Homeless, landless, adrift, isolated, three Sri Lankan compatriots must take on roles to which they are unaccustomed and pretend to be a loving family while acculturating within a French ghetto.
Fortunate to have the jobs they do, ubiquitous crime and angst-ridden violence reminds them of the civil war they fled, as they take things one day at a time and do their best to productively integrate.
Husband, mother, child.
Suddenly existing as a distraughtly supportive family, trials test their ability to exemplify while Dheepan (Jesuthasan Antonythasan) remembers the leader he once was.
Forced to adapt while remaining conscientious, submission conflicts with engrained volatility, peace of mind seemingly unattainable, grating and rasping, exasperatingly askew.
Jacques Audiard's Dheepan presents a desperate situation replete with complicated necessities which solemnly challenge the will to live.
A supreme exercise in extreme sublimation, appearing calm to reflect the nascence, impossibility contends with the imaginative as competing visions of the sure and steady clash effecting labour, language, schooling and family.
Race isn't really an issue in the film, but it reminded me of an idea I had a while back.
It has to do with racist horrors and the problems minority groups face when trying to integrate within the dominant culture at large.
Whether you're from Asia, Africa, Europe, or the Americas, people share common characteristics differentiated by culture yet unified through struggle, through the struggle to obtain work, food and lodging.
If a group whose skin colour or ethnicity is different from another group's systematically prevents that group from being able to access meaningful employment, nutritious food, and spacious lodging, simply because they don't possess a specific skin colour or ethnicity, the oppressed group isn't going to accept such a state of affairs and will continue to want meaningful employment, nutritious food, and spacious lodging.
Films often tragically examine the plight of ethnic minorities as they attempt to assert themselves in the face of overwhelmingly dismissive racist cultural attitudes.
Dheepan showcases members of an ethnic minority group struggling to better their lives in order to live without the constant threat of violence, good people fed up with having to live in fear, capable of taking the risks required to change things for the better.
It uses members of a minority group to combat racist attitudes by demonstrating their desire for peace, for a good life, universal human desires, without focusing on race.
By taking race out of the equation it skilfully finds common ground for every race and ethnicity without sensationalizing its subject matter.
Thought provoking, well done.
A family blossoming in the unconscious.
Friday, February 26, 2016
Tuesday, February 23, 2016
Deadpool
Hardboiled athletic inviolable calamity constantly exercising rapid-fire witticisms with endearingly abrasive inextinguishable charm, living by the sword sin substantia erratum, he lives, he fights, he finds loves, and pain, yet his terminal illness miraculously finds a cure which leaves him scarred yet invincible, still unable to overcome humbling squeamish demobilizing conjecture, he leaves his love behind, to vainly hunt down his creator.
Appearances, cultivated but not necessary if a relationship is anchored in golden tangible incontrovertible truth, true love elevating Deadpool (Ryan Reynolds) and Vanessa (Morena Baccarin), Deadpool and Zoolander 2 playfully released the same weekend.
Both of them led hard lives prior to the activation of Deadpool's mutant genes, expediently wielding their constituent strengths with irascible conviction, defiantly defending alternative virtuous conceptions, fortune having brought them together only to precipitously tear them apart.
It really is as tragic as all that if you feel, if you love.
With the best opening credits I've seen since The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, Deadpool presents the cockiest brazen celebratory elevation of trash talk possibly ever written, I can't think of another film where the überconfident insults cacklingly flow with such explicit potency, anyways, with very few misses, undeniable irreverent spirituality.
Written by Rhett Reese and Paul Wernick.
The rest of it's solid as well, a strong love story, variable minor characters skilfully moving the plot in different directions, or just hilariously commenting, convincing villains, unexpected captivating situations, a dialogue with the audience that takes the edge off while matriculating the absurdity, Ryan Reynolds doing what he does best with impeccably grizzled exuberant confidence.
With necessitated risk at heart.
Fiesty stability.
Forgot to mention that all the Marvel films aren't made by the same studio.
Whatevs.
The precision of the action scenes is on par with the best hyperkinetic films released in recent years.
May prefer Deadpool to Guardians of the Galaxy.
So romantic.
Appearances, cultivated but not necessary if a relationship is anchored in golden tangible incontrovertible truth, true love elevating Deadpool (Ryan Reynolds) and Vanessa (Morena Baccarin), Deadpool and Zoolander 2 playfully released the same weekend.
Both of them led hard lives prior to the activation of Deadpool's mutant genes, expediently wielding their constituent strengths with irascible conviction, defiantly defending alternative virtuous conceptions, fortune having brought them together only to precipitously tear them apart.
It really is as tragic as all that if you feel, if you love.
With the best opening credits I've seen since The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, Deadpool presents the cockiest brazen celebratory elevation of trash talk possibly ever written, I can't think of another film where the überconfident insults cacklingly flow with such explicit potency, anyways, with very few misses, undeniable irreverent spirituality.
Written by Rhett Reese and Paul Wernick.
The rest of it's solid as well, a strong love story, variable minor characters skilfully moving the plot in different directions, or just hilariously commenting, convincing villains, unexpected captivating situations, a dialogue with the audience that takes the edge off while matriculating the absurdity, Ryan Reynolds doing what he does best with impeccably grizzled exuberant confidence.
With necessitated risk at heart.
Fiesty stability.
Forgot to mention that all the Marvel films aren't made by the same studio.
Whatevs.
The precision of the action scenes is on par with the best hyperkinetic films released in recent years.
May prefer Deadpool to Guardians of the Galaxy.
So romantic.
Friday, February 19, 2016
Zoolander 2
Lost in the wilderness, hard-earned accomplishments reduced to ash, ever evolving fashionable escapades firmly embedding debilitating doubts, two men once experimentalizing their flair with unconcerned immaculate retention cast out to cower shamefully in oblivion, suddenly once again required to indubitably vanquish the wicked, a sultry almost swimsuit model guiding their investigations, into the deaths of the innocently unfathomable, extracurricular intricacies, defiantly orchestrated by a fragile bested foe.
Derek Zoolander (Ben Stiller) and Hansel (Owen Wilson) must return to the limelight to reassert their exploratory finesse, for a criminal mastermind has targeted the world's most good looking people to fulfill a prophecy contraceptional in its cunning.
Shenanigans and blundering complicate their inquiries yet naivety and credulity reward their perseverance.
Derek's son Derek Jr. (Cyrus Arnold) must play a primary role, as it becomes apparent, that he may be the chosen one.
Exglamatory.
Providing laughs and hilarious situations with endearing supporting characters and a profound respect for its origins, Zoolander 2 succeeds at extending the franchise, but doesn't eclipse its starlit predecessor.
It terms of ridiculousness, it does surpass the original with ludicrous lubricants and transitional rebounds, but, even though it's a lot of fun to see the old characters back at it once again, mixing with new additions who socialistically and religiously spice things up, I wasn't as captivated as I was with Dumb and Dumber To, Anchorman 2, or 22 Jump Street, although I did prefer it to Hot Tub Time Machine 2, Airplane II, Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me, The Hangover Part II, and Ghostbusters II.
I loved how it validated Hansel and Derek's professional competencies and juxtaposed them with the errors they sometimes make taking care of real world demands, like cloistered vestals suddenly fending for themselves.
Hansel and Derek's dynamic reminded me of that cultivated between Ricky and Julian in Trailer Park Boys.
Could there possibly be a Trailer Park Boys/Zoolander crossover shot in Montréal, one of North America's most beautiful cities, with Mugatu (Will Ferrell) teaming up with the one and only Xavier Dolan to kidnap Céline Dion and antiquate Cirque du Soleil?
I'm thinking, best idea, in the history of ever.
Ever.
Ever . . .
Derek Zoolander (Ben Stiller) and Hansel (Owen Wilson) must return to the limelight to reassert their exploratory finesse, for a criminal mastermind has targeted the world's most good looking people to fulfill a prophecy contraceptional in its cunning.
Shenanigans and blundering complicate their inquiries yet naivety and credulity reward their perseverance.
Derek's son Derek Jr. (Cyrus Arnold) must play a primary role, as it becomes apparent, that he may be the chosen one.
Exglamatory.
Providing laughs and hilarious situations with endearing supporting characters and a profound respect for its origins, Zoolander 2 succeeds at extending the franchise, but doesn't eclipse its starlit predecessor.
It terms of ridiculousness, it does surpass the original with ludicrous lubricants and transitional rebounds, but, even though it's a lot of fun to see the old characters back at it once again, mixing with new additions who socialistically and religiously spice things up, I wasn't as captivated as I was with Dumb and Dumber To, Anchorman 2, or 22 Jump Street, although I did prefer it to Hot Tub Time Machine 2, Airplane II, Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me, The Hangover Part II, and Ghostbusters II.
I loved how it validated Hansel and Derek's professional competencies and juxtaposed them with the errors they sometimes make taking care of real world demands, like cloistered vestals suddenly fending for themselves.
Hansel and Derek's dynamic reminded me of that cultivated between Ricky and Julian in Trailer Park Boys.
Could there possibly be a Trailer Park Boys/Zoolander crossover shot in Montréal, one of North America's most beautiful cities, with Mugatu (Will Ferrell) teaming up with the one and only Xavier Dolan to kidnap Céline Dion and antiquate Cirque du Soleil?
I'm thinking, best idea, in the history of ever.
Ever.
Ever . . .
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
Mustang
Children at play, happenstance and hijinks emboldening hilarity, the joys of youth spontaneously free-flowing, the unexpected and the ahistorical flourishing as they bumble, the beach magnetically galvanizing the zeal, time to excel at discovery and exploration, embrace what's new through awe and fascination, dive in and test the waters, let the ultrabliss cascade.
But the elders, the patriarchs and those who fear them, find such joyous acts of emancipated abandon troublesome and unproductive, the youths described previously being 5 young girls, young sisters, one perhaps with brilliant, laughing eyes and plump, matt cheeks (Albertine), their village obsessed with strict definitions of the ladylike, coldhearted calculated restrictions which severely limit astronomical potentialities.
Soon they're being taught to be domestic servants while being married-off, one by one, the crime, exceedingly enjoying life, the punishment, squabbling in the shadows forever after.
Sure, it's nice when food is prepared for you, but if you're not prepared to cook the same, there isn't much point in benefitting from the enriching nutrient intake.
Sure, sometimes conversations with opposite genders seem bizarre and incomprehensible, but a collage of masculine and feminine ideas blended within a cultural and political fabric makes life dynamic and unpredictable, makes beautiful cities like Montréal, and is an integral component of vibrant contagious cohesivity.
Gender balance you know, it's not such a bad thing, you can refine some remarkable synergies, it works both ways.
Mustang examines sheer patriarchal oppression and the ways in which obsessions with ruthlessly employed conceptions of virtue and purity, even respect, can asininely suffocate blossoming imaginations.
Its fictional portrayal of incarcerated curiosity juxtaposes the harsh and the tender with disparate shocking alarm.
It's not that concepts like virtue and morality are necessarily threatening, it's only when a specific virtuous concept is enforced dogmatically, obstinately applied to each and every situation, like residential schools or Nazi Germany, that it dissolves its links with the good, and malevolently functions as condemnation incarnate.
You need rules in order to succeed in many domains, and if everyone is constantly subverting everything management decides it's difficult to accomplish anything.
But if management decides something and a situation arises which organically challenges that decision and they sharply suppress the challenge similar problems can arise.
You can be disciplined and successful while remaining young at heart.
Hopefully that's the life awaiting Lale (Günes Sensoy) as she leaves for Istanbul, taking a mature risk to thwart imposed maturity, relaxed in her liberation, ready to take on the new.
But the elders, the patriarchs and those who fear them, find such joyous acts of emancipated abandon troublesome and unproductive, the youths described previously being 5 young girls, young sisters, one perhaps with brilliant, laughing eyes and plump, matt cheeks (Albertine), their village obsessed with strict definitions of the ladylike, coldhearted calculated restrictions which severely limit astronomical potentialities.
Soon they're being taught to be domestic servants while being married-off, one by one, the crime, exceedingly enjoying life, the punishment, squabbling in the shadows forever after.
Sure, it's nice when food is prepared for you, but if you're not prepared to cook the same, there isn't much point in benefitting from the enriching nutrient intake.
Sure, sometimes conversations with opposite genders seem bizarre and incomprehensible, but a collage of masculine and feminine ideas blended within a cultural and political fabric makes life dynamic and unpredictable, makes beautiful cities like Montréal, and is an integral component of vibrant contagious cohesivity.
Gender balance you know, it's not such a bad thing, you can refine some remarkable synergies, it works both ways.
Mustang examines sheer patriarchal oppression and the ways in which obsessions with ruthlessly employed conceptions of virtue and purity, even respect, can asininely suffocate blossoming imaginations.
Its fictional portrayal of incarcerated curiosity juxtaposes the harsh and the tender with disparate shocking alarm.
It's not that concepts like virtue and morality are necessarily threatening, it's only when a specific virtuous concept is enforced dogmatically, obstinately applied to each and every situation, like residential schools or Nazi Germany, that it dissolves its links with the good, and malevolently functions as condemnation incarnate.
You need rules in order to succeed in many domains, and if everyone is constantly subverting everything management decides it's difficult to accomplish anything.
But if management decides something and a situation arises which organically challenges that decision and they sharply suppress the challenge similar problems can arise.
You can be disciplined and successful while remaining young at heart.
Hopefully that's the life awaiting Lale (Günes Sensoy) as she leaves for Istanbul, taking a mature risk to thwart imposed maturity, relaxed in her liberation, ready to take on the new.
Friday, February 12, 2016
Son of Saul
World War II, a war machine ensuring mechanized misery malevolently eviscerates, its inherent cruelty viciously forcing its prisoners to meticulously accelerate their own demise, treachery and suicide integral components of its abysmal order, survive through brutality before being brutally discarded, act, don't think, remain unobservant, no future, no past, all-encompassing immediate degeneracy, malicious hellspawn, total, craven, chaos.
One man suddenly opens his eyes, has a thought, abstracts himself from the horror, existentializing the spiritual in a momentary revelation, taking matters into his own hands, boldly asserting dignity.
His individualistic search for last rights causes problems for his collective as his pursuit of a proper burial for his son complicates their plans to escape.
But his steady committed unyielding focus also exemplifies what it means to be human, to uphold peaceful virtues, to have respect for both the living and the dead, to majestically sabotage the ruthless ethics of the oppressor, with wild moral implications, an aesthetic point of view.
Son of Saul's immediacy pulls you into death's grip with unrelenting intensity as fascist logic refuses to let go, desperate resiliencies thwarting its banality with resolute transcendent grace.
The unexpected, the unpredictable, the exceptional, the sane, Saul's (Géza Röhrig) actions serve as a reminder to the conscientious that strength of will can reflex irrepressibly, spontaneous means, keeping goals in mind.
One man suddenly opens his eyes, has a thought, abstracts himself from the horror, existentializing the spiritual in a momentary revelation, taking matters into his own hands, boldly asserting dignity.
His individualistic search for last rights causes problems for his collective as his pursuit of a proper burial for his son complicates their plans to escape.
But his steady committed unyielding focus also exemplifies what it means to be human, to uphold peaceful virtues, to have respect for both the living and the dead, to majestically sabotage the ruthless ethics of the oppressor, with wild moral implications, an aesthetic point of view.
Son of Saul's immediacy pulls you into death's grip with unrelenting intensity as fascist logic refuses to let go, desperate resiliencies thwarting its banality with resolute transcendent grace.
The unexpected, the unpredictable, the exceptional, the sane, Saul's (Géza Röhrig) actions serve as a reminder to the conscientious that strength of will can reflex irrepressibly, spontaneous means, keeping goals in mind.
Tuesday, February 9, 2016
The Revenant
Insolence, disrespect, dishonour, carnal craven incredulous antagonist refusing to make the bold sacrifices required to encourage the convalescence of a helpless colleague, the barren logic of the unimaginative stagnating guilded contentment like lifeless inert gruelling cowardice, sublimity cast adrift, motionless, immobile, utterly dependent upon charitable goodwill, his son, vigilant, his strength, returning.
A mighty hunter, a conscientious man, able to see beyond the colour of one's skin or the pretensions of one's culture, intelligent and fierce yet cognizant of august lighthearted wonder, aware that he must live within the world but ready to embrace the bizarre and the peculiar, revel in family life, catch a snowflake on his tongue.
But the wilderness, the wild, where his exhaustive knowledge exhales survival, remains wild, unpredictable, with others seeking to survive as well, competing proficiencies contracting in the shadows, inspecting, subverting, challenging, strike and you will be struck, a mother bruin raising young attacks as Glass (Leonardo DiCaprio) hunts, he's almost dead by the end of the struggle, the mother resting docile and breathless on high.
He's left for dead by a treacherous goon after the goon kills his son (Forrest Goodluck as Hawk) but the power of the bear focuses his recovery and he's able to improbably begin crawling back home.
Hostile territory adds to his burdens as a First Nations Chief (Duane Howard as Elk Dog) seeks his kidnapped daughter (Melaw Nakehk'o as Powaqa), infuriated by both the insult and the treatment of his people, he attacks first and asks no questions.
Glass makes his way one excruciatingly painful movement at a time, enduring extreme punishment while witnessing naturalistic vivacity, breathtaking harmonies further motivating his resolve.
The Revenant is an incredible film, surpassing Fitzcarraldo in terms of herculean elasticity, each second dependent upon threateningly complex environmental courtesies, iconic patience unfurling in its reels like dedicated enriched spirituality, the production's staggering accomplishments complementing Glass's will, his superhuman endurance, in agile exoteric splendour, delivering a simple tale, with extraordinarily sophisticated refinement.
There's one scene that subtly introduces calm, the resonant flux having suddenly subsided, and just as I was thinking, "this makes an odd fit," Glass wakes up and has to frantically ride his horse off a cliff, brilliant editorial awareness rarely so strikingly realized (editing by Stephen Mirrione).
And the final confrontation takes place as the sun gradually illuminates a valley's mountainous terrain, as glass firmly integrates the wisdom of lessons learned (cinematography by Emmanuel Lubezki).
Outstanding. Needs to be seen in theatres.
Captain Henry (Domhnall Gleeson) skilfully balances the differences between Glass and Fitzgerald (Tom Hardy), Glass, the man of communal knowledge, the spirit, spending his free time in search of game to eat in a land of plenty, in touch with his surroundings, able to instantaneously decide, Fitzgerald, the appetites, thinking only of his own personal prejudices and the wealth he hopes to obtain thereby.
Henry is in charge and must make the tough calls but possesses a conscience of his own that enables Glass to live even if it imperialistically blinds him to Fitzgerald's ambition.
A platonic helmsperson, with some unfortunate ideas about how to facilitate relations with Aboriginal peoples.
Would Glass have killed him in another life, the memories of his peaceful frontier existence haunting him with ageless sorrow?
He nevertheless remains a man of principle.
Not an ideological zealot.
But a practical human being.
Living in the world.
Co-existing.
A mighty hunter, a conscientious man, able to see beyond the colour of one's skin or the pretensions of one's culture, intelligent and fierce yet cognizant of august lighthearted wonder, aware that he must live within the world but ready to embrace the bizarre and the peculiar, revel in family life, catch a snowflake on his tongue.
But the wilderness, the wild, where his exhaustive knowledge exhales survival, remains wild, unpredictable, with others seeking to survive as well, competing proficiencies contracting in the shadows, inspecting, subverting, challenging, strike and you will be struck, a mother bruin raising young attacks as Glass (Leonardo DiCaprio) hunts, he's almost dead by the end of the struggle, the mother resting docile and breathless on high.
He's left for dead by a treacherous goon after the goon kills his son (Forrest Goodluck as Hawk) but the power of the bear focuses his recovery and he's able to improbably begin crawling back home.
Hostile territory adds to his burdens as a First Nations Chief (Duane Howard as Elk Dog) seeks his kidnapped daughter (Melaw Nakehk'o as Powaqa), infuriated by both the insult and the treatment of his people, he attacks first and asks no questions.
Glass makes his way one excruciatingly painful movement at a time, enduring extreme punishment while witnessing naturalistic vivacity, breathtaking harmonies further motivating his resolve.
The Revenant is an incredible film, surpassing Fitzcarraldo in terms of herculean elasticity, each second dependent upon threateningly complex environmental courtesies, iconic patience unfurling in its reels like dedicated enriched spirituality, the production's staggering accomplishments complementing Glass's will, his superhuman endurance, in agile exoteric splendour, delivering a simple tale, with extraordinarily sophisticated refinement.
There's one scene that subtly introduces calm, the resonant flux having suddenly subsided, and just as I was thinking, "this makes an odd fit," Glass wakes up and has to frantically ride his horse off a cliff, brilliant editorial awareness rarely so strikingly realized (editing by Stephen Mirrione).
And the final confrontation takes place as the sun gradually illuminates a valley's mountainous terrain, as glass firmly integrates the wisdom of lessons learned (cinematography by Emmanuel Lubezki).
Outstanding. Needs to be seen in theatres.
Captain Henry (Domhnall Gleeson) skilfully balances the differences between Glass and Fitzgerald (Tom Hardy), Glass, the man of communal knowledge, the spirit, spending his free time in search of game to eat in a land of plenty, in touch with his surroundings, able to instantaneously decide, Fitzgerald, the appetites, thinking only of his own personal prejudices and the wealth he hopes to obtain thereby.
Henry is in charge and must make the tough calls but possesses a conscience of his own that enables Glass to live even if it imperialistically blinds him to Fitzgerald's ambition.
A platonic helmsperson, with some unfortunate ideas about how to facilitate relations with Aboriginal peoples.
Would Glass have killed him in another life, the memories of his peaceful frontier existence haunting him with ageless sorrow?
He nevertheless remains a man of principle.
Not an ideological zealot.
But a practical human being.
Living in the world.
Co-existing.
Friday, February 5, 2016
The Finest Hours
Risk.
Integrity.
Astronomical odds.
Will.
Bernie Webber (Chris Pine), bold self-sacrificing Coast Guard fundamental, exemplifying hardcore durability in his attempts to rescue a beleaguered crew, resiliently flexible, combative oceanic sizzle.
The conditions are fierce and his compass is missing but due to his exhaustive knowledge he's still able to strive on through.
Ability, conviction, experience, defence, extreme drive exercising resolute caution.
The Finest Hours, a bare-bones resurgency airtight and hunkered down.
The best scenes showcase Webber steering directly into massive oncoming waves, manning his vessel, incredible feats of nautical navigation, necessary to overcome jagged displacements.
Robust in their sentiments, humble teamwork, no time to consider alternative options, saturated condensed immediacy.
With a bit of luck.
Just another day.
Integrity.
Astronomical odds.
Will.
Bernie Webber (Chris Pine), bold self-sacrificing Coast Guard fundamental, exemplifying hardcore durability in his attempts to rescue a beleaguered crew, resiliently flexible, combative oceanic sizzle.
The conditions are fierce and his compass is missing but due to his exhaustive knowledge he's still able to strive on through.
Ability, conviction, experience, defence, extreme drive exercising resolute caution.
The Finest Hours, a bare-bones resurgency airtight and hunkered down.
The best scenes showcase Webber steering directly into massive oncoming waves, manning his vessel, incredible feats of nautical navigation, necessary to overcome jagged displacements.
Robust in their sentiments, humble teamwork, no time to consider alternative options, saturated condensed immediacy.
With a bit of luck.
Just another day.
Tuesday, February 2, 2016
45 Years
It all seemed so simple, growing up, you know.
Married couples loved each other. That's why they were married. Their vows functioned like impenetrable devout amorous stainless steel domestically upholding both excellence and virtue as a matter of enviable endurance over the years, level-heads making conscientious decisions to sublimely support one another, dignity through sacrifice, enriching everlasting love.
Due to the sacred nature of the bonds, it never occurred to me that jealousy could dishevel their peaceful harmonies by introducing unforeseen frenetics, tumultuous temptations, to ensure conflict degeneratively materialized, and invasively persisted evermore.
Odd how it's used like a regenerative distraction sometimes, rather than strolls along the beach or a weekend in the Laurentians, bizarre these frenzied fluctuations, confusingly chaotic resuscitative respirations.
Yet Mr. and Mrs. Mercer (Tom Courtenay and Charlotte Rampling) seem to have found a way to amicably co-exist old-school-style for close to a half-century in Andrew Haigh's 45 Years, subtly embracing different modest themes to maturely promote conjugal longevity, striving ever onwards on a path of cherished illuminated merriment, feisty yet docile, an eternal fountain of youth.
But even their upright stability is viscerally challenged after 45 years of sure and steady elasticity, 45 Years calmly and patiently injecting a jealous element and then slowly yet persistently intensifying its disillusionment.
Enough time has passed to theoretically compensate for wild romantic passions that lasciviously took hold 50 years ago, before Kate and Geoff ever met.
The film hauntingly rationalizes these sober emotions to strengthen their consistencies with delicate poignant gravity, the final scene ambiguously clad in brilliance, as you wonder if the moment is ecstatic and/or derelict, a reverberating disorienting dispute.
Married couples loved each other. That's why they were married. Their vows functioned like impenetrable devout amorous stainless steel domestically upholding both excellence and virtue as a matter of enviable endurance over the years, level-heads making conscientious decisions to sublimely support one another, dignity through sacrifice, enriching everlasting love.
Due to the sacred nature of the bonds, it never occurred to me that jealousy could dishevel their peaceful harmonies by introducing unforeseen frenetics, tumultuous temptations, to ensure conflict degeneratively materialized, and invasively persisted evermore.
Odd how it's used like a regenerative distraction sometimes, rather than strolls along the beach or a weekend in the Laurentians, bizarre these frenzied fluctuations, confusingly chaotic resuscitative respirations.
Yet Mr. and Mrs. Mercer (Tom Courtenay and Charlotte Rampling) seem to have found a way to amicably co-exist old-school-style for close to a half-century in Andrew Haigh's 45 Years, subtly embracing different modest themes to maturely promote conjugal longevity, striving ever onwards on a path of cherished illuminated merriment, feisty yet docile, an eternal fountain of youth.
But even their upright stability is viscerally challenged after 45 years of sure and steady elasticity, 45 Years calmly and patiently injecting a jealous element and then slowly yet persistently intensifying its disillusionment.
Enough time has passed to theoretically compensate for wild romantic passions that lasciviously took hold 50 years ago, before Kate and Geoff ever met.
The film hauntingly rationalizes these sober emotions to strengthen their consistencies with delicate poignant gravity, the final scene ambiguously clad in brilliance, as you wonder if the moment is ecstatic and/or derelict, a reverberating disorienting dispute.
Friday, January 29, 2016
Daddy's Home
The other guy, better looking and stronger than you, father of the two children you are rearing, covetous of your stable ambient domesticity, questioning your every decision, flouting the love his children exhilarate, doing everything you can't do, outperforming you at work, giving advice that contradicts your tutelage, suddenly living in your once cozy home, awake bright and early, to reclaim that which he discarded.
Carelessly.
Since the time of cave people rivalries such as these have endured, but in the contemporary absence of sabre-toothed tigers and woolly mammoths, the biggest challenge for the reckless alpha, is patiently following smoothly polished bourgeois rules.
Being polite.
Complimenting others.
Nurturing through support.
Restraining violent impulses.
Never thinking, "this sucks."
Dusty Mayron's (Mark Wahlberg) suburban shadow Brad Whitaker (Will Ferrell) must also exercise caution by not attempting to court the exceptional, which he no doubt nevertheless tries to do, kneading knee-jerks as his outputs flounce and flail.
The A+ wild man versus A+ dependability, the disharmonious blend struggling within the uncertainty, great ideas not producing the laughs one might expect, although the virile exchanges offer constructive lessons learned.
Sara (Linda Cardellini) caught in-between.
Panda Smooth Jazz.
Griff (Hannibal Buress) adds solid ridiculous structure as his character functions as unnecessary referee, but Leo Holt (Thomas Haden Church) could have been more inappropriate in his consul.
Consul such as his could have provided even more completely unnecessary distractions from the narrative and refined raunchy and/or gluttonously verbose observations.
The kids are funny and cute, used to exaggerate the conflict as much as possible, the best part of the film.
Which struggles.
Carelessly.
Since the time of cave people rivalries such as these have endured, but in the contemporary absence of sabre-toothed tigers and woolly mammoths, the biggest challenge for the reckless alpha, is patiently following smoothly polished bourgeois rules.
Being polite.
Complimenting others.
Nurturing through support.
Restraining violent impulses.
Never thinking, "this sucks."
Dusty Mayron's (Mark Wahlberg) suburban shadow Brad Whitaker (Will Ferrell) must also exercise caution by not attempting to court the exceptional, which he no doubt nevertheless tries to do, kneading knee-jerks as his outputs flounce and flail.
The A+ wild man versus A+ dependability, the disharmonious blend struggling within the uncertainty, great ideas not producing the laughs one might expect, although the virile exchanges offer constructive lessons learned.
Sara (Linda Cardellini) caught in-between.
Panda Smooth Jazz.
Griff (Hannibal Buress) adds solid ridiculous structure as his character functions as unnecessary referee, but Leo Holt (Thomas Haden Church) could have been more inappropriate in his consul.
Consul such as his could have provided even more completely unnecessary distractions from the narrative and refined raunchy and/or gluttonously verbose observations.
The kids are funny and cute, used to exaggerate the conflict as much as possible, the best part of the film.
Which struggles.
Tuesday, January 26, 2016
Anomalisa
Animated like fluffy warmhearted cheer, hummingbird hugs, biscuity blankets, fireside chats while reading pulpy novels, luminescently gliding through the snow with delicate ease and relaxed disregard, a friendly shake, inchoate snuggles, a drive through the country, constitutionally clasped in balm.
Animation at odds with its subject matter, for discontent haunts motivational speaker Michael Stone (David Thewlis), his aged soul overcome by excessive mundanity, plagued by routine doubts, wondering how to reclaim stark serenity.
On a trip to Cincinnati, where an old flame inextinguishably radiates.
But he's lost touch with the other, with politesse, decorum, and doesn't know he's become a full-on perv.
Yet fate still forgives his aggressive libido, and uniquely introduces unexpected novelty.
Manticore.
The result, Anomalisa, a masterful display of understated comedy.
You don't know if you should be supportive, outraged, condescending, repulsed, nimble, sick, saddened, morose.
Such an odd collection of random interactions, ambiguity pruriently stabilized, imaginative independence locked-down and slung, as the borders separating freedom and responsibility slowly and spontaneously fade.
Fun.
There's only one thing Michael finds fun anymore and its ephemeral foundations interject disingenuous ennui.
Jaded conflict.
Obsessive ebb and flow.
Unction.
No way out.
More more more.
Animation at odds with its subject matter, for discontent haunts motivational speaker Michael Stone (David Thewlis), his aged soul overcome by excessive mundanity, plagued by routine doubts, wondering how to reclaim stark serenity.
On a trip to Cincinnati, where an old flame inextinguishably radiates.
But he's lost touch with the other, with politesse, decorum, and doesn't know he's become a full-on perv.
Yet fate still forgives his aggressive libido, and uniquely introduces unexpected novelty.
Manticore.
The result, Anomalisa, a masterful display of understated comedy.
You don't know if you should be supportive, outraged, condescending, repulsed, nimble, sick, saddened, morose.
Such an odd collection of random interactions, ambiguity pruriently stabilized, imaginative independence locked-down and slung, as the borders separating freedom and responsibility slowly and spontaneously fade.
Fun.
There's only one thing Michael finds fun anymore and its ephemeral foundations interject disingenuous ennui.
Jaded conflict.
Obsessive ebb and flow.
Unction.
No way out.
More more more.
Friday, January 22, 2016
The Big Short
You wonder how much some of these characters really cared about the fate of the American masses during the 2008 economic crisis.
It's plausible that those who did care did in fact care.
Without them caring however, The Big Short does turn into a celebration of sorts of the lucky 0.00000000000001% who prospered excessively while the unknowing majority was ruined.
Conscience or convenience?
Without them the film definitely would have been tough to take.
Perhaps not.
It's really well written, constant motion following multiple characters who analyze their subject matter and conduct their research from varied perspectives, these perspectives vivaciously instructing audiences in paradigmatic peculiarities which crippled the global economy, while introducing several tertiary adjuncts who often make more than one appearance (editing by Hank Corwin) and diversify its critique of unsustainable capitalist expansion by illustrating both the reckless joys and famished dreams of the lenders and borrowers caught up in early 21st century frenzied financing.
Writers Charles Randolph (screenplay), Adam McKay (screenplay), and Michael Lewis (Book) may have been able to extract the ethical from this frame without stalling its momentum although the ethical focus does transport its erudite pedestrianism to the realm of the imaginative flâneur.
Holy crap The Big Short takes a lot of shots at the chaotic mechanics which oddly upheld American markets for a significant chunk of time and the people who profited from the resultant unrestrained disillusioning economic creativity.
It's a shame because the rampant charlatanism had given people earning modest livings the chance to live the American dream, houses, cars, microbrewed beer, poutine, it was just totally foundationless and eventually crashed unrepentantly, with basically no penalties, and according to The Big Short and recent forecasts by a Scottish bank, is ready to start frothingly socioproselytizing once more.
What do you do, do you live within your means without accumulating much debt or mortgage your life away and enjoy whatever you can get your hands on?
Can't answer that question, but sustainable development seems more profitable to me in the long run, conserving immaculate environmental and technological wonders in turn while eagerly seeking out sources of cultural and scientific mutation.
I did leave the theatre wondering if I had just seen one of the best films of the year or an exceptional Pop-Up Video collage.
But upon further reflection, I do think The Big Short is a contender, even if it's kind of raw-raw.
Thought-provoking conscientious unnerving entertainment.
Worth subsequent viewings, strong cast, well put together.
It's plausible that those who did care did in fact care.
Without them caring however, The Big Short does turn into a celebration of sorts of the lucky 0.00000000000001% who prospered excessively while the unknowing majority was ruined.
Conscience or convenience?
Without them the film definitely would have been tough to take.
Perhaps not.
It's really well written, constant motion following multiple characters who analyze their subject matter and conduct their research from varied perspectives, these perspectives vivaciously instructing audiences in paradigmatic peculiarities which crippled the global economy, while introducing several tertiary adjuncts who often make more than one appearance (editing by Hank Corwin) and diversify its critique of unsustainable capitalist expansion by illustrating both the reckless joys and famished dreams of the lenders and borrowers caught up in early 21st century frenzied financing.
Writers Charles Randolph (screenplay), Adam McKay (screenplay), and Michael Lewis (Book) may have been able to extract the ethical from this frame without stalling its momentum although the ethical focus does transport its erudite pedestrianism to the realm of the imaginative flâneur.
Holy crap The Big Short takes a lot of shots at the chaotic mechanics which oddly upheld American markets for a significant chunk of time and the people who profited from the resultant unrestrained disillusioning economic creativity.
It's a shame because the rampant charlatanism had given people earning modest livings the chance to live the American dream, houses, cars, microbrewed beer, poutine, it was just totally foundationless and eventually crashed unrepentantly, with basically no penalties, and according to The Big Short and recent forecasts by a Scottish bank, is ready to start frothingly socioproselytizing once more.
What do you do, do you live within your means without accumulating much debt or mortgage your life away and enjoy whatever you can get your hands on?
Can't answer that question, but sustainable development seems more profitable to me in the long run, conserving immaculate environmental and technological wonders in turn while eagerly seeking out sources of cultural and scientific mutation.
I did leave the theatre wondering if I had just seen one of the best films of the year or an exceptional Pop-Up Video collage.
But upon further reflection, I do think The Big Short is a contender, even if it's kind of raw-raw.
Thought-provoking conscientious unnerving entertainment.
Worth subsequent viewings, strong cast, well put together.
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
The Hateful Eight
*This one's kind of gross. The rules. A different set of rules.
It's difficult to take an exacting intellect capable of exotically yet haphazardly envisioning distinct pulsating shocks and successfully apply it to situations which often import stark congenital gravity.
You have to seem bright without seeming intelligent, unconcerned while meticulously managing the minutia.
In an enlightened stupor.
If you seem too intelligent it's too intelligent; if it's too bland, it's too bland.
You see Tarantino trying to intelligently craft visceral mundane irresistibly kitschy constellations throughout The Hateful Eight but the result is more like a blunt racist ultraviolent unappealing dust bowl.
That's not what you're supposed to do!
It's not that he doesn't have his own thing happenin'.
It's quirky and bizarre enough to make you want to see what's going to happen next, and his confident grizzly backwoods characters hold your attention with outrageously dispassionate abrasive machismo, bullshit, bullshit, more bullshit, mendaciously striking with cold hard-hearted disparity.
It's just, you keep seeing what happens next and it isn't that great, some of it's kind of cool, but there's an extended back-in-time sequence that serves little purpose but to depict a lively happy frontier family being slaughtered, there's torture and rape, the main female character's face is regularly covered in blood because her captor keeps punching her in the mouth, and the races are irrepressibly at odds as the hatred viciously intensifies.
I suppose if you want to indulge in gratuitous gratuity, sleaze for sleaze's sake, that's okay, I guess, I don't know why you would want to do that but it's done all the time, I don't want to be too politically correct here, The Hateful Eight firmly giving the finger to pc everything and it should be examined on its own terms judiciously.
Like, scatological synergies.
Claustrophobic acrimony.
Renegade nausea.
Hemorrhoid puke stink.
One of the first things I thought when I saw the trailer for The Revenant was, "this is what Quentin Tarantino could be doing, he could be making films like this."
But then I thought, it's annoying when people are like, you should be doing this, so I was like, I'm not going to be like that.
Inglourious Basterds is an incredible film that I love watching again and again. It succeeds on so many levels and even has valuable life lessons to learn worked into its frames.
I'm not getting that from Django or The Hateful Eight and think Tarantino should move away from exploiting race relations.
He could give the serious yet comedic unconsciously pliable western one more try, but like I think I've said before, it's extremely difficult to do.
In danger of being eclipsed by Robert Rodriguez.
Troublemaker studios.
Heuristic halcyon.
It's difficult to take an exacting intellect capable of exotically yet haphazardly envisioning distinct pulsating shocks and successfully apply it to situations which often import stark congenital gravity.
You have to seem bright without seeming intelligent, unconcerned while meticulously managing the minutia.
In an enlightened stupor.
If you seem too intelligent it's too intelligent; if it's too bland, it's too bland.
You see Tarantino trying to intelligently craft visceral mundane irresistibly kitschy constellations throughout The Hateful Eight but the result is more like a blunt racist ultraviolent unappealing dust bowl.
That's not what you're supposed to do!
It's not that he doesn't have his own thing happenin'.
It's quirky and bizarre enough to make you want to see what's going to happen next, and his confident grizzly backwoods characters hold your attention with outrageously dispassionate abrasive machismo, bullshit, bullshit, more bullshit, mendaciously striking with cold hard-hearted disparity.
It's just, you keep seeing what happens next and it isn't that great, some of it's kind of cool, but there's an extended back-in-time sequence that serves little purpose but to depict a lively happy frontier family being slaughtered, there's torture and rape, the main female character's face is regularly covered in blood because her captor keeps punching her in the mouth, and the races are irrepressibly at odds as the hatred viciously intensifies.
I suppose if you want to indulge in gratuitous gratuity, sleaze for sleaze's sake, that's okay, I guess, I don't know why you would want to do that but it's done all the time, I don't want to be too politically correct here, The Hateful Eight firmly giving the finger to pc everything and it should be examined on its own terms judiciously.
Like, scatological synergies.
Claustrophobic acrimony.
Renegade nausea.
Hemorrhoid puke stink.
One of the first things I thought when I saw the trailer for The Revenant was, "this is what Quentin Tarantino could be doing, he could be making films like this."
But then I thought, it's annoying when people are like, you should be doing this, so I was like, I'm not going to be like that.
Inglourious Basterds is an incredible film that I love watching again and again. It succeeds on so many levels and even has valuable life lessons to learn worked into its frames.
I'm not getting that from Django or The Hateful Eight and think Tarantino should move away from exploiting race relations.
He could give the serious yet comedic unconsciously pliable western one more try, but like I think I've said before, it's extremely difficult to do.
In danger of being eclipsed by Robert Rodriguez.
Troublemaker studios.
Heuristic halcyon.
Friday, January 15, 2016
Joy
Discipline.
Punishment.
The hurricane, crushing, displacing, infuriating, exasperating, draining her reserves with unsettling elasticity, voracious steady plutocratic hunger, petty indignant somnambulistic plunder, she coasts astride, reacting, strategizing, acclimatizing, placating, diplomatically attuned to brokering consensus, to enabling equanimity, fomented franticon, whirlwinds harnessed agon, risking everything she has while enriching her familial bower, through the art of sympathetically nurturing comprehensible inclusive trusts.
She leaves no one behind, her spirit breeding virtue in resplendent fertile abundance, someone you can count on, entrenched hardwired reliability, David O. Russell's Joy (Jennifer Lawrence), an odd synthesis of the exceptional and the mundane.
It's almost there.
The film wavers between the plucky and the humdrum with casual indiscreet dexterity, never seeming too shocking or distant, while enlivening situations you would think might not be so.
In conversation.
By cautiously yet cleverly elevating the tedious, Joy coaxes the extraordinary with undeniable hokey charm, notably when Trudy (Isabella Rossellini) asks her 4 questions.
Still missing something however, its aesthetic resonance asymptotically flirting with the quaintly ethereal, girls on farms, caressing and tantalizing with each exhaled breath, otherwise fun and endearing, well-acted convincing versatility.
Punishment.
The hurricane, crushing, displacing, infuriating, exasperating, draining her reserves with unsettling elasticity, voracious steady plutocratic hunger, petty indignant somnambulistic plunder, she coasts astride, reacting, strategizing, acclimatizing, placating, diplomatically attuned to brokering consensus, to enabling equanimity, fomented franticon, whirlwinds harnessed agon, risking everything she has while enriching her familial bower, through the art of sympathetically nurturing comprehensible inclusive trusts.
She leaves no one behind, her spirit breeding virtue in resplendent fertile abundance, someone you can count on, entrenched hardwired reliability, David O. Russell's Joy (Jennifer Lawrence), an odd synthesis of the exceptional and the mundane.
It's almost there.
The film wavers between the plucky and the humdrum with casual indiscreet dexterity, never seeming too shocking or distant, while enlivening situations you would think might not be so.
In conversation.
By cautiously yet cleverly elevating the tedious, Joy coaxes the extraordinary with undeniable hokey charm, notably when Trudy (Isabella Rossellini) asks her 4 questions.
Still missing something however, its aesthetic resonance asymptotically flirting with the quaintly ethereal, girls on farms, caressing and tantalizing with each exhaled breath, otherwise fun and endearing, well-acted convincing versatility.
Tuesday, January 12, 2016
The Danish Girl
For a terse, inadequate, understated, rushed synopsis of Foucault's Madness & Civilization, one might write that qualitative evaluations, at any given moment, have specific psychological preferences, stereotypically spiritualized in what they consider to be rational, enticing, praiseworthy, while alternative dispositions which don't snuggly fit the definitions must still attempt to forthrightly applaud them, or fall prey to a legion of mental health authorities who make a living cultivating them, using various methods to diagnose and cure the afflicted who can't help but stand out in sharp contrast.
These definitions change, In Search of Lost Time's examination of the Dreyfus Affair highlighting malleable pretensions to culture, the Affair not relating to definitive mindsets particularly, but Proust's compellingly interminable investigation of its protagonists and arch-villains, themselves changing their positions depending on their analysis of the popular, thereby behaving politically, to parlour, antiquate, and esteem, demonstrates how madness and civilization dialectically contend, embrace, synthesize, in rhetorical applications of epistemological virtue.
There are people who seem to be lacking in reason, people who adamantly believe their pet guinea pigs are reincarnated Julio-Claudians for example, but The Danish Girl's Einar Wegener/Lili Elbe (Eddie Redmayne) is clearly sane, kind, gentle, yet has no means through which to access inadmissible components of his personality, and is therefore labelled undesirable.
He escapes curative clutches however, enduring minor experimental encumbrances but still maintaining his freedom, and, with the aid of his idyllic wife Gerda (Alicia Vikander), eventually finds a doctor who recognizes his sanity and wholeheartedly assists.
Before discovering this doctor you seem him struggling to animate, as he seeks out the compassion of the civil who misguidedly think him mad.
The film is a quiet timid exploratory illustration of gender identification which focuses more on Lili/Einar and Gerda's brilliant relationship, effervescently brought to life by Redmayne and Vikander, true compassion and understanding, than the horrors Einar/Lili faces as he transforms.
Illumination.
Trying to find markets for art complements Lili/Einar's discoveries, selling paintings like trying to invigorate public opinion, open up new worlds, and encourage sociocultural inclusivity.
Gerda's paintings are quite beautiful.
As is a world where difference is an integral strength.
Intimately unrecognized.
These definitions change, In Search of Lost Time's examination of the Dreyfus Affair highlighting malleable pretensions to culture, the Affair not relating to definitive mindsets particularly, but Proust's compellingly interminable investigation of its protagonists and arch-villains, themselves changing their positions depending on their analysis of the popular, thereby behaving politically, to parlour, antiquate, and esteem, demonstrates how madness and civilization dialectically contend, embrace, synthesize, in rhetorical applications of epistemological virtue.
There are people who seem to be lacking in reason, people who adamantly believe their pet guinea pigs are reincarnated Julio-Claudians for example, but The Danish Girl's Einar Wegener/Lili Elbe (Eddie Redmayne) is clearly sane, kind, gentle, yet has no means through which to access inadmissible components of his personality, and is therefore labelled undesirable.
He escapes curative clutches however, enduring minor experimental encumbrances but still maintaining his freedom, and, with the aid of his idyllic wife Gerda (Alicia Vikander), eventually finds a doctor who recognizes his sanity and wholeheartedly assists.
Before discovering this doctor you seem him struggling to animate, as he seeks out the compassion of the civil who misguidedly think him mad.
The film is a quiet timid exploratory illustration of gender identification which focuses more on Lili/Einar and Gerda's brilliant relationship, effervescently brought to life by Redmayne and Vikander, true compassion and understanding, than the horrors Einar/Lili faces as he transforms.
Illumination.
Trying to find markets for art complements Lili/Einar's discoveries, selling paintings like trying to invigorate public opinion, open up new worlds, and encourage sociocultural inclusivity.
Gerda's paintings are quite beautiful.
As is a world where difference is an integral strength.
Intimately unrecognized.
Friday, January 8, 2016
Star Wars: The Force Awakens
*I've waited weeks to post this. There aren't any huge spoilers but don't read it if you haven't seen the film.
A New Hope and The Empire Strikes Back really are exceptional films. They created a universe and captivatingly pulled you in, refusing to let go, commanding your strict attention for every volatile nanosecond then leaving you wiped from hyperintense emotional exposure. They were dark. They were pressurized. They didn't seem like lighthearted whimsical checks and balances. They built the foundations for worlds within worlds and boldly cultivated a clear spiritual vision, tantalizingly navigating a polarized political spectrum. I watched them again recently, watched all the Star Wars films again recently, and they still hold up, still captivatingly pressurize. They must have had a long lasting effect on the Force Awakens team too, because Star Wars VII borrows heavily from their scripts. I enjoyed watching it, and even preferred it the second time, but it was still somewhat frustrating to see the agile new cast back on a remote desert planet, with a droid containing secret information, off to a new cantina bar, before having to assault a new super-Death Star wherein an Empire like confrontation takes place. The film holds together and is fun to watch, but the script is lacking in vision.
They likely didn't want to try anything too experimental because that was precisely what Lucas did in episodes I-III and they didn't turn out that well. It's a shame because he attempted to multidimensionally diversify the world he created by crafting complex scripts with multiple storylines. It's too bad he didn't get someone else to write the dialogue or rework each script into something less convoluted, something more like episodes IV through VI.
Which is what The Force Awakens team has done, taking the easy route but workin' it intergalactically. I was hoping it would be something exceptional, you come to expect the exceptional from Star Wars films because A New Hope and Empire were so good, and they had a long time to work on this one; you're happy when a Marvel film is exceptional but you don't expect them to be exceptional in the same way that you expect a Star Wars film to be exceptional, so that when it's just solid entertainment, a fun couple of hours revisiting a phenomenal contemplation, it's a bit of a let down, which is easy to get over.
The film's too light.
General Hux (Domhnall Gleeson) is like a child in comparison to Grand Moff Tarkin (Peter Cushing) and Kylo Ren is light years less menacing than Darth Vader (David Prowse/James Earl Jones).
First rate pilot Poe Dameron (Oscar Isaac) crash lands on Jakku and then disappears until heroically returning to save the day, having managed to escape from a barren isolated planet being monitored by a Star Destroyer-like ship which is searching for him specifically.
How did he get off the planet!
Because it's so similar to episode IV you know precisely what is going to happen and this takes the edge off considerably even if it's kind of neat to see it all happening again.
With some new twists thrown in.
The text from the opening moments seems more like a bubblegum comic than an invitation to interstellar tragedy.
Was infiltrating the First Order's secret base and shutting down its force field far too easy?
Before Alderaan is destroyed there's a brilliant exchange between Leia (Carrie Fisher) and Tarkin which accentuates the severity of what's about to happen. In The Force Awakens they just fire the new weapon to sever any connection episode VII has to episodes I-III.
Rey (Daisy Ridley) is a saving grace, and her character continuously steals scenes, a cross between Han Solo and Luke Skywalker, she should be able to hold the next couple films together.
With Finn's (John Boyega) help; I loved it when he picked up the lightsaber to take on Ren.
I suppose I shouldn't be advocating for darker Star Wars films if I prefer the ways of the Jedi, but it's the competent resilient fierce desperation of the rebellion that made those films stand out, like the Rebels were up against overwhelmingly austere villains whose maturity was viscerally diabolical, the goodness of the Rebels standing out in sharp contrast.
Perhaps George Miller or Christopher Nolan should direct episode VIII. Perhaps they weren't crazy fans of the original trilogy when it came out. That may give them an advantage.
May the force be with you.
*Forgot to mention how cute BB-8 is. Like a well-groomed feisty Bichon.
A New Hope and The Empire Strikes Back really are exceptional films. They created a universe and captivatingly pulled you in, refusing to let go, commanding your strict attention for every volatile nanosecond then leaving you wiped from hyperintense emotional exposure. They were dark. They were pressurized. They didn't seem like lighthearted whimsical checks and balances. They built the foundations for worlds within worlds and boldly cultivated a clear spiritual vision, tantalizingly navigating a polarized political spectrum. I watched them again recently, watched all the Star Wars films again recently, and they still hold up, still captivatingly pressurize. They must have had a long lasting effect on the Force Awakens team too, because Star Wars VII borrows heavily from their scripts. I enjoyed watching it, and even preferred it the second time, but it was still somewhat frustrating to see the agile new cast back on a remote desert planet, with a droid containing secret information, off to a new cantina bar, before having to assault a new super-Death Star wherein an Empire like confrontation takes place. The film holds together and is fun to watch, but the script is lacking in vision.
They likely didn't want to try anything too experimental because that was precisely what Lucas did in episodes I-III and they didn't turn out that well. It's a shame because he attempted to multidimensionally diversify the world he created by crafting complex scripts with multiple storylines. It's too bad he didn't get someone else to write the dialogue or rework each script into something less convoluted, something more like episodes IV through VI.
Which is what The Force Awakens team has done, taking the easy route but workin' it intergalactically. I was hoping it would be something exceptional, you come to expect the exceptional from Star Wars films because A New Hope and Empire were so good, and they had a long time to work on this one; you're happy when a Marvel film is exceptional but you don't expect them to be exceptional in the same way that you expect a Star Wars film to be exceptional, so that when it's just solid entertainment, a fun couple of hours revisiting a phenomenal contemplation, it's a bit of a let down, which is easy to get over.
The film's too light.
General Hux (Domhnall Gleeson) is like a child in comparison to Grand Moff Tarkin (Peter Cushing) and Kylo Ren is light years less menacing than Darth Vader (David Prowse/James Earl Jones).
First rate pilot Poe Dameron (Oscar Isaac) crash lands on Jakku and then disappears until heroically returning to save the day, having managed to escape from a barren isolated planet being monitored by a Star Destroyer-like ship which is searching for him specifically.
How did he get off the planet!
Because it's so similar to episode IV you know precisely what is going to happen and this takes the edge off considerably even if it's kind of neat to see it all happening again.
With some new twists thrown in.
The text from the opening moments seems more like a bubblegum comic than an invitation to interstellar tragedy.
Was infiltrating the First Order's secret base and shutting down its force field far too easy?
Before Alderaan is destroyed there's a brilliant exchange between Leia (Carrie Fisher) and Tarkin which accentuates the severity of what's about to happen. In The Force Awakens they just fire the new weapon to sever any connection episode VII has to episodes I-III.
Rey (Daisy Ridley) is a saving grace, and her character continuously steals scenes, a cross between Han Solo and Luke Skywalker, she should be able to hold the next couple films together.
With Finn's (John Boyega) help; I loved it when he picked up the lightsaber to take on Ren.
I suppose I shouldn't be advocating for darker Star Wars films if I prefer the ways of the Jedi, but it's the competent resilient fierce desperation of the rebellion that made those films stand out, like the Rebels were up against overwhelmingly austere villains whose maturity was viscerally diabolical, the goodness of the Rebels standing out in sharp contrast.
Perhaps George Miller or Christopher Nolan should direct episode VIII. Perhaps they weren't crazy fans of the original trilogy when it came out. That may give them an advantage.
May the force be with you.
*Forgot to mention how cute BB-8 is. Like a well-groomed feisty Bichon.
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
Spotlight
A community, bound together by traditional bonds stretching back for tightly knit centuries, growing and changing over time yet remaining loyal to specific ways of life, to institutions, whose reputation for kindness and charity has lovingly guided initiatives structured by compassion and understanding which encourage warm hearted gatherings in order to anchor humanistic trusts throughout, within and beyond the great city of Boston, which is under fire this year in American cinema.
But it's not as fuzzy as all that, as Tom McCarthy's Spotlight points out, a filmic examination of the Boston Globe reporters who brought to light monstrous religious failings, abysmal breaches of trust, and an entrenched sociopolitical culture devoted to covering it up, to overlooking its monumental shortcomings, its violence, its subversion of its fundamental principles.
True believers who attempt to tenderly encourage inclusive communal growth are exceptional people, it's only when they either exclude large portions of the population who believe in something else or commit acts of terror that serious problems arise, augmented by parts of the population who try to exclude them for believing what they do.
But for true believers, the bonds they cultivate between themselves and religious authorities are truly sacred, and if such authorities take for granted the sacred nature of these bonds and viciously exploit them to corruptly satisfy perverted desires, relying on their image and authority to prevent people from coming forward with shocking contradictory truths, they shatter their aura of integrity and obscure their charitable foundations.
Spotlight examines the tough decisions Boston Globe reporters, themselves Christian and citizens of Boston, had to make in order to bring the truth to light, the idyllic patience they required to expose corrupt religious and civic bureaucracies as they furtively waited until they had enough evidence to comment.
A passion for justice challenges the team's resolve at one memorable point, Mike Rezendes (Mark Ruffalo) demanding action, Spotlight team leader Walter Robinson (Michael Keaton) logically refusing, the film having carefully crafted a number of corresponding interviews and investigations the revelations of which frustratingly challenge the cohesivity of their discipline, not to mention that it's their community they're shocking, their heritage they're disillusioning.
It's not like someone took office supplies home here, government information was misplaced, high ranking officials from different cultural institutions attempted to block them, the law prevented truths from being discussed, testimony from scared impoverished victims was difficult to obtain, assistance from like-minded jaded professionals difficult to coax, trust, trust had to be relied upon but the issue they were investigating had resoundingly destroyed the bedrock of trust their contemporaries and interviewees had sought to preserve, making the situation highly volatile, its outputs, highly devastating.
Yet invaluable.
A tough film examining tough issues from tough perspectives with a tenacious resolve.
In search of true justice.
True reform.
For true believers.
But it's not as fuzzy as all that, as Tom McCarthy's Spotlight points out, a filmic examination of the Boston Globe reporters who brought to light monstrous religious failings, abysmal breaches of trust, and an entrenched sociopolitical culture devoted to covering it up, to overlooking its monumental shortcomings, its violence, its subversion of its fundamental principles.
True believers who attempt to tenderly encourage inclusive communal growth are exceptional people, it's only when they either exclude large portions of the population who believe in something else or commit acts of terror that serious problems arise, augmented by parts of the population who try to exclude them for believing what they do.
But for true believers, the bonds they cultivate between themselves and religious authorities are truly sacred, and if such authorities take for granted the sacred nature of these bonds and viciously exploit them to corruptly satisfy perverted desires, relying on their image and authority to prevent people from coming forward with shocking contradictory truths, they shatter their aura of integrity and obscure their charitable foundations.
Spotlight examines the tough decisions Boston Globe reporters, themselves Christian and citizens of Boston, had to make in order to bring the truth to light, the idyllic patience they required to expose corrupt religious and civic bureaucracies as they furtively waited until they had enough evidence to comment.
A passion for justice challenges the team's resolve at one memorable point, Mike Rezendes (Mark Ruffalo) demanding action, Spotlight team leader Walter Robinson (Michael Keaton) logically refusing, the film having carefully crafted a number of corresponding interviews and investigations the revelations of which frustratingly challenge the cohesivity of their discipline, not to mention that it's their community they're shocking, their heritage they're disillusioning.
It's not like someone took office supplies home here, government information was misplaced, high ranking officials from different cultural institutions attempted to block them, the law prevented truths from being discussed, testimony from scared impoverished victims was difficult to obtain, assistance from like-minded jaded professionals difficult to coax, trust, trust had to be relied upon but the issue they were investigating had resoundingly destroyed the bedrock of trust their contemporaries and interviewees had sought to preserve, making the situation highly volatile, its outputs, highly devastating.
Yet invaluable.
A tough film examining tough issues from tough perspectives with a tenacious resolve.
In search of true justice.
True reform.
For true believers.
Saturday, January 2, 2016
Macbeth
A loyal man, a bold man, his mettle proven in battle like explicit prosperous ironclad invincibility, his enemies, the enemies of his King, thoroughly ruined, honesty guiding his sword's righteous judgments with dignity and will beknownst to the clairvoyant, who follow his progress with vision, with awe, with inveterate claws, clawing at his conscience to ensure it withdraws, it, submits, submits to the darkness consuming his integrity as ambition commands he ignominiously strike, strike at he who loved him, who cherished and honoured his fierce fidelity, madness the harvest of such grievous misdeeds, in allegiance with infamy, a prophecy fulfilled.
Would it be fulfilled either way, even if he had done nothing, would he still have been proclaimed King?
Encouraged in the act by his restless wife, they plot to ponder virtue askew.
Ravaged.
Betrayed.
In the Scottish Highlands, a tale peculiar to the realm yet pervasive in its cinematography takes shape once again, all power flagitiously corrupting, shallowly reaching out to its vengeful doom.
Focused primarily on primary characters, as opposed to other investments which would have broadened the spectrum, Fassbender, Cotillard, and Harris enrich their acts with multidimensional perplexities, yet Banquo (Paddy Considine), Rosse (Ross Anderson) and Malcolm (Jack Reynor) are sewn into the background like unacknowledged afterthoughts, to digest a pretence to royalty.
The outdoors, the wilderness, the sense of suffocating desolation, how did these people feed themselves?, how did they carry on?, haunts the film with supernatural astonishment, the absurdity of power, fickle and disobedient, revolving extolled gradations.
Justin Kurzel's Macbeth acclimatizes its audiences to considerations of the play's rough isolation, its principal inhabitants becoming pointless as they pointlessly seek out pointlessness, creating that which would have been created had they rested abreast, harbingers of decay, impatience fraught with void.
Cinematography by Adam Arkapaw.
Would it be fulfilled either way, even if he had done nothing, would he still have been proclaimed King?
Encouraged in the act by his restless wife, they plot to ponder virtue askew.
Ravaged.
Betrayed.
In the Scottish Highlands, a tale peculiar to the realm yet pervasive in its cinematography takes shape once again, all power flagitiously corrupting, shallowly reaching out to its vengeful doom.
Focused primarily on primary characters, as opposed to other investments which would have broadened the spectrum, Fassbender, Cotillard, and Harris enrich their acts with multidimensional perplexities, yet Banquo (Paddy Considine), Rosse (Ross Anderson) and Malcolm (Jack Reynor) are sewn into the background like unacknowledged afterthoughts, to digest a pretence to royalty.
The outdoors, the wilderness, the sense of suffocating desolation, how did these people feed themselves?, how did they carry on?, haunts the film with supernatural astonishment, the absurdity of power, fickle and disobedient, revolving extolled gradations.
Justin Kurzel's Macbeth acclimatizes its audiences to considerations of the play's rough isolation, its principal inhabitants becoming pointless as they pointlessly seek out pointlessness, creating that which would have been created had they rested abreast, harbingers of decay, impatience fraught with void.
Cinematography by Adam Arkapaw.
Tuesday, December 29, 2015
Suffragette
A family.
A job.
A resolute drive to maintain the status quo and make ends meet within de/mobilizing socioeconomic circumstances.
Early twentieth century Britain.
Miserable times for female labourers. They work longer days than men for less money, have to put up with the sexual advances of their bosses to keep their positions, the law favours their husbands who have total control over their households and children, they don't have the right to vote, and can rarely enter male dominated professions; thus, they can't either elect representatives who sympathize with their plights, or provide upstanding examples of competent professional clarity.
The suffragette movement developed in response and the curious young previously unaware Maud Watts (Carey Mulligan) soon finds herself caught up in its momentum.
Suffragette uses her husband Sonny (Ben Whishaw) to accentuate the obstinate ironclad stereotypical dogma categorically dismissing women's rights, as he never even considers trying to understand suffragette outrage, and locks Maud out of their house, preventing her from seeing her son, after her civil disobedience is noted in the unforgiving press.
The authoritative policeperson (Brendan Gleeson as Inspector Arthur Steed) violently suppressing their movement which becomes more volatile after their right to vote is denied, does begin to consider the logic of their cause, during a powerful scene where Maud, having been thoroughly beaten down for her actions, still argumentatively upholds the rationality of universal suffrage, eyes almost glazing over with despondency, as she boldly reminds him that women make up 50% of the population.
He doesn't suddenly start supporting them, but the change in his demeanour suggests he may have been part of the establishment that eventually granted women freedoms similar to those enjoyed by British men.
Suffragette's about power, and the ways in which an unquestioning adherence to cultural codes of conduct can negatively minimize freedoms for large groups, those benefiting from the composition of the codes not willing to see them modified, those oppressed by them too frightened to speak out, some of them revelling in their advantages, to the point where they'll utilize brutal methods to ensure their authority endures.
It uses the example of a naive heartbreaking beautiful trapped reluctant ingénue and the group she befriends to emphasize their abuses.
It isn't the strongest film I've seen championing the rights of oppressed groups, because it focuses too intently on a small cross-section, and doesn't multidimensionally stratify its intense historical homage.
Nevertheless, by focusing intently on a small cross-section, it does tenderly yet intransigently present the need for gender balance, as well as rights within the workplace, in any time period, by not shying away from and humanizing specific harsh realities, which condescendingly define/d many prolonged historical epochs.
Worth checking out.
A job.
A resolute drive to maintain the status quo and make ends meet within de/mobilizing socioeconomic circumstances.
Early twentieth century Britain.
Miserable times for female labourers. They work longer days than men for less money, have to put up with the sexual advances of their bosses to keep their positions, the law favours their husbands who have total control over their households and children, they don't have the right to vote, and can rarely enter male dominated professions; thus, they can't either elect representatives who sympathize with their plights, or provide upstanding examples of competent professional clarity.
The suffragette movement developed in response and the curious young previously unaware Maud Watts (Carey Mulligan) soon finds herself caught up in its momentum.
Suffragette uses her husband Sonny (Ben Whishaw) to accentuate the obstinate ironclad stereotypical dogma categorically dismissing women's rights, as he never even considers trying to understand suffragette outrage, and locks Maud out of their house, preventing her from seeing her son, after her civil disobedience is noted in the unforgiving press.
The authoritative policeperson (Brendan Gleeson as Inspector Arthur Steed) violently suppressing their movement which becomes more volatile after their right to vote is denied, does begin to consider the logic of their cause, during a powerful scene where Maud, having been thoroughly beaten down for her actions, still argumentatively upholds the rationality of universal suffrage, eyes almost glazing over with despondency, as she boldly reminds him that women make up 50% of the population.
He doesn't suddenly start supporting them, but the change in his demeanour suggests he may have been part of the establishment that eventually granted women freedoms similar to those enjoyed by British men.
Suffragette's about power, and the ways in which an unquestioning adherence to cultural codes of conduct can negatively minimize freedoms for large groups, those benefiting from the composition of the codes not willing to see them modified, those oppressed by them too frightened to speak out, some of them revelling in their advantages, to the point where they'll utilize brutal methods to ensure their authority endures.
It uses the example of a naive heartbreaking beautiful trapped reluctant ingénue and the group she befriends to emphasize their abuses.
It isn't the strongest film I've seen championing the rights of oppressed groups, because it focuses too intently on a small cross-section, and doesn't multidimensionally stratify its intense historical homage.
Nevertheless, by focusing intently on a small cross-section, it does tenderly yet intransigently present the need for gender balance, as well as rights within the workplace, in any time period, by not shying away from and humanizing specific harsh realities, which condescendingly define/d many prolonged historical epochs.
Worth checking out.
Saturday, December 26, 2015
The Martian
Accidentally left behind and isolated on planet Mars, Mark Watney (Matt Damon) digs in deep in order to robustly flourish against overwhelming interplanetary odds, his team rapidly travelling back to Earth, unaware, that he still lives.
Contact is soon made with NASA headquarters yet bureaucratic dillydallying prevents him from communicating with his unsuspecting teammates.
Forced to survive, he employs his botanical ingenuity to boldly cultivate nutritious potato crops, while strategic planning contemplates his rescue back home.
The odds are grim that he'll ever return alive.
Yet trash talk and contentious humour ensure his independence is universally dispersed.
Spatial tenacity.
Temporal quid pro quo.
The Martian, juxtaposing the intense public relations of executive decision making with the humble orchestrations of an astronaut tilling barren countryside, indoors, mathematical inclusivity, scientific parchment, necessitated artistic leisure, perplexing public speaking, it strictly operates within established timelines to generate a complicated sense of extraordinary repartee by directly laying it down without overlooking conflict or relaxation.
Within this dynamic frame collegiality heartwarms and action accelerates whether it be physical exclamations or tense cerebral intersects.
Shaking hands and deliberating, the script's tight and the direction excites, from multiple starstrikes, with collective and individual decision making, infinitesimally precise calculations, and plenty, plenty, of disco.
Not bad.
Contact is soon made with NASA headquarters yet bureaucratic dillydallying prevents him from communicating with his unsuspecting teammates.
Forced to survive, he employs his botanical ingenuity to boldly cultivate nutritious potato crops, while strategic planning contemplates his rescue back home.
The odds are grim that he'll ever return alive.
Yet trash talk and contentious humour ensure his independence is universally dispersed.
Spatial tenacity.
Temporal quid pro quo.
The Martian, juxtaposing the intense public relations of executive decision making with the humble orchestrations of an astronaut tilling barren countryside, indoors, mathematical inclusivity, scientific parchment, necessitated artistic leisure, perplexing public speaking, it strictly operates within established timelines to generate a complicated sense of extraordinary repartee by directly laying it down without overlooking conflict or relaxation.
Within this dynamic frame collegiality heartwarms and action accelerates whether it be physical exclamations or tense cerebral intersects.
Shaking hands and deliberating, the script's tight and the direction excites, from multiple starstrikes, with collective and individual decision making, infinitesimally precise calculations, and plenty, plenty, of disco.
Not bad.
Tuesday, December 22, 2015
Brooklyn
The down home, the perspicacious, the loving, the transformative, a new life in Brooklyn awaits modest Eilis (Saoirse Ronan) as she leaves her hometown in Ireland in search of difference abroad, job prospects and alternative acquaintances expanding her conscientious integrity, homesickness and tedium challenging her burgeoning resolve.
It's a feel good tale, moving along at a brisk pace, Eilis's self-sacrifices endearing her to those she meets, who respond by opening doors which she resoundingly walks through.
There's character development but it's sparse and fixated, every aspect of the script calculated to polish stock responses, the polish heartwarmingly uplifting and consistent nevertheless, as every chance interaction collocates constitutional blooms.
A straight shooter, consummately conflicted when she returns home for a funeral, an idyllic pastoral future suddenly materializing, chanting out between worlds, delicately torn asunder.
If Brooklyn's momentum had occasionally paused, swayed, reflected, something more profound could have perhaps been stated, a visceral dimension arising from the resultant contemplations, a judicious milky way transcendentalizing urban and rural.
It's not concerned with such interstellar abstractions however, and competently accomplishes what it sets out to do, a straightforward yet enticing examination of goodwill, restricted yet nimble, acquiesced to trouble making.
This style of filmmaking makes the accomplishment of hard fought goals seem far too easy by reducing devastating complexities to a collection of brief highly saturated moonbeams.
Still, it's nice to see positive films that mildly if not naively celebrate change in flux.
Like roses or a box of chocolates.
Maple syrup.
Caramel.
It's a feel good tale, moving along at a brisk pace, Eilis's self-sacrifices endearing her to those she meets, who respond by opening doors which she resoundingly walks through.
There's character development but it's sparse and fixated, every aspect of the script calculated to polish stock responses, the polish heartwarmingly uplifting and consistent nevertheless, as every chance interaction collocates constitutional blooms.
A straight shooter, consummately conflicted when she returns home for a funeral, an idyllic pastoral future suddenly materializing, chanting out between worlds, delicately torn asunder.
If Brooklyn's momentum had occasionally paused, swayed, reflected, something more profound could have perhaps been stated, a visceral dimension arising from the resultant contemplations, a judicious milky way transcendentalizing urban and rural.
It's not concerned with such interstellar abstractions however, and competently accomplishes what it sets out to do, a straightforward yet enticing examination of goodwill, restricted yet nimble, acquiesced to trouble making.
This style of filmmaking makes the accomplishment of hard fought goals seem far too easy by reducing devastating complexities to a collection of brief highly saturated moonbeams.
Still, it's nice to see positive films that mildly if not naively celebrate change in flux.
Like roses or a box of chocolates.
Maple syrup.
Caramel.
Friday, December 18, 2015
Carol
Longevity, expectations, accepting who people are as opposed to who you want them to be, appreciating it as they change independently, organically, rather than as a result of the imposition of deductive logic, stereotypes, roles, baby dolls, damsels in distress, it works for some I suppose, for intervals, at times, blunt force and supple misgivings, dialogues constructed, abbreviated, expanded upon, which examine how the masculine robotically initiates, how the feminine submissively emerges, I don't know many couples like this but I see them in movies and read about them in books, often, the man not in love with the woman herself but how she looks believing it's his duty to dogmatically define her, to make her his radiant reflection, consumed by his strength, obsessed with his aura, vice versa, which may work for a time, inspiring passion and humour fuelled by traditional adherences, admittances, basic conceptions of the natural, the good, the permanent, until predictability sets in, not many able to exist for another exclusively, whether husband, wife, servant, manager, or concubine, and as time shifts and moments fade the desire for individuality, for organizational renaissance, eclipses established power dynamics, and authoritative constructs engender prolonged disputes if love can't compensate, can't cooperate, endure.
Carol Aird's (Cate Blanchett) husband can't accept who she is, and, thoroughly versed in chivalry, can only truly love her if she innocently obeys.
Yields to his will.
About to travel down the same path, Therese Belivet (Rooney Mara) meets Carol one day at a department store, an electric fascination etherealizing their conversation, gloves forgotten encouraging future meetings, trips to the country, unheralded destinations.
Free love.
Carol gently explores and patiently navigates disparate domains to timidly yet vividly explore ecstasy in bloom, critiquing those who too rigidly seek consensus, while celebrating the joys inherent in true romance.
Refreshingly unobtrusive, it modestly presents the facts and gracefully frees from guilt the tender.
Without seeming like it's trying to do anything at all.
Sensitive sweetly flowing wisdom.
I usually don't take note of costume design, but there's a cool scene where Abby Gerhard's (Sarah Paulson) dress suavely matches the chair she's sitting on.
Struck me anyways.
Costume design by Sandy Powell.
Art decoration by Jesse Rosenthal.
I think you're supposed to revel in the power struggle.
I always thought that path led to the dark side.
In love, anyways.
Carol Aird's (Cate Blanchett) husband can't accept who she is, and, thoroughly versed in chivalry, can only truly love her if she innocently obeys.
Yields to his will.
About to travel down the same path, Therese Belivet (Rooney Mara) meets Carol one day at a department store, an electric fascination etherealizing their conversation, gloves forgotten encouraging future meetings, trips to the country, unheralded destinations.
Free love.
Carol gently explores and patiently navigates disparate domains to timidly yet vividly explore ecstasy in bloom, critiquing those who too rigidly seek consensus, while celebrating the joys inherent in true romance.
Refreshingly unobtrusive, it modestly presents the facts and gracefully frees from guilt the tender.
Without seeming like it's trying to do anything at all.
Sensitive sweetly flowing wisdom.
I usually don't take note of costume design, but there's a cool scene where Abby Gerhard's (Sarah Paulson) dress suavely matches the chair she's sitting on.
Struck me anyways.
Costume design by Sandy Powell.
Art decoration by Jesse Rosenthal.
I think you're supposed to revel in the power struggle.
I always thought that path led to the dark side.
In love, anyways.
Tuesday, December 15, 2015
Legend
Underground prestige, the lure of the incorrigibly irascible, sophisticated in its blunt obstinacy, thrilling in its inexhaustible excess, a young girl, fascinated by the criminal underworld, scooped up by a smooth talking gangster, lives the life of an espoused sensation, freed from her drab impoverished prospects, shackled by overwhelming instabilities.
Fears.
The Kray twins (Tom Hardy) dialectically indoctrinate with either a suave well-groomed authenticity or an insatiably psychotic rage, depending on which one is in prison or who commands more clout, Leslie Payne (David Thewlis) efficiently bookkeeping as Ronald's hatred for him slowly grows.
Ronald's indiscretions multiply erratically as time passes and his violent caprice threatens their organization's fundamentals.
Frances Shea (Emily Browning) marries Reggie who has the restrained brains to keep afloat but can't shyly tread while Ronald is intent on drowning.
Active invincibility mortally wounded.
Frances suffocated by the madness.
The Legend, boldly applying a feminine conscience through narration to a gangster film in order to examine chaotic crime through the oft overlooked perspective of an observant non-combatant.
It doesn't work very well, the film struggling to assert itself as either a corrupt frenzy or a righteous indignation, the polarized dialogue thereby generated between both the Krays themselves and the Krays and Frances resultantly muddled and incoherent.
It's possible to successfully pull something like that off but I would argue it requires a less straightforward approach, one which utilizes formal cerebral charm to artistically blend fraternal factions.
Legend's so focused on differentiating the Krays (which it does well) that the secondary material, that which would have transported it to another level, staggers in stagnant inadmissibility.
There are several minor characters of note and the script is quite diverse but hardly any of them develop much personality as the Krays engage in reckless gangstering.
Still, there's a great line equating the underworld and the aristocracy.
A strong effort from the filmmaking team, flush with future potential.
Fears.
The Kray twins (Tom Hardy) dialectically indoctrinate with either a suave well-groomed authenticity or an insatiably psychotic rage, depending on which one is in prison or who commands more clout, Leslie Payne (David Thewlis) efficiently bookkeeping as Ronald's hatred for him slowly grows.
Ronald's indiscretions multiply erratically as time passes and his violent caprice threatens their organization's fundamentals.
Frances Shea (Emily Browning) marries Reggie who has the restrained brains to keep afloat but can't shyly tread while Ronald is intent on drowning.
Active invincibility mortally wounded.
Frances suffocated by the madness.
The Legend, boldly applying a feminine conscience through narration to a gangster film in order to examine chaotic crime through the oft overlooked perspective of an observant non-combatant.
It doesn't work very well, the film struggling to assert itself as either a corrupt frenzy or a righteous indignation, the polarized dialogue thereby generated between both the Krays themselves and the Krays and Frances resultantly muddled and incoherent.
It's possible to successfully pull something like that off but I would argue it requires a less straightforward approach, one which utilizes formal cerebral charm to artistically blend fraternal factions.
Legend's so focused on differentiating the Krays (which it does well) that the secondary material, that which would have transported it to another level, staggers in stagnant inadmissibility.
There are several minor characters of note and the script is quite diverse but hardly any of them develop much personality as the Krays engage in reckless gangstering.
Still, there's a great line equating the underworld and the aristocracy.
A strong effort from the filmmaking team, flush with future potential.
Saturday, December 12, 2015
Krampus
Take heed for the information contained herewith concerns spirits of a different kind, whose purpose in regards to Christmas is to malevolently punish and ruin those who disrespect its sincere generosity, arising from the fiery depths of ancient lore to assert his rank as naughtiest, Krampus the unforgiving unleashes his supernatural wrath, the postmodern world unaware of his vengeful agenda and Saint Nicholas unable to counter his chaotic disdain, a heartfelt letter warmly written with tender loving care representative of the true spirit of Christmas is torn to pieces after its author is ritualistically humiliated, said humiliation having cauterized the mutual contempt two related families hold for one another as they attempt to bond over the holidays, in a searing transcendent sweltering condemnation, the wealthier family unimpressed with the gruff pretensions of their less affluent cousins, the less affluent cousins none to subservient to the airs of their relatives, common decency misplaced as they assemble to dine, discourses of purity belittling the times, the letter is torn and they must maintain a united front to defend their families against Krampus's rancour, Omi (Krista Stadler) having met him before, inasmuch as her warnings demand that they exercise extreme caution, lassitude sets in and Krampus's minions infiltrate freely, the Christmas spirit revitalizing their familial fervency as they boldly defend their own, but Krampus is not prone to listen once he has risen, a desperate confrontation ensuing with the festively spiritual maladroitly abandoned, as Krampus reminds them that Christmas requires thanksgiving through his harsh and gratuitous penalties, necrobatically assigned by harbingers of the ungrateful, the absurdity of it all oddly upholding pleasantries like amazement and wonder, the gross infernal exaggerations, the total and complete lack of goodwill, grotesquely generating feelings to the contrary, to the contemporary, insensitively and unconsciously underscoring virtuous contemplations of both bounty and cheer, the beautiful communal ties of the season, rejoicing through the act of gift giving, celebrating life with family and friends, to renew a sense of endearing well being, a mirthful maturation, amusing in solace and laughter.
Friday, December 11, 2015
Trumbo
They actually did it, Hollywood actually made a mainstream film that rationally discusses an individual's right to be politically active on the left, even if you're a communist, the communists are heroes in Trumbo, and those who blacklisted them during the McCarthy era, even John Wayne (David James Elliot), undeniable villains, using their power and influence to prevent hard working Americans from working because they held alternative political views, even going so far as to send them to prison for accessing fundamental American freedoms, while living fundamentally American lives.
Positive things are said about communism within. Trumbo uses the word communist. It's about a bunch of vilified commie writers. The plight of the worker isn't lampooned or infantilized.
I don't believe in communism, or at least am quite skeptical in regards to its practical application or ideas like the permanent surplus, but it is still remarkable to see its proponents championed in a film made in the United States (said proponents weren't as familiar with forced labour during Trumbo's time I'm assuming[the forced labour is supposed to disappear because communism is supposed to arise out of the bounty of hyper-capitalism but history seems to have proven that if you try to adopt communism without the bounty of hyper-capitalism forced labour and limited freedoms abound{unless you're one of the elite few/it's possible that China is trying to create hyper-capitalist conditions to achieve communistic goals but I think it's dangerous to think that way\}]).
I've been wondering how Trumbo managed to see the light of day and it reminded me of some ideas from Richard Wilkinson and Kate Pickett's more social democratic The Spirit Level: Why Equality is Better for Everyone, which is a level-headed comparison of statistical data sets from the world's richest countries that suggests inequality is detrimentally effecting the free world's health and well-being, nations like Sweden and Japan scoring high points, countries such as the U.S and Britain not faring so well.
This isn't a book review although I do highly recommend reading the book, but Wilkinson and Pickett do examine the relationship between popularity and governmental initiatives, rationally proving how initiatives which promote a higher degree of equality have brought about monumental changes in various societies when they have been accompanied by popular support, or a logical need to effectively implement them.
One way of looking at this in the anglosphere is to ask the question, "how can we make a more equal society by cashing in on equality?", although that probably isn't how Wilkinson and Pickett would have phrased it. It depends on what you mean by "cash in."
Japan and Sweden apparently have adopted completely different approaches to "cashing in" and both nations enjoy a high degree of prosperous equality, Sweden preferring a system with high taxes which level out the playing field through the provision of governmental social services etc., Japan preferring to ensure that wages are more equal so that more people take home more money and therefore have more money to spend on services that the government would otherwise provide through taxation.
In regards to Trumbo, I'm wondering if its availability is the product of the movements I've been reading about in the U.S at the Huffington Post, American movements which seek a higher degree of social equality, presidential hopeful Bernie Sanders recognized as their feisty factotum.
It's not that I don't think there are plenty of socially responsible films being made in Hollywood, I think I've proven that Hollywood definitely still has (and always has had) a strong socially constructive urge.
It's more that Trumbo doesn't demonize those who in the past advocated for communism specifically, that it in fact celebrates them, while actually discussing communism, in a gentle somewhat naive way, that heartwarmingly surprised me.
There are too many examples of corrupt communistic bureaucracies for me to think positively about its results in the field, but its goals can influence other discourses on the left who take a less radical approach to fighting poverty and improving standards of living.
It shouldn't be categorically dismissed.
Trumbo boldly presents a life of dedicated action and incredible resolve blended with exceptional ability and tender humanity.
Dalton Trumbo (Bryan Cranston) even falls into the trap of taking himself too seriously and managing his labour force too demandingly, which is a trap that scant resources often creates, which is why the right profits from inequality, such psychological profits earned by first not allowing its opposition to financially tread water and then humiliating it afterwards as a lack of resources challenges the practical application of its ideas.
Japan has low taxes but generally high incomes, that's why Japan is excelling according to The Spirit Level.
If you don't have a disposable income, it's harder to donate to political parties that want to help you acquire a disposable income for instance.
Trumbo's the real deal however, and adjusts his approach as it becomes too overbearing, listening to and understanding his wife's (Diane Lane as Cleo Trumbo) reasonably worried critique.
There's a tendency in some films which examine the past, great men of the past, to focus most of their energy on the husband, their wives often complacently managing the home in the background.
Bridge of Spies does this anyways.
Perhaps this is just the result of specific historical relationships, but it's also a way to normalize stereotypical gender relations without seeming culturally insensitive.
Trumbo is somewhat light for a film that looks at many lives that were ruined by a zealous adherence to a specific point of view.
But it does warmly present the commie point of view while pointing out that it was an American point of view at one time, and that Americans shouldn't be sent to prison for exercising their fundamental freedoms, at any time, that line of thinking corresponding directly to Stalinist or Naziesque approaches (why am I suddenly thinking of the ways in which Donald Trump uses his freedoms?).
It's unfortunate that in the free world people accept unjust methods such as the ones depicted in Trumbo to starve and assault their political adversaries; I'm reminded of the ways in which the Harper government recently vilified environmentalists as an example.
In Trumbo, they illegally take everything away from the opposition and then call the resultant protesters whiners or babies when they legitimately complain, the culprits revelling in their corruption thereafter.
Dalton Trumbo never stopped protesting, and picked his battles wisely. It had a harsh affect on his family for a time, but he recognized his errors and became the person he wanted to be.
A role model for conscientious film writing.
With another outstanding performance by John Goodman (Frank King). There's a hilarious discussion of advocating for working class rights in B movies.
Hey, maybe they just decided to make a film celebrating great writers of the past who happened to be communists. You're free to do that in a free country. Regardless of the political climate.
Positive things are said about communism within. Trumbo uses the word communist. It's about a bunch of vilified commie writers. The plight of the worker isn't lampooned or infantilized.
I don't believe in communism, or at least am quite skeptical in regards to its practical application or ideas like the permanent surplus, but it is still remarkable to see its proponents championed in a film made in the United States (said proponents weren't as familiar with forced labour during Trumbo's time I'm assuming[the forced labour is supposed to disappear because communism is supposed to arise out of the bounty of hyper-capitalism but history seems to have proven that if you try to adopt communism without the bounty of hyper-capitalism forced labour and limited freedoms abound{unless you're one of the elite few/it's possible that China is trying to create hyper-capitalist conditions to achieve communistic goals but I think it's dangerous to think that way\
I've been wondering how Trumbo managed to see the light of day and it reminded me of some ideas from Richard Wilkinson and Kate Pickett's more social democratic The Spirit Level: Why Equality is Better for Everyone, which is a level-headed comparison of statistical data sets from the world's richest countries that suggests inequality is detrimentally effecting the free world's health and well-being, nations like Sweden and Japan scoring high points, countries such as the U.S and Britain not faring so well.
This isn't a book review although I do highly recommend reading the book, but Wilkinson and Pickett do examine the relationship between popularity and governmental initiatives, rationally proving how initiatives which promote a higher degree of equality have brought about monumental changes in various societies when they have been accompanied by popular support, or a logical need to effectively implement them.
One way of looking at this in the anglosphere is to ask the question, "how can we make a more equal society by cashing in on equality?", although that probably isn't how Wilkinson and Pickett would have phrased it. It depends on what you mean by "cash in."
Japan and Sweden apparently have adopted completely different approaches to "cashing in" and both nations enjoy a high degree of prosperous equality, Sweden preferring a system with high taxes which level out the playing field through the provision of governmental social services etc., Japan preferring to ensure that wages are more equal so that more people take home more money and therefore have more money to spend on services that the government would otherwise provide through taxation.
In regards to Trumbo, I'm wondering if its availability is the product of the movements I've been reading about in the U.S at the Huffington Post, American movements which seek a higher degree of social equality, presidential hopeful Bernie Sanders recognized as their feisty factotum.
It's not that I don't think there are plenty of socially responsible films being made in Hollywood, I think I've proven that Hollywood definitely still has (and always has had) a strong socially constructive urge.
It's more that Trumbo doesn't demonize those who in the past advocated for communism specifically, that it in fact celebrates them, while actually discussing communism, in a gentle somewhat naive way, that heartwarmingly surprised me.
There are too many examples of corrupt communistic bureaucracies for me to think positively about its results in the field, but its goals can influence other discourses on the left who take a less radical approach to fighting poverty and improving standards of living.
It shouldn't be categorically dismissed.
Trumbo boldly presents a life of dedicated action and incredible resolve blended with exceptional ability and tender humanity.
Dalton Trumbo (Bryan Cranston) even falls into the trap of taking himself too seriously and managing his labour force too demandingly, which is a trap that scant resources often creates, which is why the right profits from inequality, such psychological profits earned by first not allowing its opposition to financially tread water and then humiliating it afterwards as a lack of resources challenges the practical application of its ideas.
Japan has low taxes but generally high incomes, that's why Japan is excelling according to The Spirit Level.
If you don't have a disposable income, it's harder to donate to political parties that want to help you acquire a disposable income for instance.
Trumbo's the real deal however, and adjusts his approach as it becomes too overbearing, listening to and understanding his wife's (Diane Lane as Cleo Trumbo) reasonably worried critique.
There's a tendency in some films which examine the past, great men of the past, to focus most of their energy on the husband, their wives often complacently managing the home in the background.
Bridge of Spies does this anyways.
Perhaps this is just the result of specific historical relationships, but it's also a way to normalize stereotypical gender relations without seeming culturally insensitive.
Trumbo is somewhat light for a film that looks at many lives that were ruined by a zealous adherence to a specific point of view.
But it does warmly present the commie point of view while pointing out that it was an American point of view at one time, and that Americans shouldn't be sent to prison for exercising their fundamental freedoms, at any time, that line of thinking corresponding directly to Stalinist or Naziesque approaches (why am I suddenly thinking of the ways in which Donald Trump uses his freedoms?).
It's unfortunate that in the free world people accept unjust methods such as the ones depicted in Trumbo to starve and assault their political adversaries; I'm reminded of the ways in which the Harper government recently vilified environmentalists as an example.
In Trumbo, they illegally take everything away from the opposition and then call the resultant protesters whiners or babies when they legitimately complain, the culprits revelling in their corruption thereafter.
Dalton Trumbo never stopped protesting, and picked his battles wisely. It had a harsh affect on his family for a time, but he recognized his errors and became the person he wanted to be.
A role model for conscientious film writing.
With another outstanding performance by John Goodman (Frank King). There's a hilarious discussion of advocating for working class rights in B movies.
Hey, maybe they just decided to make a film celebrating great writers of the past who happened to be communists. You're free to do that in a free country. Regardless of the political climate.
Tuesday, December 8, 2015
Secret in their Eyes
Crushing unconscionable all-consuming guilt frenetically drives Ray Kasten (Chiwetel Ejiofor) to hunt down a vicious killer, his life having been rigidly repressed ever since he missed an appointment 13 years ago.
Defined by this moment, and the professional relationships he developed therein, he will not yield in his pursuit, and after years of struggling to surface, has finally found a constructive lead.
She still loves him.
And he still loves her, codes of conduct having sublimated their longing for unity, the flame still burns, impassioned by the meaninglessness of time.
What awaits them is what they least suspected, nocturnal netherwhirls soiled and crested, reciprocal tortuous incarcerated plumes, valiantly embittered, confiscated in ruin.
A loving team, a gregarious group, punctually paralyzed through unremitting strife.
Secret in their Eyes.
The film blends the past with the present to accentuate an atemporal thrust for resolution, and although this creates a dismal opaque omnibus, it still aptly reflects a desperate psychological sterility.
It also asks tough questions regarding the war on terror, nationally juxtaposing the private with the cultural, to add a chilling layer of vengeful domestic inquiry.
The darkness is counterbalanced by the mainstream cast whose subdued supplementary teamwork collegially cultivates the light.
Well done but missing something, Secret in their Eyes punishes to persevere, ethics timelessly emboldened, obsessive displaced haunts, enervating in its resolve.
Defined by this moment, and the professional relationships he developed therein, he will not yield in his pursuit, and after years of struggling to surface, has finally found a constructive lead.
She still loves him.
And he still loves her, codes of conduct having sublimated their longing for unity, the flame still burns, impassioned by the meaninglessness of time.
What awaits them is what they least suspected, nocturnal netherwhirls soiled and crested, reciprocal tortuous incarcerated plumes, valiantly embittered, confiscated in ruin.
A loving team, a gregarious group, punctually paralyzed through unremitting strife.
Secret in their Eyes.
The film blends the past with the present to accentuate an atemporal thrust for resolution, and although this creates a dismal opaque omnibus, it still aptly reflects a desperate psychological sterility.
It also asks tough questions regarding the war on terror, nationally juxtaposing the private with the cultural, to add a chilling layer of vengeful domestic inquiry.
The darkness is counterbalanced by the mainstream cast whose subdued supplementary teamwork collegially cultivates the light.
Well done but missing something, Secret in their Eyes punishes to persevere, ethics timelessly emboldened, obsessive displaced haunts, enervating in its resolve.
Saturday, December 5, 2015
The Night Before
3 confidants, and an annual tradition, a' revelling on Christmas Eve to the tune of friendship and jocularity, rekindling the strength of their amicable bonds each and every year to celebrate the intensity of camaraderous humour, age having decreed that due to the build-up of maturing responsibilities this will be their last irreverent outing, itinerary set, rejuvenating synergies pending.
As an added bonus this year, three tickets have been acquired to attend a secretive party, known for its legendary merriment, coveted by young, old and middle-aged alike.
Will the mysterious counsel of a local pot dealer enlighteningly guide their way as they descend into the night and encounter both shenanigans and loves lost?
And will the magic of Christmas single-maltly convince them that the bonds they have forged congenially transcend time?
As a matter introspective.
A fun thought provoking feelings evoking tenderly rowdy illumination of adult aspirations, The Night Before suspends pretensions of the rational to festively define what is sane.
Note that its definition bizarrely blends the buddy comedy and the Christmas classic to hazily establish a disjointed sense of the revelatory.
But when form aptly reflects content, our role models evolving over the course of an evening of regenerative confusion, who I am to argue with logistics merry making?
Jingle, bells.
Miley Cyrus impresses.
As an added bonus this year, three tickets have been acquired to attend a secretive party, known for its legendary merriment, coveted by young, old and middle-aged alike.
Will the mysterious counsel of a local pot dealer enlighteningly guide their way as they descend into the night and encounter both shenanigans and loves lost?
And will the magic of Christmas single-maltly convince them that the bonds they have forged congenially transcend time?
As a matter introspective.
A fun thought provoking feelings evoking tenderly rowdy illumination of adult aspirations, The Night Before suspends pretensions of the rational to festively define what is sane.
Note that its definition bizarrely blends the buddy comedy and the Christmas classic to hazily establish a disjointed sense of the revelatory.
But when form aptly reflects content, our role models evolving over the course of an evening of regenerative confusion, who I am to argue with logistics merry making?
Jingle, bells.
Miley Cyrus impresses.
Friday, December 4, 2015
Creed
Driven by an intense desire to prove himself in the ring, Apollo Creed's son Adonis (Michael B. Jordan) quits his steady job and embarks in search of training.
His privileged upbringing and headstrong individualistic nature don't smoothly fit in the grizzled pugilistic realms in which he must flourish however.
Unable to find a trainer in L.A, he soon flies to Philadelphia to court a legend who may be willing to take him on.
But Rocky's (Sylvester Stallone) been retired for many a year, and doesn't take to Adonis's ultraconfident approach, until he remembers the chance Apollo Creed once gave him, and decides to once again professionally serve.
The talented intent savvy well educated rich young upstart must acclimatize himself to Rocky's strict streetwise regimen in order to become a contender.
Rocky has the knowledge he requires.
And is willing to keep his identity secret, to respect his desire to make a name of his own.
Creed struggles with one of its most difficult inherent weaknesses well; it was easy to generate sympathy for Rocky, even in Rocky IV, but not so easy to sympathize with Adonis.
Not that it isn't easy to sympathize with his desire to succeed, it's just that when you see him trying to control things with attitudes his humbler less affluent competitors rarely adopt, it is somewhat grinding.
His desire to make a name for himself and the respect he shows Rocky spar with this point of irritation however, and at least establish that he wants to be humbler, he wants to integrate, it's just quite difficult for him to do so due to his enriched psychology.
It's still his dream and it's inspiring as he follows it regardless, making sacrifices in its pursuit, even if he always has the silver spoon sustaining him.
The finished product may be frustrating for Michael B. Jordan though, Stallone having stolen so many scenes that you leave the theatre thinking more about how his character progressed than how Adonis's was crafted.
Younger generations might not care about Rocky so much.
Best Supporting Actor nomination?
At the same time the script seems to be self-reflexively chiding the franchise as Rocky trains Adonis while undergoing chemotherapy, the balance between rejuvenation and tradition simultaneously excelling while convalescing.
Things are too easy for Adonis in Creed, trainer, beautiful partner, and title fight all falling into his lap without a back breaking struggle sincerely belittling him.
Nevertheless, I enjoyed Creed as it followed Adonis on his journey of self-discovery, even if it's not as heartwarming as Rocky, he still dedicatedly perseveres and does his best to cultivate his gifts.
If the film had focused on his Mexican fights and he had not met Rocky until the end, it may have been stronger.
His privileged upbringing and headstrong individualistic nature don't smoothly fit in the grizzled pugilistic realms in which he must flourish however.
Unable to find a trainer in L.A, he soon flies to Philadelphia to court a legend who may be willing to take him on.
But Rocky's (Sylvester Stallone) been retired for many a year, and doesn't take to Adonis's ultraconfident approach, until he remembers the chance Apollo Creed once gave him, and decides to once again professionally serve.
The talented intent savvy well educated rich young upstart must acclimatize himself to Rocky's strict streetwise regimen in order to become a contender.
Rocky has the knowledge he requires.
And is willing to keep his identity secret, to respect his desire to make a name of his own.
Creed struggles with one of its most difficult inherent weaknesses well; it was easy to generate sympathy for Rocky, even in Rocky IV, but not so easy to sympathize with Adonis.
Not that it isn't easy to sympathize with his desire to succeed, it's just that when you see him trying to control things with attitudes his humbler less affluent competitors rarely adopt, it is somewhat grinding.
His desire to make a name for himself and the respect he shows Rocky spar with this point of irritation however, and at least establish that he wants to be humbler, he wants to integrate, it's just quite difficult for him to do so due to his enriched psychology.
It's still his dream and it's inspiring as he follows it regardless, making sacrifices in its pursuit, even if he always has the silver spoon sustaining him.
The finished product may be frustrating for Michael B. Jordan though, Stallone having stolen so many scenes that you leave the theatre thinking more about how his character progressed than how Adonis's was crafted.
Younger generations might not care about Rocky so much.
Best Supporting Actor nomination?
At the same time the script seems to be self-reflexively chiding the franchise as Rocky trains Adonis while undergoing chemotherapy, the balance between rejuvenation and tradition simultaneously excelling while convalescing.
Things are too easy for Adonis in Creed, trainer, beautiful partner, and title fight all falling into his lap without a back breaking struggle sincerely belittling him.
Nevertheless, I enjoyed Creed as it followed Adonis on his journey of self-discovery, even if it's not as heartwarming as Rocky, he still dedicatedly perseveres and does his best to cultivate his gifts.
If the film had focused on his Mexican fights and he had not met Rocky until the end, it may have been stronger.
Tuesday, December 1, 2015
Room
A different kind of malevolence, like a sick experiment a demented philosopher would subject his or her family to in order to study the isolated innocence of the nascent imagination.
Solitary semantics.
Ontological incarceration.
A mother and son locked away for years in a shed, never leaving, never seeing the outside world.
The child, Jack (Jacob Tremblay), having spent his entire life in the shed, imaginatively tries to make sense of existence, while his Ma (Brie Larson) attempts to define the outside world.
It's difficult for him to comprehend, and his creative energies, as applied to his confined explorations, idealize the passionate curiosity of youth, his desire to learn more stifled by a lack of resources.
Escape cunningly presents itself and the real world suddenly emerges, but emerging into a hyper-reactive media sensation contrasts monstrous plans with excessive exposure.
It's too much for his overwhelmed mom, as it would be for anyone, but familial strength steps up as required, to cuddle in consultation, and placate emotionally complex obsessions.
Tough film, Lenny Abrahamson's Room, juxtaposing different pressurized extremes and their belittling affects on a severely traumatized family.
Those are the tough questions you don't ask.
Jack's lack of knowledge saves him from the psychological torments disintegrating his mother, his attempts to simply be profound in their hesitant wonder, the compassionate easing the transition for both of them, trust contra control, revelations of an inchoate spirituality.
Solitary semantics.
Ontological incarceration.
A mother and son locked away for years in a shed, never leaving, never seeing the outside world.
The child, Jack (Jacob Tremblay), having spent his entire life in the shed, imaginatively tries to make sense of existence, while his Ma (Brie Larson) attempts to define the outside world.
It's difficult for him to comprehend, and his creative energies, as applied to his confined explorations, idealize the passionate curiosity of youth, his desire to learn more stifled by a lack of resources.
Escape cunningly presents itself and the real world suddenly emerges, but emerging into a hyper-reactive media sensation contrasts monstrous plans with excessive exposure.
It's too much for his overwhelmed mom, as it would be for anyone, but familial strength steps up as required, to cuddle in consultation, and placate emotionally complex obsessions.
Tough film, Lenny Abrahamson's Room, juxtaposing different pressurized extremes and their belittling affects on a severely traumatized family.
Those are the tough questions you don't ask.
Jack's lack of knowledge saves him from the psychological torments disintegrating his mother, his attempts to simply be profound in their hesitant wonder, the compassionate easing the transition for both of them, trust contra control, revelations of an inchoate spirituality.
Friday, November 27, 2015
The Hunger Games: Mockingjay - Part 2
The unfathomable having become undeniably rational, entrenched rebel forces prepare for an assault on Panem's capitol, the districts conscientiously united, President Snow (Donald Sutherland) locked down and reeling, Katniss Everdeen (Jennifer Lawrence) disobeying direct orders to simply act as messianic catalyst, thereby overtly inspiring heroics, instinctively striking back against iconic tyranny.
But the politicians are aware of their potential post-victory predominance, and fear Everdeen's influence in their reimagined state, divisive hypotheses compromising the purity of their cause, the innocence of guiltless reckoning, pushed propagandistically to the sidelines.
The extraordinary orchestrations of the bellicosely desperate beget a dissolute response with extreme dispassionate contempt.
Two leaders, Snow and President Alma Coin (Julianne Moore), one male, one female, holding on to or coveting supreme authority, drastically maneuvering to inculcate anew.
Throughout The Hunger Games it's clear that the rebel's cause is just.
Snow must be defeated.
He rules absolutely.
Yet in Mockingjay - Part 2 the politics of revenge and their inherent conflagrations remind viewers that citizens of the capitol did not necessarily support Snow, and were indeed terrorized citizens themselves inasmuch as they could not politicize, as a child spots but doesn't give up the Mockingjay, her mother brutally killed moments later.
There's no invincible playbook for such situations, and when terror strikes, or absolutism oppresses, resultant countermeasures can be as uncompromising as those they intend to suppress.
The Mockingjay - Part 2 constructively operates within this volatile antagonism, providing thought provoking disparities for those who engage in war.
The film, on the one hand, seems too sterile, a lack of emotion or a too hardened drive dehumanizing the conflict, making it seem more like a textbook than a testament, still boldly running through the motions.
But on the other, this point of critique fails to recognize the cold calculating dehumanizing affects of war, which turns communities into ordinances, the mischievous into the monstrous.
But the politicians are aware of their potential post-victory predominance, and fear Everdeen's influence in their reimagined state, divisive hypotheses compromising the purity of their cause, the innocence of guiltless reckoning, pushed propagandistically to the sidelines.
The extraordinary orchestrations of the bellicosely desperate beget a dissolute response with extreme dispassionate contempt.
Two leaders, Snow and President Alma Coin (Julianne Moore), one male, one female, holding on to or coveting supreme authority, drastically maneuvering to inculcate anew.
Throughout The Hunger Games it's clear that the rebel's cause is just.
Snow must be defeated.
He rules absolutely.
Yet in Mockingjay - Part 2 the politics of revenge and their inherent conflagrations remind viewers that citizens of the capitol did not necessarily support Snow, and were indeed terrorized citizens themselves inasmuch as they could not politicize, as a child spots but doesn't give up the Mockingjay, her mother brutally killed moments later.
There's no invincible playbook for such situations, and when terror strikes, or absolutism oppresses, resultant countermeasures can be as uncompromising as those they intend to suppress.
The Mockingjay - Part 2 constructively operates within this volatile antagonism, providing thought provoking disparities for those who engage in war.
The film, on the one hand, seems too sterile, a lack of emotion or a too hardened drive dehumanizing the conflict, making it seem more like a textbook than a testament, still boldly running through the motions.
But on the other, this point of critique fails to recognize the cold calculating dehumanizing affects of war, which turns communities into ordinances, the mischievous into the monstrous.
Thursday, November 26, 2015
Les ȇtres chers (Our Loved Ones)
The brilliance of family, supportively nurturing and caring for one another, intimate bonds strengthened over time, often challenged by organically generated conflicts, still loving in its unconscious bedlam, stabilized volatility cohesively generating truth.
Anne Émond's Les ȇtres chers (Our Loved Ones) introduces one such family, and lovingly blends their harmonies and tragedies, suicide haunting their intergenerational dialogues, a son struggling to comprehend, a granddaughter artistically responding.
The overwhelming joy corresponding to a particularly tender period of time cripples as it fades, the knowledge that it cannot be reproduced shattering a fragile sensibility, impatient as it slowly ages, unable to see future joys to come.
The film isn't really that sad, rather, it's a wonderfully humble and cheerful low key moderation of a family that grows together over time, focused intently on David (Maxim Gaudette) and his daughter Laurence (Karelle Tremblay), beautifully highlighting different moments which subtly caress time passing.
Its gentle warmth gracefully tends a humanistic modesty whose sweetly flowing aesthetic embrace makes you wish you could hug someone close to you, like sitting around a campfire or snuggling beneath a comforter.
It calmly and solemnly warns against becoming too caught up in innocent ecstasies, by depicting what is lost through premature departure, without condemning those who decide to quietly slumber.
Equitable.
Anne Émond's Les ȇtres chers (Our Loved Ones) introduces one such family, and lovingly blends their harmonies and tragedies, suicide haunting their intergenerational dialogues, a son struggling to comprehend, a granddaughter artistically responding.
The overwhelming joy corresponding to a particularly tender period of time cripples as it fades, the knowledge that it cannot be reproduced shattering a fragile sensibility, impatient as it slowly ages, unable to see future joys to come.
The film isn't really that sad, rather, it's a wonderfully humble and cheerful low key moderation of a family that grows together over time, focused intently on David (Maxim Gaudette) and his daughter Laurence (Karelle Tremblay), beautifully highlighting different moments which subtly caress time passing.
Its gentle warmth gracefully tends a humanistic modesty whose sweetly flowing aesthetic embrace makes you wish you could hug someone close to you, like sitting around a campfire or snuggling beneath a comforter.
It calmly and solemnly warns against becoming too caught up in innocent ecstasies, by depicting what is lost through premature departure, without condemning those who decide to quietly slumber.
Equitable.
Wednesday, November 25, 2015
Remember
Decades pass, monumental changes revitalize cultures and nations are reborn, but the past still haunts survivors with an unrelenting immediacy which cannot be forgotten, forgiven, Auschwitz's legacy, rationalized perpetual vengeance.
Atom Egoyan's Remember sombrely examines such a mindset through a series of alarming encounters which thoughtfully comment on differing degrees of punishment.
Much stronger than The Captive or Devil's Knot.
A holocaust survivor, Zev Gutman (Christopher Plummer), the last person alive who can identify a Nazi war criminal, begins a solemn journey to find him, guided by a compatriot who's too infirm to travel.
When you consider the relationship between Gutman's health and his mission, his mission itself seems profound yet reckless, he can't even remember what he's doing whenever he wakes up, obsessive testaments, pure uncompromising revenge.
The film viscerally questions Gutman's quest, apart from one sequence where a contemporary Nazi is confronted, by integrating lives lived and lost, the present, the world that bloomed after World War II's devastation ended, notably in the final scene where the oppressor is caught ensconced in his familial bower.
Daughter and granddaughter witnessing.
He could have been tried, sentenced, flushed out by an organization dedicated to convicting war criminals.
Absolutely punishing the guilty in front of the innocent through murder 70 years after they mindlessly followed totalitarian commands is not the way to move progressively forward.
Such acts ensure the perseverance of vengeance perpetually.
Remember cautiously yet capably constructs this idea.
Perhaps Kurlander (Jürgen Prochnow) wasn't mindlessly following orders, he could have been one of the psychotics, but his family remains guiltless in the film, unaware of the horrors he once unleashed.
Volatile subject matter skilfully postulated.
With the best twist I've seen in awhile.
Haunting in its drive.
Provocative.
Atom Egoyan's Remember sombrely examines such a mindset through a series of alarming encounters which thoughtfully comment on differing degrees of punishment.
Much stronger than The Captive or Devil's Knot.
A holocaust survivor, Zev Gutman (Christopher Plummer), the last person alive who can identify a Nazi war criminal, begins a solemn journey to find him, guided by a compatriot who's too infirm to travel.
When you consider the relationship between Gutman's health and his mission, his mission itself seems profound yet reckless, he can't even remember what he's doing whenever he wakes up, obsessive testaments, pure uncompromising revenge.
The film viscerally questions Gutman's quest, apart from one sequence where a contemporary Nazi is confronted, by integrating lives lived and lost, the present, the world that bloomed after World War II's devastation ended, notably in the final scene where the oppressor is caught ensconced in his familial bower.
Daughter and granddaughter witnessing.
He could have been tried, sentenced, flushed out by an organization dedicated to convicting war criminals.
Absolutely punishing the guilty in front of the innocent through murder 70 years after they mindlessly followed totalitarian commands is not the way to move progressively forward.
Such acts ensure the perseverance of vengeance perpetually.
Remember cautiously yet capably constructs this idea.
Perhaps Kurlander (Jürgen Prochnow) wasn't mindlessly following orders, he could have been one of the psychotics, but his family remains guiltless in the film, unaware of the horrors he once unleashed.
Volatile subject matter skilfully postulated.
With the best twist I've seen in awhile.
Haunting in its drive.
Provocative.
Tuesday, November 24, 2015
Love the Coopers
A tough look at loveable yet prickly familial frustration as interdependence contends to celebrate the holiday season.
Woe abounds as expectations have led to disappointment and latent engrained perennial disputes condone the eruption of homogenous feuding.
Yet love also persists, coating their arguments with huggable layers of rosy historical endearment, cozy familiarity embedding accessible cheer, like fluffy comfortable blankets filled with age-old soul, reunionizing banter and pith, struggling to reach out amidst the haughty grievances.
It's a Christmas film at that, and yes, I could examine it through a less festive lens, but I did leave the theatre feeling warm and gooey inside, if not lightheaded, reminded as I was of the merriment and wonder that excels at this time of year, eager to watch Christmas specials on YouTube, contemplative of the excitement that still has yet to come.
It is heavy on the patriarchy, the women usually coming round to seeing the male point of view.
Balancing the genders strengthens scripts even if you're writing about cave people or the 19th century.
Bucky (Alan Arkin) does ideally represent the enlightened patriarch whose occasionally harsh counsel aids his family and others as they interact with one another and struggle to deal with life's pressures.
His grandson Bo (Maxwell Simkins) following in his footsteps.
The petulance and the poignancy, the dazzling and the discontent, Love the Coopers heralds the holiday season, along with myriad other cultural exclamations, like a blazing birth of mirthful obstinance, eggnog spiked with gin, it's a great time of the year.
Woe abounds as expectations have led to disappointment and latent engrained perennial disputes condone the eruption of homogenous feuding.
Yet love also persists, coating their arguments with huggable layers of rosy historical endearment, cozy familiarity embedding accessible cheer, like fluffy comfortable blankets filled with age-old soul, reunionizing banter and pith, struggling to reach out amidst the haughty grievances.
It's a Christmas film at that, and yes, I could examine it through a less festive lens, but I did leave the theatre feeling warm and gooey inside, if not lightheaded, reminded as I was of the merriment and wonder that excels at this time of year, eager to watch Christmas specials on YouTube, contemplative of the excitement that still has yet to come.
It is heavy on the patriarchy, the women usually coming round to seeing the male point of view.
Balancing the genders strengthens scripts even if you're writing about cave people or the 19th century.
Bucky (Alan Arkin) does ideally represent the enlightened patriarch whose occasionally harsh counsel aids his family and others as they interact with one another and struggle to deal with life's pressures.
His grandson Bo (Maxwell Simkins) following in his footsteps.
The petulance and the poignancy, the dazzling and the discontent, Love the Coopers heralds the holiday season, along with myriad other cultural exclamations, like a blazing birth of mirthful obstinance, eggnog spiked with gin, it's a great time of the year.
Monday, November 23, 2015
Le Garagiste
A long drawn out inexorable purgatorial condition eats away at the fiesty Adrien (Normand D'Amour), Le Garagiste, his active life having been reduced to a series of strict and tedious rummagings, inexhaustible excretions, as he patiently awaits a new kidney.
Fatigue leads him to hire a young mechanic to work at his garage, fate having tricked him into engaging his only son, whom he didn't help raise but never forgot, suddenly communicating, in the language of a younger generation.
The phone rings after 5 years of silence to announce that a donor has been found.
But the new kidney doesn't jive, and after a lively respite, his routine hauntingly rematerializes.
Courage in the face of adversity waning, he's left psychologically paralyzed.
A sad film, a mournful investigation of intergenerational and marital misfires, the desperate longing to joyfully convalesce, the crushing mental instability of a far too embalmed lifestyle.
Entrenched.
Renée Beaulieu illustrates Adrien's despondency by repeatedly filming him back at the hospital, hooked up to the dialysis machine, antiseptic ubiquity.
I thought many scenes were cut too short and more could have been done with Adrien's relationship with his son Raphaël (Pierre-Yves Cardinal).
Whether or not Beaulieu meant for Le Garagiste to indirectly comment on the current national euthanasia debate is a point for consideration.
Raphaël doesn't have a life altering kidney for instance.
It seems to be suggesting that it's a positive thing, as Adrien's suffering becomes too much to bear.
I think euthanasia should be an option for chronically ill patients suffering intensely.
If God thinks they should continue to live a life of constant pain for years in order to die naturally, he or she could be more loving, don't you think?
Complicated issues bucolically narrativized, Le Garagiste coddles to question, while incrementally challenging stoic perseverance.
Cold and bleak, it subtly generates a wistful external dialogue, celebrating health by interrogating helplessness, that which could be, harrowingly dislocating.
Fatigue leads him to hire a young mechanic to work at his garage, fate having tricked him into engaging his only son, whom he didn't help raise but never forgot, suddenly communicating, in the language of a younger generation.
The phone rings after 5 years of silence to announce that a donor has been found.
But the new kidney doesn't jive, and after a lively respite, his routine hauntingly rematerializes.
Courage in the face of adversity waning, he's left psychologically paralyzed.
A sad film, a mournful investigation of intergenerational and marital misfires, the desperate longing to joyfully convalesce, the crushing mental instability of a far too embalmed lifestyle.
Entrenched.
Renée Beaulieu illustrates Adrien's despondency by repeatedly filming him back at the hospital, hooked up to the dialysis machine, antiseptic ubiquity.
I thought many scenes were cut too short and more could have been done with Adrien's relationship with his son Raphaël (Pierre-Yves Cardinal).
Whether or not Beaulieu meant for Le Garagiste to indirectly comment on the current national euthanasia debate is a point for consideration.
Raphaël doesn't have a life altering kidney for instance.
It seems to be suggesting that it's a positive thing, as Adrien's suffering becomes too much to bear.
I think euthanasia should be an option for chronically ill patients suffering intensely.
If God thinks they should continue to live a life of constant pain for years in order to die naturally, he or she could be more loving, don't you think?
Complicated issues bucolically narrativized, Le Garagiste coddles to question, while incrementally challenging stoic perseverance.
Cold and bleak, it subtly generates a wistful external dialogue, celebrating health by interrogating helplessness, that which could be, harrowingly dislocating.
Friday, November 20, 2015
Burnt
Excellence.
The pursuit of a constantly revolving evolving aesthetic immediacy cohesively demanding strict attention to every detail.
The tiniest seemingly unnoticeable pittance searing an unforgettable scathing blight on chef Adam Jones's (Bradley Cooper) culinary reputation, as he coordinates his kitchen's impeccable outputs with the assiduous rigour of an omniscient razor sharp extremity.
In real time.
His team responding in turn, observantly and efficiently respecting his knowledge, his hyper-reactive creative discipline, they merit the strength of his sought after 3 star accreditation, lacerating the wake of his stern commanding temper, acerbic accessibility, confident he can help them improve.
Which he does, having reformed his life after recklessly responding to his calling's accompanying stresses with a maddeningly adroit consumption of interrogative intoxicants, his resultant penance exasperatingly tedious, competently undertaken, to the haunting revelatory end.
Convalescence.
Adam Jones, the exceptional, striving for authenticity with every nanopeculiarity, synthesizing tradition with inspiration to practically adjudicate ingenuity.
Thriving under pressure, Burnt celebrates teamwork as opposed to constellation, the imperfections of the subjective idealized thereby, accentuated yet indoctrinated, revealing, one picturesque particle at a time.
Humanistic.
The pursuit of a constantly revolving evolving aesthetic immediacy cohesively demanding strict attention to every detail.
The tiniest seemingly unnoticeable pittance searing an unforgettable scathing blight on chef Adam Jones's (Bradley Cooper) culinary reputation, as he coordinates his kitchen's impeccable outputs with the assiduous rigour of an omniscient razor sharp extremity.
In real time.
His team responding in turn, observantly and efficiently respecting his knowledge, his hyper-reactive creative discipline, they merit the strength of his sought after 3 star accreditation, lacerating the wake of his stern commanding temper, acerbic accessibility, confident he can help them improve.
Which he does, having reformed his life after recklessly responding to his calling's accompanying stresses with a maddeningly adroit consumption of interrogative intoxicants, his resultant penance exasperatingly tedious, competently undertaken, to the haunting revelatory end.
Convalescence.
Adam Jones, the exceptional, striving for authenticity with every nanopeculiarity, synthesizing tradition with inspiration to practically adjudicate ingenuity.
Thriving under pressure, Burnt celebrates teamwork as opposed to constellation, the imperfections of the subjective idealized thereby, accentuated yet indoctrinated, revealing, one picturesque particle at a time.
Humanistic.
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
Victoria
Free-spirited rustlings, attentive impromptu celebratory collisions, mirthful match making meaninglessly meandering, startlingly energetic Dionysian reciprocity, trending, inquisitively intercepting, a night out, a night out with restless strangers, immediate acculturation, Berlin, she's from Spain, works in a café organic, has to work the next day, talented artistic discipline, immersing, communicating, meets wild pack catches eye of one, they converse explore activate, through the streets on the roof, seated, swathed in inexplicable fascination, lives lived trust, a starstruck elegance, a flowering imprecision, cut short suddenly, suddenly descending into ruin, a favour, payback, high-stakes manipulation, demands indiscreetly delegated, crime, they must commit crime, no time to think, immediate reaction, Victoria (Laia Costa) saved to embark discriminately, she only understands Sonne (Frederick Lau), she's the driver, sequestered behind the wheel, they act acquire burn, escape, fried on adrenaline and amphetamines they crash the nightlife, reason rushing in, comprehension, awareness, coerced to desperately perform then crushed, incendiary largesse, despotic agency, consequences closing, unrestrained pressurized emergencies, stick together, trust, compensate, a gross underestimation necessitating one sole response assaults the beautiful with extreme neglect, gentility infused with reckless violence, souls tenderly humanizing warmth and compassion forced to willingly expedite the whims of a psychopath, what could have been haunting you for hours afterwards, the shocking juxtaposition's brilliant constant uninterrupted motion leaving an impassioned imprint on your overwhelmed soul, like you were there, like you took part, the immediacy of the style dominating your reflections and refusing to let go as you consider what took place, a cinematic triumph, as loving and innocent as it is ruthlessly expedient, its chilling naive aura, never to be forgotten.
Cinematography by Sturla Brandth Grøvlen.
Cinematography by Sturla Brandth Grøvlen.
Friday, November 13, 2015
Spectre
Audaciously challenging his most cunning reanimated nemesis, Bond, James Bond (Daniel Craig), must reflexively disconnect an intrusive network of terrorist and governmental spies, threatening to legally monitor all of Great Britain's online activity, disguised as freedom fighters, to facilitate limitless access to all.
Blofeld's (Christoph Waltz) back, and it soon becomes clear that he's cacopheinated every catastrophe Daniel Craig has averted thus far, Spectre having returned to the franchise's fore in transition, with the intent of legitimizing vigilant maniacal longevity.
Bond must stop them, and M (Ralph Fiennes), Moneypenny (Naomie Harris), and Q (Ben Whishaw) assist him along the way.
It's nice to see Q out in the field and Moneypenny continuing to play a more vital role.
There's a clever subplot where M must counter governmental representative Max Denbigh (Andrew Scott) who's in league with Spectre and hoping to shut down the 00 program permanently.
M knows that fighting terrorism still requires a human touch and although disappointed in Bond for (sort of) disobeying direct orders and stealing, still adamantly cheers as he recklessly takes Spectre on.
The film's alright, but I'm ranking it third in the Daniel Craig Bond films, much better than Quantum of Solace, but not as strong as either Casino Royale or Skyfall.
It's like it spent too much time trying to recapture the essence of the Connery films, and although this did appeal to my love of that epoch, it still seemed like it didn't focus enough time on continuing to quintessentially complicate Daniel Craig's.
He's been in 4 now and I think it's safe to say he's the best Bond since Connery.
I'm hoping he's back for a fifth.
He deserves the money.
Look at what they pay Schwarzenegger for the Terminator films.
Also, I've seen more exciting opening sequences, the opening sequence should really function as an outstanding separate short film with the potential for integration in the main narrative still standing on its own merit, The Living Daylights perhaps providing the best example.
Spectre's desert base suffers from Jupiter Ascending syndrome as well and destructs far too quickly near the end.
Nevertheless, Mr. Hinx (Dave Bautista) is a classic giant of a foe, Waltz and Craig forge a chilling familial dynamic, its contemporary analysis of invasive information gathering behemoths fits well with the times, Blofeld lives to die another day, and Madeleine Swann (Léa Seydoux) is an exceptional Bond Girl.
With the best Bond Girl name ever.
According to Citizenfour, terrorist organizations didn't help governments establish omnipresent online access you know, they completed that task on their own, although, since they justified said completion on the grounds that they established such networks to fight terrorism, it's as if the terrorists were responsible for causing democratically elected governments to treat their own citizens like terrorists.
That's solid Bond.
Even if people are held accountable, it does seem like such networks are here to stay.
I'm already imagining old man conversations where I discuss the ways of the 1980s with a youthful generation of the future, discussing how there used to be a concept known as privacy which faded as the years passed to uproarious thunderous applause.
It's like hip Orwell.
That's how the West reimagined 1984.
Constant surveillance coupled with limitless access to anything you could possibly be interested in worldwide, exceptions pending.
I can't imagine Trudeau's Liberals using such tools to land their opponents in prison on trumped up charges sensationalized in the media, which is what it seemed like Team Harper was eventually going to do.
Perhaps they can neuter them to the point where scenarios like the one just suggested can never be enacted?
Or just scrap Bill C-51, and the TPP.
I bet that's what James Bond would do.
Perhaps Prime Minister Trudeau II is like James Bond?
Slash Jedi.
Blofeld's (Christoph Waltz) back, and it soon becomes clear that he's cacopheinated every catastrophe Daniel Craig has averted thus far, Spectre having returned to the franchise's fore in transition, with the intent of legitimizing vigilant maniacal longevity.
Bond must stop them, and M (Ralph Fiennes), Moneypenny (Naomie Harris), and Q (Ben Whishaw) assist him along the way.
It's nice to see Q out in the field and Moneypenny continuing to play a more vital role.
There's a clever subplot where M must counter governmental representative Max Denbigh (Andrew Scott) who's in league with Spectre and hoping to shut down the 00 program permanently.
M knows that fighting terrorism still requires a human touch and although disappointed in Bond for (sort of) disobeying direct orders and stealing, still adamantly cheers as he recklessly takes Spectre on.
The film's alright, but I'm ranking it third in the Daniel Craig Bond films, much better than Quantum of Solace, but not as strong as either Casino Royale or Skyfall.
It's like it spent too much time trying to recapture the essence of the Connery films, and although this did appeal to my love of that epoch, it still seemed like it didn't focus enough time on continuing to quintessentially complicate Daniel Craig's.
He's been in 4 now and I think it's safe to say he's the best Bond since Connery.
I'm hoping he's back for a fifth.
He deserves the money.
Look at what they pay Schwarzenegger for the Terminator films.
Also, I've seen more exciting opening sequences, the opening sequence should really function as an outstanding separate short film with the potential for integration in the main narrative still standing on its own merit, The Living Daylights perhaps providing the best example.
Spectre's desert base suffers from Jupiter Ascending syndrome as well and destructs far too quickly near the end.
Nevertheless, Mr. Hinx (Dave Bautista) is a classic giant of a foe, Waltz and Craig forge a chilling familial dynamic, its contemporary analysis of invasive information gathering behemoths fits well with the times, Blofeld lives to die another day, and Madeleine Swann (Léa Seydoux) is an exceptional Bond Girl.
With the best Bond Girl name ever.
According to Citizenfour, terrorist organizations didn't help governments establish omnipresent online access you know, they completed that task on their own, although, since they justified said completion on the grounds that they established such networks to fight terrorism, it's as if the terrorists were responsible for causing democratically elected governments to treat their own citizens like terrorists.
That's solid Bond.
Even if people are held accountable, it does seem like such networks are here to stay.
I'm already imagining old man conversations where I discuss the ways of the 1980s with a youthful generation of the future, discussing how there used to be a concept known as privacy which faded as the years passed to uproarious thunderous applause.
It's like hip Orwell.
That's how the West reimagined 1984.
Constant surveillance coupled with limitless access to anything you could possibly be interested in worldwide, exceptions pending.
I can't imagine Trudeau's Liberals using such tools to land their opponents in prison on trumped up charges sensationalized in the media, which is what it seemed like Team Harper was eventually going to do.
Perhaps they can neuter them to the point where scenarios like the one just suggested can never be enacted?
Or just scrap Bill C-51, and the TPP.
I bet that's what James Bond would do.
Perhaps Prime Minister Trudeau II is like James Bond?
Slash Jedi.
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
Scouts Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse
If vampire narratives were constructed long ago to suggest that the European aristocracy was carelessly gorging itself on the life blood of the European worker, and zombie narratives countered this characterization by connoting that the European worker was simply jealous of the aristocratic mind, Scouts Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse asks the questions, "where do American scouts scouting in small town America fit into this dilemma?, and how can scouting build bridges between classes who solely work, and those who only play"?, scouting thereby redefined as a constructive democratic bourgeois intensity.
There are no vampires in Scouts Guide but there is an exclusive gathering, the sons and daughters of the capitalistic elite, the cool kids, in attendance, our scouting heroes given the wrong address in direct humiliation.
The zombies spread after a lackadaisical janitor interrupts a scientific experiment, accidentally awaking a zombie, who then rapidly devours his misplaced curiosity.
Soon the majority of the town is infected as the scouts unknowingly camp out in the woods, and the cool kids cavalierly consort, blissfully unaware.
But soon these 3 scouts must emerge from the forest to apply their skills in battle, aided by a savvy cocktail waitress thereafter, in their unheralded altruistic calling.
Friendship is on the line as two of them are thinking of quitting scouts and one remains true to their cause.
The zombies's hunger leaves them little time to air grievances however, as they fight together as one to save those who ignorantly disdained them.
Thus, since the zombies have been coerced into blindly embracing ideological dogma, and the capitalistic progeny is too young to understand why, the scouts must jurisprudently save them from an unprovoked attack, having tried to save at least one zombie beforehand, while hoping the virus can one day be cured.
Attendee Kendall Grant (Halston Sage) is impressed and expresses her gratitude physically.
Is it juvenile, insufficiently serious, undeniably heroic and fun?, who am I to say?
I thought perhaps the scouts weren't scouting prominently enough for a lot of the film, but the grand finale ingeniously made amends.
It is fun.
I think I saw a bear zombie, a human who had been bit by a zombie bear.
No werebears though, no werebears.
There are no vampires in Scouts Guide but there is an exclusive gathering, the sons and daughters of the capitalistic elite, the cool kids, in attendance, our scouting heroes given the wrong address in direct humiliation.
The zombies spread after a lackadaisical janitor interrupts a scientific experiment, accidentally awaking a zombie, who then rapidly devours his misplaced curiosity.
Soon the majority of the town is infected as the scouts unknowingly camp out in the woods, and the cool kids cavalierly consort, blissfully unaware.
But soon these 3 scouts must emerge from the forest to apply their skills in battle, aided by a savvy cocktail waitress thereafter, in their unheralded altruistic calling.
Friendship is on the line as two of them are thinking of quitting scouts and one remains true to their cause.
The zombies's hunger leaves them little time to air grievances however, as they fight together as one to save those who ignorantly disdained them.
Thus, since the zombies have been coerced into blindly embracing ideological dogma, and the capitalistic progeny is too young to understand why, the scouts must jurisprudently save them from an unprovoked attack, having tried to save at least one zombie beforehand, while hoping the virus can one day be cured.
Attendee Kendall Grant (Halston Sage) is impressed and expresses her gratitude physically.
Is it juvenile, insufficiently serious, undeniably heroic and fun?, who am I to say?
I thought perhaps the scouts weren't scouting prominently enough for a lot of the film, but the grand finale ingeniously made amends.
It is fun.
I think I saw a bear zombie, a human who had been bit by a zombie bear.
No werebears though, no werebears.
Friday, November 6, 2015
The Forbidden Room
The derivative extracted percolates like pirouetting chestnut, the motion of which extends imaginative license to respect exfoliating indulgences, transitioning from text to subtext to limbo as tasks require undertaking in unwound fecund interdimensional free verse.
Rapscallions.
Tin cups.
Motivated to achieve yet strangleheld by absent physical qualifications, footholds, dreamlike advice metaphorically displacing, insubstantial links riveting unconnected clues, a Kafkaesque hesitance, pursuing, deliberating.
Insecurely supernatural.
Rasputin.
It's possible that the act of distilling the metaphorical displacements through poetic conjecture could construct links in a theoretical chain attached to anatomical veins focused on discussing Lacan or conjuring the ingredients for a delicious microbrew.
Contentment forthcoming.
A stash.
Treasure.
The flames unextinguished as sparrows scatter to intermittently supplant discourses of the heroic.
Cloth delicately swathes young suckling.
Eternal springs of adolescent visions abscond with gruff jingling clairvoyance, you must do something, respond, jangle, consider, trek, quaff, imprisoned existential platinum withstanding phantasmagorical creosote, a glass of milk, chocolate, prime rib, crackerjacks, blankets in winter, firelight, white pine.
The master narrative's unacknowledged marrow.
O negative.
Superlative improvisational resin.
Whole grains.
The Forbidden Room.
Rapscallions.
Tin cups.
Motivated to achieve yet strangleheld by absent physical qualifications, footholds, dreamlike advice metaphorically displacing, insubstantial links riveting unconnected clues, a Kafkaesque hesitance, pursuing, deliberating.
Insecurely supernatural.
Rasputin.
It's possible that the act of distilling the metaphorical displacements through poetic conjecture could construct links in a theoretical chain attached to anatomical veins focused on discussing Lacan or conjuring the ingredients for a delicious microbrew.
Contentment forthcoming.
A stash.
Treasure.
The flames unextinguished as sparrows scatter to intermittently supplant discourses of the heroic.
Cloth delicately swathes young suckling.
Eternal springs of adolescent visions abscond with gruff jingling clairvoyance, you must do something, respond, jangle, consider, trek, quaff, imprisoned existential platinum withstanding phantasmagorical creosote, a glass of milk, chocolate, prime rib, crackerjacks, blankets in winter, firelight, white pine.
The master narrative's unacknowledged marrow.
O negative.
Superlative improvisational resin.
Whole grains.
The Forbidden Room.
Tuesday, November 3, 2015
The Last Witch Hunter
Well versed in obligatory pyrotechnics, unerringly battling the forces of evil, Kaulder (Vin Diesel) middle-agedly sharpens his blades, to once again confront an ancient monstrosity.
Who condemned him to immortality.
Unacknowledged eternal pain.
Aided in his endurance by a vigilant religious order, he balances the supernatural while they chronicle his dispassionate deeds.
Beknownst to their principal antagonists.
Whose disrespectful taunting unleashes a visceral tirade.
Imposition.
The Last Witch Hunter seemed more like a television pilot than the first in a series of films, its quotidian spirituality (sparse character development fraught with mundane interpersonal relations) and lacklustre transcendencies (we're supposed to feel threatened by the return of the witch queen [Julie Engelbrecht] but the methods used to combat her are much too conveniently countered [it's easy to take her down]) making a better fit for the televisual realm (these issues would be addressed in subsequent episodes), in my bland and indolent opinion.
Its structure makes a coy comment on threats however, Kaulder having trouble defeating fierce Warlock Belial (Ólafur Darri Ólafsson) at first, then easily disposing of him as the witch queen regenerates, the increased level of competition functioning as a catalyst for Kaulder whose skills instinctually augment to face the more potent foe.
It could be a great television show, who knows, I usually just watch films these days, and Star Trek in winter.
I go to the cinema so often that watching films on a television or computer screen regardless of size makes them seem less fascinating.
Much better to see films in theatres.
Disappointed by The Last Witch Hunter.
Who condemned him to immortality.
Unacknowledged eternal pain.
Aided in his endurance by a vigilant religious order, he balances the supernatural while they chronicle his dispassionate deeds.
Beknownst to their principal antagonists.
Whose disrespectful taunting unleashes a visceral tirade.
Imposition.
The Last Witch Hunter seemed more like a television pilot than the first in a series of films, its quotidian spirituality (sparse character development fraught with mundane interpersonal relations) and lacklustre transcendencies (we're supposed to feel threatened by the return of the witch queen [Julie Engelbrecht] but the methods used to combat her are much too conveniently countered [it's easy to take her down]) making a better fit for the televisual realm (these issues would be addressed in subsequent episodes), in my bland and indolent opinion.
Its structure makes a coy comment on threats however, Kaulder having trouble defeating fierce Warlock Belial (Ólafur Darri Ólafsson) at first, then easily disposing of him as the witch queen regenerates, the increased level of competition functioning as a catalyst for Kaulder whose skills instinctually augment to face the more potent foe.
It could be a great television show, who knows, I usually just watch films these days, and Star Trek in winter.
I go to the cinema so often that watching films on a television or computer screen regardless of size makes them seem less fascinating.
Much better to see films in theatres.
Disappointed by The Last Witch Hunter.
Friday, October 30, 2015
Crimson Peak
I think Crimson Peak was meant to be funny, to be a dis/possessed take on an old style of filmmaking that used to relish in its mediocrity before succumbing to mass alterations in taste.
If this is the case, I didn't get it, and although it might have been paying tribute to a bygone era of gaudy enterprise, it doesn't change the fact that this film suppresses.
It's hard to write that, I usually love Guillermo del Toro's films, larger than life macabre matriculations fluidly dictating realities of the fantastical.
Crimson Peak's production design is on par with his earlier work but the story and its associated devices are uniformly unexceptional and consistently dull.
It seems to be taking itself seriously throughout, that's its greatest shortcoming.
And the intermittent bursts of graphic violence taken out on historical paradigms, the stricken aristocrat avenging herself on the rise of the bourgeoise for instance, seem out of place in a horror film that's so resoundingly not scary.
If it had seemed comic, like it was seriously making fun of itself, it may have corrosively triumphed.
It didn't seem that way to be me though, not, not, at all.
Jessica Chastain (Lucille Sharpe) does put in a great performance however.
She's got talent, and commands every scene she's in.
If this is the case, I didn't get it, and although it might have been paying tribute to a bygone era of gaudy enterprise, it doesn't change the fact that this film suppresses.
It's hard to write that, I usually love Guillermo del Toro's films, larger than life macabre matriculations fluidly dictating realities of the fantastical.
Crimson Peak's production design is on par with his earlier work but the story and its associated devices are uniformly unexceptional and consistently dull.
It seems to be taking itself seriously throughout, that's its greatest shortcoming.
And the intermittent bursts of graphic violence taken out on historical paradigms, the stricken aristocrat avenging herself on the rise of the bourgeoise for instance, seem out of place in a horror film that's so resoundingly not scary.
If it had seemed comic, like it was seriously making fun of itself, it may have corrosively triumphed.
It didn't seem that way to be me though, not, not, at all.
Jessica Chastain (Lucille Sharpe) does put in a great performance however.
She's got talent, and commands every scene she's in.
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