Cinnamonjaro

Earthling altitude modest terrain

temperate texture soulful substance

tarmacademia blithe restraints

sheepskin shawarma blessed vibe

resourceful slapdash clerical flutter

obscure insignia heraldic vague

fetching inscription ferrel motto

furnished amplitude blind rendition

tamarack emblem debonair blemish 

Calcutta Colby fragrant steep

leafy agglomerate sentiment swathe

mellotion dram draughty plunge

colloquial charter bodomnibushel 

novel sensation spirited quote

ambient hue resigned independence

networked bother flapjack flounce

articulate jive legible slog 

vernacular venting diatribe roast

convective coda augmented slice

crucible swagger tapiocandour

gloomy exhaustive opaque billow

jettison jiggle gothic harvest

corn-on-the-cobelisk succulent drool

empathetic scion madeleine muse

sirenaissance core elemental quintessence

gymnastic gallantry aerodyne fore

soaring residuals existential thrust

interwoventriloquy agile glide

panoramic puma blissful ineptitude 

pulsating rhythm saddle & paddle

carnougat sidewinding centigrade shivers

zodiak zephyr stolid oak

habitual measure windswept meadow

cicada signet bobcat petal

incessant drain uncanny leisure

stoked stultified sandlot snooze

magnumbing mantra idiomatrix

dominion auspices resolute craze

incidental fusion illustrious lobe

diurnal bland castigated lummox

maladroit mosey cavernous stumble

precipitous climb flexible limb

laidback enrolment festive swoon

endearing swell fertile blossom

diggin'-in-deep extolled concerted

fluent schematics rubric invention

intermediate manga solar proximity

gambolling gait tantamontagne

cross interdiction esteemed allotment 

soulful sacrifice joyful fidelity

carbonbontemps lapins curieux 

eggstatactition sunrisen shine. 

En man som heter Ove (A Man Called Ove)

A routine lifetime, sturdy crystalline productive disciplined rigour, shocks and surges and synergies refreshed and reconstituted, dis/ingenuous gravitas, im/pertinent shallows, crises, crucibles, cubicles, companionship, curmudgeony coca, grumpy old bear, shattered inveterate disrepair, friendly yet fiendish, stubborn yet understanding, a bleeding heart with no tolerance for stupidity, a prognostic paradigm, tired of living alone.

An unwilling multicaring master of quotidian ceremonies seeks to end it all after having grown none too fond of his lonely predicament.

Yet every suicide attempt fails as curious neighbours inquisitively interrupt him.

In search of aid.

Will the attempts stop as Ove (Rolf Lassgård) accepts his necessary role or is the loss of his wife simply too much to ignore?

To unburden.

I should have just called him an aging romantic.

Old school know-how, postmodernly applicable.

Comedy, tragedy, dismissals and outrage fluidly blend and contradict as Hannes Holm's En man som heter Ove (A Man Called Ove) proves that life's worth living.

From driving lessons to guidance counselling to children's stories to a complimentary spade, the film ironically employs a grouchy weathered patriarch to communalize arabs, gay people, eccentrics, regular joes, and the happy-go-lucky.

Captivatingly so.

There are moments where people air their grievances only to be briskly reminded of the greatness they have undeniably achieved.

According to Ove's incisive summaries.

But the film isn't preachy, such dialogue is expertly woven in to avoid seeming too emotional, to counterintuitively use implausibility to capture something realistic.

I don't know much about what's happening in Sweden these days, but I can claim that En man som heter Ove internationally and often hilariously synthesizes the left and the right while pretending like it'd rather be stretched out on a couch watching reruns of Cheers, or the Swedish equivalent of the celebrated American sitcom.

Sort of like hot chocolate.

Points to make, style to consider.

Ove may not want to do anything ever, but whenever he attempts something, he engages full-throttle.

Occasionally expressing road rage.

Amour

As an elderly couple settles into their daily routine, a crass unnoticed paradigmatic indiscretion, delivered with the same engendered clarity that may have often been a past passionate progenitor of amicable conjugal rage, is adorned by the traditional romantic reversal of fortunes, but this time they're accompanied by a direct physiological collapse, which culminates in the paralysis of Anne's (Emmanuelle Riva) left side.

Emotions run deep within husband Georges's (Jean-Louis Trintignant) struggles to rationally contain his unceasing grief.

His wits remain voluble and he's brittlely yet staunchly prepared for the logical and humanistic impairments of respective relatives and infirmières.

Attempts to ascertain one's dignity resonate as appearances must be qualified by brash benevolent exceptions.

Stoically exemplifying the lifelong dedication of a loving married couple, examining the conversational results of a relationship existing without distinct verbal limits, Michael Haneke's Amour no longer seeks to loquaciously dominate, but simply to be, to reflect, to bask, semantically dishevelling the tenants of prediction with none of the bells and whistles often used to set such scenes.

Just raw quotidian patient enduring dependent classical shock.

Still feeling the affects three hours later.

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.

Elena

As a barren particular is brought into the forefront, behind which rests a model representative of flight, stationary and passive, pensive and solitary, the image's distinction begins to slowly fade, before, after a fellow aviator arrives, it is subtly and universally interiorized.

What follows is an expertly executed yet modestly matriculated morphology, wherein each member of a seemingly content couple exercises their predetermined propensities to finance a younger generation.

Hypocrisy and deception abound.

Historical preference bifurcates.

Galvanized wit is rewarded.

And opportunity will not be displaced.

Andrey Zvyagintsev adopts sparse means to inculcate a breathtaking exemplar, which suggests that the film's form undeniably upholds Elena (Nadezhda Markina), although an internal cross-examination, mischievously interjected by its music, which preliminarily tricked me into believing Elena is simply a collusively cheeky quotidian parody of your traditional blockbuster, sustainably supports the case's other systemic suitor (original music by Philip Glass).

The imaginary factor is brilliantly lubricated by Elena Lyadova's (Katerina) provocative pirouette, volatile yet absorptive, as she self-indulgently tears up the runaway. 

Melancholic film.

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.

La hérisson (The Hedgehog)

The film version of Muriel Barbary's L'elégance du hérisson (The Elegance of the Hedgehog) presents several of the novel's intriguing developments in a necessarily condensed form. Paloma (Garance Le Guillermic) still wishes to commit suicide and Renée Michel (Josiane Balasko) is still the secretly atypical concierge, reluctant to engage in personal social interactions with her clients. Screenwriter and director Mona Achache negotiates the tempestuous gulf providentially cultivated between a character's thoughts in a novel and their depiction in a film by having Paloma shoot and narrate a documentary throughout, thereby maximizing the number of literary ideas transmitted without relying to heavily on intrusive objective narration. The introduction of Mr. Ozu (Togo Igawa) is much more subtle in the novel and his perspicacious intuition comes across as somewhat larger than life (if not forgivably endearing). Paloma's acute perceptively dour psychological observations incisively and playfully occupy its forefront, while Renée's metamorphosis gradually picks up steam. Not sure what either Barbary or Achache are saying by having Renée die as soon as she begins to transcend her preoccupations with her thoroughly researched conceptions of her culture's general attitude concerning her personality as it relates to her job, apart from the fact that it dissuades Paloma from committing suicide, but that's another matter. Thoroughly entertaining, piquantly quizzical, and enigmatically enlightening, Achache's film compliments Barbary's novel even if their relationship could be a little less direct.