Fisherman's Friends

Daily life twists and turns much as it always has in a small Cornish town, the local inhabitants full of stern comment bluntly mixed with jocose observation.

Not much has changed in recent centuries concerning work and the steadfast tide, the sea continuing to provide spry livelihoods for those rich in oceanic endeavour.

Record industry reps show up for a jaunt in the afternoon one sunshiny day, their activities irritating the townsfolk after they necessitate search and rescue.

But true to form they keep an ear open and discover an old school sound, fisherpeeps revitalizing age old melodies in newfound vibrant distinct bounds.

One remains after the lads depart to see if they're interested in a record deal, the singers responding with cheeky discord as he makes his lively pitch.

They're not to be won over swiftly so he must prove himself at sea, departing with them shortly thereafter bona fide recruitment pleas.

But his friends are having a laugh and don't intend to sign the band, which ruffles his feisty feathers since they've agreed to chant offhand.

He decides to go it alone and find another label who might like their sound.

Falling for village life. 

And a suspicious homegrown belle (Tuppence Middleton as Alwyn).

Fisherman's Friends celebrates traditional valour with bucolic pluck and sombre tenacity, the unwritten integrity of the spoken word as dearly vital as brave responsibility.

As brave as voting for Biden in Texas.

It's clear what will happen from the outset but that's entirely keeping with form, since a degree of predictability is to be expected from ancient scores.

A strong filmscape doesn't only include the wondrous novelties of the avant-garde, since democracy takes into account multivariable vast divergence.

It's not up to one or the other to uniformly evoke taste or style, since democracy is inherently diverse and such diversity upholds tradition.

Tradition itself isn't always as concrete as proponents would have you believe, libraries home to exceptional repositories of historical change and off-kilter mutation.

I imagine many people have traditions which they hold dear, and would change others posthaste if given the chance, the corresponding multifaceted dialectic robust with intrigue and grave indignation.

Ye olde tradition was once likely novel or as innovative as Zoom or the Dodo.

Biden himself is rich in tradition.

And clearly innovates with old school integrity.  

The Lighthouse

Strict definitions classifying purpose, semantic utility assessed disfavour, forlorn yet productive acclimatized assertions, grim dismal chortling lugubrity, solar solace sequestered soliloquy, new days dawning in spectral quotes, quibbles quays seaside haze interrogative, must abide, attuned dactyl duties, caught up unaware, latent anger irascible breeze, Unicron scribbled courtly disclosure, endemic disputes surveyed frayed delirium, albeit the shock teeter totters and sways, as incumbent reason fritters away, the boundaries dividing labours concoct, dependable shaved categorical flocks.

Uplifted.

Upheld.

Within Robert Eggers's The Lighthouse.

Wherein legend and superstition frenetically fuze, with old school and ancient praised biblical dues, no comment no quarter no quarry no flight, just master and slave excavating the night.

A friend. A drinking buddy. Not so shy. Not so supple.

Who creates the casts and codes and who then seeks authoritative clarification?

To yield invokes oblivion.

To provoke kindles madness.

Yield provoke, yield provoke, yield provoke, yield provoke.

Resigned inarticulate fever promulgating brands upon brains, the dreamlike hierarchical breakdown dishevelled unfathomed treatise, stately astute confined delineations ill-prepared for potent protest, reproachful uninspired lamentation ill-equipped to lead to follow.

The film locks you down in sombre isolation, presents setting and character, inaugurates daily routine.

But how well can a film with only 2 characters tightly hold itself together for 109 minutes?

It starts off bored, slowly becomes more bleak, then increasingly dire, before settling for full-on nutso.

Fortunately time and care were taken with this one; I'm wondering if there'll be Oscar nominations?

Willem Dafoe is outstanding.

It's tough to tear yourself away, immersed in fog and storm, distressing syntheses hemorrhaging detail.

Like Lucy in the Sky, it sides with the straight and narrow, not without critiquing caprice, or hauntingly assailing rule.

Should have never touched a drop.

Should have kept it real notwithstanding.

A tragedy if you consider how easy it must have been.

To just not be a dick.

Relax.

Extrinsically.

*What's with the details? They give everything away.

Black Death (Fantasia Fest 2010)

The year is 1348. A plague is ravaging England and it is unknown whether or not it has been cast by God or Satan. Religious theories abound and moral avengers seek out necromancers to curtail their moribund pursuits. Enter a young monk searching for divine revelation to guide him on the just path (Eddie Redmayne as Osmund). A sign is granted and he sets out on a journey to cleanse a village of heathens while trying to maintain a relationship with his beloved Averill (Kimberley Nixon). Ulric (Sean Bean) and his band of mercenaries are grateful for his guidance as they brazenly traverse the countryside acting in a Bishop's name.

Christopher Smith's Black Death is an intelligent gothic horror film which presents sober and realistically fantastical reflections concerning medieval subject matter from a wide variety of angles (Smith showed up and answered questions at the Fantasia Fest screening which was nice). Rigorously researched by screenwriter Dario Poloni and shot in Eastern Germany, Black Death demonstrates that the division between spiritual inspiration and quotidian realizations can be maddening to say the least, and as heroes come of age they can oddly cast their mettle in stone. Both sides of the spectrum are treated to an ambivalently therapeutic analysis while confidently presenting their positions, and beautiful witch Langiva (Carice van Houten) is tantalizing if not infuriating. Definitely an engaging representative of horror, Black Death subtly illustrates its motivations while directly enlivening their inspirations.

The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus

Intermixing fate, superstition, religion, individuality, gambling, dreams, ethics, history, economics, showmanship, temptation, Terry Gilliam's The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus provides a phantasmagorical panoramic synthesis of parapsychological proportions. A religious guru (Christopher Plummer) makes deal after deal with the devil (Mr. Nick played by Tom Waits) only to fall further and further into his demonic clutches. When we first meet the immortal Doctor Parnassus, his daughter Valentina (Lily Cole) is days away from becoming the exclusive property of Satan, and, due to his lacklustre antiquated bush-league performance values, the Doctor has no hope of reversing her fate. But shortly thereafter, his travelling troupe discovers a man hanging from a bridge (Heath Ledger as Tony), and, after saving his life, benefit commercially and ontologically from his gifted oratorical skills. So a new wager must be made which the Prince of Darkness generously conceives, the first one to capture 5 souls receiving sole access to Valentina's future, souls being captured after they enter Doctor Parnassus's Imaginarium, which is the Doctor's imagination physically manifested, the dimensions of which are cultivated according to the imagination of whomever happens to enter (the souls have to decide whether to travel the high or low road within, those flying high becoming the Doctor's possession, those not, Satan's). As Valentina falls for Tony, and Tony's credibility deconstructs itself, Anton (Andrew Garfield) falls by the wayside, and the Doctor must come to terms with immortality. The past and the future then destructively present themselves without recourse to binary oppositions or stable, enduring dispositions. One part romance, two parts tragedy, three parts reality, four parts fantasy, The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus competently delegates intergenerational gesticulations, while mysteriously emphasizing transcendental transmutations. Plus two.

Puffball

Oldschool director Nicolas Roeg's new film Puffball presents a supernatural encounter with down home country living. Liffey (Kelly Reilly) has purchased a cottage in the British countryside. She is a professional architect and hopes to transform her new dwelling into a stunning home. But along the way, partner Richard (Oscar Pearce) impregnates her, which becomes confusing after she sleeps with neighbour Tucker (William Houston). Tucker's wife Mabs (Miranda Richardson) has been trying to have a baby with no luck. Mabs's mother has been trying to encourage her fertility by using a number of superstitious potions, with no success, leaving them to believe that the potion worked on Liffey by accident. As time passes, tension builds and only a guardian angel can ward off the demons.

Puffball's certainly not on par with Roeg's earlier work (Performance, The Man Who Fell to Earth), but its creepy alienated sensibility is well crafted. Throughout, Roeg explores themes of individuality, aging, birth, regeneration, revenge, and fidelity contextualized within a supernatural frame. And there's puffballs. I really don't know what's going on with the puffballs.

Puffball certainly doesn't leave you feeling warm and fuzzy, or even mildly upbeat, but the characters are strong, the text multilayered, the red herrings salty, and the vision uniform. Great for the third day of rain or after an early 1980's Roger Waters marathon.