Love & Monsters

As a giant asteroid heads towards Earth, international consensus launches a strike, of hundreds of volatile nuclear missals, which mange to chaotically get 'er done.

But unfortunately the fallout from the explosions leads to extreme environmental disaster, as tiny insects see exponential growth, and proceed to take out most of humanity.

The survivors live in isolated communities kept in close contact through radio, able to survive and gather food on the surface as long as they can avoid the inveterate beasties.

Joel Dawson (Dylan O'Brien) lives with a tight-knit community resiliently composed through extracurricular agency, but he's generally critiqued by his fellow survivalists for lacking determined battle hardened wherewithal.

But he still adventurously dreams of love lost in the bitter apocalypse, and is able to contact his cherished love interest through old school tenderized trusted technologies. 

Tired of having no opportunity to prove himself, he decides to head out to meet her (Jessica Henwick as Aimee), the distance daunting the quest calamitous, resources scanty, awareness, lacking.

But to dream is to resonate spirit ethereally expanding through limitless boundaries, and Joel possesses indomitable daring romantically synergizing illustrious l'amour.

Naturally, she's moved on when he reaches her but it was still worth the herculean effort.

Which taught him to cultivate courage.

And randomly reflex and improvise.

A dramatic tale comedically denoting sci-fi love in a time a horror, Love & Monsters champions reveries within localized epic congress.

The foolish flourish, ferment, and flounder, yet still matriculate through honest endeavour, trials tantalizing friendship impressed with neither recollection nor spastic endurance.

I suppose if at one time you have billions of insects and then perhaps millions of them mutate to gigantic proportions, their numbers may drastically decrease in the aftermath, if they also take on the reproductive rates of lions or tigers.

But would reproductive rates have been effected, wouldn't the abundant gigantic insects reproduce at such a rate that the Earth's bountiful resources would be consumed in less than a fortnight?

Perhaps not, there's not much data to go on, but fortunately forests remain in tact, and even if humanity's scattered and demoralized, there's still communication and interactive hope.

Joel's an understanding protagonist who can go with or direct the flow.

Encouraged by trial and error.

Seeds of resolute calm. 

The Year of Living Dangerously

Arriving within the tantalizing unknown with no contacts and resolute viability, working within unfamiliar parameters exhilarating recourse refined animation.

The ambiguous reflexes of the bold indeterminate fluidly encouraging resilient jazz rhythms, inordinate pluck and lithe tenacity generate immersion beyond expression.

Mr. Hamilton (Mel Gibson) finds himself far from Australia working his first assignment as a foreign correspondent, with no contacts and a relative lack of sympathy locking down conducive facilitated succession. 

Fortunately compassionate reason curiously materializes from the opaque outset, and an integrated ethicist possessing spry fluencies lends a hand and quizzical quarter (Linda Hunt as Billy Kwan). 

Hamilton is able at least to write about something after the interviews he cleverly conducts, but he's arrived at a pivotal moment in local history wherein which intriguing narratives harrowingly instigate.

By no means shy, he pursues the lead with undaunted gripping paramount resolve. 

Risking both life and flourishing love interest (Sigourney Weaver as Jill Bryant). 

To discover impeccable headlines. 

Tough to say where the cynosure harkens with the most consequent influential reckoning, if it's not Montréal, New York, or Denver, it's slipped past my residual wanderings.

Why one location would ever be so prominent in a multifaceted international continuum?, makes less sense to me than the lateral alternative expanding networks exponential variability.

But if you like where you're living it certainly seems as if it embodies practical universalization, especially if such considerations concern it in the least and it could care less about generalized pertinence. 

At times it seems it would be wonderful to simply stay on the island forever.

If you didn't know people elsewhere.

Or have thrilling engagements at times beyond borders.

That sense is captured in The Year of Living Dangerously which makes its environs seem cataclysmically irresistible, as so many films set in specific locations do, future research compelling forthcoming.

The enticing poise of the unfamiliar subtly celebrated like vital novelty.

I finally saw this film.

Linda Hunt doesn't disappoint. 

Crocodile Dundee II

Back at it.

Livin' the cosmopolitan crescendo with carefree commitment and resonant calm, his bucolic mannerisms and coy misunderstandings an immersive backwoods buoyant imbroglio (Paul Hogan as Crocodile Dundee). 

His wife continues reporting interrogatively investigating fiction and fact (Linda Kozlowski as Sue Charlton), while enjoying the comforts of bold unpredictable youthful regenerative domesticity. 

But she was married once before and her daring ex-husband has taken perilous photographs (Dennis Boutsikaris as Bob Tanner), of a blunt unforgiving cacophonous execution overflowing with diabolical intrigue. 

He fears for his life and sends her the photos but their destination is soon intercepted, the ne'er-do-wells following them to bustling New York where they engage in flagrant kidnapping.

Crocodile soon learns of his wife's disappearance and comes up with a plan to facilitate rescue, enlisting the aid of a local network of free-wheeling chillaxed non-traditional peeps.

Their unorthodox plan is indeed a success but Dundee doesn't trust the witness relocation program.

And heads with his wife to the hospitable outback.

To range and rustle secluded down under.

A delicate blend of the grim and the gossamer mischievously materializes at ease within the film, as a lighthearted spirit prone to adventurous reckoning reconciles wisdom with resolute tact.

Indigenous knowledge inviolable custom effortlessly guides his freeform endeavours, nature encyclopedically grasped and authenticated through active study and lively application.

The script's logic may perhaps raise questions regarding the plausibility of a detail here and there, the kidnappers pursuit perhaps rather foolhardy considering their destination and incomprehension.

It isn't really that concerned with probability or likelihood however, just that you love the rugged Crocodile as he interacts and explores in different environs.

He is a fascinating character and well-worth checking out if you're unfamiliar. His films were incredibly popular in my youth and I still love watching them to this day.

Traditional gender roles are even creatively deconstructed as Mick discovers urban flexibility, and adapts to the equanimous rhythms of multifaceted abstract economies. 

There's remarkable bush in the wilds of Québec and Canada as well, but I don't recall ever seeing a rural/urban divide ever examined so respectfully in a homegrown film.

Lots of potential there anyways.

Building bridges.

Can't wait to see more of Québec. 

With Charles S. Dutton (Leroy Brown), Kenneth Welsh (Brannigan), Stephen Root (DEA Agent), John Meillon (Walter Reilly), Steve Rackman (Donk), Gerry Skilton (Nugget), and Maggie Blinco (Ida). 

Diner

A group of tight-knit childhood friends gather together during the Holiday Season, real world responsibilities clashing with rambunctious innocence, as traditional character flamboyantly illustrates, and habitual boredom is resolutely challenged.

Robert Sheftell (Mickey Rourke) overflows with appealing audacity which local residents find irresistible, apart from the bookies with whom he makes bets, without the requisite cash to cover them.

William Howard (Tim Daly) is considering a Masters but his old school sweetheart's pregnant (Kathryn Dowling as Barbara), and has a career of her own, and doesn't want to get married.

Edward Simmons (Steve Guttenberg) isn't as scholastically endowed, but will agree to get married, if his partner can pass his prick of a football test, what a fan, what a disgraceful romantic.

Laurence Schreiber (Daniel Stern) can't find things to talk about with his wife (Ellen Barkin as Beth Schreiber) and critiques her disregard for his record collection, still finding it more entertaining to chill out with his friends, selling TVs by day, doing whatever by night.

Timothy Fenwick Jr. (Kevin Bacon) can't grow up either although he's less responsibly attached or attuned, his older brother thinking he's up to no good, his unorthodox shenanigans proving his point.

They're chillin' in the same neighbourhood where they grew up, their plans hatched in a popular local diner.

Where eccentrics and stock characters alike.

Frequent the tastes of 1950s America.

Diner celebrates young adult antics as they reckon with cultural codes, innate desires to persevere carefree encountering disorienting sober perplexities. 

It's a classic case of trying to find something to do when everything's been done and what's left you mistrust, emerging from teenage triumph and adolescent angst to discern discrepancy with bewildered consequence.

Fortunately bucolic history and reliable community observe and interact, mistakes forgiven impulses soothed hypotheses tested ridiculousness nurtured. 

The limits tightening although not without friendly moments of clarity and avuncular understanding.

It's pretty strait-laced peeps striving to create with the domains of family, church, and football, rebellious instincts paradigmatically ensconced within nightly news broadcasts and 9 to 5 days.

Not without its charm through its general relevance to volatile small town/suburban life.

Boredom boxed, mischief manifested.

Resilient friendship.

Fries and gravy.  

The Wizard

An autistic youth struggling to comprehend the sudden passing of his twin sister, buckles down and heads out on the road (Luke Edwards as Jimmy Woods), both sets of parents rather unsettled by his departure, he's swiftly located, and brought back home.

It's a pattern, so he heads out again this time with the aid of an older brother (Fred Savage as Corey Woods), who doesn't want to see him committed to a psychiatric institution which is where he would have wound up.

The two travel unfettered undisciplined until they reach an accommodating bus station, where they meet Haley (Jenny Lewis) who's on her way home and discover Jimmy has a knack for video games.

Not just a knack, he's exceptionally talented, so much so that Haley suggests they head to Los Angeles, and enter the "Video Armageddon" competition taking place a few days away.

But they're being tracked by two separate sleuths one a father and brother team (Beau Bridges as Sam Woods and Christian Slater as Nick Woods respectively), the other a slimy weaselly reptilian eager to make a quick opportune buck (Will Seltzer as Mr. Putnam). 

Jimmy may have a natural gift for video game playing but he's still unfamiliar with many exemplars, so Corey and Haley take him to "Nintendo School" so he can practice, prepare, and prognosticate. 

Will they reach their sought after destination in time for the vigorous showdown, or will parental responsibility assert immobile lockdown?

Families split on how to proceed.

Competing diagnoses clashing best practices. 

The Wizard imagines adventurous purpose to pursue quizzical unorthodox therapy, ie., rather than place the child who keeps wandering away in therapy, why not try to find out where he's going?

Their trip could have more closely resembled a video game in its resilient collegial questing, insofar as a more calamitous test of endurance would have been more reminiscent of something like Zelda.

But it's lighthearted and free and easy less concerned with hardship or tribulation, not that obstacles don't present themselves, they're just not so intense and at times rather comic.

If you love video games I reckon The Wizard may provide ample lackadaisical endearment, as several characters including Jimmy's father embrace unheralded electronic inspiration.

The games focused upon may perhaps provide historical import as well, an examination of ye olde old school to function as an instructive comparison.

I never made it very far with video games myself, I just didn't see the point after I reached a certain age.

I've missed out on quite a lot of conversation consequently.

And the occasional not-so-subtle reference.

Outcast

A ruler seeks a less combative way to cultivate his culture's destiny, and denies the throne to his first born son, who flourishes amidst rage and conflict.

But the studious son he chooses is not well-versed in the vicissitudes of intrigue (Bill Su Jiahang as Prince Zhao), and even though he has been chosen, he must flee to avoid his brother's wrath (Andy On as Prince Shing). 

The ruler passes, his heartfelt wishes bluntly ignored and traditionally outweighed, but as coincidence or fate would have it, his vision finds an honourable adherent. 

For a lone warrior ruined by the crusades is randomly wandering his vast kingdom (Hayden Christensen as Jacob), in search of potent spiritual redemption, lost in drink and purposeless posture. 

He senses injustice and agrees to defend the literary lad along with his devout sister (Yifei Liu as Princess Lian), who are trying to reach the wilds beyond a far off mountain, where they believe they'll indeed be safe.

But his brother's minions pursue them everywhere and they're soon betrayed by those they trust, the lone warrior fortunately formidable gallantly gifted focused resolute. 

But he's haunted by ghastly past lives that left him doubtful and woebegone.

The doubts challenged through stern conviction.

Independent freelance, robustly trained.

Outcast presents insurmountable odds disputing courtesy, tact, and diplomacy, as the intellectual spirit yearns for transformation, in an epoch plagued by war.

If I remember details from a Chinese history course I took way back correctly, China generally focused on its own well-being in the past. It was rarely imperialistically disposed and tended to concentrate on its own enlightenment. 

They were so certain of their civilization that when barbarians came to plunder, they had no need to defeat them militaristically, preferring to wait for their culture to win them over (a process called "sinification").

Thus, I tend not to take theories which suggest China is seeking to colonially express itself seriously.

Why would they focus primarily on themselves for millennia and then suddenly embark on crusades? It makes more sense to wait for the world to change than risk losses in some disastrous conflict.

Further, after centuries of woe they've finally reasserted themselves as a preeminent culture.

Why would they risk all that for a bit of land?

When they're already so blessed with so much diversity back home?

Outcast postulates redemption through a noble act unbidden and unrewarded, compensation driven through active spirit, the vigorous rapport of a peaceful life.

I imagine China's much more concerned with peace based upon the learned hypotheses shared by well-read teachers.

What's to be gained from a grandiose conflict?

That they don't picturesquely possess already?

With Nicolas Cage (Gallain). 

The Ridiculous 6

Is it important to cultivate ethical guidelines within unorthodox narratives ad hoc, even if the scandalous nature of the storytelling may disorient prim propriety?

Does briefly letting go of pressurized stilted robotic mechanisms, foster a carefree liberating meaninglessness not without aesthetic value?

Does randomly subverting poignant perspectives lead to a more robust cosmopolitan criterion, insofar as democracy nourishes abundance, within which impartiality flourishes?

Is there something more to debauched comedies than the preponderant praise of the ludicrous, exceptionally spun and courageously endowed through the cacophonic art of eccentric assertion?

The pandemic has instigated global limbo stentorian stasis assiduous abeyance, and with a generalized inability to generate forward movement, the past resurfaces with interrogative suspension.

Forward momentum peculiar progressions heuristically heal anxieties and doubts, or at least give you something else to focus on as bizarro developments intermittently bewilder.

I've kept things positive during the pandemic to avoid slipping into melancholia, as best I can, which means I've had to cut out many media outlets, which have focused on doom and gloom too intently for some time.

It's of course important to follow what's happening and to be aware of what's going on, but how to avoid sad thoughts while watching these newscasts regularly is a trick I have yet to master?

I would have introduced Frontline Worker Beat and ran multiple interviews with daring workers, to get a more hands-on personalized look at the pandemic, apart from political speeches and updates about rising or decreasing case numbers (from across the country).

Things seem to be so stratified these days.

It's not good for the health of a democracy.

Thus, a return to no-holds-barred comedy to focus on lighthearted yet boisterous bedlam, to celebrate a sense of resounding hope amidst seemingly insurmountable odds.

One feature you often find in these films which I've written about before, is a salient synergistic sense of camaraderie uplifting potentially distraught spirits.

Isolated individuals operating without connections come together to pursue an absurd goal, the pursuit itself invigorating complacency as they diversify their offbeat team.

Thus the pursuit of an unexpected goal provides purpose even if it isn't stately or august or infused, and since many people aren't that concerned with entrenched enterprise, the goals pursued honestly reflect democratic life.

Should diverse democratic life be celebrated?, of course it should, ad infinitum!

The Americans are very good at it.

As is the inexhaustible, Adam Sandler (Tommy). 

Dragonfly

Do voices from supernatural realms at times attempt to communicate with the terrestrially composed, is there something to be said for uncanny spiritual instincts without resorting to coincidence or mental illness, as Tom Shadyac's Dragonfly directly hypothesizes?

A lot of the time it seems like mumbo jumbo that can't be clarified or reasonably explained, even if it's supposed to exist beyond rationality and therefore isn't logically disposed. 

It's foolish to take the irrational seriously since believing in ghosts or the like can lead to folly, although it's fun to imagine they might exist while leaning towards the generally improbable. 

One trick is to consider the possibility of keeping an open yet skeptical mind, while always immediately denying its logical potential if someone starts asking for more than 10$.

I saw many an episode of America's Most Wanted as a lad where true believers were cheated out of tens of thousands, and it seemed like such a depressing waste considering the trusting hearts who took a faithful leap. 

I hate to see the innocent cheated especially when they're gentle and kind. Why people who prey on their humble instincts can't find something more constructive to do is beyond me.

Those humble instincts have persisted nevertheless after a century or so of scientific advancement, advancements that have found evidenced based factual reasons to validate so many practical truths.

As science proves more and more practical theories you would think religious belief would become more and more obsolete, but it still persists with resounding tenacity in many jurisdictions still spiritually composed.

It's like there's an innate drive residing in many to believe in the supernatural regardless of fact, and even if such a drive seems improbable, yet can still sometimes be fun, in the interests of democratic community, methinks it's best not to dismiss it.

Of course I tend to operate within a communal domain where there's mutual respect for opposing viewpoints, and improbability doesn't have the upper hand and isn't creating laws to dismiss science or pandemics accordingly.

I like to hear people tell stories so I'll listen as they narrate away, it's incredible the things some people say, the force of their convictions at times unsettling.

Just proving and dismissing everything with science can be incredibly boring too. Life needs a bit of excitement now and then that only werebears and vampires (etc.) can provide.

As long as you don't believe werebears and vampires are real and can find a practical metaphorical application for them.

Thus rationalizing fantasy.

To tell even more incredible stories.

With planned obsolescence and conflicting authenticities so much discourse sounds absurd (especially as you age).

But what's life without absurdity?

As long as it doesn't cost too much.

Doug's 1st Movie

Daydreaming can be a trusty friend if it doesn't interfere with material necessities, at least I've found that healthy daydreams consistently revitalize inanimate life.

Not to be taken too seriously yet not to be dismissed offhand either, the careful maintenance of lively imagination is a helpful tool for countering malaise. 

Doug's 1st Movie captures this potentiality with active assertion and cerebral levity, as Doug's (Thomas McHugh) prosperous lighthearted daydreaming productively blends highest hopes with bewilderment.

He's faced with a daunting challenge after a pesky lake monster befriends him, and he discovers that local waters have been overwhelmingly polluted.

With the help of his trusty friend Skeeter (Fred Newman), they alert the local authorities, but the principal culprit owns most the town, and heavily influences trusted news outlets.

It's strange how polluters spend so much money advertising that they're environmentally friendly, a comparison between oil sands documentaries and industry ads providing an example of bleak disparity.

In Doug's 1st Movie a legion of well-heeled minions rivalling Sejanus's network of spies, is instantaneously and elaborately employed once the threat to Mr. Bluff's (Doug Preis) business is detected.

But rather than spending so much to conceal a reality that pejoratively effects the health of the town, why didn't he spend a commensurate amount of casholla actually cleaning up the polluted lake?

I suppose it's ideological, it's the belief that pollution isn't harmful, and the exponential generation of profits sacrosanct, devoutly tilled and strangely upheld.

Thus, a portion of the operating budget (or some budget or other) is spent casting a rosy image of disastrous environmental effects, to uphold an ideological perspective that equates health with profit generation.

I don't want to see people out of work, I'm in favour of patiently making industry as green as possible without job losses, I'm certainly not ideologically opposed to industry and the ways in which it sustains the livelihoods of so many.

But spending so much to suggest industry has no serious environmental effects, when that money could be alternatively used to mitigate them, doesn't make much sense to me, and many many others.

Fortunately, Doug's also prone to daydreaming which keeps his mind active and imaginatively composed, giving him the strategic hypothetical wherewithal to keep his new monster friend hidden for quite some time.

A surprisingly relevant take on sociopolitical relations, this Doug's 1st Movie packs a precocious punch.

A solid introduction to unfortunate realities.

Composed through thoughtful reverie.  

Falling Down

Joel Schumacher's Falling Down provocatively asks the question, "is ill-composed vigilantism more troublesome than it's worth?"

As a down-on-his-luck somewhat rigid individual finds himself stuck in another traffic jam, and rather than patiently waiting it out, decides it's time to abandon his car and walk (Michael Douglas as D-Fens).

His journey begins at a local convenience store where he critiques their elevated prices, haggling to bring down the cost of a Coca-Cola, before tearing the place asunder.

He then proceeds to walk through gang territory where he's suddenly asked to pay toll, his stubborn refusal instigating violence which eventually leaves him with a bag full of weapons.

He can't accept that he's divorced and prohibited form spending time with his daughter, and wants to see her on her birthday without any desire to make amends.

Meanwhile a cop is retiring after having worked several years behind a desk (Robert Duvall as Prendergast), for which he's frustratingly insulted by his Captain (Raymond J. Barry), who thinks he shouldn't have played it safe.

He's played it safe because he loves his wife who made significant sacrifices to marry him (Tuesday Weld), and has become somewhat neurotic over the years, trying to deal with grim potentialities. 

He's sympathetic and understanding and does his best to go with the flow, accepting idiosyncrasy and peculiarity particularized par for the communal course.

As D-Fens travels across L.A becoming more and more irate as the hours pass, Prendergast takes note of his comings and goings then heads out to solve one more case.

Falling Down presents sustained criticism of vexing realities taken for granted, from two similar yet divergent perspectives interrogating alternative paths seeking reason.

I've never understood waiting for hours and hours every working day in traffic, if the métro's a possibility it can save time and facilitate reading.

Convenience stores are convenient, why does it matter if things cost a little more? If my hair's eventually going to turn grey, it won't be because I spent a little extra on snacks.

You witness a vitriolic exchange while shopping for who knows what, if it's apparent the owner's unhinged, why do you hang around?

Job creation's essential, better to have people working then idle and irritated, even if the creation of work is at times perhaps not as rational as logic would hope.

It's still fun to attentively watch as D-Fens actively vents his frustration, as he heads from one worst case scenario to another, and takes on peeps just as angry and stubborn.

He goes way too far of course although I imagine others think he should have gone further.

A day spent crossing every line.

No limits, no rations, no quarter. 

Captain Ron

Oceanic endeavour.

The wide open seas.

From island to island.

Serendipitous spawn.

Martin (Martin Short) finds suburban living somewhat humdrum even if he's ensconced in a bountiful bower, and one day unexpectedly discovers he's inherited a seafaring vessel, barnacly and boundless, ye olde ad hoc treasure, a novel idea expressing itself forthwith, pack up the fam, ride arrhythmic waves.

His wife's (Mary Kay Place as Katherine) none too thrilled with the idea but agrees without hesitation, after hearing of their daughter's (Meadow Sisto as Caroline) engagement, to a freewheeling modicum of ill-repute.

The plan is to sail the Caribbean for a month or so and then quickly sell the ship in Miami, but there's just one prim prohibitive problem, none of them know anything about sailing.

Fortunately, a Captain is provided but he's not as bourgeois as they had innocently hoped, indeed even more freewheeling than Caroline's fiancé, playful unorthodox methods to boot.

But they're gamers so they freely make do until Captain Ron (Kurt Russell) starts driving Martin crazy.

But has he taught him something along the way?

Beyond landlubbed highly strung legitimacies?

It's the classic corporate/bohemian showdown and naturally the artist is unaware of the competition, he's sure and steady if not unhinged, yet still facilitates forthcoming formulae. 

It's a matter of dialect of comatose comprehension unforeseen patterns chillaxed yet cogent, unfettered flamingo flotsam familiarity, indubitably active, consubstantially withdrawn.

Ron shares his knowledge freely yet is unaware of its shocking import, and the ways in which the well-to-do dismiss it, with pretentious instinct and rationalistic calm.

Martin loses that calm however as his disbelief mutates into audacity, and even though Ron's advice proves wise eventually, Martin still attempts to assert autonomy.

Where do you draw the line between myth and reality when alternative dispositions suddenly clash, who's guilty of cynicism or embellishment or gullibility or honest sincerity?

It seems this subject needs more clarification insofar as communication is paramount, essential.

Misinterpretation par for the course.

Artistic abundance randomly flourishing.

In the Name of the Father

A young borderline ne-er-do-well buck earns a living through controversial means (Daniel Day-Lewis as Gerry Conlon), his dependable father supportive yet stern (Pete Postlethwaite as Giuseppe Conlon), his animate fortunes fluid yet dour.

He heads to England leaving Belfast behind in search of something non-specific in particular, meeting an old friend on his brisk maiden voyage (John Lynch as Paul Hill), the two finding their way to a commune. 

Jealousies cloud their smooth integration and conflict erupts within the bower, however, firmly necessitating agile itinerancy boldly embraced with freewheeling concessions.

But on that very same eve a long peaceful pub is scurrilously attacked, the two friends in the reckless vicinity, the police searching for someone to blame.

They're soon callously rounded up and slowly beaten into sedate submission, and the cops take their interrogations to the next level, and arrest most of Gerry's close family.

Father and son wind up sharing a cell amongst hardened felons unaccustomed to innocence, young Gerry broken yet looking for friends, aged Giuseppe resigned to his despondent fate.

Years later a determined lawyer resolutely seeks veracious social justice (Emma Thompson as Gareth Peirce), as applied to the wrongfully convicted victims of the heinous crime.

The police know they've imprisoned the wrong people since the legitimate culprit freely confessed.

Yet they're unwilling to admit their mistake.

As the years pass by interminably.  

I think a lot of the time the police do a great job, in fact they've been quite helpful on occasion, wrongfully imprisoning people to appease the public is frustratingly distasteful to say the least however.

Moving forward with intent to convict even though it's probable the suspects are innocent, leads to widespread mistrust in law enforcement, and derivate righteous anarchy.

In the Name of the Father holds law enforcement to account while uplifting honest independent inquiries, as a father and son languish in sensational injustice, and many others face similar sentences.

It proceeds too quickly at times, for it covers a lengthy time period, barely scratching the surface of what could have been said in a prolonged reflective series.

But the moments it does choose to share are considerate and make for thought provoking jurisprudent theatre, poignant pastimes and just grace and dignity cultivating passionate aggrieved freespirits. 

Mind-boggling to wonder why anything like the events in this film came to pass?

They had the proof of their innocence.

Politics and law, a dangerous combination. 

My Cousin Vinny

Proper procedure.

The correct steps to be taken in the precise order.

Never wavering from the script's strict imposing code.

Inviolable structure.

Airtight renditions.

Vinny Gambini (Joe Pesci) possesses the argumentative wherewithal, the incisive logic reasonably applied to ascertain guilt or innocence, but when it comes to the specific testaments concerning how to traditionally proceed, he's somewhat at a loss, and struggles to acclimatize. 

It's like the stellar unwritten rules which drive unorthodox independent filmmaking, have been transferred to a court of law, in Jonathan Lynn's My Cousin Vinny.

Vinny's held in contempt several times to punish his undisciplined disorienting candour, but he takes it in stride unconcerned with pejorative principled checks and balances. 

It was a different time (1992) breaking down barriers which upheld uptight and rigid formalities, in order to accommodate sociocultural differences which hadn't been raised in plutocratic splendour.

Then again, Lydia Berman in Thunder Force invigorates similar non-linear spirits, perhaps a Foucauldian study needs to be conducted regarding American comedy's progressive intentions. 

A lack of room for alternative dispositions can provoke a cynical malaise, nevertheless, and widespread support for flagrant difference which challenges dismissive pretension. 

Of course codes of conduct need to be respected within reasonable non-farcical bounds. 

But if people possess the content but lack the formality trouble will brew if they're left by the wayside (I'm not writing about myself, I like my jobs and oddball inclinations, but there are people much more ambitious than me who may be looking for answers from rowdier sources).

Accommodation works both ways and peeps can't just say and do whatever they feel like all the time.

But if procedures prevent competent employees from competing because they're not wearing an acceptable tie or discussing esoteric topics, with abstract obscurity and orthodox disdain, doesn't the resultant managerial gene pool banally stagnate, and innovation fail to materialize? 

I imagine it's not like that in many spheres, however, and sometimes I forget the multiple representations of provocative difference found in the credits of Michael Moore films.

Exceptions multitudinously grounding.

Alternative visions materialistically conveyed.

I saw My Cousin Vinny in my youth (at Christmas) and was so impressed with Marisa Tomei (Mona Lisa Vito). 

I was happy to see her nominated for an Oscar too.

And was super impressed when she won. 

*A classic.

The Beastmaster

Prophecy declares that an evil priest (Rip Torn) will be slain by a king's gifted son (Marc Singer as Dar), so he engages in open defiance, and attempts to murder the infant. 

Who is saved by a conscientious villager who them raises him as his own, teaching him the arts of logic and sword-fighting as he patiently comes of age.

As he matures he also learns that he has a natural gift with animals, and can indeed converse and interact with them as if they were taxonomic kin.

Soon his village is attacked by fierce barbarians and in the aftermath he alone survives, setting out to grieve incarnate wandering upon the open road.

By chance, one day he encounters two nimble maidens frolicking unrestrained, one who seems to take an interest in his imposing derelict tragedy (Tanya Roberts as Kiri). 

But she is to be sacrificed and must be boldly saved and then set free, Dar befriending other victims of injustice correspondingly, whom he agrees to fight along side.

They must save a dynamic city from the very same evil priest of long ago.

Who's allied with the barbarians. 

And hellbent on pernicious ritual.

A just emancipating vision disposed to humble daring legend, adventurously emerges as noble Dar quests impassioned. 

Instinctual freedom untethered largesse distinctly abound with forthright recalcitrance, within a realm chaotically composed through distraught prayer and demonic terror.

In an age creatively refusing to be limited by impossibility, Beastmaster brazenly interrogated lavish budgets and special effects.

If you want to imaginatively conceive beyond disheartening technological constraints, look to Don Coscarelli and his crafty film which pursued fascination reprieved regardless.

His animals were real and he wasn't confined by dismissive inconsiderate assumptions (don't make this: it will be cheesy), proceeding epically unimpeded by pejorative disjunction.

Perhaps inspiring many who work for Marvel or DC or independently this postmodern day, remarkable to see how much things change, over the course of the passing decades.

You think, "how could things surpass contemporary animate production design?"

While longing for long lost muppets.

Audacious initiative. 

Impossibility.  

With John Amos. 

D.A.R.Y.L

My quest to see every film I missed during my youth continues.

A young lad finds himself awakening in a peaceful new community, with no memories of his former life, curious and thoughtful yet hesitant and shy, as he hopes and prays to rediscover his identity (Barret Oliver as Daryl). 

Fortunately, a loving couple is eager to watch over as his parents are sought, hoping to adopt their own children one day, and to prove they can parent and prosper.

Yet wee Daryl requires little nurturing and even begins to annoy his new mom (Mary Beth Hurt as Joyce Richardson), since he's neat and tidy and helpful and kind and requires no assistance to endearingly excel.

His new friend Turtle (Danny Corkill) patiently explains that parents like to be instructive and contradictory, and whether or not his advice is reasonable, it certainly helps out in the context of the film.

Wherein which neigh lo and behold it turns out Daryl is in fact a robot, who was set free from a secretive laboratory hellbent on subjecting him to constant tests.

And the government reps who have financed his genesis no longer seek to prolong his life, in fact he's been targeted for callous termination with little regard for his nascent wonder.

Yet as he's existed up close with a loving family an unexpected miracle has bountifully bloomed, for he's learned to love and make friends and warmly integrate within a community. 

The scientists are resoundingly ecstatic and risk their lives in order to save his.

He's able to provide incisive aid.

Instantaneous ingenious translation.

D.A.R.Y.L celebrates the emergence of family emphatically resisting inanimate life, the chance to live and grow within alternative paradigms daringly attuned to wholesome eccentricity. 

Daryl's much more like Superman inasmuch as he likes people and productivity, he just wants to integrate and have constructive fun without causing distressing incredulous uproar. 

But I'm afraid I'm too invested in The Terminator (released a year before) to support initiatives radically advancing A.I., one robot like Data is perhaps beneficial, thousands upon thousands like a legion of Zods.

That does seem to be the way things are headed though, the profits too incredible to be ethically ignored, hopefully they don't start replacing people with robots nevertheless, highly advanced organisms just don't get daily life.

Rather than focusing our attention on A.I why not look to find new ways to advance green technologies, while helping out real cats and dogs etc. living in shelters, rather than buying robot pets.

People aren't so bad a lot of the time there's so much poetry beyond pretension.

Just have to let go and detect it.

Soak it in.

Embrace.

Diversify. 

Co-starring Michael McKean (Andy Richardson).

Hobson's Choice

A prosperous shopkeep enjoys the comforts of gregarious bourgeois living, his agile workforce securing fresh profits, his lovely daughters managing his home (Charles Laughton as Mr. Hobson).

He gorges himself on plenty with ample criticisms and bumptious dismissals, boasting wildly down at Moonrakers, where he drinks too much on occasion. 

His lordly litanies cumbrously forget the lively existence of others, however, notably his eldest daughter Maggie (Brenda de Banzie) whom he assumes is bound for spinsterhood. 

She's been taking care of the business and is none too fond of the assumption, nor the incumbent caretaking it presumes, nor her lack of daily wages.

She's also aware that one of their employees is a brilliant natural bootmaker, who lacks worldly pretentious ambition, and could use a patron to his advance his skill (John Mills as William Mossop).

So she makes the bold decision to demand he quit and accompany her elsewhere, to open up a new bootshop in fact, and to take her hand in marriage. 

Soon they've lured much of her father's discerning clients to their innovative new brand, and even serendipitously composed an even more vivacious plan.

Take each film on its own nimble merits without drawing conclusions about family or gender, for in so many men have disavowed gallantry, while in many others women have done the same.

It's not my place to generally conclude which sex embraces banality more often, but rather to analyze proposed fictional and truthful evidence to ascertain who has spoiled particular instances.

It's not the safest way to proceed insofar as you wind up critiquing both sides, the level-headed amongst them appreciating the honesty, both sexes at times proceeding in error.

I think the secret is to revel in the difference the opposite gender provides, assuming they aren't physically or psychologically violent, as that gender manifests so many alternative aspects, over the course of a productive lifetime.

I suspect men who love women and women who love men find it much easier to productively live together.

Creating boundaries and mischievous rules for playfully crossing/breaking through rapt contradiction. 

Hobson knows only one boundary that which asserts authoritarian prominence, his subjects none too pleased with his grandiose postures, and willing to daringly challenge and disrupt them.

If you wish to proceed like Hobson, David Lean's Hobson's Choice may be perilous, for it champions multilateral fair play, within which multiple stakeholders prosper.

But if you seek to enjoy a well-crafted film wherein which democratic impulse constructively asserts itself, you may be rather impressed by this Hobson's Choice, which captures the spirit of resilient open-mindedness. 

Summertime

An American tourist, curious and friendly, finds herself effortlessly immersed in Venice, wondrous monuments and sights to see resplendently resounding with ancient mystery (Katharine Hepburn as Jane Hudson). 

She's been saving for quite some time and her heartfelt sacrifice is finally paying off, the food and fireworks firmaments and fortunes felicitously fascinating with feisty fervour.

An enterprising urchin assists her endeavours as she graciously plays the tourist, his incisive knowledge of the local landscape providing entertainment and commercial escapades (Gaetano Autiero as Mauro).

She enters a shop within which a goblet illustriously guides her acquisitive proclivities, the shopkeeper, having noticed her once before, rather enthused by the striking coincidence (Rossano Brazzi as Renato de Rossi). 

Touristic and tantamount dialectic trajectories then tantalize tactician testaments, with sprightly spontaneous quizzical synergies, a night out on the welcoming town.

They hit it off seductively so soulful stature and synchronous surety, things warmly progressing to amorous awestruck inspiring mutual bold acculturations.

But she's only in town for a limited time and her hour of departure is swiftly approaching.

Could something enduring daringly bewilder?

Romantic poise, cavalier composure?

David Lean's Summertime celebrates love and innocent endearing enchantments, letting go to dynamically dream and embrace relaxed excursions. 

Spellbound sentience impressionable guides not much conflict like a favourite pillow, for once risk is resonantly rewarded beyond grief stricken dispatching doubt.

Venice is picturesquely presented an evocative blend of the old and new, at times it's like you're really there with an animate interest in its unique revelations. 

Not that you're trying to see everything you're rather led by convivial impulse, more of a feeling than a prescribed agenda which calmly takes in everything it sees.

As to how to proceed in similar situations I'm afraid I have no advice. I prefer the European style. Ms. Hudson has no regrets.

Jack Hildyard's cinematography breathtakingly captures so many sights and sounds, revelling in the aqueous undulating abundance as aerial vistas abound.

Perfect if you want to learn more about Venice and life and living too.

I hope to make it there one day.

Would be nice to see so much of Europe. 

Madeleine

A flexible titled dreamer finds a new home in Scotland (Ivan Desny as Emile L'Angelier), equipped with the devoted awestruck l'amour of a reputable fervent lass (Ann Todd as Madeleine Smith). 

She's from a stilted family which discourages intrigue however, her love flourishing incognito, concealed in furtive full-on trust.

Her father (Leslie Banks) hopes she'll accept the courting of a well-to-do local lad (Norman Wooland as Minnoch), who's settled within high society and conjugally keen.

He rules their lavish abode with patriarchal austerity, abiding by strict codes of conduct the subversion of which may lead to ruin.

Or the sanitarium or some such place she has absolutely no desire go, the resultant pestiferous pressure overwhelming her romantic longing.

You would hope there would be more opportunity, other options besides a propitious marriage, but these were different times indeed with fewer outlets for spry prosperity.

Her nerve implodes forlorn and lost she breaks off her clandestine betrothal. 

Her lover notably distraught.

And in possession of secret letters.

David Lean's Madeleine interrogates scandal as a matter of propriety, etched deep with the upper echelons indelicately diagnosing disquiet.

Odd to consider that one so well off would be so strictly bound, not with the desire to promote debauchery, but rather without independent means at her disposal.

It's a shame that tabloid fascination reconstitutes festive fetters, the skeptical gaze of the cynical eye necessitating stealth and cumbersome zeal. 

Madeleine does have deceptive means to be elaborately employed, yet her exceptional liberating scheming fails to pass without further comment.

What risk to take the one which leads to less disputatious uproar, or perhaps to nothing at all, perhaps void of thrill or consequence?

Certainly not a romantic take on lauded cherished flush true love, nevertheless unique in its remonstrations in its unorthodox blinding outrage.

Understanding is of critical import from disconsolate passionate perspectives, commiserating comprehensions deconstructed invariability. 

The inviolable traditionalist may regard Madeleine with horror, as endearing sought after outcomes languish in bitter virulence.

But the novelty remains somewhat comic from alternative dispositions.

By no means grand or exemplary. 

But still encouraging greater freedom.  

Blithe Spirit

A pleasant writer eager to diversify festively flirts with paranormal benediction (Rex Harrison as Charles Condomine), inviting a celebrated medium to his estate to engage in freelance séance (Margaret Rutherford as Madame Arcati).

Scientific objectivity and spiritual curiosity conversationally mingle meanwhile, as his second wife prepares for potential skepticism (Constance Cummings as Ruth Condomine), from the close friends they're sincerely hosting. 

The séance begins and things seem a bit odd as they often do when undertakings lack precedent, and when it suddenly ends humdrum happenstance seems to have been reconstituted. 

But Charles is hearing voices that no one else perceives, his first wife having accidentally etherealized (Kay Hammond as Elvira Condomine), and since he's the only one who can indubitably see her, doting Ruth erupts in fury at the loss of his creative mind.

But even if Elvira can't be seen she can still move objects with physical impertinence, and soon Ruth can't deny her presence, or the resultant distraught envy.

Charles is clever and easy going and does his best to hospitably accommodate, although his diplomatic discernment is cajolingly critiqued as both wives crave attention.

Mortality is habitually embittered as Elvira seeks a self-indulged conclusion.

But Ruth falls into the trap.

Eventually returning to assert predominance. 

The intangible substantially elucidates in David Lean's enigmatic Blithe Spirit, wherein which supernatural composure acculturates through mystical reflection.

The urge to forge consensus irascibly flounders as stalwarts inveigh, monogamy championed in the distracted afterlife, expediency heartily obstructed.

The script's a resounding brain feast for film lovers contesting somnambulistic oblivion, Noël Coward delivering literary liaisons conjugally cultivated through cerebral import.

A comic situation which has likely occurred to some erratically estimating generalized quintessentials, as logical improbability reasonably articulates through grand realistic fiction.

Whether or not there's anything to it I admit to keeping an open mind, as long as it doesn't cost more than 5 or 6 bucks, and an elaborate plot can't be detected. 

I was born predisposed to the otherworldly until science started to make much more sense.

Of course there are so many things it still can't explain.

Yet likely will.

Through the passage of time.

Thunder Force

The preponderance of superheroic heuristics imaginatively captivating multigenerational audiences, has perhaps left the less scholastically oriented behind in its cultivation of characteristic exception, not to critique the academically inclined, such ambitions are no doubt admirable and praiseworthy, and they'd just cause an uproar every day if there weren't brainy jobs out there awaiting them (love my jobs!), driving people crazy at Wendy's or the Gap, as they struggle within practical boundaries, but a democracy is not solely inhabited by studious ambitions alone, and hands-on tacticians deserve more representation in intergalactic narratives, like representatives from the workforce sitting on executive boards, in order to avoid a surfeit of theoretical impracticality (I am not indirectly critiquing the Liberal's most recent generous beneficial budget which I imagine they made in consultation with their grassroots). 

Captain America has played such a role well in many a Marvel film, his humble origins a sharp contrast to Thor or Tony Stark's, but he still lacks the contentious unconcern humorously invigorated by Thunder Force's Lydia Berman (Melissa McCarthy), who's nimble burger & fries lack of pretension leads to endearing syntheses of experimental know-how.

She's teamed up with a brilliant researcher whose parents were murdered by miscreants, the immodest destructive sociopaths who were mutated and given superpowers by cosmic radiation. 

Emily Stanton (Octavia Spencer) has devoted her life to stopping them by trying to find a way to give superpowers to anyone, through experimental research, childhood friend Lydia accidentally interrupting her experiment on the eve of their high school reunion, taking the transformative medication herself.

Once started the process can't be halted without ruining years of dedicated research, a lengthy arduous treatment program ensuing complete with intricate training exercises. 

Lydia is given super strength while Ms. Stanton uploads invisibility, the two eventually heading to the streets to fight crime, where they swiftly encounter the Crab (Jason Bateman). 

He works for the would be mayor who's currently running a duplicitous campaign (Bobby Cannavale), an authoritative miscreant himself who's promising to emphatically thwart them.

Melissa McCarthy brings raw uncompromised grit and tenacity to the superheroic domain, providing wild unscripted alternative impulse to prescribed elitist reckoning.

Like freelance writers doing their own thing or independent filmmakers authentically crafting, Lydia pursues justice with democratic intrigue while coming to terms with her unexpected powers.

There are a lot of funny moments and a memorable date night with McCarthy and Bateman, an extended scene that goes beyond so many neat and tidy encounters ("This is a trigger environment for me" 😂).

As for creating super soldiers I'll never forget Jacob's Ladder, or that episode of The X-Files, or pesky Khan or steroids in general.

Isn't eliminating poverty preferable to creating genetically enhanced warriors?

Doesn't a multidisciplinary sustainable economy also fight poverty and boredom?

Between the Lines

Isn't journalism healthier if it's crafted by a multiplicity of voices, taking local, regional, national and international scoops into account, as myriad stories suddenly present themselves throughout the feisty day, millions of people, multiple interests, a wide variety attempting to take them into account, don't people from Denver want to know what's happening in Denver, don't people from any town or city care about what's happening in their own backyard, doesn't a wide variety of editors ensure more fact checking and less uniformity, an informative multilateral public sphere where subjective outlooks can't be monopolized?

Isn't it a dangerous thing to have only a handful of newspapers for a country with around 350 million people, where every region promotes diversity and particular concurrence is tough to come by?

If there are only a handful of newspapers running the same stories and not bothering to compete with one another, can you trust that they're providing objective accounts of whatever they happen to be disseminating?

Couldn't the various senior editors simply get together for the weekend and come up with a specific focus that their employees would then have to concentrate on in order to present a particularized slice of subjective dubious truth?

If there are only a handful of news outlets and tens of thousands of people want the extremely limited positions, doesn't conformity override independence after an initial dazzling display?

And don't journalists desperate to hold on to their jobs feel more willing to abide by the dictates of a tiny cadre of editors, if there are no other jobs available and independence is judged anathema?

Isn't that totalitarianism cloaked in objective truth, with a monopoly on public opinion that's generally left unchecked?

Doesn't bold risk taking and daring investigative journalism suffer within such an unchallenged hegemonic filtered narrow environment?

Isn't it more likely that the best journalists won't find jobs since they're more likely to possess a dynamic independent spirit?

Won't they be more likely to start thousands of independent websites across the country multivariably focused on examining local daily news?

And won't their voices seem more authentic than a unilateral team which can't question its own institution without risking ostracization?

Won't both sides call each other fake and won't everything seem preposterous as they clash to the point where nonsense starts to seem meaningful?

Has this already happened?

Am I way off here?

Sabita naifu

Witnesses to a crime must choose between cash and conscience, the police desperate to find a witness, the killer flagitiously roaming free.

There's more accommodation than you might expect but not if greed recklessly overflows, grievous tests of heinous hang-ups begetting morose mortal woes. 

The initial crime is callously compounded by further murderous malfeasance, as it becomes apparent that the very same culprit also terminated innocent true love.

When the bereaved forsakenly discovers the rampant illicit carnage, he sets off to furiously avenge his unsuspecting humble sweetheart.

It's much easier to suddenly confront higher-ups in this old school style of film, and soon an extended street fight reminds one of The Quiet Man or They Live. 

But by the belligerent declarative end it becomes despondently clear, that another is responsible heretofore delegating unscathed.

The despondent lover resolutely agrees to help the local constabulary, as does another witness who is soon grimly betrayed.

A crooked counsel distressfully dissembling is soon caught by just repose.

But can his intel make amends?

As righteousness implodes.

Modest nondescript bold filmmaking jurisprudently avails within, as corruption and rehabilitation mutually balliset unhinged.

Imposed amoral mechanization confronts conscientious betrayal, as upright balanced codes of conduct disenchantingly detect treachery.

Suppose that's the way things go as cultures cultivate civilization, alternative visions boisterously clashing swathed in disconsolate ideological conflict.

Those who enjoy the conflict chaotically prosper beyond reason, irreconcilable institutional sophistries ensuring unconcerned abstract elevations.

In the artistic realm such elevations make for compelling books, Proust et les signes (Deleuze) for instance which isn't too abstruse.

In politics however you would hope one outlook doesn't govern inherent multiplicities, unless such a viewpoint encourages multicultural lateral growth and inclusive sustainable employment (or there's a pandemic on and people need to wear masks, stick close to home, and social distance, in order to avoid catching and then spreading a deadly virus).

Too bad mutually constructive lateral growth so often gives way to imperial ambitions.

I'd rather chill in Parc Jeanne-Mance myself.

iTunes music.

Microbrasserie du Lac-Saint-Jean. 

Ripley's Game

Hardboiled sociopath Tom Ripley (John Malkovich) has moved to the peaceful suburbs, where he's intent on making friends, even taking the time to show up at social gatherings, playfully evoking gentility. 

At one such gathering however, a neighbour starts to confidently ridicule him, unaware that he's in the room, and listening with disaffection. 

Not one to let things go, the next time he's propositioned to commit murder, he remembers his unprovoked disparagement, and conceives a wicked plan.

He knows his unsuspecting assailant is terminally ill and could use good news on the home front, so he suggests that his underground contact asks him to commit the murder instead.

In exchange, a meeting with a coveted specialist will be serendipitously set up, where perhaps the new diagnosis will ease his family's despair.

He reluctantly agrees and soon it's off for feisty Berlin, where he timorously performs his newfound duty to his target's mortal chagrin.

But round 2 proves more of a challenge so Mr. Ripley lends a hand.

Where he makes a critical error.

And an unexpected friend.

A fictional glimpse into high functioning psychosis, Ripley's Game lacks ethical cohesion, everything passing by so quickly that morality languishes in ruin.

It's still an intriguing film controversially abounding with radical conscience, like a theatrical response to a philosophical question no ethicist ever thought to ask.

Ripley considers himself charming and likes to indulge in pretentious luxury, yet hasn't lost the quotidian touch which helped him amass his modest fortune.

He's like a jealous predator who sadistically taunts through practical experiment, and if his victims react with flexible accord he learns to cherish them like age old friends.

These friends become intoxicated with the shocking amoral venom, and lose sight of peaceful rationalities as the complacency consumes them.

A chilling examination of untethered ambition monstrously aligned with lavish desire, not entirely lacking in remorse, like a tiger seeking ardent companionship. 

Everything's a logical puzzle requiring a fresh improvised solution.

Like haunting impulsive calculation. 

Devoid of wholesome life. 

Skylines

An alien/human hybrid lives nonchalantly off the grid, remorse constricting personal ambitions, due to a failure to act in battle.

She's diligently sought after however à cause de her extraterrestrial expertise, a new mission having been spearheaded to search for booty on an alien homeworld.

A war was fought between human and alien in the not so distant past, from which terrans emerged victorious, the military mind still engaging recalibrated hypotheticals as it worries about the future.

After the war, abundant alien pilots were freed from coerced somnambulism, making their home on planet Earth thereafter, perhaps fighting to protect animal rights.

But a virus is transforming them back into mindless grasping automatons, who rile and ravage everything they see, in chaotic grand decrepitude. 

Rose (Lindsey Morgan) accepts the mission and soon it's off to the far reaches of space, her compatriots bluntly unveiling envy, while wondering if she'll freeze once more.

But something much more sinister is recklessly salvaged after they furiously crash land, embittered genocidal knowledge which facilitates lofty commands.

Will they outwit Deep Space Nine's Alexander Siddig (Radford) in time to stop the raging pandemic?

Or will coldhearted unaccommodating vengeance seal the fate of millions?

It's emphatic fast-paced sci-fi abounding with hyperreactive apocalyptic import, scene after scene fuelling kinetic reconnaissance through altruistic embellished endeavour.

Astronomical odds extenuating precision displaced diasporas conceived reconciliation, the low budget spirit ascending judiciously through wave upon wave of nimble creation.

Perhaps somewhat too catastrophic inasmuch as genocide is always distasteful, the grim sadistic paranoid leadership unimpressed with interspecial acculturations. 

Nuclear strikes etcetera aren't well-timed with the current political climate, since just a short time ago disarmament goals were radically scoffed at.

Nevertheless, it is just a film operating outside political theatre, perhaps still commentating on jingoistic pretensions in order to encourage less destructive initiatives. 

In fact in the final moments political prisoners are discovered and their release encouraged, a collection of soulful dissenting voices who vigorously critiqued warlike passions.

Cool sci-fi thoughtfully nurturing multilateral collegiality. 

We can think the same way about animals.

And bring those on the brink back from extinction. 

Return to Oz

After having returned from Oz, little Dorothy is having trouble sleeping, her parents believing the care for her insomnia lies in electric shock therapy.

She's transported to a local institution hell bent on legitimizing experimental theory, the radical idea no doubt having been spearheaded by bored opportunistic sadists.

Another patient warns her of the horrors and they make a dashing escape together, during a forbidding storm no less, the "doctors" trailing in hot pursuit.

Dorothy awakes the next haunting morning to find herself having returned to Oz, amidst a lugubrious transformation ill-disposed to posit welcome.

She's remembered with distraught reverence by the absolutists who have brought about ruin, and as she attempts to discover what's happened tribulation maniacally sets in.

Fortunately, she quickly makes friends who are none too fond of totalitarianism, and seek to assist her altruistic endeavours to facilitate reanimated prosperity (I am not saying the COVID-19 measures in Canada are totalitarian. I support them and the ways in which they will save the lives of frontline workers).

But an evil queen and gnome king flourish in the bland malaise.

The bourgeoisie having been crushed.

Along with craft and celebration.

A bit of a puzzle as to how Walt Disney gave this idea the green light, why did executives think the sequel to a cherished family classic should be cultivated through mass depression?

The Wizard of Oz was once perhaps the most popular film, and it festively aired every year on television, even 40 years later in my youth, it was still mesmerizingly reverberating.

Why then did Disney decide to produce a calamitous morose successor, Dorothy has only aged 6 months, and has yet to be tested by practical independence?

From the point of view of teasing or distressing mad comedy it indubitably succeeds, bizarro decisions blended with inane guidance through the art of dysfunctional aneurism. 

It's just so strange to see Disney emphatically promoting what's usually reserved for art house mischief.

No Cowardly Lion, no Tin Man, hardly any Scarecrow, sure let's make a sequel without them!

It's like Newt and Hicks perishing before the beginning of Alien 3.

Instead there's a decapitated moose who talks, a wise robot, a pumpkin man, and a chicken (no Toto in Oz).

Perfect for cynical head wounds.

Otherwise somewhat dismal. 

The NeverEnding Story II: The Next Chapter

*This applies more to my haphazard analysis of American politics.

One of the cool elements of a democracy is that it encourages the development of a multiplicity of voices, the cultivation of sundry alternatives to the heroic master narrative.

It doesn't seek to eclipse the heroic narrative but rather to promote less ra ra alternatives, in order to represent the millions of people who aren't engaged in epic quests.

I suppose this goes without saying but it seems like populists are seeking to reinvent the wheel, as if the heroic narrative was somehow in danger of suddenly disappearing.

I like the application of heroics to humdrum daily life, through the application of general comedic agency and particular tragic commitment, for to deny epic possibility to random modest chill existence, is to foolishly underestimate sociocultural potential, and overlook vast compelling markets (see The Lord of the Rings).

I may prefer to watch a film like Museum Hours, but I still enjoy watching Iron Man or Thor, which unfortunately leaves me on the fringes since so many people prefer one style to the other.

But if you can balance the divergent approaches you can cater to so many different preferences, and perhaps avoid wild confrontation by fulfilling manifold desires.

Snobs digress erroneously by dismissing so many things, and creating categorical prejudices which designate them undesirable.

For so many of these things are culturally celebrated by people who don't wish to be dismissed (I don't really care), or made to feel inadequate because they simply don't like serious drama.

It's just the application of equality to widespread divergent artistic tastes, which seems anathema to elitist snobs who often advocate for greater equality (see life).

It wouldn't be much of an issue if millions of people weren't rallying behind the populists, and creating a vast absolutist network of alternative facts on social media.

Such bizarro alternative reckonings shouldn't be dismissed, they're much too powerful, but rather ways should be found to rework them from within based upon probable fact and reason (like robust dynamic schools).

You see they've created new definitions for "fact" and alternative conceptions of "reason" which they uphold without any evidence in order to pursue a dismissed agenda.

Because mainstream discourse has dismissed them they've found outlets to spread their discontent.

Unless both sides are willing to relax passionately upheld categorical prejudices, the situation could become much worse as The Social Dilemma postulates.

I hope it doesn't descend into one strictly policing the other (unless there are acts of violence).

Brute force is so much less convincing.

Reimagine the emptiness, like The NeverEnding Story II.

Turner & Hooch

A fussy cop works a small town beat in tune with blasé predictable rhythms, everything filed in fortune frisked throughout the flogged fastidious day (Tom Hanks as Scott Turner). 

He's put in for a transfer however to the less familiar big city, and only has a week to go before he makes the shocking move.

But as he prepares to daringly depart a close friend is suddenly murdered, his dog left with nowhere to go if Turner doesn't take him in.

The case offers an enticing break from traditional misdemeanours, albeit fraught with potent woe tragic discourse bitter reckoning.

The dog's a resounding wrecking ball who is unaccustomed to disciplined order, his instinctual rambunctuosity bold and playful yet borderline chaotic.

Turner may be uptight but he's still a gamer and willing to go with the flow, Hooch even accompanying him to work where he quickly generates voyeuristic leads.

Turner may have been ill-prepared for the sudden distressing ill-composed calamity, but his resilient know-how and clever insights make up for the lack of precedent.

Of course, it's first and foremost a dog/cop movie wherein which the canine endearingly wreaks havoc, absurd laughs and heartfelt hyperbole overwhelming the practical element.

In fact adult me noticed the time and thought, "the film's more than half way through and they haven't even started investigating!", but then I remembered that such concerns made no impact as a child as long as they were dealt with in due time.

Turner & Hooch is certainly much less radical than K-9 and also more plausible and collegial to boot, the two forging a bizarro hands-on synthesis if viewed late at night in close succession.

While K-9 upholds improbability with frenetic freeform frenzied excess, T & H celebrates moderate logic as it's applied to bucolic metamorphosis. 

You might think it's just a silly dog movie best reserved for ages 5 to 10, but Tom Hanks by no means dismissed it and delivered an incredible performance considering.

The flexible ways in which he resoundingly reacts to scenes where it's just him and a dog, demonstrate so much otherworldly multidimension that I was instantly reminded of Kyle Lowry. 

I guess you can't make films like these with cats but that shouldn't prevent people from trying, perhaps not just one cat but several and a plot to prevent the subversion of independent theatre.

They do a lot more with Hooch than Jerry Lee not that they both don't have their moments.

I don't know if they were released by rival studios.

But they both came out in 1989.

With Reginald VelJohnson (David Sutton) and Craig T. Nelson (Chief Hyde).  

K-9

A lone cop impulsive and independent seeks to take down a well-heeled ne'er-do-well, who's aware of his unorthodox sleuthing, yet unable to conceal his villainy. 

Dooley (Jim Belushi) proceeds unabashed concerned with neither foresight nor self-preservation, driven solely to uphold the law, he fiercely asserts zealous wild dedication.

K-9 lauds improper procedure and lacks the prudent planning often found in cop films, taking an uncompromised and headstrong approach stubbornly cultivated by just gut instinct.

Its protagonist may be prone to do-gooding.

But his heroics overlook bad lieutenants. 

He's assisted by a dog (Rando as Jerry Lee) who's none too friendly and engages in acts of maligned disobedience, the two forging a reluctant partnership as Dooley moves closer to making his bust.

The partnership intuitively collaborates with ill-mannered ornery obtuse dispositions, Dooley reining in a kindred spirit while still ignoring everything else people say.

Exasperation irreverently railing.

Aggrieved comic quirks, bizarro urban westerns. 

I suppose there will always be a market for audacious rash decision making, which cuts through the bureaucratic rigamarole and produces instantaneous potent results.

In a film or book on the weekend, to escape strategic planning, cautiously employing corporate totalitarianism, it's fun to watch as improvisation prevails, as stilted principles flail to adapt.

Most people aren't CEOs and many still dream of comparable autonomy. 

I don't myself although people think I do at least I've never wanted to be the boss, although to make more money I've had to accept responsibilities which were at times rewarding.

K-9 perhaps isn't the greatest dog/cop film although it courageously perseveres, with Ed O'Neill (Brannigan) and Pruitt Taylor Vince (Benny the Mule) delivering brief entertaining performances.

There isn't much point in critiquing it again although it's kind of funny when you sit back and think about it, how many millions are spent on a daily basis by people who don't seem to know what they're doing?

Well spent.

But here I risk engaging in snobbery for K-9 indubitably found its market, and if it has many loyal fans out there, I can't accuse its creators of negligence.

Multidisciplinary markets.

I've had worse films recommended. 

When given an opportunity, make the most of it.

Lofty pretensions be damned!

Ansiktet (The Magician)

A different time, a feudal age, wherein which independent theatre was severely scrutinized, authoritative sadists ridiculing mystery applying cold-hearted principles to magical daring, inspired performance requiring sanction to entertain through fascination, the hard work sarcastically ignored the illusions castigated.

A tortured artist once proud of his talents travels from town to town, awaiting dismissive observations and outright refusals from obtuse officials. 

Happiness has been transformed into resigned melancholia, for even though he possesses great talent he's governed by austerity. 

Audiences wish to be amused by his tricks as he conjures and casts and calibrates, the integrity of seamless illusion widely sought after from age to age.

Star Trek may have never prospered.

There's no telling what would have become of vampires and werewolves.

The horrors of absolute control.

Far too concerned with practical reason.

It's not that practical reason is in itself a bad thing in fact it's obviously essential to daily life, the smooth flowing of robust commerce dependent upon its logical reckoning.

Practical film and reasonable books also generate compelling ideas, which fruitfully encourage thought and invention leading to progress and even more comfort.

But there's only so much rationality a person can take after working all week and taking care of a family, and if everything has a utilitarian purpose it may seem like work never ends.

Efficacious totalitarianism has no doubt spoiled many a relaxing weekend.

Comedy and the genres presenting absurd breaks.

Which congenially deconstruct obsession. 

Best if they don't get the upper hand either of course, surrealism best reserved for relaxed play, after work when there's nothing left to do but chill out sit back and dream.

Albert Emanuel Vogler cheats his haughty oppressors through an exceptional act of improvised dissimulation, their resultant angst increased ten-fold by the sudden news that they've been outdriven.

And a brilliant smile adorns Vogler's face as he prepares to perform once again.

The melancholia temporarily subsiding. 

As the middle-class emerges. 

Nattvardsgästerna (Winter Light)

I suppose when you're happy doing your own thing and you've generally created spiritually enriching films, according to improvised guidelines which imaginatively mutated over time, it may at some point occur to you to direct the saddest most despondent film ever conceived, to make a distressing point cloaked in sheer austere lugubrity. 

Pushing things past the strictly solemn to approach rarefied uncompromised misery, Ingmar Bergman's Nattvardsgästerna (Winter Light) distills utter complete hopelessness. 

It's unfortunate to shyly say that the lack of hope is derived from honesty, from a pressurized irreconcilable desire to share one's thoughts with imposing candour. 

Does such a truthful need reflect genuine social lucidity, inasmuch as the ability to freely express oneself is oft admired and sincerely celebrated?

Is the sharing of doubts and misgivings not encouraged by different cultures, to avoid pent up obtuse hardheartedness followed by shocking emotional explosions?

In Nattvardsgästerna, the individual under examination occupies a prominent position however, and people look to him for strength in difficult times of spiritual stress.

When he makes his own lack of faith apparent and expresses it with candid levity, the results are completely disastrous for his diminutive humble flock.

He attempts to ease troubled minds by modestly employing frank concern, but misjudges tortured temperaments who were seeking guidance not familiarity. 

The cultivation of ideals thus receives distraught import, through morose unrestrained melancholia blindly abandoning its lofty discourse.

It's an extreme example sheltered in woebegone obfuscation, utilizing provocative misjudgment to comment upon mortality.

If you could approach every social interaction like a French judge interpreting the Civil Code, socially, not judicially, each interaction adapted to specific circumstances, then perhaps through lauded perspicuity you could efficiently prescribe communal medication (one case at a time).

Populism has wildly challenged the establishment of wise decision making however, through realistic democratic loopholes which instinctually bewilder.

Those occupying positions of power must proceed confidently nevertheless.

As alternative rationalities clash and codify.

A bleak film.

Disposed noblesse. 

Rosewood

An affluent stranger arrives in town perhaps intent on settling (Ving Rhames as Mann), a veteran of World War I who's fed up with violent chaos.

He proceeds with reservation meeting many people without saying much, his experience far too disconcerting to suddenly chill unbound and trusting.

In a neighbouring laidback town two lovers meet for an assignation, the aftermath extremely cold as toxic masculinity furiously erupts. 

Her face is bruised and battered and can't be hidden from her timid husband, so she runs out into the quiet streets to proclaim she's been assaulted by an African American.

Her white assailant visits a local black homestead in case hounds are roused to follow him, as her story enflames racist tensions and a mob gathers seeking vengeance. 

The residents of the African American town misjudge the situation, since they've lived there in prosperous peace for amicable generations.

The stranger quickly departs but bigots head out in hot pursuit, while the mob descends with unleashed fury and women and children flee to surrounding swamps.

He returns to assist and guide but it's too late for the honest town.

But a local shopkeep keeps his head.

And brings an engine round.

Many of the women and children escape but the cultural damage is done, no reparations or retribution for the innocent victims of terror.

According to Posse and 19th century chronicles this was by no means an isolated incident, as hard fought freedoms were vigorously asserted within a climate of grand dismissal.

It's beyond depressing to sadly think about how racist pretensions never faded, or how over a hundred years after the American Civil War they still persist with blunt derision.

Aren't the regions where they still culturally persist still economically disadvantaged, with overflowing prisons and lacklustre public institutions and the majority of the wealth possessed by an elite few (see The Spirit Level: Why Equality is Better for Everyone as I've mentioned before)?

Rosewood highlights the insanity associated with passionate hatreds, the lack of rational thought applied when zealous fervour actively pontificates.

Seeing disproven conspiracy theories proliferate in the current bizarro reckless public sphere, people drinking bleach and attacking pizza parlours, is disheartening to say the least.

When I was younger there was a much stronger emphasis on fact based evidence and journalistic integrity.

Not to mention public education.

Which hopefully isn't being replaced by YouTube videos. 

Posse

Sentenced to life in the military, a soldier reacts intuitively driven (Mario Van Peebles as Jesse Lee), his services valued depended upon exploited, the situation coercive, treacherous, untenable.

He's tasked with covert ops requiring stealthy habitual concealment, to disrupt an antagonistic supply chain, and secure chip chop munitions.

But as the mission proceeds uninhibited a coveted chest of gold is detected, and it becomes clear they'll be betrayed by those seeking ill-gotten enrichment.

Another battle is fought from which he escapes with the gold and his life, plus a dedicated resilient crew, and a plan to return home unscathed. 

He's followed by his former commander (Billy Zane) who's aware of his path however, but through tenacious nerve and reservéd foresight he's able to avoid ballistic conflict.

He's headed back to the scene of a crime which saw an honest man outrageously cut down, for wondrously sharing a peaceful dream freely envisioned by many others.

He seeks vengeance for the racist wrongdoing for the coldhearted dismal injustice, even though things have generally settled down and his former love interest misses him dearly (Salli Richardson-Witfield as Lana). 

But the guilty derelict perpetrators raise the alarm upon hearing he's returned.

Just as the former commander arrives.

High-stakes ferocious westerns.

Posse presents preponderant perdition incredible acts of racist abuse, how could things have deteriorated so much, in a country celebrated for widespread freedom?

The posse itself is an innovative eclective prone to cohesion and uniform rigour, embracing difficult choices through courageous wherewithal as they're left with no other options.

The films adds enviable depth of character as they fight their way countering insurmountable odds, playful breaks and solemn flourishes peppered throughout the cataclysmic forays.

Existence is a wonderful thing and laissez-faire socioeconomic spirits augment it, if power and control leave you paranoid is it not better to persist less emphatically?

Or to let communities peacefully develop according to the same sets of laws, the same initiatives and opportunities that enable so much constructive thought?

Why would any country want overflowing prisons and general pugnacious unrest?

The answer to that question's mind-boggling.

When compared to productive alternatives. 

*Loved this film in my youth. It made a big impact (made me hate systemic racism).

Finding 'Ohana

A trip to Hawaii, to settle in with the fam, who's been sorely missed for the past decade, yet is still just as feisty as ever.

Leilani (Kelly Hu) moved away to New York shortly after her second child was born, embracing hectic traversed transformation, and acculturated distinct juxtaposition. 

Not that bad of a situation albeit fraught with geographical discord, the best of both worlds occasionally accessible, even if her children have trouble adjusting.

They're used to an accelerated pace innately attuned to unexpected variability, and although the countryside offers accredited novelty, Pili (Kea Peahu) and Ioane (Alex Aiono) still crave extrapolation. 

Fortunately, Pili discovers an old journal chronicling the history of legendary treasure, and after effortlessly making a new friend (Owen Vaccaro as Casper), has soon borrowed a vehicle in headstrong pursuit.

Her brother soon learns of their plan and after acquiring the aid of a new acquaintance (Lindsay Watson as Hana), proceeds to follow them with grouchy intent, eventually finding them in the depths of a cave.

They must sleuth and search synergistically if they're to locate the vast booty however, while bearing in mind additional myths which may complicate tonal procedures.

Gramps (Branscombe Richmond) and mom worry at a bright local hospital after the children cannot be found.

As New York and Hawaii unite.

Adventurous forays unbound.

Energetically disseminating bold exposition and grievous error, Finding 'Ohana ebullionly excavates inquisitive confident reverent equipoise. 

Character intergenerationally flourishes upon ancestral lands, disputes familially interlocking ignored free-spirited commands.

The family within is a striking example of innovative postmodern Indigenous peoples, many of whom work within the dominant discourse without having sacrificed code or tradition.

The film's generally light of heart even if its subject matter could have been much more solemn, several disheartening economic and spiritual realities endemically generating enlivened enterprise.

The voyage interrogates ecstatic endeavour in order to emphasize austere imposition, without losing sight of the playful innocence naturally embraced by active minds.

A campy blend of enlightened spirits temporally tempered and passionately gaged, Finding 'Ohana revels in multidisciplinary archaeologies at wondrous impacting play.

Genealogical. 

______ wishes.  

Penguin Bloom

Tragedy strikes a loving family on an adventurous trip to foreign lands, as a wooden railing suddenly breaks and then leads to partial paralysis.

Mrs. Bloom (Naomi Watts) is none too impressed and struggles to adjust to immobile life, her husband and children also uncertain as to how to convalescently proceed.

One day at a time piecemeal slowly developing compensating characteristics, the shocking disheartening unknown tumultuously traversed resiliently reconciled.

But there's a long natural stasis throughout which catalyzed incentives fail to materialize, ineffable qualms maddening frustrations routine resignation nihilistic necessity.

Until one day little Noah (Griffin Murray-Johnston/Essi Murray-Johnston) brings home an injured bird, who was in the sights of a hungry lizard before he was miraculously saved.

The magpie is criticized at first due to its wild habitual shenanigans, but as time passes his industrious resonance endearingly charters soulful serenity.

Mrs. Bloom grows less weary and even takes on kayaking, and as her children joyously revel in her recrudescence, the magpie gradually learns to take flight.

It's a charming heartfelt enlightened illustration of resurgent life, a family coming to terms with calamity as newfound hope rapturously reckons.

It doesn't whitewash the depression nor overlook the corresponding despondency, the resultant gritty reanimate life all the more compelling in its vital complexity.

The fam is patient and understanding and they progress as a supportive team, friends stopping by to altruistically aid through the art of cohesive community.

Penguin Bloom also excels at heuristically highlighting the tender benefits of resplendent pets, who spiritually heal downtrodden fortunes as they effortlessly bark, mew, and wag.

Or chirp in this airborne instance in Penguin's caring awkward stride, how did they accumulate so many cute scenes?, at times I thought Penguin was a robot (say "no" to pet robots!).

Cool to see Naomi Watts back at it she shows up in so many cool films, an impressive diverse array of characters snuggly embowered in eclectic environs. 

I think she deserves more recognition, she's performed so well in so many films, unless she's happy doing the independent thing, throw in Hawke and Dern imagine the Criterion!

Penguin Bloom's pretty cool too, Netflix is rockin' it, so good to see.

Nice to see hopeful family films sometimes, especially when they integrate animal friends.