The Cobbler

The honest excelling hardworking days routinely passing without deviation, vital know-how and requisite skill generating consistent reliable business.

A modest son taking care of the fam after the sudden disappearance of his father, mom resigned yet persistently hopeful that one startling day he'll lovingly return.

The old school neighbourhood traditional and lively characteristically existing as it has for many years, local citizens daring and politically active in the stalwart fight against gentrification.

Things proceed the days pass by difference is found in random conversations, with a wide variety of inquisitive clients who on occasion discuss things at length.

Their shoes as well the various designs some intricate fashions or dependable customs, so many lying about in his shop at the somewhat dull end of a typical day.

Until one day his sewing machine rebelliously decides to stubbornly break down.

Leading him to use an old model from the basement.

With wild unknown imaginary features. 

It's a bit far-fetched this world weary Cobbler although it's still well-suited to the heroic times, not as flashy or bedazzling as Marvel or D.C but so much more appealing in the gentle undertow. 

The protagonist isn't a crazy rich genius with unlimited resources at his or her disposal, nor a gifted scientist creatively experimenting with research grants which lavishly facilitate, he's rather a regular humble Joe who genuinely cares about work and family, and even comes around to loving his neighbourhood and his shop's old school place ensconced within it.

He is uncertain as to how to proceed after accidentally discovering the miraculous tool, and engages in spirited trial and error with comic results before taking things seriously.

Indeed he cleverly takes the unsung side of an elderly resident who wants to keep his apartment, and is able to strategically embrace multi-step planning in complex resilient underground economics.

It's cool to see the little guy stand up and industriously help out the people in his community.

It's more organic, not a $60 dollar cheque.

Strong local initiatives. 

Beyond oligarch power.

Crimes of the Future

As the ubiquitous commodified presence of pepped-up plastics and frenetic fossil fuels, begin to osmotically transform incumbent biological organisms, mutations matriculately metastasize and preponderantly promulgate across the land, the macabre growth of peculiar novelties transitionally emergent through stressed out synthesis.

Is it as farfetched as it sounds could we gradually adapt to consume plastic, to find sustaining fulfilling nourishment within the manifold products created thus?

I figured we wouldn't adapt and microplastics and forever chemicals would produce widespread woe, the former too tiny and omnipresent the latter too eternally carcinogenic. 

But life is consistently resilient as trees growing on outcrops reliably demonstrate, or the ways in which South American jungles have consumed ancient towns, the fact that fish continuously evolve. 

When I was young, and I considered pollution it seemed like waterways were under serious threat, especially considering how much sewage winds-up in rivers and oceans, it's a big time issue, sustainably speaking.

But even in those polluted waters we still find many resident fish, who somehow still live immersed in destructive chemicals, how do they do that?, how do they survive?

The perseverance of these fish lends credence to Crimes of the Future, and its endemic evolutionary theory that we'll one day live off plastic.

As we slowly mutate, new organs will spontaneously develop within our virulent bodies, to be registered by a curious government meticulously concerned with classified engagement.

Perhaps performance artists would indeed show off their newfound growths, in enigmatic underground showcases composédly cataloguing piecemeal evolution.

It's classic Cronenberg the reemergence of the Master still proving he can convincingly perplex 50 years later, many horror films have a short shelf life but his work from the '70s and '80s still seriously impresses.

Fittingly, it's difficult to know if the film's intended to be taken seriously, or exists solely to kerfuffle while provoking opaque comic registry.

Classic ambiguity conglomerately clasped in distinct dialogues convolutedly conversing, the characters consistently lying to one another, lucidly opposed unconcerned cross-purposes. 

Of course animosity manifests between old school humans and the emergent mutants, which makes for startling solemnities through eclectic interactive discomfort.

Kristan Stewart really impresses I had no idea she could perform that well, Cronenberg really brings out the best in her, the acting's good all around but she stands out.

Irrelevantly, I'll bear in mind this scenario as long as fish continue to swim.

Hope future generations don't adapt to eat plastic.

That sounds much worse than bugs.  

City Heat

Old friends convivially concerned with awkward jurisprudent balance, searching for ways to creatively uphold loyal dis/continuous partnership.

They started out on the force together courageously seeking intuitive accolades, in possession of tenacious temperaments objectively nuanced with novel bravado.

One eventually couldn't cope with the structure the preponderant rules and regulations however, and sought to manage his own private business investigating peculiarities for discreet clients (Burt Reynolds as Mike Murphy). 

The other remained with the force and reached the rank of lieutenant through toil and sacrifice, preferring to work alone on his cases, flying into a rage if you knock over his coffee (Clint Eastwood as Lt. Speer). 

Murphy's new partner one Dehl Swift (Richard Roundtree) suddenly finds himself provocatively endowed, when the ledger of a prominent crook finds its way into his audacious hands.

It's a serious gamble to brashly infuriate such an unpredictable extreme personage, without much planning or an intricate network through which to find quarter should things go awry.

Things quickly do go awry and the confused Murphy is left to pick up the pieces. 

Worried about his friend, Lt. Speer closely monitors.

As things descend into embittered entropy.

Putting the squeeze on anger-prone higher-ups always seemed rather inconvenient to me, not worth the potential fall out should inherent irascibility hit the fan.

You'd have to move fast with no trail regardless and leave behind your old life forever, and make sure not to spend the entire payload since finding a new job may encourage shocking questions.

You'd have to keep your stories straight with multiple strangers for many a year, I suppose a lot of people don't really care, but some keep pressing for coherent detail.

I imagine City Heat was widely anticipated by sundry Eastwood, Reynolds and Roundtree fans, and at the time was like a prize fight between Ali and Foreman sponsored by King. 

The music's a lot of fun and the atmosphere captures the noir aesthetic, some of the lines are really cool too and delivered with classic sarcastic wherewithal. 

I imagine excitement got the better of them, with a bit more time and care this may have been classic.

Still definitely worth checking out for curious fans and noir devotees. 

*Co-starring Jack Nance (Aram Strossell), Robert Davi (Nino), William Sanderson (Lonnie Ash), and Rip Torn (Primo Pitt). 

Night after Night

Having achieved everything he could have hoped for from his prestigious local nightclub, a determined renaissance gangster seeks to improve his diction and grammar (George Raft as Joe Anton).

He's had enough of the high-life and wants to sell and settle-down, while perhaps impressing an elegant socialite who frequents his club from time to time (Constance Cummings as Miss Jerry Healy). 

His headstrong critical MC presents well-reasoned practical counterpoints (Roscoe Karns as Leo), with ambitious crafty reckoning which seeks not to retire.

He's rather down to earth and not inclined to embrace change, unless it corresponds to how he's been duly raised.

Trouble comes a' brewin' a potential clash with a rival gang, if they decide to stay in business they'll have to find ways to paunch and placate.

While light of heart romantic daydreaming keeps the mood upbeat and comic, as if nothing could ever go wrong while everything crashes down around them.

The fair-minded touch and ironic innocence distinguishes Night after Night from Godfather III, and many other gangster films which recklessly embrace chaotic pedagogy.

Perhaps love can win out in the end as competing interests jive and juke, the daring couple courageously coaxing wholesome pasteurized down home subsistence.

It's easy to suddenly give up what you never had in the first place, but how do you switch from constant activity to a much more sedate way of life?

In your athletic prime at the communal heights of your insurgence, how do you leave everything behind to emphatically embrace holistic chillin'?

The pandemic gave a crash course in blatant dull nerve-racking meaninglessness, where the majority of the world had to embrace stasis like a misanthropic maelstrom.

Day after day distressing thoughts intensifying this could go on forever, bleak things were as they found a way to mischievously finagle mass conjecture.

Hopefully, while embracing lockdown many people adopted Mr. Raft's approach, and took the time to learn new things while creating song and tech and recipes.

Perhaps he was able to change and learn the rudiments of discursive intrigue, he certainly would have had a tale to tell ala Dashiell Hammett or even Joseph Conrad.

Perhaps she would have eased him through the difficult humbling light transition, with patience and resilient accord free-flowing effervescent livelihood.

The secret's to have animal sightings and to never indeed grow tired of them (I never will).

Perhaps even buying a dog or cat.

If possible, heading out on safari.

American Movie

The raw driven thrill of inspired independent film, chaotically coordinated lackadaisic laidback limbers.

Years of patient agile sure and steady accumulation, slowly taking fluid shape as patches pageants come to life ⛄.

Funding somewhat murky frenetic favours downcast debt, so much time having passed that latent doubts distract distend.

But undaunted brave creative will survives extends shoots forth, engaging adamant mutation festive fertile flexibility. 

Friends and family in support in varying degrees throughout the years, some prone to blunt dismissals, others grateful to take part.

No other option integrated multifarious febrile fortunes, indeterminate orchestration lively ritualistic passion.

I wish more people took the time to actively create in such a way, although there's certainly no shortage of homemade videos on the net.

But Coven's different it's a homemade film which genuinely applies individualistic techniques, to uncompromising storytelling free from marketed motivations.

Not that they weren't hoping to sell some copies and earn a little scratch, but they're not trying to fit a trend or join a movement or full-on capitalize. 

Its nascent steps like underground logistics reasonable existential acumen, confident enriching local community maestro marrowed mirth in motion.

Why not film the entire process year after year keep the camera rolling?, simultaneous narratives taking shape embossed emergence metamatriculation. 

No holding back compelling honesty bold and unconcerned developments, within which resides emancipation from so much scripted routine life.

With many friends and even more critics Mr. Borchardt pursues his grassroots vision, dealin' with a family of his own and difficult work at a nearby cemetery. 

And practically no income for years, sundry setbacks, animate tension, disapproval.

The will to strive on forth.

Incomparable stalwart artist.

A monumental cultural achievement to have so much room for so much variation.

Constitutional cross-purposes.

Irreconcilably rapt.

*Happy Thanksgiving!

The Long Good Friday

It's generally a trick, a feint, a grand complex scheme disingenuously designed, but if you've often experienced that kind of thing, you develop a sixth sense for the tell tale signs.

Harold (Bob Hoskins), on the other endowed hand, creatively blends with intuitive agency, his prosperous organization having smoothly flourished and kept the peace for 10 solid years.

Thus, when he comes home from a trip to outrageously find his peeps under attack, he needs to improvise with eclectic fortitude to expediently reveal the clandestine culprit.

You wonder how Obama did it, how he governed so smoothly for 8 steady years, remember back to a time much more peaceful when radical initiatives didn't rule the day. 

It wasn't that long ago, just somewhere around 6 volatile years, during which there's been an unpredictable focus, not to mention war, and a horrific pandemic.

The last 6 years have felt like 16 there's been so much tactical upheaval, so many mad disillusioning developments that challenge one's engrained trusting instincts. 

I don't want to be suspicious since it's much less pleasant and generally agreeable, but when so many things just don't add up, you inevitably create theoretical explanations. 

But if the current state of affairs seem reckless and your theoretical explanations even more so, cultural productivity may indeed be jeopardized if suddenly embraced, induced, disseminated.

But the bizarre and the hijinx-haywire seem to reemerge in the news every day, uncanny wild multidimensional mayhem recodifying mainstream matrices.

But it was only 6 years ago that you never would have thought we'd have worldwide carnage, or a viral plague destroying the middle class, or millions of people distrusting the world's leading electoral system.

I remember reading about radical tactics designed to make people stop paying attention (probably Chomsky), so it's important to stay in the loop even if it becomes increasingly distasteful. 

While remembering ye olde Obama.

And a peaceful world respectfully strung.

So much desire for the bland sensational.

Sweeping equivalencies, overlooked, effaced. 

Yajû no seishun (Youth of the Beast)

Incomparable daring resolution irradiating hard earned trust disdaining compromise, a freelance undercover policeperson infiltrates the yakuza in search of reckoning.

All he knows is that his friend has passed away under suspicious circumstances, said friend a man of upstanding character who would ne'er dwell on treacherous familiarities. 

He was of great assistance during a period of intense sorrow, and supplied financial aid beyond his means to facilitate nourishment and budgetary well-being.

The yakuza are rather impressed with his unparalleled hardcore finesse, and swiftly offer him what he wants and then provide ample chaotic bearing.

But since he's convinced this specific organization is solely responsible for his friend's death, he sells them out to their small-time rivals and gives them precise highly valued information.

Amidst the eye of the storm his good fortune the product of immaculate self-confidence, he continues to dig deeper and deeper as the high stakes dissonance devastatingly disturbs.

The seemingly impossible scenario hyperreactively progresses, from one potentially disastrous debacle to the next as the hardboiled liturgies illuminate.

No doubt inspiring superpowers or larger-than-life realistic resonance, Yajû no seishun (Youth of the Beast) magnetically mystifies incumbent undercover loci.

Joe Shishido (Jô Shishido) reacts with animate composure and sheer definitive wiry wherewithal, the latent clasped kinetic combat discursive diabolic delirium.

With so much impersonal disorganization generally lacking an effective rationale, it's no wonder the invincible improvised ingenious active cynosure reverberates.

It's well done so its incredibility contemporizes extant bravado, leading to renewed revered antitrusts and less monopolistic sentiment.

Without much legwork just shocking audacity the officer suddenly gets 'er done, while intuitively remodelling volatile non-traditional infrastructure. 

I'd have to say I liked it although its voltage shocks and certifies.

In the pursuit of honourable friendship.

Amidst pervasive perfidy. 

*Forgot to mention: the music in this film is outstanding!

Across 110th Street

*Warning: this film examines racism from a hardboiled perspective. Be prepared for unsettling language and situations if you happen to view it.

3 bold and foolish citizens decide to rip off the mob, after learning where it meets to count its money, leaving the daring heist with 100,000 apiece, thinking they'll elude detection, staying put in the very same neighbourhood.

The robbery turns into a murder which leads to police interest, thus the rash impromptu entrepreneurs are pursued by more than one well-financed antagonist.

Both groups have grievances to air as they investigate internally and beyond, a steady stream of eager vitriol accompanying conversation after conversation.

With all the conflicting strategical approaches its amazing that group dynamics are able to accomplish anything, aggrieved fluid practicalities confronting active hostile brawn.

What a feast for character development, however, as at least 8 from different walks have their say, as much care and attention adopted to craft the corrupt Captain's lines (Anthony Quinn) as those which define the gravest of suspects.

Many detective films discuss the achievement of results, the pressing desire to move forward with a case as investigators theorize anew.

Their theories at times lacking evidence which they seek by using violence, assuming the resultant coerced information isn't tampered by survival instinct.

Across 110th Street prefers the law and the rights of persons of interest being investigated, as the brilliant Yaphet Kotto defends liberal reforms while critiquing totalitarianism. 

Imagine random conversation, taken as absolute empirical fact, with only a scant cross-section of specific subjects deemed aesthetically appropriate. 

At work perhaps so much concerned intrigue fluently adapts.

But why should one be bound by classification?

Beyond one's working life?

Across 110th Street provocatively pulsates as three interconnected adversaries raise disputatious hell.

Versatile character development recalled the cinema of my youth.

Characters that aren't whitewashed success stories.

Raw determination wildly overflowing.

Key Largo

 *Spoiler alert.

An idyllic break far off in southern Florida, with fish to catch and an ocean to sit by things seem like they couldn't be better.

The bar is stocked, his hosts eager to see him, for he brings sought after news (Humphrey Bogart as Frank McCloud), of a son and a husband's final days in combat, they can rest easy, peace reassured. 

The hotel they've owned for quite some time has several additional guests, however, who have paid handsomely to be left alone and are none too fond of visitors.

Initial contact is rather abrupt the antagonism slowly but surely increasing, it's readily apparent that something disquieting has callously called and rascally roosted.

They were just hoping to quietly reside while they made their lucrative deal, having left the bright lights behind and travelled there by boat.

A hurricane approaches and the law keeps stopping by, in search of two escaped convicts who may be innocent of any crime.

Those visiting, those renting, those fleeing, those having lived there for many a year (Lauren Bacall as Nora Temple and Lionel Barrymore as James Temple), find themselves at the mercy of concurrent clashes socioculturally and torrentially bound.

The menace invariably metastasizes as Johnny Rocco (Edward G. Robinson) malevolently emerges, with enough time to exchange bits and pieces of fascinating troubled grandiose discord.

McCloud courageously counters with peaceful dreams inspired by World War II victory, Rocco testing his mettle forthwith, there's little McCloud can do in the foreboding fray.

Key Largo may be somewhat too blunt for fans of The Maltese Falcon, as the bellicose lack of subterfuge leaves little room for mystery.

If searching for frank exclamations boldly jettisoned with antiquated daring, Largo may prove rather sporting, nevertheless, if not too headstrong or overpowering.

Still saturated with humble belief multilaterally composed, competing psychological imaginations excavated from the same cultural bedrock.

A chaotic lament for guiltless freedom still wildly critiquing ethics duty bound, as dreams of a world reborn come to terms with extant realities.

Indigenous characters suffer in the background for they can't enter during the storm, and two of them are shot having done no wrong having taken refuge in a reputed sanctuary.

Duty does win out in the end and bucolic romance is bravely restored.

Not without having been assailed.

Competing beliefs, convergent ideologies. 

The Irishman

Great to see another fascinating Scorsese film, it takes you back to another time that cinema clearly hasn't forgotten, he's still got it, the skills that led him to success with Mean Streets 46 years ago, and has even improved on films like Casino (24 years ago), The Irishman's like a time warp folding 5 remarkable filmmaking decades into one, it would have been shocking to see something this good released by Scorsese in 2019 if I had ever thought he'd lost a step, or stopped givin' 'er with exacting intensity, damned impressive, hopefully for many more decades to come.

The same can be said for Steven Spielberg who continues to impress like he did in the '70s.

I can't believe it's almost been 20 years since Y2K.

It's amazing how much things have changed in the last 20 years, how practically everything has moved online, even in the country, how a device that fits in my pocket functions as walkman (with access to every album in the Apple Music catalogue), flashlight, alarm clock, I'm writing about how much I love my cellphone again, mailbox, newsstand (with newspapers from around the world), internet service provider (I access the web more on my phone now than I do on my computer), calendar, camera, health promoter, wallet, weather network, world map repository (you don't even need to know where you're going anymore), music studio, translator, calculator, compass, stock market ticker, and phone, it's strange when you watch older films or new films set in the past and characters aren't casually checking their cellphones from time to time, even if I certainly spend too much time on my cell, although I rarely do if I'm on vacation.

Working vacation.

The net may even solve housing crises in cities if rural environments can offer steady internet access and people can then move there and work online from home.

The technology's already available in some locations but it's very expensive.

Mindboggling how much things have changed.

Not all for the good of course, what used to seem like deranged lunacy regularly pops up in the public sphere these days, passing itself off as rational discourse, and sensation's lost its edge as the quotidian embraces incredible daily scandal, politics used to at least seem much more responsible, as if the greater good didn't only apply to an elite few.

There used to be more of a humanitarian edge in the public sphere, a much stronger willingness to promote peaceful harmonies, which aren't as naive as provocateurs make them sound, even in Canada someone as loveable as Justin Trudeau is under constant attack, he has made mistakes, but still promotes compassion and understanding likes it's 1967.

Perhaps the next 20 years will see a shift away from petroleum based products as the producers find new ways to profit off biodegradable alternatives, and the world will embrace peace without ever having gone to war as world leaders come to redefine hope and optimism.

It's clear that that's what we need to do.

Doesn't it make more sense than drilling in the Arctic?

There has to be a will to keep people working without laying waste to the environment.

Thankfully they have such a will in Québec.

And elsewhere around the world, I imagine.

Ant-Man & the Wasp

The underground trade in highly specialized technological essentials leads unscrupulous entrepreneurs to discriminately rank indiscretions.

Their desperate contacts require the unique components to commence a maternal examination of the uncharted Quantum Realm.

To catalyze their investigation, the assistance of a frowned upon former colleague is required, even if at the moment he's structurally immured.

He's kept busy throughout his exile, however, taking care of his inquisitive daughter at times, while strategically assisting in the creation of a legitimate business.

His partners rely on his insights as deadlines frenetically approach, yet are still there to assist should the world invoke his diminutive fury.

Law enforcement agents lie ready to pounce as well.

As a dying paracorporeal phenomenon furtively monitors the proceedings, in/substantially hoping to acquire life preserving experimental medicine.

Writers Chris McKenna, Erik Sommers, Paul Rudd, Andrew Barrer, and Gabriel Ferrari keep these 7 threads tightly knit, thought provokingly interweaving them with nimble effective cause.

The result is one of the coolest Marvel films I've seen, a multidimensional triumph, haphazardly exceeding as egos prank and clash, resolutely imbibing as the minuscule basks macroscopic.

Difficult to meticulously seem so unconcerned.

To stitch together such a frenzied family friendly tableau.

To create such a thrilling clever memorable Summertime fusion, a huge varied cast is assembled, the film directly benefitting from the talents of Laurence Fishburne (Dr. Bill Foster), Bobby Cannavale (Paxton), Judy Greer (Maggie), Michael Peña (Luis), Walton Goggins (Sonny Burch), and Randall Park (Jimmy Woo), not to mention Hannah John-Kamen (Ava/Ghost) and Abby Ryder Fortson (Cassie), and mainstays Michael Douglas (dad), Evangeline Lily (the Wasp) and Ant-Man himself, Paul Rudd.

That's some solid diversity.

The film thinks globally through the use of microscopic illumination, its multiple well-developed characters (also including T.I. as Dave and David Dastmalchian as Kurt) clearly defining themselves at large, while cohesively electrifying piquant age old paradigms.

It's Trump's worst nightmare.

A family friendly film that everyone will see that has strong Latino, Black, Asian, ambiguously gay, and female characters, not to mention a Southern man foiled, and a traditional patriarch critiqued throughout, convincingly held together by humanistic self-sacrifice, even going so far as to metaphorically pull a feminine genius out of the clutches of extreme computational dismissal.

After having learned so much during her travels.

So many different walks of life narrativized.

The research scientists who critique the creation of commercial enterprise.

The professor who critiques their egos.

The criminal business that makes huge amounts of cash.

The small business created by ex-cons to legally scrape by.

In the beginning.

The new dad's always part of the picture.

The difficulties of making new friends outside work during one's professional life.

The ways in which online obsessions can lead to people missing extraordinarily realistic events taking place nearby (brilliant) (editing by Dan Lebental and Craig Wood).

The supernatural im/materialized.

Ontological office space.

Wings and blasters.

It's also really funny, I couldn't control my laughter at points, an expert blend of the serious and the comedic thoughtfully delivered like you're heading out to the ballgame.

Too adult focused?

I don't think so.

There's still enough action to keep the young ones focused I'd wager.

I might see this in theatres again.

First rate adventurous comedic romantic sci-fi action.

I can't think of an equally enrapturing comparison.

So well done.

Solo: A Star Wars Story

There's a lot to love about Solo: A Star Wars Story.

True love drives a cocky youth to make bold romantic decisions which aeronautically diversify his portfolio even if she's regrettably moved on.

A sassy droid (Phoebe Waller-Bridge as L3-37) that takes Dot Matrix up a notch adds homely elfish character that ruggedly protests as it swiftly confides.

The quotidian nuances outlandish improvised decisions with real world grit that's intergalactically localized.

The dangers as well as the thrills of risking everything for a cut make wild endeavours seem appealing yet threatening inasmuch as improbability mortally beckons.

41/38 years later fans finally get to see Han (Alden Ehrenreich) meet Chewbacca (Joonas Suotamo) then Lando (Donald Glover).

It's co-starring Woody Harrelson (Beckett).

The kessel run is both defined and showcased.

Emilia Clarke impresses as Qi'ra.

And audacious reckoning munificently makes for a gripping spine-tingling finale.

Non-stop action, exuberant spirits, phenomenal fusions, surefire soul.

If only it had been a little less hokey.

A little more dreadful.

A lot more Chewbacca.

It's missing the bone-chilling malicious sense of resilient desperation that realistically held The Last Jedi, Rogue One, Avengers: Infinity War, Captain America: Civil War, A New Hope, The Empire Strikes Back, Aliens, and The Wrath of Khan together.

The characters are desperate, and undeniably resilient, but the film's still so confidently assured that nothing could go wrong that I never truly felt worried or fearful or oppressed.

It's like Solo was written for young kids and the aged simultaneously, those who were around 20 when A New Hope was released now being around 61 years of age.

Thus there are myriad sequences that demand your full attention, but it's so formulaic that it seems like nothing could possibly go wrong.

I may have cut the opening 10-15 minutes.

Turned them into a series of flashbacks.

Han and Qi'ra's love story isn't even featured throughout the film.

It never feels like they'll eventually get together.

It doesn't matter that fans know they don't get together.

When it wasn't released at Christmas I figured something was up.

I still confuse Thandie Newton (Val) and Zoe Saldana.

Molly's Game

What a sensation.

Nefariously betrayed by a player in L.A, she picks up and moves to New York, cleverly managing its most lucrative poker game soon after, a table upon which it only cost $250,000 to play.

To buy in.

Exceedingly bright yet mysterious and chill, she lavishly executes with modest reticent conviviality, eloquently ensuring a good time while building her mystique, seducing excessive wealth because she remains unavailable, her clients finding themselves basking in wondrous extremes, vivaciously sustained, through feverish risk embellishment.

Just sitting at the table must have made them feel legendary.

While her exotic enabling and untouchable allure generated complimentary resilient reveries that made losing millions seem like fun.

Elegance.

Jurisprudently classified.

Quite a sporty film, Molly's Game.

The dialogue rapidly disseminates emblazoned information with fervid freeflowing evangelical equanimity.

With innocence.

She's not necessarily free of guilt, but like Columbo in For Your Eyes Only, her crimes amount to nothing when compared to those of Kristatos.

Molly's (Jessica Chastain) lawyer sees it that way too (Idris Elba as Charlie Jaffey), making an impassioned plea for the prosecution's sympathy in one of the film's best scenes.

If you like psychology, Molly has an honest contentious conversation with her father (Kevin Costner) near the end, that argumentatively condenses priceless age-old imbroglios.

It's well-timed.

She was one of the best downhill skiers in the U.S at one point, specializing in moguls, and she matched her athleticism with a sharp intellect that was confident and capable enough to construct palaces out of incredible risks undertaken, while never opportunistically overlooking client confidentiality.

Even when offered millions.

Self-reliant sacrifice.

Supreme integrity.

Good film, fast-paced-high-stakes worked into a narrative that's direct yet still more intelligent than most.

There must be big games in Denver.

Every night of the year.

Tulip Fever

Fortunes scripted, ventured, improvised, inherited, youth and innocence nimbly characterized with cascading credulous streetwise spiritual tenacity, the frenetic pace complementing risks with elegant acrobatic smoothly flowing brisk tremors, the resultant emission subconsciously generating wild resonating exhilarating cerebral undulations which extranarratively converge in a whisking amorous three-dimensional dance of serendipity, illustrative soul ecstatic choreography, breaking waves basking beachheads seductive surf immaculate maelstrom, calmly executed with the delicate argumentative poise of a parlour room chat at high tea, which discusses obsessions with authentic splendour while staking suppositions with audacious rapt sincerity, spurred momentary inspirations lucidly identifying integral ephemerals with substantial sage elasticity, blossoming concerns burgeoned through wager, foresight, chance, bidding, marketed stratified sociocultural immersions, tantalizingly blended with cherished sympathetic assumption.

Religious figures often make a muck of communal virtues but Tulip Fever's Abbess (Judi Dench) and Cornelis Sandvoort (Christoph Waltz) do exemplify with resounding magnanimity.

Sheer beauty, unafraid to revel in perpetual genius with unconcerned in/discreet hesitant bold symphony, like lunching at an ill-defined French bistro it pauses, reflects, manoeuvres and mystifies to romanticize a psychology well worth perceiving.

Overflowing with life.

Materializing mercy.

Like the ideal and the practical were courting for millennia and suddenly found themselves conceptually synthesized for 105 begrudged minutes, during which they purified raw tranquility before separating everlastingly once more.

The omega directive.

Heartstrung honeysuckle.

It makes you wish you weren't too prone to love for postmodern romance.

Take your hand in mine.

And vanish.

Spider-Man: Homecoming

The bourgeoisie surreptitiously asserts itself in Marvel's new Spider-Man: Homecoming, as competing potential father figures sternly challenge wild teenage convictions.

Tony Stark (Robert Downey Jr.) offers fame and fortune.

He nurtures young Peter (Tom Holland) with august olympian tragedy, but isn't there to provide sought after guidance when the perplexities of crime fighting overwhelm as bewilderingly as they undermine.

His approach is school-of-hard-knocksy and Mr. Parker is none too amused.

Thus, he sees Mr. Stark's world and that of the Avengers as too ornate, too disassociated from that of the common person, and even though he wholeheartedly seeks to become an Avenger, like Henry Carpenter, he prefers to keep his feet on the ground, since he's unable to balance avenging rewards with communal sacrifices.

Adrian Toomes (Michael Keaton) on the other hand presents a successful self-made entrepreneurial gritty streetwise contrast to the illustrious Ironman.

He doesn't hobnob with politicians and plutocrats and geniuses and royalty.

He's an intelligent hands-on formerly honest businessperson who was forced into a life of crime by insensitive shortsighted unapologetic bureaucratic greed.

Choosing to keep his house and to save the jobs of the workers he employs, he adapts to his unfortunate circumstances and finds ways to controversially endure.

He's still a criminal though, and Peter's right to attempt to stop him from selling highly advanced weapons to bank robbers and thugs (he could have found other applications for his salvage), but when Peter sees the effects his actions have on his friends at school, he can't help but wonder if he's made the right decision.

He's caught between silver spoons and heavy metal, uncertain as to where he fits in, naturally gravitating towards Mr. Stark, who is a good person and can't be accused of being self-obsessed after the ballplaying actions he takes in Captain America: Civil War, but Pete still can't help but wonder if there's a dark side to his illuminated heroics, a dark side that leaves people like Toomes and his family stricken, as he prepares for another year of high school.

In hearty bourgeois style.

I doubt critics who lambasted the bourgeoisie for decades thoroughly contemplated a Western world where there was no bourgeoisie and a serious lack of honest professions for intelligent hard-working University grads.

Not me. J'aime mes emplois.

I may have done that too.

Before entering the real world.

The internet does provide ample opportunity to set up a business though.

Or your own newspaper.

It makes sense that traditional news outlets would vilify self-made electronically based independent journalism for trying to broadcast news online because they can realistically put them out of business, a threat major news sources didn't have 15 years ago.

Monopoly contested.

If they won't hire you, and you want to be a reporter, just keep reporting online while utilizing commensurate principles of honesty and integrity.

If they call your news fake afterwards, you'll know you've been noticed.

If you are just making stuff up out of thin air and not adding a humorous element that makes it obviously seem ludicrous, then major news sources are justified in labelling your outputs fake.

Oh man, too heavy.

Spider-Man: Homecoming is an entertaining thought provoking comedic yet solemn examination of contemporary American society crafted from hardy adolescently focused momentum.

Parker's struggles to fit in, to get Mr. Stark to listen, to prove himself avengefully, to impress the girl he likes (Laura Harrier as Liz), etcetera, aptly reflect the struggles of so many youthful reps, who likely also possess incomparable super powers.

Peter's friends and family, along with his teachers and adversaries, and Toomes and his squad, persuasively expand the Marvel universe's exceptionally diverse cast into cool and quizzical alternative realms, complete with the potential for amorous arch-villainy, possibly in a sequel that builds on Peter's conflicted yet contending earnest yet withdrawn middle-class symbolism.

With that theme in mind, the next Spider-Man film could rival Captain America: Civil War in terms of groundbreaking action-based sociopolitical commentary, streams crossed and minds melding, to keep things fresh and pyrotechnically strewn.

Perhaps Peter will be strong enough to hold the boat together in subsequent films?

That's what the middle-class does when it doesn't overstretch itself.

Steady as she goes.

Classic 20th Century Canada.

The House

An adorable loving cute-and-cuddly family suddenly finds itself violently managing a rowdy small town underground Casino in Andrew Jay Cohen's hit-and-miss The House, awkwardly refining streetwise bourgeois semantics thereby, while teaching their young daughter improvisational economic lessons learned.

Chug-a-lug-lug.

There would have been no need however a corrupt city councilperson embezzles the funds that would have paid young Alex's (Ryan Simpkins) college tuition, the Johansen's (Will Ferrell as Scott and Amy Poehler as Kate) unexpectedly finding themselves 250,000 dollars short afterwards, with no legitimate means to raise the cash required.

Enter their porn-afflicted deadbeat addiction-prone friend (Jason Mantzoukas as Frank) whose wife has just left him, but he's got an idea to win her back, and you've found a trendy sanctified sordid perky do-gooding sleazy debacle, complete with absurdly relevant relatable yet sensational stock (the mismanagement of government funds resulting in heavy taxes for small businesses?), weathering the wherewithal, manifesting latent complexes, hewing the graft, and exercising freewill.

It's a great idea for a comedy, glossing over serious defects in the American dream too lightly perhaps, but not unsympathetically, in its brazen hardy risk management.

How do people pay $50,000 for one year's tuition?

N-n-n-nutso.

That is one big bloody army.

Full-on crazy, this here historical epoch.

A great idea supersaturated with too much improbability that revels in its hypothesis without generating convincing conclusions, The House has its moments but some scenes are total amateur hour, even if they're naively treading the rambunctious deluge.

The script intends to blend the wild with the worldly in a bizarro multicultural cavalcade, but ironically leaves the parenting behind for too long, and focuses too intently on plain old thuggery.

It's true though, the film would have been stronger if they had cut back on the buffoonery a bit, even if Scott's 1970s-90s? cut-off hopeful progressive determined speech near the beginning suggests The House ain't that kind of film.

Butchin' and burnin'.

Is it really a comedic western?

Baby Driver

Split-second ingenious unassailable guiltless reflexes, instinctively classifying delicate improvisation, piquant extemporization, serpentine spontaneity, the driver, driving the getaway vehicle, atavistic awareness vigilantly circulating extractions, an unprecedented impresario envisioned in wild heartlands brake swerve accelerate, coordinate chaos with implicit clandestine credulity, pulsating pumping propulsive paved impertinence, irreducibly reacting, to unpredictable explosive larceny.

Mad skills.

Variably exercised.

Character driven.

Edgar Wright's Baby Driver's hilariously character driven, with Ansel Elgort (Baby), Lily James (Debora), Bats (Jamie Foxx), Buddy (Jon Hamm), Darling (Eiza González), Joseph (CJ Jones), Griff (Jon Bernthal), and Doc (Kevin Spacey) each chauffeuring full-throttle eccentricities that make said characters their own.

The well-thought-out creatively choreographed romantically comedic yet harrowingly hardboiled script (Wright) supplies them with ample maneuverability.

In fact I'd argue this is Wright's best film.

There are two notable oppositions within that reflect different intellectual styles.

Baby and Doc's youthful and aged conversations provide the film with an executive frame as they reticently interact, Doc's nephew Samm (Brogan Hall) brilliantly expanding one of their sequences, while Bats and Buddy concurrently represent clever tenacious earnest hard work, as they durably discuss various subjects between jobs.

Nice to see Jamie Foxx rockin' it again.

Doc heartbreakingly embraces romance in the end, risking everything to aid young Baby and Debora as they wildly set off to matriculate on the run.

I've been focusing on the criminal nature of the film but it's also a warmblooded romance.

Baby owes Doc a large sum of money that he's been slowly paying off for some time.

He meets Debora at the diner where his deceased mom used to work and they hit it off, young adult love at its most endearing, hesitantly tender and shyly enthusiastic.

Since he engages in illicit activities quite frequently, however, the nogoodniks eventually terrorize their sanctuary, especially after they craft plans to escape, which unconsciously precipitate embroiled maturations.

Excellent film that's patiently yet boisterously detailed, the dedicated caregiving, the musical artistry, the Mike Myers gag, the paradoxical sense of coerced altruism, the relaxed quiet dignity, the wanton perplexed angst.

Realistic reverberations.

Sweet sweet summertime.

Breezy.

Free Fire

There's something different about this pointless indolent thrashy debacle, an art to not caring at all that transcends the actual output and haphazardly generates an irradiating flame.

Like the rebellious walrus who spontaneously decides to find new lodgings, or the lackadaisical raccoon who still outwits grandpa every Sunday, Ben Wheatley's Free Fire accidentally harnesses that wild raw pulsating energy that is undeniably up to no good, yet still mercilessly elucidates congenital deviant awe.

Resignedly.

It's not really that funny, the points it makes aren't particularly profound, the action sequence/s lack hyper-reactively intricate multivariable momentum, and none of the characters possess enigmatic appeal.

It's sort of like riding the métro late at night and watching while someone who drank too much vomits, and then penitently slips and falls into that vomit while his or her friends recklessly cheer.

Or when you're sitting in class and someone farts and you can tell that they're embarrassed but it's a stinker and the stink doesn't fade and soon the teacher can smell it but they wind up counterintuitively smirking to the culprit's chagrin.

They may have been hoping their lack of a plan, their free fire, would extemporaneously implicate jarring vindicated chartreuse, correct, yet, instead, the backlash ends up courteously refining clumsy awkwardness astern, collegially asking their audience to digest pestilent penpersonship in order to stentoriously belch, gaseously unscrew, or squeamishly bellow, as a matter of loyalty to the director and cast under examination.

It's like a struggle, a struggle to achieve that which they never intended to accomplish, to not do anything, a nihilistic neologism necromantically jaded and spry.

As it succeeded at doing next to nothing blandly, I couldn't help but think its murky blend of flash and crash was more refreshing than similar more engaged comedies, form cacophonously duelling with content, to circuitously disappoint while chugging back another 6.

Tally-Ho.

Incendiary inanity.

Keanu

Can a ridiculous plot supported by an irresistible gimmick cast aside its kitschy credulity to generate a quivering constellation which instructively calibrates curricula of its own?

The cutesy.

The adorable.

Keanu does demonstrate how one can go about teaching struggling lost disadvantaged youth after bourgeois nice guy Clarence Goobril (Keegan-Michael Key) infiltrates a drug trafficking gang to help his depressed friend Rell Williams (Jordan Peele) recover his beloved kitten, using the music of George Michael to elucidate the art of communication, skills which they hilariously apply during the film's rambunctious climax.

Immersed in reckless carnage.

Said climax pulls together the best aspects of the film and was fun to watch but the build up consistently stalls since it's painfully apparent that these two suburbanites could never have tricked anyone.

The uneducated aren't that dumb you know.

It's too light.

Because it's too light, the situations Clarence (Smoke Dresden) and Rell (Oil Dresden) find themselves within lack the threat of death, even when they're almost killed, which is what Keanu required to transform into something other than a cute cat movie.

Yet, if they had just kept reintroducing Keanu, the sought after kitten, throughout, making him an integral part of the story rather than losing sight of him for prolonged periods, I probably would have thought, this makes no sense, it's a great nonsensical idea, and this incredibly loveable kitten's frequent appearances at least acknowledge the incoherency, highlighting its inherent encumbrances, while reminding me not to take it too seriously.

Instead I was stuck taking it seriously as it tried to be serious, Keanu having indeed plucked its lilies, to be crushed by the weight of its praiseworthy gambit.

Short-term prison sentences awaiting the heroes in the end.

Keanu!

Keanu!

The Drop

Patience, understanding, questions, commitment, caring modest consistency, observant faithful hesitancy, towing the line, doing the right thing, balance and order, let's see what happens, Michaël R. Roskam's The Drop follows humble Bob (Tom Hardy) as he works, interacts, and serves, loyally playing by the rules, cautiously keeping to himself, never directly causing a stir or ruffling any feathers, maintaining a sense of fair play, strictly aware, of his strengths and limitations.

Hardy puts in a strong performance. Bob's character is quite different from those he dynamically brought to life in Inception and Star Trek: Nemesis. Bob doesn't show much emotion, but Hardy adeptly uses this hindrance to his advantage, notably as he gets to know potential love interest Nadia (Noomi Rapace), carefully and artfully redefining stoicism thereby, never falling out of character, reserved, peaceful, true.

Strong performances all around, causing me to wonder whether or not Roskam studied and/or worked with David O. Russell, who also excels at creating insightful entertaining high-quality sophisticatedly acted films for mass markets, thoughtfully enlightening nocturnally invested narratives, until I rediscovered that it was Roskam who directed Bullhead, after I wrote this, which can compete with Russell's best work, The Drop can as well but maybe not with American Hustle, although perhaps he still is in contact with Russell.

I thought it was odd when Cousin Marv (James Gandolfini) decides to collude with Eric Deeds (Matthias Schoenaerts) because Deeds is obviously nuts and therefore too indelicate for his scheme, but this fact does intensify Marv's desperation, highlighting that greed leading to desperation ferments bad judgement, subtly juxtaposed with Bob's decisions, both sets capable of distilling ruin.

Detective Torres (John Ortiz) rounds out the script, showing up whenever it started to occur to me that his plot thread wasn't receiving enough screen time, his comments adding a romantic quality to The Drop's final moments, his conversations, playfully examining the divide between law and order.

Solid film.