Criss Cross

Incumbent misfortune maladroitly radiates as a good natured local lad returns home from distant travels.

He's aware he shouldn't be visiting whom he can't help but want to see, his innate warm and friendly curiosity reimagining things as they've been.

But his love interest has tied the knot with a local entrepreneur who's none too impressed, as they still meet to catch up indiscreetly as if nothing's changed the palimpsest. 

Fortunately, he's found a way to cool things off before they get out of hand, for he works in an armoured car and is well aware of its routine.

With his knowledge of the vehicle's route he can plan a heist with his ex-partner's new husband, and they can all escape with plenty of dough to newfound lands malfeasant munchies. 

The plan is made even though stately trust still evades congenial understanding, the prosperous possibilities too tantalizing to ignore due to amorous prorated grievance.

But as the job is being pulled something's not quite right with the prized predicament.

Amicable relations remain unrestored.

Hospitalized convalescence pending. 

I suppose when you're writing a script like this you have to pile on the inherent should nots, character A should not have considered even more outcomes than character B or C and their devout minions.

The more radically preposterous and inimitably out of whack, the more likely the lugubrious outcome may surely seem like disastrous fact.

Imagine films like the disillusioning Criss Cross released in abundance each fiscal year, challenging sundry reliable westerns for box office cred impeccable sheer.

Makes you want to smoke cigars/cigarillos and drink whiskey/margaritas afield in the wilderness, perhaps cooking your meals on a campfire randomly fuelled by obstinate strain.

Has film noir ever taken off within space for an intergalactic aerodynamic decade, embracing comedy, tragedy, romance, beyond interplanetary conflict?

It is the age of globalization and it's taken on a disenchanting hue.

But rational applicability isn't so easily mis/construed. 

🔍 😜

Mandabi

The potential acquisition of a significant sum encourages excitement within a devout family, wives eager to eat rather well, a husband thinking about making loans to his friends. 

A grievous problem distresses nevertheless since he has no identification to speak of, and needs a birth certificate to cash the money order, and has no experience with bureaucracy.

It's awkward to watch as a predatory legion of pouncing perpetrators cheat and swindle him, his innate good nature abounding with trust yet rather unaccustomed to banks and business.

His heart's a good one and he encourages charity and likes to help out whenever he can, the arguments he makes to justify his largesse soundly structured and honestly thriven. 

But his country has yet to introduce public education and many are unfamiliar with dissolute tricks, remaining faithful and full of goodwill yet at times oblivious to the wolves surrounding.

Even with sound education the situation mutates and new issues develop, imagine how much simpler and more enjoyable things would be if you didn't have to take so many possibilities into consideration.

It's baffling to see so many of the same issues still manifesting within the news, as thoughts of progression from one's memorable childhood tempt thoughts of sociocultural disillusionment.

Teachers often genuinely care for the cultural well-being of their students, and provide relevant applicable advice that can be of great benefit in the world at large.

They can teach you a lot about advertising and how various schemes are trying to cheat you, if you learn how to spot them you may save a great deal and not look foolish from time to time.

Unfortunately, the world of commerce is intently aware of the challenge of teachers, and the ways in which such challenges decrease their profits and make it harder for them to trick you.

I often imagine that's why teaching is so severely criticized in the U.S and not as well-paid in some jurisdictions as it is in continental Europe.

As teachers try to help people learn how to avoid being cheated, the people cheating them accuse them of treachery and decrease their wages and credibility in turn.

Does a trusty glass of red wine every evening attempt to cheat you within such a scenario, or does it deconstruct the inconsistency with relevant ethereal coherent reckoning?  

Good music aligned with your tastes makes a strong complement harmoniously speaking. 

A figure eight, another Jets playoff win.

A walk down the boulevard.

The most recent exhibit. 

The Great Dictator

I find the introduction of disclaimers (although at times necessary) provides an unfortunate layer of stress to an otherwise upbeat festivity, but nevertheless, please note that when I write about abounding mesmerizing life, I'm doing so to celebrate the fleeting natural world and critique flagitious warmongers. As humans encroach further and further into natural realms they become more and more precious, as does celebrating their vivid wonders with elastic readiness and proactive verve. Simultaneously, as a new generation far removed from the horrors of World War II ignorantly and childishly plays with the world like the Dictator of Tomania (Charlie Chaplin), with no regard for human frailty, the celebration of life becomes inclusively paramount especially concerning the bombarded Ukraine.  I'm not trying to secretly make an argument that is pro-life in regards to abortion, since I believe it is a woman's right to choose and that men have no say in the unfortunate scheme of things. The argument laid-out in (the now unfortunately titled) Freakonomics makes a strong practical case for the sociocultural benefits of permitting abortion within reason, and the ways in which poverty and starvation significantly decrease in jurisdictions where it's allowed.

But it's still an untoward topic when lauding the return of ebullient spring, as the animals wake up from their slumbers and venture forth to see the world again.

I sometimes wonder what their dreams are like while they efficiently sleep throughout the winter, and if they're indeed more inclined to hibernate than they are to reemerge.

There's even an animal dream sequence in Jean-Jacques Annaud's sympathetic The Bear, the idea perhaps deserving of longer treatment within feature length animated films.

It's wonderful to see different life forms the shapes and sizes the species and families, each one of them a thoughtful miracle effervescently composing holistic community.

Although there are many beautiful things various people have crafted throughout the centuries, they'll never be more radiant than a dragonfly, or more worthy of respect than a resilient wombat (as others have noted).

But the cultivation of brilliance at times leads to the dismissal of other life forms, since they struggle with advanced calculus and have never constructed an ornate palace.

As Chaplin relates in The Great Dictator's climax as he presents his bold attempt to end World War II, while intelligence is indeed a remarkable gift, it still shouldn't lead to widespread cynicism. 

I always thought it was the duty of the naturally gifted to nurture the flock and wholeheartedly care for them, notably taking into consideration the lessons they've learned through practical experience. 

It wasn't just to sit in an empty room and listen to fawning praise lacking constructive nerve.

Lost in self-obsessed blunder. 

Lacking animate resonant vitality.

A King in New York

The freedom to think whatever remains universally appealing, assuming you aren't infringing upon the rights of others to freely work and actively play.

It makes for a robust globe overflowing with novel ideas, abounding with compelling variety as productively showcased at bookstores and libraries.

It's the inherent multivariability that makes democracies so enriching, eclectically attuned to collective vigour through individualistic endeavour.

The groups demographically ebb and flow as constructive fluidity naturally composes, stability and routine still widely cherished the reliable economic expenditures.

It's easy to write about the benefits of inclusive sociocultural initiatives, you just have to entertain heartfelt vitality as judiciously applied to peaceful life.

It's a shame such tolerant impulses have lost public ground in recent years, as childish imprudent brash extremists have refused to embrace versatile community.

Or even frustratingly bewildered it with sundry ineffective rules, stilting suffocating melodious free verse by rashly promoting social regulation.

I'm not as familiar with the era as I should be, but from what I've heard Chaplin once ruled incarnate, artistically evidencing his cultivated resonance with practical imaginative enticing foresight. 

But as times changed and new trends and fashions provocatively prospered in old school cinema, a revolution rigorously challenged his exceptionality with fluent discord.

Thus, in the opening moments of A King in New York the King of Estonia (Charlie Chaplin) is forced to flee, and take up residence in the Big Apple where he eventually has to work in advertising.

After having been banned himself from the United States where he had entertained millions for decades, extremist thugs having coercively arisen to stifle the chill cooperative left.

To think that someone so genuinely concerned with innocent goodwill and characteristic savvy, couldn't return to the American heartland fills one with loathing for McCarthyism. 

Chaplin got them back in this film with a funny scene near the lively end, where he douses the brigands down with extensive literal saturated import.

He was just exercising his rights to pursue non-violent modes of communication.

A bold statement by cinematic royalty.

No doubt a friend.

To athletic accords.

The Circus

Jedi training indeed paramount for sundry peeps across the land, prosperous schooling discovering brilliant intrepid bold corresponding padawans. 

But at times the educational system loses track of its young Jedi, and while their powers continue to develop, they have no mentor to lend a hand (see Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them). 

They remain remarkably powerful but have no definitive direction, and while attempting to culturally acclimatize can wind up engaged with routine farce.

Take the Little Tramp's (Charlie Chaplin) brief flirtation with improvised ragtag dissolution, which leads to imperial entanglements throughout his otherwise carefree days.

While trying to escape, he makes his way to the local circus, and accidentally proves miraculous, his raw unfiltered Jedi talent naturally sensational.

He has inherent multivariability which flexibly thrives and athletically entices, the resulting versatile wondrous artistry as mesmerizing as any virtuoso. 

Awareness remains a problem as he consciously realizes his strength, and must apply thought to consistently supply what he never meant to deliver in the first place.

He must intuit the way of the Jedi in front of a live audience no less, and habitually manifest the rowdy chaos instinctually engendered with his waking mind.

How many times when you didn't realize you were good at something did it become difficult to reproduce when animately expected, what was perceived to be nothing more than natural blundering instantly upheld as cultural craft?

To learn to continuously supply captivating comedy without any training, to consciously mimic accidental innovation, can take time and practice at that.

For Charlie Chaplin's The Circus the oblivious Jedi struggles upon the stage, after a period of incomparable productivity widely acclaimed by diverse audiences.

He was doing incredibly well until eavesdropping upon his love interest, and assuming the worst for his amorous ambitions lost that salient carefree initiative.

Having never learned to corral his freeform wild imaginative entertaining thoughts, within an expedient objective enclosure, his performance reflexively struggles.

The frustrating endemic throes of people with talent as they learn to develop, doesn't love always seem unattainable and then supernatural if suddenly requited. 

Fret not, a day will dawn when romantic dreams no longer complicate things.

And you can concentrate solely on your work.

It's not nearly as bad as it sounds. 

*In Chaplin's case, it's like he instinctually wrote the sacred Jedi texts during filmmaking's early days. Texts that were in fact page turners. Still to this postmodern age. 

A Woman of Paris

A curious belle habitually considers the manifold opportunities awaiting in Paris, should she be able to cleverly break free from the dismal prison her father's constructed.

A local lad to whom she's betrothed ventures forth one evening in aid, and after her father discovers she's fallen in love he locks his door to her forever.

The lad's own father is also unimpressed and refuses to provide his heartfelt blessing, but as she buys their dependable train tickets, he suffers a fatal collapse.

She doesn't wait around however and years later she's settled à Paris, dating the richest man in town and rather taken with the luxury.

He's quite the cad notwithstanding and even though he does enjoy her company, he's too much of a carefree schmoozer to seek her hand in objective commitment.

Her former belovéd arrives in town and hasn't forgotten how things once were, hoping to secure a rapprochement yet somewhat crestfallen by how much things have changed.

The plutocrat finds it rather comic until he discovers he's quite distraught.

Tragedy awkwardly ensuing.

Remarkably different how things might have been.

I suppose if you're born into a family that takes particular guidelines seriously, and you mature respecting various categories that may have been established regarding oblivion, the earliest ones encountered being somewhat less scandalous, that when you consider historical narrative conventions, one naturally concludes that in the past they must have been stricter.

Since the past indeed took place at an earlier stage and your earliest stages were indeed quite wholesome, the emergence of contemporary scandal a hundred years ago seems out of touch with spiritual computation.

I've heard from time to time that comedic actors hope for dramatic roles, and want to break through in serious films from a desire to develop increasing clout.

But should contemporary comedians consider Charlie Chaplin's genius, what a great thought I had the other day, just watch Chaplin's films for weeks, and the ways in which his comedic films far outweigh his dramatic endeavours, and, to add further emphasis, remain more appealing than so many contemporary dramas, perhaps such comedians shouldn't feel quite so downtrodden, should they rarely abandon humour.

Although comedy has changed remarkably what would Chaplin be creating this postmodern day?

That's a question that should be asked.

I enjoy his dramatic films, but his comedies usurp reason. 

City Lights

Wandering laidback spontaneously cherished ephemeral awakenings, sundry mysteries modestly revealing the innocent nature of unconcerned life.

An ice cream cone there, a pigeon in a puddle, fresh bread at the bakery, a curious spirit squirrel, exuberant sights wondrously manifesting everlasting charm and atemporal enchantment. 

Through serendipitous accident randomly regenerating ruminative imaginative carefree spawn, convivial soirées lacking animate precedent distractingly emerge with ceremonious flair.

Intoxicating friendship somewhat slipshod yet pleasant on flippant occasion, the generous reward for a gracious good deed effortlessly envisaged with exoteric emphasis.

Eccentric shifts the Jekyll & Hideaway happenstanced heartfelt humanistic harkenings, reified revelling rhapsodic restorative multivariable unattached festive extravagance. 

Prone to dream and accustomed to ponder encompassing romantic tales of yore, not without disconsolate modernist reckoning the expedient means the intrepid underscore.

Genuine affection modestly blooming with characteristically enthused comportment, financial strains calamitously composing exacting employment through requisite stress.

The spirited caricature at times less attuned to definitive structure and integral schedule, opportunities imbued come and fervently go as fortune is sought through frenetic finesse.

Even through pugilistic disorder tantamount temptation courageously met, rambunctious refinement preponderant puma elastic engagement unhesitant concord.

If only cerebral stability assurédly sanctified affable orbit, and night and day enrichingly endowed the Little Tramp (Charlie Chaplin) with communal consistency.

Effort engrained not adamantly enraptured with his less hostile personalized approach, a tarnished cosm abounding with resonance leading to quizzical peculiar dispatch.

Not without their fair share of ingenuity trial and error consortiums inclined appreciated, yet not so overwhelmingly invigorating as to usurp inherent inhibitions. 

But life bewitches corresponding mutually conducive alert resilient storytelling, warm and friendly habitual interaction rather agreeable tractable lively.

You don't have to be born rather rich to spiritually divine wealth from the inside.

Productive piecemeal pairings.

Untold aloft melodious blooms. 

Night after Night

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps even buying a dog or cat.

If possible, heading out on safari.

If I Had a Million

What would you determinately do if your health was failing and you possessed millions, and didn't want to pass them down the age old trusted family line?

A tycoon in a fit of rage suddenly decides to give his wealth to strangers, and writes cheques for a million apiece for names he chooses at random from a phonebook.

What follows is an ethical imbroglio passionately and humorously miraculously cast, which perhaps influenced the creation of Les nouveaux sauvages (Wild Tales) even if the films are remarkably different.

An eccentric somewhat clumsy dependable husband finds himself working in a china shop, but he's docked large sums each cheque for every delicate dish he's broken.

After receiving the unexpected payday he rambunctiously reckons with his unsettled fortunes, with over-the-top zealous improvised reasoning, intentions clear, message shockingly sent.

It looks as if traffic regulations and unwritten rules had yet to codify the road (1932), for within the imaginative film many a road hog sees disastrous comeuppance.

In fact a couple take their lucrative gains and buy several new automobiles, and then deliberately curtail the rides of unsuspecting self-centred motorists.

To give millions aways to strangers a thoughtful idea abounding with zeal, I'm surprised it's never been remade new predicaments and trends new peculiar outcomes.

Perhaps judiciously setting about to write epic poems about nothing in particular, slowly immersing oneself in the zone with full-time fortuitous finicky fitness.

Perhaps writing something indeed applicable to contemporary distressing disputatious globalization, factoring the rise of social media in, and the mad obsessions of emergent despots.

Perhaps heading out for lunch every day assuming the restaurant had daily specials, with many a nightly meal at Végo extravagantly sampling the multifaceted delights. 

Perhaps just giving everything away to save African wildlife endangered rhinos and elephants etc., spending your remaining decades helping out on a reserve taking care of various beasties.

Perhaps investing learning how to trade stocks and turning one-million into ten or twenty, never spending any of the original amount, leaving behind a preponderant nest egg.

Thought provoking film with a massive potential audience this kind of idea no doubt still compelling.

Who would the eight 21st century directors be?

Perhaps residing in different countries worldwide.

JFK

The level-playing field, inherent sportspersonship, in a democracy is change not necessitated by the inquisitive will of honest people?

When someone is elected whose outlook contradicts entrenched lacklustre routine, such contradiction embodies the emboldened principles upon which the nation was founded.

I'm not referring to a situation when someone seeks to rearrange the constitution itself, and make monumental adjustments which indubitably favour absolute power.

Democratic governments persevere because they aren't despotic.

If you think the suppression of despotism is in fact despotic, you need to reevaluate your political outlook, and perhaps study historical examples of various monstrous mechanistic despots.

It was indeed an unsympathetic government astutely equipped with monarchical pretensions, that led to general dismay within the American colonies, and the creation of a country unconcerned with kings.

The political system contains remarkable checks and balances designed to prevent the reassertion of autocratic discord.

But they rely on a sense of fair play.

Which the founding fathers took for granted.

According to Oliver Stone's JFK, President Kennedy wasn't interested in war with Vietnam, and was taking steps to move the country in a different direction, which likely led to his assassination.

He genuinely cared about and forthrightly sought a more peaceful world without violent conflict, a world less lucrative for the sale of weapons, as Jim Garrison (Kevin Costner) resolutely points out.

I often call Biden Michael Moore's president when I listen to him speak at length, he's a genuine person of the people and obviously cares deeply about general fair play.

From a distance, it seems like the only way to get ahead in the U.S if you're not well off is to join the army, and hope you never have to fight somewhere without a legitimate ethical reason (fighting Nazis).

When confronting the startling statistics regarding gun violence in the U.S, I'm clearly surprised it's still so easy to buy a gun, so I asked myself, what kind of country do the people who sell all these weapons to their own people want to maintain?, and the answer is most disturbing, and passionately supported in many circles.

Weapons and violence, the assassination of presidents because they uphold alternative points of view, unravels the fair-minded fabric the founding fathers holistically created.

Is it that hard to work together to achieve productive common goals?

It works so well in so many countries. 

And has often worked in North America too.

Thunder on the Hill

A dire entrenching flood encompasses an unsuspecting village, and desperate peeps must swiftly find improvised accommodation at a local convent.

The industrious nuns run a spirited ship as they facilitate and extemporize, fortunately without interminable impositions grandiosely disrupting their heartfelt efforts.

Although a woman condemned for murder and about to be executed does arrive, notoriously regarded and somewhat embarrassed to be awkwardly engaged in social confines (Ann Blyth as Valerie Carns). 

Yet her aggrieved conversations bear exculpatory fruit, as a sympathetic nun believes her protests of innocence (Claudette Colbert as Sister Mary), and soon sets about finding her distraught betrothed and bringing him back to the nunnery by boat (Philip Friend as Sidney Kingham).

Soon the oddest detective film to ever be potentially considered film noir, spiritually emerges in the austere heights of a religious order dedicated to service.

The true identity of the guilty murderer having yet to be determined, serendipitous sleuthing and dogmatic deduction must altruistically absolve.

Fortunately, most of the town is expediently residing within the walls, so interviews can be conducted even though the weather is quite inclement.

And clues indeed materialize which fortuitously aid their compassionate endeavours, although rank and disbelief antiseptically quell the shamanistic tide.

I suppose on the one hand we find an age old symbol of old world dichotomies, wherein which traditional representations of gender discrimination uptightly abound.

'Tis true that at one alternative time there were less doors to freely walk through, and many institutions were therefore more robust due to a lack of external competition.

Yet within Sister Mary not so discreetly aids a countercultural phenomenon, a woman scandalously disregarded and about to be executed by the State.

She emphatically moves holistic heaven and high water through a genuine desire to see justice done, and thereby emancipates a forlorn soul judiciously condemned to prematurely pass.

Was director Sirk in fact intending to structurally distend sociocultural upheaval, through surreal suggestion subconsciously synergizing film noir with locally ascribed progressive inclinations?

I can't answer that question but as far as novelty is uniquely concerned, Thunder on the Hill presents convoluted cheek within the disputed conventions of film noir.

A lot of fun regardless if you're looking for something unlike anything else.

A critical reflection from a different time.

Bizarro upbeat romantic resonance. 

🍀

Hudutlarin Kanunu (Law of the Border)

The sociocultural clash between education and enterprise, meritorious machinations grandiosely fluctuating.

Things have persisted as they've always been "for quite some time" along the border, smugglers arriving with goods to sell to business peeps offering assistance.

The military resolutely guards the frontier in a valiant effort to intercept the contraband, but resident experts keep track of their movements to scout the best location to break on through. 

Well-respected within the village for consistently engaging in ardent daring, they formidably co-exist at ease, unless bitter conniving and envious collusion furtively challenge their courageous resolve. 

A less volatile competitor is introduced through the wisdom of altruistic daring, civil-minded citizens hoping to open a school, while encouraging the bandits to freely farm.

Education and farming may not lead to lucrative windfalls, but the inherent dangers are much less severe barring the influence of despotic drones. 

Through the gradual cultivation of reason their lands could reap imaginative harvests, peaceful traditions concordantly emerging through the rational yields of prosperous contemplation.

Naturally, the application of intellect to industry constructs productive opportunity, versatile able communal ends abounding with work and relaxation.

The work may be much more steady and the relaxation somewhat less encompassing, but the hopes of earning a peaceful living engender calm and earnest reckoning.

Strange how it plays out at times how people who have earned a fortune selling subs or fries, have more political influence than learnéd peeps genuinely devoted to study.

The learnéd peeps unfortunately often having no idea what it's like to have a job, the hard-working peeps at times remaining unfamiliar with advanced concepts acquired through idle study.

They're at loggerheads at the moment even if Trudeau and Biden seem fair, if Trudeau's coming across as a jerk he's been pushed, I love watching Trudeau the warrior.

Law of the Border bleakly presents a world with no local schools, to point out how much worse things are without the potential for education.

Critiquing the educational system is a natural by-product of having received first rate instruction. 

Imagine the arguments you'd have if you hadn't.

If the only way to advance was through agile reading?

Zatôichi rôyaburi (Zatoichi the Outlaw)

Supernaturally gifted with impeccable swordpersonship, a humble sightless outlaw wanders the volatile countryside, in search of incarnate justice virtuously beheld with moral reckoning, convinced of honest trust, and willing to lend a hand.

The ambitious in the village he frequents own a lucrative gambling den, which attracts the hopeful farmers who till the nearby fertile soil.

A bold person of the people peacefully warns them of their folly, once a valiant samurai himself now having embraced age-old non-violence.

Zatôichi (Shintarô Katsu) hears his amicable words freely delivered amidst hardboiled controversy, the local chieftains rather inhospitable regarding farsighted cultural counsel.

Much more sustainable for them to see hard earned wages carefreely lost, in a game they always win, as long as their clients suspect nothing. 

Zatôichi heeds the words of a rival boss who claims respectability, then eliminates his rivals, before heading off to a new town.

Until word reaches his modest ears that his friend's greed outweighs even that of his predecessors. 

The village folk on the brink of losing everything.

Virtue requisite animate sprawl.

The enduring everlasting narrative wherein which the modest thrive, with hopes of less stern reprisals for simply longing for fiscal fortune.

The powers-that-be vouchsafe possibility only at rare evocative intervals, to generate irrepressible interest in interminable decorum.

Yet the ethical still widely promulgate resounding wisdom begetting verve, their sure and steady dependable advice eventually leading to civility.

The desire to gamble remains strong and can't be vanquished with heartfelt speeches, opposing narratives cultivating instinct insisting they represent spiritual clemency.

The women of the village clearly understand the proactive message, and quietly long for zealous endurance and brave determinate consistent yields.

Zatôichi upholds aggrievéd rights and swiftly defends them with holistic levity.

Unsatisfied with inherent vice.

He upstandingly quells unhinged dishonour.  

The Fabelmans

Complications emerge as a young filmmaker comes of age (Gabriel LaBelle/Mateo Zoryan as Sammy Fabelman), traditional paths proving rather unorthodox, natural rhythms and dynamic imagination vigorously challenging habitual routine, bewilderingly misunderstood at times, what can you do, but keep moving forwards?

His father's (Paul Dano as Burt Fabelman) gifted with electronics and keeps finding new jobs in different cities, his career idyllically advancing, his family life somewhat haywire.

His oldest son for instance finds constructive camaraderie in Phoenix, and as his filmmaking aspirations develop, a curious legion facilitate his dreams.

Questions of race or ethnicity don't become confusing until they move later on, and non-sensical religious tensions frustratingly divide what should have been non-violent friendships.

Whatever happens he keeps creating never shying away from visionary responsibilities, sexuality a bemusing mistress, elaborately examined through multivariable storytelling. 

It's fun to watch as his narratives come to life and his ideas bedazzle and entertain, I'd argue it's essential viewing for any youngster hoping to one day make films.

The way he intuitively learns to encourage performance and produce special effects without any training, skilfully blended in far reaching scenes abounding with props and a large cast in motion.

I started writing poems in the woods as a lad and kept it up throughout my adult life, I never really wanted to coordinate people though, I generally preferred being alone.

It would have been cool to actively take part but everything was always quite serious, and creativity flourishes at play, when y'all ain't mad about somethin'.

Sam does extraordinarily well when directly engaged with others, however, and builds up what appears to be a genuine rapport in enthused environs.

I sort of wish I'd had an odd experience with an eccentric uncle like his in the film (Judd Hirsch as Uncle Boris) in my youth, I always thought the arts would be like a friendly union, remarkably incorrect was I.

But at times if I read the signs correctly there are definitely prolonged periods of fascination, and I'm very grateful to the people who support me, and put up with my variable moods.

Perhaps I should steer clear of the middle as is also advised in They Live, but I usually don't proceed with a plan, I just sit down and see what I come up with.

I suppose to be honest I'm guided by how I was taught to behave in my youth, in school, on TV, with family, and at church, the pedagogical strategies often at odds.

I imagine everyone's like that while trying to negotiate mutating stimuli.

If I don't say it often enough, I'm thankful.

Spazz may just be my best.

*I was really impressed that the mom in Everything Everywhere All at Once never abandons her daughter, not even with the universe at stake, she still believes in her troubled child. In The Fabelmans, Mitzi (Michelle Williams) leaves her husband for another man (Seth Rogan as Bennie Loewy), but it isn't a spur of the moment decision, and she struggles to hold on to her marriage for years before leaving. It must have been an incredibly difficult decision to make and I don't blame her for making it. I think people should try to make it work. But if it doesn't and you're miserable, there's no harm in leaving. She still looks after her kids and they continue to forge loving bonds. I always wanted things to work out as a kid. But so many things change with the passage of time.

Everything Everywhere All at Once

Multivariable universes loosely interconnected through tenuous familiarity, simultaneously emergent disproportionately taxing impeccably embellished latent hyper-reactivity. 

Perhaps every decision made unleashes alternative inconclusive realities, wherein which parallel characteristics authenticate ill-considered plans.

For each life, millions of distinct worlds invariably populate unique dimensions, which themselves continuously generate immutable mutations in a subjective infinity.

Perhaps it isn't a matter of corporeal space that the physical itself is in fact limitless, like compiling date online, how many electrons in a verbose atom?

Things take shape and manifest consistency during waking hours relatively structured, but just as the rotation of the Earth is imperceptible, perhaps sundry interdimensional interstices flourish undetected.

A brilliant way to travel between them is poetically realized in Everything Everywhere All at Once (apart from dreams), as an active mind abounding with creativity embraces overbearing disillusion.

As family pressures and economic doldrums reach discombobulating heights, escape can no longer be sublimated if it isn't the right thing to do.

She's (Michelle Yeoh as Evelyn Wang) done the right thing in many respects and has never abandoned her responsibilities, even as her father (James Hong as Gong Gong) consistently belittles her, and her wayward daughter (Stephanie Hsu as Joy Wang) refuses to help.

She's kept everything held together with infinite patience and herculean resolve, but one day it all breaks down as she embraces grave ontological flux.

That dangerous question - to be scrupulously avoided, "what if I'd done that instead?", is intensely multiplied ad infinitum, as she encounters representatives from manifold worlds, disparate lives she may have lived.

She has an active imagination so the alternative potential is tremendously profound, comic book confounding and consternating quandaries suddenly disintegrating routine life.

It's one part exceptional nervous breakdown curiously bewildering material reality, and a brilliant synthesis of fantasy and reality somewhat like magical scientific realism. 

I wonder what people who don't like comic books will think of Kwan and Scheinert's conundrum, the ways in which obsessive practicality is suddenly fantastically disposed?

Or how the comic book aficionados will inquisitively consider the realistic intrusion, the reification of their abstract dreams perhaps passionately unappreciated?

I like this kind of thing and the poetic transdimensional drive (you can jump between worlds if you figure out the improbable poetic thing to say or do in any situation), who didn't spend hours imagining such things in their youth, perhaps not with so much detail?

A mother's strength radiates incarnate.

Thankfully not in a world without feeling. 

Classic postmodern impetus.

My favourite Oscar nominee this year (it's super zeitgeisty, if you believe in that sort of thing).

Co-starring Raccoonie.

Im Westen nichts Neues (All Quiet on the Western Front)

Ideological exuberance devastatingly clashes with abysmal import, as new recruits head to the trenches mind-bogglingly eager to do their part.

The crushing realities having been kept generally tight-lipped amongst the influential, the daily terror and the resounding menace not quite as romantic as old school sword-fighting (see MacBeth).

But the adoring dreams jingoistically cultivated with envious furor and imperial venom, have concretely created joyous optimism overwhelmingly destined for chaotic discord.

How could those responsible continue the campaign, when only children were left to call up to refill the ranks that were clearly suffering?

How could monotonous ideals still stubbornly endure amidst the reckless bombardment, of mechanized condemnatory contradiction uniformly proving just recalcitrance?

But they do, they still do today, and they've once again become widespread and persuasive, notably within the war in Ukraine where Russia has clearly been deluded.

With a widespread dismissal of alternatives and a unilateral focus on master and slave, the fascists cruelly and abominably wage woebegone destruction with merciless rancour.

Fortunately, the free people of Ukraine are capable of multilateral thought, which inevitably outwits absolutism with inherent character and formidable verve.

People will argue that a cultural focus on the needs of the many is yet another form of absolutism, but how does food to eat and multivariable pastimes lead to a singular demarcation?

If manifold businesses with corresponding counterparts judiciously compete within a regulated sphere, antitrusts eventually level the field to promote newfound trajectories while nurturing tradition.

Thus, there is no absolutism, the absolute cannot coercively materialize, the checks and balances ensure constructive fluid motion and the liquidation of totalitarian trusts.

Do you really want only one store to buy clothes in, and only two or three restaurants where you can eat, and to accept what they provide with neither question nor critical infrastructure designed to inspect them?

Do you not want the liberating option to try new things regardless of race or income?

Do you want to transform a brilliant world full of life?

Into dull autocratic inertia?

Meshi (Repast)

The rigid structure once naturalized since time immemorial so it seemed, the man diligently thriving at work, the wife taking care of the home.

It now appears rather out of touch with fluid non-specific schematics, which see both partners animately working while sharing household chores at the end of the day.

I'm not entirely sure how it works, but I imagine contemporary partners function multilaterally, perhaps cooking on alternate nights, and cleaning together on the weekend.

As time passes, I reckon the division of labour organically corresponds to habitual preference, within relevant temporal constraints, incorporating time and variability.

Do couples indeed function this way as time progresses and patterns emerge?

Or is it only read about in books and newspapers?

Has corresponding data been reasonably compiled?

In Meshi (Repast), there isn't much of an alternative for Michiyo (Setsuko Hara) besides the life of a traditional housewife, the socioeconomic style of the times having yet to embrace gender equality. 

She finds her life rather dull and becomes frightened by her future prospects (they live in suburbia), especially after her husband's (Uehara as Hatsunosuke) pretty cousin (Yukiko Shimazaki as Satoko) comes to visit, and he engages her in conversation.

Michiyo leaves to stay with family and her husband is left to monotonously deal, he's actually not such a bad guy though, and patiently accepts his solitary predicament.

He certainly has the more active role empirically equipped with inherent mobility, but he isn't cruel and dismissive either, he loves his wife and doesn't flaunt his advantage.

She eventually realizes he's a catch even though he's dependable and trustworthy, and the two reestablish their conjugal trajectory, director Mikio Naruse presenting their union idyllically. 

Her husband's rather chill and accepting and would likely have played a role in instigating change (Meshi's from 1951). 

And perhaps would have learned to be more spontaneous as well.

To take Michiyo out to dinner more often. 

Girl with Green Eyes

Who knows how to orchestrate equanimous relations amongst the genders, perhaps the hottest topic throughout multidisciplinary millennia, although I have my suspicions that if you're thinking about it you've missed the gregarious point, successful couples finding a steady routine, which generally dismisses such questions. 

Although I suppose that's just best case, I don't have real world marriage stats to consult, and I usually only see couples on festive occasions, when they're theoretically much less disposed to argument.

Nevertheless, the constructive ebb and flow of power relations and the means of production, seem to prosper when listening is encouraged and both parties reasonably yield, yin and yang harmoniously hypothesizing as heartstrings harken holistic, while some things remain immutable, lucidity of paramount import.

Although seeing things clearly can infuriate at times, mistakes and rash decisions, even impromptu reckoning, encouraging excitement and irrational versatility (romance).

The cultural codes Kate Brady (Rita Tushingham) rebels against are much too bland and dishonourably restrictive, you can see why so many women are furious when immersed within such environments. 

Every aspect of her entire life is to be controlled and managed by men, and should she attempt to stray from the path dire convictions warrant sincere distress.

She embraces manifest courage and makes a break for it into the void, wherein which she encounters reasonability of a flexible nature and appealing uncertainty. 

There's no doubt that her initial circumstances are severe and unsustainable, and that it's cruel to imprison anyone within such a bona fide panopticon. 

Not to suggest there should be no boundaries upholding stable regenerative consistency, unless two or more people fortuitously meet who can resourcefully function without guide or structure, but when such boundaries stiltedly stifle latent creativity and flourishing imagination, they should indubitably face passionate scrutiny, in order to encourage interactive athleticism. 

Brady learns difficult lessons through tantamount trial and exacting error, and seems much more naturally resilient thanks to her experimental resolve.

It's difficult to imagine how intolerant things must have been way off way back when.

She doesn't even set out to be rebellious.

Glad there's much more freedom these days. 

When We Were Kings

It's tough to determine the varying degrees through which codes classify sensations, but the boxing legend introduced in When We Were Kings as Muhammad Ali is like the bona fide quintessential genuine.

I've never seen an athlete so at ease while rapidly sharing points of view, with pinpoint provocative picturesque poignancy, I have to admit, I was a bit overwhelmed.

Without rehearsing he sincerely presents multiple compelling thoughts and observations, without worrying how they'll be interpreted, or what people might shockingly think.

It's pure ironclad honest discourse which doesn't hesitate or pause, and also has cool things to say, what an incredible entertainer.

With idyllic public relations, Ali expertly holds the crowd, with carefree innocent freeform inspiration, like he truly was touched by God.

Perhaps brought about by character gained by his refusal to fight in Vietnam, the essential prominent humanistic integrity righteously disseminating goodwill and purpose.

With the advent of social media and the extra layer of thoughtful scrutiny, media sensations face quite the struggle when suddenly engaging the critical public.

And even though you would think remarkable variability would generally spread with unconcerned expression, the age old mass marketed commercial prejudice still seems to be manifesting one-dimensional stereotypes.

It seemed like within an open-minded spectrum composed with respect and multilateral dignity, alternative ideas would resoundingly flourish in what's oft referred to as friendly conversation.

Not in terms of the monstrous dissonance chaotically cultivated by the resurgent far right, nor the exceedingly suffocating rules prudishly administered by the far left.

But a less lucrative and spellbinding continuum bound to sell far fewer newspapers, wherein which less sarcastic and vitriolic peeps fluently inquire and delve and reckon.

Nevertheless, I imagine that even within the quasi-totalitarian discourse, Muhammad Ali's imaginative voice still would have wondrously shone through.

With ethical poise and cultural understanding, literally like no other mass media sensation, it's like smoothly flowing poetic jazz music freely offered with upstanding nerve.

I wholeheartedly recommend When We Were Kings to anyone who deals with media.

A crash course in vital fluidity.

Presented in verdant balm.

Sounder

Full of well-meaning spirits and calm regenerative congeniality, a trusted backwoods family resiliently scrapes by, working hard but not left with much due to the colour of their skin, wage equality still a long ways off, along with equal opportunity.

Generally speaking, reasonable goodwill assurédly structures their social relations, Paps (Paul Winfield) even pitching for a local baseball team, his family adoringly watching close by.

But one night temptation assails his oft self-sacrificing composure, and frustration from a lack of success hunting leads him to steal meat from the town's local smokehouse.

Had he earned more from the most recent harvest he wouldn't have been so uncharacteristically covetous, poverty rationally driving people to extremes especially when it's regarded with cultural invariability. 

He's taken to a local work camp where he's forced to spend a year toiling, his oldest son (Kevin Hooks) stricken with wholesome regret, his resourceful mom (Cicely Tyson) offering loving counsel.

When his son comes trying to find him he stumbles upon an African-American school, with a dedicated inspirational teacher (Myrl Sharkey) who takes a curious supportive shine.

She loans him some rather thick books and offers him a place to sit back and learn.

But to take it he'll have to move.

After his father returns with a salient injury.

The feisty ingenuity of learning and education constructively reverberates in Martin Ritt's Sounder, where schooling and bold instruction foster change and imaginative verve.

It's motivating to see the enthusiastic student overflowing with determination to improve, in a respectful and challenging environment creatively founded by genuine altruism.

It's a wonderful time the school days when you're surrounded by multivariability, and several different subjects to study, with other students also keenly appreciative.

So much diversified potentiality eagerly disseminating widespread fascination, with practical knowledge and theoretical know-how manifestly awaiting novel syntheses.

Through active engagement with the storytelling arts such inquisitive wonder is proactively sustained. 

So many ideas so much latent productivity.

Sincerely brought about.

By compassionate educators. 💗

Top Gun: Maverick

In terms of successful careers, of maintaining an enviable cool for 35 to 40 years, Tom Cruise is practically in a class of his own, only Tom Hanks perhaps as comparable, it's incredible how many solid films they've made in my lifetime.

As far as I know, Cruise has never starred alongside a dog, nor engaged in nonsensical shenanigans, he's been sure and steady throughout most of my life, and in terms of action-adventure, in a league of his own.

Regarding consistency, his films are usually cool with numerous elaborate death-defying sequences, to make so many over such a long span of time is a definitive salute to finesse and professionalism. 

Take Top Gun: Maverick, within there's a new generation of actors one of whom may have a career that rivals his own, and it's his responsibility to guide them on a dangerous highly-specialized mission.

His character's idyllic cool he's been playing by his own rules for impressive decades, in the armed forces no less, that's an outstanding feat.

But can he trust these younger pilots to execute their mission with impeccable precision, as he teaches them what no one else can efficiently transmit through heroic calm and legendary expenditure? 

In the end, no, a way is found for him to take part in the mission itself, an indefatigable challenge to the youth of today to have a Hollywood run as successful as his own (that is just an interpretation and by no means reflects what Tom Cruise actually intended).

I suppose when engaging in extremely precise and resoundingly requisite covert missions, the first run should be trusted to the most gifted personnel, who have passed the unrelenting onslaught of multivariable tests designed to flexibly discover the most loyal and battle worthy.

But there's still what I (and probably many others) call game time instincts, the skills that can only be developed in the field against intense opposition, and a well-rounded spectrum of diverse soldiers and pilots can perhaps ensure greater success under such conditions.

I'm thinking of Saint-Loup's admiration for the bakers and other less aristocratic soldiers in World War I (In Search of Lost Time), and the British pilots who extemporaneously arose during the Battle of Britain to outmaneuver Nazi scum.

Had a wide spectrum of diverse capability not been trusted to exceptionally command (isn't this why the American economy has traditionally functioned so well?), would the haughty Nazis or even Putin's Russians have had greater success on the field of battle?

You can no doubt simulate similar conditions but there's no substitute for direct engagement.

Will anyone ever perform as well for such a long period of time as Mr. Cruise?

I doubt I'll see it again in my lifetime. 

Perennially committed to entertaining through cinema. 

Elvis

It's surprising more films haven't been made about Elvis (Austin Butler), and that it took so long for this one to come out, but I suppose rock bioflicks aren't really that common, or that I don't recall one having been made about the Beatles or Rolling Stones.

A big one anyways.

You'd think there'd be a huge market for stylistic glimpses into chaotic yesteryear, but perhaps said fans no longer care much for movies, and multigenerational appeal remains too risky (The Doors was cool in my youth).

Elvis's influence was waning when I was younger but he was still widely regarded as The King, and no other musical performer ever rivalled his incredible American popularity, there were certainly dozens of potential candidates, but no one else commensurately captured that sensational spotlight so smoothly.

So pervasively.

I liked many of his songs and even enjoyed playing them on the piano, but I wasn't that interested in the phenomenon, I was way more into Brit pop.

He had kind of been identified with the more straight and narrow path, and I often associated his music with study, which made it less appealing.

Baz Luhrmann is no doubt aware of this crisp commercial characterization, his film focusing on controversies from Elvis's life, where he spoke out against the grain.

Like a passionate devoted fan, he chronicles the less wholesome aspects of the King, and serializes his sultry swagger in contumacious cordial conflict.

Although I really don't know how seriously a non-traditional Christmas special challenged Woodstock, but it seemed to work according to the film, and helped him regain the centre stage, I wholeheartedly feel no shame for my love of Christmas specials.

The film focuses much of its attention on Elvis's relationship with his manager (Tom Hanks as Colonel Tom Parker), who took advantage of the singer's naivety to earn an astronomical income.

Everything starts off well but things become tricky when it comes to international travel, since the Colonel has no legal identity and can't leave America, he consistently tricks Elvis into remaining stateside.

Such a shame the managerial aspects the real-world greed that complicates art.

Elvis still never stopped givin' 'er.

Even when he was forced to do so practically every night.

Some of his songs seem truly timeless and I'll still stop and listen like that guy on Seinfeld. 

Staple tradition. Consistent change. 

Shouldn't lyrics have been used in the title?

The Horse's Mouth

I imagine The Horse's Mouth has been inspiring cheek for generations, as it magnanimously schemes through stray ludicrous accord.

Hark then, take offhand note, an imaginative artist is released from prison, immediately resuming the stress thereafter which initially led to his foul distemper.

Thus, with no income at hand and no commission retroactively forthcoming, a theoretical deal which may have merit seductively swelters in sordid cynosure.

Strange how someone so sought after just wildly wanders half-starved and disputative, you would think there'd be some kind of role for him to adequately play with solemn disinterest?

But wandering salubriously suits him with soliloquized synergies short and syncopated, the odd connoisseur taking distracted note, random deals struck fugaciously unaltered.

Inspiration indeed surely struts and mischievously materializes maelström and mayhem, as it does within The Horse's Mouth when idyllic lustre illustriously liaises. 

Indubitably, a frenzied subaltern is even enlisted with aggrieved bravado, the lack of orthodox laborious blueprints producing reluctant starstruck nebulae. 

No doubt encouraging flagrant entropy resiliently mutating into adamant verse. 

At times some things go amiss.

Textiles tantamount cantankered probity.

You wonder where he's headed in the auspicious final moments, imagine having a boat fortuitously buoyant and inquisitively seafaring.

I suppose if you can catch your dinner with moderate success there's no horizon, puzzling predicaments at times bemoaning yet still loose and lithe and limber.

With abundant material work may flourish beyond reckless trope and placated gale, regenerative lapse demonstrative brine lopsided latitude elegant shades.

Romance wasn't once so dangerous although tremulous realism distorts as well, without hope how do you ever achieve assuming a hearty practical frailty? 

Sometimes things relax and tactile comforts efficiently abound.

Soak it in, time for a breather.

It may even last.

'About on the seas.

*Essential viewing for Alec Guinness fans. It's like Obi-Wan Kenobi if he'd never had Jedi training. 

The Card

Interesting at times to view entrepreneurial innovation, as applied to personal success, within stilted social confines.

Note then that in many a Dickens novel it can be quite difficult to earn a living, the Victorian era accordingly much stricter, and manifestly less forgiving.

Characters often run into difficulties and at times wind up in debtors's prisons, habitually stuck there for years on end with family in tow and scant means of escape. 

The Card takes an alternative approach to the uptight predicaments of the era, and shines forth ingenious particulates which fortuitously illuminate Edward Machin's (Alec Guinness) fortunes.

Oddly enough, while venturing forth, I often take note of random phenomena, striking ephemera that catches me eye, and results in poetic expenditure.

Whether it's the way the moonlight happens to highlight the bushes in a hearty swamp, or how indicative fluid movements seem to be naturally mimicking filmic discretion, unaware, I often take note of something, which then undergoes mutation.

In The Card, Machin approaches life in a corresponding way, yet his ideas inspire commerce to the general aggrandizement of his purse.

Thus, rather than thinking, egad, a mushroom, he comes up with creative ways to collect back rents, which result in hardly any evictions, and genuinely please worried landlords. 

Much like a Dickens hero, he isn't a cad or a vicious scoundrel, he even dutifully looks after his family as time passes throughout pressing life.

It's fun to watch as an ambitious upstart universally excels without recourse to cunning, his profits shared with his trusted mates, his honest success to their mutual confidence. 

It's like the opposite of many a ruthless tale of lucrative desire, so often celebrated indeed it's no wonder we're lodged in metaphysical disillusion. 

But cheerful stories still emerge posthaste and it isn't all übermensch versus union, I'm thinking of the quizzical Yes Man and even Belfast or Bohemian Rhapsody. 

Is it just that the mainstream's losing its audience and has to therefore resort to cataclysmic reckoning, or is this how people practically theorize the evolution of visual narrative through neomonarchism (The Trump Effect)?

Who knows really I can't imagine but I always thought blockbusters financed exceptions.

With the Oscars emergent new data materializes. 

Civilized millennia?

Recalcitrant scope! 

Calabuch

Perhaps a playful precursor for the age old mischievous Prisoner, Calabuch examines similar themes from a much less lethal angle. 

Thus, rather than finding himself cloistered away in a remote coastal village, every movement monitored by sympathetic yet grasping authorities, Calabuch's lead successfully escapes from his panopticonic confines, and finds amusing sanctuary along the isolated Spanish coast (while spending his nights in the local jail).

He's like a child at play and has no criticisms to impart, he's productively enthusiastic beyond vitriol or lament, it's classic emancipation, without forlorn regret.

The small town's rambunctiously engaged in harmless reverential mischief, the police and smugglers no doubt at odds even if they've been friends for some time.

The doctor (Edmund Gwenn) having left behind ceremonious stilted shackles, a leading nuclear scientist indeed, in possession of multidimensional clinical knowledge, and eager to help out in any way he can.

It's an absurd scenario generating lucid compassion for the locked-down doc, who clearly wishes he could freely engage with the world at large without reservation. 

He does possess valuable secrets which call into question his largesse however.

In a comic duel between individual and nation.

With lighthearted trim finesse.

It must be unnerving at times to possess highly specialized volatile knowledge, violently sought after by entrenched no-goodniks hoping to capitalize on cultural misfortune.

I suppose you can't just trot off to the market or delicately chill unmonitored at the beach, you would hope you would have access to some kind of private facility but who knows how often you'd get to go there.

You may be stuck in meetings overflowing with polemical tactical verbiage, extremely serious all the time, imagine you could escape!

That's what Luis García Berlanga did in this remarkably entertaining comedy, which may revel in grand distortion, but certainly does so with grand vivacity. 

Must even the hardworking public's precious time off be subject to rigorous scrutiny!, with no constructive comedic outlets, like it was throughout the pandemic?

Imagine years of bleak totalitarian experimental pestilent intrigue, only broken up by even crazier conspiracy theories which are still troublingly shockingly popular.

What to make of the independent cinema which takes them seriously in the forbidding future?

I thoroughly loved the romantic Calabuch.

Throughout which they still listen to doctors. 

Plácido

A bustling bright town nimbly nestled in the Spanish countryside, hectically prepares for an unusual Christmas Eve, the local council having coordinated an imaginative spiritual initiative, wherein which the wealthy and impoverished dine together, to celebrate the season.

Other higher-ups have taken note of the concordant equanimity, and sent movie stars to take part, with an adoring crew to film and frolic.

Industrious Plácido (Cassen) has been tasked to drive a ceremonious auto, but he's rather worried throughout the day since the next payment's almost due.

He's trying to acquire enough to deal and encounters set back after set back, rhyme and reason no doubt merciless since he thinks they'll repossess on Christmas.

Within his determined struggle lies inherent ingenuity, clashing with authoritative conceit, which requires absurd motivation.

As you watch what he goes through the impossibility of attaining wealth, satirizes the festivities with uptight stultifying flair.

The cameras on, the vedettes beaming, so many hoping they won't miss church.

While age old prejudice obscures the message: it shouldn't be an imposition.

Plácido presents perpetual motion with innovative active meticulous style, it's rare to see such a fast paced film preponderantly overflowing with vital detail.

Form capturing Plácido's struggles along with his family's and those of the village, you can't help but feel latently disillusioned yet manifestly glib and chipper.

Through the abandonment of discretion he's able to attain his reasonable goal, to be repeated ad infinitum, resolute rigorous particulars.

Few complaints throughout the film it alertly instructs through grand immersion, interpretive duels intently following no doubt lively and everlasting.

With Christmas on the horizon director Luis García Berlanga points out, that the genuine communal message is unfortunately overlooked at times.

The resplendent spirit which ubiquitously unites the adoring Whos in tranquil Whoville, is ostentatiously dismissed as irony deconstructs munificence.

No doubt duties are performed and responsibilities met sans tension.

But would there be less of a need for distinct strata?

Through democratic invention?

Remarkable difference multiplied by millions exceptional mirth expressive volubility. 

Livelier communities, resonant pastimes.

The sprightly flow of offbeat goods. 

The Millionairess

An exceptionally talented man of business gains a vast imposing fortune, and only has one adoring daughter after his life comes to an end.

A rather sporting man full of chide and eccentric flourish, conditions must be met to legitimately acquire his colossal resource.

Thus, his flamboyant progeny (Sophia Loren as Epifania) can only marry if rather fortunate, and her prospective husband can turn 500 pounds into 15,000 in just three weeks. She realizes she can fix things and proceeds to do so for a sheath of muscle. 

But he's unable to grin and bear it.

Soon she must find another.

As fate would have it, during a mock-suicide attempt she's saved by an impoverished doctor (Peter Sellers as Dr. Kabir), who's sincerely dedicated to the sick, and has no genuine interest in money.

The habitual "impertinence" soon ignites an inextinguishable flame, she's determined in hot pursuit to become his betrothed alluring patron.

He's a student of the mind and has not interest, nevertheless, but still gives Epifania a challenge which must be definitively met.

Yet in his disinterested haste he generously gives away the 500.

Leaving her to embrace despair.

And impecunious improvisation.

Strange to see a conscientious individual sternly refusing limitless abundance, not that such an occurrence itself is odd, but since there's so much obsession with material these days.

Indeed it seems the more difficult it becomes to astronomically endow oneself, the less ethical concerns emphatically refine an inner voice.

In terms of programming and aesthetic shallows which grossly overlook collective objectives, and blindly uphold vain personal strategies with misperceived monopolistic psychology.

The Millionairess presents an alternative time when respected self-sacrificing age old duty, still made its way to populist markets and produced miraculous effects.

It's like mass collaboration has been disingenuously disdained, and too much of an individualistic bias is creating a lack of faith in public institutions. 

Healthcare and education remain the backbone of a multivariable cultural thrust.

With millions of people developing interactive loci.

Structurally stable.

Resiliently sound. 

With Alastair Sim (Sagamore). 

Green for Danger

Pejorative pressure, incredulous and puzzling, weighs heavy or a war torn team, tasked with stitching the sick and injured back together, while sublimating the anxiety and at times encouraging mischief, above and beyond heroic duty, panegyrical par for the caustic course.

Strong wilful personalities playfully contend with objective whimsy, habitual fatigue and interminable destruction rambunctiously relaying unjust brawl.

One slips is pushed too far their transgressions passing unnoticed at first, before bold proclamation startlingly upends the otherwise fanciful well-earned night off.

It turns out the inexplicable amplifications which disastrously brought about dire moribund reckonings, were not incidental to the regenerative cause, but in fact produced through murderous provocation.

Who has indeed perpetrated with primordial perfidy remains a compelling inconclusive mind-boggle?, which none other than Alastair Sim (Inspector Cockrill) himself has been tasked with definitively elucidating.

He's rather bumbly and indelicate as if crime-solving required smooth parlay, and irritates several members of the staff simply because he's undeniably enjoying himself.

His eccentric methods conceivably convince the doctors and nurses that he's quite mad.

But logical liaison is litigiously immersent. 

With modest mischievous disconsolate fun.

A rather odd setting for an offbeat comedy which efficaciously blends the austere and the radical, entirely dependent on your love of Sim and his personable vivacious uncanny rhythms. 

Perhaps somewhat like a theoretical blend of Robert Downey, Jr.'s Sherlock Holmes and Peter Sellers's Inspector Clouseau, even if it's easier to say "like none other", it's worth checking out what he brings to the role.

Stress and lassitude bilaterally converging to unhinge otherwise tranquil minds, there's no telling what such circumstances would engender, one is therefore duty bound to help prevent them.

Such a treasure trove of great detectives thoughtfully awaiting inquisitive minds, within the clever British cinema no doubt first cultivated by wide-reaching books.

I imagine at least that since Sherlock's origins are indeed British, he drives contemporary denizens in whatever age to write intricate spellbound murder mysteries.

Do cultural origins truly play such a role within national literary traditions, with international multivariability available if elastically eager and diplomatically drawn?

I know I certainly love animals and it's possible that comes from Canadian and Québecois orthodoxy.

Would I have loved them as much if I'd been born elsewhere?

I'd wager probably (they cute!).

Impossible to know! 

Quartet

The Facts of Life

The free sharing of age old wisdom oft accrues psychological check, as mantra and adage delicately condition economic tumult and ethical expenditure.

But with myriad personality distinctions effervescently flourishing with multifaceted largesse, the germane likelihood of symbiotic sanction may prove disheartening or indeed quite fun.

A father shares his paternal advice only to find every moral qualm deconstructed. 

His son winds up with a new car. 

Who's to say what's to be done?

The Alien Corn 

Theoretically in possession of everything one might hope to desire, yet longing to achieve the ultimate incomparable brilliant maddening incandescence.

Friends and family generally confused as to why the goal's so profoundly meaningful, considering how many other professions remain available, and he doesn't even have to work.

He's crushed by a virtuoso who didn't mean to hurt his feelings, and even though he's still quite talented, can't find the will to go on.

You can write Bazooka Joe comics or even Shakespearian sonnets, it makes no freakin' difference.

As long as you love what you do.

Beware destructive prejudice.

The Kite

Perhaps at times the parental bond is somewhat too tight, and the desire to be appreciated commensurately by others too unreasonable, so that when an imperious grown-up dispute arises, there's no applicable stratagem to discursively relay.

Sometimes incumbent smothering and a voluminous intent to orchestrate obsessively, may stifle the productivity you rely on, and leave a gaping void where you once harvested.

But in theory at times they say mental health professionals can attain results. 

As in the case of this marriage in question.

With Mervyn Johns (Samuel Sunbury), Hermione Baddeley (Beatrice Sunbury), and George Cole (Herbert Sunbury).

The Colonel's Lady

Worst case for an austere admirer of poignant pomp and reservéd circumstance, the unexpected emergence of imaginative scandal ceremoniously upsetting his stilted life.

No doubt many would remain uncertain if such a surprise suddenly diversified, especially if a tried and true dependable routine had gregariously governed for ages past.

Yet the truth residing in fiction can fortuitously lead to regeneration.

With newfound amenities previously unexpected.

Bit of a shocker, still, no doubt. 

Never Let Go

I suppose there are so many cool films from so many old school actors I've never seen, Never Let Go notably showcasing Peter Sellers (Lionel Meadows) in a rather unique uncharacteristic performance, in fact in full-on rank compulsive wickedness this one's shocking to say the least, certainly not ye olde Pink Panther, it may be a bit hush-hush. 

As it should be, the wretched villain knows no decent ethical limit, lovers of turtles and tortoises beware, for he takes his anger out on Testudinal kind, which left me most distressed indeed. 

I sought out the film to see more of Mervyn Johns's work, I had never seen him in anything else besides A Christmas Carol (1951).

Never Let Go is from 1960 and it looks like Johns may have been typecast post-Scrooge, for within he plays a similar character who's fallen upon even harder times.

He has what was known as a newspaper stand (or newsstand) where he sells a variety of papers, journals, and magazines, and lives in a rather modest apartment, his most cherished possession a pristine aquarium. 

He's even more mild-mannered than Cratchit and has unfortunately found little reward, even less after he witnesses a car theft and names names to local investigators. 

The car belonged to a cosmetic salesperson (Richard Todd as Mr. Cummings) who's hellbent on retrieving it, but he's never had much luck when bluntly asserting himself, and initially encounters snide disrespect. 

I can't recall anything else I've seen Todd in and may seek out more of his films, he's like a cross between Richard Burton and Russell Crowe, both of whom I've never seen in film noir. 

Sellers finds him a craftier competitor than he thought he would be at first, and slowly loses his ferocious temper as he comes aggressively calling again and again.

I always hope the Scrooge/Cratchit working relationship will pay dividends for commerce come January, and there's no doubt that for many it does while many more can't comprehend the message.

It was still nice to see Mervyn Johns back at it with that fiery loving habitual strife, but whereas Scrooge can never stifle his passion, the cruel Mr. Meadows befouls indignantly. 

An excessively grim morbid tale scandalously excelling through onerous confrontation, Never Let Go provides unruly disillusionment as everything within is tenaciously crushed.

Strong performances outweigh the lugubrity but still leave fair little preponderant hope.

That poor little innocent turtle.

How could anyone ever be so ruthless?

🐢

Holiday Camp

I'm not sure if families still engage in collective activities such as these, but in Ken Annakin's Holiday Camp, dozens of peeps gather to vacation.

They head to what is/was known as a resort where they share their accommodations, while friendly festive ceremonious synergies earnestly envelope emergent mischief.

The resort in Holiday Camp coordinates activities for its visitors, and every day new engaging experiences tempt the diverse and curious clientele. 

The Huggetts aren't immune to the celebratory serendipitous surfeits, and take the time to bask instinctually within the hyper-reactive cavalcade. 

Young adults frisk through fancy, felicitously reckon and rambunctiously fathom, attuned to the old school patriarchal discipline at one time widespread with stern imposition.

But good times could still be had within the rather more severe limitations, and romance was indeed approved of in order to propagate the next generation.

Eventually, however, not perhaps quite so intently, people at this time still awaiting what's often referred to as "marriage" before diversifying the species. 

Alternative amorous shenanigans were still amicably encouraged through habitual experimentation.

The vast majority of guests indeed quite inquisitive.

Dancing, dining adored.

There's no doubt there was once a time when the rule of men was culturally assured, and their inclinations and intuitive tendencies effectively governed beyond key or code.

Should individuals engage in scandal they were still reprimanded, respective relational responsibilities still promoted and practically conditioned.

How strange would it indubitably be to suddenly be transported to the postmodern age, and negotiate a less one-sided sociocultural continuum wherein which multifaceted peculiarities complement?

And the traditional duel or the steadfast altercation no longer held ubiquitous sway?

Would it be easier for someone from the present to transport back to the ecstatic post-war Huggett era (if not invisible), or for someone from back then to randomly materialize within contemporary Manhattan?

The answer perhaps can be found in Star Trek: The Originals Series's Mirror, Mirror.

The Huggetts still put on a good show.

Startling semantics.

Transitional tides. 

Here Come the Huggets

A different age, an alternative set of technological gizmos exalting newfound creative freedoms, a family's first concocted telephone begetting recourse grand undisciplined. 

Could it have been that there was once such a time when the queue breathtakingly persisted, and excited peeps tantalizingly awaited the heartfelt call of a friendly admirer?

Imagine the profits made in recent decades with the advent of the cellular phone, whereas families used to have one monthly bill per household they may now have one for each individual family member!

Back in the eighties (or 40s in the Huggett's case), there was usually one bill per household anyways, and if you used your minutes and long distance wisely, it wouldn't wind up costing too much.

But now if you have two or three children along with trusted cells for you and your spouse, you could be paying for many a bill indeed perhaps 5 times as much as used to be spent!

That equals astronomically higher profits for reliable service providers, throw in the requisite internet as well and the resultant sums seem theoretically absurd.

Nevertheless, Meet the Huggetts takes us back to a less interconnected day, wherein which people weren't immersed in the cheshire panopticon, assuming not everyone vigilantly kept track of the comings and scandalous goings of their surrounding inquisitive neighbours back then.

'Twas a time endearing indeed when the pressures of work and play abounded, but with jolly good resilient cheer inherent progression was outfitted accordingly.

However, one had to pay strict attention to the robust means through which incomes were generated, and toe the line with saccharine candour while at times sharing contradictory advice.

Without doing any research I'd wager Meet the Huggetts caused quite a stir in its day, and was indeed known as pervasively popular throughout what has come to be known as Great Britain.

In fact the couple, the titular Mr. Joe (Jack Warner) and Mrs. (Kathleen Harrison) Huggett both found themselves roles in Brian Desmond Hurst's A Christmas Carol (1951) shortly thereafter, and there's even a unique scene where Mrs. Harrison shares a bundle with a character named Joe. 

Back in the film, Mr. Huggett's forced to take debilitating lumps after having stuck his neck out for distant relations, the resonant injustice of determinate blame countermanding innate and temperate self-sacrifice.

An able couple notwithstanding the fluid tribulations of athletic life.

Sometimes it's fun to see cultural codes in action.

Transmitted by a film that never sought preservation.  

The Gold Rush

The lour of abundant riches fluidly flourishing with feverish frenzy, drives The Lone Prospector (Charlie Chaplin) north to seek his fortune in the outspoken wilderness. 

But luck deceptively eludes him as his adventure encounters the void, and without food as winter sets in he finds himself starving in a crowded cabin.

Two others have joined him indeed one having recently found good fortune, the other hunted by the adamant law and in no mood for friendly conversation.

The awkward potentially dangerous situation is not without meaningful comic effect, as inherent absurdity echoes incarnate throughout the vast remarkable land.

Eventually, after an offbeat rendez-vous with understated ursine munificence, it's off to a nearby town to patiently wait for the upcoming spring.

Wherein which bourgeois potential's cloaked within seemingly radical excess, the incumbent seclusion forging molten magnanimity that takes some time for the prospector to get used to. 

But with resonant hesitant accord he peacefully acculturates piecemeal by and by, at least attempting to earnestly grow accustomed to something he'll never quite instinctually understand.

Such a shame to have to adapt to not simply intuit the habitual happenstance, trial and error deemed somewhat unproductive when generally applied to prestigious social life.

There seems to be an art to conviviality which many comprehend with innate fascination, whereas others observe somewhat bewildered by the odd animate freeform merrymaking.

Competing rationalities discernibly conceal fortuitous facts and fashionable variabilities, which spontaneously mutate according to im/perceptible personalized aggrieved or ecstatic revelations. 

Why not a quiet evening at home swashbucklingly scrutinized with celebratory sentiment, the discursive means questing themselves for alert dis/proportionate vigorous censure?

Established semantic inhibition reflexively refreshes bold exotic tongues, as inchoate interactive fluencies effusively flutter to perplexingly fathom!

While the rowdy festive heralding doth still pose sociocultural temptation, newfound habits and tantalizing tranquility often offer clement consignments. 

Brilliant film, every second romanticized with sporting dis/passionate uncanny revels (Happy New Year!).

Amazing country far off, so I hear.

With so much land still yet to be claimed.  

Loin du Vietnam (Far from Vietnam)

You wonder why or how it ever seemed so significant, how a tiny jungle country in southeast Asia could have warranted a prolonged bloodthirsty conflict.

With thousands dying in a hostile land uniformly united to defend their realm, ideology butchered with extreme malignancy to attempt to settle a political rampage.

Loin du Vietnam (Far from Vietnam) packs a ferocious punch as it analyzes the Vietnam War, presenting multiple viewpoints from opposing sides furiously hellbent on polemical destruction.

But I don't see a synthesis here it seems plain and clear the resistance was right, or that those challenging the bellicose authorities were in virtuous possession of infallible conviction.

How could you ever convince someone of ideological agency by aggressively bombing them day and night?, the documentary capturing the ruthless madness that viciously encouraged rampant death and devastation.

Violently disseminating your message pestiferously begets similar responses, an eye for an eye the message still the same, many people will fight if you use violence to persuade them.

And what do you win if you radically subdue them, besides ubiquitous engrained somnambulism, the remarkable thrill of having thoroughly convinced someone worth billions more and much less expensive.

If you proceed with friendship or genuine curiosity to lay the foundations for lucrative trade, diplomatically distilling mutually beneficial matrices things generally improve while many prosper.

Peaceful relations hopefully nurture networks which convivially matriculate as goals are met, infrastructure enabled with longitudinal lattice to efficiently enliven fortuitous fable.

People do often seem to be at odds or indeed rather grumpy from time to time, but cultures which embrace feminine counsel seem to succeed with more byzantine balance.

Like I've said before, a solid mix of the genders has led to fun working experiences, the desire to productively intermingle while taking account of multifaceted interrelations, resonantly producing cohesive outputs, negotiating novelty and tradition.

I was sad to hear Jean-Luc Godard passed this year, he's most certainly one of my favourite directors (he's one of 7 directors who made Loin du Vietnam).

I enjoyed so many of his unique films in my youth.

I'm curious to know where he ended up?! 🤔

*Note: some monogender environments can be fun too, but they're definitely more well-rounded or versatile if there's a mix. 

Blood & Wine

The lives of a somewhat traditional family descend into bitter vengeful chaos, after the thieving of a diamond necklace encourages too many unanswered questions.

Had the covetous husband (Jack Nicholson) not sought an uncharacteristic financial panacea, he could have continued selling his wine and perhaps turned his struggling business around.

He even provides his step-son (Stephen Dorff) with age old advice attempting to mean well, the youngster rather dismissive of his by-the-book step-dad and generally uninterested in commercial counsel. 

It's in fact an offbeat salute to disorganized youth and improvised dreams, as the adults prove rather immature and the young ones radiate unworldly competence.

I didn't find Blood & Wine comic while startlingly considering its inherent disillusionment, but when you compare who Mr. Gates tries to be in the film, with the contradictory results he rashly spawns, there's certainly dark humour afoot, that betrays lucid masterful mischief.

I was sad when Bob Rafelson passed away this year because Five Easy Pieces was one of the first independent films I saw, also the first to leave a significant impact no doubt it's a timeless gem that shouldn't be forgotten.

I likely would have still discovered independent cinema but it still definitively functioned like a productive catalyst, and I began to watch more and more underground exemplars of less general attempts to create mass amusement.

I imagine it's still a great place to start although there's no standard recipe for this sort of thing, with lifelong bizarro eclectic trial and error heuristically harkening holistic happenstance.

It was easier with video rental stores if the owners shared a wide ranging perspective, and with shows like Siskel & Ebert to playfully present honest heartfelt takes (still available on YouTube the last time I checked).

It's not that much more difficult now but finding quality films may require a little more effort, but if the desire's there, there shouldn't be barriers preventing you from finding tens of thousand of extant picks on iTunes and YouTube.

I suppose it's actually much easier to just rent films from iTunes or YouTube, if you do enough research. You can watch them from the comfort of your home and there's always a copy available. I found it much more fun to visit and compare individual rental stores, however. Some of them had incredible collections.

Blood & Wine showcases unleashed aggression from unwilling participants habitually docile, the results mind-boggling and incredibly awkward as unaccustomed emotion lacks orthodox sublimation.

Michael Caine (Victor) before finding his avuncular role as Bruce Wayne's stern but caring Alfred.

Jennifer Lopez (Gabriela), Stephen Dorff and Judy Davis also impress. 

Like film noir without a private detective.