The Cobweb

A secluded institution abounding with practical reforms, struggles with its newfound freedoms as competing visions clash.

Responsibility has been encouraged and decision making facilitated, for one learns to productively cooperate by showing respect for individuality.

Two psychiatrists collegially compete to constructively promote level-headed convalescence, their authority granted by a distant board who casually observes on infrequent occasion.

The daily operations are overseen by a self-assured resilient administrator, who's worked there for quite some some time and prefers how things used to be.

At one time management unilaterally decided how to manage and decorate, and freely pursued grand interior design with neither coax nor consultation.

But as democratic reforms have been progressively accepted, patient committees have gained cultural influence, their tastes attempting to diversify integral home decor.

Ms. Inch (Lillian Gish) is restrained yet furious and wishes they could quickly chose then buy new drapes, instead of waiting for collective reckoning to agree upon a course of action.

She also thinks new age liberalities are glibly obstructing bureaucratic efficiencies, and collusively sets about introducing conflict to egalitarian cohesivities uprightly sought.

Thus, as the residents wholesomely discuss the merits of different fashions, the superstructure begins to break down as it tries to coldly reassert itself.

The new age doctor (Richard Widmark as Dr. McIver) stands his ground having devoted his life to his inclusive vision.

Be he spends little time with his family.

And his wife's (Gloria Grahame as Karen) grown rather irritated.

It's a brilliant unaffected microcosm cleverly enacting universal criticism, each character motivated by personal ambition yet frustrated by general resolve.

It's not about making correct decisions although every character maintains unabashed omniscience, but more of an insightful fluid investigation of ideology in political action.

Strengths and weaknesses a chaotic case comedically nurtured and tragically obscured, the perils of professional isolation tasked with self-centred piqued initiative.

The point perhaps may be that if you seek definitive clarification, you'll be frustrated by interpersonal practicality as the level of your commitment increases.

To function you have to go with the flow but to change things you have to innovate, and engrained historical preference will likely resist ethical reforms (even if juxtaposed historical preferences duel in time, as they do in politics).

But if competing ethical intensities become so specified they lose sight of the overarching picture.

People lose faith in the resultant confusion. 

Best to keep general health in mind.

Spock's needs of the many, conversation and dialogue.

*Perfect for political science students. What an animate illustration of work/life balance. 

Dead Ringers

Symbiotically existing in enriched systemic ecology, unwavering strict calisthenic sophistication, enraptured cozy charismatic extroversion, hesitant timid imaginative reserve, it's nice to share things, to openly bond with your closest friends, to have someone who listens intently, no matter what, with supportive perceptive inquisitive professionalism, inflating recourse to the sensual, with compelling jocose trust.

But from a rigid analysis of the potent data provided, it's clear they've never fallen in love, nor entertained the influence of an other, nor experimented outside of work.

Fraternal camaraderie bromantically heeled and coalesced, a love interest offers escape, from nothing other than endemic exclusion.

And as one twin rises, the other falls apart, the two still irrevocably united, as jealousy struts and strays.

Dark reckonings hark the one, as wild recreation threatens everything he's worked for, the other firmly relying on his research, and their unyielding warm fidelity.

If only he hadn't introduced temptation.

If only they'd persisted in nascent womb.

Dead Ringers bluntly interrogates duality, as purest electrosynthesis meets dialectical destruction.

Infusing interstellar heights with nebulous oblivion, it diagnostically conceives a tragic provocation.

The blend of successful starstruck elegance and distraught candid mayhem produces an unsettling effect, purest material Cronenberg, even as he approaches the lofty mainstream.

I actually skipped this one years ago when I was eagerly renting his early films, because I was worried it'd be too bourgeois, like he'd done something John Waters or John Carpenter would never do, for which I could find no categorical compulsion.

I remained deathly afraid.

But the result's nothing too scary, although it's quite different from Scanners or Videodrome, it's like Cronenberg's trying to do something more traditional (a drama) but still can't restrain himself, so it unreels like a high brow slightly grotesque farce, that's descended into chaos by the end.

Would have been cool if they had found partners at the same time, or had pursued l'amour less sophomorically.

Cohesive reflexive unity.

Extensively engrained.

Socioculturally cocooned.

Still not enough Jeremy Irons (Beverly and Elliot Mantle).

Don't wait an extra 15 years.

John Wick: Chapter 2

Releasing a sequel to a visceral revenge film which shockingly surpassed critical expectations is a delicate affair, ironically in John Wick: Chapter 2's case, since you can no longer count on the objective bonus points freely dished out to reward the original's novelty.

You can sustain the momentum however, if you don't let the praise lift your spirits.

While still trying to craft another viral perplexity.

John Wick 2 sticks to the facts.

There are rules to be followed, no exceptions to be made.

Neither fairness nor camaraderie come into play.

At work.

In the age of the sensational superhero, Wick(Keanu Reeves) represents a humanistic counterbalance.

He may be the best assassin living, but he doesn't possess supernatural gifts and can contend without technological superiority.

He's just really freakin' good at what he does.

Don't screw it up.

Lickspittle.

Like pastis, grand marnier, amaretto, or amarula, with the humble demeanour of a 6 pack of bud, Wick reluctantly excels at authentically overachieving, with a kitschy pyrotechnic array of distinguished underground ex-factors.

It's enjoyable even if you know what's coming.

There's an art to writing blunt dialogue that leaves nothing to chance and states exactly what's on a character's mind.

The dialogue in Chapter 2 doesn't blow you away, but it, ah, sticks to its guns, with first rate integrity.

High-stakes slipstream.

Treacherous precipice.

Nocturnal necromancing nostrum.

They set up a hell of a third instalment.

Momentum sustained.

But the evocative visual style of the first film is missing.

There's a cool showdown (multiple cool showdowns) in an art museum though.

Professionalism oddly drives the narrative like sharks at corporate headquarters I suppose.

*Can one of these sequels be Man with the Golden Gunesque?

Chapter 2 is crazy violent.

Christine

Pressurized self-motivation, dedicated drive, ambient adrenaline, Queen of the hive, a game changing carnal recalibration generating sensational scoops frustrates ethically inclined televisual journalist Christine Chubbuck (Rebecca Hall) as she eagerly seeks a new position in Baltimore, but Sarasota, Florida, lacks the raucous remonstrances more rigidly regaled in urban playgrounds, so she must exotically elucidate paltry empirical sums.

Without losing her soul.

But even when attempting to asininely unravel, she still showcases alternative angles, which intelligently promote distinguished depth, yet can't spin and stoke the sought after sleaze.

Interrogatively.

Tragic.

Forlorn and suppressing.

In any decade.

A principled well-rounded bipolar session, Antonio Campos's Christine juxtaposes the innocent with the expedient to maximize discontent.

Patiently waiting for years for the chance to broadcast intellectually, a perfect candidate for 60 Minutes or W5, perhaps, The Nature of Things, Christine can't slow down and has trouble playing ball if she's not constantly making game winning plays while also refereeing stark nubile antics.

More of an author than a reporter, she can't dish out the basest instincts, play on the team, and wants the chance to nationally unwind, but can't sludge her way through the grotesque steamy privilege.

Give a little, get a little, but even when she gives it's not what they've got, not what they want, sincere stupidity, she cannot fake it.

The film's full of strong characters who are each given plenty of screentime to express their opposing viewpoints.

It's not as focused on Christine as the title suggests, her manager Michael (Tracy Letts) clearly sharing his contradictory ideas, occasionally using locker room terms that specialists may find offensive.

You get used to it.

I even listen when people say, "that's sick," these days.

Christine obviously can't work within small boxes and would have excelled if she'd established herself in broadly disseminated artistic journals or art house films.

At the same time, she had an audience, an adoring audience, which unfortunately wasn't enough.

The film's set in the '70s, production design by Scott Kuzio, long before YouTube and the net, and even if the ending should be taken out of context, according to thoughts I've heard shared by prominent journalists recently, it's still a shame she couldn't handle losing, couldn't double down and diversify.

Bluntly speaking.

It drags a bit.

Mr. Turner

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

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

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

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

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

Outspoken.

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

Burnished in bedlam.

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

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

Probably would have cut the last half hour.

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

The greeting.

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

Mr. Turner's quite rough.

In sympathy.

La isla mínima (Marshland)

Fastidious expediency, Mississippi's burning, clenched vicious smouldering license, eagerly applied, kept in check by stolid capacity, a team, an investigation, creepy crawlies eviscerating the night, extinguishing flames, chomping chomp chomp, youth and innocence curiously explore to their horror, the aged preying on them like craven vampiric necrocities, their tracks covered, their pastimes grim, flouting respectability with mechanized chagrin.

The monstrous hunting the monstrous by employing monstrosities to covet the truth.

Concealment.

Parthenon.

La isla mínima (Marshland) uses a sombre criminal text, employing politics and professionalism to smoothly and steadily increase local tensions, thereby critically examining post-fascist Spain, the survival of perplexing methodologies blended with contemporary romance to question means and bitter ends, crucially constructed, like hardboiled lucid dreaming.

Restraint abounds.

You get the sense that it could have been much darker, but level heads kept things neat to rely more on integrity than sensation.

It presents an ethical dilemma in terms of using violent policing methods to bring about social democratic ends.

I think what's happening in the film needs to be considered as a case, working within a system functioning on a case by case basis, still possessing many remnants of a society that applied such methods to every case, many of the cases likely involving peaceful people who simply didn't like Franco.

I want to see criminals such as the ones depicted in La isla mínima in prison.

But that doesn't mean I want to see every movement of the entire population monitored and scrutinized.

Pejorative panopticon.

Panoramically percolating.

If you monitor and scrutinize the entire population's movements then freedom itself becomes a prison.

If people can function on a case by case basis, while obviously still looking for recurring patterns of behaviour that forge a logical connection between crime and culprit, without employing them dogmatically inasmuch as each case is unique and individual, they will likely still catch many such villains, and learn to appreciate the distinction between reaction and restraint.

Isn't that what they often do already?

Know need for the CyberStasi.

If cooler heads prevail.

Birdman: or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance)

Spiralling prosaic haunting indecision, contraction instigated, distraction, procured, a play must be performed, negative emotion dominating, that voice, that voice which collegially condemns, internally and externally, belittling, haunting, there are specific time limits, the exceptional exceptionally parades, tender loving affairs, perpetual motion, angst rehabilitated, worst case after worst case, coming together, working, in unison, taking things too far, hold tight, flip, perform, do what you have always done, resolve strengthens, misgivings matriculate, swoop, soar, Silencio, glide on the currents like a nuthatched pin cushion, Birdman, Michael Keaton, what happened to Michael Keaton?, he disappeared, I thought, it's bound to be sold out, it's starring Michael Keaton, just like the '90s, purchase advanced tickets, line-up like Batman, she makes out like she did in Mulholland Drive, the soundtrack's embedded, bejewelled, it can't be extracted, necrophonic needlework, the lines, the perfectly delivered palatial lines, discursive krypton, in motion, in constant motion, assert, lose it, discuss, advocate, temporally sketched to last a lifetime, impotency notwithstanding, harness the haunting perpetual motion, aloofly pepper with speeches and scenes all of which are capable of standing alone, united to etherealize commercial artistic bedlam, for applause, for fortune, if I were Tennessee Williams I'd orgasm, Birdman, Birdman, Birdman, syntheses within syntheses, a kind word, still a movie, it's still a movie, it never loses sight of the fact that it's still a movie for entertaining, mesmerizing, a kind of charming magical cinematic awareness simultaneously celebrating and criticizing the medium, without appearing sentimental or confectionary, I shouldn't have used the word magical, a failure, I fail, flotsam flickering and flailing, taking note, sprawling to capture this ingenious tenure, this incomparable sight, this modest, coy, Birdman: or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance), in the act of creation, it reacts anew.

Violette

The drive for publication, honest controversial fearless prose, risks taken, contacts established, unerring syntactic strides, desires unfulfilled, sacrifices, tormenting, longitudinal allusive reins, interactive bucolic strains, prohibited friendships lamented, unsettled confrontational muse, pluralizing her stricken sentence, substantive, and disobeyed.

Didn't think Simone de Beauvoir (Sandrine Kiberlain) would like Proust.

Perhaps she did momentarily.

Making the short-film in the middle broke up the traditional chronological categorizing well, hilariously lightening while intensifying the sombre desperate elegance.

Tough life decisions.

Rewarded.

The countryside provides a nourishing wellspring of seductive solitude whose tranquil rhythms encourage profuse flourishes.

Difficulties associated with maintaining prolonged professional literary acquaintances are amorously and quasi-hierarchically socialized.

She just does what comes naturally, boldly sharing her relevant thoughts which create intellectually diverse yet accessible cultural markets for millions who were otherwise forced to unconsciously contemplate the patriarchal.

Violette Leduc (Emmanuelle Devos).

Groundbreaker.

Innovator.

Writer.

Star Trek Into Darkness

Star Trek, born again.

Was a bit disappointed that Star Trek was born again with the crew from The Original Series, but it's not like there aren't manifold versions of Hamlet out there, Batman will likely live to see another day, Hawaii Five-O is back (I've never seen either of the series), and Beatles and Rolling Stones cover bands will likely continue to sing for centuries to come. 

I was hoping to see the Rolling Stones in Montréal next month but the cheapest seat I could find near the rafters costs over 200 hundred dollars. I paid 34 dollars to see them in 1994.

Bring on the cover bands.

Star Trek Into Darkness confidently gambles that the success of its predecessor paved the way for it to take greater liberties with Star Trek's most sacred moments, and I'm assuming every Trekkie has already seen the film twice, and are already dividing into different fastidious factions, each with their own take on the reintroduction of Khan (Benedict Cumberbatch), and the pastiche of Star Trek II's classic ending, so I'm discussing related plot details.

In my opinion, the new cast and crew of the Starship Enterprise were ill-equipped and unready to incorporate this classic ending, nor the famous Khan scream, and their sophomoric attempts to do so, more concerned with travelling at warp speed than taking the time to generate genuine emotion, even though the trap they fall into justifies this dependence, and within the film the new cast and crew is ill-equipped and unready to confront their adversaries, were, still, disheartening.

The cameo from Leonard Nimoy didn't suck me in. 

Giving Chekov (Anton Yelchin) and Sulu (John Cho) expanded responsibilities while leaving them primarily in the background heightened the tension.

The who-should-be-captain dialogue between Kirk (Chris Pine) and Spock (Zachary Quinto) was played out in the last film. 

And McCoy's (Karl Urban) all wrong (no offense to Karl Urban, he does his best with the material).   

Still though, if they hadn't touched Star Trek II's ending, and classic Khan scream, Into Darkness could have been quite different. 

And it's not that I didn't think the fight between Khan and Spock was awesome. It's always awesome when Spock suddenly fights in a Star Trek moment, since you suddenly remember that not only is he one of the phenomenon's smartest humanoid characters, he's also one of the toughest.

Giving Carol Marcus (Alice Eve) a strong supporting hopefully continuous role was a great idea. 

Introducing consequential conflict amongst the senior staff, Scotty (Simon Pegg) and Kirk, went beyond the professional dynamics found in the films featuring the cast of The Original Series, and since this consequential conflict sees constructive results, it fits nicely with contemporary conflict management theories, while directly encouraging freewill.   

Benedict Cumberbatch impresses as Khan. 

Uhura (Zoe Saldana) and Spock's relationship reappears but isn't focused upon, rather, it comically ameliorates an otherwise typical shuttlecraft descension, accentuating the difficulties of sustaining romantic ties to people with whom you work, while giving Spock a memorable opportunity to advance his coherent logic. 

Admiral Marcus (Peter Weller) provides a pestiferous dimension rarely seen within the Federation, thereby diversifying Star Trek's internal cohesions, while preempting a sequel, sigh, where there's a war with the Klingons. 

This seems more like Picard territory, where there's a possible war, but Picard finds a way to negotiate a peaceful settlement. 

Much too early for Picard however.

Perhaps the Borg will attack midway resulting in a sudden pact between Klingons and the Federation.

Kirk never fought the Borg.

Please don't revisit the Nexus. 

But a different ending. Something radically different. This would have lessened the cheesy kitsch factor and not caused me to immediately remove my 3D glasses. 

The Wrath of Khan is the only Star Trek film that can stand on its own outside the Star Trek parallax. 

Discourses of the sacred. 

Khan!

Barbara

Declarative desire dedicatedly persists after state sanctioned seclusion silences its volatile temerity.

Another, resigned yet combative, is enamoured.

The fate of a rebellious young adult becomes a decisive tangible consequent as the Stasi's invasive pressure deliberately dehumanizes.

A doctor, emphatically refuses, to be muzzled.

Carefully contextualizing different varieties of tension, while diagnosing risk with surgical precision, Christian Petzold's Barbara internally serenades freedom of expression, and externalizes a crisp courageous spiritualization.

An extensive reactive multilateral engagement furtively negotiates an honest state of affairs.

Its interconnected inextricable professional, personal, romantic, governmental and (inter)national relationships foment a forlorn fugitive firmament wherein influential forces collaborate and contend.

Interrogating what it means to pursue.

Attempting to have their voices heard.

A Late Quartet

Love listening to the fiddle or violin.

Would be nice to sit back and listen to a couple of hours of violin or fiddle music with an ample supply of grapes and unpasteurized cheese plus a nice glass of red wine.

I don't know that much about classical music but I have a couple of favourite texts (Chopin's Piano Concerto No. 2 in F minor, Rachmaninoff's Symphony no. 2) and enjoy tuning into classical radio stations when I find myself moving from one place to another in an automobile. I usually find that there are moments within many works that induce compelling impressions and others that patiently/quizzically/reflectively/demonstratively/emotively set the scene. The relationship between these elements interpreted through my subjective pluralisis can create a narrative of sorts, a story, an idiom. The same thing happens when I listen to jazz or pop music, The Rolling Stones's Let it Bleed lodged in my memory as the first album to which I suddenly applied this universal transition.

That's obvious enough.

The structural elements within Yaron Zilberman's A Late Quartet resemble a classical piece of music, as can every film I suppose depending on the relative position of its viewer and their own transsemantic didactic verisimilitude.

The film humanizes the performance of classical music with a subtle piquant plasticity which is simultaneously confident, energetically atonal, and furtively self-critical, perhaps theorizing/applying a classical perception of the postmodern, except when it comes to the production of the music itself.

The daring contends with the quartet's format within and the consequent side affects necessitate an harmonious etherealization (in terms of its performance).

I was more concerned with Christopher Walken's (Peter Mitchell) internal posture. It's classic Christopher Walken. One scene precociously pastiches his role in Pulp Fiction and his lines are delivered with the same characteristic bright, perspicacious, concerned yet uncommitted comfortably chilling dexterity that has made him a cinematic icon.

But he's not playing a gangster and/or someone with underlying violent explosivities, steeping, ready to erupt.

He's probably had lots of roles where he doesn't play such characters in films I unfortunately haven't seen.

But in A Late Quartet he plays the friendly, wise, avuncular rock that collegially holds a prominent sophisticated classical music quartet together.

There's one scene where he's sitting back thinking about the death of his wife after some heated social interaction. There's no dialogue, but tears are produced, and, when it's situated within the context of the film, while bearing in mind his traditional roles, which A Late Quartet seems to be doing, it transforms the classical perception of his expressions into something equally affective yet much less threatening.

As if the goal is the reconceptualization of volatility.

His performance isn't the only one that stands out.

Original music by Angelo Badalamenti, cinematography by Frederick Elmes.

Trouble with the Curve

Trouble with the Curve.

Trouble with the Curve is a nice story. It situates a complicated familial dynamic within a competitive professional atmosphere which is adorned with collegial and asinine interactions that polarize the continuum established between youth and age.

Relationships and ethnocentric tendencies are examined as well, and after an explanation is provided, the resultant synergies mobilize the disenfranchised.

And the multidimensional nature of experiential competencies collaboratively contends with electronically generated statistics to offer an holistic approach to the practice of forecasting.

It's presented in an easy-to-follow and understand format, potentially photosynthesizing a modest kernel of truth.

All of these things, are good.

Clint Eastwood's character could have been more diversely differentiated from that whom he played in Gran Torino however.

Not that I don't love the old curmudgeon, but not enough time has elapsed between the two films.

And it's tough to find shelter from the narrative's after-school-special-like style, which, while cultivating a strong inclusive yet combative framework, lacks the creative virtuosities needed to motivate a wide-ranging reception.

Not that it's trying to do that.

Teddy Bear

A tough, trusting, reserved, youthful 38 year-old bodybuilder, unfamiliar with the feminine sex and generally unable to generate first contact, spontaneously departs to an undiscovered country, having no desire to insurrect a moral nemesis, or the wrath of dawn, where, too upright to cross the final frontier, he sticks to his game plan, hits the gym, and serendipitously discovers that for which he has been searching.

In Teddy Bear, the motion picture.

The film's a calm, patient, joyful, timorous study of a caring athlete, dedicated to his calling, possessing practically no knowledge of worldly affairs, coyly proceeding from one day to the next.

If you've no interest in celebrating a strong contemplative investigation of ageless dreams or oedipal blunders, you may find that Teddy Bear lacks the flexibility continuously recycled in many a phantasmagorical flick.

But if you desire to humbly enjoy a robust quotidien reflection which elevates the passive struggles of an underexplored muscular happenstance, or any of the other things I've already mentioned, it just might work out, with multiple rep potential, without making much of a stretch.

Mahler auf der Couch (Mahler on the Couch)

Felix and Percy Aldon's Mahler auf der Couch is well orchestrated.

They take a predictable story, let you know what's going to happen from the outset (the scores shown during the opening credits covered in prose), challenge you to pay attention anyways, and then provide a sombre, despondently energetic, physically and psychologically active rendition of a successful composer's troubled personal life, complete with a traditional Freudian (Proustian) resolution, minimalistically yet grandiosely conveyed.

The narrative follows a traditional artist who humbly employs a Highlander maxim both professionally and conjugally which simultaneously propels and curtails his development.

The film's form is noteworthy insofar as it biographically serenades the standard interviewing technique comedically nuanced in Mike Clattenburg's and Ricky Gervais's/Stephan Merchant's (Trailer Park Boys and The Office having been released contemporaneously) different mockumentary television shows, within an autobiographical soundscape, as Mahler (Johannes Silberschneider) attempts to reestablish an I with Freud's (Karl Markovics) help while referencing data based upon the ways in which his psyche has internalized the potential praise/disdain/indifference/misgivings of his admirers/competitors/friends/family, thereby atonally harmonizing its classical unconscious rhythms with multiple indeterminate perspectives (while remaining ripe with emotion).

Barbara Romaner (Alma Mahler) impresses as 'she' attempts to break through.

If I've ever heard anything written by Mahler, I'm unaware.

The Artist

Pride leads to a tragic fall in Michel Hazanavicius's The Artist, as silent film superstar George Valentin (Jean Dujardin) refuses to adapt to a technological paradigm shift. Losing everything after the advent of the Talkies, he descends into a self-obsessed alcoholic tailspin while remaining loyal to his preferred form of artistic expression.

To which he was an unparalleled sensation.

Paying hommage to an abandoned form of film making which was responsible for cinema's resounding success, The Artist works, presenting a remarkable synthesis of motion and sound whose historical resonances are fashionably festooned.

Ludovic Bource's original music playfully harmonizes with the action and temporally positions us within a revitalized inspirational epoch. Jean Dujardin and Bérénice Bejo (Peppy Miller) use the full range of their creative non-verbal subtly to emit an understated existential dialogue which encourages evocative sensual reflections as one tries to imagine what might have been said.

Even as Valentin seems destined for dereliction, a sense of innocent naivety permeates The Artist's being, as its expertly timed stylistic complexities leisurely conjure an effervescent cascade of childlike simplicity by delicately condensing multilayered supporting complements into an affective cry.

Nothing that surprising takes place in the narrative itself. It's the cohesive viscid micro-details which transform each moment into an exception of its own that make The Artist such a compelling film.

Nice to see Ed Lauter with a supporting role.

My Week with Marilyn

Suddenly thrust into an accelerated kinetic critical creative complexity wherein two distinct approaches to acting clash on their way towards cinematic seduction, the youthful Colin Clark (Eddie Redmayne) finds himself balancing myriad egotistical dexterities while trying to maintain his liturgical nerve.

And pacify the deployments of irrepressible temptations.

Marilyn Monroe (Michelle Williams) has an undeniably perplexing presence whose improvised flexible non-linear magnetism has trouble adhering itself to Laurence Olivier's (Kenneth Branagh) by-the-book routine.

Olivier isn't the most forgiving figure either and Marilyn struggles with his disdain. She also misinterprets some of her husband's writing which accentuates her sense of ineptitude.

But as established unflattering men futilely attempt to control her, she combats their derision with a burgeoning youthful laissez-faire methodology which aesthetically appeals to the young and energetic Colin.

Whose working on his first film.

My Week with Marilyn studies the convoluted diversions and rewarding excursions to whose preponderant inconsistencies young professionals must rationally respond. Colin's seamless integration and exceptional ability to smoothly fluctuate perhaps doesn't offer the most transferable set of relatable interactive qualifications, but his success and good fortune can generate abundant ambitious daydreams, from whose integrated prosperous peaks one can fleetingly unearth kernels of truth.

After placing them within a poetic context and analyzing the resultant metaphorical flow.

The Curse of Frankenstein

Dr. Victor Frankenstein (Peter Cushing) is at it again in Terence Fisher's The Curse of Frankenstein, a Hammer Films production. Having grown audacious after reanimating a small dog, the Doctor sets his sights on the construction of the perfect human being, to be made up of parts cut away from fitting lifeless specimens. His partner and former tutor Paul Krempe (Robert Urquhart) contends that his path can only lead to evil but Frankenstein refuses to heed his warning and proceeds unabated. But the local crop of corpses will not supply a top rate brain which leads Victor to wine and dine a revered scientist (Paul Hardtmuth as Professor Bernstein) before murdering him later on in the evening. Krempe discovers what he has done and in the ensuing struggle damages the sought after material. Is this what causes Frankenstein's creation to act childishly and violently or was it the fact that it was brought back to life in the first place that guaranteed its inability to cognitively function?

Having subverted the laws of nature.

Fisher's film doesn't answer this question but does provide those searching to see Peter Cushing play someone besides Grand Moff Tarkin with the chance to watch him at work early on in his career. His performance is convincing enough even though several scenes could have benefited from additional takes, and more crafty editing, and another round of dialogue adjustments, and a keener insight into the logical timing of key events which move the action along. But The Curse of Frankenstein isn't about editing and dialogue and presenting captivating enticing scenes. It's about shooting a readymade script in as little time as possible in order to capitalize on the product, reinvest, and do it all over again and again while cultivating a receptive audience and slowly learning to enhance your constructions as time steadily passes.

And spending most of the budget on the lab, wherein there are many pretty scientific instruments and bubbling beakers and frothing 'fermentations' and a Frankenstein (Christopher Lee).

Desperately seeking life.

Hot Fuzz

Wow. Ever been worried that the warm and friendly atmosphere blossoming in your small town is being sinisterly manufactured in order to preserve an antiquated way of life? Ever considered that beneath the pristine picturesque pastimes coordinating your daily pastoral activities lies a determined sect dedicated to ensuring that those activities will remain unchanged, forever?

Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg sure have and the result is a chilling satirization of life in the country, complete with down home cute and cuddly clementines and the infrequent honk of a rebellious swan.

Or Hot Fuzz for short.

Police officer Nicholas Angel (Simon Pegg) excels at his job. But he performs beyond exceptionally thereby alienating most of the force.

This results in his transfer from London to Sandford.

His dedicated uncompromising bullet proof rectitude also frustrates many in Sandford, but not before he acknowledges that he may have a problem and also befriends partner Danny Butterman (Nick Frost).

The two form an unlikely duo determined to prove that a series of recent deaths are in fact the product of murder, Simon Skinner (Timothy Dalton) being their principal suspect.

Should Angel proceed with the traditional traction that has failed to serve him well professionally, or should he relax his pursuit of justice in order to make a more homely fit in his new town?

The answer enriches the ultimate battle of good versus evil, sublimely crafted and ridiculously executed, truly one for the ages.

If you like watching well-written films wherein characters are given seriously comedic room to maneuver, films which seem like they're unconcerned with their narrative's meticulously researched playfully cohesive structure, films which set up over the top stereotypes in opposition and then provide them with plenty of ammo, films where representatives of law and order break down and descend into total chaos, while still upholding the law, you'll likely enjoy Hot Fuzz's bizarre relationship with tradition and redemption, give or take a theoretical posture regarding communal individuality.

Obsessed unyielding conviction. Authority and a pledge of trust. Guns.

Hot Fuzz.

The Wrestler

Darren Aronofsky's The Wrestler poignantly and poetically presents a multidimensional portrait of a professional wrestler's undesired retirement. Randy "The Ram" Robinson (Mickey Rourke) lives life the hard way and when things come crashing down does his best to reign in that which he unfortunately let go during the more belligerent days of his career. Dashing dancer Cassidy (Marisa Tomei) and estranged daughter Stephanie (Evan Rachel Wood) do their best to help piece together the puzzle, but it's a heartbreakingly byzantine panorama requiring a sincerely dedicated degree of patience to comprehend.

The film's strong and Rourke's performance is my pick for Oscar's best actor of the year. The grainy shots and promotional poster credits establish a prominent yet passionately melancholic aesthetic that aptly reflects The Ram's troubles. And it hurts to see him go through it, a spur of the moment man crippled by the financial and humanistic consequences of responsibility. Things happen, not everyone can deal, and not everyone chooses a comfortable career with a pension, regular pay, and wide ranging benefits. The Ram's predicament generally functions as a representative of the aging economic other, the dedicated destitute artist doing what she or he can with what little he or she possesses to bring a bit more cheer to the members of her or his community. And each particular performance electrifies and holistically humanizes what it means to live according to your own individual rules with their own attendant predilections.

There are feelings and points of view that get lost in the rush as you travel from one dimension to another in order to reconstruct daily routines, get by, important pieces of your personal constitution that lie dormant in the unconscious waiting for a specific smell/game winning touchdown pass/deal breaking decision/surprise dinner/work of art to bring them back to life. And The Wrestler really made me feel a lot of the convictions that I had been simply thinking for who knows how long (providing them with an outlet to be revitalized) and that's just one of the reasons why I found it to be such an exceptional film.

Rourke's powerful portrayal of a dislodged, dominant demon, stalwart yet dainty, determined yet spellbound, vigorously demonstrates what it means to succeed while simultaneously pointing out the lesions of loss. Aronofsky once again provocatively illustrates his evocative chops, presenting another infinite requiem for a courageously clandestine character.

L'Âge des Ténèbres

There you have it. You're 29. You don't have a job. You're in school hoping you will find a job when your program is finished, but, more importantly, hoping you do not end up as despondent as Jean-Marc Leblanc (Marc Labrèche) in Denys Arcand's new film L'Âge des Ténèbres (after having found that job in the years to come). Jean-Marc has grown tired of existence, of being married to the top third realtor in the country, of his children, of his government job (where he can’t help people solve their problems), every day, amidst Feng Shui interventions, language hearings, motivational speakers, hard times for being late after an hour and a half commute: and his mother is dying. Things are pretty bleak, and, rather than doing anything about it, he's escaped into dreamland, wonderful daydreams, distracting daydreams, where he is emperor, writing famous novels, appearing on television, randy, promiscuous. But his ennui's so intense he can't even daydream successfully and his banal reality cripples his reveries as well. Very sad. Very pessimistic. Also, occasionally funny.

Arcand's film is dense and scathing. "We can characterize our times with one word: disintegration." "We have no answers for you. Your lives are to complicated, the situation to complex." The cynicism that dominates much of L'Âge des Ténèbres criticizes government departments, health care provision, the nuclear family, public school, municipal by-laws, bureaucratic strategies, linguistic authorities, road rage . . . It's difficult to know whether or not the focus is ironic, poking fun at 'gloom and doom' "this is what's wrong with society" people, genuine, trying to instigate political change, intentionally bleak, allegorically accentuating the realities of Leblanc's castrated lifestyle, or a synthesis of the previously mentioned options, spiraling and reverberating within a tragic, comedic vortex. The commoner must face the realities of his boast. The main purpose of a bureaucracy is to ensure its continuing survival. Is 'genuine' communication forged by a union of souls or a random physical action?

The film's complex, presenting unsettling realities in a fantastic frame. But what political system isn't overrun with legal inconsistencies and bureaucratic redundancy, and how does one go about addressing these issues in a practical manner (which is perhaps the principle point)? Nevertheless, L'Âge des Ténèbres presents insightful observations concerning complex social, ethical and political paradigms, competently portraying a convoluted cultural mosaic with delicate vulgarity and humourous solemnity.

What happens after Leblanc's wife takes off for Toronto is impressive. The lines uttered by Leblanc's co-workers are impressive. The film’s impressive. Even if it's a bit overwrought, the multi-dimensional remainder of L'Âge des Ténèbres illuminates the brightest intellectual darkness I've seen in a while, reminiscent of Five Easy Pieces, Falling Down, American Beauty and Billy Liar, ironically titled, considering its impact.