Sing

I always marvel at how tolerant my parents were regarding my singing when I was younger.

Before I learned to just take it easy and productively chill out when performing, I used to take on elevated subject matter, and my poor father had to listen as I bellowed Life on Mars? on the family piano, yet he still never let loose his irate criticisms, and let things take their natural course.

Sing gathers the harmonically gifted from a modest lively urban centre, and fortuitously unites them in passionate song, the reputed prize worth $100,000.

Unfortunately, the prize was a typo that greatly exaggerated the MC's income, but the lofty sum still motivated many, and a solid crew was melodiously assembled.

It must be the case the far reaching talent obliviously chillin' in so many towns, just waiting for similar opportunities to feverishly break out with elaborate invention.

Obsessions with being the best or not simply as good as a friend or relative, prevent so many from pragmatically proceeding as if there ever was an artistic superlative.

If you don't think you're the greatest singer or you needlessly worry how your words will sound, note that the most consistent songwriter in legendary memory won the Nobel Prize and he couldn't even sing.

American Idol is no doubt well-known for giving a shot to inspired local talent, and creating a vast incredible network of aspiring singers across the land.

But are local garage bands still seeking to frenetically emerge ultra summa cum laude, or just exist in the embryonic ether everlastingly invigorating rhythmic liaison?

Dylan, Bowie, The Beatles, and The Rolling Stones seemed to me like they worked like it was their job to write song after song, and didn't just lounge about on the old trust fund seeking performative disruptive accolades. 

You get that rush outside of your comfort zone that effortlessly produces irresistible novelty, and as you constructively/bitterly/imaginatively/proactively/distractedly/vituperatively react there's no all-encompassing parallel for what you come up with.

Liked Sing's city of animals and the collective beasties intuitively enthralling.

Dreams effervescently accruing. 

Multivariable shapeshifting cascades.  

Eighth Grade

What an awkward age.

Shifting random indeterminate interests inflexibly regarded with the highest esteem, indubitably, hormonal fascinations, incrementally saturating fleeting eternal embraces with desire beyond expression, tantalizingly long for receptive semantic clarifications, lifelong emancipating/bewildering psychological points of reference in/judiciously establishing personalized sociological precedents, timid ostentation (class clowning) and flamboyant restraint (mystery) spontaneously mingling within structured boundaries, as rapid forward movements, fluidically conceptualize partout.

In Eighth Grade.

Kayla (Elsie Fisher) is a curious reticent contemplative eighth grader who reflects upon adolescent life online at night to try and overcome habitual daytime shyness.

She's a wonderful kid full of love and compassion who feels the pressure to act as if she's aged even though she clearly hasn't.

Awards given out at the end of the school year to the shyest individuals don't build-up her self-esteem, however, and her concerned confused father (Josh Hamilton as Mark Day) can't find a way to help her feel more at ease.

Possessing a logical nature, simply acting instinctually doesn't meld with her reasonable insights.

Self-obsessed boys do little to nurture a sense of genuine belonging consequently, one in particular representing a desperately loathsome approach to amorous interpersonal relations.

Another isn't much less vulgar.

Although Gabe (Jake Ryan) makes a pretty cool match.

Bo Burnham's Eighth Grade takes a comprehensive look at adolescence in flux which hauntingly approaches the dark side without obscuring lighter reflections.

A well-rounded articulate guide for both shy youths searching for ways to express themselves and worried parents trying to understand why their growing children have suddenly become so detached, it presents situations plausible enough to be qualified realistic, which leave you feeling sincerely invested with the knowledge that hope still abounds.

An empathetic film that doesn't hesitate to consider shocking unanticipated theories, it engineers a heartfelt current and doesn't dam up its inquisitive ebb and flow.

Heuristically exploring sought after challenging discoveries while still presenting tender innocent speculation, it doesn't worry too much about growing up in the end, which is why I suspect it'll never grow old.

Maintaining strong bonds with your parents throughout high school is an admirable thing if you can, sharing your thoughts and emotions with them as often as possible, even if that's totally uncool.

Maybe not all your thoughts.

Great film.

The Secret Life of Walter Mitty

Monumental shifting shocks born on the strings of unexplored imaginary rifts, celestial seasoning, rhizomatic reveries, driven by the emergence of an affective resonance, accelerated paramount experiential zeitgeists, their heights represented by the pursuit of the elusive snow leopard within the Himalayas, upon which Walter Mitty (Ben Stiller) meets the legendary Sean O'Connell (Sean Penn), whose carefree incomparable precision counters Ted Hendricks's (Adam Scott) callous downsizing, impromptu communal exercise, a spirited abounding break.

This is more than just a journey of discovery.

It's a sudden apprehensive full-throttle embarkation, synthesizing the subjective, the romantic, the practical, and the abstract in a hesitantly audacious leap of faith in oneself, the amorous tenacious logic of risk, a quasi-archivist in search of a lost record, love, adventure.

The excursion assists in the development of his eHarmony profile.

Individualistic styles contrast corporate bottom-lines through the art of naturalistic photographic bewilderment, patiently awaiting the arrival of a highly sought after enigmatic boon, having meticulously yet not fastidiously set-up the shot, while remaining somewhat aloof, interruptions noted but welcome, the evidence secondary to the ensconcement, a mature modest chime hallowing the apprenticeship of bliss.

And freedom.

For a windswept mellow-set Béla Flecked rougir.

Loved the discussion of Bowie's Space Oddity.