Days of Thunder

One thing I never really got into was car racing.

I remember the first time I watched a car race on old school television in my youth, and I wasn't that interested in the material, and became nervous when 2 of the brothers present started brawling, it was an awkward day, but still memorable to say the least.

Cars just never jived with me, although they are certainly a convenient mode of transportation, and a significant component of many postmodern economies, and if not dangerous and illegal, it would be fun to drive fast.

Reason and logic eventually came to their aid as I rationally considered their universal value, and when not living in the city they are arguably essential, although I have spent countryside months strictly travelling by foot, bike, and kayak.

I also rather enjoyed Grand Prix Weekend in Montréal, although to be honest I wasn't that interested in the race. It did bring thousands of people to the city however and gave it a unique flair that caught my eye, the lauded difference even if somewhat opulent still impressively stuck out in the urban landscape.

Days of Thunder has a notable cast that efficiently keeps it real throughout the film, challenging one another and falling in love as respect is given to the race car industry.

A sequel could effectively diversify the latent material emergent in the original, using contemporary storytelling techniques to multidimensionally intensify the initial feature.

These films may have remarkable value thousands of years later after fossil fuels run out, and we lament that we never invested in alternative energies before worldwide chaos ensued.

Legends of planes and automobiles will no doubt persist for painstaking centuries, but will they endure for competitive millennia?, that is difficult to accurately predict.

As a model to aid such farfetched calculations we can evaluate the logical merit of anthropological studies, and theorize regarding how accurate they reflect the ancient past in terms of distinct reasonability.

But if everything is forgotten or narratively mutated through imagination, and DVD technology is one day re-created in the future, Days of Thunder would no doubt present something ancient yet futuristic to baffled theoreticians of old school mindsets. 

It would offer definitive proof that at one time human beings drove mechanized beasts at lightning quick speeds.

Many other sports may still be around.

But race car driving will require the Legend.

Elvis

It's surprising more films haven't been made about Elvis (Austin Butler), and that it took so long for this one to come out, but I suppose rock bioflicks aren't really that common, or that I don't recall one having been made about the Beatles or Rolling Stones.

A big one anyways.

You'd think there'd be a huge market for stylistic glimpses into chaotic yesteryear, but perhaps said fans no longer care much for movies, and multigenerational appeal remains too risky (The Doors was cool in my youth).

Elvis's influence was waning when I was younger but he was still widely regarded as The King, and no other musical performer ever rivalled his incredible American popularity, there were certainly dozens of potential candidates, but no one else commensurately captured that sensational spotlight so smoothly.

So pervasively.

I liked many of his songs and even enjoyed playing them on the piano, but I wasn't that interested in the phenomenon, I was way more into Brit pop.

He had kind of been identified with the more straight and narrow path, and I often associated his music with study, which made it less appealing.

Baz Luhrmann is no doubt aware of this crisp commercial characterization, his film focusing on controversies from Elvis's life, where he spoke out against the grain.

Like a passionate devoted fan, he chronicles the less wholesome aspects of the King, and serializes his sultry swagger in contumacious cordial conflict.

Although I really don't know how seriously a non-traditional Christmas special challenged Woodstock, but it seemed to work according to the film, and helped him regain the centre stage, I wholeheartedly feel no shame for my love of Christmas specials.

The film focuses much of its attention on Elvis's relationship with his manager (Tom Hanks as Colonel Tom Parker), who took advantage of the singer's naivety to earn an astronomical income.

Everything starts off well but things become tricky when it comes to international travel, since the Colonel has no legal identity and can't leave America, he consistently tricks Elvis into remaining stateside.

Such a shame the managerial aspects the real-world greed that complicates art.

Elvis still never stopped givin' 'er.

Even when he was forced to do so practically every night.

Some of his songs seem truly timeless and I'll still stop and listen like that guy on Seinfeld. 

Staple tradition. Consistent change. 

Shouldn't lyrics have been used in the title?

Stan & Ollie

An aging comedic duo, whose films were once the most sought after, settles into a British tour, with hopes of promoting another film.

But times have changed and resident audiences have embraced alternative acts, Laurel (Steve Coogan) & Hardy (John C. Reilly) forced to start out in a tumbledown forgotten theatre.

Nevertheless, their impeccable showpersonship soon smoothly generates a buzz, and shortly after recommencing they've embraced the grand marquee once more. 

They're accustomed to lofty praise and soon find themselves fashionably fawned in focus, the chance to return to the silver screen seeming much more likely with each passing day.

But a troubling memory problematizes the seamless reanimated tip-top traction, remembrances of an old contract dispute and the one instance they worked apart.

Had it not been for that one pesky moment their careers would have been holistically united.

Seems silly when you consider the stats.

But sometimes peeps obsess about perfection.

Laurel & Hardy were still well known in my youth and highly-regarded amongst my older relatives, I never really sought out their films but was once a huge fan of Abbott & Costello.

Where would they have been without Laurel & Hardy it's difficult to say, they likely still would have had talent, but would they have forged a dynamic Laurel & Hardyesque tandem that prolonged the paradigm for paramount decades, or would they have created solo acts, unfortunately having abandoned the adored routine?

It looks like Laurel was much more ambitious and wanted to earn them a bigger slice, and was always working on new ideas to potentially produce in upcoming shows. 

Stan enjoyed what they made and didn't want to risk the good life, it looks like famous lucrative actors held little executive sway back then, perhaps like professional sports before the unions.

Do they hold much more sway now?, I believe they're paid much more, and some of the more famous ones can choose their roles, but I haven't really read up on it.

Perhaps "lighthearted" is the wrong word to use to describe Laurel & Hardy's work, I imagine at the time it was truly groundbreaking, perhaps even shocking to old school audiences.

I'll have to see if they made the Collection or if iTunes has any of their films.

Stan & Ollie's worth checking out.

An engaging hommage to comedic legends. 

Doraibu mai kâ (Drive My Car)

The active life sustaining supple harmless interactive thought, consoling quirky consternation adept immersive ingenuity.

The calm and patient holistic vision stoic steadfast solemn varsity, pertinent adaptable expansive sizzle earmarked voltaic latent pressure.

But his (Hidetoshi Nishijima as Yûsuke Kafuku) loving partner (Reika Kirishima as Oto) suddenly passes when perhaps he could have intervened, or said something to swiftly alter the dismal moribounding hemorrhage. 

Psychologically deconstructed he gradually jukes and jets and jigsaws, slowly reimagining amenable principle through lighthearted chill experiment.

At one time he reflexively envisioned daunting twists tantalizing turmoil, without pause or critical reflection the plain and simple erudite schism.

But his wife first found the idea, after which he quickly improvised.

The working relationship romantically inclined freeform forgiveness inveterate l'amour, a rare gift celestially insatiable prolonged compression distilled adrenaline.

A common goal remarkably productive intermittent rowdy regenerative horseplay, benefits accrued conducive clutches laidback lax alert consistency.

Not one to overlook novelty, he notices his new driver's (Tôko Miura as Misaki Watari) abounding with pluck, somewhat forlorn yet still observant eager to multidimensionally disperse.

In possession of secrets so much distraction inanimate disconcerting dalliance, inopportune exported rationed irrevocable hardwire harrowing husk.

Kafuku winds up working with a young actor (Masaki Okada as Koji Takatsuki) who had an affair with his wife, the two awkwardly engaged through mutual love lost shin limitless lugubrity.

One young and blunt unwilling to hold back the thoughts which emerge to haunt him, the other sombre and much less eager to discuss such sensitive direct subjects.

Through these discussions a play takes shape as volatility blends with reason.

Only to ceremoniously fade.

Tragic rage.

Resurgent vellum. 

The Birdcage

A young couple hoping to wed attempt to deceive the would-be bride's father (Gene Hackman as Senator Keeley), for he's a politician with a traditional edge that may frown upon his new festive in-laws.

The potential in-laws themselves are also hesitant to support the union, for the couple's rather young and lack multidisciplinary life experience. 

But, decision made, they proceed abashed yet disrespectful, asking the lively freespirited couple to cloak their natural inclinations. 

They've done quite well for themselves and live within an inclusive open-minded realm, where they even own their own successful nightclub in which Albert (Nathan Lane) regularly performs.

It's easier for Armand (Robin Williams) to give in since it's his son who's matrimonially disposed, even if he's moved far past having to conceal his conducive clutch commercial savvy.

They redecorate their apartment and even practice earnest mannerisms, Armand even going so far as to ask an ex to play a leading role (Christine Baranski as Katharine). 

She happens to be the boy's (Dan Futterman as Val) mother but she hasn't seen him in years, the ethics becoming more and more disreputable the closer and closer they come to seeming orthodox. 

But Albert won't be treated this way and remains a star of first rate standing.

He's ready for a surprise performance.

As his audience arrives for dinner (with Dianne Wiest as Louise). 

The result is a resplendent debacle abounding with resonant tact and mirth, a performance precious in its incomparability delicately redefining eloquence.

I'd argue indefatigably that Laurence Olivier's the best actor I've seen, but I've never seen him reach the heights Nathan Lane ascends in Mike Nichols's Birdcage.

Backed up by Robin Williams whose transformative prowess mischievously bewilders, saving the best of his awkward orchestrations for the detested gastronomic dissimulation. 

But as fate would have it within the film invasive hounds inspire an otherworldly rapprochement, and an uncanny serendipitous synthesis effortlessly enchants as it chaotically unites.

Bizarro bastions bounteously bursting as merrymaking matriculately mingles, I'd hope The Birdcage would dazzle any audience from whatever political or ethical stripe.

Things could be much more chill and compassionate without having to make impractical sacrifices. 

That's what it seemed like in '90s movies anyways.

Or at least many of those I happened to see.

*Most of which are still available for rental.

**With Calista Flockhart (Barbara Keeley) and Hank Azaria (Agador). 

***Surprised The Birdcage isn't a Criterion. 

Paris Blues

Ram Bowen (Paul Newman) and Eddie Cook (Sidney Poitier) have smoothly settled in Paris, where they work as jazz musicians at a local club most working nights.

Their reputation's solid and they work hard to maintain it, routine practise honing creativity, regular performance hot damn experiment, the vibrant chill nightlife.

Bowen's interested in musical composition and Cook tries to help him write, consistently generating new ideas inordinate spirited bright material.

Their act's established, they're part of the scene, living the life in grooves composing, when two American tourists show up one night in search of improvised l'amour.

They're on a well-earned two week vacation and didn't know what to readily expect, but Ram and Eddie weren't prepared for them either, and their resonant domestic echo.

Different traditions contend as they converse, as they consider relationships long-lasting, sure and steady conjugal comportment, the cookie cut stuck out in the 'burbs.

It's a lot to give up but there's so much to gain but everything's happening so quickly, and Bowen's the leader of his nimble band and his fellow musicians rely on him heavily.

He looks out for them anyways and tries to steer them away from soulless excess, relying on them like a coach or trainer, who works for the same productive team.

Was that a regular thing in the '60s, the '50s, the '40s, whenever?

Professional musicians working the same club every night and wildly drawing them in?

Does it still happen in Paris and New York or somewhere in Montréal that I'm unaware of?, if not I'd argue something's been lost, something beyond commercial value.

Imagine what you'd create if you worked that hard, what you'd routinely exceptionally come up with, if you never stopped to rest on your laurels, if life was a constant improvised rhythm?

I think old school musicians were more concerned with sounding good than with not sounding bad, but that's just a casual observation that isn't supported by vigorous research (does the absence of working class vitality within artistic spheres lead to a general spirit that's more academic than artistic?).

Imagine there were several exceptional bands that regularly played the same clubs in Montréal, and you could see them any night of the week, and they never gave anything less than outstanding?

Imagine they still played their instruments too and sought to etherealize with mad reckless solos, or jam here and there at times, as the drive of their audience compelled them?

Paris Blues captures a rhythmic lifestyle caught up with domestic and political intrigue, and celebrates musician's lives without focusing intently on the negative.

The negative taunts in every domain and it's great to see a film that celebrates the artistic life.

Relationships tempt and tantalize.

Resolute competing responsibilities.  

*Duke Ellington's music's incredible and there's an amazing scene where Louis Armstrong (Wild Man Moore) stops by to jam.

The Entertainer

Archie Rice (Laurence Olivier), a struggling performer, the thrill of the stage, pressing forward ever onwards, hypothetical airtight integration, elastic dynamism salacious foothold.

Perpetual indulgence subjective omniscience fragile attachments paternal reprimands, constant motion deconstructing the breeze, leaving behind scattered remnants of ripe potential (he always knows what to say, or at least always says something).

Pressures paramount tactile gravity hands-on harkened hexed hashed haberdashery, innate insouciance magnetic pulse wayward rhythm irresistibility (people love him).

The hand that's dealt enriching bluff prevarication, smooth operation bewildering necessity (he's creative).

Extolled acquiescence resigned caricature agile concise persevering flexibility, dismissive of resonant embanked calculus, he'd be lost if he wasn't adrift (he's broke).

His inspired reactions lack sympathy for his loved ones, who've grown weary but haven't withdrawn.

Not one to dwell on the past or much besides the immediate moment, he tries to find revenue to launch his new show.

The moment dictates how he'll act and he can no longer write his own cheques.

But he'll do anything to secure independence, no matter what it might dutifully cost him.

Not that he isn't in fact independent, I'd argue he's never known fetter or chain, not that there aren't obligations he negotiates, he just always does so with purest freewill (not me).

In every conversation there's an anecdote or comparison, a reminiscence, a synthesis, a parallel, some truths requiring absurd empathy, as he pulls everyone into his sphere.

He's the kind of person who makes for great conservation and if things aren't too serious a reliable friend, especially if you happen to be in a pub, or heaping praise on his struggling show.

He's aware of responsibility and wants to be responsible but his fluctuating lifestyle makes it quite difficult, he has to create both audience and opportunity and build on whatever momentum's available.

If it's lavish, well then, he's responsible, and if not, fugaciously so.

Things haven't been lavish for some time and people have become rather critical.

But he's far too carefree for critiques, and does his best to verbosely withstand.

The Entertainer presents a showperson who's also a husband, father, and son, who isn't so far gone he's insufferable, but is still by no means sure and steady.

The attention to detail's incredible and it aptly entwines cerebral senses, less luscious conceptions of performance critiquing rowdier, gaudier ways.

Plenty of character, comedy, tragedy, inherent intrigue residual calm, a fascinating script by one John Osborne, that doesn't spare romance or conflict.

Laurence Olivier is once again outstanding (there's so much Olivier in this film) and presents another character who must be seen.

He was quite active for someone so talented (from a contemporary perspective) and played wonderfully unorthodox roles.

No wonder his fans never forgot him.

*This review is about Archie Rice in The Entertainer, who's struggling to keep performing on stage. His character's somewhat sympathetic if not conceited and there's no doubt he's a feisty cynosure. I don't know how the world moves forward from the President of the United States suggesting people inject disinfectants. It's beyond irresponsibility. It's a whole new level of recklessness all its own. Please don't inject disinfectants. Injecting disinfectants will probably kill you.

A Star is Born

With a voice as multifaceted as Brooklyn or a night out on Duluth, effervescently reverberating with transformative emotional characterization, sweetly orchestrating discursive labyrinths, purpose delineating fluctuating climax, the in/conclusive communally narrativizing, the independent meteorologically summarizing, Lady Gaga (Ally) firmly embraces the silver screen, irrepressibly showcasing her vast talent, chanting out with distinct virtuosity, enlightened like a seaside glade, I've never listened to her before, what an exceptionally mesmerizing performer.

Starring in a film that struggles to match up.

Although it starts out well as an alcoholic superstar (Bradley Cooper) suddenly decides to check out the local nightlife after another successful performance.

To his immense good fortune, he's lucky enough to discover a local talent whose versatility is as profound as it is unknown (Gaga).

The film excels as the two meet and Ally is instantaneously recognized.

But as the praise keeps rolling in, and rolling in, and rolling in, its gritty edge is blandly dulled, and as Jack's addictions correspondingly get the better of him, the result is a depressing descent into cold reckless shadow.

A Star is Born is just too obvious, not in the good we know this is tacky and we're making fun of ourselves kind of way, but in the bad you're supposed to be taking this seriously kind of way.

And it's super long.

Often when I see something this bad I'll go see something else and write about it instead, to avoid hurting feelings, but I don't have time to do that this month, and therefore, must proceed.

But I won't say much more.

Immediacy can be a useful device but when things are this instantaneous everything just falls apart.

Rapidly.

In terms of making a film, not going with the flow when performing live.

Man.

My mind's too full of negativity.

I think the expression is, field day, or you could have a field day with this one.

Some great performances though.

And some funny family moments.

The first 40 minutes are really good.

Bummer.

Forushande (The Salesman)

Honourable codes parlay filings frosty, high stress politesse addressed immaterials, expectations, blame, a role, a play, residual sin licentious spaces, jasmine, tremors entrenched repute resounding, a home makeshift explicit riffs callow, advanced notification withheld as fictional and realistic threads intertwine to obscure an artistic commitment, the adoption of a foreign text from a less patriarchal period and country (?) expressing thoughts and desires strictly forbidden, blended with alternative signs of subterranean dissatisfaction to question free thought as if it's a supernatural challenge, as if the artist is being challenged by God, a progressive man on the Iranian scene must internally confront strength, shock, and shame, obsessive disdain, turmoil exhaustively cultivated.

His wife's willing to forgive.

Emad (Shahab Hosseini) spends so much time thinking vengeful thoughts that he overlooks Rana's (Taraneh Alidoosti) suffering as rage slowly consumes him.

She was the victim, she was the one who was attacked, but throughout Asghar Farhadi's The Salesman Emad is more concerned with personal honour.

He critiques the system within which he was nurtured but is still a product of that system and when the real clashes with his noble imagination the sublime does not judiciously compensate.

Women shortsightedly relegated to a subservient role.

The salesperson interrogates to enlighten yet struggles as he surfaces.

The film brilliantly examines his tortured soul, but is also a product of its circumstances, and focuses far less time on the feminine.

A purgatorial predicament.

Igniting bitter flames.

Florence Foster Jenkins

Florence Foster Jenkins melodiously orchestrates the dedicated caring and understanding required to sustain true friendship.

It's a film that looks at the generosity and civility that kindly lifts up the arts to playfully generate elegance and authenticity.

The rowdier side also represents, but the same sense of communal sensitivity still pervades, raucously acknowledging a devoted patroness intently through saturated conciliations.

Cultivations.

The film's more concerned with the behind the scenes efforts required to sanctify a beautiful spirit than the performance that spirit delivers, savvy husband St. Clair Bayfield (Hugh Grant[Grant giving his best performance to date{I haven't seen all his films}, like a humble sprightly humanistic aristocratic gazelle gracefully commanding each effortless stride]) smoothly working critical crowds to achieve angelic objectives.

Thus, it inevitably examines criticism's human factor, feelings as opposed to frequencies, comprehending multiple levels of artistic endeavour advocating for myriad aesthetic principles, eccentricities, something beyond obsessions with novelty that rationally yet wantonly balances sociopolitical ethics to assert un/specific cultural insights and focus on the dynamic perennial exchange between the educational and the entertaining.

Easy to scathe at will.

Although people sometimes find constructive criticism just as scathing as vitriol because they flippantly equate the different styles.

It's an artistic Magellan, a simmering solubility, not a mathematical exercise.

Exponential.

A complicated controversial multilayered investment in the unanimously uplifting, Florence Foster Jenkins, for a bit of harmless play, that's how I viewed it anyways, presented with the outmost tact.

More to it than crushing egos.

Daring in its amicable enterprise.

Now You See Me 2

There's a lot of potential for this film/subgenre.

Magic's wicked awesome, and taking a bunch of slick magicians and hypnotists and troublemakers and having them Robin Hood their way into the international slipstream, ultimate performance magnetizing the ephemeral everlasting, works well as an idea, an hypothesis, a vision, like Harry Potter sailing Ocean's Eleven, tricks, concentric metrics, the benevolent bedazzle, the wisecracking wherewithal, elevated conceptual catharsis, it would be fun if this style of film caught on, like kung fu or biker movies, seriously, don't you think?

Nevertheless, although Now You See Me 2 sets out to viscerally mesmerize and existentially impress, it doesn't really move past its age 8-14 target audience.

I wanted to love this film, I tried to love this film, a compelling premise brought to life by many of my favourite actors, enjoying themselves and revelling in their dissimulations, so loving, so caring, but the action isn't multidimensional enough (too slow), and, unfortunately, the accompanying social interactions are far too stitched and corny.

If I was still 12, I would have loved it however.

I kept thinking, that was almost really cool, that nearly transcended what's taken place so far, that could have been mind blowing, I was close to applauding that, only to be unable to sublimate a reverberating no no no no, no no no, no no no no no no no that was generated deep down within.

Hoping no. 3 adjusts for its target audience's change in age as did Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines.

But is there another subgenre at play in Now You See Me 2, of which Ex Machina and Criminal might also be exemplars?  

I know you've got it, the contra-Snowden scripts have been given the green light, the counterconscience is prevaricating, time to forget, time to let go, don't worry about the cyberstasi, sit back and enjoy the show.

Order some cheesecake.

Collect some minted coins.

It's kind of neat how America introduces critical controversy if the aforementioned theory has any applicable validity.

It doesn't tell you to believe something and threaten you with imprisonment if you should speak out against it.

Mistake!

Rather, it slyly establishes an alternative narrative within select films and lets the subconscious subtlety generate its own in/credulity.

The power of being tapped into every cellphone and computer on the planet.

The knowledge.

You used to have to laboriously sift through mail, establish an intricate network of loyal spies (an hydra), or apply for warrants to learn someone's intimate private secrets.

Now they're all readily available in a tantalizing format that's impossible to stop using due to its inherent multifunctionality.

Omniscience.

It's like the ring of power (consider the invisibility factor), so powerful no government would ever give it up, ever stop using it, ever sacrifice their resounding advantage, ever refrain from accessing its invincibility.

Bizarre.

In terms of linguistic diversification, the development of complex undecipherable codes, it could perhaps be a golden age.

Unless, I don't know, a hobbit can arise, and, say, cast this ring into molten hot magma, thereby giving up the greatest advantage any government in history has ever had, in turn reinvigorating a civil society which respects an individual's legal privacy.

Is there, out there somewhere, an extremely hip and cool politician who would do this, someone so beloved of everyone they would remember the ways of the 1980s and decide that constant eavesdropping, even if picturesquely packaged with impressionable pizzazz, is invasive and undesirable, afterwards promoting old school law enforcement techniques to guarantee the preponderance of justice, and maintain order with discreet compact impregnable luminosity?

Is there, can there be, is it still possible to believe, that one day, in the not too distant future, we will meet, and come to love, an honest and exceptional charismatic leader who lives according to the principles his or her government upholds, and therefore doesn't choose to spy on each and every one of its citizens?

In the ether, amidst the flotsam and jetsam, perhaps already elected, perhaps already triumphing daily, is this man or woman enlivening the globe with his or her eclectic charm and undeniable whimsy déjà, and can this man or woman, this colossus, this supernova, be thought of, herein and forever after, in the annals of interstellarosity . . .

. . . as Prime Minister Frodo?

As Prime Minister, Frodo, Baggins?

It could happen you know.

It could!

*Loved the eye staircase. Cool staircases also in Criminal.

Whiplash

Worst case scenario.

From my point of view anyways.

The drill sergeant teacher, militaristic jazz, believing that greatness can be cultivated using cruel ruthless humiliating tactics which psychologically destroy while potentially diversifying.

If you can take it.

If you don't break down as he viciously insults you and contentedly rips you to shreds.

This guy's brutal, a true Full Metal Jacket.

Thoroughly versed in the dark side, he finds an historical example where callous pedagogical shocks produce skills beyond exception, and then tries to recreate the soul crushing circumstances which harshly brought about the virtuosities, not taking into account the uniqueness of the situation, the educational, demographic, individual, historical, and social characteristics at play, difference exploited as a means to oppress rather than a factor to be conceptualized, music isn't war, you're trying to elevate not conquer, you have to push to succeed but you can push without pulverizing, excel without collapsing, although there are people who need the drill sergeant, I simply never understood why.

Was lucky in school. Never ran into teachers like this. I can't function in such environments, just shut down and suffer, can barely think.

Long time since I've been in one.

Whiplash is about a young drummer attending Shaffer Conservatory who is given the opportunity to play in their premier ensemble, and chooses to find a way to become part of its core.

The teacher uses despicable methods which lead to improvements but his heavy hand is too much for the 19 year-old to take.

Bad decisions.

Pushed too hard.

He does excel though and is given the chance to say fuck rather than thank you eventually.

A well-casted examination of emotionally disturbing teaching methods and their outcomes, Whiplash's unquestionable villain sacrifices balance for beatification.

Hoping to nurture sheer brilliance.

Clucking malevolently in the abyss.

La Vénus à la fourrure (Venus in Fur)

Ceremoniously shifting from breaking wave to breaking wave, cast adrift to buoyantly submerge, the surf submissively dominating, an exacting cyclical shock, one young playwright, fascinated by insubordination, jostling the erotically profane, is interrupted, is, slowly, commodified, undeniably secure in his misplacements, subdued emphatic gusts, assured of their tidal pertinence, to enact the derailment of triumph.

On its own terms.

Ambiguity/ambivalence beguilingly solemnizes the dialectic, the exchange, a protracted piecemeal purge, sensuously persuasive, overpoweringly contained.

As the page turns.

A reading.

Precision.

Opportunity.

Mesmerizing mythical lambasted seduction generously vouchsafes its domineering obsequiousness, in Roman Polanski's crippling La Vénus à la fourrure (Venus in Furs), existentialism be damned, fiesta.

My favourite filmic adaptation of a play with a small cast and minimal setting is Sidney Lumet's Long Day's Journey into Night, but La Vénus à la fourrure now firmly occupies second place in my thoughts, due to Emmanuelle Seigner and Mathieu Amalric's powerful performances.

Opulently humble.

The ending was a surprise since it makes a definitive suggestion, although ambiguity remains, only a vestige however.

I would have faded with him tied to the cactus.

There must have been passionate arguments here.

Perhaps the definitive suggestion makes for a stronger ending.

I admit to being a sucker for critical controversy.

Not that there isn't plenty of critical controversy in the film.

You could argue that it's about the aesthetics of critical controversies themselves.

The whole night through.