La Bolduc

During tough economic times, a soulful voice emerges, writing hit pop singles like butter on toast, performing with a voice that streams as it schmoozes, transforming birch and bustle into jive and pith and pluck, abreast with no time to think about it, writin' it all down, exhaling rhythm with raw crisp feeling, instinctually creating carefree nimble blooms.

A different time characterized by traditional roles and religious sentiment, the resourceful Mary Travers-Bolduc (Debbie Lynch-White) didn't set out to become a musician.

She stayed home to raise a family while her husband worked, nurturing several children with scant means at her disposal, the strength of their bonds helping them through tough times, love flourishing amidst economic hardship as a result of unnerving trials.

They tried moving to the States, had to get groceries on credit, there wasn't much/any time for rest, and laws prevented women from voting or working.

Yet Mme. Travers-Bolduc suddenly found herself with a huge disposable income after her songs caught fire and she turned into a star.

Her sympathetic producer clarified a loophole which enabled her to hold on to her earnings, and her foolish husband, overcome by his reduced position in their household, and a lack of work, unfortunately turned to drink instead of celebrating their good fortune.

Their example highlights a peculiar feature of religion.

If God is monitoring the world (doubtful), and a woman suddenly finds herself enriched within a patriarchal cultural construction, isn't it God's will that that woman should be enriched, and isn't he or she saying that women should be able to work and support themselves just as reliably as men?

If a patriarchal conception dominates sociopolitical life and derives its authority from earthly conceptions of God, when a woman is successful within such a system isn't God trying to say that there's something wrong with strict patriarchal religious conceptions?

Does God's will only apply to men?

Rubbish.

Québec isn't like that anymore, and its current composition functions as an example for jurisdictions looking to redefine themselves after periods of restrictive patriarchal obsessions.

Mary Travers represents a strong female voice excelling within a male dominated society, even if she succumbed later in life to the logic she had been bombarded with since birth, and prevented her talented daughter (Laurence Deschênes and Rose-Marie Perreault as Denise Bolduc) from following her dreams.

After having experienced massive head trauma.

Ready Player One

Ready Player One takes Game Night to the next level by presenting a world within which every waking moment characterizes free play.

Arguments lauding the values of physical existence having been virtually refuted, the Oasis intergenerationally supplies invigorating imaginary agency to anyone curious enough to enroll.

It's the ultimate online experience, manifold worlds within worlds abounding with purpose and challenge and leisure and romance, astounding variability thematically applied with visionary intertextual synergies slash infinite individual accommodations, instantaneously accessible, intravenously mounted.

Created by James Halliday (Mark Rylance/Isaac Andrews), a brilliant pop culture enthusiast with a propensity to articulate architecturally, its ownership enters a period of flux after he passes, only those clever and skilful enough to find the 4 keys he's hidden within having the chance to become its new guardians, and since it's valued at half-a-trillion, and its riddles are next to impossible to solve, only a select few possess the talent required, although all and sundry compete by all means.

And then it happens, after years of clueless endeavour, two diametrically opposed groups seemed poised for victory.

One, an accumulation of indentured gamers coerced into working for colossal douche Sorrento (Ben Mendelsohn), sheer numbers intended to overwhelm the opposition even if they instinctually lack any genuine personal revelation.

They invade the Oasis en masse, intimidating everyone they can to cheat their way to the finals.

Reminding me of ye olde deflategate thereby.

The other, a bucking homegrown organic dedicated team in the process of formation, possibly lead by a modest competitive young superfan who also possesses innovative interpretive intuition.

Will the 5 of them combine their strengths to outperform the corporate world, thereby preventing it from transforming the Oasis into a heartless tiered unimaginative conglomerate, as if both B.C's coastline and its interior were contaminated by millions of gallons of oil, or the internet itself, was regulated like cable television?

The odds would be stacked highly against them.

If they weren't so exceptionally gifted.

Like indomitable lamda kitshatz haderached omega particles, never pausing to adjust for wind resistance, near wild heaven trucking through the danger zone, they keep goin' mobile as the labyrinthine adventure begins.

Ready Player One playfully unites myriad awe inspiring protocultural constellations like an enigmatic enlightenment transisting renaissance.

Spielberg still possesses the youthful wonder that has helped him to create stunning films for decades, Ready Player One clearly proving that he hasn't lost touch with his incomparable artistic genius, nor his undeniable love of cinema.

I'm betting that whatever decade you grew up in, this film will help you feel like you're back at home in your youth.

A remarkable cohesion of multigenerational inter and independence, it reifies the North American cultural spirit, without losing sight of its cool.

Why wasn't it released in July?

Game Night

The weekly game night.

An unsung celebration of the studious and the knowledgeable during which sundry eclectic caprices heroically achieve cultural redemption, every foolishly frowned upon trivial impulse suddenly validated as if their mass accumulation was as generally admired as owning a car or playing a sport, nachos and salsa haphazardly served up raw or baked while crucially captious considerations undauntedly contend within diminutively prescribed limits, immediate artistic delineations and divinations juxtaposed with lexicographical ease, Pennsylvania Avenue, the spur of the moment strategic themes of the adorably innovative inculpable thesauri, trivially lounging, cloaked fissures, fonts, forays.

An uptight observant redheaded enforcer banished from their midst.

Past infidelities accidentally exposed introducing argumentative contention.

Reversed roles confounding traditional mating rituals as a perceptive relativistic ingenue inquisitively examines her date for the evening.

A couple struggling to bear young finds romantic sustainability as one representative demonstrates unconditional love.

For her reliable steed's unconscious trauma is preventing his troops from conceptually mustering.

The source of said trauma having just reappeared.

To recommence belittling and outperforming.

After having superciliously commanded: a change of venue.

Game Night brings family and friends together to diabolically transform team-based knowledge quests into mortal streetwise altercations invading private spaces intent on supersonically hedging fraternal marigold combat.

Not necessarily like that, however it does have an edge, and its insightful journeyperson script does delicately tread tightropes uniting bourgeois romance with impoverished plutocratic proclivities, in a homely horrorshow, fearlessly exonerating conjugal endeavour.

Did anyone notice Kyle Chandler's (Brooks) solid Leonardo DiCaprio pastiche (Inception)?

Is Rachel McAdams (Annie) the new Meg Ryan?

Limbrous isn't a word.

So I'll stick with almost mind-blowing.

Foxtrot

And an exemplar was disseminated, wherein which individuals expressed themselves extemporaneously even though they had observed strict routines throughout much of their bourgeois lives, tradition and structure briefly withdrawing as overwhelming desires to alternatively communicate built up deep inside and triumphantly exhaled, a fluid gesture of harmless defiance joyously reverberating across uninhabited terrain, passing by unremarkably, the absurdity of his post and its accompanying limitless wastelands failing to generate correspondingly desolate emotions as underdeveloped independent curiosity refuses to acknowledge the austere, revellers brazen enough to pass by in good cheer suddenly transforming codes that had been youthfully displaced into bloodshed, paranoid precedents instantaneously shocking generally carefree lives, the error rapidly covered up thereafter, buried for archaeological posterity, denoted with novel graphic agency.

The drawing generating metaphorical comment.

As mourning subsides.

And love reemerges.

Making light of solemnities has sombre consequences for the denizens of Samuel Maoz's Foxtrot, as if the temptation to relax one's guard is as dangerous as it is emancipating.

The natural world countermands privileged influence within, as tensions between freedom and discipline maddeningly shock obliged quotidian necessities.

The commodification of ancient heirlooms disastrously curses the present, as tantalizing postmodern accessories addictively dominate the senses.

Extreme grief is benevolently replaced by joy before the utmost cruelty coincidentally descends.

Historical repercussions infinitely bewildering.

Combative contiguities.

Subjective cries.

The film excels at presenting free spirits tormented by regulations that must be upheld, accentuating the blasé to manifest torrential tears while cosmically suggesting there is no reasonable alternative.

The conjugal rapprochement which characterizes its concluding moments abound with blissful acquiescence.

Nevertheless.

As a couple audaciously expresses itself by sharing truthful thoughts.

What they still have rich in wonder.

Integrity, variability, mystery.

Adventure imaginatively narrativizing.

Mindfully.

After work finishes up.

Film Stars Don't Die in Liverpool

A trip, an excursion, an itinerant vocation, dazzling and wooing, inspiring and enticing, at the actor's discretion, exuberantly, around the globe, a marriage a liaison a fling, an assignation, redefined convergence impertinently penetrating curious hearts and minds with interpretive variability and starstruck quivers, paramount mercurial mischief seductively invested and tantalizingly outfitted, a song bird, a siren, fervid fledgling sweetly swooning, hesitantly marooning, eternal embraces jockeying for illumination lightly treading chaotic chasms with resplendent divination, resting, nesting, flocking, guilty pleasures routinely exonerated, a cue, applause.

Gloria Grahame (Annette Bening) finds herself in England in Paul McGuigan's Film Stars Don't Die in Liverpool, dating an aspiring local actor (Jamie Bell as Peter Turner) while reimagining herself on the British stage.

She's sick however, no one knows that but her, and her secret confuses young Pete as he tries to romantically conjure.

The film compassionately reveals an agile professional resiliently refining her art, continuously seeking new challenges to sustain hardboiled momentum, brilliantly unaccustomed to the demands of routine structures, suddenly forced, to withdraw bedridden.

Flashbacks.

There's a wonderful scene where her and Mr. Turner authenticate on a beach beneath a cavalier sky, discussing life and love and fortune, as fish begin to frolic in the nearby sea.

Another which captures her radiantly celebrating a performance.

She seems like she must have been fun to hang out with until you got too close or demanded too much attention.

Peter must have meant something, but his expectations clashed with her carefully hidden secrets, which were concealed to promote her career, to ensure she would never have to stop working.

She knew that, not him, she knew what she had to do to maintain her image, her mystique, her fame, Pete does eventually acknowledge this, even if it unintentionally tears him up deep down.

I read an article the other day/month/year which stated that love was like an addiction and people require medical aid after breakups.

This article.

Not the most romantic way to examine loves lost.

Proust's Fugitive may function as a literary counterbalance.

Which proves the scientific point.

Without sterilizing the poetic dysfunction.

Good film.

The Death of Stalin

It seems like for every 100 films which vilify Nazism, 0 are made to condemn its Soviet counterpart.

Perhaps releasing 10 to 20 films a year which accentuated Soviet atrocities would have increased hostilities with Russia, currently or during the official cold war, and increasing hostilities with a proud heavily armed powerful nation is usually a sign of imprudent planning, unless they're taking out spies in broad daylight in parks on your home turf, even if sundry artists would have been free to define themselves thereby.

But leaving the communists out of the master narrative means that narrative focuses exclusively on the fascists, there's no counterbalance, no secondary ideological agenda, and even if World War II films bluntly emasculate Nazi ideals they still constantly manifest them, and keep them widely circulating within mass consciousnesses.

Even though Nazism is condemned it's still present, year after year, film after film, the war ended 73 years ago and its impact is still threatening, not just as a reminder of past horrors, it should always be there to remind new generations of its horrors (see The Lord of the Rings[there are still a ton of World War II films released every year]), but as a formidable subject that many directors (I imagine) feel compelled to characterize.

Communism isn't there and its absence is curious.

If you want a populace to forget or at least not focus on something you don't advertise it constantly, obviously enough, although, obviously again, it will certainly persist in the underground, or above ground with notable sympathetic academic and unionized groups.

Plus continental Europe.

So why did the capitalists want the masses to remember fascism and forget about communism?

The question isn't as absurd as it sounds, even if Nazis and Soviets were equally destructive.

With the rise of extreme comedy, Armando Iannucci's The Death of Stalin recasts fascist psycho humour with practical communist applications, by making light of Soviet purges and terrors, as the highest ranking CCCP leaders connive following the tyrant's death.

Time and care is taken to make them look mediocre, except for Field Marshal Zhukov (Jason Isaacs), who defeated Germany, and while watching the film I couldn't help thinking how embarrassing it would have been if one of them had sent me to the Gulag.

Or executed me.

With the number of corpses that pile up throughout it's clear that it's meant to be ridiculous, although I suppose their exaggerations are the contemporary byproduct of a system that did routinely butcher its own citizens, and living in such circumstances would make one instinctually paranoid and vindictive as if every day you weren't exiled or shot was indeed a horrifying secular blessing.

As the public sphere becomes more sensational, the White House discrediting porn stars in recent weeks for instance, I suppose the ridiculous becomes less absurd and monstrosities pass without comment because the simple act of acknowledging them will imperil your life.

So perhaps The Death of Stalin's not as ridiculous as it seems.

Perhaps it uses an abandoned method of expression to indirectly and ironically comment upon the rise of right wing populism in order to subliminally trash its misguided cynical optimism?

Either that or it's cashing in on misery.

Strange epoch, this insincere period of time.

Red Sparrow

Extreme deception bluntly orchestrating maddeningly corrupt initiatives, coldly addressing severe characteristics with the flippant admiration of vanity in bloom.

Emaciated modus operandi, secretively adjusted objectives, flirtatiously plummeting pirouettes, applauding emotionless utilitarianism.

Innate degeneracy opulently upholding volatile foundations meticulously irradiated.

Occupational hazards phantasmagorically posturing with the resigned duplicitous elegance of nouveau riche ostentation, spread so delicately thin that one's senses aspirationally swoon with treacherous wonder.

Dissimulated.

Prevaricated.

If you can figure out what lies beneath a question's seeming innocuous simplicity as it's delivered with clumsy sincerity by someone who has no respect for you, it's easy to lie and give them the answer they expect to hear, the poorly concealed sarcastic nuances of their tone having betrayed their vicious intentions, their misguided readymade conclusion (along with what they intend to do with it), and after providing the answer for which they search which is easy enough to detect, you'll hopefully never hear from them again, calico.

Red Sparrow.

Wherein incomparable poise is wounded then theoretically transformed into a solicitous unimaginative reflection exalting spirited disillusion, commandeered to effortlessly seduce while never questioning executive artifice.

She does seduce effortlessly and you wonder how an undercover operative could have let his guard down so obliviously, but it does save time in a film that's already considerably lengthy.

For good reason.

It patiently follows resourceful Dominika Egorova (Jennifer Lawrence) from career ending catastrophe to harrowing rebirth, accentuating her helplessness piecemeal before considering an alternative only awkwardly presented hitherto, thus enabling multidimensional character development within the strictest confines.

Pigs at the trough beware, Egorova is comin' to get 'cha.

The Americans are generally presented as trustworthy agents while the Russians betray their government with cause, a comment on the price of bearing petty grudges, one disloyal American voraciously bisecting the cultural stereotypes.

Not as intricate as some spy films, but Lawrence's stark brutal portrayal of a coerced fledgling homegrown psychopath still brazenly holding on to her innocence, as accompanied by a feisty Nate Nash (Joel Edgerton), a reserved General Korchnoi (Jeremy Irons), and a fierce Matron (Charlotte Rampling), situated within a clever direct script whose subject matter is uncannily relevant if Icarus and Russia's other international relations woes are interwoven, still helps Red Sparrow stand out, the groundwork for an outstanding sequel having been provocatively laid.

Perfect February release.

Mind-bogglingly coincidental.

A Wrinkle in Time

A brilliant mind obsessed with unlocking physical secrets of the universe suddenly completes his work.

And vanishes into the unknown.

His family is overcome with grief and 4 years later daughter Meg (Storm Reid) remains maladjusted.

Falling grades and fights at school are causes of concern for mom (Gugu Mbatha-Raw), even if Meg was standing up to bullies, even if depression prevents her from concentrating.

Her toughness earns her the respect of classmate Calvin (Levi Miller), however, before three mysterious women show up, who claim to know the whereabouts of her dad (Chris Pine).

Rational disbelief proliferates as impossibility is slowly deconstructed while the plausible conversely engenders hope anew.

Yet Meg must truly believe if she is to both battle The It with the fortitude required to earn her father's freedom, and daringly become the warrior Mrs. Which (Oprah Winfrey) knows she can be.

Perhaps saving little genius brother Charles Wallace (Deric McCabe) thereby, while achieving beyond the limits within which she's terrestrially confined.

The It remains ill-defined but one of the scenes which takes place within its domain depicts unconcerned families enjoying delicious treats seaside stretched-out on the beach.

Meg can tell it's a trick for when she tries the food it indeed tastes like sand.

Perhaps then The IT governs the realm of illusion wherein which the wonderful is in fact nothing more than specks of dust, wherein which insubstantial reversals transform independence into servitude and integrity into humiliation, one ruler commanding all who share in its false pretensions.

Meg sees through this for she unconsciously grasps and stands up for the truth, no matter what situation she finds herself within.

Thus, like an academic, she is less concerned with the limelight or sensational accolades than humbly pursuing a devoted life of studious contemplation.

Like her father who leapt into pure discovery alone.

A Wrinkle in Time salutes the truth by polarizing the fantastic with remarkably realistic composure, as if being honest with yourself verifiably creates purest imagination.

Not as wild and enrapturing and unpredictable as I thought it might be, but still an illuminating journey wherein which courage vanquishes doubt to individualistically uphold something greater than oneself.

Critical.

Pacific Rim: Uprising

The mighty Jaegers have slain their Kaiju foes.

And the world is at peace once again.

Jaeger legends still equip Earth's global master narrative with sublime exemplars of self-sacrifice and heroism, nevertheless, a technological behemoth has found a way to automate their gallantry.

Yet co-creator Liwen Shao (Tian Jing) doesn't know that a former global saviour, one Dr. Newton Geiszler (Charlie Day), has fallen for the Kaiju brain he infiltrated 10 years ago, and keeps in his apartment, and as a result of their secretive romantic mind-melding, has betrayed humankind, and placed homegrown Kaiju brains within each and every hard-driven robot.

Jake Pentecost (John Boyega), son of warrior Stacker Pentecost, and Nate Lambert (Scott Eastwood), son of Clint Eastwood, are unaware of this development as they drift once more, their friendship still persisting, even if conflict once dealt it a crippling blow, world security having brought them together again, to save the planet from Kaiju attacks, round 2.

The Kaiju-brain-led-Jaeger-automatons (sort of like Krang in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles) maliciously situate themselves at strategic points round the Pacific Ocean, and thunderously begin generating new breaches.

Before loyal Dr. Hermann Gottlieb (Burn Gorman) can shut them down, 3 Kaiju ascend from interplanetary oceanic depths, eventually merging to form, a monstrous ÜberKaiju.

The fate of the world may rest in the hands of one orphaned girl (Cailee Spaeny as Amara Namani), who builds her own Jaegers, and may find herself kicked out of the Jaeger training program.

For actions prohibited.

One cataclysmic day.

Pacific Rim: Uprising may lack the jaw dropping ridiculous blend of kitsch and sophistication that frankly yet elegantly adorned the original unheralded masterpiece, yet if you loved number 1 it's certainly a must see, for its characters battle Kaiju once more, and the stakes are just as high, if not even more catastrophic.

Disappointments, second chances, ingenuity, treachery, motivational speeches, teamwork, rivalry, love.

Positive attributes abound within, yet it's still quite rushed, rather impatient, like its crafters wanted a finished product as soon as humanly possible, and didn't take the time to add the refinements that made the first instalment so appealing.

Still fun though.

Much better than Independence Day 2.

Immediacy can generate a lot of compelling narratives, but it shouldn't be used to rashly justify wildly improbable scenarios, unless they're delicately timed and patiently brewed.

Another thirty minutes may have helped.

Looking forward to round 3.

Rich with inherent intergalactic instabilities.

Annihilation

A temporal psychological symbiotic extraterrestrial expanse embraces the American West Coast in Alex Garland's Annihilation, those who pass through its translucent iridescence finding themselves immersed within a conscious environment, which absorbs and transforms everything residing within, to fluidly engender biological impossibility.

Imagine you could take a dialectical creation and lay it out horizontally, every line of the text stretching across the floor.

The gridiron.

Then take thousands of other such creations and randomly lay them out beside, on top of, across, within the original line of argumentation, the resulting accumulated mass united by a common method, like a planet's indigenous gene pool, yet continuously birthing previously unconsidered parallels, blends, synergies, oppositions, microanalytics experimenting with infinite, their purpose to remain curious, purely synthesizing theory and practice.

But then imagine the extraterrestrial zone was mashing and recombining genes in a similar way, physical genes plus incorporeal thoughts, thought and speech forming biological components of its transformed lifeforms, not only the thoughts of humans, but those of plants and animals as well.

The poetic mind.

Ceaselessly creating.

Like in so many films investigating the inexplicable, heavily armed personnel are soon sent in, but there's no real physical threat to face, the enemy is more like a lack of civility, dismissals of the unfamiliar, an inability to holistically adapt, psychologically and physically, within manifested spirit, as bewilderment anticipates.

Did the bear get it?

The crocodile?

Herbaceous exponents mesmerizingly fertilizing vast deserts of composed meticulously orchestrated routine.

Habituated happenstance reconceptualizing imagination as if the northern lights were the organic lifeblood of imperceptible ubiquitous transmutation.

Sit back for awhile.

In the woods.

Parc Jean-Drapeau.

Soak it in.

Steep it.

Feel it.

Annihilation moves past devoting yourself to another and anomalously conjures multicultural mystification.

As if it were searching for something it hoped it would never find.

As would an artist.

A detective.

Thoroughbreds

A maladjusted teen, recently expelled from boarding school, despises her severe step-father, a man's man who would rather command than converse and instantly turns brutal if you question his decisions.

Another maladjusted teen, a sociopath in fact, is tutored by the aforementioned, although Lily (Anya Taylor-Joy) has really been hired to function as only friend and confidant, a well-meaning parental decision, that may vindictively prove fatal.

They don't consider killing each other, but after Amanda (Olivia Cooke) encourages Lily to honestly express her contempt, the dark side descends with maniacally pure unaccountability, the two revelling in their vicious designs with cold calculated temerity, proceeding ever more closely towards their goal, absolutely unconcerned with ethics or fatigue.

Malicious young Sith.

Irreverently resolved.

The planning of the murder works well.

It's difficult to generate sympathy for their adversary (Paul Sparks as Mark) and their plans themselves are rich with cinematic intrigue.

The music and settings add contemplative depth which harrowingly develops a computerized sensitivity thoroughly lacking in emotional connections, apart from mutual desires to talk with others, and a base instinct to punish anyone who restricts freedoms.

There's no well reasoned opposition to their plans, however, except for an isolated moment during which the subject of their murderous rage logically expresses his concerns, after placing them within an historical context.

The douchiness fades for a brief sharply contrasting moment.

Before stubbornly returning.

The sociopath even acknowledges his rationality although that doesn't mean she's not still prepared to savagely orchestrate his demise.

Okay, their both sociopaths.

Mark's likely a sociopath too.

With a more well-reasoned opposition to their plans, some doubts at least, the second half of the film would have been more compelling.

The first skilfully lures you in with a chillingly haunting mix of psycho comedy and dark psychology, like Thoroughbreds was crafted to flip the bird to raunchy teen melodramas like American Pie.

It does this well.

But without the alternative voice during the second half, apart from flailing Tim (Anton Yelchin [what a tragedy]), who seems to have been proactively included to remind adolescents to stay in school, the psycho is laid on too thick, and although it's still well done, a great film, more well rounded argumentation may have transformed it from an indie nightmare into a crucible of malevolence.

They should have gone through with it either way.

If an alternative viewpoint had been substantially introduced, and they hadn't gone through with it, it would have been much lamer, most of its shocking edge having been dulled.

Preferred it to Compulsion (1959).

Black Panther

A hidden civilization, majestically secluded in death-defying mountainous impeccability, technologically adept environmental symbiosis relying on ancient traditions to guide contemporary initiatives, a brilliantly constructed unparalleled postmodern wonder, Africa's colonial history having left it reasonably wary of the unknown, yet a new Wakandan leader has wisely arisen who is concerned with his community's global reputation, and may break with the past to encourage sustainable growth, generously nurtured, and cultivated worldwide.

His community at large.

Leaders, I should say.

One was abandoned and left to fend for himself in the U.S, the other grew up amongst his culture's elite within which he occupied a leading position.

Not to say the latter's life wasn't also filled with demanding challenges, challenges of a different kind, but finding food was likely less of a struggle, and the world's most advanced technological resources were readily available to be used at his discretion.

Yet to become King he must combat those who oppose him with raw brute strength alone, and when his streetwise exceptionally skilled cousin controversially lays down the gauntlet he's been running his entire life, T'Challa's (Chadwick Boseman) imposing prowess can't endure.

He's callously tossed.

Into the healing waters below.

As King, Erik Killmonger (Michael B. Jordan) seeks to move Wakanda in new directions.

Bitterly aware of how his culture has been marginalized in many domains, he's ready to fight his way to respectability, and use Wakandan technology to achieve vengeful ends.

Once again differing conceptions of how best to pursue communal objectives conflict, as civility is cast aside, and tradition is torn asunder.

Indubitably so.

Age old political stresses.

Wakanda may be a fictional creation, but its realistic metaphorical value can be seen in strong African communities across the globe, communities that continuously prove their cultural worth when often surrounded by savage persecution.

Wakandan seeds are globally developing and flourishing amidst sustained idiotic cultural devaluations, ignorantly born of jealousy and fear, and raised by systematic institutionalized stupidity.

Live well.

Ignore the hate fuelled poison and use wealth acquired to promote and facilitate education and commerce (Boyz n the Hood).

I don't know what to do if outsiders are flooding communities with hard drugs to destroy them.

I don't know what to do if bigots continue to hate even though they watch films like Hidden Figures and love the game of football.

I do know that studying, working hard, and respecting other respectful people is a rewarding way to live, especially if you share what you've l(e)arned with your community.

And if communities do this worldwide you've got a pretty chill and cool planet to live on, raise families on, flourish on.

Thrive on.

It's like Marvel's becoming a global conscience of sorts.

With all that cash, there's no telling how much cool they can do.

Loved Black Panther.

Abacus: Small Enough to Jail

Men and women who go beyond and take risks to help their community get through difficult times, who care enough to try and set hardworking impoverished people up with the loans they need to simplify complicated cashflow problems, people like Thomas Sung, who saw that his community needed a bank, a bank which he then went about creating, as chronicled in Steve James's Abacus: Small Enough to Jail, Sung spent a huge chunk of his life assisting struggling immigrant families who had been rejected elsewhere, innovative families, whose loans rarely defaulted.

That's what statistics presented in the documentary precisely state, although they didn't prevent the Abacus Federal Savings Bank from being indicted for fraud.

After the 2008 financial crisis.

None of the gigantic American banks were tried in the fallout, instead, one small bank from New York's Chinatown was presumed guilty, and the government didn't even have much of a case.

Had crimes been committed at the bank?

Yes.

As the bank grew, Sung and members of his family eventually became executive managers, a reward for years of dedicated service, and their higher ranking positions slowly cut them off from ground level employees, as the years passed by.

They could monitor the bank's activities from higher up, but since they had less direct contact, it became easier for the unscrupulous to cheat them.

And a popular employee named Ken Yu did just that, along with many of the people for whom he secured loans.

As soon as his crimes came to light he was fired, but the damage had already been done.

Were the crimes committed at the bank significantly less serious than those committed by major American financial institutions?

Yes.

And whereas many of the loans approved by those institutions defaulted, only an extremely small statistically significant number of those approved by Abacus did as well.

Was there an attempt to scapegoat a small bank catering to an immigrant community for crimes committed by more formidable opponents?

It certainly looks that way, especially when you consider that none of the bigger banks were prosecuted, none, as in ye olde not a single one.

Who is Thomas Sung if not a first rate American who devoted his entire life, a life filled with countless self-sacrifices, to making the United States even greater?

Damaging his reputation and humiliating him and his family and his community in court was a cowardly act perpetrated by a lack of imagination.

It's as if he was targeted for his integrity by those who had none, The Dark Knight's Harvey Dent factor coming into play.

Fortunately he unyieldingly faced the charges and diligently proved his innocence.

One tough hombre.

An inspirational American.

Peter Rabbit

A daring ingenious mischievous rabscallion meets his earnest stuffy fastidious match in Will Gluck's Peter Rabbit, as the new Mr. McGregor (Domhnall Gleeson) grumpily takes up residence in the country, and young Peter (James Corden) still covets his family's stock victuals.

Nepotism has brought about McGregor's downfall, for after a decade of meticulous loyal service at Harrod's toy store, his sought after promotion was given to another.

A layabout relative of the owners in fact.

Yet after suffering a frantic breakdown, communal sympathy for his fellow untitled Brits doesn't take root in his furious consciousness, and rather than sharing his overflowing bounty with Peter and his hungry friends and family, he does everything he can, to keep them locked out.

But Peter is clever.

An intuitive understanding of electricity helps him to paternalistically galvanize McGregor's temper, although the desired therapeutic benefits are overwhelmed by fits of rage.

Nevertheless, McGregor conceals his antipathy for Peter from love interest Bea (Rose Byrne), who cherishes every moment she spends with the bunnies, and paints them adoringly when unconcerned with abstraction.

She likes McGregor.

And Peter knows it.

So after their mutually destructive shenanigans, many of which are excessively violent for children (McGregor has to stab himself with an epipen at one point), explosively fell a tree, which comes crashing through Bea's studio, Peter must decide if his selfish jealousy is worth more than a friend's happiness, after McGregor gives up, and quietly heads back to London.

By coming to terms with his former adversary, Peter outshines the vast majority of his much older contemporaries, and McGregor learns to share his bourgeois abundance, and embrace serendipitous succulence.

Thus, Peter Rabbit sticks it to ultraconservative Brit oligarchs who would still rather see the brightest most advanced commoners flailing in obscurity, than have their years of devoted service justly rewarded.

I suppose it's less confusing than seeing Peter hook up with Bea, even if it metaphorically suggests the British still frown upon bohemian romantic couplings.

Audacious artistry?

There's still work to be done.

The number of jabs delivered at France's expense suggest some French rabbits might show up for the sequel.

Une portée de lapins français?

If there is a sequel.

Who let Peter's allergy tirade into the film?

Bit of a shocker.

In serious bad taste.

Paddington 2

Effervescently blossoming in tender loving communal kindness, young Paddington (Ben Whishaw) adorably finds his first job.

And second job.

In need of a large sum to buy his Aunt Lucy (Imelda Staunton) the perfect present, he nurtures his latent entrepreneurial ardour, then cleverly earns cold hard shenanigan exalting cash.

He's become a humble celebrity in his neighbourhood and generally generates warmth and good cheer as he happily passes through.

The Browns have kept up their adventurous spirits, projects and pastimes passionately invigorating their days, knowledge acquired accumulating constructive dividends, a salute to the curious and the inquisitive, the bold and the studious contemplatively bustling away.

But diabolical storm clouds lugubriously hang over their enlightening endeavours, after Paddington attempts to catch a thief and winds up wrongfully accused of the crime.

It's off to prison for the young spectacled bear.

A community in shock.

A family in weeping.

Yet as good manners win Paddington unexpected accolades in jail, Mrs. Brown (Sally Hawkins) begins covertly sleuthing, quickly discovering clues and other investigatory aids, which all point in a famous actor's direction.

I thought it was odd to see Paddington doing hard time at first, but as his overflowing innocent goodwill genuinely charmed the hardened convicts, I couldn't help feeling warm and gooey inside, as if I had purchased marmalade flavoured poptopia.

It was still strange that a bear so young, still practically a cub in fact, had to take to the streets to find work, and was then sent to prison shortly thereafter, as if his example was inadvertently critiquing a lack of British child labour laws, or perhaps metaphorically reflecting upon extant predicaments that still thrive in England's impoverished underground, wherein lads and lasses try as they might to study and find work related to their education, but can never outflank an unacknowledged caste system?

Paddington could have gone to school for instance, or studied at home with Mrs. Bird (Julie Walters).

Nonetheless, it is a heartwarming film, even if warm hearts are scorched in conflict, a convivial family friendly multifaceted matriculation, exonerated by pluck and unabashed good nature, motivated by vigour, and brought to life through the power of bears.

Always keep your distance from real life bears you know.

Instances where bears attack humans are rare.

But if one does, you're bound to hear about it in the papers.

Although moments of cute bear-related cuddles often find themselves making headlines as well.

Headlines!

The Square

Contemporary art clashes with civilization as the repercussions of spontaneous decisions made plague The Square's timid curator.

The square itself is a beautifully conceived space wherein which those who enter should feel free to honestly engage with one another.

Crafted according to egalitarian guidelines, it promotes goodwill and kindhearted understanding.

The supersaturated sensation prone advertisers tasked to promote it can't think of a complementary way to proceed, however, their resultant ad generating the critical controversy they seek, but, nevertheless, it's unceremoniously steeped in just bitter outrage.

By bellicosely blending explosive guilt with tender innocence, the ad reflects mainstream media obsessions with death and violence, the ways in which news outlets focus intently on the abominable in order to generate higher ratings, the unsuspecting public perhaps functioning like the innocent child blown to bits within.

But recognizing such a purpose and detaching it from its grotesque depiction, as it's applied to a subject of the public sphere (a museum), isn't exactly something you can expect from all and sundry, since they're more likely to see an explosion killing a young child within a zone dedicated to peace, and wonder why someone chose such a disastrous advertising method.

Here, intellectual pasteurization confronts working realities wherein which it's reduced to sheer idiocy in a matter of viral nanoseconds, accumulating high ratings meanwhile.

This happens elsewhere in the film too.

Not the ratings.

Explanations making things much much worse.

Means and ends.

The Square brilliantly comments on detached postmodern peculiarities, the universal accessibility immediately granted by YouTube and Facebook seeing old world sociopolitical boundaries disappear in radiant flux.

But the film's also concerned with hapless Christian (Claes Bang), who has a good heart but is somewhat of a fool, who tries to live according to the square's ethics but doesn't really get it, and consistently generates fury as he tries to take part and must eventually defend his poorly thought out decisions.

Being a public figure responsible for promoting a cultural institution, he has to constantly answer questions that don't follow an adoring script, with discursive agility and multifaceted ease, but he often can't formulate the simplest of sympathetic responses, can't flexibly b(l)end with inherent political realities.

Christian's ineptitude is chaotically brought to life both publicly and privately after one of his performance exhibits goes psycho at a formal dinner (the embodiment of disenfranchisement playing a role it naturally wouldn't if elites didn't reflexively assume its rage [or a role played by the disenfranchised who wrongly assume the elites assume they're malevolent {best to take each action on a case by case basis/plus watch the ending of The Dark Knight\}]) and his oblivious attempts to get his stolen wallet back cause trouble for a young immigrant boy (Elijandro Edouard).

This review just looks at a small cross-section of what's reflected upon in The Square and offers hasty interpretations.

An international extravaganza that not so subtly uses contemporary psycho comedy to question paths the arts are following, and the constitution required to manage the synthesis of everything, it interrogates the act of questioning with dry satirical responses, and leaves one man floundering while he assumes existential parlay.

Vivacious vortexts.

Decay in bloom.

Teströl és lélekröl (On Body and Soul)

You've seen practically everything.

Life is now void of excitement, and surprise has been replaced with disappointment.

Occupying a leadership role, many feel compelled to seek your advice, and since it is difficult to find people to work in your industry, you won't humiliate them for sharing their thoughts, and they therefore feel safe discussing things with you, as they would a psychiatrist if their wages were much higher.

Everything has been accounted for.

Accept a stunning new inspector, with a photographic memory.

Much too serious, she has never taken the time to develop social skills, or, listen to music, and she still sees her childhood therapist regularly, to discuss the ways in which other individuals interact with one another.

A strict unaltered routine dating from a precise moment recalled unaccustomed to feeling romantic desire, suddenly, tempted.

And after a depressed co-worker steals the mating powder their slaughterhouse uses to encourage timid cattle to procreate, and the detectives leading the investigation demand a psychiatrist be brought in to evaluate all and sundry, the two lovelorn brainiacs discover they've been meeting nightly in dreams, one a fearsome buck, the other, a curious doe, the novelty of the revelation encouraging them to start dating, even if, he's left all that behind him.

And she's never had a boyfriend.

Or anyone else to talk to.

It may sound absurd, but Ildikó Enyedi's Teströl és lélekröl (On Body and Soul) rationally disbelieves to its advantage, cultivating trusting yet hesitant sociopathic romance, as austerity calculates, and flexibility assumes.

How to take a cold industrial setting, one prone to driving even its most brutal employees to despair, and transform it into a cascading tantalizing mystery, restrained yet overflowing with life, may have been the question Enyedi asked himself before creating this brilliant synthesis of comedy, romance, and horror.

Search in the isolated shops of forgotten small towns and you might just find that priceless knick-knack you didn't know you had been looking for for the majority of your strategically planned life.

Teströl és lélekröl is a masterpiece of anesthetized shock, as awkward as it is enlightening, as unconcerned as it is revealing.

With bountiful tips on how to successfully manage a business, Endre (Géza Morcsányi) functioning like the cool level-headed supervisor risk based capitalism left behind, fired, demoted, shipped overseas.

As fun to think about afterwards as it is to simply sit back and watch, the cattle fortunately not focusing too directly in the narrative, it generates ineffable emotion, the clarification of which still leaves you confused.

A grotesquely beautiful mind fuck.

A bucolic must see.

A romantic comedic triumph.

Frolicking away.

Hochelaga, Terre des Âmes (Hochelaga, Land of Souls)

In the 13th Century, a vicious battle having claimed the lives of many young men, a wise First Nations Prophet (Raoul Max Trujillo) chants out through the ages, pleading for peace to flourish eternal within his realm, his words planted on the winds with fertile simplicity, harvesting paradise in war torn isolation.

Who could have predicted what would happen in the following centuries, that another people would come and carve an alternative civilization out of the wilderness, and then another would land and attempt to transform it to their liking, and then others would appear and industriously cultivate traditions of their own, united by the prosperity of a distinct French culture, its multidisciplinary environment, adventurously preordained?

The island of Hochelaga slowly transformed into a metropolis, several of its epochs colourfully brought to life in François Girard's Hochelaga, Terre des Âmes (Land of Souls), sport having replaced destructive battles long passed, an incomparable nightlife spiritually enlivening working days, respect for nature thankfully lambasting fracked revenues and nuclear energy, a versatile collective creatively redefining culture on a mesmerizing weekly basis, orchestrated and executed, with transcendental evanescence.

Terre des Âmes follows a young First Nations archaeologist as he presents his thesis before a gathering of academics, a thesis based upon discoveries made at Percival Molson Memorial Stadium, after a sinkhole opened up during a feisty Redmen's game.

The sinkhole gave Baptiste Asigny (Samian) the opportunity to excavate the field, and the discoveries he made led him to reasonably piece together a convincing historical narrative covering Cartier's discovery of the island, missionary/fur trading clashes in New France, and the Patriot Rebellion of 1837, while also evidencing dynamic First Nations settlements on the island, the film complete with intriguing theoretical associated dramatizations of the periods.

If you find Canadian history somewhat boring, try reading books focused primarily on Québec. If you're at an age where the study of history is becoming more interesting (around 28 for me), you may thoroughly enjoy reading them as much as I do.

I've obviously wondered how long bears survived on the island after its population exploded, and I've never been able to find the date when they disappeared in the books I've read, which weren't about wildlife, but I imagine it was in the late 19th Century or the early 20th, fox, skunks, raccoons, groundhogs, opossums, coyotes, and squirrels still living on the island.

Even though I find Montréal's current composition fascinating, my favourite images from Terre des Âmes show what it may have looked like when it was still predominantly forested, indistinguishable from the massive mainland forests surrounding it, so many centuries ago.

Do some landscapes have a spiritual significance similar to that of Percival Molson Memorial Stadium as it's presented in Terre des Âmes, a kind of undetectable mass accumulation of positive spiritual energies which generate sincere subconscious synergies, like a hub or a server?

Can't answer that question myself.

I've always loved the idea though, since reading about it in Morgan Llywelyn's Druids, and I absolutely loved what Terre des Âmes does with it, how it beautifully unites Montréal's history in a thought provoking contemporary hypothesis, which speaks to the best of what Québecois culture has to offer, has always offered, and will continue to offer.

All down the line.

*With Siân Phillips (Sarah Walker) and Linus Roache (Colonel Philip Thomas).

Hostiles

A violent landscape, the American West near the turn of the 20th Century, most of the major conflicts having come to an end, the remnants of the brutality that saw millions killed or dispossessed still sparring, contradictory conceptions of ownership clashing with abusive indignation, the law stringently enforced, from multiple opposing points of view.

Hostiles is a solid western, unreeling like a traditional American fight your way home film, ambushes, distressed damsels, kidnappings, trespassing, and convicted belligerents awaiting a weathered legendary Captain (Christian Bale as Joseph J. Blocker) as he unwillingly leads a dying Cheyenne Chief (Wes Studi as Yellow Hawk) from New Mexico to Montana.

As he unwillingly leads him home.

Blocker viciously fought American First Nations in many extreme battles and has the reputation for having killed more of them than any other soldier, after almost losing his life in his youth, women and children outrageously included.

The convicted belligerent (Ben Foster as Sgt. Charles Wills) is cleverly used to pursue this point, as he desperately appeals to Blocker's sense of duty, arguing that he's heading to the gallows for committing a crime less abhorrent than many of the Captain's own, thereby appealing to his sense of justice, while delegitimizing applications of the concept.

But he also appeals to his sense of camaraderie, and that's where Hostiles script excels, by narrativizing the strong bonds forged by people who find themselves continuously facing extremes, and the ways in which they grow to platonically love one another as a consequence.

The loss of one having deep long lasting affects.

Yellow Hawk lost his land, his dignity, most of his family, and his way of life.

Captain Blocker fought in many wars and lost many friends and detests having to lead Indigenous warriors home through hostile territory.

But as they travel North, he comes to understand that Yellow Hawk is someone worthy of respect and was likely therefore leading a respectful people.

Yellow Hawk's honest and fair unracially biased actions slowly redefine Blocker's constitution, and the two fierce opponents start working together, overlooking past grievances, respecting each other as persons.

The belligerent be damned.

They also meet and take in the survivor of a horrendous attack early on, during which her husband and three daughters were killed and her homestead set ablaze (Rosamund Pike as Rosalie Quaid), and as Yellow Hawk's family offers their empathy, Blocker notices their humanity, bonds linked by grief further calling into question past actions, his conduct later on, exemplifying conscious evolution.

It's like their entourage represents a fierce multicultural collective which appreciates both genders and is direly forced to fight its way through a relatively lawless realm wherein which the violent scourge and flourish, like unleashed/untethered tigers or birds of prey.

There isn't much dialogue but every uttered syllable means something.

Themes that are less pronounced in many westerns are brought to the fore such as the abuse of Indigenous peoples, the strength of powerful resilient women, forgiveness as opposed to fury, and the changing dynamics of different cultures suddenly living together in peace.

With a conscientious edge.

That isn't too lofty or complicated.

There's still plenty of conflict, it's not a walk in the park or a bushel of apples.

But it's multiculturally vindicated.

With hardboiled romantic community.

Aus dem Nichts (In the Fade)

Germany was a ruin at the end of World War II, rubble and ash produced by insane bigots who thought they were incarnated Übermensch playing out predestined roles.

The Russians crushed them.

The Allies dealt them crippling blows.

Tens of millions dead, goals unachieved, millions still mistrust and vilify Germany to this day, and even if postmodern Deutschland sets the standard for environmental sustainability and multicultural inclusion, and Nazi Germany was governed by brutal thugs who terrorized many into submission, when you watch World War II documentaries about Nazi death camps, or see how they slaughtered local populations when retreating, it's still difficult to separate the horrors from contemporary wonders, the scum, from the conscientious.

I do separate them, Germany shows up in the news doing something incredibly advanced so often that I can classify Nazi Germany as an aberration, and 21st Century Germany as a triumph, but watching those videos provokes latent passions that can't simply be reasoned away with vigour or ease, they were so systematically brutal, so void of compassion or humanity.

It's happening again elsewhere.

Atrocities that shouldn't have been forgotten have been forgotten and new generations of violent racists are once again politically active, have been for years, unconcerned for the lives and futures they would ruin, unconcerned with anything but themselves.

Aus dem Nichts (In the Fade) presents a loving family whose husband is a model of rehabilitation after having served his time in prison.

He's devoted to raising his son, loving his wife, and doing his best at work every day to provide for them.

Their multiethnic family is thriving and making positive contributions to greater Germany, but this offends a Neo-Nazi couple, who detonate a bomb in front of their multitasking business.

The husband and son are killed, and the wife is left suffering ad infinitum.

The film hauntingly focuses on her grief to accentuate the extreme hate crime's malevolence, the eventual trail of the murderers an exercise in sheer torture, as a victim must directly face the impenitent killers of her family.

What is reasonable doubt?

It must be incredibly difficult to make such decisions.

Reason isn't a blue sky or a shining sun.

As many others have pointed out, the vicissitudes of reason rationally articulated can logically drive someone insane, especially if they're the victims of a crime.

And the perpetrator's guilt is obvious.

Aus dem Nichts moves from despondency to hope to vengeance as it desperately seeks retribution.

Patience is an aspect of the sublime.

But how does one keep a cool head when forced to contend with total chaos?

With inflexible ideology?

Does logic apply to the actions of victims of terror?

Rationally?

L'Insulte

Politicians spreading hate to prey upon the weaknesses of their flocks, to turn their latent prejudices into jingoistic warlike ambitions, to transform tolerant markets into breeding grounds for death and destruction, to gain power for themselves which they will share with no one, perniciously pervert and corrupt the religious and/or secular principles they exploit to gain recognition, then bask in luxurious splendour while lives are lost and communities torn apart, after their viewpoints become codes of conduct, and harmless repartee starts invoking wanton bloodshed.

A mechanic falls for the volatile rhetoric of a Lebanese demagogue in Ziad Doueiri's L'Insulte, and proceeds to express himself contemptuously thereafter.

But the Palestinian man whom he targets isn't willing to let things slide, and immediately comes a' knockin' to assert his sincere displeasure.

He's ignored, tensions escalate, his boss, a levelheaded kind hearted understanding person, asks him to apologize for the way in which he retaliated, he agrees, only to have his people vitriolically criticized as he prepares to do so, a genocidal comment that inflames his passions, and leaves his provocateur on the ground with two broken ribs.

As they wait for their day in court, both men are reasonably counselled, and even though Yasser (Kamel El Basha) has a legitimate defence, he refuses to air grievances when eventually pressed by the judge.

He's an ethical person whom the world keeps beating down.

He won't sit back and take it, but he won't rat out his adversaries either.

Complicated film.

Multicultural dilemmas.

Their dispute makes headlines and soon the appeal is a national sensation, ethnocentric hatreds refuelled by each carefully calculated examination, a recent civil war still haunting collective memories, only the truly wicked hoping to see them reanimated once more.

L'Insulte shows how misguided individual actions can have horrendous cultural repercussions if hatred is left to pontificate unchallenged while those who profit from its dissemination publicly promote its virulence.

Tony (Adel Karam) and Yasser can't stand the spectacle. It's one of the film's best aspects. They detest the ways in which their simple disagreement becomes a demented political powder keg.

They slowly learn to understand, and as they tacitly agree to tolerate one another, both as people and as people who have suffered greatly, the film's deep multifaceted layers become more respectfully binding (revolutionaries turned civil servants, diaspora discourses, a child is born, workplace health and safety . . .).

Myriad characters offer brief challenging insights that condense manifold local, regional, national, and international personal and communal ethicopolitical viewpoints into a compelling heartfelt cerebral narrativization.

An argument that could have just been quietly settled.

If they had listened to their wives.

And ignored mad extremists.

Call Me By Your Name

Lazy Summer days, cozy calisthenic concurrences, adventurous insights, carefree study, inspiring intuitions, definitive imprecision, consequent variability, frozen yogurt waffle cones, shinnicked bones, furtive independence, sensual stealth, unpasteurized promenades, thematic quests, impassioned evanescence, vespertine incandescence, echoing undulations, lunar embarkations, fireside simplicity, hidden roasted treasures.

Randomly sought after.

Improvised replays.

Some work to be done perhaps but certainly not right away, not today or this week, this hour, outlines drawn on the sweltering haze, remembered then forgotten, aeronautically cosigned.

At some point.

Envisaged, aggregated.

Legends of the Fall.

Amour.

Attach romance to the above and meaninglessly embrace the omniscience characteristic of the terrestrially divine, the mortal, insofar as you've become half of Inception's whole, and denied yourself through recourse to another.

Floating around, receding.

Call Me By Your Name cherishes love in Summer with the fleeting devotion of hesitant curious maturity.

Patiently sculpted with blossoming freespirited amicability, the easy going free flowing compassion sans conflict that I was hoping to find in Sleeping Giant, cultural differences praised without exaggeration, tranquil friendships, experiments, rests, excursions, it supplely romanticizes neither one nor the other, sensitively creating with the poignancy of unclassified commitment, it adores without seducing, and delicately tempers fair play.

The tenderest, sweetest, bravest, most sober and intelligent love story I've seen in years, as if love wasn't something controversial, wasn't concerned with ownership, loss, or time.

Scientific artistry.

Ethical understanding.

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.

Get Out

Racist idiocy is taken to its ludicrous point of no return in Jordan Peele's terrifying Get Out, wherein which science-fiction theorizes immortality, and horror practically applies it.

Intergenerationally.

An African American is seduced by a Caucasian beauty, and after months of seemingly harmless courtship, is invited to her country home.

Little does he know that the logic underlying his initial misgivings is in fact fuelling her emotional duplicity.

Fundamentally speaking.

For what was formerly dismissed and despised by the reprehensible has been transformed into an object of veneration, or what was once loathed is now admired, even coveted in the corporeal sense.

He soon finds himself designated somnambulistic person of interest, over a cup of late evening tea, and left plunged deep below the subconscious surface.

Floating in limbo.

His closest friend immediately grasps his peril, employing relevant pop cultural analyses to comprehend, but can assist not, from his digs in the heart of the city.

As a result, only improvised ingenuity can psychologically save him, physically speaking, as the operating table is prepped, and shackles retain fear enraged.

Perfidy.

Misjudging friendship.

A mind-boggling manifestation of the Machiavellian macabre, Get Out succeeds where so many horror films fail.

Its absurd plot is rationally realized through a dramatic commitment that is neither forced nor exaggerated.

It doesn't rely on the supernatural and therefore resonates with harrowing plausibility.

More than a weekend was spent writing the script, and the resultant social commentary is less shocking, until the truth emerges.

And clues are presented and analyzed, deductive aids invoked, as the awkward sleuths eternal, confronting dismissive ridicule through haunting contemplation.

It's nice to see so much time and care put into the creation of thought provoking horror.

The social commentary isn't as ridiculous as it seems, in fact it's quite reasonable, mad jealousy taken to the extreme, the insane application of unscientific conjecture.

I always thought you see a lot of African Americans on professional sports teams because institutional racism keeps their communities poor, and when you're poor you have a lot more time to focus on sport, if you aren't working, and more drive to be the best, because you aren't growing up surrounded by luxurious distractions and potential opportunities.

That's the logical explanation anyways.

As upsetting as such a point remains.

The Disaster Artist

Let's make a film.

Just write one up and shoot it.

Figure shit out on the fly.

Improvised panoramas.

Excelsior.

Incumbent deconstruction, the drive, the crew, the means, ecstatic Aberdeen, no questions asked, no answers given, just pure raw sutured cataclysm, supercilious sagacity, uncompromising desire, and opaque expertise.

For The Room, the team was assembled, it was undertaken with zero film production knowledge, conflicts inherently emerging between director/writer/producer/star/ . . . Tommy and those he had hired, a cult-classic aggregated through the mayhem, complete with rarefied mystifying endearing bewilderment.

Think things through?

Don't think things through, ye outcast with inexhaustible resources, many of Herzog's early films weren't that good, but some of them were, and he kept making more and more until he became a sought after phenom, morbidly obsessed with death and violence, doin' his thang, cultivatin' that groove.

Tommy needed someone, a friend, a pal, a partner, a confidant, he needed someone around to motivate him to do something, like ambient social energizing parlay, he found it while studying acting in San Francisco, in the form of an enthusiastic fellow student named Greg (Dave Franco), according to The Disaster Artist, which seems genuine if it isn't too commercial, anyways, he just needed that someone to talk to, one person, even if he was self-absorbed and unapproachable, he couldn't live the dream on his own, he needed another, a self-sustaining uplifting bromantic catalyst, which would have been tragic if he hadn't embraced the comedy.

The laughter.

I've never seen The Room nor made or been part of the making of a film, but I imagine its lauded receptions has helped its aggrieved creators overlook disputes impassioned on set.

Perhaps, with unlimited wealth, it would be wiser to study film before directing and writing and producing and acting in one, even if the prestige of the self-made auteur simultaneously excites while oppressing bohemians everywhere, but you can't beat the novelty of rash unrefined dedicated loose imagination, wildly conjuring with eclectic poise, self-destructing to salute freewill, as long as it's true to its ever widening vision, and not in charge of the world's largest military.

The Disaster Artist is a lot of fun.

It examines underground filmmaking through a critically sympathetic super bizarro lens that regards the traditionally foolish with legendary unheralded agency.

With respect.

Blending the creepy and the courageous with warm resolute congeniality, or campy contagion, it transforms shock into sensation, midnight into lounging afternoon praise.

Damned irrefutable.

Phantom Thread

A life meticulously lived according to exacting criteria, quotidian asseverations infused with unacknowledged ritualistic admiration, everyone within his artistic sphere delicately catering to these blessed immutable prescriptions, his childish fastidious sophistication ethereally incarnating elegant cherished widely sought after constellations, dresses, among which starstruck architectures and promulgations and orchestrations and voyages are covetously imagined by both fiancée and unknown suitor, accolades, repute, and standing cultivating a dangerous self-worth carefully checked by his adoring sister, discipline jarring the uninitiated, romantic interests unable to penetrate exclusive resolve.

For a lengthy period of time.

While resting in the country, he meets and falls for a girl of a different kind, one less prone to statically accepting the intricate rules and regulations that permeate every aspect of his art, a beautiful freespirited contradictory ingenue, less in awe of his brilliance than infuriated by his ingratitude.

How does one establish themselves as a lasting integral prominent feature within his unchanging excessively refined obsessions?

Impassion the persnickety?

Without impacting his work?

Phantom Thread illuminates a haunting patience rarely seduced by American cinema.

In possession of an aesthetic often found in great European films, it's as if Paul Thomas Anderson is determined young Alma (Vicky Krieps), and Reynolds Woodcock (Daniel Day-Lewis) unimpressionable Eurocentric film critics.

As if the purest imagination is that which never takes part but always considers what would happen if it did, yet doesn't lambaste others for stepping forward, and then one day finds itself basking in the sauntering wake of a highly strung affected talented unabashed American manifestation, a model of its own creation, I wonder how Phantom Thread's being received in Germany, France, Spain, or the Netherlands, is it embracing applause due to its inherent sensitivities, or consternation regarding its atypical innocence?

How many graceful subtle provocative American films are there which examine the eccentricities of someone without any athletic aspirations, literally or figuratively, argumentatively?

Furtively enveloping strife bespoken?

Unhesitant concerning aspirations?

Indicative of early Winter.

The Post

Legal complications threaten the existence of The Washington Post after they publish government documents concerning executive American lies relating to the war in Vietnam, and the ways in which the unsuspecting public was scandalously misled about its necessity, in Steven Spielberg's The Post, wherein which the truth is jurisprudently vindicated.

A bold conscientious writer risks everything to photocopy and transmit the documents to the press, hiding out in a nondescript hotel room as the information first hits The New York Times.

The Post, also in the business of selling newspapers, 😉, is caught off guard without a competitive headline, and immediately seeks the clandestine source while Nixon's administration litigiously responds.

But its owner has recently taken the initial steps of transforming her paper into a public company, and controversial eruptions misclassified as shady dealings could seriously jeopardize the prosperity of its future (Meryl Streep as Kay Graham).

Her longtime and trusted friend Ben Bradlee (Tom Hanks) manages The Post's daily outputs, however, and is dead set against letting those who started a war, even though they knew it was outrageously unconscionable, unlike fighting back in World War II for instance, off the public hook.

Thus, you have ethics, the correct move in this situation obviously holding the government to account for its domestic and international abuses, versus economics, or the possibility that making the correct move could result in both jail time and the loss of an historic voice, an historic newspaper, omnipresent politics overshadowed by the courageous stand.

Debates abound as to what course should be taken, and multiple opposing viewpoints passionately have their say.

Mrs. Graham is haunted by her patriarchal conditioning and the misogynistic paternalism that has dominated most of her life.

But it's still her decision to make, the bold reckoning resting on her magnanimous shoulders, and wisdom is applied when she makes it, bold risk in the extreme, altruistically disseminated.

The Post's a good film, a dynamic multifaceted script introducing and diversifying sundry distinct personalities as they lucidly dispute big picture questions within scant pressurized time constraints, with the interests of encouraging a more peaceful world, the freedom of the press, and more mature public debate.

The debates are convincing, differences and alternatives characteristically narrativized, determined brash eloquent strengths qualified with reasonable compunction, professionalism, journalism, prison, and friendship, perforating the discussions with apt interrogative logic.

A bit cheesy at times, but I think that's just how Spielberg brilliantly crafts intense complex potentially boring films that can be thoroughly enjoyed by adolescents and adults alike.

With Bob Odenkirk (Ben Bagdikian) and David Cross (Howard Simons).

Reading the news online is convenient but definitely not the same as sitting back with a paper.

Sometimes with online news it's like you have to know what to search for, regardless of whether or not it exists.

With the physical paper you can move from page to page and find compelling articles you never knew you were searching for, as easily as if you're browsing at Indigo or the local independent bookstore.

Come to think of it.

The Commuter

A horrible day becomes incredibly worse as an honest intelligent literary family man finds himself caught up in a plutocratic conspiracy, after having been callously dismissed from work, multiple lives dependent on his aggrieved spontaneity, while time quickly passes, in chilling centigrade.

He's a commuter, commutes downtown tous les jours from a quiet idyllic hideaway, for 10 years in fact, doing his best at work to ensure his clients are treated fairly, let go so the miserly company he worked for wouldn't have to pay his pension.

Disgraceful.

On his commute home, he's villainously coerced into discovering the identity of a conscientious individual in possession of evidence which would incriminate the perpetrators of an executive level crime, before the last stop, malfeasance which he or she also witnessed, the upper levels none too pleased with the illicit nature of their dealings being made public, and willing to pay lavish sums to see those they can't buy off silenced.

Not in Trump's case though.

Wow does everyone ever love screwing that guy over.

It's becoming a sport.

The commuter in question, one Michael MacCauley (Liam Neeson), has to uncharacteristically schmooze with his fellow passengers, the awkward nature of the exchanges becoming increasingly hostile as time runs out.

He's friendly and greets everyone daily, but is more known for reading on route, not forcing small talk.

There's even a great Texas hold-em match which demonstrates how unreasonable pressures lead otherwise upright peeps to use xenophobic strategies to obtain scurrilous sought after goals, the politics of who belongs aggressively employed out of sheer wanton hopelessness, psychotic demands bellicosely breeding psychotic outcomes.

Michael feels ashamed and eventually stops playing along even though his puppeteers claim they've abducted and will harm his family.

Inspired by his example, soon everyone on the train is self-sacrificing, and there's another great scene, where you see them metaphorically creating a union.

Makes it harder to be fired.

Just have to make sure the company you work for remains profitable.

It's a thrilling bold ethical castigation of those who caused the 2008 financial crisis and were never held to account, The Commuter is, the ways in which they still screw over little guys and gals with or without the aid of law enforcement also a subject of interrogation, paydays and corrupt ways plus pilfering and penny-pinching pronounced and nuanced, cronies versus constitutionals, 😉, stickin' it to the man, evidenced through combative conscience.

Smoothly situated in a sustained daily environmentally friendly ride, the opening moments cleverly capturing loving variations on a conjugal theme, The Commuter breathtakes to incarcerate belittling politics of division, or at least derails attempts to shatter hardworking solidarity.

With a classic performance from Mr. Neeson, whose unparalleled passion gradually builds as the tension chaotically intensifies, the other characters on the train adding complementary cheek, notably Colin McFarlane (Conductor Sam), and the one and only Jonathon Banks (Walt)(Gremlins, Freejack).

With Vera Farmiga (Joanna), Sam Neill (Captain Hawthorne) and Patrick Wilson (Alex Murphy).

My timing for the métro was perfect afterwards.

Didn't miss a beat.

I, Tonya

Piecing together an identity can be laborious work, requiring years of dedicated research and a mastery of sundry source materials, a striking caricature then struck from the resultant reams of research that hopefully captivates both lay and expert viewers or readers alike, with its traditional exceptions, critical controversies exemplified notwithstanding, how does one classify an individual?, I'm still not certain, but can loosely stitch different economic realities together, if so tasked, or perhaps, commissioned.

Some worlds within worlds, however, the figure skating world as it's depicted in I, Tonya for instance, delicately existing within the unpredictable rambunctious buck of wild hardworking American egalitarian miscellany, prefer such narratives to eagerly adopt a prim presentation, as they're inspirationally and influentially disseminated to curious fans, exceptions to the rules obdurately punished for their lack of eloquence, even if, like Tonya Harding (Margot Robbie/McKenna Grace/Maizie Smith), they're one of the greatest representatives the sport has ever seen.

In the U.S even, where a versatile hardboiled lack of gentility has long been its cultural calling card.

More research required.

But you would think that in a culture which also prides itself on athletic achievement, funds would have been made available to assist young Tonya in acquiring the expensive outfits she couldn't buy, especially after she became the first American female figure skater to land the triple Axel, it wasn't the case though, according to I, Tonya, and instead her sartorial ingenuity often resulted in belittling judicial penalties.

Not that goodwill would have saved her.

Eventually, her foolish abusive shitbag husband's (Sebastian Stan as Jeff Gillooly) Cro-Magnon friend (Paul Walter Hauser as Shawn) ruined her career by facilitating an act so loathsomely stupid it still occupies a prominent place in the halls of true idiocy.

True infamy.

Strange film.

The music and mockumentarially realistic interviews set it up like a rip-roarin' homebrewed good time, but then you watch as Tonya's constantly abused from the age of 4 like director Craig Gillespie found a way to incarnate hair on the dog, and it's disconcerting.

You bought it.

Even with all that national attention she still had nowhere else to go, and the people whom you'd think would offer support, the aristos of the figure skating enclave, seem to have given her the crystal clear finger, perhaps hoping her unsuitable image would then quickly fade.

She was tough though, didn't back down, kept fighting until her supporting cast fucked shit up irreconcilably, an iconic American.

The film's really well done if it isn't disturbing.

Frightening.

Don't know where the truth's to be dug out of it but it certainly does facilitate some sincere craziness.

General sobriety's a good thing if you're competing internationally.

I'm not saying the world of figure skating should be like a monster truck rally, although that might make a funny tv movie, but perhaps it could be more sympathetic.

Seems like Ms. Harding should have had a lot more support anyways.

More research required.

As it stands, I, Tonya's an American tragedy.

Always great to see Bobby Cannavale (Martin Maddox).

Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri

Martin McDonagh cranks up Sympathy for the Devil and holds nothing back in Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri, as an abusive bigoted homophobic policeperson does the right thing for once after a lifetime of gross civil indecency.

The schematics.

A grieving mother (Frances McDormand as Mildred), whose daughter was brutally murdered, rents three billboards outside Ebbing, Missouri, to boldly call out the local police chief (Woody Harrelson as Chief Willoughby) for having made no progress on the case months later.

Her fury is justified and her disobedience sincere, even if members of the local constabulary don't see it that way, members who no longer take the case seriously.

An individual's reasonable observations therefore conflict with statistics and precedents, the police having handled similar cases before, and done relatively little after their initial investigation led nowhere.

Did complacency brought about by years of cold routine cause them to simply ignore the case?

Possibly.

Spoiler.

The police chief, who is dying of cancer, does commit suicide not long after the billboards go up.

This isn't Mississippi Burning.

Even if Ebbing's blunt righteous inspirational indignation generates hardboiled perdition, wherein which everyone is scorched in the flames, including James (Peter Dinklage), unwittingly, who's introduced to critique Mildred, or to reflect upon a culture so saturated with stereotypical thinking that no one's done anything genuine for decades, until the three billboards go up, after which people who don't have much experience feeling suddenly find themselves culturally enraged, unprecedented emotions wildly seeking semantic clarification, it's no Mississippi Burning, a film that doesn't present the racist pretensions of the local police force so lightly.

But the Feds aren't called in in this one, and even though I'm a forgiving man, and love a story that sees the hardboiled ethical transformation of a character like Dixon (Sam Rockwell), a grizzly tale that doesn't shy away from gruesome cultural codes, he still brutally assaults people and the law doesn't hold him to account, apart from taking his badge away, and I don't see why the metamorphosis of the brutally violent police officer is being celebrated with awards, when Wind River, another dark film that examines stark polarized realities, which is also well-written and compelling, was released in 2017, and ignored by the Golden Globes.

That's called white privilege, I believe.

Was The Revenant too soon?

All the Money in the World

What would you do if you were the richest person in the world, if you had more money than anyone else, if you made the other plutocrats look like paupers in comparison, if you could turn the Cleveland Browns into a Super Bowl contender?

I suppose I would travel a lot. Buy some nice things. A lot of Ne'Qwa. Donate heavily to schools. Open a bakery and a vegetarian fast food chain and a restaurant that sells its own craft beer. Make a film, tip lavishly, give tens of millions away, support athletes and artists, and vigilantly fight the poaching of endangered species.

A lot of good could be done with the world's largest fortune, a lot of positive changes could be made, poverty could be reduced for millions, a little bit more camaraderie, a little bit less sarcastic fatalism.

Incredible Christmases/Holiday Seasons.

Ridley Scott's All the Money in the World takes a look at J. Paul Getty (Christopher Plummer), who was the richest man in the world yet still never felt comfortable or secure.

A miser in the purest sense, even with all that money he never made much of an effort to get to know his family, his offspring, let alone learn to love them, preferring to acquire esteemed physical objects instead, because they wouldn't change their minds or disagree with him, he even let his grandson be terrorized by kidnappers for months rather than pay his ransom, even after they cut off his ear, even after they threatened to kill him.

Monstrous avarice.

That's what the film's about, the kidnapping of Getty's grandson (Charlie Plummer as John Paul Getty III), the dire straits of his desperate mother (Michelle Williams), the transformation of stern Ex-CIA Agent Fletcher Chase (Mark Wahlberg), and a growing friendship forged between kidnapped and kidnapper (Romain Duris as Cinquanta).

Costume design by Janty Yates.

Michelle Williams keeps getting better. She's capably transitioning from ingenue to matron with remarkable ambivalence.

Duris caught my attention too.

Solid film, well-constructed, super direct but perhaps not the place for metaphorical innovation, a critical examination of wealth backed up by believable characters and situations which energetically, controversially, argumentatively, speculatively, and empathetically move the plot along, sure and steady confident competent filmmaking, emotionally telling a story without histrionically agitating.

In these bizarro political times, I imagine some groups are commending the elder Getty on his moribund intractability.

While mad people argue about whose nuclear missile launch button is bigger.

Sometimes I think they're friends and they just like globally stirrin' the pot.

Such thoughts are dangerous.

*I'm so boycotting Tim Hortons.

Downsizing

Diseases, viruses, contagions, and plagues, having become much less common in the Western World in recent centuries, the afflicted often living long productive lives regardless, a Canadian even having recently found a way to stop cancer cells from spreading, it seems that either humanity is soberly outwitting its microbacterial/. . . foes, or they've used stealth to regroup so that they can one day deliver an unsolicited crushing biological blow, which will significantly reduce unselected populations, and make trivial obsessions seem much less monumental.

Havoc unleashed as the misperceived threat pounces.

Desperation disseminated as no cure can be found.

Heroic scientists combatting the pestilence in experimental pharmaceutical conclaves.

Subterranean realms geothermally flourishing with the spontaneous agility of a holistic labyrinthine avant-garde.

Global warming is undeniable, and taking steps to fight it paramount, and when people argue that it's too late, that we can't reverse what's already been done, I tend to think they've embraced gross ignorance to cover up their lack of transformative imagination.

Alexander Payne's Downsizing is ripe with metamorphic creativity however, even if its cute and cuddly miniaturizations wind up satirically reinstating the status-quo, the idea itself applied and collectivized literally, without much savage elaboration.

A bird attack?

Tame the ants!

I like to overlook the irrational, or find related metaphorical justifications, especially while viewing films who seem to be ironically catering to realistic pretensions which seem out of place in the prognosticative fantastic, so although the sea voyage from the airport was stretching it a bit, and could have been less dry, they were towing vodka, it still suggests that a wild credulous embrace of the unknown can generate blissful compensations, at peace in distilled waters, the compensations themselves rich inasmuch as they bask in surprisingly unfathomable depths, wherein unforeseen variables constantly tempt at play.

If you can simultaneously keep a level-head while somehow getting caught up with them.

Nothing like that happens in Downsizing though, it's more of a laid-back chill examination of how a good natured individual stoically deals with distress, his composed self-sacrifices fraught with cumbersome repercussions, which he patiently ignores with resigned saintly composure.

And humour.

A remarkable look at humble moderation and the seemingly preordained aspects of random belittling chance, Downsizing wasn't as energetic as I thought it would be, but still excelled at fomenting fortunes rich in communal longevity.

Who knows for how long?

Add more ridiculousness, harvest sequels and/or televisual applications.

A bird wouldn't actually be ridiculous I suppose.

It would seem sensational but would actually be realistic.

Restrained genius?

With Udo Kier (Konrad).

Darkest Hour

Western Europe crippled by Nazi aggression.

The entire British army almost lost.

Homeland resistance overwhelmed yet fierce.

Bitter negotiations clad in distraught whimper.

A controversial figure emerges, as respected and envied as he was distrusted and maligned, as equally capable of blundering as he was of succeeding, audaciously exemplifying both defeat and triumph, yet always ready to make difficult decisions, finding bold solutions when faced with formidable opposition, branded bullish bellicose resolve, suddenly called upon, to lead throughout times most wrathful.

Joe Wright's Darkest Hour presents a well-rounded examination of Winston Churchill (Gary Oldman) near the beginning of World War II, when he was tasked with leading the United Kingdom.

It appeared as if the British army would indeed be lost, which led many politicians to reasonably consider capitulating to Germany.

Although after seeing how cavalierly Hitler had disregarded deals he had struck with independent nations in recent years, negotiating with him under any circumstances must have made one feel extremely vulnerable.

Churchill seemed to understand the latter better than Halifax (Stephen Dillane) or Chamberlain (Ronald Pickup), as suggested by Darkest Hour, and even if the loss of Britain's army may have compelled him to agree to direst terms, he was still courageous enough to do anything he could to avoid such a disastrous situation.

Call on the civilian fleet to save the troops surrounded at Dunkirk.

Brilliance.

Joe Wright's Churchill was a fighter who knew how to lose but would do anything he could to win during a conflict.

And he wanted to save Britain from Nazi tyranny.

He wanted to fight them until all was lost.

Others within the government assumed they had already lost, so Churchill had to fight them along with the Nazis.

In fact, Darkest Hour showcases a politician who had to fight powerful personalities throughout the entire course of each and every day after he was sworn in as prime minister, a non-stop internal and external battle which he was stubborn enough to keep fighting yet malleable enough to know when to back down.

Staying one step ahead of alcoholic ruin the whole time.

He was broke too.

His unpredictable nature even frightened the King (Ben Mendelsohn), unpredictable inasmuch as people never knew what he was going to say or do, never knew what improvised comment or action would support his determined passionate argument.

It was like he handled the most stressful circumstances Britain had faced since the Roman Empire invaded with the resolute calm of a massive grizzly bear defending its kill from both other bears and a pack of wolves, always ready to fight on, thoughtfully working within an emotional tempest which he had the foresight to bravely ride and the composure to resist unbridled.

It is a movie after all, I don't know if he was really such an admirable person, but it's still a good movie that's well worth seeing, if not to praise the person who led the UK through its darkest hours, then to uphold a multidimensional inspirational caricature which could practically imagine a concrete solution for any theoretical problem, without overlooking lessons taught by chance and spontaneity, irrepressible spirit, always struggling on.

Reanimated by Gary Oldman.

I was almost clapping near the end.