Reflexiconstruct

Cartoon flecktone barracuda

lapis lazuli gingérent fluke

illusory scan Gaelic mélange

artisanal splice ornate plume

plasticine plinth claytent augur

clandestine groove sentiment Sally

blithe melancholia district solute

murky emulsion immiscible mood

stipending glisten jettison jolt

snuffefluff straw syndicate sneer

Ma & Pa Kettle salt-of-the-Earth

instructive knowhow routine capacity

galvanized structure thriving schoon'

exquisite pomp lobsty-kablobsky

obstinate glee stubborn splendour

grubstake galley saturnine swish

gushing torrent acquiesced 'clusion

crystalline glut blindside berm

supple kerfuffle roundabout truffle

pluscious portico flotsalmon flim'

cul-de-sacrosanct hearty victuals

chevalier spike shifting gears

lotto gelato cavernous grotto

elusive shades stoic inflection

insolent tender bold delineation

humidor haven hamstrung shard

critter calculi fold combustion

strict exhaust airtight filter

viacondor bereft digression

wholegrain flounce digestive aid

pomegranitely saccharine shivers

Odessa artistry Corinthian cruise

disintegration journeyman jaunt

arcane extension butterscotch bloom

starch chuckleberry candlelit quantum 

rooty panflutey maladroit glen

efficient cycle rolodex reticence

transistor torrent Kraken deluge

regardless flair banal simplicity

regal temperance haywire hospice

spacious enclosure fictive friction

yeteatime travel homeostasis

temptation trickle fly tributary 

ossified flow frenetic fleuve

engulfed exertion tenement treacle

blustering bandits lodgepole pine

inverted caution commercial break

fluffy and snuffly suger shack bake 

discus Invictus inhabited hostie

oblong tabernac fractious frenzy

vessel carestle burgeoning tresel 

watershed cheshire serenadine. 

Under the Skin

A complacent harvest of unsuspecting trust, seduced, submerged, packaged, preserved in an hallowed solution, embryonic bliss, conscious of the terror, mesmerizing intake, dangling, merged, afloat, neither here nor there, masqueraded glacial transience, luminescent molecules, directions, paste, a ride, seraphic insulation, enraptured salutation, like a liquified libidinal glaze, slowly processed, then drained.

This film really does get under your skin.

It's patiently moving along, odd and peculiar yet generally non-threatening, light creepy apathetic bursts, then suddenly the horror, no build-up, no preparation, just there on a beach, one after the other, cold heartless calculated observation, purpose and intent, its goal indisputable.

And the next scene just follows, back at it, more of the same, manufacturing a costume, objective, driven.

But a fog descends and the comfort zone vanishes.

Curiosity's necessitated by the conditions.

Habituated disbelief.

A monster.

Jonathan Glazer's Under the Skin isn't like typical horror/sci-fi, its apathetic presentation leaving a much deeper impression than the most maniacal rampage to be found in a well-crafted slasher flick.

Its non-sensational unconcerned impact doesn't fade with the following week's routine.

It's still there.

Haunting.

Wrong

Small talk.

Having the time.

Honestly expressing oneself.

A hard day's work.

The first film that I've seen that takes banal quotidian frustrations and places them generally within a framework resembling something like a bourgeois displacement of Twin Peak's Black/White Lodge, wherein neuroses and hyperanalytic tendencies proceed, full-speed-ahead, even as corporeal and material structures inexplicably change shape and regenerate, the insignificant theoretically becomes essential, and declarations of counterproductive antisocial lassitudes bifurcate, with explanations required and clarifications sought after, a face burned by acid, a formula for hard wiring permanent love, detectives hired to figure out what's already known to have taken place, figure 13-d, it (Wrong) could be qualified as Kafkaesque but the transitions, the hilarious transitions, director Quentin Dupieux isn't only a master of framing confused asymmetrical curious yet despondent facial expressions, again and again and again, it keeps working, he does the same thing when transitioning from scene to scene, meaning that something ornery takes place, the mood becomes anxious, and then we're back to a comfortable pastoral cheery suburban image, overflowing with stability and integrity, happiness and relaxation, there's no job but the bills are paid, let's start again fresh, like you're having a picnic in a meadow, lakeside, surrounded by elk wearing glasses, before hero Dolph Springer (Jack Plotnick) must once again attempt to socially interact, and everyone's notable lack of expertise, or bizarre exhaustive supernatural comprehensions, violently yet sweetly cover things up, like a thunder storm bombarding an idyllic mountain stream.

Pets are important.

Routines are important.

It's important to ask questions.

Scientific exploration has no limits.

Caught somewhere between the anal retentive and the blissfully vacant, Wrong appreciates the ways in which the extroverted ideal (see Susan Cain's informative Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking [I love this book!]) has been adopted by oh so many people who were not born to embrace it, but still adamantly attempt to do so.

The key seems to be to buy a pet.

Love it.

End up crushed when it disappears.

And revel in ecstasy when it returns.

Magic: the magic.

Best comedy I've seen in awhile. Stand Up Guys is just as good, but Wrong does it without star power.

Accept for William Fichtner.

Who is now one of my favourite actors.

Almost forgot about the final song.

Still laughing. I'll be thinking about this film and laughing for months.

Dependability.

Wrong defines dependability.

It does.