Avatar: The Way of Water

When Avatar: The Way of Water began I was initially confused.

It looked like it was going to focus primarily on revenge and reconstruct the devastating antagonisms that dominated the first film.

Of course these films are cinematic endeavours not nature documentaries, and I have to remind myself to concentrate on the difference at times to avoid sounding even more antiquated.

I was hoping the second film would expand the world presented in the original nevertheless (I didn't know anything about this film going in), and provide more insights into Pandora itself, and I was happy to see that that's what happened, as Jake (Sam Worthington) and Neytiri (Zoe Saldaña) and their family go into hiding.

They hide amongst people of the water or a tribe as knowledgeable of the sea as they are of the forest (the Metkayina), just writing that reminds me of how cool these films are, and how amazing it is that blockbusters are genuinely championing nature (I swear there's a dialogue here between Avatar and Ghibli, Kaze no tani no Naushika (Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind) anyways[wish I could write that essay]).

The water people are super intense and highly critical and dismissive of those who don't know their ways, the gauntlet immediate and challenging and demanding as the new recruits adjust to their newfound codes.

The Way of Water may not be a nature documentary but it does excel as it examines tulkan and human relations, the tulkan closely resembling whales back home, I couldn't make it to Tadoussac again this summer, this film went a long ways to compensate. 

It primarily concerns a rogue tulkan who made the forbidden decision to fight back against his hunters, his kind absolutely devoted to peace and unconditionally opposed to taking a life.

Extreme hardship drove him to fight back however and members of his pod were killed in the battle, he survived but was banished forthwith for having fought back against his oppressors. 

He forms a tight bond with Jake and Neytiri's son Lo'ak (Britain Dalton) who also has trouble following rules, and who brings his case to the Metkayina who are none too fond of the outcast.

Later in the film, it's like the coolest moment ever presented in blockbuster cinema, Payakan (the outcast tulkan) joins the concluding battle between the inhabitants of Pandora and the colonizers, and makes a definitive impact.

It isn't over in 30 seconds either, it keeps going and going and going. Scene after scene of nature fighting back. So much thought, time, and care sincerely went into it.

I tell people that the best possible world would be one where there is no war and violence (what people were fighting for for most of my life before Trump), where our social structures are so cohesive that someone like Putin would never arise.

But Hitler's rise in the 1930s makes me worry about such possibilities, i.e, if someone like that does arise and no country has an army to fight them, they could effectively blitzkrieg most of Europe, and leave civilization in bitter ruins.

Thus, I advocate for the creation of potent defensive armies and their continual existence in case of such a development, Putin having proven their unfortunate need, to be kept out of the hands of bloodthirsty tyrants.

Democracy prevailed for many a decade and kept the despotic autocrats at bay.

The rise of the internet has seen them prosper again nonetheless.

These are difficult times.

I suppose that without a defensive army you could wager assimilation might eventually win back your country, like the Chinese used to do with the Mongols (Sinicization), although it takes a lot of frustration and generations to possibly work, and, imagine having to listen to those people for generations (not the Chinese, the fascist colonizers).

Geez Louise, this became far too heavy, note that I really loved Avatar: The Way of Water.

It's a really cool universe and I'm glad it's popular.

Can't wait for my next whale watching excursion. 

*It would be cool to see an Avatar film that was focused primarily on the different interrelations between the inhabitants of Pandora, like an Olympics or something, with less of a focus on colonization. 😎

Sword of the Beast

During a period of volatile change, many samurai seek reform, to promote egalitarian civility and democratic justice, or clans less prone to autocratic caprice.

Yuuki Gennosuke (Mikijirô Hira) thinks his actions will lead to the cultivation of fairness throughout his clan, but after he disposes of its counsellor with his associates, the ambitious incumbent seeks their ruin.

The incumbent had convinced them to do it with promises of wealth and social prestige, Yuuki indubitably furious as he blindly flees to live as a fugitive in the fertile countryside.

He's zealously pursued by the ex-counsellor's daughter and many of the personnel he once considered friends, labelled an outcast bereft of sanctuary he's consistently betrayed everywhere he goes.

But he does find one independent man amusingly hoping to steal gold from a nearby mountain, in search of stalwart protection as he pans, Gennosuke can't deny it's a good place to lie low.

But another samurai has the same idea and already resides on the auriferous slopes, his wife assisting his painstaking efforts as they covet the haughty forbidden.

They've accumulated a vast sum but if they're suddenly caught they'll swiftly lose everything.

Will the two rogue samurai bond?

Before succumbing to age old destiny?

Hideo Gosha's Sword of the Beast illuminates chaos to deconstruct logic, as courageous honourable spirits innocently contend with mature corruption. 

The sundry enticing twists and turns cacophonously layered with magnetic disillusion, keep the frenzied imbroglio basting with aggrieved vehemence and eternal reckoning.

Not without a comic edge, its youthful characters at times light of heart, even while relentlessly pursued they still find time for love and play.

I imagine they mischievously reflect the carefree confidence of the young adult warrior, never fearing death or injury and ready to fight at any given moment.

Gosha gives these daring samurai manifold opportunities to prove their valour, in a celebration of just independence bravely challenging engrained malfeasance. 

With so-much death-defying animation it's impossible to tear yourself away.

Aligned with intricate ethical dilemmas. 

Who is the beast indeed?

Rancho Notorious

The future looks bright, overflowing with bounty, as a couple considers their upcoming marriage, happily thriving through steady employ, ensconced in blooming gleeful rapture.

Yet they live on the Western frontier and soon malevolence comes a' calling, the bride-to-be then passing on, her fiancé sworn to loyal vengeance.

He (Arthur Kennedy as Vern Haskell) sets off on the road following leads where he can engaging in bright conversation, or the eruption of bombast flourishing undaunted, should he ask the wrong person the right question.

He hears tales glamorous and bold deftly crafted through spry resignation, of a coveted socialite (Marlene Dietrich as Altar Keane) widely sought after who teamed up with a formidable gunman (Mel Ferrer as Fairmont).

Haskell discovers the whereabouts of the outlaw and ensures he winds up in the very same jail, soon accidentally aiding his escape, before setting out extrajudicially.

The identity of the killer he seeks still remains frustratingly mysterious, but he soon finds the locale wherein which he's supposed to unconscionably reside.

Alongside many others who have earned their livings through corrupt ill-gotten gains, Rancho Notorious revelling in shenanigans transformative vast illicit booty.

It's direct and hard-hitting like a Western bluntly concerned with irate justice, and works in elements of ye olde film noir, whose generic conventions command infatuated.

The femme fatale's by no means duplicitous and remains loosely hitched to the preeminent bandit, who's rather upright and honourable, as if Bonnie & Clyde had endured.

Haskell makes friends with the virtuous crook and seems like he might be at home casually robbing the odd bank (or stagecoach), but the sight of a striking brooch reminds him of goals which have not been forgotten.

The lines between good and evil are ambiguously forsaken as well-meaning townsfolk quickly back down, and no-good rapscallions ignite honest virtue, while vendettas reestablish antipodes.

Never thought I'd see Marlene Dietrich waxing light so home on the range, and didn't know Fritz Lang directed Westerns sans banal black and white refrains.

There's some minor character diversification but it generally sticks to its winning hand, more abundant less superficial interactions may still have cultivated grizzlier lands.

It excels when Haskell's sleuthing more so than when he hits the ranch, the flashbacks and their spirited horseplay generating crucial binding fragments.

There's a lively soundtrack that keeps things focused if not cleverly cloaking wry deception, Lang perhaps approaching generic overload and unable to keep sabotage at bay.

L'amour takes up much more time than hot pursuits or criminal gains.

Preponderantly peculiar.

Almost like comedic romance.

The Rhythm Section

Lost and alone overwhelmed by grief, a former A-list student struggles aimlessly to get by, no will, no drive, no purpose, no quarter, moribundly drifting through the years, until a Samaritan arrives.

He's familiar with her case and seeks to facilitate just closure, and at least has the means at his disposal to provide temporary soulful relief.

Coordinates and probabilities, nothing definitive, eager to learn, never having accepted the official account explaining what caused a fatal accident.

Soon her leads dry up though and she's back on the road researching further, eventually finding an ex-secret service agent, who still takes the time to work in the field.

He agrees to train her resolutely, her resolve quickly becoming an obsession, replete with fierce wherewithal, months later she's determined and ready.

She embarks naive yet feisty and soon takes on her first assignment.

Aware of possible limitations.

Seeking the truth regardless.

The Rhythm Section's quite primal, instinctual, reactive, brazen, there's little argument or variability, just raw unyielding focus.

It pulls you in with blunt alarm and keeps things rough and menaced, crazed and stressed, with striking backbeat discipline, it tenaciously accentuates.

But without the variability its plot's somewhat too thin, too reliant on what takes place considering not much happens.

When you see The Empire Strikes Back as a child you don't think that Luke is only trained by Yoda for a couple of days (is it even that long?) before he faces Vader.

But later you discover the Jedi were once educated from a very young age, for decades under the tutelage of masters, which would make Luke's emergence as a Jedi seem slightly absurd if he hadn't learned his profession under epic duress.

It's similar in The Rhythm Section inasmuch as there's too much improbability. It's a serious film so you're meant to take it seriously and the action's direct and grave so it doesn't promote generic misunderstanding.

At least for me.

I don't mean it would have been more probable if the lead had been a man. It just seems like anyone coming out of circumstances comparable to those The Rhythm Section's heroine finds herself within at the beginning, would have had quite the time suddenly transforming into an elite counterterrorist.

But whereas some films improve as you think about them after they've finished, The Rhythm Section seems more and more implausible, not that something similar couldn't have indeed taken place, but the odds of it actually happening are beyond me reasonable thresholds.

Of course good cinema excels as it takes you beyond such thresholds to present something different from typical life, but if it's meant to be persuasive, and goes out of its way to be grim and realistic, it becomes more difficult not to apply logic, the application of which doesn't aid The Rhythm Section (she fights someone who's breathing from a respirator?).

More characters and a more intricate script and it may have been more believable.

The novel's likely more gripping.

Others likely found it more appealing.

It's always a good idea to forge your own opinion.

Birds of Prey

A world wherein which consequence and repercussion have never been considered laments freewheelin' largesse as Harley Quinn (Margot Robbie) breaks up with the Joker.

Not a kind world by any means, as ill-composed as it is bellicose, supplying notions like wholesome and sentimental with animate vigour in their shocking absence.

She's sought after by many for different reasons artichoke, and must chaotically improvise to avoid painful brash comeuppance.

Yet she still visits local restaurants and chills at her trusty pad, having rescued a coveted pickpocket who's swallowed a precious diamond.

It contains instructions you see as to how to amass an enormous fortune, and crime boss Roman Sionis (horrible representation of gay people!) (Ewan McGregor) will pay 500 grand to get it.

So Quinn and others find themselves at odds with the irate extravagance, and the aggrieved forge a feisty clique as versatile as it is combat ready.

Those are structural facts although they're by no means determinate, the tale abounding with nuts and nuance intriguingly enunciated.

The clever albeit absurd script keeps at it with unnerving style, non-linear nimble necro accelerated cranked attire.

Not the place for guile or sympathy sorority notwithstanding, cruel worlds enraged colliding mistook madness high stakes shallows.

Necessitous individualism.

Nebulous crazed existence.

All goes well the first run through throughout the reckless merge, the alarming detonated detail shell-shocked, revealing, zesty.

Gotham's controlled by men whom the feminine contest not so shyly, exonerating tactile teamwork independent disputatious.

New characters abound so introductions are in order, the Canary (Jurnee Smollett-Bell), Renee Montoya (Rosie Perez), the Huntress (Mary Elizabeth Winstead), and Cassandra Cain (Ella Jay Basco), profiles crafted, futures fathomed.

DC is seriously impressing these days with Joker and now Birds of Prey, nothing that uplifting about either of the films, but they're still ironically well thought out comic book distractions.

Just need to work in the Justice League (or Deadpool) and maintain the creative style.

Birds of Prey keeps reinventing itself with observant discursive fury, right up 'til the traditional end, order out of groundless chaos, a bit repetitive but still compelling.

I hope the Birds have some more of their own films and don't just show up to aid the Batman.

Nice to see the change of pace.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Bad Boys for Life

Time has past and methods of fighting crime have adapted, yet Detective Mike Lowrey (Will Smith) still applies old school reckonings to the volatile realm within which he plays.

But he's been shot down by an unknown assailant who ballistically came calling during flippant carefree fun.

Distraught partner Marcus Burnett (Martin Lawrence) invokes divine intervention to aid his robust recovery, while settling into retired life, unsure of his stable routine.

And a new team lies in wait after Lowrey fully recovers, tech savvy yet lacking daring, led by precise pragmatic vision (Paola Nuñez as Rita).

Will the unstable mix of strategic planning and sheer impudence produce exclamatory results as the vengeful track and yearn?

Will Mr. Lowrey see something beyond the unattached ephemeral as his work with Rita progresses?

Will irresolvable speculation lead Mr. Burnett to once again contend, as clues manifest probabilities, and teamwork vests credulity?

Will Smith and Martin Lawrence irresistibly back at it and then some, bringing vocal spirits to the lively fore, after a considerably withdrawn hiatus.

They've still got it, that defiant spark from long ago, reciprocal mutually constructive disarray that contextualizes stark contention.

Lawrence's aggrieved summative evaluations add hyper-reactive humour, while Smith's intense driven presence keeps things seriously grounded, hewn.

It's like Martin and Fresh Prince still asserting themselves after all these years, a rare treat if you grew up watching both shows, still appealing to new audiences regardless.

The new recruits diversify its holdings and introduce less combative by-the-book character, not that they aren't ready to head out in the field, but their manners are much more reserved.

Unless provoked.

They even find remarkably well-integrated cover diggin' deep at local night clubs.

It's a solid 20th/21st century blend skilfully synthesized by Adil & Bilall.

It takes Lowrey and Burnett a long time to figure out who's oppressing them, and considering who's been shot their response time lacks speed, but the patient reflective struggle does build quite the crescendo (it's a cool ending), with a Vaderesque reversal, back before it all began.

Bad Boys for Life provides a fierce yet thoughtful narrative that reimagines age old themes, this variation as technologically infatuated as it is with mobile practice.

Okay, it's more infatuated with direct action which is certainly a good thing, a chillin' break from the cold calculation that qualifies so much daily life.

Judging by the responses of North American audiences there's still something to be said for interpersonal relations.

Technology may be astounding.

But it can't replace face-to-face conversation.

The Good Liar

A reptilian overture preys on aged innocence, moving from one lonely widow to the next, as he amasses prim misfortune, too incorrigible to ever give it up (Ian McKellen as Roy Courtnay).

Lifelong aggressive tremens, no friend to terms or tact, slipped through the cracks for many a year, avoided wayward trim detection.

He's quite hawkish, rather diligent, a partner lending a helping hand (Jim Carter as Vincent), watching out for eager fools all too willing to softly land.

Romance by night, fraternizing by day, not one to take time off, he's insatiably disposed, as voracious as they come, an emotionless career psycho.

He meets another unsuspecting victim (Helen Mirren as Betty McLeish) all too happy to make a new friend, she's so overcome with infatuation it's not long 'til he's movin' in.

Her grandson's (Russell Tovey as Stephen) more suspicious and proceeds to make historical inquiries, uncovering a gruesome awkward scandal dating back to World War II.

But explanations are forthcoming and life's less bitter if you can forgive, the two making it up on the shifty spot, and carrying on as if nothing's unhinged.

But if the title's none the wiser, there may be more surprises in store, The Good Liar as composed as its enmity, begetting bitter strikes richly scored.

It's straightforward yet tough from the get-go, but neither textbook nor boring, a brisk pace highlighting the novelty, of high stakes octogenarian high-jinx.

The couple's half bourgeois, half streetwise, at times they pleasantly blend, Betty's sympathy keeping things afloat, providing excuses for Roy's demeanour.

I think a particularly vile realm in hell should be reserved for those who prey on the elderly, if such a place exists, and it's odd to see the elderly preying upon each other in this one, sheer proof of the ageless psychopath.

Certainly a good idea for a film and I can't think of anything else like it, although if it had been shot like a creepy indie, it likely would have made more of an impact.

It's a bit farfetched that Roy is still at large at his age, can you always work in a British detective?

Still enjoyed it, a bit of irreverent controversy, nice to see Helen Mirren and Ian McKellen in something dramatic, without fast cars or apocalyptic agendas.

Some unexpected twists keep it moving along as their coupling becomes more intense, neither too poised nor that full-on thug, without ever displaying much feeling.

Is this a date movie?

The Peanut Butter Falcon

Crafty strategic planning critical timing pugnacious pudding.

An iron clad tenacious second round deftly wrought greased up leviathan.

Another proceeds in error, thieving what could have been his, rather irritated by austere repercussions, well aware that he's truly at fault.

He responds with fury, as if he were legion and not mortal man, this time raging beyond heartfelt mercy, courageous reckless madness.

He has a good heart, he's just slightly insane, or at least doesn't recognize law, or authority, of any kind, unless it's done right by him.

He then saves a stranger from drowning, and they head out on the resplendent run, applying homegrown irate grassroots logic, heartwarmingly bidden, they build quite a raft.

Another proceeds in hot pursuit, unaware she's given herself away, do-gooding yet friendly and sympathetic, disillusioned by rules, expediency.

Does the wrestling school they seek still exist?, and is the Salt Water Redneck (Thomas Haden Church) still there to train them?

They're sought after with sadistic scorn.

Which doesn't mean they can't fall in love.

The Peanut Butter Falcon flips the bird to prudence and regulations, and celebrates primordial will.

Self-righteous magnetism, as adamant as it is impulsive, organically orchestrates as it blindly flexes.

Tenderness and warmth await as compassion and understanding embrace agile elasticity, improvised reason contemplating with raw passionate substance, like wayward soulful jazz, harnessing modernist themes.

Paramount absurdity realistically toned in stereo, jukebox genesis ebullient bayou, madcap maestros unbound and breathless.

Luminescent unrestrained unrestricted dis/orientation, plunging to suffer quixotically, soaked in ir/reverent s(pl)urge.

Reemerging in familial consensus.

Ready for the great wild unknown.

Glad this wasn't made by Scorsese.

Why should forethought have all the fun?

Okay, one character applies forethought. He thinks he's locked down for life, and is therefore reasonably frustrated because he hasn't done anything wrong. The institution where he lives should have taken him out from time to time. A road trip or a day at the beach. Not just two or three rooms forever. That doesn't make any sense.

There's a cool fun sort of vibe within that you don't often see work so successfully.

Like an old school Larry Cohen film.

I think they had fun while they made Peanut Butter Falcon but still took everything seriously.

The feisty spirit of independence.

I highly recommend it.

Dark Phoenix

The world of the X-Men and Women has become less inherently conflicted, as they have assisted non-mutant kind during many a dark hour of need.

Yet the distrust and fear of their abilities still institutionally lingers, requiring just the slightest provocation to erupt with volcanic fury.

Professor X (James McAvoy) still fights the good fight, but has become so accustomed to praise and reward that he's lost sight of the dire misgivings blindly focused on oppressing his people.

The X-Men and Women aren't revered like the Avengers, theirs is a more hostile world within which old world prejudice still infuriates.

Old world is perhaps the wrong word to be using here, for I doubt multiculturalism is something new.

It's likely existed in manifold alternative forms since the inquisitive dawn of time, perhaps without having to be conceptualized during more enlightened forgotten epochs.

As Foucault would wager.

Without radical designs.

Jean Grey (Sophie Turner) finds herself embodying godlike superhuman powers in Dark Phoenix, and after expressing herself too combatively, leaves Xavier's peace in ruins.

But he refuses to give up on the virtue he still knows constructively resides within, and even as Magneto seeks vengeance, he will not let her drift away.

Not the best X-Men film but it still resonates with endearing themes.

To promote and believe in the goodness of humanity reflects genuine spiritual resolve, but to deny the existence of terror is as foolish as it is naive.

Professor X and Magneto strategize somewhere in between, constantly aware of the other's next move yet still attuned to bold improvisation.

Through the ages.

The fight is fought internally by everyone at times, but losing sight of the value of difference leads to perpetual disillusion.

There's nothing wrong with a bit of spice.

To liven things up a bit.

Chocolate sauce or some gritty granola.

Takes the hardboiled edge off.

From time to time.

And tastes good.

Yum!

Serenity

Something strange, something not quite right, in Serenity's opening moments.

Throughout the first half of the film.

There's a vague concealed derelict somnambulistic longing haunting social relations in the beginning, like a prolonged robot hangover that's been nauseously programmed.

Disaffection, I kept thinking, I'm bound to hear the word "surreal" used to describe this film, as if its otherworldliness is a product of subconscious reckoning, as opposed to a McFlurry saturated with kalúha.

That sounds good.

But you could use the word surreal to describe it, as it progresses, in the commercial sense,
like you would use it if you were still caught up in the mainstream, still unfamiliar with less traditional surrealistic applications.

Boldly crafting alternative traditions of their own.

The surrealism becomes more pronounced and less McDreamy after down-on-his-luck fisherperson Baker Dill (Matthew McConaughey) is tasked with murdering his ex-wife's (Anne Hathaway as Karen Zariakas) utterly loathsome new husband (Jason Clarke as Frank Zariakas) to the tune of a vindictive 10 million.

It's not just that though, there's something else, something more subtle, more puzzling, more disorienting, more real.

Or surreal I suppose. 😉

A salesperson (Jeremy Strong as Reid Miller) shows up with the kind of clarification that doesn't prove or explain anything yet still shuffles the narrative off to different directions, a clever intriguingly frustrating device often used on shows like Twin Peaks or The X-Files, that keeps you genuinely desiring more even if the obscurity leaves you wanting.

The resultant delirium is quite surreal as an identity transformation bewilderingly transcends without any loss of the hermetic I.

The anxiety harrowingly increases at both conscious and unconscious levels as Baker continues to act under extreme existential duress.

The film's uninspiring first half is justified as an experimental work in progress, whose author was still crafting his own remarkable tensions, the film as a whole perhaps meant to metaphorically present a film lover's growth, as they start looking beyond commercial horizons to something less pronounced and material.

It's a strong synthesis of the blasé and the risk-fuelled that comments upon these concepts without saying anything, a mind-meld of the traditional and the experimental that effectively synergizes hesitant abandon.

Looking forward to seeing more of what Steven Knight has to offer.

I'm reminded of Tarsem Singh.

Not sure as to why.

Creed II

Strange how seriously people take sports sometimes.

I always thought if you were playing in a big game, a playoff game, a game against a division rival, any game really, you did everything you could to win, training hard, listening to your coaches, sticking to the game plan, improvising if it's not working, supporting your teammates, using all your skill and talent to put up another win, while hoping you were playing against opponents who were genuinely doing the same.

If you didn't let up and did everything you could to win without cheating, then if you unfortunately didn't, it didn't matter so much, even if it still stung, still hurt a bit afterwards.

There was usually another game the following week, night, month, at some point, and winning all the time didn't make much sense, was improbable, even if it would have been nice to pull off a perfect season, or go up by 20 early to take the edge off and settle it down.

In a big game.

Some people aren't like that though, losing against solid competition even though they've trained just as hard drives them a bit mad even after they've done their best competing at a high level.

It doesn't help if their support networks collapse like Ivan Drago's (Dolph Lundgren) did after he lost to Rocky, and they lose a style of life they've grown accustomed to, as well as the contacts who made it so dear.

They came down hard on the Drago.

But he came down equally hard on himself.

I don't see the differences between Rocky (Sylvester Stallone) and Drago's situations in terms of nation, however, but rather in the ways in which they were supported by friends and family after their losses.

Every nation has people who know how to win.

Every nation has people who don't know how to lose.

Every nation has people who are there when you lose.

Every nation has people who freakin' love sports.

I don't see the arts in terms of winning and losing so much, more like a realm where your work's appealing or unappealing, interpreted differently according to individual tastes.

It surprises me when people are upset because I didn't like a film, or confused because I did.

Different people have different tastes and having different tastes in film has nothing to do with being right or wrong.

I don't get why people don't like some movies.

But I'm not insulted if they don't like my favourites.

Creed II lacks subtlety and daring yet still delivers something reliable, something durable.

The situations are familiar and the formula's a bit worn but that doesn't mean I don't like seeing Rocky back at it, or watching as Adonis (Michael B. Jordan) and Bianca's (Tessa Thompson) lives change and grow.

They change and grow in very conventional ways and their struggles don't remind me much of Adrian and Rocky's.

They're kind of tame in comparison.

Where's Creed's Paulie?

I think their lives need less traditional complications.

Wasn't the first Rocky one of the best American movies ever made though, so many life lessons built into its original script?

Rocky Balboa too?

Creed III's got its work cut out for it if it's goanna make it without Stallone.

In genres where a lot of artists seem similar at times, there's truly no one else like him.

At his best when he lets his heart speak.

I may have an Over the Top postcard stuck to my fridge.

Which no longer works.

There be another fridge though, close at hand.

Stuffed full of cheese.

And a rice/veggie medley.

It's good in soup.

With sour cream and blue cheese.

Yum.

Hotel Artemis

High level underground healthcare, malfeasant exclusivity monopolizing bedside manners, a doctor whose son was lost surgically suturing round the clock, strict codes of conduct sustaining improbable decorum with the efficient composure of inoculated propriety, an indispensable service for those who require it, an oasis, a criminal miracle, aliases supplied sanctuary granted, personality condoned within but who's to say what'll happen on the outside, a father and son at odds, expertly timed assassignations, steadfast fraternal devotion, prescribed in/discriminate patience, getaways, gumption, gallantry and gunshot wounds, grotesquely favoured, securely synchronized, playfully humoured, abruptly inundated.

Riots raging in Los Angeles, the result of soulless ambitions to privatize water realized, ubiquitous disorder generating pandemonium, within which even the outlawed superelite feel helpless with nowhere to hide.

Forgotten past misdeeds ravenously salivating.

The drool an elixir.

The drip a commandant.

Escape through delirium manifested in the labyrinthine.

Plain sight stealth.

Unorthodox risk management.

Hotel Artemis has the makings of a cult classic perhaps dependent upon the preferences of a younger generation.

I enjoyed the film and the ways in which it openly orchestrates alternative subterranean postures, its imaginative non-compliance circumnavigating electroshocks, boisterously treading the turbulent mainstream, exuberantly bolting nutty necromance.

But I couldn't help wondering if I would have loved it thirty years ago, or if alternative alternative formats have unconsciously redefined the underground, with the same subtle corporate polish that led to so many unremarkable Johnny Depp films.

Have I simply grown older, or have statistical calculations transformed wild narratives into more family friendly pieces of civil disobedience, a sign of a more hesitant restrained contemporary artistic approach, saturated with widespread perennial job insecurity?

Perhaps the form of the underground films that hit theatres in the 80's have become the contents of similar early twenty-first century films, the form of the latter now representing the content of the former, to reflect how political engagements have changed due to a lack of progressive organization, dating from the unfortunate release of Mortdecai?

That makes more sense.

😌

Deadpool 2

I returned to my apartment around 2am a year or so ago and decided to throw on Deadpool, having loved it so much the first time I saw it.

I was tired and gaseous and distracted and a bit tipsy and wound-up shutting it off after only having viewed the first half-hour.

I figured it was unfair to judge the film because fatigue and flatulence were both likely preventing me from adoring its paramount trash talk, yet, due to the nature of Deadpool's reckonings, I also thought it appropriate to cast judgment based upon ludicrous criteria ingenuously articulated, as if such inanity was more in tune with the film's blunt charisma, as if in doing so I was being rashly genuine.

Thus, I never watched it again, and even though I still cherish the memories I have of loving it around Valentine's Day as I watched it in theatres à tout seul, and I arrived to see Deadpool 2 in energetic spirits calisthenically adjudicated, I was still worried that it would fail to impress and leave me bewildered and shocked as if I had aged to a point where I no longer got it, where I had become too stilted and bloated, where I had lost touch with the insouciant modes of expression I had studied lackadaisically in my youth, and could no longer intuitively access the mischievous spirits that once characterized so much harmless interrogative free play, like no longer enjoying hot dogs from street vendors in Toronto, even if I only eat vegetarian exemplars of the notorious snack these days, covered in pickles, onions, and corn relish, they're still quite tasty, and fill you up for under $5.

I wasn't disappointed.

The first viewing was a mind-blowing pristine cacophonous array of non-stop well-timed inappropriately pertinent comments unleashed with the untameable fury of well-educated individuals who lack the trust fund to perennially compete in the internship top-heavy elitist postmodern corporate world.

There's no lull, no pause, no moment where gifted writers Rhett Reese, Paul Wernick, and Ryan Reynolds couldn't come up with another hardboiled multilayered remark that obliterates as it coddles or simply celebrates courageously embracing disenfranchised incredulity.

Asserting agency while confronting meaninglessness.

About a week before I saw Deadpool 2 I was wondering what happened to self-referential metaforecasts which critically examine their own narrative threads while simultaneously building them up with paradoxical discursive assertion.

Ryan Reynolds (Deadpool) keeps getting better with age, does anyone play the grizzly sarcastic ferociously charming nerd better?, or has there ever been a better foolish romantic determined endearing smart ass contemplating pan-fried cultural conundrums with cold brazen provocative expertise?

Not that he isn't part of remarkable team that holds Deadpool 2 together, expressing individuality collectively to overcome shortsighted institutionalized supernatural miscalculations.

Like you're watching duty counsels in action.

There's so much more to the film than what I've presented here.

Boom.

Damn it's good.

The Killing of a Sacred Deer

The darker side of contemporary sick demented psycho comedy distraughtly horrifies in The Killing of a Sacred Deer, which is sort of like The Lobster's less nuanced emaciated bile, striving to absorb Yorgos Lanthimos's excess fat, while also producing gut wrenching nausea.

Whereas a lot of time and care went into crafting The Lobster's clever maniacal sociocultural criticisms, Sacred Deer is more like that other idea Lanthimos had while ingeniously writing, an idea that was perhaps quickly given the green light after the former's success to capitalize on wry sadistic sensation.

All the elements for a bit of intelligent woeful macabre distraction are there, and whether or not he was being intentionally banal is beside the point, it's just too content with suffering to offer any critical stoic insights, as if it wants to be masochistically beaten to the point of bitter exhaustion.

Even if you're being intentionally banal to comment on how disenchantment abounds, it doesn't change the fact that banality is banality and your audience is still stuck sitting through the entire practically pointless slide show.

Perhaps such endeavours do encourage creative growth, I'm in no position to measure such outcomes, but if it's not a way to make a trite point that metaphorically condemns a lack of bold fictional imagination, it's a lazy way to disinterestedly appear genuine for a mundane bit of excruciating tedium.

Why does the new Twin Peaks come to mind?

The Secret History of 'Twin Peaks' book is quite good.

Barry Keoghan (Marting) haphazardly steals the show and is given the best material, notably his interactions with infatuated Kim (Raffey Cassidy) and his ice cold emotionless curses.

Nevertheless, like Sophie's Choice if it had an aneurism, The Killing of a Sacred Deer begs brilliant qualifications but flops down more like an unappealing B-side, or Belle and Sebastian's How to Solve Our Human Problems (Part 1).

La Femme's Mystère?

Which means it is an excellent horror film.

Comedic tremors notwithstanding.

Murder on the Orient Express

Possessing an inexhaustible gift for anaesthetizing extraordinarily complex behemoths, resolved riddles exemplifying multidisciplinary mettle, Agatha Christie's Hercule Poirot (Kenneth Branagh) fittingly decides it's time for a vacation, and boards the lauded Orient Express in search of computational repose.

But just as he begins to exercise his literary imagination, a hardened degenerate comes a quizzically calling, in search of world renowned vigilance, to serve and protect his undignified exemptions.

Having already proven that dignity is something he regards philosophically inasmuch as he takes manifold vicissitudes into intellectual account before making variable judgments, he still refuses the thug's request and continues to seek solitude.

Only to awaken to discover that a fellow passenger has been, murdered, and that he must therefore astutely detect once more, to avoid indirectly condoning the free movement of violent criminals.

His voyage having been impeded by a serendipitous avalanche.

He flexes inquisitively.

As his investigation commences.

Kenneth Branagh's Murder on the Orient Express condenses the famed detective's sleuthing into a series of short but meaningful exchanges, each fully charged with guilt and inculpability, cloaked details deductively electrifying a productive narrative gridiron.

With somewhat more formal spectacle (production value) than I'm used to seeing in stories concerning culturally elevated investigatory phenomenons.

I rather enjoy watching the great detectives/inspectors/private investigators/dudes piece together clues delineating nefarious acts, with my parents, but I'm more used to seeing them explore within televisual boundaries.

I'm happy to see the actors who haven't yet become heartthrobs, starlets, or characters on demand cut their chops in a well written episode (usually around 2 hours in length), and am often not that concerned with how much screen time they each receive.

Indubitably.

When this format is given a much larger budget, as it should be more regularly, with many more famous actors, I certainly appreciate the cinematography, along with corresponding cinematic eccentricities, but if it ends with one of my favourite actors not having been given a larger role, when they could have been, or if the pressures of having more critical exposure make it seem rushed, it can be somewhat of a disappointment, one which might have been dismissed had their been a lower budget with multiple unknowns.

That isn't to say I didn't enjoy Branagh's take on Poirot, the cunning nature of the collective revenge reverberating with vindicated compunction.

Poirot himself mesmerizes, and the eclectic yet cohesive jigsaw cast commands the puzzling scenes judiciously.

Another 45 to 90 minutes though, too much of a commercial focus (were Frost or Morse ever trying to make money?[the commercial approach worked more successfully for Guy Ritchie methinks]), how many more tributaries could have been navigated with that much more time?

Thus, I'm hoping there's an extended version coming out soon, which adds more depth of character to a film that's already highly thought provoking as it scintillatingly yet diminutively reprimands.

The Dark Tower

A monstrous evil, scurrilously preying on the gifts of the innocent, intent on unleashing a frenzy of chaos upon worlds existing within worlds, rigorously assaulting their towering quintessence, transporting between realms with exuberant malicious discontent to capture a child and exploit his powers thereby inaugurating bedlam's unconstrained malevolence, after he desperately escapes his minion's demonic clutches, landing in a western world thereafter wherein which hope still communally emancipates.

Like a University professor who tyrannically bends the wills of his or her grad students to her or his own, or a teacher conjured by a shrieking nightmarish Pink Floyd soundscape, the Man in Black (Matthew McConaughey) feverishly seeks young Jake (Tom Taylor), who fortunately manages to obtain aid through opposition (Idris Elba).

In the fantastic dominion of Mid-World.

By the light of a despondent Sun.

As crudely cavalier nauseous malcontents continue to flourish in Trump's grossly irresponsible political construct, The Dark Tower disseminates multilateral luminescence, illuminating paths upon which to sublimely tread, during the villainous nocturnal onslaught, and the promulgation of sheer stupidity.

While artists are abandoned within, violence is recreationally devoured, leaders remain isolated and drifting, and attacks wildly increase in ferocity, an undaunted team slowly assembles, afterwards casting utopian firmaments anew.

Not the best fantasy film I've seen this Summer (I'm wondering if that's why Spaghetti Week at the Magestic [or something like that] is advertised near the end [lol]), but still a cool entertaining traditional yet creative sci-fi western, even if I'm unsure how I would have reacted to it if I were 15, I certainly find it relevant enough these days to imagine that I would have loved it.

The magical power of rhetorical/literary/political/interdimensional/. . . metaphor gracefully comments and forecasts, providing young and aged minds alike with plenty of rationales to reify, while still bluntly emphasizing the truth of scientific fact.

Focusing on the good of the many.

As contrasted with unilateral obsessions.

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.

T2 Trainspotting

The danger.

The danger of returning 20 odd years later to material which you expertly orchestrated with fertile frenzied finesse in your youth, fans will undoubtedly be expecting equivalent degrees of athletic anguish and bricked portered benzedrine, agonizing adrenaline, hysterical heuristic harkenings, even if they've aged meanwhile, even if the characters have as well.

Godfather III, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, My Big Fat Greek Wedding 2, Everybody Wants Some!!

Star Wars Episodes I-III.

But the impulse to buck the trend must be overwhelming, to revisit old storylines, to reimagine old characters, and revitalize them alma mater.

T2 Trainspotting starts out on a depressing note.

Renton's (Ewan McGregor/Connor McIndoe/Ben Skelton) inspiring speech from the final moments of T1 hasn't exactly widgeted bourgeois effervescence, and he's downtroddenly returned home to reestablish old friendships.

The bourgeoisie has experienced sincere difficulties for the last twenty years so it isn't surprising that he's had a tough go of it.

Grievances are aired and there's a rapprochement of sorts, although Begbie (Robert Carlyle/Christopher Mullen/Daniel Smith) remains extremely hostile, and Sick Boy (Jonny Lee Miller/James McElvar/Logan Gillies) duplicitously presides.

The characters are tetrarchically divided with Renton and Spud (Ewen Bremner/Aiden Haggarty/John Bell) making up one half, Sick Boy and Begbie the other.

Spud is loveable and tragic and incapable of smoothly navigating occupational domains due to years of drug abuse, but Renton is there to help him settle down and remember the sundry positive aspects of life existing beyond narcotic addiction.

Renton and Sick Boy meet in the middle, as mutual love interest Veronika (Anjela Nedyalkova) hilariously relates in one of the film's many lively observations, but Sick Boy got the bad side of the Schwartz, and is still incorrigibly struggling.

Hence, he is better at grovelling when a local phenom (Bradley Welsh as Doyle) threatens their lives after learning that they plan to open a strip club.

His sleazy misdemeanours make him a better fit for Begbie, who escapes from prison and hides out with his frightened family (like the police wouldn't have looked there [Begbie's relationship with his son is one of the best aspects of T2]), and is just as unemployable as Spud although his joblessness is the product of excessive aggression as opposed to chillin' fireside.

Begbie is wicked, yet when he gets together with Spud a brilliant synthesis cinematically unreels, after the initial terror subsides, and the cold violent horrorshow actually considers something tender.

Like Stalin at a spontaneous unannounced small town parade wittingly kept in line with party guidelines.

Trainspotting 2 struggles early on to reestablish the narrative after so many bygone years, and there were points where I thought it should have been left alone, but, when I sit back to consider the preponderance of insightful claims and witty evaluations afterwards, not to mention its bold calculations and tantalizing cutlass, cutlasses, I have no choice but to admit that my misgivings were premature, and that I did indeed enjoy the film, although I'm not buying the soundtrack this time.

Thoughtful depth is patiently added to the four main characters in a way that aptly reflects the trials they've experienced surviving for the past twenty years.

It's grittier than an everything-worked-out tale and more subdued like middle-age.

Jaded and scorned yet cheerfully torn.

Cynical yet aspiring.

Boyle's still got it.

As do David Lynch and Mark Frost.

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.

The Magnificent Seven

Itinerant indicators reverently reconciling disputed claims to hegemonic fluidity, lethal voracity violently extinguishing, incriminating, decimating, on cue a feisty lass sets out in search of providential justice, fortunately then encountering a robust conscience unbound, who's also in search of restorative balsam, a regenerative surge, consultant of impoverished legend, unbeknownst heretofore.

A team is required, and recruits are sought after, testaments to old school social networking, eventually emancipating The Magnificent Seven.

Multiculturally enriching the destitute through discriminant codes of conduct, exacting rectitude, perspicacious pertinence, this gathering does not have much to say, but excels at prescribing succinct ontological defence.

As the raven confides, and the gold mine's owner makes a swift return, a legion in tow, the entire town prepares for battle, trepidatiously defending their laborious life blood.

Fighting for freedom as opposed to the bottom line, these settlers and their protectors ignite heraldic sentiments, ceremonial citizenship, congregated ebb and flow.

Modus vivendi.

Down home diplomacy.

Altruistic adrenaline.

No, other, choice.

Is the skilled professional fighting for what's right capable of so much more than the merciless hired goon?

Do psychotics reinterpret biblical messages to unequivocally promote themselves as capitalistic gods?

Will grassroots social democracy and its reunification with liberal biblical studies as theoretically envisioned by Bernie Sanders be effectively applied by a victorious Hillary Clinton?

Can the heroic fight of one small band of misfits leave a thought provoking lasting impression across a nation wide?

"Yes," I'm answering, "yes," to all these questions.

The Magnificent Seven's no Seven Samurai, but it's fun to watch, fun to take in.

Tons of intertextuality at play.

Irregulators!

And damned fine 21st century momentum.

Tally Ho.