Rosaline

Agile independence forthrightly attuned to romantic longing, haplessly falls for a gifted poet intuitively enamoured with fiery discipline. 

Her father desperately seeks someone for her to wed at the same time however, arranged marriages still diplomatically sought at that time in Europe and elsewhere.

Rosaline chooses to marry for love and pines obsessively for the legendary Romeo, not making things easy for him at times, yet still compulsively coveting his distinct verse.

A potential suitor arrives one day whom her father objectively approves of, and they head out in his seductive boat to challenge the sea with nautical bravado.

The suitor tries his best to valiantly please her but is wholeheartedly forsaken, her heart belonging to ye olde Romeo who has thus far requited her advances. 

Rain suddenly descends in torrential buckets thereby delaying their return home, an enchanting masquerade ball ethereally awaiting that includes the coveted Shakespearian in attendance.

Rosaline indeed arrives too late but not after her cousin Juliet has been formerly introduced. 

Romeo having fallen for her indivisibly. 

Encouraging bitter fury enraged!

Love seeing comedic reimaginings of classic tales continuously told, with new characters and emboldened situations absurdly redefining stray narrative elements.

Romeo doesn't mean to be a cad he just accidentally finds himself playing the role, his honest unattached unbetrothed feelings awkwardly lamented throughout the movie. 

Patient Dario steals the show with his courageous resolve and humble cunning, embracing Rosaline's chaotic feelings with resourceful energy and lithe accommodation. 

How Romeo could have overlooked her immaculate bearing inherently overflowing with genuine artistry, her very existence each elegant breath a slow motion incarnate natural wonder.

Alas, in that natural possession of what many desire to stunningly diversify, the majority find her too incredible to risk their cherished sanity through bold proposal. 

I thought the film was for the young ones but mom assures me it was far too mature.

Alternative takes, imposing reanimation.

If you're still interested in that kind of thing. 

Quartet

The Facts of Life

The free sharing of age old wisdom oft accrues psychological check, as mantra and adage delicately condition economic tumult and ethical expenditure.

But with myriad personality distinctions effervescently flourishing with multifaceted largesse, the germane likelihood of symbiotic sanction may prove disheartening or indeed quite fun.

A father shares his paternal advice only to find every moral qualm deconstructed. 

His son winds up with a new car. 

Who's to say what's to be done?

The Alien Corn 

Theoretically in possession of everything one might hope to desire, yet longing to achieve the ultimate incomparable brilliant maddening incandescence.

Friends and family generally confused as to why the goal's so profoundly meaningful, considering how many other professions remain available, and he doesn't even have to work.

He's crushed by a virtuoso who didn't mean to hurt his feelings, and even though he's still quite talented, can't find the will to go on.

You can write Bazooka Joe comics or even Shakespearian sonnets, it makes no freakin' difference.

As long as you love what you do.

Beware destructive prejudice.

The Kite

Perhaps at times the parental bond is somewhat too tight, and the desire to be appreciated commensurately by others too unreasonable, so that when an imperious grown-up dispute arises, there's no applicable stratagem to discursively relay.

Sometimes incumbent smothering and a voluminous intent to orchestrate obsessively, may stifle the productivity you rely on, and leave a gaping void where you once harvested.

But in theory at times they say mental health professionals can attain results. 

As in the case of this marriage in question.

With Mervyn Johns (Samuel Sunbury), Hermione Baddeley (Beatrice Sunbury), and George Cole (Herbert Sunbury).

The Colonel's Lady

Worst case for an austere admirer of poignant pomp and reservéd circumstance, the unexpected emergence of imaginative scandal ceremoniously upsetting his stilted life.

No doubt many would remain uncertain if such a surprise suddenly diversified, especially if a tried and true dependable routine had gregariously governed for ages past.

Yet the truth residing in fiction can fortuitously lead to regeneration.

With newfound amenities previously unexpected.

Bit of a shocker, still, no doubt. 

Orlando

What one gains to live forever without aging amongst the royals, while perennially persisting in novel light of heart heuristics. 

Through non-determinate trail and error Orlando (Tilda Swinton) learns of love and politics, like a youngster dabbling in frisk and fancy with everlasting inhibition. 

Not that everyone's at play the social lab invokes decorum, but as time passes new tasks emerge mischievously befitting a young immortal.

Orlando the film generates true innocence ironically immersed in frayed executive, eager to dally forlorn forever while at times taking part commissioned commanding.

The typical tropes you find in narratives concerned with living forever can't be found, as Orlando frolics through the centuries with jocose beam and slight expenditure.

Thus, concerns with true romance and personal loss don't fit within, not that there aren't moments of genuine displeasure along with strong desires fawned unrequited.

Perhaps it's supposed to be much more serious I'm afraid I just can't view it that way, Swinton's simply just too adorable and seems at home at rest at play.

I've had this problem with les adorables who as a metaphysical rule loathe as I admire, thus I've had to abandon the practise altogether in terms of circumspect affection.

It was the same way with pets when I was a kid, I would try to hug them and they'd bite me.

Relationships must be easy since so many people have them.

It'd be nice to have more money.

But other people have the worst taste in everything! 😜

It's cool to see Orlando isn't fraught with studious indelicacy, and her immortality isn't feared or hated as she travels throughout the centuries. 

Why she doesn't travel to the northern forests of Canada and Québec to make a home remains a mystery, she could have watched the wildlife for 100 years and still have spent another 1,000 shopping.

But she loves her gloomy homeland with all its rain and absent bears, are there any major forests left in Britain?, I heard they recently brought back beavers.

A cool companion piece for Highlander, Orlando proceeds with judicious humour, like an earnest library patron who spends their life enjoying stories.

S/he's living them however which does seem like quite the nuisance.

Role playing, expectations.

Disproportionately fashionable.

A Quiet Passion

You forget about the thunderous lambasted dissatisfied offended vengeful austerity of artistic realms at times, quite different from the sporting world, as noted by others, overtly liberal yet savagely obsessed with youth and purity, pedantic pastures pirouetting and periodizing, wherein which people, many of whom can neither dribble nor throw a ball, act like severe generals intent on asininely disparaging anyone they can't seduce with their discursive charms, suckling the silver spoon with seditious sentiment, exceptionally accomplished yet insanely jealous, having created an odious convoy of fictional evaluations (principles) which they adhere to as if they're the essence of assiduity, as if they've asseverated a house of cards, the foundations of which they earnestly value like divine truths.

I made a crucial error upon engaging.

In my youth, I thought there would be a warm and friendly community wherein which one would feel free to express themselves in order to advance and learn, these were, after all, the people who couldn't catch or throw, and always wanted to play soccer (which they were terrible at), only to discover inherent habitual derisive reflexes often haunting otherwise cheerful discussions, reflexes which made beers with the jocks seem less cumbersome, even if I didn't get it and usually felt out of place with them.

It was disillusioning to find cruel pretensions backed up by limitless disdain uttered by people who weren't even that good yet had worked their way into a steady state of affairs, or would do anything they could to inanely disseminate their mediocrity.

I was too nice.

There was absolutely no chance for me.

They still do it. I still think I'm having a casual conversation only to find everything I've said without necessarily meaning any of it, just small talk, thrown back in my face behind the scenes with displeasure.

Terence Davies's A Quiet Passion made me think of those days as Emily Dickinson (Emma Bell/Cynthia Nixon) writes while martially pondering ethics.

Extremely gifted, passionate, verbose, and strict, she logically finds ways to justify her viewpoints while writing sweetly flowing unmatched poetry.

The title of the film is odd considering how often Dickinson disputes with so many, by no means a shrinking violet, more like a rigorous grizzly defending poetic cubs.

Her sister's (Rose Williams/Jennifer Ehle as Vinnie Dickinson) sympathetic and understanding, she diplomatically mediates between Emily and brother Austin (Benjamin Wainwright/Duncan Duff) as they become more estranged through argumentative age.

I loved the scenes where there was hardly any dialogue, when different family members have their portraits painted for instance, or when the family is depicted quietly relaxing one evening in the same 19th century room, long before the noisy rise of electronic interests.

It's like you're there.

At peace.

At contemplative leisure.

A different time, when religion and marriage still played a powerful role in many people's lives, marriage still being rather popular I suppose, Ms. Dickinson resolutely cultivating alternative paths for herself and others along which she independently strides.

The writing in the film displays remarkable talent at times, especially as Emily ages, but at others a lack of editorial finesse is plainly evident.

The words are out of control.

Its confident blend of the quirky and the serious made me think it was Canadian. 

English Canadian.

Paterson

Keep your ears open.

Your eyes.

That cat, that pick up, that vroom, that bud.

I didn't see trees covered in ice this winter.

I rhyme too much.

Rhyme provides focus.

Focus indents fusions.

Sometimes it doesn't.

I rhyme too much.

I love rhyming.

I also love poems that don't rhyme.

Proust mentioned that he liked rhyming.

I don't know if he changed his mind.

There's an old thought, an old idea, about auras of authenticity. Rich people used to use this idea to claim that works written by other rich people were authentic because they possessed a sacred aura that legitimized their being. Things were too religious at the time. Poor people realized that they could also make art yet were denied the sacred aura because they didn't know the right things to say or discuss when questioned. Pop culture developed to challenge the lofty realm of the fussy elitist and continues to frustrate purists to this day. Yet people still obsess about auras and the sacred like they're postmodern divinities acculturating themselves to materialistic throes.

It's confusing.

I really don't care.

I like rhyming.

Sometimes I don't like rhyming.

I didn't used to rhyme so much.

But Paterson reminded me of how impacting, how chill cool distant yet immediate poems that don't rhyme can be.

Or poems that kind of rhyme, sort of rhyme here, don't really rhyme there, aren't concerned with rhyming, are just expressing something like upholstery or glades.

Or they are concerned with something that it seems as if they aren't concerned with, like girls.

What a partner. What a character.  Laura (Golshifteh Farahani) is one of Jarmusch's best, imagine coming home to someone like that, it's like you'd be living with receptive discursivity, a poem, a book, Paterson (Adam Driver) is also chill, a lot of chill in this film, not too cool, elitist cool, but chill cool, livin' it cool, with a disruptive jealous dog.

Tons of sweet bus shots too, bus moments, cinematography by Frederick Elmes (Eraserhead).

It's hard to write in my favourite spots in Winter.

I tried to see every Abbott and Costello movie in my youth.

They have quite a few.

I didn't see all of them.

I used to have a bus license.

I thought it would have been cool to just show Lou Costello park and not talk about it later.

I'm making a sandwich later.

I bought vegetarian ham this week.

It's not bad.

Kill Your Darlings

John Krokidas's Kill Your Darlings enlivens the fortuitous meeting of a group of experimental writers including Allen Ginsberg (Daniel Radcliffe), Jack Kerouac (Jack Huston), and William S. Burroughs (Ben Foster) in New York City during their youth.

Not sure how much of the film is based on rhythmic verge (the facts).

That doesn't really matter.

It offers generalized insights into their introductory methods and innocently stylizes a literary ethos of sorts.

It focuses primarily on Ginsberg's infatuation with fellow student Lucien Carr (Dane DeHaan), whose being pursued by an obsessed thinker (Michael C. Hall as David Kammerer) who simply can't detach and withdraw.

Ginsberg grows and changes over time, Burroughs and Kerouac do not.

Kerouac's stasis is quite lively.

The film itself is sort of like a lively stasis, like a successful Not Fade Away.

The main problem's formal.

While wild moments and coming of age initiations are present, it's still easy enough to follow, like a crazy countercultural clutch, a warm and fuzzy bourgeois blanket.

More like the classes Ginsberg stops attending than something by Godard or Cassavetes.

Had high expectations. Loved reading most of these authors in my early twenties. Thought the filmmakers would have taken a more poetic approach.

Radcliffe excels as Ginsberg, reminding me at times of a younger Joaquin Phoenix, moving beyond the Harry Potter persona, establishing greater depth and personality.

That's good.