A small community in Nunavut struggles with alcoholism, drug addiction, and suicide, as traditional ways backed up by authentic millennia merge with the legacy of the residential school system.
Strong hunters still persevere, establishing direct links with their ancient descendants.
And some students see the benefits of rigorous study, even if practical applications don't readily present themselves.
It truly is another world, a diverse alternative spirituality.
Inaccessible by road.
Blanketed by the midnight sun.
A somewhat naive teacher lands in this far off realm, unaware of local realities yet determined to make a difference.
He's clueless as the film begins but isn't hardhearted or dismissive.
He listens to local concerns and adjusts his teaching style accordingly.
Well-versed in lacrosse lore, he decides to start up a local team, his dedication and tenacity inspiring local youth, who are hesitant to join yet still curious.
Sports can help combat substance abuse in any community inasmuch as they encourage constructive goals.
If the choice is between loosing oneself in booze and drugs or joining a team that builds character through discipline, I'll take the latter every time.
It's not that simple in The Grizzlies because the community isn't affluent and economic hardships present conflicting responsibilities.
Some kids can't play on a team because they're needed at home, and since the lacrosse team is something new, some families and teachers have troubling believing in its positive effects.
During a town meeting where the team tries to obtain funds to attend a tournament down South, many citizens voice reasonable concerns in opposition, and it's a situation where no one's really right or wrong, but some options take precedence over others.
It's tough to see the benefits of alternative ideas at times and easy to dismiss them. They may seem like they conflict with time honoured traditions at first because they still haven't found a way to culturally co-exist amongst them, and putting food on the table's top priority without a doubt, and sometimes playing games can seem just a little bit silly.
Sports can be a bit ra-ra at times but they promote teamwork, healthy living, interdependence, and communal strength.
They make a huge difference for the lives of the kids in The Grizzlies, and open up doors many residents thought had been shut, permanently.
The North needs dedicated teachers like Russ Shephard (Ben Schnetzer) who are humble enough to adapt to local customs which can teach them to become community leaders.
The North has so much to offer and living there's an experience like none other.
If students have trouble seeing the benefits of education in remote Northern communities, perhaps focusing on astronomy could make a difference.
The night sky is as practical in the North as a transit system is in a city.
I don't see why astronomy can't be used to synthesize the study of math, art, sport and science.
There are endless applications.
Relevant in any age.
Showing posts with label Suicide. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Suicide. Show all posts
Friday, July 5, 2019
Tuesday, March 7, 2017
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.
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.
Thursday, November 26, 2015
Les ȇtres chers (Our Loved Ones)
The brilliance of family, supportively nurturing and caring for one another, intimate bonds strengthened over time, often challenged by organically generated conflicts, still loving in its unconscious bedlam, stabilized volatility cohesively generating truth.
Anne Émond's Les ȇtres chers (Our Loved Ones) introduces one such family, and lovingly blends their harmonies and tragedies, suicide haunting their intergenerational dialogues, a son struggling to comprehend, a granddaughter artistically responding.
The overwhelming joy corresponding to a particularly tender period of time cripples as it fades, the knowledge that it cannot be reproduced shattering a fragile sensibility, impatient as it slowly ages, unable to see future joys to come.
The film isn't really that sad, rather, it's a wonderfully humble and cheerful low key moderation of a family that grows together over time, focused intently on David (Maxim Gaudette) and his daughter Laurence (Karelle Tremblay), beautifully highlighting different moments which subtly caress time passing.
Its gentle warmth gracefully tends a humanistic modesty whose sweetly flowing aesthetic embrace makes you wish you could hug someone close to you, like sitting around a campfire or snuggling beneath a comforter.
It calmly and solemnly warns against becoming too caught up in innocent ecstasies, by depicting what is lost through premature departure, without condemning those who decide to quietly slumber.
Equitable.
Anne Émond's Les ȇtres chers (Our Loved Ones) introduces one such family, and lovingly blends their harmonies and tragedies, suicide haunting their intergenerational dialogues, a son struggling to comprehend, a granddaughter artistically responding.
The overwhelming joy corresponding to a particularly tender period of time cripples as it fades, the knowledge that it cannot be reproduced shattering a fragile sensibility, impatient as it slowly ages, unable to see future joys to come.
The film isn't really that sad, rather, it's a wonderfully humble and cheerful low key moderation of a family that grows together over time, focused intently on David (Maxim Gaudette) and his daughter Laurence (Karelle Tremblay), beautifully highlighting different moments which subtly caress time passing.
Its gentle warmth gracefully tends a humanistic modesty whose sweetly flowing aesthetic embrace makes you wish you could hug someone close to you, like sitting around a campfire or snuggling beneath a comforter.
It calmly and solemnly warns against becoming too caught up in innocent ecstasies, by depicting what is lost through premature departure, without condemning those who decide to quietly slumber.
Equitable.
Tuesday, September 8, 2015
Borealis
Sean Garrity's Borealis hits and misses, struggling to cohesively grind its aesthetic, while occasionally brewing refined diuretics.
Structurally speaking.
It follows Jonah (Jonas Chernick) as he attempts to pay off massive debts through gambling, making one $50,000 bet too many, winding up on the run from a seriously angry old friend.
What takes place in the film functions as a warning to would-be risk takers, although, due to its consistent focus on the regenerative potential of a lucrative lucky streak, it also glamorizes the stakes, albeit in a downtrodden fashion.
Thus it appeals to card players and those who prefer board games alike.
J'aime les deux.
It tries to introduce the bizarre, a quaintly quizzical quandary, as a small vegetarian dog is offered an entire large raw steak on a golf course, logic unfortunately minimizing its impact, since the time it would take to eat the steak would more than likely disrupt the flow of their game.
The script viciously acknowledges this incoherency moments later.
I think a closer study of Twin Peaks is in order.
Jonah's daughter (Joey King as Aurora) is going blind and he convinces her to take a road trip with him (the getaway [she doesn't know she's going blind at this point]) to Churchill, Manitoba, to see the Northern Lights before she loses her sight, and even if arguments abound throughout their journey, their eventual coming together fuels the film's reckless fervour.
It's tough to bond with Jonah.
He is a huge screw-up, and I had trouble generating sympathy.
But the script does excel at slowly delivering personal historical details from his life which do in fact help to eventually generate sympathy, and reminded me not to jump to hasty conclusions.
The ending (spoilers) best describes my thoughts about the film.
After coming to terms with Jonah's creditors, Jonah and Aurora sit on Churchill's rocky shore, relieved about their reversal of fortune.
Jonah must have been freezing since he had recently been tied up and launched into the water, but, whatevs.
The Northern Lights suddenly appear and Jonah points them out.
It's cheesy that they suddenly appear, but then we discover that Aurora has gone blind and can't see them, which grates the maudlin slab.
Highs and lows, sinuous switchboards.
Liked the hitchhiking roadside imbroglio.
And the shots of rural Manitoba.
Almost went to Churchill once you know.
Way back when.
Structurally speaking.
It follows Jonah (Jonas Chernick) as he attempts to pay off massive debts through gambling, making one $50,000 bet too many, winding up on the run from a seriously angry old friend.
What takes place in the film functions as a warning to would-be risk takers, although, due to its consistent focus on the regenerative potential of a lucrative lucky streak, it also glamorizes the stakes, albeit in a downtrodden fashion.
Thus it appeals to card players and those who prefer board games alike.
J'aime les deux.
It tries to introduce the bizarre, a quaintly quizzical quandary, as a small vegetarian dog is offered an entire large raw steak on a golf course, logic unfortunately minimizing its impact, since the time it would take to eat the steak would more than likely disrupt the flow of their game.
The script viciously acknowledges this incoherency moments later.
I think a closer study of Twin Peaks is in order.
Jonah's daughter (Joey King as Aurora) is going blind and he convinces her to take a road trip with him (the getaway [she doesn't know she's going blind at this point]) to Churchill, Manitoba, to see the Northern Lights before she loses her sight, and even if arguments abound throughout their journey, their eventual coming together fuels the film's reckless fervour.
It's tough to bond with Jonah.
He is a huge screw-up, and I had trouble generating sympathy.
But the script does excel at slowly delivering personal historical details from his life which do in fact help to eventually generate sympathy, and reminded me not to jump to hasty conclusions.
The ending (spoilers) best describes my thoughts about the film.
After coming to terms with Jonah's creditors, Jonah and Aurora sit on Churchill's rocky shore, relieved about their reversal of fortune.
Jonah must have been freezing since he had recently been tied up and launched into the water, but, whatevs.
The Northern Lights suddenly appear and Jonah points them out.
It's cheesy that they suddenly appear, but then we discover that Aurora has gone blind and can't see them, which grates the maudlin slab.
Highs and lows, sinuous switchboards.
Liked the hitchhiking roadside imbroglio.
And the shots of rural Manitoba.
Almost went to Churchill once you know.
Way back when.
Friday, September 5, 2014
Noruwei no mori (Norwegian Wood)
A poetically crafted romantically frayed conversationally reflexive vibrato, wherein loyalty and trust intellectually intermingle with opportunity's libido, eternal springs caressing the depressed, spirited infatuation inquisitively cascading, limitless potential blossoming in flux, the radiance of rapture, sorrow's devastation, Tran Anh Hung's Noruwei no mori (Norwegian Wood) sees young adults exploring the logistics of desire, fervidly fletched with nature's aromatic ineffability, like poignant, durable, pirouettes.
Exceptionally well-written characters enhanced via situational rationality and environmental temperamentality, exclaim raw spiritual secular synergies, and a defined sense of purpose, strengthened through relational ambiguities.
Some of the most beautiful moments I've seen in a film recently, Toru (Ken'ichi Matsuyama) and Naoko (Rinko Kikuchi) romancing on a windy day in the countryside, an impromptu performance of the titular Beatles's song (one of my favourites), Proust's Captive condensed into a short much less comic rendition of suffering, every scene featuring Midori (Kiko Mizuhara), the seasons changing, a waterfall.
Hyper-reactive withdrawn contemplative driven supportive devotion.
Amorphous amorous schematics.
Billowing wisps encrust.
Integrated imagination.
Substantial.
Exceptionally well-written characters enhanced via situational rationality and environmental temperamentality, exclaim raw spiritual secular synergies, and a defined sense of purpose, strengthened through relational ambiguities.
Some of the most beautiful moments I've seen in a film recently, Toru (Ken'ichi Matsuyama) and Naoko (Rinko Kikuchi) romancing on a windy day in the countryside, an impromptu performance of the titular Beatles's song (one of my favourites), Proust's Captive condensed into a short much less comic rendition of suffering, every scene featuring Midori (Kiko Mizuhara), the seasons changing, a waterfall.
Hyper-reactive withdrawn contemplative driven supportive devotion.
Amorphous amorous schematics.
Billowing wisps encrust.
Integrated imagination.
Substantial.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Shame
Consumed and dominated by uncontrollable sexual desires which demand constant strategic salacious improvisations, Brandon Sullivan's (Michael Fassbender) unquenchable thirst for carnal pleasures is disproportionately interrupted by a visit from his little sister (Carey Mulligan as Sissy Sullivan).
Who, as it turns out, has no where else to go.
His private carnivalesque prurient pursuits must now adjust themselves to the potential impact of familial judgment and the threat of patronizing restraint. As it becomes clear that Sissy's economic circumstances are by no means self-sufficient, the resultant limitations psychologically materialize a contemptuous backlash which leads to a breakdown in their sustainable relations.
And a resurgent unfettered libidinous conflagration.
Shame works as an emotionless stark rigid character study which sociologically examines localized affects of satyriasis. Michael Fassbender's focused distant unattached self-absorbed performance seductively infuses Mr. Sullivan with a wantonly calculated individualistic purpose. Carey Mulligan's struggling confused desperate counterpoint functions as an effective curve.
Responsibilities bear their consequences in jolting destructive strikes whose unleashed immediate pressures instantaneously distill a sense of belonging.
Consequent reactions determine semantic interpretations incorporating previously manifested patterns built into historical socio-foundations established in relation to a kaleidoscopic point of view.
Director Steve McQueen's direct approach attempts to resist the interpretative labyrinth.
In so doing we're given the cold hard narrow unforgiving facts.
Which themselves impose additional limits on Brandon Sullivan's freedom.
Who, as it turns out, has no where else to go.
His private carnivalesque prurient pursuits must now adjust themselves to the potential impact of familial judgment and the threat of patronizing restraint. As it becomes clear that Sissy's economic circumstances are by no means self-sufficient, the resultant limitations psychologically materialize a contemptuous backlash which leads to a breakdown in their sustainable relations.
And a resurgent unfettered libidinous conflagration.
Shame works as an emotionless stark rigid character study which sociologically examines localized affects of satyriasis. Michael Fassbender's focused distant unattached self-absorbed performance seductively infuses Mr. Sullivan with a wantonly calculated individualistic purpose. Carey Mulligan's struggling confused desperate counterpoint functions as an effective curve.
Responsibilities bear their consequences in jolting destructive strikes whose unleashed immediate pressures instantaneously distill a sense of belonging.
Consequent reactions determine semantic interpretations incorporating previously manifested patterns built into historical socio-foundations established in relation to a kaleidoscopic point of view.
Director Steve McQueen's direct approach attempts to resist the interpretative labyrinth.
In so doing we're given the cold hard narrow unforgiving facts.
Which themselves impose additional limits on Brandon Sullivan's freedom.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Monsieur Lazhar
Immigrating. Searching for work. Adapting to the dynamics of your new surroundings. Quietly suffering from the trauma of your previous ones.
Philippe Falardeau's Monsieur Lazhar follows the activities of Bachir Lazhar (Mohamed Fellag) as he seeks refugee status in Montréal and finds a job teaching in an inner-city elementary school. Matters are complicated by the fact that he replaces a respected facilitator of learning who recently committed suicide in the classroom. His students are confused and shocked.
His antiquated teaching style doesn't placate things.
But his strict yet forgiving direct approach has its merits as he attempts to bring his students's pain out into the open. Simultaneously creating a cathartic outlet and an administrative backlash, he boldly proceeds while negotiating the consequences.
With neither teaching degree nor classroom experience.
His traditional signs and points of reference have been displaced, transformed and differentiated, yet his wit remains intact, enabling him to manufacture structured cultural resources through the process of active creativity.
Which facilitate his socio-economic recovery.
Flexibly managing the viewpoints of the other while adopting components of their constructive criticisms to his professional and social practices leads to his modest integration.
Synthesizing divergent contents with similar forms systematically acculturates his multifaceted tenacity.
Because he gives a shit.
Philippe Falardeau's Monsieur Lazhar follows the activities of Bachir Lazhar (Mohamed Fellag) as he seeks refugee status in Montréal and finds a job teaching in an inner-city elementary school. Matters are complicated by the fact that he replaces a respected facilitator of learning who recently committed suicide in the classroom. His students are confused and shocked.
His antiquated teaching style doesn't placate things.
But his strict yet forgiving direct approach has its merits as he attempts to bring his students's pain out into the open. Simultaneously creating a cathartic outlet and an administrative backlash, he boldly proceeds while negotiating the consequences.
With neither teaching degree nor classroom experience.
His traditional signs and points of reference have been displaced, transformed and differentiated, yet his wit remains intact, enabling him to manufacture structured cultural resources through the process of active creativity.
Which facilitate his socio-economic recovery.
Flexibly managing the viewpoints of the other while adopting components of their constructive criticisms to his professional and social practices leads to his modest integration.
Synthesizing divergent contents with similar forms systematically acculturates his multifaceted tenacity.
Because he gives a shit.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
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.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Hot Tub Time Machine
Was looking forward to taking a dip in Steve Pink's Hot Tub Time Machine but found it's waters far to tepid. It's fun watching three old friends reinvestigating their youth back in time at their favourite ski resort, but I never developed a bond with any of the characters, felt its crude emphasis was often nasty, couldn't get into most of the "reliving their youth with a 21st century twist" bits, and patiently waited for a montage that never came. At the same time, watching John Cusack (Adam) get ridiculously wasted on multiple substances while pining for a lost love was funny, the humour's dry yet over the top like a well mixed self-aware chocolate martini (so self-aware it's aware that being self-aware is becoming cliché unless you conceal your self-awareness), going back to the 80s for a romp including John Elway's famous Drive caught my attention, and it was nice to see Crispin Glover (Phil) heroically stealing scenes. My "make-it-or-break-it" Hot Tub Time Machine factors came down to Chevy Chase and the dynamics of time travel. I often like integral non-sequiturs and the ways in which they complicate things, but I couldn't help being annoyed by the repair man's babble and the fact that he didn't simply lay things out like Back to the Future's Doctor Emmett Brown. The answers were probably there, cleverly encoded with idioms and innuendo, but I found them as confusing as Adam's accidentally-along-for-the-ride-nephew, Jacob (Clark Duke), and potentially will never see their mysteries revealed (something deeper than the forbidden substance found in the Russian red bull). Unless in twenty years I travel back in time and have to see Hot Tub Time Machine again in order to maintain the integrity of the space/time continuum. If that happens, I'll search for the hidden meaning while making sure to hit the gym and eat solidified carbohydrates.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Seven Pounds
Seven Pounds is a touching examination of the human condition. Gabriele Muccino's text speeds things up and then flattens them out in order to capture the tenderly mysterious movements of a couple falling in love. It's a film about loss as much as it is about sacrifice and Ben Thomas (Will Smith) does his best to make the most of a dire situation. Both tragic and romantic (with Woody Harrelson demonstrating unprecedented emotional depth), Seven Pounds isolates an excruciatingly painful kernel of life and gently transmits it from dimension to another.
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