Justin Pemberton's documentary Capital in the Twenty-First Century briefly examines striking differences between 19th, 20th, and 21st century economics, or the ways in which capital was or has been amassed during these periods according to remarkably different socioeconomic realities.
It emphasizes that after World War II the middle-classes in the Western World accumulated vast riches and became powerful political players, as their reach and influence expanded due to a much more level financial playing field.
Such wealth lead to significant political reforms (universal healthcare, public education, mass public transportation networks, retirement pensions, . . .) that sharply contrasted 19th century institutions, wherein which, as the film relates, a tiny fraction of the population possessed most of a country's wealth and power, and went about creating political systems that ensured they perennially held on to it.
The documentary suggests that the 21st century's economic realities thus far resemble the 19th's much more closely than the 20th's, insofar as tiny fractions of the population currently possess huge shares of their nations' wealth, as the power of related middle-classes has seriously declined in recent decades.
A contributing factor to this decline which the film examines is the current availability of tax resources.
I don't know how precise its figures are, documentaries are more like cool short essays than lengthy books, but it's clear from the data presented that a lot of international businesses that have arisen in recent years don't pay that much in tax, and if they did the public purse would have a lot more funds for roads, schools, transport, and hospitals.
The idea of healthy communities possessing disposable incomes to develop a wide variety of supplementary goods and services is an appealing one, inasmuch as a greater distribution of wealth and taxation leads to less poverty and crime.
Is it not preferable to sustain moderately happy employed communities wherein which there's a general sense of well-being, to networks of distressed fearful impoverished ones who can't afford to buy what you're trying to sell them?
Don't disposable incomes make the wealthy even more wealthy while keeping the rest of the population secure, so people don't have to worry about what neighbourhood they're in or hire private security?
Isn't a social sphere wherein which you can safely visit every neighbourhood or small town and see what creative things they have to offer preferable to avoiding certain towns and neighbourhoods while travelling around with heavily armed guards?
If manufacturing jobs return in abundance with reduced wages, don't prices have to decrease, to avoid economic collapses brought about by credit bubbles?
Doesn't the flourishing of well-financed public schools make for better general conversation and more stimulating books and films, as diverse multifaceted local voices find inquisitive global audiences?
Isn't curiosity preferable to contempt amongst different demographic groups?
The exchange of intriguing difference?
The development of more energy efficient technologies?
Friday, June 19, 2020
Tuesday, June 16, 2020
La Casa Lobo (The Wolf House)
A small village in the Chilean countryside produces honey while Pinochet reigns, every aspect of its communal existence preconceived and strictly monitored.
Membership is clad eternal, there's no straying from the austere flock, misunderstandings engendering punishment, belittling and quite severe.
Maria is independent and cares not for the steady routine, her daydreams encouraging sharp reprimands as she counterintuitively seeks expression.
One day she sets off into the forbidding forested horizon, determined to vigorously make it, her wits attuned to the luscious wilderness.
She locates an abandoned house wherein which emancipated pigs survive, who soon become her dearest friends, cherished reliant agreeable confidants.
But a wolf haunts the exterior terrain with fierce frightening ravenous omnipresence, their harmonious improvised alternative shyly persisting under hostile constraint.
They endure and emphatically matriculate.
Maria sharing her knowledge.
For a time it's quite idyllic.
Until provisions start to run out.
A chilling parable harrowingly composed to accentuate psychology torn asunder, La Casa Lobo (The Wolf House) smotheringly provokes consternation as it stifles difference.
A rigid blueprint rigorously scripted to ensure precise uncompromised obedience, with neither tolerance nor mediation written into its prescriptive views.
As individuality materializes it must be situated within specific limitations, to ensure no one is ever distracted from the necessary work at hand.
Maria loosens the fatalistic fastenings through the elevation of critical spirits, whose ethereal intangible substance slowly fades when faced with hunger.
The paranoia through which she's been nurtured then manifests itself in menace, deconstructing heartfelt amelioration with crazed drab bitter anxious conformity.
The pigs are no longer her friends.
They are trying to duplicitously subvert her.
She can no longer teach them new things.
She must adopt a less subversive role.
Aligning aggrieved spiritual discontent with physical unsettling pressures, La Casa Lobo presents totalitarianism to distressingly shock anew.
Imagining what things would be like if there was nowhere else to go, and you didn't fit in, it laments the loss of wonder as genius evokes in flower.
The most visually stunning film I've seen since Loving Vincent, its form brilliantly defies the wolf while its content solemnizes desperation.
One part distraught exposition, another typical of insular world views, it magnifies ideological indoctrination, with grim innocent startling despondency.
Membership is clad eternal, there's no straying from the austere flock, misunderstandings engendering punishment, belittling and quite severe.
Maria is independent and cares not for the steady routine, her daydreams encouraging sharp reprimands as she counterintuitively seeks expression.
One day she sets off into the forbidding forested horizon, determined to vigorously make it, her wits attuned to the luscious wilderness.
She locates an abandoned house wherein which emancipated pigs survive, who soon become her dearest friends, cherished reliant agreeable confidants.
But a wolf haunts the exterior terrain with fierce frightening ravenous omnipresence, their harmonious improvised alternative shyly persisting under hostile constraint.
They endure and emphatically matriculate.
Maria sharing her knowledge.
For a time it's quite idyllic.
Until provisions start to run out.
A chilling parable harrowingly composed to accentuate psychology torn asunder, La Casa Lobo (The Wolf House) smotheringly provokes consternation as it stifles difference.
A rigid blueprint rigorously scripted to ensure precise uncompromised obedience, with neither tolerance nor mediation written into its prescriptive views.
As individuality materializes it must be situated within specific limitations, to ensure no one is ever distracted from the necessary work at hand.
Maria loosens the fatalistic fastenings through the elevation of critical spirits, whose ethereal intangible substance slowly fades when faced with hunger.
The paranoia through which she's been nurtured then manifests itself in menace, deconstructing heartfelt amelioration with crazed drab bitter anxious conformity.
The pigs are no longer her friends.
They are trying to duplicitously subvert her.
She can no longer teach them new things.
She must adopt a less subversive role.
Aligning aggrieved spiritual discontent with physical unsettling pressures, La Casa Lobo presents totalitarianism to distressingly shock anew.
Imagining what things would be like if there was nowhere else to go, and you didn't fit in, it laments the loss of wonder as genius evokes in flower.
The most visually stunning film I've seen since Loving Vincent, its form brilliantly defies the wolf while its content solemnizes desperation.
One part distraught exposition, another typical of insular world views, it magnifies ideological indoctrination, with grim innocent startling despondency.
Friday, June 12, 2020
License to Drive
The unyielding desire to get out and drive, to head out on the road, to deck out your ride.
It motivates Les Anderson (Corey Haim) in Greg Beeman's License to Drive, who has yet to obtain his driver's license, yet boldly seeks to apply himself vehicularly, and then drive his eager friends around town.
A car is available should he pass the crucial test, and Mercedes Lane (Heather Graham) has agreed to date him, having just broken up with her conceited boyfriend (M.A Nickles as Paolo), whose chauvinism was rather enraging.
There's just one problem.
Perhaps several problems.
Les falls asleep during driver's ed class and fails to acquire vital tidbits of information, which leads to him failing the written portion of his exam, since he's unable to guess the right answers.
But as fate would have it, the computers suddenly break down, his results remaining unknown, and since his twin sister (Nina Siemaszko as Natalie Anderson) passed beforehand, he's given encouraging motivation.
He passes the in-car portion of the exam under unorthodox forbidding circumstances, and returns to the examination centre full of upbeat pluck and resolve.
But his written results have been retrieved, his newfound prosperity instantly nullified.
Yet he still has a date that evening.
And friends who rely upon him.
Trouble abounds after he steals his grandfather's (Parley Baer) Caddy and Mercedes drinks way too much.
But Corey Feldman and Charles (Michael Manasseri) show no hesitation: they're still up for a bombastic drive.
Ah well.
I was hoping for so much more from License to Drive. It didn't have much of a buzz when I was growing up, but there's so much from way back when that I'm sure I must have missed out on.
It's cool to see Corey Haim and Corey Feldman engaged in shenanigans again, and Heather Graham, Carol Kane (Mrs. Anderson), Richard Masur (Mr. Anderson), and James Avery (Les's DMV Examiner) make the most of it; there's no slouching in the face of spasticity.
It promotes driving and the urge to drive with driven adolescent wonder, and sets up a variety of traditional incidents which perhaps still widely resonate.
But protestors and activists are vilified, as are the minority boyfriends of its lasses, and drinking and driving is whitewashed, and I couldn't find a classic '80s moment.
Too high of an elevation of slacking, not enough respect for book smarts, it tries to take things to uninhibited extremes, without ever really kicking into gear.
It motivates Les Anderson (Corey Haim) in Greg Beeman's License to Drive, who has yet to obtain his driver's license, yet boldly seeks to apply himself vehicularly, and then drive his eager friends around town.
A car is available should he pass the crucial test, and Mercedes Lane (Heather Graham) has agreed to date him, having just broken up with her conceited boyfriend (M.A Nickles as Paolo), whose chauvinism was rather enraging.
There's just one problem.
Perhaps several problems.
Les falls asleep during driver's ed class and fails to acquire vital tidbits of information, which leads to him failing the written portion of his exam, since he's unable to guess the right answers.
But as fate would have it, the computers suddenly break down, his results remaining unknown, and since his twin sister (Nina Siemaszko as Natalie Anderson) passed beforehand, he's given encouraging motivation.
He passes the in-car portion of the exam under unorthodox forbidding circumstances, and returns to the examination centre full of upbeat pluck and resolve.
But his written results have been retrieved, his newfound prosperity instantly nullified.
Yet he still has a date that evening.
And friends who rely upon him.
Trouble abounds after he steals his grandfather's (Parley Baer) Caddy and Mercedes drinks way too much.
But Corey Feldman and Charles (Michael Manasseri) show no hesitation: they're still up for a bombastic drive.
Ah well.
I was hoping for so much more from License to Drive. It didn't have much of a buzz when I was growing up, but there's so much from way back when that I'm sure I must have missed out on.
It's cool to see Corey Haim and Corey Feldman engaged in shenanigans again, and Heather Graham, Carol Kane (Mrs. Anderson), Richard Masur (Mr. Anderson), and James Avery (Les's DMV Examiner) make the most of it; there's no slouching in the face of spasticity.
It promotes driving and the urge to drive with driven adolescent wonder, and sets up a variety of traditional incidents which perhaps still widely resonate.
But protestors and activists are vilified, as are the minority boyfriends of its lasses, and drinking and driving is whitewashed, and I couldn't find a classic '80s moment.
Too high of an elevation of slacking, not enough respect for book smarts, it tries to take things to uninhibited extremes, without ever really kicking into gear.
Tuesday, June 9, 2020
The Etruscan Smile
Stubborn differences of opinion lead to a prolonged estrangement before a father embraces diplomacy in the grouchy Etruscan Smile.
Practically nothing could ever convince Rory MacNeil (Brian Cox) to leave his remote island home, but local doctors can't diagnose what ails him, and recommend he seek medical advice abroad.
His son Ian (JJ Feild) lives in San Francisco, across the pond in another dimension, with his wife Emily (Thora Birch) and infant son, where he pursues the culinary arts.
Rory's happy to meet his grandchild but isn't hip to new age parenting, or anything that doesn't snuggly fit within a rigid conception of manhood.
His son is moderately successful as is his resourceful wife, his father-in-law (Treat Williams as Frank Barron) offering him the opportunity to open his own chill restaurant.
But in order to so he must compromise, his newfound freedom clad in obedience, contesting tried and true dependable methods, which are highly suspicious of unheralded novelty.
His father is none too impressed with the deals that have to be made, and expresses himself to the contentious contrary, their age old argument flaring up, even after so many lost years.
Sometimes a simpler approach can clarify things or perhaps even save years of time, complicated procedures and multiple-egos standing in the way of unprecedented conception.
The Etruscan Smile celebrates direct communication within a prescriptive environment, all the while asking, "who's more uptight?", to generate critical sufferance.
Bucolic candour playfully contends as politesse loses its joyful direction, urban characters finding Rory endearing, since he isn't racist or vulgar or violent.
It's an innocent freespirited look at sharp alternatives begrudgingly blended, reminding peeps not to forget their roots, even in the midst of intense abstraction.
I don't know, if someone's willing to finance your own restaurant, you'd think you'd compromise a bit on the menu, until such a time as it's turning a profit, after which you could add unique spices.
But where to draw the line on compromise?, that's a tricky business.
I imagine success is more rewarding if you do things your own way, but how do you ever accomplish anything working on your own?
Rory never left his isolated island. Where he owned property and never had to change.
Where going to the pub sufficed.
And nothing passed by unnoticed.
His adventure to San Francisco is still enlivening and full of pluck, an elevation of blunt distinction that doesn't come across as reckless.
Too reckless. 😌
If unfiltered wild rapscallions can adjust so can upscale pride.
But they both have to be willing to adjust.
Perhaps Biden can make it happen.
With Rosanna Arquette (Claudia), Peter Coyote (the Professor), and Tim Matheson (Weiss).
A bit farfetched.
But held together well.
Practically nothing could ever convince Rory MacNeil (Brian Cox) to leave his remote island home, but local doctors can't diagnose what ails him, and recommend he seek medical advice abroad.
His son Ian (JJ Feild) lives in San Francisco, across the pond in another dimension, with his wife Emily (Thora Birch) and infant son, where he pursues the culinary arts.
Rory's happy to meet his grandchild but isn't hip to new age parenting, or anything that doesn't snuggly fit within a rigid conception of manhood.
His son is moderately successful as is his resourceful wife, his father-in-law (Treat Williams as Frank Barron) offering him the opportunity to open his own chill restaurant.
But in order to so he must compromise, his newfound freedom clad in obedience, contesting tried and true dependable methods, which are highly suspicious of unheralded novelty.
His father is none too impressed with the deals that have to be made, and expresses himself to the contentious contrary, their age old argument flaring up, even after so many lost years.
Sometimes a simpler approach can clarify things or perhaps even save years of time, complicated procedures and multiple-egos standing in the way of unprecedented conception.
The Etruscan Smile celebrates direct communication within a prescriptive environment, all the while asking, "who's more uptight?", to generate critical sufferance.
Bucolic candour playfully contends as politesse loses its joyful direction, urban characters finding Rory endearing, since he isn't racist or vulgar or violent.
It's an innocent freespirited look at sharp alternatives begrudgingly blended, reminding peeps not to forget their roots, even in the midst of intense abstraction.
I don't know, if someone's willing to finance your own restaurant, you'd think you'd compromise a bit on the menu, until such a time as it's turning a profit, after which you could add unique spices.
But where to draw the line on compromise?, that's a tricky business.
I imagine success is more rewarding if you do things your own way, but how do you ever accomplish anything working on your own?
Rory never left his isolated island. Where he owned property and never had to change.
Where going to the pub sufficed.
And nothing passed by unnoticed.
His adventure to San Francisco is still enlivening and full of pluck, an elevation of blunt distinction that doesn't come across as reckless.
Too reckless. 😌
If unfiltered wild rapscallions can adjust so can upscale pride.
But they both have to be willing to adjust.
Perhaps Biden can make it happen.
With Rosanna Arquette (Claudia), Peter Coyote (the Professor), and Tim Matheson (Weiss).
A bit farfetched.
But held together well.
Friday, June 5, 2020
The Condor & The Eagle
It's a shame other ways can't be found to generate mass profits for businesses and people, the question being, why does oil and gas and mineral exploration generate so much cash, while so many other industries simply can't compare?
During the last Federal election campaign, Elizabeth May claimed there were hundreds if not thousands of decent green jobs waiting to be created, if I remember correctly, an idea stated by the Leap Manifesto as well I believe, I'd like to learn more about this potentiality if there are related books available, bustling economies are a wonderful thing, and if the potential for green economies is reasonable, why aren't politicians doing more to create them?
I'm not looking to replace the mineral resources sector with green economies until a genius comes along who can make dependable coffee makers out of fruits and vegetables, although reducing their environmental impacts is always a top priority, and I'm hoping that idea isn't as far-fetched as it sounds (hemp perhaps?), as we continue to find ways to combat global warming.
We're too heavily reliant on oil and metal to stop seeking new sources in the moment, and too many people's livelihoods depend on them to write them off without much forethought.
Oil's become much harder to extract, however, and vulnerable remote ecosystems are being heavily relied upon, with disastrous ecological effects, and none too comfy hard-edged working environments.
Far away from home.
And the remote locations are sometimes home to thousands of people who would rather not develop oil and gas resources.
If they say "no", it should mean "no".
Another location should be found.
But other locations aren't found and the issues interminably proliferate in the media, often reaching a dire conclusion, if objective fair play isn't judicially leveraged.
The Condor & The Eagle presents many activists fighting to save their lands on the combative frontlines.
Their stories are courageous and inspiring, as they fight back with neither time nor resources.
I've said it before, and others have too, how do you get a group of highly specialized academics or scientists to agree about anything, no matter how insignificant?, but even with all that compelling individuality, the vast majority of them firmly believe in climate change.
And have proof to back up their claims which so often fall on deaf ears.
You would think resource extraction would be more environmentally sound since they've had so much time to develop green methodologies, but nothing's as simple as these variable ideas relate.
If someone did find a way to mass market pure biotechnology, they'd probably be locked-up for life.
But it's clear that we need to transition away from oil and gas and likely should have started some time ago.
It goes without saying that it's dangerous to be so reliant on one energy source (so many "ages" came to an end).
We have the means to start transitioning.
Why don't oil and gas producers find a way to capitalize on them?
While decreasing highly dangerous and questionable expenditures?
During the last Federal election campaign, Elizabeth May claimed there were hundreds if not thousands of decent green jobs waiting to be created, if I remember correctly, an idea stated by the Leap Manifesto as well I believe, I'd like to learn more about this potentiality if there are related books available, bustling economies are a wonderful thing, and if the potential for green economies is reasonable, why aren't politicians doing more to create them?
I'm not looking to replace the mineral resources sector with green economies until a genius comes along who can make dependable coffee makers out of fruits and vegetables, although reducing their environmental impacts is always a top priority, and I'm hoping that idea isn't as far-fetched as it sounds (hemp perhaps?), as we continue to find ways to combat global warming.
We're too heavily reliant on oil and metal to stop seeking new sources in the moment, and too many people's livelihoods depend on them to write them off without much forethought.
Oil's become much harder to extract, however, and vulnerable remote ecosystems are being heavily relied upon, with disastrous ecological effects, and none too comfy hard-edged working environments.
Far away from home.
And the remote locations are sometimes home to thousands of people who would rather not develop oil and gas resources.
If they say "no", it should mean "no".
Another location should be found.
But other locations aren't found and the issues interminably proliferate in the media, often reaching a dire conclusion, if objective fair play isn't judicially leveraged.
The Condor & The Eagle presents many activists fighting to save their lands on the combative frontlines.
Their stories are courageous and inspiring, as they fight back with neither time nor resources.
I've said it before, and others have too, how do you get a group of highly specialized academics or scientists to agree about anything, no matter how insignificant?, but even with all that compelling individuality, the vast majority of them firmly believe in climate change.
And have proof to back up their claims which so often fall on deaf ears.
You would think resource extraction would be more environmentally sound since they've had so much time to develop green methodologies, but nothing's as simple as these variable ideas relate.
If someone did find a way to mass market pure biotechnology, they'd probably be locked-up for life.
But it's clear that we need to transition away from oil and gas and likely should have started some time ago.
It goes without saying that it's dangerous to be so reliant on one energy source (so many "ages" came to an end).
We have the means to start transitioning.
Why don't oil and gas producers find a way to capitalize on them?
While decreasing highly dangerous and questionable expenditures?
Wednesday, June 3, 2020
The Out-of-Towners
Prospects are good.
A new job with a higher salary awaits George Kellerman (Jack Lemmon) in New York, if he can only get there for an early morning interview that's little more than a formality.
His company's booked a nice room for him and his wife Gwen (Sandy Dennis) at the Waldorf-Astoria, and dinner reservations have been made for something tasty at a well-known restaurant.
George is rather high strung and used to smooth procedures, and Gwen comfortably contributes as the moment tightly clarifies.
If things go well, or fine and dandy, it's coveted routine amelioration, complete with collegial rewards to animate prim neutrality.
They've been picket fenced for quite some time in a quiet and peaceful suburb, not that they aren't capable of jazzing things up, it's just been awhile since they've wildly departed.
Unfortunately, they can't land in New York and are rerouted to Boston after a lengthy delay (also a cool city [Montréal's cooler!]), circling the city aggrieved overhead, without even a cold cup of coffee.
There's a train they can take if they make it on time to ensure all's not lost in the shuffle, but they arrive just a wee bit too late without patience or tolerance or luggage.
Nerve though, they've got plenty of nerve, and where they're going they'll surely need it, what follows is a disastrous set of circumstances, dire perseverance firmly necessitated.
Your mood is bound to improve.
Like Planes, Trains & Automobiles without the light touch.
Neil Simon's script spares no indignity as the Kellerman's attempt to settle in, constant frustrating incredible discomfort constantly seeking haywire dysfunction.
An analysis of blood pressure resolutely surging and disbelief grimly wallowing unpronounced, proceeds unabashed and assuming sans relief disenchanting throughout.
There's the wolf joke from The Lobster that sees things through to wanton implosion, and then there's the entire script from The Out-of-Towners that presents supreme unadulterated disillusionment.
After viewing it the whole things sounds nuts but it's convincing and practical in the moment, every mishap leaving just the slightest thread of hope, to which they cling with begrudged disquietude.
Perfect role for the uptight Lemmon who proclaims with paramount dissonance, and Sandy Dennis impresses as well, as she becomes more and more disengaged.
I was hoping the virus would let up as nicer weather quietly blossomed, but things aren't improving that much, and it's difficult to know what not to be frustrated about.
The Out-of-Towners bluntly distracts from COVID-19's global grasp, nevertheless.
I highly recommend it.
For a bit of humorous distraction.
*The release of this review was postponed out of respect for #BlackLivesMatter, #BlackoutTuesday, #TheShowMustBePaused, and the peaceful George Floyd protests.
A new job with a higher salary awaits George Kellerman (Jack Lemmon) in New York, if he can only get there for an early morning interview that's little more than a formality.
His company's booked a nice room for him and his wife Gwen (Sandy Dennis) at the Waldorf-Astoria, and dinner reservations have been made for something tasty at a well-known restaurant.
George is rather high strung and used to smooth procedures, and Gwen comfortably contributes as the moment tightly clarifies.
If things go well, or fine and dandy, it's coveted routine amelioration, complete with collegial rewards to animate prim neutrality.
They've been picket fenced for quite some time in a quiet and peaceful suburb, not that they aren't capable of jazzing things up, it's just been awhile since they've wildly departed.
Unfortunately, they can't land in New York and are rerouted to Boston after a lengthy delay (also a cool city [Montréal's cooler!]), circling the city aggrieved overhead, without even a cold cup of coffee.
There's a train they can take if they make it on time to ensure all's not lost in the shuffle, but they arrive just a wee bit too late without patience or tolerance or luggage.
Nerve though, they've got plenty of nerve, and where they're going they'll surely need it, what follows is a disastrous set of circumstances, dire perseverance firmly necessitated.
Your mood is bound to improve.
Like Planes, Trains & Automobiles without the light touch.
Neil Simon's script spares no indignity as the Kellerman's attempt to settle in, constant frustrating incredible discomfort constantly seeking haywire dysfunction.
An analysis of blood pressure resolutely surging and disbelief grimly wallowing unpronounced, proceeds unabashed and assuming sans relief disenchanting throughout.
There's the wolf joke from The Lobster that sees things through to wanton implosion, and then there's the entire script from The Out-of-Towners that presents supreme unadulterated disillusionment.
After viewing it the whole things sounds nuts but it's convincing and practical in the moment, every mishap leaving just the slightest thread of hope, to which they cling with begrudged disquietude.
Perfect role for the uptight Lemmon who proclaims with paramount dissonance, and Sandy Dennis impresses as well, as she becomes more and more disengaged.
I was hoping the virus would let up as nicer weather quietly blossomed, but things aren't improving that much, and it's difficult to know what not to be frustrated about.
The Out-of-Towners bluntly distracts from COVID-19's global grasp, nevertheless.
I highly recommend it.
For a bit of humorous distraction.
*The release of this review was postponed out of respect for #BlackLivesMatter, #BlackoutTuesday, #TheShowMustBePaused, and the peaceful George Floyd protests.
Friday, May 29, 2020
Vivre sa vie
The art of presenting freespirited conversation that seems genuinely inspired in rhythm, that isn't mad or crazed or nutso, nor inspired by the master narrative.
I believe they're called sweet nothings even if they're critically articulated beyond romance, motivating neither king nor country, so vivaciously juxtaposed.
Imagine dialogue beyond jurisprudence, without concern for cookie cut expenditures, as if random commentary indeed suffices, depending on mood and role play.
The bizarro theories you might hear at work, a spirited notion betwixt the pines (polarities), observations spontaneously stylizing offhand fleeting rootless import.
Meaning's often so ostentatious, so grandiose, so definitive, so prime, so concerned with cause and effect that it dishevels as it seeks to clarify.
I suppose during times like these serious messages are positive things, delivered from leading figures (Prime Ministers, Premiers, Mayors, Queens), even if they're super intense. The pandemic is super intense and it's nice to see politicians care. Vivre sa vie is for a different time. Even if its ending is rather acidic.
It's a shame she wanted the money and didn't possess greater situational awareness. But that's precisely what makes her so appealing (Anna Karina as Nana Kleinfrankenheim) as she inquisitively coasts through life.
Her comments evocatively disrupt stately bland quotidian decorum, not in a manner that's trite or scandalous, more like light thoughtful curious sleuthing.
Like she's asking questions that haven't been preconditioned to align themselves with historical baggage, beyond categorical boundaries, which practitioners often lament.
Not that the content of such boundaries doesn't change remarkably, but the form often remains the same, as it's characterized by different approaches to high-stakes protracted meaning.
It's nice to meet people who are unfamiliar with the codes and stratagems, their lives like waking dreams, assuming things aren't authoritarian, they're relatively bold and free.
They're appealing im/precisely because they don't make sense, and demand you consider new cogent classifications, to discover what they're trying to say, even if you have to improvise a context.
Don't be dismissive for too long, or that regenerative spark of peculiar novelty may transform into something less captivating, solidifying as time passes.
That's how you expand upon limitations and diversify semantic relevance, if you can't figure it out just chill, it may have already been forgotten.
Imagine books integral to a film that philosophizes as it zines, like a bird as it moves on the ground without flight, not that it doesn't freely soar through unique interactive heights, it just would have been more uplifting without the hardboiled recourse (or the prostitution).
A practical warning nonetheless that blends carefree thought with economic depression.
It could have been so much less drastic.
The library's free of charge.
Had no idea what it was about when I decided to watch it.
Was just another Godard I hadn't seen.
I believe they're called sweet nothings even if they're critically articulated beyond romance, motivating neither king nor country, so vivaciously juxtaposed.
Imagine dialogue beyond jurisprudence, without concern for cookie cut expenditures, as if random commentary indeed suffices, depending on mood and role play.
The bizarro theories you might hear at work, a spirited notion betwixt the pines (polarities), observations spontaneously stylizing offhand fleeting rootless import.
Meaning's often so ostentatious, so grandiose, so definitive, so prime, so concerned with cause and effect that it dishevels as it seeks to clarify.
I suppose during times like these serious messages are positive things, delivered from leading figures (Prime Ministers, Premiers, Mayors, Queens), even if they're super intense. The pandemic is super intense and it's nice to see politicians care. Vivre sa vie is for a different time. Even if its ending is rather acidic.
It's a shame she wanted the money and didn't possess greater situational awareness. But that's precisely what makes her so appealing (Anna Karina as Nana Kleinfrankenheim) as she inquisitively coasts through life.
Her comments evocatively disrupt stately bland quotidian decorum, not in a manner that's trite or scandalous, more like light thoughtful curious sleuthing.
Like she's asking questions that haven't been preconditioned to align themselves with historical baggage, beyond categorical boundaries, which practitioners often lament.
Not that the content of such boundaries doesn't change remarkably, but the form often remains the same, as it's characterized by different approaches to high-stakes protracted meaning.
It's nice to meet people who are unfamiliar with the codes and stratagems, their lives like waking dreams, assuming things aren't authoritarian, they're relatively bold and free.
They're appealing im/precisely because they don't make sense, and demand you consider new cogent classifications, to discover what they're trying to say, even if you have to improvise a context.
Don't be dismissive for too long, or that regenerative spark of peculiar novelty may transform into something less captivating, solidifying as time passes.
That's how you expand upon limitations and diversify semantic relevance, if you can't figure it out just chill, it may have already been forgotten.
Imagine books integral to a film that philosophizes as it zines, like a bird as it moves on the ground without flight, not that it doesn't freely soar through unique interactive heights, it just would have been more uplifting without the hardboiled recourse (or the prostitution).
A practical warning nonetheless that blends carefree thought with economic depression.
It could have been so much less drastic.
The library's free of charge.
Had no idea what it was about when I decided to watch it.
Was just another Godard I hadn't seen.
Tuesday, May 26, 2020
O slavnosti a hostech (A Report on the Party and Guests)
A group of freespirited observant individuals head out to relax unassuming, their picnic presenting a wide host of delectable goods, the conversation light yet piqued and thought provoking, friendship electrifying as time saunters on.
An important figure is celebrating a marriage in the same embowered locale, and for a while lets them rest undisturbed, before deciding to bluntly interrupt them.
They have no authority throughout the land and there's no one they can call to complain, since the authorities are causing the disturbance, for shits and giggles, or so it seems.
Lines are drawn in the pasteurized sanctuary which cannot be freely crossed, as a goon exercises lavish contempt, and asks questions with no apparent purpose.
Rebellion defies him and attempts to depart only to be challenged head on and resolutely, as others seek peaceful relations, and their captors slowly lose interest.
But then the figure makes an appearance and offers sympathetic glad hands at first, inviting them to take part in the festivities, which are about to get under way.
Some see opportunity knocking and their mild-manners are quickly rewarded, with dialogue and coveted seats, first hand insights into the ruling party.
But one of them secretly resents his cherished freedoms being taken away, and disappears when no one is watching, to the dismay of his newfound liege.
A political hallucination allegorically attired interrogates freedom within stark constraints, as O slavnosti a hostech (A Report on the Party and Guests) discerns eruditely, and characters adopt instinctual remonstrance.
Or sycophancy, or just plain curiosity, the situation tempts what's out of the ordinary, but only after order's established, and initial taunts are dressed up bemused.
How to best proceed can depend upon manifold factors, and trying to clarify which set you've encountered can unsettle 'til patterns accrue.
Like any job interview their caught unaware, yet hoping to make a good impression, displaying their wits and applicable abilities, with lively caution and cheerful goodwill.
But the allegory extends beyond work and independent thought will not be tolerated.
No passing by unnoticed.
Every movement a stockpiled brand.
Nice, anyways, when there's freedom to be had in the evening, and relativistic wonder romanticizes life.
How leading figures lose sight of this at times I'll never know, apart from COVID-19 measures, even if they must lay down the law.
Collective working days, individualistic nights, perhaps provide a working balance.
Constant adherence to everything disenchants so much endeavour.
An important figure is celebrating a marriage in the same embowered locale, and for a while lets them rest undisturbed, before deciding to bluntly interrupt them.
They have no authority throughout the land and there's no one they can call to complain, since the authorities are causing the disturbance, for shits and giggles, or so it seems.
Lines are drawn in the pasteurized sanctuary which cannot be freely crossed, as a goon exercises lavish contempt, and asks questions with no apparent purpose.
Rebellion defies him and attempts to depart only to be challenged head on and resolutely, as others seek peaceful relations, and their captors slowly lose interest.
But then the figure makes an appearance and offers sympathetic glad hands at first, inviting them to take part in the festivities, which are about to get under way.
Some see opportunity knocking and their mild-manners are quickly rewarded, with dialogue and coveted seats, first hand insights into the ruling party.
But one of them secretly resents his cherished freedoms being taken away, and disappears when no one is watching, to the dismay of his newfound liege.
A political hallucination allegorically attired interrogates freedom within stark constraints, as O slavnosti a hostech (A Report on the Party and Guests) discerns eruditely, and characters adopt instinctual remonstrance.
Or sycophancy, or just plain curiosity, the situation tempts what's out of the ordinary, but only after order's established, and initial taunts are dressed up bemused.
How to best proceed can depend upon manifold factors, and trying to clarify which set you've encountered can unsettle 'til patterns accrue.
Like any job interview their caught unaware, yet hoping to make a good impression, displaying their wits and applicable abilities, with lively caution and cheerful goodwill.
But the allegory extends beyond work and independent thought will not be tolerated.
No passing by unnoticed.
Every movement a stockpiled brand.
Nice, anyways, when there's freedom to be had in the evening, and relativistic wonder romanticizes life.
How leading figures lose sight of this at times I'll never know, apart from COVID-19 measures, even if they must lay down the law.
Collective working days, individualistic nights, perhaps provide a working balance.
Constant adherence to everything disenchants so much endeavour.
Friday, May 22, 2020
Equinox
Good weather and the desire for companionship lead two carefree couples to picnic one afternoon, gathered together in the spirit of goodwill, prepared to taste nutritious treats, happy to be spending time with one another, chillin' full-on tranquil.
But the idyllic bright tranquility has been somewhat befouled, for an eccentric teacher's house no longer permits habitation, and a creepy ranger keeps presenting an off-putting watchful eye.
Soon they have descended deep within an imposing cave, wherein an elder has turned hysterical, and an ancient tome contracts forbidden.
Attempting to read the oldest school text proves taxing and disenchanting, since it's been multilinguistically composed, in languages which were never legibly conceived, even if clues can still be deciphered.
Pertaining to good and evil, corporeal spiritual metaphysics, distinct symbols demonically extrapolated, spellbound subtleties symptomatically stricken.
Giant monsters are soon detected.
Chaotically posturing at will.
And the ranger is in leagues with Satan.
Their prosperous futures have been jeopardized.
But bravery confrontationally materializes and the inspired romantics do fearsome battle, the monsters unaccustomed to spirited challenge, the ranger withdrawing in awestruck fright.
As Equinox strides and flexes.
Fully conscious of its ludicrous anxiety.
Not your typical underground comedy nor your harbinger of text forthcoming, Equinox proceeds with the utmost sincerity, even if it's inherently nuts.
Throw rocks. Get its attention.
At all times decisions are made with abounding assured confidence, yet consistency remains ephemeral, logical harmonies instinctually sashayed, it's pure distraughtest nutter.
But if confidence itself is a pancultural guarantor of reason, does Equinox's reflexive reckonings not uplift extemporaneous logic?
Does the fluid agile agency ascertained in its campy reels not reflect the social norms required to assert auras of authenticity?
I'm not certain although I won't deny humorous elevations of intuitive wisdom.
As delivered with tactile courage.
Intensified at play.
But the idyllic bright tranquility has been somewhat befouled, for an eccentric teacher's house no longer permits habitation, and a creepy ranger keeps presenting an off-putting watchful eye.
Soon they have descended deep within an imposing cave, wherein an elder has turned hysterical, and an ancient tome contracts forbidden.
Attempting to read the oldest school text proves taxing and disenchanting, since it's been multilinguistically composed, in languages which were never legibly conceived, even if clues can still be deciphered.
Pertaining to good and evil, corporeal spiritual metaphysics, distinct symbols demonically extrapolated, spellbound subtleties symptomatically stricken.
Giant monsters are soon detected.
Chaotically posturing at will.
And the ranger is in leagues with Satan.
Their prosperous futures have been jeopardized.
But bravery confrontationally materializes and the inspired romantics do fearsome battle, the monsters unaccustomed to spirited challenge, the ranger withdrawing in awestruck fright.
As Equinox strides and flexes.
Fully conscious of its ludicrous anxiety.
Not your typical underground comedy nor your harbinger of text forthcoming, Equinox proceeds with the utmost sincerity, even if it's inherently nuts.
Throw rocks. Get its attention.
At all times decisions are made with abounding assured confidence, yet consistency remains ephemeral, logical harmonies instinctually sashayed, it's pure distraughtest nutter.
But if confidence itself is a pancultural guarantor of reason, does Equinox's reflexive reckonings not uplift extemporaneous logic?
Does the fluid agile agency ascertained in its campy reels not reflect the social norms required to assert auras of authenticity?
I'm not certain although I won't deny humorous elevations of intuitive wisdom.
As delivered with tactile courage.
Intensified at play.
Tuesday, May 19, 2020
Nanook of the North
I suppose there was a time when nature documentaries were something new, when there wasn't a plethora to choose from overflowing with the cute and cuddly?
The Nature of Things has always just kind of been there, chronicling away, but what were things like before the bold instructive multidisciplinary narratives of Suzuki?
There must be some cool books out there examining the history of naturalistic docs, it would be cool to have the chance to check them out some day.
If in existence, I wonder if any of them mention a nature documentary that predates Robert J. Flaherty's Nanook of the North (1922), with its adventurous bold endearing chill filmscapes?
It's not technically a nature documentary although it could be loosely classified as such, since it certainly presents a lot of critters, at home in their arctic environments.
The mighty walrus in its gargantuan splendour makes a thought provoking appearance, as does the lithe arctic fox, and the animate flip harp seal.
Unfortunately, the animals are being hunted, I imagine there was a different attitude concerning hunting in films back then, or that since it was likely something new, related armchair controversies had yet to develop, the subject inchoately generating previously unheard of sedate and shocked sensibilities, which must have opened up many critical heartlands, nevertheless, if you don't like hunting, beware.
I'm not a fan of watching animals being hunted but the Inuit live in a special set of circumstances. There is still an abundance of wildlife for them to hunt (lots of moose and deer elsewhere in Canada and Québec too) and why wouldn't you when a green pepper costs $8?
And it's a huge part of your ancient traditions?
Imagining what it must have been like to capture this independent footage is mind-boggling, inasmuch as they may have been filming in arctic conditions first hand at length without much to go on, with old school equipment that had to stand up to the elements, at a time when so much film was inherently experimental?
Was the equipment more durable back then?
Did they wear warmer gloves?
I imagine the film predates planned obsolescence by decades plus half a century.
Perhaps everything was built of sturdier stuff!
Or they just possessed more innate adventure?
Nanook of the North follows Nanook as he bravely hunts for his family, his vigorous spirit and inspiring good cheer promoting long-lasting effervescent wonders.
The soundtrack and intermittent silent narration add complementary uplifting currents, upon which the documentary glides, through wild unforgiving terrain.
I haven't seen many silent films but Nanook provides clear insights into the phenomenon, its cinematic awareness still relevant and captivating, as it bridges the divide between entertainment and instruction.
I loved watching them build their igloo from glacial disputatious scratch, then add farsighted clever home furnishings, there's no doubt they knew what they were doing.
Perhaps it's too happy-go-lucky considering the environmental extremes, but it still presents a spellbinding tale enriched through courageous endeavour.
I highly recommend it for film lovers in search of the pioneering documentary spirit.
It still radiates contemporary charm.
I'd argue it's truly timeless.
The Nature of Things has always just kind of been there, chronicling away, but what were things like before the bold instructive multidisciplinary narratives of Suzuki?
There must be some cool books out there examining the history of naturalistic docs, it would be cool to have the chance to check them out some day.
If in existence, I wonder if any of them mention a nature documentary that predates Robert J. Flaherty's Nanook of the North (1922), with its adventurous bold endearing chill filmscapes?
It's not technically a nature documentary although it could be loosely classified as such, since it certainly presents a lot of critters, at home in their arctic environments.
The mighty walrus in its gargantuan splendour makes a thought provoking appearance, as does the lithe arctic fox, and the animate flip harp seal.
Unfortunately, the animals are being hunted, I imagine there was a different attitude concerning hunting in films back then, or that since it was likely something new, related armchair controversies had yet to develop, the subject inchoately generating previously unheard of sedate and shocked sensibilities, which must have opened up many critical heartlands, nevertheless, if you don't like hunting, beware.
I'm not a fan of watching animals being hunted but the Inuit live in a special set of circumstances. There is still an abundance of wildlife for them to hunt (lots of moose and deer elsewhere in Canada and Québec too) and why wouldn't you when a green pepper costs $8?
And it's a huge part of your ancient traditions?
Imagining what it must have been like to capture this independent footage is mind-boggling, inasmuch as they may have been filming in arctic conditions first hand at length without much to go on, with old school equipment that had to stand up to the elements, at a time when so much film was inherently experimental?
Was the equipment more durable back then?
Did they wear warmer gloves?
I imagine the film predates planned obsolescence by decades plus half a century.
Perhaps everything was built of sturdier stuff!
Or they just possessed more innate adventure?
Nanook of the North follows Nanook as he bravely hunts for his family, his vigorous spirit and inspiring good cheer promoting long-lasting effervescent wonders.
The soundtrack and intermittent silent narration add complementary uplifting currents, upon which the documentary glides, through wild unforgiving terrain.
I haven't seen many silent films but Nanook provides clear insights into the phenomenon, its cinematic awareness still relevant and captivating, as it bridges the divide between entertainment and instruction.
I loved watching them build their igloo from glacial disputatious scratch, then add farsighted clever home furnishings, there's no doubt they knew what they were doing.
Perhaps it's too happy-go-lucky considering the environmental extremes, but it still presents a spellbinding tale enriched through courageous endeavour.
I highly recommend it for film lovers in search of the pioneering documentary spirit.
It still radiates contemporary charm.
I'd argue it's truly timeless.
Friday, May 15, 2020
Domicile conjugal (Bed & Board)
A young married couple creatively engages with their community, who's as lively as they are entertaining, fluid interactive inquisitive high spirits.
The film's set in a chill inner-city neighbourhood wherein which personality abounds, and characters work in alternative disciplines, as nothing passes by unnoticed.
Everything's intriguingly unorthodox inasmuch as the characters aren't career oriented, and are still living active productive lives, rich in constantly shifting locomotion.
The story's focused on the young married couple and their struggles to continuously cohabitate, both partners verbosely articulated, capable of aptly uplifting what have you.
It's a remarkable script overflowing with compelling detail and multiple swift nuanced characters, it's so quick and thoughtful it commands your complete attention, critically assailing if you should ever turn away.
The subject matter's refreshing and captures flourishing discourse in motion (book titles, staircases, loans, parking tickets), comments and observations emphatically resound, with random pertinent reflective ebullient life, interlocked through versatile direction.
The plot does steer into sleaze at times and I think the film would have been stronger without the affair, but it seems like Truffaut sought to stultify infidelity, I'm not sure if the results are Me Too.
I wonder what it would have been like if there had been no controversial drama, no traditional plot elements, just communal reverberations?
Can't a multifaceted collection of comical characters and situations just co-exist without something drastic, working and conversing and living without serious game changing invention?
The thoughts and ideas can diversify themselves without having to alter their terrain.
They keep flowing perspicaciously throughout.
But slowly take on a specified logo.
Domicile conjugal (Bed & Board) isn't a grad school seminar, loosely based on a fluctuating theme, but I'd argue it starts out that way, and may have been more impressive if left unrestrained.
Perhaps having multiple conflicting yet complimentary points judiciously interspersed throughout dialogue in flux can make a more meaningful impact, insofar as so much expression cultivates serendipity, which can generate romantic syntax?
If having a predominant point is oft presumed as a crucial essential, when so much life unwinds at random, perhaps manifold eclipsed ideas reflect something more realistic, that boldly suggests je ne sais quoi?
It seems like so much life's a case study where you have to find the principal cause.
This is very important when developing vaccines.
But not as integral to the arts or cinema.
Domicile conjugal's still a masterpiece of urban intensity which brings an irresistible community to life.
Do filmmakers ever go one step further?
Slacker!
Slacker immediately comes to mind!
*Perhaps when developing vaccines you have to search for contemporaneous elements? I don't know much about vaccine development.
The film's set in a chill inner-city neighbourhood wherein which personality abounds, and characters work in alternative disciplines, as nothing passes by unnoticed.
Everything's intriguingly unorthodox inasmuch as the characters aren't career oriented, and are still living active productive lives, rich in constantly shifting locomotion.
The story's focused on the young married couple and their struggles to continuously cohabitate, both partners verbosely articulated, capable of aptly uplifting what have you.
It's a remarkable script overflowing with compelling detail and multiple swift nuanced characters, it's so quick and thoughtful it commands your complete attention, critically assailing if you should ever turn away.
The subject matter's refreshing and captures flourishing discourse in motion (book titles, staircases, loans, parking tickets), comments and observations emphatically resound, with random pertinent reflective ebullient life, interlocked through versatile direction.
The plot does steer into sleaze at times and I think the film would have been stronger without the affair, but it seems like Truffaut sought to stultify infidelity, I'm not sure if the results are Me Too.
I wonder what it would have been like if there had been no controversial drama, no traditional plot elements, just communal reverberations?
Can't a multifaceted collection of comical characters and situations just co-exist without something drastic, working and conversing and living without serious game changing invention?
The thoughts and ideas can diversify themselves without having to alter their terrain.
They keep flowing perspicaciously throughout.
But slowly take on a specified logo.
Domicile conjugal (Bed & Board) isn't a grad school seminar, loosely based on a fluctuating theme, but I'd argue it starts out that way, and may have been more impressive if left unrestrained.
Perhaps having multiple conflicting yet complimentary points judiciously interspersed throughout dialogue in flux can make a more meaningful impact, insofar as so much expression cultivates serendipity, which can generate romantic syntax?
If having a predominant point is oft presumed as a crucial essential, when so much life unwinds at random, perhaps manifold eclipsed ideas reflect something more realistic, that boldly suggests je ne sais quoi?
It seems like so much life's a case study where you have to find the principal cause.
This is very important when developing vaccines.
But not as integral to the arts or cinema.
Domicile conjugal's still a masterpiece of urban intensity which brings an irresistible community to life.
Do filmmakers ever go one step further?
Slacker!
Slacker immediately comes to mind!
*Perhaps when developing vaccines you have to search for contemporaneous elements? I don't know much about vaccine development.
Tuesday, May 12, 2020
Tanin no kao (The Face of Another)
A man's face is badly disfigured in an accident at work, and no one can ease the pain he feels in the bitter shocking aftermath.
Both his wife and boss offer sympathy and paths to follow to attain new heights, but brutal depression sets in, and he won't freely listen to anyone.
He covers his face with bandages and proceeds forlorn and ornery, firm resolute disintegration, a total collapse of drive and will.
But he learns of a highly exceptional procedure that could supply him with a new face, a procedure to which he responds without doubt or hesitation or misgiving.
Delicate steps must be carefully taken to ensure surgical success, legal matters presuming a backdrop that codifies mistaken identity.
The doctor's quite idealistic and sees the potential for soulful growth, the cultivation of new beginnings, a miraculous second chance.
Meanwhile others with similar afflictions wander out and about throughout town, producing unfortunate Frankenstein effects, as they simply try to converse and observe.
I remember reading Frankenstein as a kid, it's a fascinating book, I recommend it.
What really struck me as I was reading it was how tender and loving Frankenstein initially is, as he observes humanity cautiously from afar, before they discover his startling appearance.
They may have had a scholar or a caregiver to help nurture and develop on their hands, if they hadn't reacted with fright, if they hadn't turned him into a monster.
I remember a time before shows like The Bachelor became popular, and the shock amongst my friends when they were first released, I understand that a lot of people love them, but do they not lack genuine depth?
Isn't there still something to be said for personality and conversation and the ways in which they can overcome aesthetic concerns, isn't it more important to be able to talk to someone than just to stare at them in bold excess?
The doctor in Tanin no kao (The Face of Another) doesn't let his grief overwhelm him, but when he discovers his patient wants to use his new face to seduce his wife, not the doctor's wife, it's somewhat of an ethical downer.
The film starkly examines basic instinct at an honest yet derelict level, preferring to directly interrogate desire rather than more profound applications of the intellect.
It's not that it misses the point or proceeds in error or wallows in emotional discord, rather it diagnoses unsettling social characteristics, and critiques them with morose candour.
I imagine people watching the film find the grim reality distressing, and perhaps see themselves somewhat determined to promote compassion afterwards.
It's bleak to be sure and doesn't offer much from the despondent view of its principal character.
Who's given an irresistible reprieve.
And still can't search for something higher.
Both his wife and boss offer sympathy and paths to follow to attain new heights, but brutal depression sets in, and he won't freely listen to anyone.
He covers his face with bandages and proceeds forlorn and ornery, firm resolute disintegration, a total collapse of drive and will.
But he learns of a highly exceptional procedure that could supply him with a new face, a procedure to which he responds without doubt or hesitation or misgiving.
Delicate steps must be carefully taken to ensure surgical success, legal matters presuming a backdrop that codifies mistaken identity.
The doctor's quite idealistic and sees the potential for soulful growth, the cultivation of new beginnings, a miraculous second chance.
Meanwhile others with similar afflictions wander out and about throughout town, producing unfortunate Frankenstein effects, as they simply try to converse and observe.
I remember reading Frankenstein as a kid, it's a fascinating book, I recommend it.
What really struck me as I was reading it was how tender and loving Frankenstein initially is, as he observes humanity cautiously from afar, before they discover his startling appearance.
They may have had a scholar or a caregiver to help nurture and develop on their hands, if they hadn't reacted with fright, if they hadn't turned him into a monster.
I remember a time before shows like The Bachelor became popular, and the shock amongst my friends when they were first released, I understand that a lot of people love them, but do they not lack genuine depth?
Isn't there still something to be said for personality and conversation and the ways in which they can overcome aesthetic concerns, isn't it more important to be able to talk to someone than just to stare at them in bold excess?
The doctor in Tanin no kao (The Face of Another) doesn't let his grief overwhelm him, but when he discovers his patient wants to use his new face to seduce his wife, not the doctor's wife, it's somewhat of an ethical downer.
The film starkly examines basic instinct at an honest yet derelict level, preferring to directly interrogate desire rather than more profound applications of the intellect.
It's not that it misses the point or proceeds in error or wallows in emotional discord, rather it diagnoses unsettling social characteristics, and critiques them with morose candour.
I imagine people watching the film find the grim reality distressing, and perhaps see themselves somewhat determined to promote compassion afterwards.
It's bleak to be sure and doesn't offer much from the despondent view of its principal character.
Who's given an irresistible reprieve.
And still can't search for something higher.
Friday, May 8, 2020
Lone Wolf McQuade
Old school cinematic invincibility, the versatile hero clad in grizzled impeccability (Chuck Norris as Lone Wolf McQuade).
Working alone, doing what it takes to excel, concerned with honourable courageous forthright excellence, with an instinct for justice, and devout paramount jurisprudence.
He tried to be a family man but his lifestyle was too chaotic, and even though he now lives alone, he's still on good terms with his ex-wife (Sharon Farrell as Molly) and daughter (Dana Kimmell as Sally McQuade).
His style has earned criticisms from an irate distressed senator, who's trying to reign in Texas, to create a less independent image.
He's therefore tasked with a partner (Robert Beltran as Kayo), who will perhaps encourage more relatable ways, but he sees the intrusion as an unjust sanction, and does his best to emphatically resist.
As ne'er-do-wells secretly highjack shipments of government weapons, running the guns across the border, to be sold to the highest bidder.
McQuade's daughter and her fiancée (Robert Jordan as Bobby Drew) park near their machinations one evening, too close for villainous comfort, they're swiftly incapacitated.
But Sally survives and McQuade begins investigating.
Kayo making himself useful.
The FBI clearly disappointed.
It's a pioneering '80s action film that celebrates raw honest integrity, it's not that he's trying to bring it on, that's just how he gets the job done.
It may seem improbable at times, as he presents himself as an open target, for instance, and his adversaries miss with machine gun fire, but that was the type of unheralded hero, presented as a fearless over-the-top force of nature.
His house hasn't been cleaned in years and he doesn't consume much besides beer, but he isn't dismissive of significant others, as they introduce forbidden playful contradictions.
Eventually everyone involved realize they need to rely on his intuition, and even though he hasn't done much to convince them, they come round to his steadfast point of view.
Martial arts forge a tantalizing unconscious as audiences await manifested skills, one David Carradine (Rawley Wilkes) enlisted as nemesis, tension slowly building resolutely throughout.
Things are very direct and blunt, as if there's something crucial to say, as if James Bond were in fact from Texas, and was much more humble and modest and loving.
Some action films are more realistic and sometimes make more sense as a result, but that doesn't mean one should dismiss this style of storytelling, with its stoic hands-on caricatures.
I'm not sure how seriously you're supposed to take it, perhaps I'm not taking it seriously enough, but if you're looking for something cool that's a bit less polished, Lone Wolf McQuade provides an impacting punch.
Brilliant performance from Robert Beltran.
Carradine and Norris were the genuine article.
Working alone, doing what it takes to excel, concerned with honourable courageous forthright excellence, with an instinct for justice, and devout paramount jurisprudence.
He tried to be a family man but his lifestyle was too chaotic, and even though he now lives alone, he's still on good terms with his ex-wife (Sharon Farrell as Molly) and daughter (Dana Kimmell as Sally McQuade).
His style has earned criticisms from an irate distressed senator, who's trying to reign in Texas, to create a less independent image.
He's therefore tasked with a partner (Robert Beltran as Kayo), who will perhaps encourage more relatable ways, but he sees the intrusion as an unjust sanction, and does his best to emphatically resist.
As ne'er-do-wells secretly highjack shipments of government weapons, running the guns across the border, to be sold to the highest bidder.
McQuade's daughter and her fiancée (Robert Jordan as Bobby Drew) park near their machinations one evening, too close for villainous comfort, they're swiftly incapacitated.
But Sally survives and McQuade begins investigating.
Kayo making himself useful.
The FBI clearly disappointed.
It's a pioneering '80s action film that celebrates raw honest integrity, it's not that he's trying to bring it on, that's just how he gets the job done.
It may seem improbable at times, as he presents himself as an open target, for instance, and his adversaries miss with machine gun fire, but that was the type of unheralded hero, presented as a fearless over-the-top force of nature.
His house hasn't been cleaned in years and he doesn't consume much besides beer, but he isn't dismissive of significant others, as they introduce forbidden playful contradictions.
Eventually everyone involved realize they need to rely on his intuition, and even though he hasn't done much to convince them, they come round to his steadfast point of view.
Martial arts forge a tantalizing unconscious as audiences await manifested skills, one David Carradine (Rawley Wilkes) enlisted as nemesis, tension slowly building resolutely throughout.
Things are very direct and blunt, as if there's something crucial to say, as if James Bond were in fact from Texas, and was much more humble and modest and loving.
Some action films are more realistic and sometimes make more sense as a result, but that doesn't mean one should dismiss this style of storytelling, with its stoic hands-on caricatures.
I'm not sure how seriously you're supposed to take it, perhaps I'm not taking it seriously enough, but if you're looking for something cool that's a bit less polished, Lone Wolf McQuade provides an impacting punch.
Brilliant performance from Robert Beltran.
Carradine and Norris were the genuine article.
Tuesday, May 5, 2020
Chimes at Midnight
Courtly remonstrance august unflattering distaste, pejorative, authoritative, stately consequent nettle.
He doth resound with magnanimous impertinence irresistibly foiled salubrity, impenitent carefree rummaged spirits, rowdy improvised uncertain objectives.
Friendship inclusively abounds regardless of make or measure, oft depicted through random horseplay, yet not limited to sedate shenanigans.
Capable of suddenly stirring up a crowd with comic insubordinate intent, incapable of honest toil with constructive fruitful sustainability.
Unwary of boldly asserting he hath undertaken heroic deeds, in the presence of rank incredulity, with neither shame nor force of conscience.
Odd interminglings of duty bound recourse and ludic unconcerned pub fare, a future King navigating the discrepancies, a scorned romantic, a noble hare.
His friendship with Falstaff (Orson Welles) idealizes wayward youth, the heir to the throne wilfully led astray, even if he responds when indeed necessary, to the commands of lofty allegiance.
There's no synthesis therein forthcoming, Chimes at Midnight resonates disparately, a tragic forthright emergent declaration, divisive paramount telltale labours.
I feel for the hapless Falstaff, who thought he had won Prince Hal's (Keith Baxter) favour, if only he could have once tried to follow procedure, if only he could have toed the line.
After the coronation anyways, he should have assumed discretion, but such a lack of action would have never crossed his mind, a wild insouciant charismatic knight, far beyond austere pomp and propriety.
How he could have persisted for so very long without concern or trouble or worry, how could he have never assumed solemnity at any time throughout his life?
It's not that he isn't sincere.
Like Archie Rice in The Entertainer, he sincerely lives in the nimble moment, perhaps thinking loosely about the future, but never without much thought or care.
They both have goals to attain, projects in mind, hopes and dreams, but present ambitions generally obscure them, or lead to overwhelming bright temptations, spontaneous light merrymaking.
Their friends love them when they're performing and when they're not performing too, but can't reconcile their differences when the monthly rent is due.
Perhaps Henry the V can be accused of having led Falstaff on, of having encouraged a sense of entitlement the foolish knave should have never considered.
Did he not share so many mirthful years with Falstaff to at least not feel somewhat guilty when casting him aside?
I suppose they didn't make Ministers of Arts & Entertainment back then but Falstaff likely could have played the role.
Without much prep or training.
An irrefutable natural.
He doth resound with magnanimous impertinence irresistibly foiled salubrity, impenitent carefree rummaged spirits, rowdy improvised uncertain objectives.
Friendship inclusively abounds regardless of make or measure, oft depicted through random horseplay, yet not limited to sedate shenanigans.
Capable of suddenly stirring up a crowd with comic insubordinate intent, incapable of honest toil with constructive fruitful sustainability.
Unwary of boldly asserting he hath undertaken heroic deeds, in the presence of rank incredulity, with neither shame nor force of conscience.
Odd interminglings of duty bound recourse and ludic unconcerned pub fare, a future King navigating the discrepancies, a scorned romantic, a noble hare.
His friendship with Falstaff (Orson Welles) idealizes wayward youth, the heir to the throne wilfully led astray, even if he responds when indeed necessary, to the commands of lofty allegiance.
There's no synthesis therein forthcoming, Chimes at Midnight resonates disparately, a tragic forthright emergent declaration, divisive paramount telltale labours.
I feel for the hapless Falstaff, who thought he had won Prince Hal's (Keith Baxter) favour, if only he could have once tried to follow procedure, if only he could have toed the line.
After the coronation anyways, he should have assumed discretion, but such a lack of action would have never crossed his mind, a wild insouciant charismatic knight, far beyond austere pomp and propriety.
How he could have persisted for so very long without concern or trouble or worry, how could he have never assumed solemnity at any time throughout his life?
It's not that he isn't sincere.
Like Archie Rice in The Entertainer, he sincerely lives in the nimble moment, perhaps thinking loosely about the future, but never without much thought or care.
They both have goals to attain, projects in mind, hopes and dreams, but present ambitions generally obscure them, or lead to overwhelming bright temptations, spontaneous light merrymaking.
Their friends love them when they're performing and when they're not performing too, but can't reconcile their differences when the monthly rent is due.
Perhaps Henry the V can be accused of having led Falstaff on, of having encouraged a sense of entitlement the foolish knave should have never considered.
Did he not share so many mirthful years with Falstaff to at least not feel somewhat guilty when casting him aside?
I suppose they didn't make Ministers of Arts & Entertainment back then but Falstaff likely could have played the role.
Without much prep or training.
An irrefutable natural.
Friday, May 1, 2020
Gattaca
In the not too distant future, children are bioengineered through science, the most striking aspects of their parents' DNA meticulously cultivated to produce ideals.
But some children are still born the old fashioned way, without genetic enhancements or immaculate codes, known colloquially as "god's children", their entire existence diagnosed at birth.
Vincent (Ethan Hawke/Mason Gamble/Chad Christ) is a god child but his brother Anton (Loren Dean/Vincent Nielson/William Lee Scott) is not, the two competing vigorously in adolescence, little Vincent generally coming up short.
But he learns that to compete against impossibility he needs to embrace unorthodox methods, to contradict prognoses through will, to prove the less fortunate can indeed still challenge.
In the working world this is much more difficult since your biology determines your occupation (even if that's technically illegal), and Vincent wants to travel to space, a possibility reserved for the exponentially endowed.
He can purchase the requisite DNA, however, and follow a rigorous routine to ensure he's never discovered, urine tested daily for non-conforming imperfections, blood and hair and skin samples naturally necessitated.
Known as a "borrowed ladder", he finds a willing participant who can no longer walk (Jude Law as Jerome), no record of his troubles existing in America, he's lived in isolation ever since the accident.
Vincent borrows his ladder and is hired by an agency that eagerly explores space.
Everything goes smoothly as they outwit the system.
Until one of its directors turns up dead.
What I've always admired about the American system is that opportunities exist for people who aren't well off.
I don't know how many of such opportunities exist at the moment, quarantine aside, but it's always been a salient feature of American life.
I like that kids in rural Idaho or small town Missouri or neighbourhoods in New York or L.A or Denver can dream about becoming famous artists and athletes, and like to think such opportunities still exist, that there's still somewhat of a level playing field for American talent.
That's one aspect that makes the United States such a great country.
What differentiates it from so much of the world.
Please understand that I don't bear Harry and Meghan Markle any ill will, they're loved by millions around the world and I truly respect how Harry stood by his wife. I imagine they would likely generate huge blockbuster profits if they were successful in Hollywood, profits that could be used to make artistic films, and that's not necessarily a bad thing, actual quality of the films pending.
But I can't say I'm enamoured with former royals taking the place of kids from Washington or Kansas because they suddenly want to be film stars. It's far too easy for them from my perspective, not that the paparazzi aren't likely a huge pain.
I can't tell you if Vincent makes it to space but the last week of his preparations are by no means easy.
Although he does find love and romance (Uma Thurman as Irene).
And there's a good line too: "They've got you looking so hard for any flaw that after a while that's all you see."
It's always important to improve upon your work or game.
But losing sight of what you do well can be miserable.
That's no way to live.
I'll never understand self-manufactured mental illness.
But some children are still born the old fashioned way, without genetic enhancements or immaculate codes, known colloquially as "god's children", their entire existence diagnosed at birth.
Vincent (Ethan Hawke/Mason Gamble/Chad Christ) is a god child but his brother Anton (Loren Dean/Vincent Nielson/William Lee Scott) is not, the two competing vigorously in adolescence, little Vincent generally coming up short.
But he learns that to compete against impossibility he needs to embrace unorthodox methods, to contradict prognoses through will, to prove the less fortunate can indeed still challenge.
In the working world this is much more difficult since your biology determines your occupation (even if that's technically illegal), and Vincent wants to travel to space, a possibility reserved for the exponentially endowed.
He can purchase the requisite DNA, however, and follow a rigorous routine to ensure he's never discovered, urine tested daily for non-conforming imperfections, blood and hair and skin samples naturally necessitated.
Known as a "borrowed ladder", he finds a willing participant who can no longer walk (Jude Law as Jerome), no record of his troubles existing in America, he's lived in isolation ever since the accident.
Vincent borrows his ladder and is hired by an agency that eagerly explores space.
Everything goes smoothly as they outwit the system.
Until one of its directors turns up dead.
What I've always admired about the American system is that opportunities exist for people who aren't well off.
I don't know how many of such opportunities exist at the moment, quarantine aside, but it's always been a salient feature of American life.
I like that kids in rural Idaho or small town Missouri or neighbourhoods in New York or L.A or Denver can dream about becoming famous artists and athletes, and like to think such opportunities still exist, that there's still somewhat of a level playing field for American talent.
That's one aspect that makes the United States such a great country.
What differentiates it from so much of the world.
Please understand that I don't bear Harry and Meghan Markle any ill will, they're loved by millions around the world and I truly respect how Harry stood by his wife. I imagine they would likely generate huge blockbuster profits if they were successful in Hollywood, profits that could be used to make artistic films, and that's not necessarily a bad thing, actual quality of the films pending.
But I can't say I'm enamoured with former royals taking the place of kids from Washington or Kansas because they suddenly want to be film stars. It's far too easy for them from my perspective, not that the paparazzi aren't likely a huge pain.
I can't tell you if Vincent makes it to space but the last week of his preparations are by no means easy.
Although he does find love and romance (Uma Thurman as Irene).
And there's a good line too: "They've got you looking so hard for any flaw that after a while that's all you see."
It's always important to improve upon your work or game.
But losing sight of what you do well can be miserable.
That's no way to live.
I'll never understand self-manufactured mental illness.
Tuesday, April 28, 2020
The Entertainer
Archie Rice (Laurence Olivier), a struggling performer, the thrill of the stage, pressing forward ever onwards, hypothetical airtight integration, elastic dynamism salacious foothold.
Perpetual indulgence subjective omniscience fragile attachments paternal reprimands, constant motion deconstructing the breeze, leaving behind scattered remnants of ripe potential (he always knows what to say, or at least always says something).
Pressures paramount tactile gravity hands-on harkened hexed hashed haberdashery, innate insouciance magnetic pulse wayward rhythm irresistibility (people love him).
The hand that's dealt enriching bluff prevarication, smooth operation bewildering necessity (he's creative).
Extolled acquiescence resigned caricature agile concise persevering flexibility, dismissive of resonant embanked calculus, he'd be lost if he wasn't adrift (he's broke).
His inspired reactions lack sympathy for his loved ones, who've grown weary but haven't withdrawn.
Not one to dwell on the past or much besides the immediate moment, he tries to find revenue to launch his new show.
The moment dictates how he'll act and he can no longer write his own cheques.
But he'll do anything to secure independence, no matter what it might dutifully cost him.
Not that he isn't in fact independent, I'd argue he's never known fetter or chain, not that there aren't obligations he negotiates, he just always does so with purest freewill (not me).
In every conversation there's an anecdote or comparison, a reminiscence, a synthesis, a parallel, some truths requiring absurd empathy, as he pulls everyone into his sphere.
He's the kind of person who makes for great conservation and if things aren't too serious a reliable friend, especially if you happen to be in a pub, or heaping praise on his struggling show.
He's aware of responsibility and wants to be responsible but his fluctuating lifestyle makes it quite difficult, he has to create both audience and opportunity and build on whatever momentum's available.
If it's lavish, well then, he's responsible, and if not, fugaciously so.
Things haven't been lavish for some time and people have become rather critical.
But he's far too carefree for critiques, and does his best to verbosely withstand.
The Entertainer presents a showperson who's also a husband, father, and son, who isn't so far gone he's insufferable, but is still by no means sure and steady.
The attention to detail's incredible and it aptly entwines cerebral senses, less luscious conceptions of performance critiquing rowdier, gaudier ways.
Plenty of character, comedy, tragedy, inherent intrigue residual calm, a fascinating script by one John Osborne, that doesn't spare romance or conflict.
Laurence Olivier is once again outstanding (there's so much Olivier in this film) and presents another character who must be seen.
He was quite active for someone so talented (from a contemporary perspective) and played wonderfully unorthodox roles.
No wonder his fans never forgot him.
*This review is about Archie Rice in The Entertainer, who's struggling to keep performing on stage. His character's somewhat sympathetic if not conceited and there's no doubt he's a feisty cynosure. I don't know how the world moves forward from the President of the United States suggesting people inject disinfectants. It's beyond irresponsibility. It's a whole new level of recklessness all its own. Please don't inject disinfectants. Injecting disinfectants will probably kill you.
Perpetual indulgence subjective omniscience fragile attachments paternal reprimands, constant motion deconstructing the breeze, leaving behind scattered remnants of ripe potential (he always knows what to say, or at least always says something).
Pressures paramount tactile gravity hands-on harkened hexed hashed haberdashery, innate insouciance magnetic pulse wayward rhythm irresistibility (people love him).
The hand that's dealt enriching bluff prevarication, smooth operation bewildering necessity (he's creative).
Extolled acquiescence resigned caricature agile concise persevering flexibility, dismissive of resonant embanked calculus, he'd be lost if he wasn't adrift (he's broke).
His inspired reactions lack sympathy for his loved ones, who've grown weary but haven't withdrawn.
Not one to dwell on the past or much besides the immediate moment, he tries to find revenue to launch his new show.
The moment dictates how he'll act and he can no longer write his own cheques.
But he'll do anything to secure independence, no matter what it might dutifully cost him.
Not that he isn't in fact independent, I'd argue he's never known fetter or chain, not that there aren't obligations he negotiates, he just always does so with purest freewill (not me).
In every conversation there's an anecdote or comparison, a reminiscence, a synthesis, a parallel, some truths requiring absurd empathy, as he pulls everyone into his sphere.
He's the kind of person who makes for great conservation and if things aren't too serious a reliable friend, especially if you happen to be in a pub, or heaping praise on his struggling show.
He's aware of responsibility and wants to be responsible but his fluctuating lifestyle makes it quite difficult, he has to create both audience and opportunity and build on whatever momentum's available.
If it's lavish, well then, he's responsible, and if not, fugaciously so.
Things haven't been lavish for some time and people have become rather critical.
But he's far too carefree for critiques, and does his best to verbosely withstand.
The Entertainer presents a showperson who's also a husband, father, and son, who isn't so far gone he's insufferable, but is still by no means sure and steady.
The attention to detail's incredible and it aptly entwines cerebral senses, less luscious conceptions of performance critiquing rowdier, gaudier ways.
Plenty of character, comedy, tragedy, inherent intrigue residual calm, a fascinating script by one John Osborne, that doesn't spare romance or conflict.
Laurence Olivier is once again outstanding (there's so much Olivier in this film) and presents another character who must be seen.
He was quite active for someone so talented (from a contemporary perspective) and played wonderfully unorthodox roles.
No wonder his fans never forgot him.
*This review is about Archie Rice in The Entertainer, who's struggling to keep performing on stage. His character's somewhat sympathetic if not conceited and there's no doubt he's a feisty cynosure. I don't know how the world moves forward from the President of the United States suggesting people inject disinfectants. It's beyond irresponsibility. It's a whole new level of recklessness all its own. Please don't inject disinfectants. Injecting disinfectants will probably kill you.
Friday, April 24, 2020
Bunny Lake is Missing
The routine act of registering a child in school is scandalously uprooted when it's discovered she's disappeared.
Her mother (Carol Lynley as Ann Lake) is confused when she finds out she's vanished, her brother (Keir Dullea as Steven Lake) offering support as they search the school.
The police are swiftly notified and an eccentric detective (Laurence Olivier as Superintendent Newhouse) takes the case, whose critical observations extend well beyond strict diagnoses.
Details are routinely compiled as the case becomes more and more disconcerting, an enigmatic school mistress offering her take (Martita Hunt as Ada Ford), a creepy landlord (Noël Coward as Horacio Wilson) a shoulder to cry on.
Bunny's things are missing too even after having been dropped off that morning, and the school never received their payment, and there's no record of her having entered England.
Her mother searches for tactile evidence as her brother castigates the police, who go about their sleuthing while ignoring vain caprice.
Deep ends derailed demonstrative vital ascertained stitched clues, alas the story preordains constituents bemused.
How anyone could have fabricated such a story leads to reasonable thought?
Which proves that logic's sometimes absent when discerning carnal plot.
The cogent disbelieving wildly plead and then persist.
But proof cannot be found that one dear Bunny Lake exists.
In terms of character, writing, cinematography, and otherworldliness, Bunny Lake is Missing mesmerizingly impresses.
If you like odd expressive moderately successful characters it's an essential tour de force.
The superintendent has dismissive or laudatory or bored or incisive comments for everything, and he'd be as easy going as a studio musician if he weren't investigating crime.
And you could put up with him.
The school mistress shares unorthodox yet keen views which upset those unfamiliar with her style, but don't mistake her candour for tomfoolery as she clarifies.
The scenes where she interacts with Olivier are priceless uncut gems, striding forth with striking brilliance that resplendently descends.
Then there's creepy Horacio Wilson, the pervy landlord who I thought was the inspiration for Repulsion, after concluding that Bunny Lake inspired Rosemary's Baby, but Lake and Repulsion were both released in the same year (1965).
I didn't check the months.
It's like you have bored yet vigorous intellectuals occupying non-traditional roles devoutly concerned with solving a crime that's preposterously conventional.
The mystery certainly drives the plot but it still abounds with striking detail (bus drivers, junket [yeah yeah], Welsh poetry, the Zombies, tips, book writing), what would working life be like without conversation that doesn't necessarily relate to the topic at hand?
It's like consequent absurdity that's as flamboyant as it is concrete, that demands you take it seriously while taunting you for doing so.
Outstanding writing (John & Penelope Mortimer and Ira Levin [adapted screenplay]) and sincere cinematography (Denys N. Coop) complement Otto Preminger's direction.
It's a bit creepy yet still a must see.
Olivier's range is mind-boggling.
Her mother (Carol Lynley as Ann Lake) is confused when she finds out she's vanished, her brother (Keir Dullea as Steven Lake) offering support as they search the school.
The police are swiftly notified and an eccentric detective (Laurence Olivier as Superintendent Newhouse) takes the case, whose critical observations extend well beyond strict diagnoses.
Details are routinely compiled as the case becomes more and more disconcerting, an enigmatic school mistress offering her take (Martita Hunt as Ada Ford), a creepy landlord (Noël Coward as Horacio Wilson) a shoulder to cry on.
Bunny's things are missing too even after having been dropped off that morning, and the school never received their payment, and there's no record of her having entered England.
Her mother searches for tactile evidence as her brother castigates the police, who go about their sleuthing while ignoring vain caprice.
Deep ends derailed demonstrative vital ascertained stitched clues, alas the story preordains constituents bemused.
How anyone could have fabricated such a story leads to reasonable thought?
Which proves that logic's sometimes absent when discerning carnal plot.
The cogent disbelieving wildly plead and then persist.
But proof cannot be found that one dear Bunny Lake exists.
In terms of character, writing, cinematography, and otherworldliness, Bunny Lake is Missing mesmerizingly impresses.
If you like odd expressive moderately successful characters it's an essential tour de force.
The superintendent has dismissive or laudatory or bored or incisive comments for everything, and he'd be as easy going as a studio musician if he weren't investigating crime.
And you could put up with him.
The school mistress shares unorthodox yet keen views which upset those unfamiliar with her style, but don't mistake her candour for tomfoolery as she clarifies.
The scenes where she interacts with Olivier are priceless uncut gems, striding forth with striking brilliance that resplendently descends.
Then there's creepy Horacio Wilson, the pervy landlord who I thought was the inspiration for Repulsion, after concluding that Bunny Lake inspired Rosemary's Baby, but Lake and Repulsion were both released in the same year (1965).
I didn't check the months.
It's like you have bored yet vigorous intellectuals occupying non-traditional roles devoutly concerned with solving a crime that's preposterously conventional.
The mystery certainly drives the plot but it still abounds with striking detail (bus drivers, junket [yeah yeah], Welsh poetry, the Zombies, tips, book writing), what would working life be like without conversation that doesn't necessarily relate to the topic at hand?
It's like consequent absurdity that's as flamboyant as it is concrete, that demands you take it seriously while taunting you for doing so.
Outstanding writing (John & Penelope Mortimer and Ira Levin [adapted screenplay]) and sincere cinematography (Denys N. Coop) complement Otto Preminger's direction.
It's a bit creepy yet still a must see.
Olivier's range is mind-boggling.
Tuesday, April 21, 2020
Black Moon
If you're wondering how old school independent filmmakers used to envision alternative realities without computerized special effects, Louis Malle's Black Moon is a stunning working example.
Unless you want something lighter.
Cherished freedoms have been ravaged by fanatical elements violently spreading wanton destruction, as a terrified individual drives through the countryside intent on discovering sanctuary.
(I do not mean that the quarantine is something negative that is taking away freedoms. People are fighting a war in Black Moon. The quarantine is necessary to stop the spread of a virus that is killing thousands around the world. It's hard to spend so much time at home, but by staying at home you're saving lives).
To avoid the rage of trigger happy goons, she quickly swerves off the road, emerging in cloistered environs, fully-equipped with a grouchy unicorn.
Things seem real enough, or as if reality is traditionally composed, but as she spends more time freely exploring, things become more and more wild and creepy.
It's as if her perceptual awareness is attuned to the wrong potent frequency, unaccustomed to bizarro differences, which the residents clearly perceive.
She reacts with energetic confusion as she attempts to reasonably comprehend, acclimatizing to non-verbal communications, learning to speak with animals.
Perhaps Louis Malle rather disliked Disney's Alice in Wonderland, for Black Moon lacks its childish wonder, or at least depicts it somewhat obtusely, like it's been left outside in the cold.
Then again, perhaps Disney's Alice was frightening to many of the children who saw it, it does abound with inherent conflict, and phantasmagoric foundations.
From my middle-aged 21st century perspective, I don't find Black Moon that frightening, or at least not as haunting as Audition or Midsommar, it's not as intent on terrifying.
But if I had been raised in the fifties it may have indeed promoted despair, as Lily (Cathryn Harrison) encounters baleful beasties, and embraces disorientation.
I'm not sure if it should be classified as horror although the designation could snuggly fit, but it's perhaps beyond classification, as it transforms every time you view it.
It certainly lacks romance, or isn't enchantingly disposed, intertextual bedtime bedlam, like a fable without moral or lesson.
It tells its tale without ornate orchestration, without much statistical entitlements, creating unique innovations thereby, that leave a lasting impact.
With no concern for uplifting spirits, apart from an ethereal classical soirée, it by no means seeks happy endings, and seems to absurdly inter them.
Perfect for Halloween.
For considerations of low budget sci-fi.
Unorthodox strange elementals.
Acts of inspired independence.
Unless you want something lighter.
Cherished freedoms have been ravaged by fanatical elements violently spreading wanton destruction, as a terrified individual drives through the countryside intent on discovering sanctuary.
(I do not mean that the quarantine is something negative that is taking away freedoms. People are fighting a war in Black Moon. The quarantine is necessary to stop the spread of a virus that is killing thousands around the world. It's hard to spend so much time at home, but by staying at home you're saving lives).
To avoid the rage of trigger happy goons, she quickly swerves off the road, emerging in cloistered environs, fully-equipped with a grouchy unicorn.
Things seem real enough, or as if reality is traditionally composed, but as she spends more time freely exploring, things become more and more wild and creepy.
It's as if her perceptual awareness is attuned to the wrong potent frequency, unaccustomed to bizarro differences, which the residents clearly perceive.
She reacts with energetic confusion as she attempts to reasonably comprehend, acclimatizing to non-verbal communications, learning to speak with animals.
Perhaps Louis Malle rather disliked Disney's Alice in Wonderland, for Black Moon lacks its childish wonder, or at least depicts it somewhat obtusely, like it's been left outside in the cold.
Then again, perhaps Disney's Alice was frightening to many of the children who saw it, it does abound with inherent conflict, and phantasmagoric foundations.
From my middle-aged 21st century perspective, I don't find Black Moon that frightening, or at least not as haunting as Audition or Midsommar, it's not as intent on terrifying.
But if I had been raised in the fifties it may have indeed promoted despair, as Lily (Cathryn Harrison) encounters baleful beasties, and embraces disorientation.
I'm not sure if it should be classified as horror although the designation could snuggly fit, but it's perhaps beyond classification, as it transforms every time you view it.
It certainly lacks romance, or isn't enchantingly disposed, intertextual bedtime bedlam, like a fable without moral or lesson.
It tells its tale without ornate orchestration, without much statistical entitlements, creating unique innovations thereby, that leave a lasting impact.
With no concern for uplifting spirits, apart from an ethereal classical soirée, it by no means seeks happy endings, and seems to absurdly inter them.
Perfect for Halloween.
For considerations of low budget sci-fi.
Unorthodox strange elementals.
Acts of inspired independence.
Friday, April 17, 2020
The Lady from Shanghai
Trouble awaits a foolish hands-on dreamer after taking note of aesthetic charm while strollin' about one fateful evening.
From the way he speaks it's as if he's well-versed in hardboiled tactile role play, and his actions enliven romanticism recreation wit democracy.
But he's easily lured by the appeal of elegant things and dismissive of signs of betrayal, far too trusting for someone so seasoned, too caught up with enchanting ceremony.
The sharks rely on his innate good nature to proceed with nefarious intent, without even much of an effort, much persuasion, insistence, goading.
It's often fun to play games I suppose even if you're unsure of the rules, it's much less boring if they're harmless anyways, a bit of innocent light indiscretion.
Much more meaningful if they aren't too serious.
Non-threatening off hand amusement.
Like gambling, gambling's not so bad if you bet small sums and aren't upset if you eventually lose them, but if you're betting your entire pay cheque and your rent's due the instinctual thrill may be incapacitating.
Michael O'Hara's (Orson Welles) shark anecdote indicates he's a worldly man, but trips to the aquarium and the amusement park suggest he's not a serious gambler.
The destinations weren't self-generated but their applicability's by no means remote, yachting too suddenly comes to mind, sharp diversions from his not-so-steady routine.
Full-on agency he's certainly feisty and more than ready to share his opinion, but that doesn't change the fact that he's broke or single or trusting or hopeful.
I'm supposed to question whether or not it's a genre, but I think there's no doubt there's a film noir style, that filmmakers are aware of its loose narrative conventions, way more so far back in the day.
If Welles possessed such an awareness perhaps The Lady from Shanghai was a cheeky lampoon, much too subtle to emerge strictly comic, much too blunt to assume grand tragedy.
The aquarium and the fun-house suggest it's not taking itself seriously, unorthodox courtroom theatrics, an extended altercation, too many pills and it's off to Chinatown, just before the verdict descends.
If hapless film noir chumps notoriously can't piece things together, O'Hara is particularly obtuse considering his personal history.
The final shoot out's a bit far-fetched.
George Grisby's (Glenn Anders) character's ridiculous.
A wake up call perhaps that also laments such traditional dispositions, too good to be true and what have you, but who would have blamed him for trying?
Well worth it regardless of intrigue if not simply to dismiss what I'm saying, there are many great lines and scenarios, and I'd argue a love for the absurd.
The drifting labourer takes on men of means and falls for one of their wives.
Who's bashful enough to encourage him.
Distill blueprints ad infinitum.
From the way he speaks it's as if he's well-versed in hardboiled tactile role play, and his actions enliven romanticism recreation wit democracy.
But he's easily lured by the appeal of elegant things and dismissive of signs of betrayal, far too trusting for someone so seasoned, too caught up with enchanting ceremony.
The sharks rely on his innate good nature to proceed with nefarious intent, without even much of an effort, much persuasion, insistence, goading.
It's often fun to play games I suppose even if you're unsure of the rules, it's much less boring if they're harmless anyways, a bit of innocent light indiscretion.
Much more meaningful if they aren't too serious.
Non-threatening off hand amusement.
Like gambling, gambling's not so bad if you bet small sums and aren't upset if you eventually lose them, but if you're betting your entire pay cheque and your rent's due the instinctual thrill may be incapacitating.
Michael O'Hara's (Orson Welles) shark anecdote indicates he's a worldly man, but trips to the aquarium and the amusement park suggest he's not a serious gambler.
The destinations weren't self-generated but their applicability's by no means remote, yachting too suddenly comes to mind, sharp diversions from his not-so-steady routine.
Full-on agency he's certainly feisty and more than ready to share his opinion, but that doesn't change the fact that he's broke or single or trusting or hopeful.
I'm supposed to question whether or not it's a genre, but I think there's no doubt there's a film noir style, that filmmakers are aware of its loose narrative conventions, way more so far back in the day.
If Welles possessed such an awareness perhaps The Lady from Shanghai was a cheeky lampoon, much too subtle to emerge strictly comic, much too blunt to assume grand tragedy.
The aquarium and the fun-house suggest it's not taking itself seriously, unorthodox courtroom theatrics, an extended altercation, too many pills and it's off to Chinatown, just before the verdict descends.
If hapless film noir chumps notoriously can't piece things together, O'Hara is particularly obtuse considering his personal history.
The final shoot out's a bit far-fetched.
George Grisby's (Glenn Anders) character's ridiculous.
A wake up call perhaps that also laments such traditional dispositions, too good to be true and what have you, but who would have blamed him for trying?
Well worth it regardless of intrigue if not simply to dismiss what I'm saying, there are many great lines and scenarios, and I'd argue a love for the absurd.
The drifting labourer takes on men of means and falls for one of their wives.
Who's bashful enough to encourage him.
Distill blueprints ad infinitum.
Tuesday, April 14, 2020
Pépé le Moko
I was hoping for another 21 Days or Casablanca when I started to watch Pépé le Moko, my expectations leading to disappointment as it began to alternatively unreel.
But as I prepared to watch it a second time in the upcoming days I found myself eagerly anticipating Jean Gabin's (Pépé le Moko) performance, so determined yet carefree, so abounding with robust life.
The police are at their wits' end as to how to catch the infamous Pépé, who pulled off a serious heist two years ago, and found refuge in the labyrinthine Casbah.
They've tried to catch him deep within but have lost 5 officers for their troubles, the resolute Slimane (Lucas Gridoux) still unyielding, even if he's Pépé's friend.
Pépé's an admired celebrity in the Casbah (I am not Pépé le Moko) who's simultaneously loved and feared, his cohorts as loyal as honest zealots, his love interests awestruck and jealous.
The Casbah's a sanctuary for inter/national ne'er-do-wells who abide by the strictest code, 40,000 living in space built for 10, according to no tight design whatsoever.
Pépé's alright but only as long as he never leaves, and one day an ornate beauty comes a quaint and crisply calling.
His partners wonder why he isn't after the diamonds but something else has caught his eye, and he soon finds himself enamoured as they discuss days long gone by.
The film's a multilayered tapestry rich with jocose fused role play, close attention deftly required as it boldly tears and frays.
Far too blunt misgivings are critiqued while the aged lament less sophisticated pastimes, and youth proceeds unaware of danger, having grown tired of callous reprimands.
One character drifts through the eras to find solace in historical reprieve, the moment erupting with resurgent life on l'amour's rapturous melodious breeze.
Travellers seeking intrigue find notorious grand accommodation, even if within their innocent curiosity lies the portent of windswept doom.
Pépé and Slimane craft mature effervescence, as if one can't exist without the other, the absurdity of their friendship reasonably profound, both attuned to forgive not forget.
Pépé knows who's who, the score, and responds as smoothly as the situation contends, his love of gentle free-flowing elegance as sincere as his desire to follow through.
It's a shame he couldn't have invested in stratagems leading to less scandalous arrangements, where his innate charm could have effortlessly flourished upon wave after wave after wave.
But he forgets there are things people won't put up with, heartfelt dissonance animate envy, sacrifice recoiling sans reimbursement, overlooked passionate scars.
The degree of tragedy depends on your viewpoint, Pépé's certainly lost and adrift (I am not Pépé le Moko!), but what outcome would have been preferable to his spirited boundless synchronicities?
Immersed in tell-tale liberality.
Driven to sincerely love.
Intrepidly endearing.
The French Casablanca?
But as I prepared to watch it a second time in the upcoming days I found myself eagerly anticipating Jean Gabin's (Pépé le Moko) performance, so determined yet carefree, so abounding with robust life.
The police are at their wits' end as to how to catch the infamous Pépé, who pulled off a serious heist two years ago, and found refuge in the labyrinthine Casbah.
They've tried to catch him deep within but have lost 5 officers for their troubles, the resolute Slimane (Lucas Gridoux) still unyielding, even if he's Pépé's friend.
Pépé's an admired celebrity in the Casbah (I am not Pépé le Moko) who's simultaneously loved and feared, his cohorts as loyal as honest zealots, his love interests awestruck and jealous.
The Casbah's a sanctuary for inter/national ne'er-do-wells who abide by the strictest code, 40,000 living in space built for 10, according to no tight design whatsoever.
Pépé's alright but only as long as he never leaves, and one day an ornate beauty comes a quaint and crisply calling.
His partners wonder why he isn't after the diamonds but something else has caught his eye, and he soon finds himself enamoured as they discuss days long gone by.
The film's a multilayered tapestry rich with jocose fused role play, close attention deftly required as it boldly tears and frays.
Far too blunt misgivings are critiqued while the aged lament less sophisticated pastimes, and youth proceeds unaware of danger, having grown tired of callous reprimands.
One character drifts through the eras to find solace in historical reprieve, the moment erupting with resurgent life on l'amour's rapturous melodious breeze.
Travellers seeking intrigue find notorious grand accommodation, even if within their innocent curiosity lies the portent of windswept doom.
Pépé and Slimane craft mature effervescence, as if one can't exist without the other, the absurdity of their friendship reasonably profound, both attuned to forgive not forget.
Pépé knows who's who, the score, and responds as smoothly as the situation contends, his love of gentle free-flowing elegance as sincere as his desire to follow through.
It's a shame he couldn't have invested in stratagems leading to less scandalous arrangements, where his innate charm could have effortlessly flourished upon wave after wave after wave.
But he forgets there are things people won't put up with, heartfelt dissonance animate envy, sacrifice recoiling sans reimbursement, overlooked passionate scars.
The degree of tragedy depends on your viewpoint, Pépé's certainly lost and adrift (I am not Pépé le Moko!), but what outcome would have been preferable to his spirited boundless synchronicities?
Immersed in tell-tale liberality.
Driven to sincerely love.
Intrepidly endearing.
The French Casablanca?
Friday, April 10, 2020
Tôkyô nagaremono (Tokyo Drifter)
The road to iron clad legitimacy is fraught with treacherous peril, for Tetsuya Hondo (Tetsuya Watari) in Tôkyô nagaremono (Tokyo Drifter), whose loyalty is beyond question.
His formerly criminal organization has invested in property to freely reform, but bitter rivals get word of the deal, and comport themselves bold retroactively.
Tetsuya is meek beforehand, out of respect for the honourable transaction, he takes his punishment glib disenchanted, as goons revel in unrestrained cheetah.
But as data fiercely transmits, and he must accept the rotten audacity, previous instincts hark and reckon, although he must refrain from combat.
His prowess is legendary however (not me - I'm a dork), and the wicked fear his volatile sanctions, and rest uneasy as he ably persists, notably after he sees them commit murder.
Soon he must sorrowfully withdraw, to wander distraught and alone, but his whereabouts are swiftly detected, wherever he woefully roams.
Loyalties offer safe passage, but allegiances ruefully construct both sides, the network remarkably well-integrated, cohesive, tight, interconnected.
He contemptuously dismisses another for living without a code, beyond hard-fought lovelocked fidelity, without teamwork, history, reliability.
Dependability.
He soon encounters a reimagined schematic which challenges his strict resolve.
He's tragic but not inflexible.
With agile incredulous misgivings.
Tôkyô nagaremono emits angelic light as it chaotically discerns discrepancy, pop culture celestially bemusing as random outbursts shock and dismay.
The cultivation of foundations taunts and testifies, through the deconstruction of alliance, in touch with haunting self-sufficiencies, and acrimonious disbelief.
Creativity pervades its reckonings as it constructs versatile truth and meaning, inspired low budget authenticity, the film itself somewhat like honest Tetsuya.
A lot of stuff just kind of happens.
It's fun to go with the flow.
Get caught up in the free-form productivity, the improvised so don't cha know?
Perhaps seminal in terms of its influence, I imagine Tôkyô nagaremono motivated sundry filmmakers, to create not for prestige or money, but simply because there's a story to tell.
Find the crew, make it up on the fly, working with what's been established beforehand (scripts in process).
There's nothing quite like the spur of the moment.
Such raw magnetic intensity.
Tuesday, April 7, 2020
Cactus Flower
Spoiler alert.
I wonder what the Me Too Movement would make of Gene Saks's Cactus Flower?
It examines a relationship forged between a middle-aged man and a younger woman. It's mutually consensual and he isn't married although he does fool around. However she thinks he is married and that whenever he heads out with another woman he's actually spending time with his wife. After she attempts suicide he decides it's time to marry her, but he needs to find someone to pretend to be his wife before she'll take him seriously. His older administrative assistant agrees to play the part but as the ruse unreels it becomes clear that she's in love with him. She's eventually had enough and tells her rival the truth, which relieves her of her burden, even if she's still in love. In the end, the doctor (Walter Matthau) realizes he's loved her all along and it's clear they're about to fall for each other. Meanwhile his old partner (Goldie Hawn as Toni Simmons) has found someone her own age with whom she seems compatible.
You could take that scenario and make whatever kind of movie but this version of Cactus Flower's a comedy, complete with loveable wayward cad.
He's living the carefree life of a freespirited duplicitous individualist but he adjusts his behaviour when the situation becomes grim, which doesn't justify the actions he took beforehand, but shows that he isn't devoid of thought or feeling.
Even though he generally proceeds as if nothing could go wrong, when something does he reacts quickly, a tarnished blemished conscience emerging from the depths of unbridled excess.
He gets together with the more mature Ms. Dickinson (Ingrid Bergman) in the final moments which suggests he's left youthful shenanigans behind, and Toni is happy with her newfound beau (Rick Lenz as Igor Sullivan [who reminded me of James Stewart]), and doesn't seem to harbour any resentment.
He's off the hook.
He wasn't a Weinstein, he wasn't forcing people to do things they'd rather not, but he was still behaving controversially without much respect for the opposite sex.
And even after his actions have dire consequences he still behaves deceitfully, yet he's still the champion of the narrative, even if it's a bit of a farce.
I imagine this is the type of narrative Me Too generally frowns upon, the good old boy proceeding sans repercussion, without hindrance, shock, or disgrace, everything still working out in the end.
As the women are written they love him, and it takes grotesque degrees of ridiculousness to engender change, he still shines forth as it happily concludes, nestled within comfortable paradigms.
I'd say it's an old style of narrative if I weren't convinced that just isn't so, As Good As it Gets a striking alternative, worth checking out if you haven't seen it.
I try not to prescribe what kind of narrative to write but Me Too's concerns are genuine.
It would be cool if they were creatively leveraged.
Could lead to compelling new ideas.
I wonder what the Me Too Movement would make of Gene Saks's Cactus Flower?
It examines a relationship forged between a middle-aged man and a younger woman. It's mutually consensual and he isn't married although he does fool around. However she thinks he is married and that whenever he heads out with another woman he's actually spending time with his wife. After she attempts suicide he decides it's time to marry her, but he needs to find someone to pretend to be his wife before she'll take him seriously. His older administrative assistant agrees to play the part but as the ruse unreels it becomes clear that she's in love with him. She's eventually had enough and tells her rival the truth, which relieves her of her burden, even if she's still in love. In the end, the doctor (Walter Matthau) realizes he's loved her all along and it's clear they're about to fall for each other. Meanwhile his old partner (Goldie Hawn as Toni Simmons) has found someone her own age with whom she seems compatible.
You could take that scenario and make whatever kind of movie but this version of Cactus Flower's a comedy, complete with loveable wayward cad.
He's living the carefree life of a freespirited duplicitous individualist but he adjusts his behaviour when the situation becomes grim, which doesn't justify the actions he took beforehand, but shows that he isn't devoid of thought or feeling.
Even though he generally proceeds as if nothing could go wrong, when something does he reacts quickly, a tarnished blemished conscience emerging from the depths of unbridled excess.
He gets together with the more mature Ms. Dickinson (Ingrid Bergman) in the final moments which suggests he's left youthful shenanigans behind, and Toni is happy with her newfound beau (Rick Lenz as Igor Sullivan [who reminded me of James Stewart]), and doesn't seem to harbour any resentment.
He's off the hook.
He wasn't a Weinstein, he wasn't forcing people to do things they'd rather not, but he was still behaving controversially without much respect for the opposite sex.
And even after his actions have dire consequences he still behaves deceitfully, yet he's still the champion of the narrative, even if it's a bit of a farce.
I imagine this is the type of narrative Me Too generally frowns upon, the good old boy proceeding sans repercussion, without hindrance, shock, or disgrace, everything still working out in the end.
As the women are written they love him, and it takes grotesque degrees of ridiculousness to engender change, he still shines forth as it happily concludes, nestled within comfortable paradigms.
I'd say it's an old style of narrative if I weren't convinced that just isn't so, As Good As it Gets a striking alternative, worth checking out if you haven't seen it.
I try not to prescribe what kind of narrative to write but Me Too's concerns are genuine.
It would be cool if they were creatively leveraged.
Could lead to compelling new ideas.
Friday, April 3, 2020
21 Days
Sometimes the clearest answer's too elemental to swiftly chime, 21 Days presenting guilt and innocence as one man reacts consumed, quixotic.
For a murder has been committed, and the wrong man could indeed be hung, guilt punishing the bona fide culprit, who decides to wait for the binding verdict.
He may be found innocent you see, and then everything's right as rain, Larry Durrant (Laurence Olivier) can marry his cherished belle (Vivien Leigh as Wanda), and perhaps raise a happy family.
He didn't mean to murder her husband, who was in fact a disreputable man, they just started fighting and he wound up dead, the intent to kill never crossed his mind.
He hides the body in an alley and it's discovered by a fallen priest (Hay Petrie as John Evan), who robs it and is caught red-handed, and presumed to be the murderer.
Durrant considers giving himself up but his brother (Leslie Banks) is a prominent lawyer, who's about to be promoted to judge, the slightest scandal would ruin his career, he begs young Larry to reconsider.
While the fallen priest stands trail for murder, Larry and Wanda have 21 days, which they spend in search of bliss, sparing no expense or liberty.
But gloom haunts their freespirited endeavours as the trial nears its catastrophic end, no family, no fantasy, no future, should erroneous guilt descend.
The fallen priest doesn't even mind.
He thinks he should be punished for his desperate action.
Thus you have a devilish comedy masquerading as sincerest drama, its amoral resonance discreetly echoing, its spirited candour dissembled code.
Not me, not this blog, 21 Days.
How could audiences have figured it out when they were having so much fun?, Laurence Olivier instinctually astounding, I see why older generations loved him so.
Its fast pace and irreverent script (Basil Dean, Graham Greene & John Galsworthy [The First and the Last]) (note the legal peeps discussing their light crimes over dinner) overflow with amorous and ethical wonder, a diabolical treat for the cheeky intellect, that leaves you feeling guilty for having appreciated it.
Don't think older generations were uniformly upright with stiff upper-lips, the cheek is always trying to break through, it's just a matter of style and timing.
Great lines nuance realistic situations with audacious unorthodox levity.
The joy of filmmaking. 😜
Also known as 21 Days Together.
For a murder has been committed, and the wrong man could indeed be hung, guilt punishing the bona fide culprit, who decides to wait for the binding verdict.
He may be found innocent you see, and then everything's right as rain, Larry Durrant (Laurence Olivier) can marry his cherished belle (Vivien Leigh as Wanda), and perhaps raise a happy family.
He didn't mean to murder her husband, who was in fact a disreputable man, they just started fighting and he wound up dead, the intent to kill never crossed his mind.
He hides the body in an alley and it's discovered by a fallen priest (Hay Petrie as John Evan), who robs it and is caught red-handed, and presumed to be the murderer.
Durrant considers giving himself up but his brother (Leslie Banks) is a prominent lawyer, who's about to be promoted to judge, the slightest scandal would ruin his career, he begs young Larry to reconsider.
While the fallen priest stands trail for murder, Larry and Wanda have 21 days, which they spend in search of bliss, sparing no expense or liberty.
But gloom haunts their freespirited endeavours as the trial nears its catastrophic end, no family, no fantasy, no future, should erroneous guilt descend.
The fallen priest doesn't even mind.
He thinks he should be punished for his desperate action.
Thus you have a devilish comedy masquerading as sincerest drama, its amoral resonance discreetly echoing, its spirited candour dissembled code.
Not me, not this blog, 21 Days.
How could audiences have figured it out when they were having so much fun?, Laurence Olivier instinctually astounding, I see why older generations loved him so.
Its fast pace and irreverent script (Basil Dean, Graham Greene & John Galsworthy [The First and the Last]) (note the legal peeps discussing their light crimes over dinner) overflow with amorous and ethical wonder, a diabolical treat for the cheeky intellect, that leaves you feeling guilty for having appreciated it.
Don't think older generations were uniformly upright with stiff upper-lips, the cheek is always trying to break through, it's just a matter of style and timing.
Great lines nuance realistic situations with audacious unorthodox levity.
The joy of filmmaking. 😜
Also known as 21 Days Together.
Tuesday, March 31, 2020
Zardoz
Imagine COVID-19 as reflective of desires to keep demographics stratified, with no intermingling amongst different collectives, even though at the moment isolation is paramount.
The title sounded cool and it stars Sean Connery.
I imagine John Boorman didn't like ivory towers much.
Or the politics of the left in the early '70s.
Zardoz expresses such sentiments anyways with blunt instinctual derision.
It's absurd menacing political satire.
Confrontationally conceived.
In a hypothetical future, the elite have sealed themselves off within an impenetrable exclusive zone, where they live immortal lives of plenty, or at least with everything they need.
Outer regions know only chaos in maddening woebegone conflict.
The immortals have struggled to achieve enlightenment and have compiled vast repertoires of scientific knowledge, but some of them have grown restless, bored, tired of the limits of infinite perfection.
Fortunately for them, an enforcer stows away on the giant head that travels between realms, hiding beneath the grain, intent on acquiring wisdom (Sean Connery as Zed).
He introduces a unique element.
Curious carnal contrariety.
The immortals have cast off emotion you see, and live within stoic reasonable boundaries, with no children or families or nurturing, just rarefied rational discourse.
Subversive intentions plaque somnambulistic.
Those in control have qualified everything.
Gross exaggeration pervades the rigid Zardoz, but I still wonder how it was received at the time? I've certainly never heard anyone discuss it and don't recall it ever showing up in rerun.
I imagine it was cutting edge sci-fi for the '70s, at least some of the visuals are quite impressive, not the giant head itself so scandalous, but there are noteworthy technical features.
I still wonder if it was meant to be taken seriously, on some level I don't quite comprehend, but so much of it seems like solemn farce, like barbarians inside the gates.
But what seemed like solemn farce in recent memory is trying to transform reasonable debate these days, and what used to seem absurd is taken seriously, the public sphere in free-fall flux.
If people are currently worried that desires to function self-sufficiently are threatening the proliferation of the nuclear family, perhaps they were in the '70s (and long before then) as well, although I remain to be sure uncertain, even if I'm leaning towards "they definitely were".
A future where people suddenly want to stop breeding, generally, no matter what ideology predominates, seems highly unlikely to me, however.
There's just too much comfort in relaxed recreation.
With agency attached to the conjugally bold.
Nice that the opportunity to not have a family exists though, medieval pressures must have been stifling.
Can't say I recommend Zardoz.
Although it's certainly out of this world.
The title sounded cool and it stars Sean Connery.
I imagine John Boorman didn't like ivory towers much.
Or the politics of the left in the early '70s.
Zardoz expresses such sentiments anyways with blunt instinctual derision.
It's absurd menacing political satire.
Confrontationally conceived.
In a hypothetical future, the elite have sealed themselves off within an impenetrable exclusive zone, where they live immortal lives of plenty, or at least with everything they need.
Outer regions know only chaos in maddening woebegone conflict.
The immortals have struggled to achieve enlightenment and have compiled vast repertoires of scientific knowledge, but some of them have grown restless, bored, tired of the limits of infinite perfection.
Fortunately for them, an enforcer stows away on the giant head that travels between realms, hiding beneath the grain, intent on acquiring wisdom (Sean Connery as Zed).
He introduces a unique element.
Curious carnal contrariety.
The immortals have cast off emotion you see, and live within stoic reasonable boundaries, with no children or families or nurturing, just rarefied rational discourse.
Subversive intentions plaque somnambulistic.
Those in control have qualified everything.
Gross exaggeration pervades the rigid Zardoz, but I still wonder how it was received at the time? I've certainly never heard anyone discuss it and don't recall it ever showing up in rerun.
I imagine it was cutting edge sci-fi for the '70s, at least some of the visuals are quite impressive, not the giant head itself so scandalous, but there are noteworthy technical features.
I still wonder if it was meant to be taken seriously, on some level I don't quite comprehend, but so much of it seems like solemn farce, like barbarians inside the gates.
But what seemed like solemn farce in recent memory is trying to transform reasonable debate these days, and what used to seem absurd is taken seriously, the public sphere in free-fall flux.
If people are currently worried that desires to function self-sufficiently are threatening the proliferation of the nuclear family, perhaps they were in the '70s (and long before then) as well, although I remain to be sure uncertain, even if I'm leaning towards "they definitely were".
A future where people suddenly want to stop breeding, generally, no matter what ideology predominates, seems highly unlikely to me, however.
There's just too much comfort in relaxed recreation.
With agency attached to the conjugally bold.
Nice that the opportunity to not have a family exists though, medieval pressures must have been stifling.
Can't say I recommend Zardoz.
Although it's certainly out of this world.
Friday, March 27, 2020
The Atomic Submarine
Imagine those fighting COVID-19 as the crew of the resolute USS Tigershark, boldly patrolling the Arctic Ocean, guarding against micromanaged wherewithal. In television and film.
Sometimes you don't need to worry so much about Olympian heights and infernal crevices, you can just adapt the golden narrative mean to whatever random idea happens to inspire you.
Sometimes editing gets in the way of the cultivation of free spirits, and naysayers and critical conjurors would have only ruined crafty good times.
Sometimes it's important to have multiple characters who are never really developed, yet keep keepin' on tried tested and true, to a formulaic instinct lock stock incandescent.
Sometimes you don't need bells and whistles, nooks and crannies, rhyme nor reason, you don't even have to use music to keep your film laidback, restless, thawed.
Sometimes questions or second takes only blind a unique vision, whose primordial circumspects would have never been sighted otherwise.
Sometimes when you're tasked with finding striking exemplars of independence, you need to look beyond considerations like applicability, to construct a more robust scenario.
Sometimes there's not much of a point but peeps find purpose in a lack of recognition, proceeding onwards sure and steady without projection, forecast, recall.
Sometimes you simply love somethin' that isn't overflowin' with shoulds and s'post'as, something that no one else seems to get but for you guarantees resolve.
Sometimes meaning isn't meant to be profound, it's more of a relaxed Sunday afternoon expression, perhaps achieving momentary awestruck ends, but without desires to influence or motivate.
Sometimes time is of the essence, so not much time is taken, yet something still comes together, with definitive shape and yield and texture.
Sometimes you need a little context, sometimes simply nothing at all, sometimes there's periodization, at others, essential breakdowns.
Sometimes not taking your time and advancing posthaste full-throttle, creates something larger than life, in the hearts and minds of curious imaginations.
Sometimes things seem so serious, so stressed out and commandeering, best to tune it all out and proceed without ever contemplating repercussion.
There have to be reasons why The Atomic Submarine is in the Criterion Collection, perhaps its total lack of assumption justifying free form collocation.
There's a certain charm no doubt that generates magnetism when you act without thinking.
And you still manage to pull it all off.
Preferred protracted transfers.
Sometimes you don't need to worry so much about Olympian heights and infernal crevices, you can just adapt the golden narrative mean to whatever random idea happens to inspire you.
Sometimes editing gets in the way of the cultivation of free spirits, and naysayers and critical conjurors would have only ruined crafty good times.
Sometimes it's important to have multiple characters who are never really developed, yet keep keepin' on tried tested and true, to a formulaic instinct lock stock incandescent.
Sometimes you don't need bells and whistles, nooks and crannies, rhyme nor reason, you don't even have to use music to keep your film laidback, restless, thawed.
Sometimes questions or second takes only blind a unique vision, whose primordial circumspects would have never been sighted otherwise.
Sometimes when you're tasked with finding striking exemplars of independence, you need to look beyond considerations like applicability, to construct a more robust scenario.
Sometimes there's not much of a point but peeps find purpose in a lack of recognition, proceeding onwards sure and steady without projection, forecast, recall.
Sometimes you simply love somethin' that isn't overflowin' with shoulds and s'post'as, something that no one else seems to get but for you guarantees resolve.
Sometimes meaning isn't meant to be profound, it's more of a relaxed Sunday afternoon expression, perhaps achieving momentary awestruck ends, but without desires to influence or motivate.
Sometimes time is of the essence, so not much time is taken, yet something still comes together, with definitive shape and yield and texture.
Sometimes you need a little context, sometimes simply nothing at all, sometimes there's periodization, at others, essential breakdowns.
Sometimes not taking your time and advancing posthaste full-throttle, creates something larger than life, in the hearts and minds of curious imaginations.
Sometimes things seem so serious, so stressed out and commandeering, best to tune it all out and proceed without ever contemplating repercussion.
There have to be reasons why The Atomic Submarine is in the Criterion Collection, perhaps its total lack of assumption justifying free form collocation.
There's a certain charm no doubt that generates magnetism when you act without thinking.
And you still manage to pull it all off.
Preferred protracted transfers.
Tuesday, March 24, 2020
Tuff Turf
Imagine COVID-19 as a partner who refuses to let go, even though they still have plenty of options, and their love interest's already found someone new.
Difficulties arise, and a family decides to move, leaving Connecticut with bold momentum, to resettle in California.
Youngest son and borderline ne'er-do-well Mr. Hiller (James Spader) struggles to adjust, for even if he shies away from academics, he still has zero tolerance for blatant thuggery.
Soon he's after the underachieving love interest (Kim Richards as Frankie Croyden) of his new high school's most prominent goon (Paul Mones as Nick Hauser), who takes none too kindly to the intrusion, and responds with blunt distaste.
Warnings are given, followed by the infliction of punishment, but Hiller will not yield, the conflict becoming uncharacteristically intense, for the '80s films I'm familiar with, must have been too young for this one, Tuff Turf's rather super-violent, quite brutal, by no means prim or whitewashed, Hiller takes on a volatile gang, and deals with the harsh repercussions.
The film seems less threatening early on, as if the happy-go-lucky will prevail, but Hiller's not Chris Knight or Ferris Bueller, and he takes full-on shocking beatings.
Yet at other times Tuff Turf's so light of heart, like when Hiller's successful brother comes to visit, or he playfully crashes a country club buffet, plus the cool emphasis on all things bike.
Half the film's like a wild music video that's primarily concerned with advertising bands, the plot secondary to the electronic beats, the horn section, the bass, the guitar.
At times you wonder if they're even going to try to develop a plot, or just revel in melodious bedlam.
Then they do sort of develop a story which becomes incredibly dark and grim, like Pretty in Pink meets Scorsese, with a gashed and gripping head wound.
The principal is introduced to warn rebellious Hiller, but he never shows up again, school's practically left behind, less scholastic endeavour than even Twin Peaks.
Hiller is now in public school after having been thrown out of an elite prep college, but since his father (Matt Clark) lost his business, he wouldn't have been able to attend another one anyways.
The awkward. It's like someone who doesn't fit in keeps generating awkward tension throughout the entire film which becomes increasingly crazed and combative until it erupts in full-fledged frenzy.
With bands rockin' out and tacked on family values.
It's like director Fritz Kiersch didn't like '80s films and sought to release something countercultural, which couldn't have possibly been appealing, but seems to be focused on generating esteem.
There could be a sick sense of humour here that I'm glad I'm not getting.
Enter Seinfeld's bizarro world.
Kitschy immiscibility.
Difficulties arise, and a family decides to move, leaving Connecticut with bold momentum, to resettle in California.
Youngest son and borderline ne'er-do-well Mr. Hiller (James Spader) struggles to adjust, for even if he shies away from academics, he still has zero tolerance for blatant thuggery.
Soon he's after the underachieving love interest (Kim Richards as Frankie Croyden) of his new high school's most prominent goon (Paul Mones as Nick Hauser), who takes none too kindly to the intrusion, and responds with blunt distaste.
Warnings are given, followed by the infliction of punishment, but Hiller will not yield, the conflict becoming uncharacteristically intense, for the '80s films I'm familiar with, must have been too young for this one, Tuff Turf's rather super-violent, quite brutal, by no means prim or whitewashed, Hiller takes on a volatile gang, and deals with the harsh repercussions.
The film seems less threatening early on, as if the happy-go-lucky will prevail, but Hiller's not Chris Knight or Ferris Bueller, and he takes full-on shocking beatings.
Yet at other times Tuff Turf's so light of heart, like when Hiller's successful brother comes to visit, or he playfully crashes a country club buffet, plus the cool emphasis on all things bike.
Half the film's like a wild music video that's primarily concerned with advertising bands, the plot secondary to the electronic beats, the horn section, the bass, the guitar.
At times you wonder if they're even going to try to develop a plot, or just revel in melodious bedlam.
Then they do sort of develop a story which becomes incredibly dark and grim, like Pretty in Pink meets Scorsese, with a gashed and gripping head wound.
The principal is introduced to warn rebellious Hiller, but he never shows up again, school's practically left behind, less scholastic endeavour than even Twin Peaks.
Hiller is now in public school after having been thrown out of an elite prep college, but since his father (Matt Clark) lost his business, he wouldn't have been able to attend another one anyways.
The awkward. It's like someone who doesn't fit in keeps generating awkward tension throughout the entire film which becomes increasingly crazed and combative until it erupts in full-fledged frenzy.
With bands rockin' out and tacked on family values.
It's like director Fritz Kiersch didn't like '80s films and sought to release something countercultural, which couldn't have possibly been appealing, but seems to be focused on generating esteem.
There could be a sick sense of humour here that I'm glad I'm not getting.
Enter Seinfeld's bizarro world.
Kitschy immiscibility.
Friday, March 20, 2020
Dragonslayer
Perhaps imagine COVID-19 as a monstrous dragon, and the heroic medical staff battling it adventurers of old, their quest having been thrust upon them, inspirational responses extolled and trending.
An aged wizard's sage awareness awaits a quest forthcoming (Ralph Richardson as Ulrich), his bold apprentice bemused and fitful (Peter MacNicol as Galen), the faithful announce they have arrived.
They believe only he can vanquish a dragon who constantly threatens to terrorize their lands, its will merciless and unrelenting, yet appeased through maiden sacrifice.
Ulrich humbly grants them audience then agrees to forthrightly aid, setting forth that very same day, unconcerned yet frail and weary.
But a representative of the King (Peter Eyre) has followed them (John Hallam as Tyrian), and he does not believe in magic, requiring proof of Ulirch's prowess, a test which he's unfortunately doomed to fail.
His apprentice grieves undaunted, and clutches a spellbound amulet, which increases his powers tenfold, and provides him with spirited courage.
They depart to face the dragon and end his covetous tyrannical reign, but their goal is fraught with peril, and disastrous crypt uncertainty.
For if they are unsuccessful it will unleash diabolical fury.
Throughout the peaceful land.
Yet the situation remains intolerable.
And no one else is willing.
In an age when magic is fading from the world, having been supplanted by alternative spirituality, extant practitioners still heroically clash, to salute reckonings paradigmatic.
Royalty is not excluded, for the King's daughter (Chloe Salaman as Princess Elspeth) seeks not elite preference, a time when barriers between classes were being challenged, when the concept of fair play was something honourable.
While I believe Marvel Studios seeks to perfect age old narrative questing, and often does a remarkable job, its workforce perhaps raised on Superman and Dragonslayer, which urged them to vigorously diversify adventure, criticisms of their success akin to sour grapes, the opportunity to craft realistic drama pending, sometimes its heroes lack the unsung common touch, they're too ingenious and augustly endowed.
Although perhaps I'm being unfair, for we're introduced to Hawkeye's family, and Spider-Man's a kid from New York, and Star-Lord's a bit of a screw up (who still has his own ship).
It's still not the same.
It's almost cooler to see foolish Galen battle a dragon in the ramshackle Dragonslayer, making it up as he audaciously goes along, with neither team nor retinue, his friends helping him prepare and train.
He lacks wealth and cultural distinction yet still fights with transcendent courage.
Incredibly plying his trade.
Without recourse to vast enlightenment.
Setting forth day after day.
An aged wizard's sage awareness awaits a quest forthcoming (Ralph Richardson as Ulrich), his bold apprentice bemused and fitful (Peter MacNicol as Galen), the faithful announce they have arrived.
They believe only he can vanquish a dragon who constantly threatens to terrorize their lands, its will merciless and unrelenting, yet appeased through maiden sacrifice.
Ulrich humbly grants them audience then agrees to forthrightly aid, setting forth that very same day, unconcerned yet frail and weary.
But a representative of the King (Peter Eyre) has followed them (John Hallam as Tyrian), and he does not believe in magic, requiring proof of Ulirch's prowess, a test which he's unfortunately doomed to fail.
His apprentice grieves undaunted, and clutches a spellbound amulet, which increases his powers tenfold, and provides him with spirited courage.
They depart to face the dragon and end his covetous tyrannical reign, but their goal is fraught with peril, and disastrous crypt uncertainty.
For if they are unsuccessful it will unleash diabolical fury.
Throughout the peaceful land.
Yet the situation remains intolerable.
And no one else is willing.
In an age when magic is fading from the world, having been supplanted by alternative spirituality, extant practitioners still heroically clash, to salute reckonings paradigmatic.
Royalty is not excluded, for the King's daughter (Chloe Salaman as Princess Elspeth) seeks not elite preference, a time when barriers between classes were being challenged, when the concept of fair play was something honourable.
While I believe Marvel Studios seeks to perfect age old narrative questing, and often does a remarkable job, its workforce perhaps raised on Superman and Dragonslayer, which urged them to vigorously diversify adventure, criticisms of their success akin to sour grapes, the opportunity to craft realistic drama pending, sometimes its heroes lack the unsung common touch, they're too ingenious and augustly endowed.
Although perhaps I'm being unfair, for we're introduced to Hawkeye's family, and Spider-Man's a kid from New York, and Star-Lord's a bit of a screw up (who still has his own ship).
It's still not the same.
It's almost cooler to see foolish Galen battle a dragon in the ramshackle Dragonslayer, making it up as he audaciously goes along, with neither team nor retinue, his friends helping him prepare and train.
He lacks wealth and cultural distinction yet still fights with transcendent courage.
Incredibly plying his trade.
Without recourse to vast enlightenment.
Setting forth day after day.
Tuesday, March 17, 2020
The Invisible Man
This review concerns a film where one partner is obsessed with controlling the other. That is what this review is about. I am not indirectly critiquing governments for introducing strict measures to combat the coronavirus. I think it is better to prevent the spread of the virus than to be in a situation where Canadian and Québecois or American or French medical staff are overwhelmed trying to fight it, and I therefore support strict measures which encourage more time spent at home working on projects and chillin' with loved ones, during these difficult times.
Relationship dynamics suffocate a partner's growth, their tight-knit bond overwhelmingly intensifying as she attempts to securely break free.
Cecilia (Elisabeth Moss) needs to conceal her whereabouts to avoid rage-fuelled repercussions, so she lies low at a friend's comfy pad, too frightened to venture past defined thresholds.
Before it's made known that he's suddenly passed and left her everything he possessed, a sense of calm then slowly regenerating, as she seeks work and amicable trust.
But something's not quite right as she tries to reestablish her steady routine, bizarre occurrences maladroitly dishevelling, which make no sense without supernatural recourse.
It becomes clear aggrieved reanimation is striving to drive her insane, but since evidence cannot be compiled, reasonability flounders defunct.
I've read articles equating break ups to alcohol or narcotics-based withdrawal, The Invisible Man investigating this phenomenon with gripping visceral bedlam.
It reminds me of Rosemary's Baby since its heroine struggles in aware isolation, as her support network distraughtly collapses, and she's left alone to forthrightly contend.
But it's not as fatalistic, not as hopeless or stifling, it leaves room for intact resolution, at time showcasing genuine frights.
Shocking downright frisked and freaky.
Mr. Griffen (Oliver Jackson-Cohen) is as extreme as he is obsessed, can't even begin to start contemplating letting go.
It's like maniacal withdrawal, unrestrained irrational concentration, people aren't like inanimate objects, if they don't want to date you they may never will.
I don't understand why people want to date people who don't like them that much, it seems like a cruel recipe for distress, isn't it preferable to spend that much time with someone you can be friendly with, so so much of your life isn't confrontationally composed?
Seems like the dark side to me, like you're surrounded by total negativity, with a logic totally its own, that only makes sense if you leap off the deep end, aren't there always new people to meet?
New interested individuals who can't wait to get to know you?
If you put yourself out there?
The Invisible Man doesn't present the most robust scenario but it makes the most of its chilling proposition, offering candid insights into ye olde independence, while aptly vilifying obsessive pretensions.
It's a solid thriller that doesn't overextend itself, excels within its particular domain, creating a shocking lifeforce all its own, invigorated by sincere performances.
Relationship dynamics suffocate a partner's growth, their tight-knit bond overwhelmingly intensifying as she attempts to securely break free.
Cecilia (Elisabeth Moss) needs to conceal her whereabouts to avoid rage-fuelled repercussions, so she lies low at a friend's comfy pad, too frightened to venture past defined thresholds.
Before it's made known that he's suddenly passed and left her everything he possessed, a sense of calm then slowly regenerating, as she seeks work and amicable trust.
But something's not quite right as she tries to reestablish her steady routine, bizarre occurrences maladroitly dishevelling, which make no sense without supernatural recourse.
It becomes clear aggrieved reanimation is striving to drive her insane, but since evidence cannot be compiled, reasonability flounders defunct.
I've read articles equating break ups to alcohol or narcotics-based withdrawal, The Invisible Man investigating this phenomenon with gripping visceral bedlam.
It reminds me of Rosemary's Baby since its heroine struggles in aware isolation, as her support network distraughtly collapses, and she's left alone to forthrightly contend.
But it's not as fatalistic, not as hopeless or stifling, it leaves room for intact resolution, at time showcasing genuine frights.
Shocking downright frisked and freaky.
Mr. Griffen (Oliver Jackson-Cohen) is as extreme as he is obsessed, can't even begin to start contemplating letting go.
It's like maniacal withdrawal, unrestrained irrational concentration, people aren't like inanimate objects, if they don't want to date you they may never will.
I don't understand why people want to date people who don't like them that much, it seems like a cruel recipe for distress, isn't it preferable to spend that much time with someone you can be friendly with, so so much of your life isn't confrontationally composed?
Seems like the dark side to me, like you're surrounded by total negativity, with a logic totally its own, that only makes sense if you leap off the deep end, aren't there always new people to meet?
New interested individuals who can't wait to get to know you?
If you put yourself out there?
The Invisible Man doesn't present the most robust scenario but it makes the most of its chilling proposition, offering candid insights into ye olde independence, while aptly vilifying obsessive pretensions.
It's a solid thriller that doesn't overextend itself, excels within its particular domain, creating a shocking lifeforce all its own, invigorated by sincere performances.
Friday, March 13, 2020
Onward
I hope everyone's safe during these stressful times. I'll probably be focusing on movie rentals for the next couple of weeks but I did see a couple of films before things intensified.
Pixar's Onward presents a world wherein which fantasy has been replaced by modern convenience, elves and unicorns and cyclopses living suburban domestic lives, the thrill of questing overwhelmed by scientific adaptation, latent strengths subconsciously shimmering, unplanned adventure accounted for otherwise.
Two brothers playfully reckon within the alternative conception, one shy and focused on school, the other wild and reckless and daring.
Their mom (Julia Louis-Dreyfus as Laurel Lightfoot) has boldly raised them alone, since shortly after the birth of her second son, but she's found a new partner who helps out (Mel Rodriguez as Colt Bronco), the two forging a caretaking fluency.
Which is suddenly tested and challenged on Ian Lightfoot's (Tom Holland) 16th birthday, after he receives a gift left to him by his generous dad, a staff no less of wizarding renown, complete with a spell channelling reincarnation.
The elder Barley (Chris Pratt) seeks to wield its resiliency, for he's in touch with bygone days of yore, but he lacks verified authenticity, his spirit still ye olde die hard.
He's impressed when Ian the younger accidentally generates vision, but his sights fall short of reanimate goals, a quest necessitated sparked thereafter, the two departing with accents fateful.
And to hasten their destined good fortune, old school clues still commercially abound, a path purposefully and piquantly pinpointed, through cloaked coaxing postmodern realms.
Not this blog.
A puzzle at a Manticore's (Octavia Spencer) family restaurant.
The Manticore soon following in hot pursuit.
Accompanied by one concerned mom.
An imaginative synthesis of disparate epochs awaits in Onward's fraternal reels, as uncertain raw ambitions clash with preplanned determinate yields.
Reminiscent of long lost considerations concerning the cost of extant classics, their prices incongruously reflecting their contents, their value oft overlooked, disregarded.
Yet these classics still hold precious astral ascensions beheld by generations long passed, their texts emitting contemporary resonance distilled like essential tranquility.
Onward perhaps doesn't reach such a level but it still reverberates with atemporal antiquity, focused on vigorous concentrate, bizarro bewitching indiscretions.
Perhaps something's been lost in recent centuries as technology's progressed exponentially, as appliances ease once ubiquitous burdens, as knowledge globally and internationally expands.
But you can still find that primordial spirit should you have the will to seek it, as simple as a trip to Parc Jean-Drapeau, or restaurants chosen at random.
There are many ways to fill your life with unfiltered excitement, classic art, walks in the woods, and good food just the tip of the iceberg.
But we've more or less lost some ways that used to be quite destructive too, such as global conflict and fast spreading diseases.
So remember to proceed with caution.
In case you don't like what you find.
I'm looking at you coronavirus.
I support strong measures to prevent it from spreading.
The medical personnel who have to fight it are risking their lives.
Pixar's Onward presents a world wherein which fantasy has been replaced by modern convenience, elves and unicorns and cyclopses living suburban domestic lives, the thrill of questing overwhelmed by scientific adaptation, latent strengths subconsciously shimmering, unplanned adventure accounted for otherwise.
Two brothers playfully reckon within the alternative conception, one shy and focused on school, the other wild and reckless and daring.
Their mom (Julia Louis-Dreyfus as Laurel Lightfoot) has boldly raised them alone, since shortly after the birth of her second son, but she's found a new partner who helps out (Mel Rodriguez as Colt Bronco), the two forging a caretaking fluency.
Which is suddenly tested and challenged on Ian Lightfoot's (Tom Holland) 16th birthday, after he receives a gift left to him by his generous dad, a staff no less of wizarding renown, complete with a spell channelling reincarnation.
The elder Barley (Chris Pratt) seeks to wield its resiliency, for he's in touch with bygone days of yore, but he lacks verified authenticity, his spirit still ye olde die hard.
He's impressed when Ian the younger accidentally generates vision, but his sights fall short of reanimate goals, a quest necessitated sparked thereafter, the two departing with accents fateful.
And to hasten their destined good fortune, old school clues still commercially abound, a path purposefully and piquantly pinpointed, through cloaked coaxing postmodern realms.
Not this blog.
A puzzle at a Manticore's (Octavia Spencer) family restaurant.
The Manticore soon following in hot pursuit.
Accompanied by one concerned mom.
An imaginative synthesis of disparate epochs awaits in Onward's fraternal reels, as uncertain raw ambitions clash with preplanned determinate yields.
Reminiscent of long lost considerations concerning the cost of extant classics, their prices incongruously reflecting their contents, their value oft overlooked, disregarded.
Yet these classics still hold precious astral ascensions beheld by generations long passed, their texts emitting contemporary resonance distilled like essential tranquility.
Onward perhaps doesn't reach such a level but it still reverberates with atemporal antiquity, focused on vigorous concentrate, bizarro bewitching indiscretions.
Perhaps something's been lost in recent centuries as technology's progressed exponentially, as appliances ease once ubiquitous burdens, as knowledge globally and internationally expands.
But you can still find that primordial spirit should you have the will to seek it, as simple as a trip to Parc Jean-Drapeau, or restaurants chosen at random.
There are many ways to fill your life with unfiltered excitement, classic art, walks in the woods, and good food just the tip of the iceberg.
But we've more or less lost some ways that used to be quite destructive too, such as global conflict and fast spreading diseases.
So remember to proceed with caution.
In case you don't like what you find.
I'm looking at you coronavirus.
I support strong measures to prevent it from spreading.
The medical personnel who have to fight it are risking their lives.
Tuesday, March 10, 2020
Sorry We Missed You
I definitely prefer a cultural situation wherein which a strong middle-class encourages economic diversity abounding with difference and opportunity, to one where a small group of narrow-minded zealots attach binding negative moral judgments to everything that doesn't suit their personal beliefs, but I also don't mean to suggest that a culture with a strong middle-class is in itself problem free, Ken Loach's Sorry We Missed You providing striking examples of such stifling demotivating issues.
I don't recall another film that captures the struggles of a working family more poignantly, one that's more well-rounded or depth prone, as Ricky (Kris Hitchen) starts working his new job, and the long hours keep him far from home.
He's been steadily working hard at different jobs throughout his adult life, but none of them have generated much wealth, and even though his family is reasonably provided for, their debts have mounted over the years.
His new job offers a really high income (1200 pounds a week) even after subtracting the cost of the van, and if things work out would give his family a sought after leg up, the job he's been waiting for for many a year.
But it's 14 hour days sometimes 7 days a week, and mistakes will not be tolerated, there's no time off to deal with unexpected troubles and financial penalties if you make an exception.
He's a loving family man who sincerely misses his wife (Debbie Honeywood as Abbie) and children (Rhys Stone as Seb and Katie Proctor as Liza Jae), and his son Seb's been acting up and missing school, things becoming much worse after he takes the new job, and is no longer around to hang out and be there.
It becomes clear that he needs to be there after Seb's suspended from school and caught shoplifting, but his boss (Ross Brewster as Maloney) has zero tolerance for anything besides "yes, sir," and Ricky won't consider finding an alternative.
He's not even technically a boss, Ricky is supposed to have his own franchise, but he needs to find someone to work for him if he can't, and can't find anyone to sub for him unfortunately.
The fact that he won't quit even though he should heartbreakingly highlights his financial desperation, the enormous bounty of his culture's goods and services outside his economic grasp.
His family doesn't even seem like they want that much but they're still immersed in commercial ideals, and he wants them to have access to everything they desire, even if it means he has to work non-stop all the time.
First rate hardboiled realism.
A stunning critique of conflicting priorities.
I usually think it's better to live off credit than to live somewhere where credit isn't available and you have nothing, but I don't know what it's like to owe credit card companies tens of thousands and I'm not supporting a hungry family.
I've been in situations long long ago where I've dreamed about the job Ricky finds though, the financial stability, the extra cash, more or less managing your own working day, a crazy high income that will pay every bill.
If I had kids I would want to spend time with them though, especially on Saturday night, and for them to have all the things that they want, even if it meant racking up huge debts I'd do it, but I'd still be driven to pay those debts off.
That's perhaps the state Ricky finds himself within in Sorry We Missed You's hard-hitting final moments (it ends at the perfect time).
He's completely torn between work and family.
And at a loss to know what to do.
It's a wonderful family too, he's helped build something special after work.
And they totally miss having him around.
And are super worried about his health and safety.
If wages aren't going to keep up with inflation, or if wages stagnate while prices keep going up, and good jobs don't have sick days or sympathy anymore, isn't that a no win situation all around?, shouldn't prices stay the same or decrease if wages don't go up?
Doesn't the system collapse if there's too much general credit card debt?
Shouldn't goods and services and rent and cars be more affordable if wages aren't increasing?
How can there be a financial collapse after which prices stay the same?
Isn't capitalism supposed to adjust itself accordingly?
To take the burden off working families and the next generation?
So they don't have to work quite so much.
And there isn't another financial crisis?
I don't recall another film that captures the struggles of a working family more poignantly, one that's more well-rounded or depth prone, as Ricky (Kris Hitchen) starts working his new job, and the long hours keep him far from home.
He's been steadily working hard at different jobs throughout his adult life, but none of them have generated much wealth, and even though his family is reasonably provided for, their debts have mounted over the years.
His new job offers a really high income (1200 pounds a week) even after subtracting the cost of the van, and if things work out would give his family a sought after leg up, the job he's been waiting for for many a year.
But it's 14 hour days sometimes 7 days a week, and mistakes will not be tolerated, there's no time off to deal with unexpected troubles and financial penalties if you make an exception.
He's a loving family man who sincerely misses his wife (Debbie Honeywood as Abbie) and children (Rhys Stone as Seb and Katie Proctor as Liza Jae), and his son Seb's been acting up and missing school, things becoming much worse after he takes the new job, and is no longer around to hang out and be there.
It becomes clear that he needs to be there after Seb's suspended from school and caught shoplifting, but his boss (Ross Brewster as Maloney) has zero tolerance for anything besides "yes, sir," and Ricky won't consider finding an alternative.
He's not even technically a boss, Ricky is supposed to have his own franchise, but he needs to find someone to work for him if he can't, and can't find anyone to sub for him unfortunately.
The fact that he won't quit even though he should heartbreakingly highlights his financial desperation, the enormous bounty of his culture's goods and services outside his economic grasp.
His family doesn't even seem like they want that much but they're still immersed in commercial ideals, and he wants them to have access to everything they desire, even if it means he has to work non-stop all the time.
First rate hardboiled realism.
A stunning critique of conflicting priorities.
I usually think it's better to live off credit than to live somewhere where credit isn't available and you have nothing, but I don't know what it's like to owe credit card companies tens of thousands and I'm not supporting a hungry family.
I've been in situations long long ago where I've dreamed about the job Ricky finds though, the financial stability, the extra cash, more or less managing your own working day, a crazy high income that will pay every bill.
If I had kids I would want to spend time with them though, especially on Saturday night, and for them to have all the things that they want, even if it meant racking up huge debts I'd do it, but I'd still be driven to pay those debts off.
That's perhaps the state Ricky finds himself within in Sorry We Missed You's hard-hitting final moments (it ends at the perfect time).
He's completely torn between work and family.
And at a loss to know what to do.
It's a wonderful family too, he's helped build something special after work.
And they totally miss having him around.
And are super worried about his health and safety.
If wages aren't going to keep up with inflation, or if wages stagnate while prices keep going up, and good jobs don't have sick days or sympathy anymore, isn't that a no win situation all around?, shouldn't prices stay the same or decrease if wages don't go up?
Doesn't the system collapse if there's too much general credit card debt?
Shouldn't goods and services and rent and cars be more affordable if wages aren't increasing?
How can there be a financial collapse after which prices stay the same?
Isn't capitalism supposed to adjust itself accordingly?
To take the burden off working families and the next generation?
So they don't have to work quite so much.
And there isn't another financial crisis?
Friday, March 6, 2020
Papicha
No culture holds a monopoly on dreams, and imagination flourishes partout.
The independent creative soul seeking expression in Papicha, hopes to hold a fashion show to entertain family and friends.
It sounds harmless, exciting even, the chance for blossoming ideas to vibrantly echo, encouraging innovation in a fluidic field, alternative takes celebrating life.
Papicha's (Lyna Khoudri) friends are supportive and helpful as she gathers materials and steadily creates, her unique approach to her cherished surroundings generating catchy sartorial yields.
Her school is hesitant to host the event due to rigid communal concerns, but spirited protests and resilient complaints eventually attain freeform prosperity.
If it were as simple as all that a happy tale would have no doubt been told, chronicling the trials of a determined artist as she vigorously strives and creates, ideas liberated in context under examination before emerging as works of art, perhaps a rival may have produced organic stress?, without seeking to spoil the show.
Does the suppression of diversity and alternatives not lead to the unconscious promotion of anguish, as there are no outlets for the maintenance of spirits who don't fit within specific contexts?
Does the encouragement of a modest spark of independence not lead to more thrilling variety, or at least much wider choice in terms of goods and services, for a culture's commercial life?
With a wider variety of goods and services (many of which are hopefully green one day) isn't an unconscious spirit of fun sustained, at least outside work's rigorous domain wherein which focus breeds success?
And if there are a wide variety of goods and services readily available to choose from, do people not want to succeed at work as well?, for greater working success may lead to higher incomes, with more money to spend on compelling variety.
I used to make lists of items to purchase on the completion of demanding contracts, and they helped me to focus and work as they facilitated growth potential.
How does a culture change and grow if youth aren't encouraged to creatively apply themselves, if there aren't outlets wherein which they can share and potentially generate new thought provoking synergies?
A thriving middle-class creates job opportunities and a spirited thrill for life, the resultant cultural diversity as baffling as it is compelling.
Papicha has an idea and she adamantly pursues it, perhaps recklessly considering her culture's extremes, but her determined pursuit still celebrates creative freedom, the unbridled enthusiasm for which can't be denied, a brave artist refusing to back down, diversity facilitating life.
The independent creative soul seeking expression in Papicha, hopes to hold a fashion show to entertain family and friends.
It sounds harmless, exciting even, the chance for blossoming ideas to vibrantly echo, encouraging innovation in a fluidic field, alternative takes celebrating life.
Papicha's (Lyna Khoudri) friends are supportive and helpful as she gathers materials and steadily creates, her unique approach to her cherished surroundings generating catchy sartorial yields.
Her school is hesitant to host the event due to rigid communal concerns, but spirited protests and resilient complaints eventually attain freeform prosperity.
If it were as simple as all that a happy tale would have no doubt been told, chronicling the trials of a determined artist as she vigorously strives and creates, ideas liberated in context under examination before emerging as works of art, perhaps a rival may have produced organic stress?, without seeking to spoil the show.
Does the suppression of diversity and alternatives not lead to the unconscious promotion of anguish, as there are no outlets for the maintenance of spirits who don't fit within specific contexts?
Does the encouragement of a modest spark of independence not lead to more thrilling variety, or at least much wider choice in terms of goods and services, for a culture's commercial life?
With a wider variety of goods and services (many of which are hopefully green one day) isn't an unconscious spirit of fun sustained, at least outside work's rigorous domain wherein which focus breeds success?
And if there are a wide variety of goods and services readily available to choose from, do people not want to succeed at work as well?, for greater working success may lead to higher incomes, with more money to spend on compelling variety.
I used to make lists of items to purchase on the completion of demanding contracts, and they helped me to focus and work as they facilitated growth potential.
How does a culture change and grow if youth aren't encouraged to creatively apply themselves, if there aren't outlets wherein which they can share and potentially generate new thought provoking synergies?
A thriving middle-class creates job opportunities and a spirited thrill for life, the resultant cultural diversity as baffling as it is compelling.
Papicha has an idea and she adamantly pursues it, perhaps recklessly considering her culture's extremes, but her determined pursuit still celebrates creative freedom, the unbridled enthusiasm for which can't be denied, a brave artist refusing to back down, diversity facilitating life.
Tuesday, March 3, 2020
Ordinary Love
Here's a subject I haven't encountered often at the cinema as of late, a married couple who still gets along well even though neither partner is submissively disposed.
Generally without complaint.
I've noted representations of successful marriages in recent years, but they usually abide by gender stereotypes, with the wife housekeeping and the husband breadwinning, often set in the past to naturalize the difference, as if the conjugal relations of yesteryear were generally characterized by formulaic harmonies, films challenging this perception at times, others revelling in the traditional preconception.
Ordinary Love's set in the present and the characters get along, and there's no volatile outrageous power struggle, as they live their lives in relative peace.
It's cool to watch even if the drama's somewhat sad.
For here we have a man who respects women, and doesn't just expect them to unconditionally abide, and a woman who respects men, and likes listening to what they have to say.
There's mutual respect flourishing and growing even if they're no longer up to much, and they like spending time together, can't imagine it any other way.
Their routine may be somewhat settled but they've found fascination in simple pleasures, like they both love playing chess yet neither contestant seeks victory, like they'd rather just curiously move their pieces around the board instead of immobilizing the opposite king.
Thus they have clever conversations which are neither sedate nor belittling, carving out pleasant yet challenging common ground, upon which to express themselves honestly.
They love to play.
It's like every day's a potential mystery the composition of which is slightly thrilling, and even though there may be recurrent themes, they're part of the reliable fun.
Things can become boring if you don't remain active and you're not committed to one another, but through unspoken active commitment so much novelty unwittingly refrains.
It's not about winning and losing as Joan (Lesley Manville) and Tom (Liam Neeson) demonstrate, but rather an inquiry that has no resolution and is therefore much more compelling.
Goals at work indubitably, if you're an athlete you should diversify your game, but letting go of power and statistics may lead to more imaginative marriages.
Such a marriage is perhaps more like the literary appreciation of slow moving resounding change, the pieces on the board strong and fierce, but not seeking to injure or harm.
Just have to love being in love I suppose, after youthful passions subside.
Stunning variations on a steady theme.
Past futures creatively reckoning.
Generally without complaint.
I've noted representations of successful marriages in recent years, but they usually abide by gender stereotypes, with the wife housekeeping and the husband breadwinning, often set in the past to naturalize the difference, as if the conjugal relations of yesteryear were generally characterized by formulaic harmonies, films challenging this perception at times, others revelling in the traditional preconception.
Ordinary Love's set in the present and the characters get along, and there's no volatile outrageous power struggle, as they live their lives in relative peace.
It's cool to watch even if the drama's somewhat sad.
For here we have a man who respects women, and doesn't just expect them to unconditionally abide, and a woman who respects men, and likes listening to what they have to say.
There's mutual respect flourishing and growing even if they're no longer up to much, and they like spending time together, can't imagine it any other way.
Their routine may be somewhat settled but they've found fascination in simple pleasures, like they both love playing chess yet neither contestant seeks victory, like they'd rather just curiously move their pieces around the board instead of immobilizing the opposite king.
Thus they have clever conversations which are neither sedate nor belittling, carving out pleasant yet challenging common ground, upon which to express themselves honestly.
They love to play.
It's like every day's a potential mystery the composition of which is slightly thrilling, and even though there may be recurrent themes, they're part of the reliable fun.
Things can become boring if you don't remain active and you're not committed to one another, but through unspoken active commitment so much novelty unwittingly refrains.
It's not about winning and losing as Joan (Lesley Manville) and Tom (Liam Neeson) demonstrate, but rather an inquiry that has no resolution and is therefore much more compelling.
Goals at work indubitably, if you're an athlete you should diversify your game, but letting go of power and statistics may lead to more imaginative marriages.
Such a marriage is perhaps more like the literary appreciation of slow moving resounding change, the pieces on the board strong and fierce, but not seeking to injure or harm.
Just have to love being in love I suppose, after youthful passions subside.
Stunning variations on a steady theme.
Past futures creatively reckoning.
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