, his adoring friend trying to aid his recovery with modest sprightly daring address (Barbara Bel Geddes as Marjorie Wood). 

An old friend suddenly gets in touch (Tom Helmore as Gavin Elster) and tells him a wild story about his wife (Kim Novak as Madeleine Elster), how he believes she thinks she's possessed by the covetous spirit of a long lost relative.

He's hired to casually follow her as she makes her way around town, visiting art collections or pleasantly shopping as the bizarro days lackadaisically float by.

But she suddenly pumps up the volume by drastically plunging into San Francisco Bay, Mr. Ferguson soon jumping in after her, after which they strike up a curious acquaintance. 

But he's too late she's too far gone he unfortunately can't do anything to save her.

He's incapacitated after her passing.

Until one day, he discovers another. 

Blind obsession compulsively drives naive Mr. Ferguson to pursue an ideal, long after the disastrous moment which harrowingly led to his quixotic conviction. 

The mind-blowing shock of regenerative love igniting latent intransitory torments, everyone around him suffering as a result as he seeks fantasized facsimile. 

It's classic Hitchcocks it's been so long since I've seen one of his striking films, the frenzied emotions the intense disbelief wrapped up in crippling uncanny lamentations. 

I saw many of them in my childhood in fact sought to see every one long ago, I even taped Vertigo off of television when but a wee lad, youthful glib impressionable contemplation.

It's an excellent film wherein which people love and love's not a bad thing, it's to be cherished, admired, even Midge is quite admirable, no doubt like hapless Edward in Kierkegaard's Seducer's Diary.

In terms of forging a general consensus amongst highly opinionated peeps, perhaps it is the best film of all time, or the one which has been begrudgingly chosen.

Almost every episode of Elementary contains a much deeper mysterious plot.

With love growing piecemeal I presume.

I must admit, I prefer Citizen Kane (and Aliens). 

Confidential Report

Spoiler alert.

A man of humble origins obtains astounding wealth, and lives the ostentatious lifestyle well-attuned to extravaganza (Orson Welles as Mr. Arkadin). 

But he has trouble living in the present for some self-obsessed depressing reason, free to do whatever he pleases, he decides to track down old associates.

With ill-intent.

He hires a somewhat clueless blunt do-gooding would-be detective, to discover where they've wound up and any additional information he can find (Robert Arden as Guy Van Stratten). 

He had hoped to blackmail Arkadin with his knowledge of an old school name, and managed to fortunately meet him after getting to know his carefree daughter (Paola Mori as Raina). 

He travels far and wide in search of crucial extant intel, leaving a well-trodden path to follow should one scrutinize his investigation.

He encounters several oddballs enigmatically versed in levity, who supply ample scandalous details of Mr. Arkadin's criminal past.

But he realizes too late that he's been followed and they've been murdered.

And he's been framed for a murder himself.

And there's nowhere left to hide.

Leave things be I say in terms of controversial fascinations, there's peace of mind in a steady job and a potentially loving fulfilling relationship.

After work, there are art museums and a fluid stream of homegrown spectacles at Place des arts, delicately blended with international intrigue the seductive synthesis viscerally reeling.

Plus sports.

A sudden inspired idea can generate piquant multilateral harmonies, ephemerally akin to serendipitous spectrums as genuinely concerned as they are suspicious. 

Perhaps the accumulation of wealth does beget a desire for public recognition, it seems to happen often enough in film and literature, even if the riches were acquired somewhat scandalously. 

Does nominal philanthropy exculpate suspect acquisitive propulsion, like secular sociopolitical tithing written off with a lack of pretence?

It seems like social media would lead to a less ambiguous historical take.

But there are so many competing narratives.

Who tells the most gripping story?

Confidential Report presents a cool cast of characters comically united through witless candour.

Live in the present I say.

Augmented tradition.

Novel change. 

The Prestige

Professional rivalry, two up and coming magicians, each determined to present the most striking spectacle, imaginable, yet one is careless, and the other's cherished love interest passes, things taking a vicious turn in the aftermath, as they both refuse to back down.

One believes in dangerous risk taking while the other is more reserved, although the intensity of their grim competition provokes grand transformations forthcoming.

One visits the coveted Tesla (David Bowie) at his residence in the wilds of Colorado, and requests the creation of a machine that can transport matter from one location to another.

He believes such a sensation has already been acquired by his adversary, and spends a fortune to flagrantly duel, his nemesis not in possession of exhaustive funds, yet more innovative counterintuitively speaking.

I've never understood compulsive obsession and the personal desire to win at all costs. Sportspersonship is too valuable a concept to be obscured by personal ambition.

It's preferable to lose having played by the rules than to succeed through nefarious means, as long as you give your best effort and suppress destructive envious tendencies.

I pay too much attention to sports to proceed otherwise, not that I'm by any means a great athlete, but so many great athletes compete year after year without ever winning anything.

This doesn't prevent them from competing or trying to win one more time, they're great role models for the active spirit who never grows weary of enriching fair play.

Alfred Borden (Christian Bale) and Robert Angier (Hugh Jackman) take things to levels I can't comprehend, to resort to sabotage or deliberate vengeance insults the art they're skilfully crafting.

I thought the arts would be much more friendly in my youth since so many of the artistic people I knew were often kind, the realities of the art world somewhat disconcerting as people critically jockey for position.

I suppose there are fewer opportunities to succeed as an artist than there are for sporty peeps, and the lack of engaging opportunity drives ambition to psychotic levels.

But it seems better to chill on the fringe than embrace destructive psychologies.

If you want the world to be a better place and you adopt ruthless means how will anything ever change?

Beyond what's written.

More respect for aging artists in the Anglo-American sphere may lead to less intense conflict, I'm by no means an expert on French culture, but it's clear they hold the arts in much higher esteem.

In general, not in relation to me, French culture seems to cultivate a much more level playing field for the arts and sports, which could explain why they're so successful at both, why they keep generating such incredible outputs.

The Prestige is an excellent film that showcases unsettling realities. 

There's so little to soulfully gain.

Through bland underhanded corruption. 

Tanin no kao (The Face of Another)

A man's face is badly disfigured in an accident at work, and no one can ease the pain he feels in the bitter shocking aftermath.

Both his wife and boss offer sympathy and paths to follow to attain new heights, but brutal depression sets in, and he won't freely listen to anyone.

He covers his face with bandages and proceeds forlorn and ornery, firm resolute disintegration, a total collapse of drive and will.

But he learns of a highly exceptional procedure that could supply him with a new face, a procedure to which he responds without doubt or hesitation or misgiving.

Delicate steps must be carefully taken to ensure surgical success, legal matters presuming a backdrop that codifies mistaken identity.

The doctor's quite idealistic and sees the potential for soulful growth, the cultivation of new beginnings, a miraculous second chance.

Meanwhile others with similar afflictions wander out and about throughout town, producing unfortunate Frankenstein effects, as they simply try to converse and observe.

I remember reading Frankenstein as a kid, it's a fascinating book, I recommend it.

What really struck me as I was reading it was how tender and loving Frankenstein initially is, as he observes humanity cautiously from afar, before they discover his startling appearance.

They may have had a scholar or a caregiver to help nurture and develop on their hands, if they hadn't reacted with fright, if they hadn't turned him into a monster.

I remember a time before shows like The Bachelor became popular, and the shock amongst my friends when they were first released, I understand that a lot of people love them, but do they not lack genuine depth?

Isn't there still something to be said for personality and conversation and the ways in which they can overcome aesthetic concerns, isn't it more important to be able to talk to someone than just to stare at them in bold excess?

The doctor in Tanin no kao (The Face of Another) doesn't let his grief overwhelm him, but when he discovers his patient wants to use his new face to seduce his wife, not the doctor's wife, it's somewhat of an ethical downer.

The film starkly examines basic instinct at an honest yet derelict level, preferring to directly interrogate desire rather than more profound applications of the intellect.

It's not that it misses the point or proceeds in error or wallows in emotional discord, rather it diagnoses unsettling social characteristics, and critiques them with morose candour.

I imagine people watching the film find the grim reality distressing, and perhaps see themselves somewhat determined to promote compassion afterwards.

It's bleak to be sure and doesn't offer much from the despondent view of its principal character.

Who's given an irresistible reprieve.

And still can't search for something higher.

The Invisible Man

This review concerns a film where one partner is obsessed with controlling the other. That is what this review is about. I am not indirectly critiquing governments for introducing strict measures to combat the coronavirus. I think it is better to prevent the spread of the virus than to be in a situation where Canadian and Québecois or American or French medical staff are overwhelmed trying to fight it, and I therefore support strict measures which encourage more time spent at home working on projects and chillin' with loved ones, during these difficult times.

Relationship dynamics suffocate a partner's growth, their tight-knit bond overwhelmingly intensifying as she attempts to securely break free.

Cecilia (Elisabeth Moss) needs to conceal her whereabouts to avoid rage-fuelled repercussions, so she lies low at a friend's comfy pad, too frightened to venture past defined thresholds.

Before it's made known that he's suddenly passed and left her everything he possessed, a sense of calm then slowly regenerating, as she seeks work and amicable trust.

But something's not quite right as she tries to reestablish her steady routine, bizarre occurrences maladroitly dishevelling, which make no sense without supernatural recourse.

It becomes clear aggrieved reanimation is striving to drive her insane, but since evidence cannot be compiled, reasonability flounders defunct.

I've read articles equating break ups to alcohol or narcotics-based withdrawal, The Invisible Man investigating this phenomenon with gripping visceral bedlam.

It reminds me of Rosemary's Baby since its heroine struggles in aware isolation, as her support network distraughtly collapses, and she's left alone to forthrightly contend.

But it's not as fatalistic, not as hopeless or stifling, it leaves room for intact resolution, at time showcasing genuine frights.

Shocking downright frisked and freaky.

Mr. Griffen (Oliver Jackson-Cohen) is as extreme as he is obsessed, can't even begin to start contemplating letting go.

It's like maniacal withdrawal, unrestrained irrational concentration, people aren't like inanimate objects, if they don't want to date you they may never will.

I don't understand why people want to date people who don't like them that much, it seems like a cruel recipe for distress, isn't it preferable to spend that much time with someone you can be friendly with, so so much of your life isn't confrontationally composed?

Seems like the dark side to me, like you're surrounded by total negativity, with a logic totally its own, that only makes sense if you leap off the deep end, aren't there always new people to meet?

New interested individuals who can't wait to get to know you?

If you put yourself out there?

The Invisible Man doesn't present the most robust scenario but it makes the most of its chilling proposition, offering candid insights into ye olde independence, while aptly vilifying obsessive pretensions.

It's a solid thriller that doesn't overextend itself, excels within its particular domain, creating a shocking lifeforce all its own, invigorated by sincere performances.

Juliet, Naked

A long-term relationship, once overflowing with amorous bounty, has fallen into a state of blind extraction, one partner remaining guiltless as the other pans and prospects, crass dismissive routine having disenchanted glib absorption.

Duncan Thomson (Chris O'Dowd) is quite successful for someone who's become even more enamoured with the music of his youth as he's aged, a rare highly-specialized peculiarity who's found both stimulating employment and an irresistible mate without having to adjust his lifestyle, at all, like an uncompromised established radical nerd god I suppose, who may have been diagnosed autistic if he hadn't learned to tame distracting obsessions, level-headed if not unique, examining non-Dickensian media pedagogically throughout the day.

Annie Platt (Rose Byrne) is also a success yet puts up with more bullshit than most women I know would for five minutes. She's spent too many years acquiescing and it's unfortunately resulted in stalemate.

When suddenly, as if a rival divinity decided to mystify his or her earthly spiritual contemporaries, she writes a critical review of the artist Duncan fetishizes, and shortly thereafter, that very same singer/songwriter, one Tucker Crowe (Ethan Hawke), makes first intuitive contact.

Crowe's soon visiting town after attending an hospitable family reunion close by (he's from the States and Annie lives in Britain), and the two hit it off even though/because they're both rather charmingly unsure of themselves.

Multiple characters offering myriad commentaries accompany them as they exchange goods, stewing an atypical bourgeois pot roast of sorts which narratively generates free-flowing conceptual sustenance.

From Annie's worldly lesbian sister (Lily Brazier as Ros Platt) to her town's mayoral sensation (Phil Davis as Mayor Terry Barton) to the subject of an old school photograph (Ninette Finch) to Tucker's thoughtful son Jackson (Azhy Robertson), an active international urbanely pastoral assertive inoffensive multigenerational cluster thoughtfully protrudes, constant flux radiating concerted solitude, domestic clutches loosening vows seized.

Unmarried vows.

Whatever.

The main characters aren't one-dimensional pin-ups either, evolving crises and resurgent settlements interrogatively finagling initial semantic outlines, as a matter of psychological flexibility openly conciliated, in spite of pretence recalled.

Tucker Crowe isn't ideal or anything, but he's changed and is much more responsible than he used to be.

Breakdowns still regularly accompany his daily regimen, often brought on by legitimate grievances cunningly wielded by jaded yet prosperous former lovers.

Wives, partners, fans.

Children he's never met.

Duncan is a bit of a douche but you still feel for him when Crowe bluntly and insensitively ignores his questions, even if from Crowe's point of view he's that guy.

Juliet, Naked is a laidback multilayered serious comedic piece of exceptional screenwriting (Evgenia Peretz, Jim Taylor, and Tamara Jenkins), convincing personalities innocently/frankly/charitably/maturely/helplessly/judiciously observing otherworldly circumstances, while remaining committed to personal affairs which romanticize anaesthetic sensation.

Dozens of cool little ideas and points of view expertly weaved into a funny unconcerned profound teacup tapestry.

It doesn't acknowledge how ridiculous it all sounds.

Adroitly so.

I'll keep coming back to the hospital scene again and again, which was much too short.

Perfectly timed ending though.

Hotel Transylvania 3: Summer Vacation

A getaway.

A surprise.

A much less terrifying Drac (Adam Sandler) heads out for some rest and relaxation, a well-earned break from managing his infamous hotel.

His friends and family enthusiastically accompany him, adding communal comedic style to his travels similar to that found in A Muppet Family Christmas (1987).

It's not Christmas, not even Halloween, yet the cruise they find themselves upon does come equipped with stunning Summertime festivities, attractions, designed specifically for monsters, who are unaware it's a vengeful trap.

The Van Helsings (Jim Gaffigan as Van Helsing and Kathryn Hahn as Ericka) have sought to finish Dracula off for generations.

Without success.

But now their family has come up with their most diabolical scheme ever, and have successfully lured everyone into their exhaustive clutches.

An aspect that has never been considered may foil their antiseptic ambitions, however.

Known to both human and monster kind.

As unabashed true love.

Or zinging, as it's referred to in Hotel Transylvania 3: Summer Vacation, and it does perhaps generate the odd blush or two, as aged Drac comes to terms with his emotions.

Nevertheless, daughter Mavis (Selena Gomez [not Winona Ryder?]) stays focused, and detects peculiar behaviour as she monitors the actions of dad's commanding love interest.

With the help of her chill surfs-up! beatbox husband Johnny (Adam Samberg), they may just be able to dispel the leviathan.

It's a cruise after all.

Replete with Bermudan triangulations.

Some funny moments, some serious camaraderie, death-defyingly wicked yet convivially chummy and endearing, Hotel Transylvania 3 innocently blends mirth with the macabre to highlight collective curses, synthesizing Capulets and Montagues demonstrously, while adding myriad spicy flavours askew.

An odd narrative technique that didn't really work with me, it consistently focuses intently on one character at the end of a sequence and then pauses for dramatic effect.

I imagine I'm outside the targeted audience's age range, but I found the technique to be more sluggish than profound.

The kids in the theatre were laughing though, and seemed to have thoroughly enjoyed themselves as the credits rolled.

I did rather enjoy the ways in which so many characters were diminutively featured throughout nonetheless, especially Blobby (Genndy Tartakovsky), and lovestruck Drac in denial.

Plus the DJed dénouement.

Gremlin air.

The underwater volcano.

And the inherent ridiculousness of it all.

Nice.

A Wrinkle in Time

A brilliant mind obsessed with unlocking physical secrets of the universe suddenly completes his work.

And vanishes into the unknown.

His family is overcome with grief and 4 years later daughter Meg (Storm Reid) remains maladjusted.

Falling grades and fights at school are causes of concern for mom (Gugu Mbatha-Raw), even if Meg was standing up to bullies, even if depression prevents her from concentrating.

Her toughness earns her the respect of classmate Calvin (Levi Miller), however, before three mysterious women show up, who claim to know the whereabouts of her dad (Chris Pine).

Rational disbelief proliferates as impossibility is slowly deconstructed while the plausible conversely engenders hope anew.

Yet Meg must truly believe if she is to both battle The It with the fortitude required to earn her father's freedom, and daringly become the warrior Mrs. Which (Oprah Winfrey) knows she can be.

Perhaps saving little genius brother Charles Wallace (Deric McCabe) thereby, while achieving beyond the limits within which she's terrestrially confined.

The It remains ill-defined but one of the scenes which takes place within its domain depicts unconcerned families enjoying delicious treats seaside stretched-out on the beach.

Meg can tell it's a trick for when she tries the food it indeed tastes like sand.

Perhaps then The IT governs the realm of illusion wherein which the wonderful is in fact nothing more than specks of dust, wherein which insubstantial reversals transform independence into servitude and integrity into humiliation, one ruler commanding all who share in its false pretensions.

Meg sees through this for she unconsciously grasps and stands up for the truth, no matter what situation she finds herself within.

Thus, like an academic, she is less concerned with the limelight or sensational accolades than humbly pursuing a devoted life of studious contemplation.

Like her father who leapt into pure discovery alone.

A Wrinkle in Time salutes the truth by polarizing the fantastic with remarkably realistic composure, as if being honest with yourself verifiably creates purest imagination.

Not as wild and enrapturing and unpredictable as I thought it might be, but still an illuminating journey wherein which courage vanquishes doubt to individualistically uphold something greater than oneself.

Critical.

The Rift: Dark Side of the Moon

North of Belgrade, a mysterious satellite crash leads an eclectic international mismatch to cautiously exhibit.

Their leader, ill at ease with working with others and known for adopting unorthodox methods, blindly yet confidently leads onwards.

A brilliant scientist, tenacious tesla, and liaising liability accompany him forthwith, illustrious classified governmental nocturnes somnambulistically elucidating their scratchy lunar distillates.

After encountering a haunting spaceperson, whose inexplicable presence seems to be immortally manipulating its surroundings, madness slowly hemorrhages their improvised intentions.

Correspondingly, a secret portal holds enigmatic clues to his or her terrestrial origins, its temporal spatial eccentricities, seductively eviscerating psychological bounds.

As well.

Is the world at large a component of an invisible computer program (requiring caring environmental stewardship) within which those designated prophetic in ages past had accidentally downloaded information regarding the future through the ether which made no sense within their contemporary sociocultural predicaments?

I'm not sure.

Even if it's true, nevertheless, it couldn't save The Rift: Dark Side of the Moon from taking itself too seriously.

I imagine it was written by someone whose first language isn't English, because its clunky clichés, hastily delivered as if they're hard-hitting extravagantly stranded bona fides, are precise yet sloppy, inasmuch as a Native speaker would likely do a better job of covering up their emotionless tact.

That's likely what I would sound like writing in another language if I overemphasized my fluency anyways.

Had everything been slown down a bit and a slight comedic element attached, with a lot more gore, this aspect would have been more appreciated.

That isn't to say the film's all bad.

The soundtrack's fantastic and it ends well.

It made me think of David Bowie's first album, upon which you'll hear the origins of unparalleled songwriter awkwardly developing his genius chops.

More time and care and perhaps Dejan Zecevic will pull it together for a Diamond Dogs or two, a Rebel Rebel, a Young Americans.

'Tis the season.

A Ghost Story

A Ghost Story takes itself rather seriously for a bizarro religious art film, opening with intense sorrowful classical music that accompanies the plodding uninspiring narrative for awhile before unobtrusively fading into the dull background.

Not much is known about the featured character before he chooses to remain with Earthen realms, forever spectating his former haunts, dolorously watching as life continues unaffected, self-inflicted emotional torment meets phantasmagorical purposeless attention, dry lifeless exchanges with other ghosts, pointlessness carrying on.

A number of mournful scenes then adorn the story with motionless static depressing longevity, which would have been more tragic if there was more of a reason to care, before, suddenly, wondrously, the camera starts moving, beautiful music then igniting a jaunty passionate grizzled condemnation of nihilism, the finite, the unimaginative, the plain, no counterargument forthcoming which makes sense considering the circumstances (that guy at the party), as the derelict observes, unable to intervene.

Afterwards we're treated to a remarkably creative lively endearing artistic exposition of convivial charm and romantic playfulness, which compensates for the drab meaningless anguish earlier, providing the rationale for the former bland rendition, from vapidity to virtuosity, David Lowery intellectually shining.

I would have left the ghost business out and focused on developing different compelling dialogues for different historical periods transitioning from one to another within the same remote locale instead.

Watch the whole thing, it's impressive, but could have been much more alluring, more penetrating, more provocative, more enigmatic, if it had embraced random ethereal flux, rather than lugubriously making a point that isn't that sharp or innovative.