The Earthling

A curious youngster who's been raised in California finds himself back in Australia visiting the Outback, his Aussie dad resolutely determined to introduce him to his heritage.

But he's not ready for the immersion and shows hesitation when boldly tasked, his father realizing it will take some time to get him used to the verdant zone.

Meanwhile, a cranky elder vigorously returns to the old haunting grounds, dying of cancer he hopes to make it resourcefully back to his old homestead.

He's a freakin' tough mofo who built his house out of rocks from the forest, with his bare hands well far away from road or industry or helping hand.

The young boy's parents begin to squabble on the top of a massive cliff, and as he searches for ample firewood their camper flies off, death awaiting below.

He's crestfallen and patiently waits for his mom and dad to emerge from the wreckage, myriad animals making the night seem rather frightening as it descends.

He's soon discovered by the grouchy man who shows no sympathy when they meet.

And introduces an no-nonsense regimen designed to teach him wilderness survival.

The Earthling's from a different time when Man's Men featured more prominently in film, not that they don't still today I just can't imagine a new film that's this insensitive. 

The poor kid has just lost his parents and at one point his cantankerous saviour, leaves him alone on an imposing cliff face while a pack of wild dogs bite at his feet below.

In classic hardboiled fashion everything's find and they're friends at the end, the young child who once feared going swimming in mountain pools now ready to catch wild birds and wallabies.

I imagine it was stubbornly made in the bountiful wake of ye olde Storm Boy, with which it jams to the hard-edged sounds of deafening clashing bleak death metal.

The child in Storm Boy having been judged to have comfortably had too much of the good life, he of Earthling is obstinately taught to fend for himself hours after his parents die.

The wildlife shots are amazing many different Australian animals shown, from echidnas to koalas to emus there's a cute-cuddly feast for the loving romantic.

Indigenous wisdom is shared and relied upon as they diligently make their way through the bush as well.

Extremely unsympathetic.

With a ton of cool shots from the Outback. 

Jalsaghar (The Music Room)

Traditional techno prestigious glamour entrenched nobility inalienable birthright, delicately maintaining vast ancient customs once thoroughly sought to uphold righteous honour.

The royal in question elaborately ensconced within his palatial discreet colossus, known for entertaining and leisure and horseplay as were his forefathers so much of his kin.

But times change, new ideas and philosophies begin to prosper throughout the land, and new markets new ways to earn money latently tempt inherent ambitions.

As the economy undergoes transformation and the nouveau riche seek respect and authority, the ocean encroaches upon his old lands and leaves him with no means to take in revenue.

Dispiritingly, his wife and only son travel by water to rendez-vous with her family, tragically suffering a moribund fate when caught in a hurricane on their way home.

Left with no rightful heir and too uptight and proud to start over again, he settles into a depressed routine which sees no income or family or friend.

The world erupting in kitschy novelty borderline insouciant bewitching pandemonium. 

He embraces the passing of the years.

Rarely emerging from his elegant den.

There must be an arthouse tradition imaginatively awaiting curious enthusiasts, who aren't as interested in Bollywood's sensation but still directly crave tactile Indian genius. 

Jalsaghar (The Music Room) seductively showcasing the despondent struggle of a political system, as those who can't adapt to the newfound democracy suffer in silence while their wealth slowly fades.

But more than that, if ever there was a relevant film to challenge boredom and decay, Satyajit Ray's cataclysmic masterpiece indirectly applauds diversification.

The industrious Dutch have held back the sea for such a long time their techniques transmissible, had the aging royal simply adopted them he may have kept his people on the land.

Perhaps due to obsessive bearings he never became aware of such maritime difference, but had he focused intently on generating an income, and hired innovative people accordingly, he likely would have continued to profit from his holdings, and never would have had to sell his sacred possessions.

Thus, beware the sedentary life should you find yourself enamoured with rest and relaxation.

As the saying goes, don't rest on your laurels.

Notably if so many rely on your industry.

Un 32 août sur terre (August 32nd on Earth)

A near death experience regenerates instincts to daringly embark on the path of motherhood, a coveted model having barely survived after falling asleep at the treacherous wheel (Pascale Bussières as Simone). 

To suddenly go about the definitive business of engaging in acts which will lead to pregnancy, she relies on the dedication of a trusted friend who has been obsessed for many a year (Alexis Martin as Philippe).

He's somewhat uncertain as to how to proceed and his closest friend recommends refusal, yet even though he's found a new loving partner, he maddeningly can't find the guts to say no.

So it's off to peaceful Utah to accomplish the deed in the heralded salt flats, but they're unable to rent a car and must depend on a suspicious cab driver.

Unfortunately, the offbeat romantic isolation fails to inspire spry animate parlay, the shocking nature of the surprise interconnection leaving studious Philippe shaken not stirred.

The cab driver returns and ups the price, they refuse to pay and are left in the wild.

With nothing but time on their hands.

Incarnate impromptu fascination.

An unorthodox take on romantic true love clad in crazed cheeky carbonite crucible, habitual discussions regarding procreation generally absconded in abstentia.

What lengths will anyone go to if their compulsive daydreaming miraculously matriculates, and a conducive schematic instantaneously materializes out of thin air ze reified rapscallion?

'Tis a tantamount tale for romantic young adults perhaps too prone to radical reverie, highly charged through amorous immediacy the inherent amusement disenchanting fact.

Although to engage in random speculation, I would wager that at least 60% of newborns emerge by accident, and that such an off-putting yet versatile possibility keeps the gene pool rich in non-determination. 

So many thoughtful reasonable people sterilize particularity through prudent planning, and even though they resonate lucidity, lack the wild random vivacities of life.

Do these vivacities produce more novelty than steady reflection and scientific trial and error, I've never heard anyone who lives that way complain, in fact pointing out discrepancies is anathema. 

But why worry about what might have been?, it serves no useful productive purpose.

The present is much more interesting. 

Just have to stay constructively active. 

L'Incroyable histoire du facteur Cheval

Purpose can be difficult to clarify.

Lots of actions seem reasonable enough, in terms of achieving or working towards short or long term goals, but repetition leads to logical flux, classifications of the indeterminate, and what once seemed spiritually sound, can lose its lustre if not reimagined.

Rediscovered.

If you ever find yourself sincerely bragging about something you found easy to do the first time, weeks or months or years later, it's perhaps time to find a new job, or spice up a relationship, such circumstances emerging in middle-age sometimes, which seems to go on forever and ever, and doesn't really change much overnight, unless someone's preparing bruschetta or enchiladas.

Things seem easier for this deer fly that just bit the bottom of my foot.

It's nourished itself on my lifeblood, and one would think, is about to digest the nutrients.

And it's hanging around.

It wants more.

I am now irritated and riled so I'm shooing more regularly, but even with the excessive shooing it returns, just dodges and lunges forward, perhaps seeking to limitlessly gorge him or herself to reckless epic proportions, as if my blood were an everlasting boon, and he or she was saturated with vampiric integrity.

It's bitten my ring toe too, the most useless of my toes, which has now found purpose, for it desperately desires eager scratching, I've noticed it for the first time since I last cut my toenails, and can honestly say that it's itchier than my other toes, it stands out indeed, like uninspired graffiti in an abandoned factory, that perhaps once produced socks, shoes, or bug spray, none of which adorned my foot before the lasting bites, which I must admit, are greatly disturbing the writing of this paragraph, I'm now itching with moss, rocks and nails.

Fingernails.

The deer fly just landed on my finger as I checked the time on my phone.

It won't relent and proceeds insatiably.

I cover myself in spray.

Remember why I had kayaked to this slab.

Joseph Ferdinand-Cheval (Jacques Gamblin) didn't have time for such distractions.

Was much more focused and driven.

L'Incroyable histoire du facteur Cheval chronicles how he slowly built a palace of rocks beside his home, for decades in his spare time, never wavering from his eccentric commitment, which was oft judged odd by curious surrounding townsfolk.

Tragedy strikes on several occasions yet he perseveres with herculean intensity, defining meaning through random exploration, purpose through awkward planning.

He never really says much, and when he speaks his words aren't that well chosen.

But he slowly learns it's important to say something, and not to worry about semantic injunctions, that a lot of people just like shootin' the breeze, and there's purpose in light conversation.

It complements the palace building.

Which proceeds with inspirational resolve.

Remarkably adept dedication.

A cool family film smoothly bringing it to life.

Nice.

Wolfe

Summations surmised in shock smothered sick suffering scorn.

Pronounced pertinent enriched bewilderment interrogative analytics revelations inconclusive.

Serial addendums.

Emotions recollected quixotic exhilaration scarlet iris peerless pathways authentic articles embraced innate pandemonium.

Mutual affection tempestuously tantalized whispers whirlwinds bliss.

Substitutions recitals realignments electrolysis solutes snickers flow, spastic momentum definitive increments narratively isolating cloyed vignettes.

Fortunes resentments antecedents exclamations.

An artist observing amongst them.

Discerning apt poetic reflections in pitched photogenic verse.

Much younger ignored pushed aside.

Still generating pith, catharsis.

Still secreting verdant environs.

Friends struggle to understand why a confidant takes her own life as an outsider questions them in Francis Bordeleau's Wolfe.

It unreels like less of a search for meaning than an attempt to obscure guilt.

It's like there was significance but they couldn't comprehend it and in a tragic attempt to provoke lucidity everything became much less clear.

Until an individual possessing true feeling honestly presented unabashed sincerity.

Wolfe subtly criticizes instinctual unreflective existence through experimental elucidation.

Unable to find resolutions, it suggests a lack of purpose can be overcome through artistic witness.

The violence the artist faces in the beginning fades as he befriends the two spirits also affected by its presumption.

A less depressing film might have solely focused on the good times, celebrating carefree creative progression as opposed to stark misfortune.

Presenting sundry outputs from local artists within.

Like a xylophone.

A soundboard.

A rainforest.

A café.