Strange how seriously people take sports sometimes.
I always thought if you were playing in a big game, a playoff game, a game against a division rival, any game really, you did everything you could to win, training hard, listening to your coaches, sticking to the game plan, improvising if it's not working, supporting your teammates, using all your skill and talent to put up another win, while hoping you were playing against opponents who were genuinely doing the same.
If you didn't let up and did everything you could to win without cheating, then if you unfortunately didn't, it didn't matter so much, even if it still stung, still hurt a bit afterwards.
There was usually another game the following week, night, month, at some point, and winning all the time didn't make much sense, was improbable, even if it would have been nice to pull off a perfect season, or go up by 20 early to take the edge off and settle it down.
In a big game.
Some people aren't like that though, losing against solid competition even though they've trained just as hard drives them a bit mad even after they've done their best competing at a high level.
It doesn't help if their support networks collapse like Ivan Drago's (Dolph Lundgren) did after he lost to Rocky, and they lose a style of life they've grown accustomed to, as well as the contacts who made it so dear.
They came down hard on the Drago.
But he came down equally hard on himself.
I don't see the differences between Rocky (Sylvester Stallone) and Drago's situations in terms of nation, however, but rather in the ways in which they were supported by friends and family after their losses.
Every nation has people who know how to win.
Every nation has people who don't know how to lose.
Every nation has people who are there when you lose.
Every nation has people who freakin' love sports.
I don't see the arts in terms of winning and losing so much, more like a realm where your work's appealing or unappealing, interpreted differently according to individual tastes.
It surprises me when people are upset because I didn't like a film, or confused because I did.
Different people have different tastes and having different tastes in film has nothing to do with being right or wrong.
I don't get why people don't like some movies.
But I'm not insulted if they don't like my favourites.
Creed II lacks subtlety and daring yet still delivers something reliable, something durable.
The situations are familiar and the formula's a bit worn but that doesn't mean I don't like seeing Rocky back at it, or watching as Adonis (Michael B. Jordan) and Bianca's (Tessa Thompson) lives change and grow.
They change and grow in very conventional ways and their struggles don't remind me much of Adrian and Rocky's.
They're kind of tame in comparison.
Where's Creed's Paulie?
I think their lives need less traditional complications.
Wasn't the first Rocky one of the best American movies ever made though, so many life lessons built into its original script?
Rocky Balboa too?
Creed III's got its work cut out for it if it's goanna make it without Stallone.
In genres where a lot of artists seem similar at times, there's truly no one else like him.
At his best when he lets his heart speak.
I may have an Over the Top postcard stuck to my fridge.
Which no longer works.
There be another fridge though, close at hand.
Stuffed full of cheese.
And a rice/veggie medley.
It's good in soup.
With sour cream and blue cheese.
Yum.
Friday, November 30, 2018
Wednesday, November 28, 2018
The Nutcracker and the Four Realms
The loss of a loved one haunts gifted Clara's (Mackenzie Foy) heart, and her grief stricken father (Matthew Macfadyen) struggles to comfort her.
Festive ceremonies can't ease her troubled mind, nor can appeals to the breadth of tradition, nor the temptation to snuggle away.
Honestly immersed in dire bleak emotion, she visits a trustworthy friend (Morgan Freeman as Drosselmeyer).
And his supportive counsel and sympathetic understanding miraculously ignite her imagination, which magically blooms thereafter, a fantastic realm inadvertently emerging, wherein which she's respected as Queen.
Yet dark forces have set about undermining her rule, forces which take advantage of her naivety.
But those who remain loyal to her innate justice refuse to yield as the usurper rises, the rag tag as composed as they are outnumbered, united with the formerly influential.
Known as Mother Ginger (Helen Mirren).
As darkness descends.
In The Nutcracker and the Four Realms, an enchanting tale wildly revelling in solemn majesty, its embroiled burnished brightness boldly bursting the bland banal.
Within, inherent characteristics predisposed to leisure and play must outwit irreverent subjugation while clashing with concrete woe.
Is it so hard to enjoy the peaceful refinements a culture enlightens without being threatened by their jests?
Enamoured impulse, commercial spontaneity, sportspersonlike intrigue, a weekly night out?
Who doesn't like Mexican food?
The realization that the limitless nature of the democratic arts, as opposed to one-dimensional all-powerful commands they may be, produces much more lively overtures, which can creatively inspire curious hearts and minds, who produce much more clever material when given room to play, and freed from mind-numbing stereotypes, enlivens dull predictable routines, and lets you appreciate Birdman and Ferris Bueller sans hesitation, depending on complementary moods.
No one ever really listens to anyone who uses violence to assert themselves, although they pretend to to avoid pain.
I see smart men and women whose families respect them precisely because they don't micromanage things all the time.
They seem happy because their families are happy, and are always ready to provide assistance when required.
Perhaps Clara realizes her father is like that after contending with thoughtless Sugar Plum (Keira Knightley).
And agrees to dance with him lightly.
Caught up in spirited flight.
Festive ceremonies can't ease her troubled mind, nor can appeals to the breadth of tradition, nor the temptation to snuggle away.
Honestly immersed in dire bleak emotion, she visits a trustworthy friend (Morgan Freeman as Drosselmeyer).
And his supportive counsel and sympathetic understanding miraculously ignite her imagination, which magically blooms thereafter, a fantastic realm inadvertently emerging, wherein which she's respected as Queen.
Yet dark forces have set about undermining her rule, forces which take advantage of her naivety.
But those who remain loyal to her innate justice refuse to yield as the usurper rises, the rag tag as composed as they are outnumbered, united with the formerly influential.
Known as Mother Ginger (Helen Mirren).
As darkness descends.
In The Nutcracker and the Four Realms, an enchanting tale wildly revelling in solemn majesty, its embroiled burnished brightness boldly bursting the bland banal.
Within, inherent characteristics predisposed to leisure and play must outwit irreverent subjugation while clashing with concrete woe.
Is it so hard to enjoy the peaceful refinements a culture enlightens without being threatened by their jests?
Enamoured impulse, commercial spontaneity, sportspersonlike intrigue, a weekly night out?
Who doesn't like Mexican food?
The realization that the limitless nature of the democratic arts, as opposed to one-dimensional all-powerful commands they may be, produces much more lively overtures, which can creatively inspire curious hearts and minds, who produce much more clever material when given room to play, and freed from mind-numbing stereotypes, enlivens dull predictable routines, and lets you appreciate Birdman and Ferris Bueller sans hesitation, depending on complementary moods.
No one ever really listens to anyone who uses violence to assert themselves, although they pretend to to avoid pain.
I see smart men and women whose families respect them precisely because they don't micromanage things all the time.
They seem happy because their families are happy, and are always ready to provide assistance when required.
Perhaps Clara realizes her father is like that after contending with thoughtless Sugar Plum (Keira Knightley).
And agrees to dance with him lightly.
Caught up in spirited flight.
Tuesday, November 27, 2018
Green Book
It's fun when you have a job and you get to work with people from around the world.
You get all these fascinating insights into remarkably diverse cultures many of which are quite similar to your own if you make respectful comparisons.
Try new things.
You grow up eating specific foods for instance, and as you age, because you continue to eat these specific foods, it seems like eating them is natural, inasmuch as habits come to culturally qualify the term.
But when you work with people from different countries and begin to realize that they feel the same way about the food they grew up eating, the term natural becomes less organic, or is at least internationally diversified.
If you begin to try all the delicious foods they grew up eating and learn to appreciate the differences, while still enjoying your favourite local dishes, your options succulently expand tenfold, and your palette becomes much more global.
And you can ask questions like, "how do I turn this into a sandwich?", or, "can you melt cheese on this?", etc.
Plus, you're always eating.
I started cooking rice all the time.
Mixing in green lentils and potato.
In Peter Farrelly's Green Book, a gifted African American musician (Mahershala Ali as Dr. Don Shirley) takes his melodies on the road to the Southern U.S., hoping to build bridges of trust.
He hires a feisty bouncer from the Bronx to drive him (Viggo Mortensen as Tony Lip), and the two productively clash along the way.
As refined ethical viewpoints find themselves immersed in worlds where they don't apply, a more practical approach is begrudgingly sought, which, unfortunately, while necessary at points, does less to change hearts and minds.
And also causes serious problems.
The film cleverly embraces this pact and gradually synthesizes gentle and rough pretensions, Tony learning to react less instinctually, Dr. Shirley learning to take more precautions.
They slowly become friends as the film unreels and learn to appreciate each other precisely because of their differences.
Experience having taught them respect.
Green Book also examines the old "chummy" racial slurs that are often built into social interactions.
Tony makes the point that people "don't worry about" these slurs when they hear them but doesn't realize he's speaking from a position of privilege.
When the slurs are directed at him in the deep South he does worry about it and soon winds up in jail.
Different cultures often have different traditions which when appreciated add so much peaceful character to a neighbourhood/city/nation/world.
The casual slurs can make hard times worse.
And may not be as harmless to the people who let things slide.
As people in positions of privilege think.
You get all these fascinating insights into remarkably diverse cultures many of which are quite similar to your own if you make respectful comparisons.
Try new things.
You grow up eating specific foods for instance, and as you age, because you continue to eat these specific foods, it seems like eating them is natural, inasmuch as habits come to culturally qualify the term.
But when you work with people from different countries and begin to realize that they feel the same way about the food they grew up eating, the term natural becomes less organic, or is at least internationally diversified.
If you begin to try all the delicious foods they grew up eating and learn to appreciate the differences, while still enjoying your favourite local dishes, your options succulently expand tenfold, and your palette becomes much more global.
And you can ask questions like, "how do I turn this into a sandwich?", or, "can you melt cheese on this?", etc.
Plus, you're always eating.
I started cooking rice all the time.
Mixing in green lentils and potato.
In Peter Farrelly's Green Book, a gifted African American musician (Mahershala Ali as Dr. Don Shirley) takes his melodies on the road to the Southern U.S., hoping to build bridges of trust.
He hires a feisty bouncer from the Bronx to drive him (Viggo Mortensen as Tony Lip), and the two productively clash along the way.
As refined ethical viewpoints find themselves immersed in worlds where they don't apply, a more practical approach is begrudgingly sought, which, unfortunately, while necessary at points, does less to change hearts and minds.
And also causes serious problems.
The film cleverly embraces this pact and gradually synthesizes gentle and rough pretensions, Tony learning to react less instinctually, Dr. Shirley learning to take more precautions.
They slowly become friends as the film unreels and learn to appreciate each other precisely because of their differences.
Experience having taught them respect.
Green Book also examines the old "chummy" racial slurs that are often built into social interactions.
Tony makes the point that people "don't worry about" these slurs when they hear them but doesn't realize he's speaking from a position of privilege.
When the slurs are directed at him in the deep South he does worry about it and soon winds up in jail.
Different cultures often have different traditions which when appreciated add so much peaceful character to a neighbourhood/city/nation/world.
The casual slurs can make hard times worse.
And may not be as harmless to the people who let things slide.
As people in positions of privilege think.
Friday, November 23, 2018
Can You Ever Forgive Me?
A struggling writer (Melissa McCarthy) finds herself burdened with debt and stuck in the unmarketable fringe.
The rent's three months overdue, her cat's sick, her agent insults her, and she's just lost her job.
Somewhat of a recluse, a misfit, a misanthrope, a prickly pear, she sticks to her preferred hard liquor and settles down to stiffly agitate.
When suddenly an old acquaintance emerges (Richard E. Grant), a holds-nothing-back consume-whatever rough-and-tumble maelstrom, the two cultivating hospitable least resistance as they begin revelling in blunt parched mischief, a literary filmic modus operandi insouciantly scarifying thereafter, like a perky hangover maladroitly banished, or a banana split covered in red wine gravy.
Boldly.
She begins forging letters from deceased prominent authors and he helps her sell them after the FBI catches wind.
She likely would have written something noteworthy of her own beforehand had she just sat back and written something.
Setting her own limits then challenging them.
Like Captain Jean-Luc Picard.
Read other books though, enjoy them, devour them, don't worry if people criticize you.
Proust even wrote, "mediocre people generally believe that to let oneself be guided by books one admires takes away some of one's independence of judgment, [whereas the best people] feel that their power to understand and feel is infinitely increased [by contact with greatness]"(from "On Reading" as quoted in Benjamin Taylor's Proust: The Search).
Proust has an ingenious quote for so many demotivating doubts artists face.
And the judgments they encounter.
Peppered throughout his writings like garlic infused bannock.
Impoverished enrichment.
Incandescent flow.
Marielle Heller's Can You Ever Forgive Me? comedically enriches sloth to parasitically bewilder recrudescence.
Its poetic good times inflate the freewheeling to emancipate hope and thwart desperation.
Melissa McCarthy finally has a companion piece for Bridesmaids and Richard E. Grant keeps things spry.
I disagree with Lee's methods but can't deny her talent, a lazy way to imaginatively conjure, which revitalized dull conversations nonetheless, even if their contents were strictly anathema.
Worth seeing.
The rent's three months overdue, her cat's sick, her agent insults her, and she's just lost her job.
Somewhat of a recluse, a misfit, a misanthrope, a prickly pear, she sticks to her preferred hard liquor and settles down to stiffly agitate.
When suddenly an old acquaintance emerges (Richard E. Grant), a holds-nothing-back consume-whatever rough-and-tumble maelstrom, the two cultivating hospitable least resistance as they begin revelling in blunt parched mischief, a literary filmic modus operandi insouciantly scarifying thereafter, like a perky hangover maladroitly banished, or a banana split covered in red wine gravy.
Boldly.
She begins forging letters from deceased prominent authors and he helps her sell them after the FBI catches wind.
She likely would have written something noteworthy of her own beforehand had she just sat back and written something.
Setting her own limits then challenging them.
Like Captain Jean-Luc Picard.
Read other books though, enjoy them, devour them, don't worry if people criticize you.
Proust even wrote, "mediocre people generally believe that to let oneself be guided by books one admires takes away some of one's independence of judgment, [whereas the best people] feel that their power to understand and feel is infinitely increased [by contact with greatness]"(from "On Reading" as quoted in Benjamin Taylor's Proust: The Search).
Proust has an ingenious quote for so many demotivating doubts artists face.
And the judgments they encounter.
Peppered throughout his writings like garlic infused bannock.
Impoverished enrichment.
Incandescent flow.
Marielle Heller's Can You Ever Forgive Me? comedically enriches sloth to parasitically bewilder recrudescence.
Its poetic good times inflate the freewheeling to emancipate hope and thwart desperation.
Melissa McCarthy finally has a companion piece for Bridesmaids and Richard E. Grant keeps things spry.
I disagree with Lee's methods but can't deny her talent, a lazy way to imaginatively conjure, which revitalized dull conversations nonetheless, even if their contents were strictly anathema.
Worth seeing.
Wednesday, November 21, 2018
Venom
Having harvested interstellar phenomena, and obtained coveted extraterrestrial booty, a courageous spacecraft swiftly descends towards Earth, and none of its crew survives.
The alien lifeforms discovered bond with various hosts, begrudgingly commandeering their bodies, with intent most disruptive and grievous.
Including, but not limited to, heading back to space to find their fellow mucus-like beings, in order to one day return, and devour humanity.
Whole.
Or from the inside out.
It depends.
Both conscientious reporter Eddie Brock (Tom Hardy) and technocratic phenom Carlton Drake (Riz Ahmed) eventually find themselves hosting representatives of the species, reps whose personality differences closely match those of Brock and Drake, the reps in fact searching for unique personalities, even if corresponding storylines can't withstand the symmetry.
Not Marvel's finest hour.
I thought perhaps the buzz was off, preferring to see it for myself before adding an opinion, but Venom misses 8.25 times out of 10, although there's something to be said for such a complete lack of refinement.
Something bad.
In a nutshell, the story's too blunt, too direct, too surface level.
It's not that you can't write a great story that's blunt and direct, many appealing stories are, as many have noted, Venom's lacking the aesthetic expertise that held those stories together though, everything's condensed into purposeful formulaic probabilities for instance, which unfortunately assumed they required nothing more.
It happens.
Ruben Fleisher's usually quite good, I don't know what happened here but I suspect his hands were too tied, his independent spirit was exorcized throughout production, and the result fell far short of his audience's expectations, since independent spirits often lack inspiration when conventionally constrained.
Took one for the team perhaps.
I suppose every Marvel film isn't destined to present a deep convincing narrative that cerebrally shocks and actively theorizes, but Venom does neither, and metaphorically secretes jingoistic protoplasm.
I suppose you need deadlines and a production schedule but when you're bound to make multimillions regardless, do you need to follow them/it so strictly?
You probably do.
I don't work in film.
It's kind of funny when Venom discusses his sociohistorical misfortunes with Eddie.
Too little too late though.
But something cool for round 2.
The alien lifeforms discovered bond with various hosts, begrudgingly commandeering their bodies, with intent most disruptive and grievous.
Including, but not limited to, heading back to space to find their fellow mucus-like beings, in order to one day return, and devour humanity.
Whole.
Or from the inside out.
It depends.
Both conscientious reporter Eddie Brock (Tom Hardy) and technocratic phenom Carlton Drake (Riz Ahmed) eventually find themselves hosting representatives of the species, reps whose personality differences closely match those of Brock and Drake, the reps in fact searching for unique personalities, even if corresponding storylines can't withstand the symmetry.
Not Marvel's finest hour.
I thought perhaps the buzz was off, preferring to see it for myself before adding an opinion, but Venom misses 8.25 times out of 10, although there's something to be said for such a complete lack of refinement.
Something bad.
In a nutshell, the story's too blunt, too direct, too surface level.
It's not that you can't write a great story that's blunt and direct, many appealing stories are, as many have noted, Venom's lacking the aesthetic expertise that held those stories together though, everything's condensed into purposeful formulaic probabilities for instance, which unfortunately assumed they required nothing more.
It happens.
Ruben Fleisher's usually quite good, I don't know what happened here but I suspect his hands were too tied, his independent spirit was exorcized throughout production, and the result fell far short of his audience's expectations, since independent spirits often lack inspiration when conventionally constrained.
Took one for the team perhaps.
I suppose every Marvel film isn't destined to present a deep convincing narrative that cerebrally shocks and actively theorizes, but Venom does neither, and metaphorically secretes jingoistic protoplasm.
I suppose you need deadlines and a production schedule but when you're bound to make multimillions regardless, do you need to follow them/it so strictly?
You probably do.
I don't work in film.
It's kind of funny when Venom discusses his sociohistorical misfortunes with Eddie.
Too little too late though.
But something cool for round 2.
Tuesday, November 20, 2018
Mid90s
One's first encounter with other people.
Outside of school.
A curious child not prone to mischief suddenly finds himself ensconced with peeps of whom his mom (Katherine Waterston) may disapprove.
They aren't thieves or thugs or dealers or bigots, but homework still isn't really their thing, and they aren't exactly that interested in much, besides chillin'.
And skateboarding and girls.
His brother's (Lucas Hedges) a bit macho though and lays down a strict beating should he continue to exist and enter his much older presence.
A bit of a dick, until Stevie's (Sunny Suljic) recreational pursuits become too disruptive, at which point he actually says something which isn't pejorative or obtuse.
Surprise and shock.
Indiscrimination.
Jonah Hill's Mid90s is a heartfelt deep gritty super real account of youth as it breaks away too quickly.
Hill excels at presenting scenes that aren't overly preachy, or sentimental, or ridiculously exaggerated, or lame, both his writing and directing masterfully blended to craft an exceptionally thoughtful independent comedy that makes you think as it lips off, like cheeky unconcerned conscientious bright crossroads.
It's edgy, it's not provocative or loud or volatile, it's more subtle in its orchestrations as if its characters are aware they don't know much but still seek non-academic experiences that can inspire if not at least entertain them.
Actively.
Even the older ones who offer Stevie advice.
There's judgment but it isn't final, there's support but it isn't blind, there's experimentation but it isn't reckless, until they all get into a car whose driver's intoxicated.
Always a bad idea.
Hill does an amazing job.
I'd say he's the real deal.
Outstanding.
Mid90s sincerely celebrates friendship and camaraderie by having fun without causing too much trouble.
The limits it presents, i.e. don't drink and drive, are as reasonable as they are not foolish, and as realistic as death or paralysis.
Haunting.
Outside of school.
A curious child not prone to mischief suddenly finds himself ensconced with peeps of whom his mom (Katherine Waterston) may disapprove.
They aren't thieves or thugs or dealers or bigots, but homework still isn't really their thing, and they aren't exactly that interested in much, besides chillin'.
And skateboarding and girls.
His brother's (Lucas Hedges) a bit macho though and lays down a strict beating should he continue to exist and enter his much older presence.
A bit of a dick, until Stevie's (Sunny Suljic) recreational pursuits become too disruptive, at which point he actually says something which isn't pejorative or obtuse.
Surprise and shock.
Indiscrimination.
Jonah Hill's Mid90s is a heartfelt deep gritty super real account of youth as it breaks away too quickly.
Hill excels at presenting scenes that aren't overly preachy, or sentimental, or ridiculously exaggerated, or lame, both his writing and directing masterfully blended to craft an exceptionally thoughtful independent comedy that makes you think as it lips off, like cheeky unconcerned conscientious bright crossroads.
It's edgy, it's not provocative or loud or volatile, it's more subtle in its orchestrations as if its characters are aware they don't know much but still seek non-academic experiences that can inspire if not at least entertain them.
Actively.
Even the older ones who offer Stevie advice.
There's judgment but it isn't final, there's support but it isn't blind, there's experimentation but it isn't reckless, until they all get into a car whose driver's intoxicated.
Always a bad idea.
Hill does an amazing job.
I'd say he's the real deal.
Outstanding.
Mid90s sincerely celebrates friendship and camaraderie by having fun without causing too much trouble.
The limits it presents, i.e. don't drink and drive, are as reasonable as they are not foolish, and as realistic as death or paralysis.
Haunting.
Friday, November 16, 2018
First Man
I don't know what to make of space travel.
Would I like to travel to space?
Yes.
Would I like to explore space?
Yes.
Would I like to meet alien lifeforms?
Yes.
Do I wish extraterrestrial animals were featured more prominently on Star Trek?
Definitely yes.
It seems like an awfully expensive trip though, and since money hasn't been replaced as it has on Star Trek, in the Federation anyway, I would rather see trillions of dollars used to clean up the oceans, and feed the world's poor, and promote birth control worldwide, and proactively fight climate change.
Given the current state of the geopolitical scene, I unfortunately can't see any of those things happening soon, or at least until a cataclysmic environmental disaster dismally shakes things up.
I imagine if there was a God, and he or she did return, her or his first act would be to force us to clean up the planet.
While spending most of his or her time chillin' with dolphins.
However, I suppose if that happened the religious right would try to kill God.
Instead of just recycling things, consuming less, embracing flex-time, and marketing disposable containers.
I think I got that idea from South Park.
The science of space travel, the practical theoretical brilliance of the mathematicians, engineers, scientists, and technicians who managed to land a space craft on the moon, is still compelling nevertheless, perhaps the most risky unparalleled ingenious voyage ever hypothesized, even more important than whatever Donald Trump had for breakfast today, which I'm sure will intrigue historians and political scientists for upcoming untold millennia.
First Man doesn't focus on the math though, choosing rather to intently examine the brave astronauts who risked their lives to pioneer space travel, and they really did risk their lives when you consider how experimental the space program was, and rushed, incredibly brilliant no doubt, but still experimental and rushed, would you like to fly this ship we just made and aren't really sure about, not across the ocean, but into the stars themselves, and courageously embrace eternity with the fleeting awe of starstruck munificence?
True daring.
Yes.
It's a sure and steady meaningful account of the Armstrongs, beginning with the tragic death of their first daughter, and ending after Neil (Ryan Gosling) lands on the moon.
Mr. Armstrong is presented as an introverted somewhat cold yet loving man who lost a lot after Karen (Lucy Stafford) passed, but still remained a hard-working devoted husband.
Janet Armstrong (Claire Foy) struggles with the realities of being an astronaut's wife, when so many husbands aren't coming home, and the film reasonably showcases her frustrations at the rare moments when she presents them, her logical suggestions embraced by her husband, as the two practically exemplify self-sacrificing commitment and understanding.
First Man covers a long period of time but its snapshots are well chosen.
It's not overflowing with emotion or exclamation or patriotism, it's a much more sombre illustration of achievement that depicts determination objectively.
The events showcased within patiently generate their own significance while crafting a brave narrative that's much more familial than national.
I wouldn't have included only one black character as a voice of protest though, especially considering the resilient African Americans who worked on the space program, some of whom were poetically illuminated by Theodore Melfi's Hidden Figures, brilliant minds given deserved respect.
Nonetheless, First Man's temperate, generally formal calculus still makes you feel like you're really there, landing on the moon, taking steps in the most otherworldly of environments.
That we've visited this side of the galaxy.
I've heard Madagascar's pretty wild too.
I really felt like I was there, checking things out, wandering around, collecting samples.
I think we should clean up this planet first before heading to Mars or beyond.
I have the utmost respect for the people who risk their lives travelling to space though.
And the math that makes it all possible.
Imagine your team thought all that up and was right.
Too bad space travel's so expensive.
Although I've heard hemp can be used for just about anything.
Even to make fuel.
And it grows like a weed.
So it likely doesn't require pesticides.
Damn.
*Okay, I suppose there's room for ambiguity by writing, "rivetingly so, 😏", so I took it out, to avoid confusion. In my head I thought, "wait, use the word 'rivetingly,' you rarely use that word because you think it's used too often and people will obviously understand that and know that you're being facetious, because everyone knows that's the reason why you rarely use that word." After heading out for a bit, I realized no one could possibly understand that besides me, and rushed home after my appointment to correct my error.
Would I like to travel to space?
Yes.
Would I like to explore space?
Yes.
Would I like to meet alien lifeforms?
Yes.
Do I wish extraterrestrial animals were featured more prominently on Star Trek?
Definitely yes.
It seems like an awfully expensive trip though, and since money hasn't been replaced as it has on Star Trek, in the Federation anyway, I would rather see trillions of dollars used to clean up the oceans, and feed the world's poor, and promote birth control worldwide, and proactively fight climate change.
Given the current state of the geopolitical scene, I unfortunately can't see any of those things happening soon, or at least until a cataclysmic environmental disaster dismally shakes things up.
I imagine if there was a God, and he or she did return, her or his first act would be to force us to clean up the planet.
While spending most of his or her time chillin' with dolphins.
However, I suppose if that happened the religious right would try to kill God.
Instead of just recycling things, consuming less, embracing flex-time, and marketing disposable containers.
I think I got that idea from South Park.
The science of space travel, the practical theoretical brilliance of the mathematicians, engineers, scientists, and technicians who managed to land a space craft on the moon, is still compelling nevertheless, perhaps the most risky unparalleled ingenious voyage ever hypothesized, even more important than whatever Donald Trump had for breakfast today, which I'm sure will intrigue historians and political scientists for upcoming untold millennia.
First Man doesn't focus on the math though, choosing rather to intently examine the brave astronauts who risked their lives to pioneer space travel, and they really did risk their lives when you consider how experimental the space program was, and rushed, incredibly brilliant no doubt, but still experimental and rushed, would you like to fly this ship we just made and aren't really sure about, not across the ocean, but into the stars themselves, and courageously embrace eternity with the fleeting awe of starstruck munificence?
True daring.
Yes.
It's a sure and steady meaningful account of the Armstrongs, beginning with the tragic death of their first daughter, and ending after Neil (Ryan Gosling) lands on the moon.
Mr. Armstrong is presented as an introverted somewhat cold yet loving man who lost a lot after Karen (Lucy Stafford) passed, but still remained a hard-working devoted husband.
Janet Armstrong (Claire Foy) struggles with the realities of being an astronaut's wife, when so many husbands aren't coming home, and the film reasonably showcases her frustrations at the rare moments when she presents them, her logical suggestions embraced by her husband, as the two practically exemplify self-sacrificing commitment and understanding.
First Man covers a long period of time but its snapshots are well chosen.
It's not overflowing with emotion or exclamation or patriotism, it's a much more sombre illustration of achievement that depicts determination objectively.
The events showcased within patiently generate their own significance while crafting a brave narrative that's much more familial than national.
I wouldn't have included only one black character as a voice of protest though, especially considering the resilient African Americans who worked on the space program, some of whom were poetically illuminated by Theodore Melfi's Hidden Figures, brilliant minds given deserved respect.
Nonetheless, First Man's temperate, generally formal calculus still makes you feel like you're really there, landing on the moon, taking steps in the most otherworldly of environments.
That we've visited this side of the galaxy.
I've heard Madagascar's pretty wild too.
I really felt like I was there, checking things out, wandering around, collecting samples.
I think we should clean up this planet first before heading to Mars or beyond.
I have the utmost respect for the people who risk their lives travelling to space though.
And the math that makes it all possible.
Imagine your team thought all that up and was right.
Too bad space travel's so expensive.
Although I've heard hemp can be used for just about anything.
Even to make fuel.
And it grows like a weed.
So it likely doesn't require pesticides.
Damn.
*Okay, I suppose there's room for ambiguity by writing, "rivetingly so, 😏", so I took it out, to avoid confusion. In my head I thought, "wait, use the word 'rivetingly,' you rarely use that word because you think it's used too often and people will obviously understand that and know that you're being facetious, because everyone knows that's the reason why you rarely use that word." After heading out for a bit, I realized no one could possibly understand that besides me, and rushed home after my appointment to correct my error.
Thursday, November 15, 2018
The Predator
The Predator franchise having adjourned several years past on a rather unexpected bone-trilling high note, I was quite eager to entertain its brave successor, inasmuch as it seemed reasonable that it would reach even greater heights, hope logically characterized through lighthearted thrift, the lack of prolonged accompanying anticipatory proclamations (trailers) further augmenting wondrous presumption, I imagined it would impress, if not at least, mischievously diversify.
Yet it seems as if the new team was somewhat overwhelmed by their preceding act, and therefore sought transformative comedic consolidations, the resultant feature perhaps shocking resigned traditionalists, who no doubt stayed till the campy end regardless.
Not to say that Shane Black's unique approach lacks merit, but the Predator films do generally attempt to frighten, relying more heavily on horror than the absurd, often tending to terrify demonstrously.
Within elite commandoes find themselves replaced with a duty-free band of misfits, who have the audacity to tell jokes and exalt mischief, the rapidly paced loosely structured plot maladroitly reflecting their shenanigans, the resulting synthesis bizarrely endearing, typically tantalizing withheld revelations, bluntly shared, unabashed, tomfoolery.
It's more like a keg party than a night out at Saint-Bock, enthusiasm and excess carelessly abounding without taking much time to consider effect, mood, ambience, or likelihood.
Correspondingly, solutions readily present themselves, albeit in an inebriated way, chaotic resiliencies flying high on adrenaline, a family caught up in the jetstreamed carnage.
It's like Joes who haven't done much research suddenly find themselves experientially reaching ingenious conclusions, heavily saturated with kitschy ingenuity, as unconcerned as they are bewildered.
But even if they charmingly hypothesize, they can't outwit the film's brazen capacity.
It is fun though.
I like what they're trying to do, i.e, write a critical horror/comedy, and they mention all kinds of cool things like buses and science and global warming.
Plus it's co-starring Jake Busey (Keyes).
But the script could have perhaps used another round of edits, during which perhaps the predator dog idea would have been reimagined or left out.
A courageous attempt not lacking in ambition that still goes way too far, while mischievously diversifying no less, The Predator may have seriously impressed had it been crafted with more critical insight.
It may convince people to start thinking more seriously about climate change though.
Climate change is definitely real within.
And hopefully still will be in upcoming sequels.
*I never even listened to the Yardbirds!
Harrumph!
Yet it seems as if the new team was somewhat overwhelmed by their preceding act, and therefore sought transformative comedic consolidations, the resultant feature perhaps shocking resigned traditionalists, who no doubt stayed till the campy end regardless.
Not to say that Shane Black's unique approach lacks merit, but the Predator films do generally attempt to frighten, relying more heavily on horror than the absurd, often tending to terrify demonstrously.
Within elite commandoes find themselves replaced with a duty-free band of misfits, who have the audacity to tell jokes and exalt mischief, the rapidly paced loosely structured plot maladroitly reflecting their shenanigans, the resulting synthesis bizarrely endearing, typically tantalizing withheld revelations, bluntly shared, unabashed, tomfoolery.
It's more like a keg party than a night out at Saint-Bock, enthusiasm and excess carelessly abounding without taking much time to consider effect, mood, ambience, or likelihood.
Correspondingly, solutions readily present themselves, albeit in an inebriated way, chaotic resiliencies flying high on adrenaline, a family caught up in the jetstreamed carnage.
It's like Joes who haven't done much research suddenly find themselves experientially reaching ingenious conclusions, heavily saturated with kitschy ingenuity, as unconcerned as they are bewildered.
But even if they charmingly hypothesize, they can't outwit the film's brazen capacity.
It is fun though.
I like what they're trying to do, i.e, write a critical horror/comedy, and they mention all kinds of cool things like buses and science and global warming.
Plus it's co-starring Jake Busey (Keyes).
But the script could have perhaps used another round of edits, during which perhaps the predator dog idea would have been reimagined or left out.
A courageous attempt not lacking in ambition that still goes way too far, while mischievously diversifying no less, The Predator may have seriously impressed had it been crafted with more critical insight.
It may convince people to start thinking more seriously about climate change though.
Climate change is definitely real within.
And hopefully still will be in upcoming sequels.
*I never even listened to the Yardbirds!
Harrumph!
Wednesday, November 14, 2018
The Spy Who Dumped Me
Two girls, comfortably enacting stoic routines, nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary, a settled unsuspecting cozy blasé existence, latent talents uncultivated, bland assumption unjustified, not expecting nor risking nor desiring nor challenging much, while making the most of so-be-it circumstances, prescribed limits multilaterally defined.
When fate introduces ludicrous motivating implausibility, a situation so extraordinary it unfastens harnessed contention.
As definitively improbable as it is boundlessly distinct, their complete lack of applicable knowledge ensures unpredictable success.
Yet tasks can't be resiliently accomplished on their own, and soon trust must be relied upon, to spontaneously outmaneuver.
Their objectives are of the utmost importance and cruel adversaries seek their demise.
Amidst astounding world renown.
Reflexive potence, enduring instinct.
Sometimes the ridiculous awkwardly gesticulates with more disheveling ironic leverage, however, The Spy Who Dumped Me's serendipitous shenanigans perhaps too reliant on realistic pretensions.
Not that many of the scenarios aren't strange or fantastic, or that its boldness would lack succulence if it weren't so stern, but its quaint impressions and audacious ingenuity still don't mix well, like your uncle's homemade cream soda, or a cinnamon cilantro shake, you try them yet remain skeptical, and further experimentation bewilders all the more.
Not that there aren't redeeming factors.
Paul Reiser (Arnie) and Jane Curtain (Carol) add some laughs even if they're underutilized.
The Finnish backpacker they meet in the hostel (Ólafur Darri Ólafsson) should have a cameo in every sequel.
And Mila Kunis (Audrey) and Kate McKinnon (Morgan) work really well together, at times generating the captivating risky eloquence you expect from Hollywood's leading comedic duos.
Especially when they discuss likes and dislikes.
I went to see the film based on McKinnon's leading role alone.
Nevertheless, the blend's still too lumpy.
Extract the strengths for round two.
The talent's there.
Just gotta pull it together.
When fate introduces ludicrous motivating implausibility, a situation so extraordinary it unfastens harnessed contention.
As definitively improbable as it is boundlessly distinct, their complete lack of applicable knowledge ensures unpredictable success.
Yet tasks can't be resiliently accomplished on their own, and soon trust must be relied upon, to spontaneously outmaneuver.
Their objectives are of the utmost importance and cruel adversaries seek their demise.
Amidst astounding world renown.
Reflexive potence, enduring instinct.
Sometimes the ridiculous awkwardly gesticulates with more disheveling ironic leverage, however, The Spy Who Dumped Me's serendipitous shenanigans perhaps too reliant on realistic pretensions.
Not that many of the scenarios aren't strange or fantastic, or that its boldness would lack succulence if it weren't so stern, but its quaint impressions and audacious ingenuity still don't mix well, like your uncle's homemade cream soda, or a cinnamon cilantro shake, you try them yet remain skeptical, and further experimentation bewilders all the more.
Not that there aren't redeeming factors.
Paul Reiser (Arnie) and Jane Curtain (Carol) add some laughs even if they're underutilized.
The Finnish backpacker they meet in the hostel (Ólafur Darri Ólafsson) should have a cameo in every sequel.
And Mila Kunis (Audrey) and Kate McKinnon (Morgan) work really well together, at times generating the captivating risky eloquence you expect from Hollywood's leading comedic duos.
Especially when they discuss likes and dislikes.
I went to see the film based on McKinnon's leading role alone.
Nevertheless, the blend's still too lumpy.
Extract the strengths for round two.
The talent's there.
Just gotta pull it together.
Tuesday, November 13, 2018
The Hate U Give
When I was really young I never really wanted to leave the house.
It seemed, *as M. T_______ has observed, come to think of it, totally unfair that every weekday I'd be carted off to a centralized hub wherein which I'd have to negotiate terms and conditions with a select group of strangers many of whom were impolite and none too impressed with my habitual timidity.
Having yet to learn that being able to count was frowned upon and that you had to listen to people who were bigger than you, I had a rather tough go of it before settling into an obnoxious yet less beating-prone comedic routine, which was also difficult to grow out of as changing circumstances created new socially acceptable codes of conduct.
But eventually I reached middle-age and found that my desire to impress people outside of work had almost entirely disappeared, and although I didn't shy away from outings or conversation, I cared much less about whether or not I was appealing, catchy, suitable.
Sought after.
The Hate U Give's Starr Carter (Amandla Stenberg) is still in the thick of it though, uploading different psychological applications to fit sundry social situations, still attending school, going to parties, pursuing amorous relations, a student from a modest background attending a solid private school cleverly going with the flow, smoothly fitting in, hyperaware of precisely what not to say, managing rage, desire, curiosity, and confusion, with the adroit composure of a surefire sagelike symphony.
Flexible and highly strung.
She's still a kid though and therefore likes to do things kids like to do, as do her friends and siblings.
But when gun shots ring out at a party attended, she flees with an old companion with whom she once enjoyed playing Harry Potter.
Their youthful ambitions hold no sway after they're pulled over for no reason, however, and Starr's friend Khalil (Algee Smith) is soon dead on the ground after having spontaneously decided to simply comb his hair.
He may have been 17 and had a lot of potential.
How often do I read about events like this in the news?
How many of these tragedies could have been avoided?
Starr suffers extreme shock mixed with helplessness and the film gracefully supports her as systemic injustice generates activist passions.
It's a tight multifaceted narrative that soulfully blends kids playfully trying to live their lives, a hardworking father who's served time for drugs and won't go back (Russell Hornsby as Maverick Carter), a local drug dealer who's worried about exposure (Anthony Mackie as King), a caring mom who supports her daughter's decision (Regina Hall as Lisa Carter), a black cop caught up in the system (Common as Carlos), a supportive privileged boyfriend who's willing to take risks for Starr even though it's a world he doesn't understand (K.J. Apa as Chris), Starr's close school friend who doesn't try to understand (Sabrina Carpenter as Hailey), media reports that don't try to understand, underfunded public schools that can't keep the drugs out, an activist who understands how hard it is to speak out but knows how essential it is to do so (Issa Rae as April Ofrah), a family's local struggle to get by transformed by national attention which is none too appreciated by the thugs, many of whom tried, but could never find anything better to do.
Starr unites these elements and bravely makes tough decisions to help her community.
I loved the film's positive focus, convincingly letting the light shine through so much demotivating darkness.
The light is out there and it is shining brightly.
A lot of people who try to make it big selling drugs wind up in jail.
A lot of people who put in an honest day's work and keep looking forward, building a business or helping others build businesses, can still make good money, and don't have to be scared all the time.
Can enjoy time spent with friends and family.
Chill out a bit even.
Joke around.
Read books and watch movies.
It seemed, *as M. T_______ has observed, come to think of it, totally unfair that every weekday I'd be carted off to a centralized hub wherein which I'd have to negotiate terms and conditions with a select group of strangers many of whom were impolite and none too impressed with my habitual timidity.
Having yet to learn that being able to count was frowned upon and that you had to listen to people who were bigger than you, I had a rather tough go of it before settling into an obnoxious yet less beating-prone comedic routine, which was also difficult to grow out of as changing circumstances created new socially acceptable codes of conduct.
But eventually I reached middle-age and found that my desire to impress people outside of work had almost entirely disappeared, and although I didn't shy away from outings or conversation, I cared much less about whether or not I was appealing, catchy, suitable.
Sought after.
The Hate U Give's Starr Carter (Amandla Stenberg) is still in the thick of it though, uploading different psychological applications to fit sundry social situations, still attending school, going to parties, pursuing amorous relations, a student from a modest background attending a solid private school cleverly going with the flow, smoothly fitting in, hyperaware of precisely what not to say, managing rage, desire, curiosity, and confusion, with the adroit composure of a surefire sagelike symphony.
Flexible and highly strung.
She's still a kid though and therefore likes to do things kids like to do, as do her friends and siblings.
But when gun shots ring out at a party attended, she flees with an old companion with whom she once enjoyed playing Harry Potter.
Their youthful ambitions hold no sway after they're pulled over for no reason, however, and Starr's friend Khalil (Algee Smith) is soon dead on the ground after having spontaneously decided to simply comb his hair.
He may have been 17 and had a lot of potential.
How often do I read about events like this in the news?
How many of these tragedies could have been avoided?
Starr suffers extreme shock mixed with helplessness and the film gracefully supports her as systemic injustice generates activist passions.
It's a tight multifaceted narrative that soulfully blends kids playfully trying to live their lives, a hardworking father who's served time for drugs and won't go back (Russell Hornsby as Maverick Carter), a local drug dealer who's worried about exposure (Anthony Mackie as King), a caring mom who supports her daughter's decision (Regina Hall as Lisa Carter), a black cop caught up in the system (Common as Carlos), a supportive privileged boyfriend who's willing to take risks for Starr even though it's a world he doesn't understand (K.J. Apa as Chris), Starr's close school friend who doesn't try to understand (Sabrina Carpenter as Hailey), media reports that don't try to understand, underfunded public schools that can't keep the drugs out, an activist who understands how hard it is to speak out but knows how essential it is to do so (Issa Rae as April Ofrah), a family's local struggle to get by transformed by national attention which is none too appreciated by the thugs, many of whom tried, but could never find anything better to do.
Starr unites these elements and bravely makes tough decisions to help her community.
I loved the film's positive focus, convincingly letting the light shine through so much demotivating darkness.
The light is out there and it is shining brightly.
A lot of people who try to make it big selling drugs wind up in jail.
A lot of people who put in an honest day's work and keep looking forward, building a business or helping others build businesses, can still make good money, and don't have to be scared all the time.
Can enjoy time spent with friends and family.
Chill out a bit even.
Joke around.
Read books and watch movies.
Monday, November 12, 2018
Flatliners
I suppose Flatliners passes as a chilling representation of mainstream sci-fi/horror, its 5 med students adventurously engaged in supernatural experimentation, recklessly bringing about their own deaths to pioneer forbidden im/mortal disciplines, risking their coveted careers to entertainingly tantalize, while unwittingly materializing vengeful sociohistorical menace.
It excites eager film lovers by affixing its characters with ingenious analytical and creative abilities, real world superpowers which delineate discriminate diagnoses, yet simultaneously terrifies them by monstrously calling into question the means by which they obtained them, metaphorically speaking, "say no to drugs."
It's as if after flatlining everything they've ever done, read, intuited, or considered, is computationally available, capable of being accessed and applied with immediate inspirational virtuosity, however, since each character has effectively ruined, even ended the lives of others, their genius is maddeningly guilt ridden, and their aspirations spiritually overwhelming.
Like Limitless meets Final Destination, Flatliners packs a potent cerebrally stunning punch, but it gets down to it a little too quickly for my tastes, instantaneously invigorating its narrative without having thoughtfully justified why it's bothering to do so.
Perhaps an additional 15 minutes spent clarifying why the characters are so willingly embracing death enriched with a reflective dialogue concerning the merits of their moribund undertakings would have been too cumbersome, too boring, too intellectual, but it's not like they're thinking about taking a road trip here, or heading to the casino or skipping class.
Or making out in the library.
They be killing themselves to suicidally synergize prohibited prognostics and vivacious versatilities, and methinks that deserves a bit more discussion as the story unfolds, even if it unreels contemptuously thereafter.
Is that middle-aged bias?
Wait, Flatliner's religious underpinnings suggest explanations are unnecessary, so the rash undiscussed experimental adolescent death drive is therefore subconsciously sustained.
However, they're all med students using science to make breakthroughs within earthly realms, and should therefore be questioning everything they do.
Perhaps the soul searching yet practically attuned Ray (Diego Luna), who, unlike his colleagues, worked his way up through bold honest labour, presents a way out of this deadlock, for he's the only character whose past doesn't haunt him, and he's also the only one who doesn't flatline.
But doesn't the person of the world who never seeks to comprehend occult mysteries function like Indiana Jones and Marion at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, never seeking to understand the divine even if it is bluntly presented, out of unacknowledged religious humility, or existential acculturation?
And therefore can't assist?
Beats me.
*I watched Kingdom of the Crystal Skull again last night for the first time since it came out. I liked it a lot more the second time although things get pretty ridiculous near the end. And suggesting aliens taught ancient cultures everything they knew is ethnocentric. Our superbrains created the internet. Theirs created the Pyramids, the Great Wall etc.
**I wrote this last February and forgot that I had mentioned Indiana Jones. I didn't read it again until tonight, the night I had planned to post it on last February (well, I had planned to post it on a Monday in November). And I just recently finished watching all the Indiana Jones movies again. As in yesterday. Weird.
It excites eager film lovers by affixing its characters with ingenious analytical and creative abilities, real world superpowers which delineate discriminate diagnoses, yet simultaneously terrifies them by monstrously calling into question the means by which they obtained them, metaphorically speaking, "say no to drugs."
It's as if after flatlining everything they've ever done, read, intuited, or considered, is computationally available, capable of being accessed and applied with immediate inspirational virtuosity, however, since each character has effectively ruined, even ended the lives of others, their genius is maddeningly guilt ridden, and their aspirations spiritually overwhelming.
Like Limitless meets Final Destination, Flatliners packs a potent cerebrally stunning punch, but it gets down to it a little too quickly for my tastes, instantaneously invigorating its narrative without having thoughtfully justified why it's bothering to do so.
Perhaps an additional 15 minutes spent clarifying why the characters are so willingly embracing death enriched with a reflective dialogue concerning the merits of their moribund undertakings would have been too cumbersome, too boring, too intellectual, but it's not like they're thinking about taking a road trip here, or heading to the casino or skipping class.
Or making out in the library.
They be killing themselves to suicidally synergize prohibited prognostics and vivacious versatilities, and methinks that deserves a bit more discussion as the story unfolds, even if it unreels contemptuously thereafter.
Is that middle-aged bias?
Wait, Flatliner's religious underpinnings suggest explanations are unnecessary, so the rash undiscussed experimental adolescent death drive is therefore subconsciously sustained.
However, they're all med students using science to make breakthroughs within earthly realms, and should therefore be questioning everything they do.
Perhaps the soul searching yet practically attuned Ray (Diego Luna), who, unlike his colleagues, worked his way up through bold honest labour, presents a way out of this deadlock, for he's the only character whose past doesn't haunt him, and he's also the only one who doesn't flatline.
But doesn't the person of the world who never seeks to comprehend occult mysteries function like Indiana Jones and Marion at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, never seeking to understand the divine even if it is bluntly presented, out of unacknowledged religious humility, or existential acculturation?
And therefore can't assist?
Beats me.
*I watched Kingdom of the Crystal Skull again last night for the first time since it came out. I liked it a lot more the second time although things get pretty ridiculous near the end. And suggesting aliens taught ancient cultures everything they knew is ethnocentric. Our superbrains created the internet. Theirs created the Pyramids, the Great Wall etc.
**I wrote this last February and forgot that I had mentioned Indiana Jones. I didn't read it again until tonight, the night I had planned to post it on last February (well, I had planned to post it on a Monday in November). And I just recently finished watching all the Indiana Jones movies again. As in yesterday. Weird.
Friday, November 9, 2018
A Star is Born
With a voice as multifaceted as Brooklyn or a night out on Duluth, effervescently reverberating with transformative emotional characterization, sweetly orchestrating discursive labyrinths, purpose delineating fluctuating climax, the in/conclusive communally narrativizing, the independent meteorologically summarizing, Lady Gaga (Ally) firmly embraces the silver screen, irrepressibly showcasing her vast talent, chanting out with distinct virtuosity, enlightened like a seaside glade, I've never listened to her before, what an exceptionally mesmerizing performer.
Starring in a film that struggles to match up.
Although it starts out well as an alcoholic superstar (Bradley Cooper) suddenly decides to check out the local nightlife after another successful performance.
To his immense good fortune, he's lucky enough to discover a local talent whose versatility is as profound as it is unknown (Gaga).
The film excels as the two meet and Ally is instantaneously recognized.
But as the praise keeps rolling in, and rolling in, and rolling in, its gritty edge is blandly dulled, and as Jack's addictions correspondingly get the better of him, the result is a depressing descent into cold reckless shadow.
A Star is Born is just too obvious, not in the good we know this is tacky and we're making fun of ourselves kind of way, but in the bad you're supposed to be taking this seriously kind of way.
And it's super long.
Often when I see something this bad I'll go see something else and write about it instead, to avoid hurting feelings, but I don't have time to do that this month, and therefore, must proceed.
But I won't say much more.
Immediacy can be a useful device but when things are this instantaneous everything just falls apart.
Rapidly.
In terms of making a film, not going with the flow when performing live.
Man.
My mind's too full of negativity.
I think the expression is, field day, or you could have a field day with this one.
Some great performances though.
And some funny family moments.
The first 40 minutes are really good.
Bummer.
Starring in a film that struggles to match up.
Although it starts out well as an alcoholic superstar (Bradley Cooper) suddenly decides to check out the local nightlife after another successful performance.
To his immense good fortune, he's lucky enough to discover a local talent whose versatility is as profound as it is unknown (Gaga).
The film excels as the two meet and Ally is instantaneously recognized.
But as the praise keeps rolling in, and rolling in, and rolling in, its gritty edge is blandly dulled, and as Jack's addictions correspondingly get the better of him, the result is a depressing descent into cold reckless shadow.
A Star is Born is just too obvious, not in the good we know this is tacky and we're making fun of ourselves kind of way, but in the bad you're supposed to be taking this seriously kind of way.
And it's super long.
Often when I see something this bad I'll go see something else and write about it instead, to avoid hurting feelings, but I don't have time to do that this month, and therefore, must proceed.
But I won't say much more.
Immediacy can be a useful device but when things are this instantaneous everything just falls apart.
Rapidly.
In terms of making a film, not going with the flow when performing live.
Man.
My mind's too full of negativity.
I think the expression is, field day, or you could have a field day with this one.
Some great performances though.
And some funny family moments.
The first 40 minutes are really good.
Bummer.
Tuesday, November 6, 2018
Wolfe
Summations surmised in shock smothered sick suffering scorn.
Pronounced pertinent enriched bewilderment interrogative analytics revelations inconclusive.
Serial addendums.
Emotions recollected quixotic exhilaration scarlet iris peerless pathways authentic articles embraced innate pandemonium.
Mutual affection tempestuously tantalized whispers whirlwinds bliss.
Substitutions recitals realignments electrolysis solutes snickers flow, spastic momentum definitive increments narratively isolating cloyed vignettes.
Fortunes resentments antecedents exclamations.
An artist observing amongst them.
Discerning apt poetic reflections in pitched photogenic verse.
Much younger ignored pushed aside.
Still generating pith, catharsis.
Still secreting verdant environs.
Friends struggle to understand why a confidant takes her own life as an outsider questions them in Francis Bordeleau's Wolfe.
It unreels like less of a search for meaning than an attempt to obscure guilt.
It's like there was significance but they couldn't comprehend it and in a tragic attempt to provoke lucidity everything became much less clear.
Until an individual possessing true feeling honestly presented unabashed sincerity.
Wolfe subtly criticizes instinctual unreflective existence through experimental elucidation.
Unable to find resolutions, it suggests a lack of purpose can be overcome through artistic witness.
The violence the artist faces in the beginning fades as he befriends the two spirits also affected by its presumption.
A less depressing film might have solely focused on the good times, celebrating carefree creative progression as opposed to stark misfortune.
Presenting sundry outputs from local artists within.
Like a xylophone.
A soundboard.
A rainforest.
A café.
Pronounced pertinent enriched bewilderment interrogative analytics revelations inconclusive.
Serial addendums.
Emotions recollected quixotic exhilaration scarlet iris peerless pathways authentic articles embraced innate pandemonium.
Mutual affection tempestuously tantalized whispers whirlwinds bliss.
Substitutions recitals realignments electrolysis solutes snickers flow, spastic momentum definitive increments narratively isolating cloyed vignettes.
Fortunes resentments antecedents exclamations.
An artist observing amongst them.
Discerning apt poetic reflections in pitched photogenic verse.
Much younger ignored pushed aside.
Still generating pith, catharsis.
Still secreting verdant environs.
Friends struggle to understand why a confidant takes her own life as an outsider questions them in Francis Bordeleau's Wolfe.
It unreels like less of a search for meaning than an attempt to obscure guilt.
It's like there was significance but they couldn't comprehend it and in a tragic attempt to provoke lucidity everything became much less clear.
Until an individual possessing true feeling honestly presented unabashed sincerity.
Wolfe subtly criticizes instinctual unreflective existence through experimental elucidation.
Unable to find resolutions, it suggests a lack of purpose can be overcome through artistic witness.
The violence the artist faces in the beginning fades as he befriends the two spirits also affected by its presumption.
A less depressing film might have solely focused on the good times, celebrating carefree creative progression as opposed to stark misfortune.
Presenting sundry outputs from local artists within.
Like a xylophone.
A soundboard.
A rainforest.
A café.
Friday, November 2, 2018
Colette
Lavish living, routinely enjoying the most sumptuous victuals to play the role your standing traditionally authenticates, variable inspired expenses infusing a literary aura with the carefree bravado of limitless production, malleability, ceremonial constants, presumed ostentation auriferously manifesting guilds, assumed impeccability unerringly suspecting intrigue, lashed foibles pronounced yet overlooked inasmuch as they characterize, at home amidst scandal and rumour, brash confidence supposed, instinctually attuned to grasped levitational predicament, brazen yet steadfast, polished yoke adjourned.
Suddenly married.
To a partner less docile than anticipated.
Eventually comprehending her worth, her value to the Parisian imagination, she challenges her freewheeling worldly spouse, who's become dependent on her novel individualism.
Wondering if the art's progress solely by chance or accident?
It seems that many well read erudite professionals reasonably publish that which they believe will profitably sustain them, their understanding of the arts being generally more reliable than a gambler's knowledge of cards or horse racing, and by reading public tastes or those of private audiences thereby, a cultural continuum emerges within which it's possible to earn a living.
Thus Willy (Dominic West) initially dismisses Colette's (Keira Knightley) first novel, thinking it won't tastefully fit the literate French spirit as he distills it, but as bills pile up and nothing appealing conveniently presents itself, he eventually pursues its publication, and it's an immediate success.
Who knows really?
J. K. Rowling, rejected.
Proust, rejected.
You can't assume novelty and experimentation will cultivate financial freedoms without worry, perhaps there are publishing houses who can with whom I'm unfamiliar, but regardless every so often that magical narrative seductively hits the shelves and its unique unbridled perfectly fitting plots, ideas, characters, and settings, impassion stoic readers who have otherwise succumbed to the piquant yet predictable.
Colette's novels sell with the unmitigated fury of an exclamatory tempest, generating revenues most sound for her foolish spendthrift husband.
She puts up with it for quite some time before finally bidding adieu and heading out on her own.
The film critiques M. Gauthier-Villars but not too severely, preferring to dis/harmoniously celebrate the times during which they excelled together to dwelling upon their inevitable break.
How could you go that far?
Such betrayal.
For a miserly pittance.
A lively entertaining clever examination of a voice which slowly learns to independently express itself, complete with a critical yet unpretentious account of conjugal versatility, straddling the upper stratosphere, agitating deals, drafts, dogmas.
Indoctrinations.
Mischievous celebratory circumnavigation afloat.
Disenchanting yet enticing.
Love Keira Knightley's outrage.
Suddenly married.
To a partner less docile than anticipated.
Eventually comprehending her worth, her value to the Parisian imagination, she challenges her freewheeling worldly spouse, who's become dependent on her novel individualism.
Wondering if the art's progress solely by chance or accident?
It seems that many well read erudite professionals reasonably publish that which they believe will profitably sustain them, their understanding of the arts being generally more reliable than a gambler's knowledge of cards or horse racing, and by reading public tastes or those of private audiences thereby, a cultural continuum emerges within which it's possible to earn a living.
Thus Willy (Dominic West) initially dismisses Colette's (Keira Knightley) first novel, thinking it won't tastefully fit the literate French spirit as he distills it, but as bills pile up and nothing appealing conveniently presents itself, he eventually pursues its publication, and it's an immediate success.
Who knows really?
J. K. Rowling, rejected.
Proust, rejected.
You can't assume novelty and experimentation will cultivate financial freedoms without worry, perhaps there are publishing houses who can with whom I'm unfamiliar, but regardless every so often that magical narrative seductively hits the shelves and its unique unbridled perfectly fitting plots, ideas, characters, and settings, impassion stoic readers who have otherwise succumbed to the piquant yet predictable.
Colette's novels sell with the unmitigated fury of an exclamatory tempest, generating revenues most sound for her foolish spendthrift husband.
She puts up with it for quite some time before finally bidding adieu and heading out on her own.
The film critiques M. Gauthier-Villars but not too severely, preferring to dis/harmoniously celebrate the times during which they excelled together to dwelling upon their inevitable break.
How could you go that far?
Such betrayal.
For a miserly pittance.
A lively entertaining clever examination of a voice which slowly learns to independently express itself, complete with a critical yet unpretentious account of conjugal versatility, straddling the upper stratosphere, agitating deals, drafts, dogmas.
Indoctrinations.
Mischievous celebratory circumnavigation afloat.
Disenchanting yet enticing.
Love Keira Knightley's outrage.
Tuesday, October 30, 2018
Laissez bronzer les cadavres
Auriferously enveloped in taut supernatural ubiquity suddenly thrust into periscopical freelance tight-knit plans crisply cropped chaos inveterate beam brightly brandished ancient shivers.
Plot embryonically subsumed ambient malcontenants gargoylically grouped in febrile homely ruins spacious interiors accents flush endemic verisimilitude hearty chipped consummates.
Exacting detail poised petulance amassed misfortune spastic swathe.
Grim spirit haunted hospice brisk hashtag extrinsic vessel.
No escape alternative thought quotidian distraction nostalgic reminiscence, ambient gravity supersaturated magnetism cartesian lockdown enraptured immobility.
Beyond the interrogative enriching strict declaration I've never been here before exalted purest articulate perfidy, sensual stream insouciant sultry sunbathed nomenclature, emotive instinct lucrative goals breathless contempt perpetual motion perspicaciously exhaled saturated elevations arterial wavelength transisting thatch.
Velveteen.
Freedoms frenetically composed casked and coaxed immersion purloined Serengeti paradisaical taunts surveyed disemboweled allegiance.
Primordial improvisations midnight magnates circumstantially asphyxiating engrained accords, bleak prospects menacingly heckle options baleful non-negotiable arrest.
Brilliance generously applied atypically tailored to a weathered realm, its incumbent creative frenzies extracting copious iron clad ligaments.
You couldn't create something this tight without meticulous drive, but inasmuch as the mad notoriously evades reasonable discourse, Laissez bronzer les cadavres outwits generic overtures.
Refreshing.
What Free Fire could have been without the humour and more style.
Much more style.
It would be oppressively immersive if it wasn't so laissez-faire, bold unique cinematic reckoning polished and selective like precious blackmarket diamonds.
Maltese falcons.
Soaring through unparalleled wilds.
Ravenous and sheer.
Disillusioned incarnate yields.
A must see.
*Happy Halloween!
Plot embryonically subsumed ambient malcontenants gargoylically grouped in febrile homely ruins spacious interiors accents flush endemic verisimilitude hearty chipped consummates.
Exacting detail poised petulance amassed misfortune spastic swathe.
Grim spirit haunted hospice brisk hashtag extrinsic vessel.
No escape alternative thought quotidian distraction nostalgic reminiscence, ambient gravity supersaturated magnetism cartesian lockdown enraptured immobility.
Beyond the interrogative enriching strict declaration I've never been here before exalted purest articulate perfidy, sensual stream insouciant sultry sunbathed nomenclature, emotive instinct lucrative goals breathless contempt perpetual motion perspicaciously exhaled saturated elevations arterial wavelength transisting thatch.
Velveteen.
Freedoms frenetically composed casked and coaxed immersion purloined Serengeti paradisaical taunts surveyed disemboweled allegiance.
Primordial improvisations midnight magnates circumstantially asphyxiating engrained accords, bleak prospects menacingly heckle options baleful non-negotiable arrest.
Brilliance generously applied atypically tailored to a weathered realm, its incumbent creative frenzies extracting copious iron clad ligaments.
You couldn't create something this tight without meticulous drive, but inasmuch as the mad notoriously evades reasonable discourse, Laissez bronzer les cadavres outwits generic overtures.
Refreshing.
What Free Fire could have been without the humour and more style.
Much more style.
It would be oppressively immersive if it wasn't so laissez-faire, bold unique cinematic reckoning polished and selective like precious blackmarket diamonds.
Maltese falcons.
Soaring through unparalleled wilds.
Ravenous and sheer.
Disillusioned incarnate yields.
A must see.
*Happy Halloween!
Friday, October 26, 2018
At First Light
True love gone astray, withheld honest feelings bottled-up deep down proudly mired in distraught stasis as adhesive as it is cold.
A sighting, soulful regeneration, wondrous mischief suddenly appears levitating thoughts light and playful, so much time having been spent thinking of the right thing to say leaves him speechless, inarticulate, defensive, rude, thaws thick manifest in waking daydream, fears heartfelt quakes waxing dunes.
Translucent phase.
Image and status, communal narratives, blind rumour, blasé treatise.
Still that spark of ecstatic longing, that shimmering eternal flame, persevered in joyous depths, always, enraptures bright communication.
Before she's gone, disappears.
Then wakes having emerged divine.
Extraterrestrially wandering, At First Light.
Wherein romantic science-fiction illuminates superpowers, as ethereal precipitation saturates disbelief.
Confusion, answers which provoke quandary, a mystery lacking clues, codes, constructs, chords, gradually revealed in thoughtful awestruck miniature.
A tight script technologically economized inspires creative storytelling.
Desires to live freely contending with control.
Radioactive metamorphosis ironically humanizing elemental nuclei.
First contact made with ancient interstellar vocals.
It's as if the heights to which one raises their beloved are enigmatically reified within, godlike characteristics exotically pronounced.
Sean (Théodore Pellerin) sits back in wonder as Alex Lainey (Stefanie Scott) electrifies, thunderous awareness coyly emancipated, untilled.
That which is to be expected is present, is sewn, but At First Light reimagines these conventions to its credit, recharging their form with enlightening elastic appeal.
Supporting characters diversify its filmscape while adding narrative texture and nuance, the local transformed into the intergalactic piecemeal as events impressionably unfold.
Make the most of your talents and budgets increase tenfold.
I imagine.
Like amorous independence.
Galvanized gale force solar.
A sighting, soulful regeneration, wondrous mischief suddenly appears levitating thoughts light and playful, so much time having been spent thinking of the right thing to say leaves him speechless, inarticulate, defensive, rude, thaws thick manifest in waking daydream, fears heartfelt quakes waxing dunes.
Translucent phase.
Image and status, communal narratives, blind rumour, blasé treatise.
Still that spark of ecstatic longing, that shimmering eternal flame, persevered in joyous depths, always, enraptures bright communication.
Before she's gone, disappears.
Then wakes having emerged divine.
Extraterrestrially wandering, At First Light.
Wherein romantic science-fiction illuminates superpowers, as ethereal precipitation saturates disbelief.
Confusion, answers which provoke quandary, a mystery lacking clues, codes, constructs, chords, gradually revealed in thoughtful awestruck miniature.
A tight script technologically economized inspires creative storytelling.
Desires to live freely contending with control.
Radioactive metamorphosis ironically humanizing elemental nuclei.
First contact made with ancient interstellar vocals.
It's as if the heights to which one raises their beloved are enigmatically reified within, godlike characteristics exotically pronounced.
Sean (Théodore Pellerin) sits back in wonder as Alex Lainey (Stefanie Scott) electrifies, thunderous awareness coyly emancipated, untilled.
That which is to be expected is present, is sewn, but At First Light reimagines these conventions to its credit, recharging their form with enlightening elastic appeal.
Supporting characters diversify its filmscape while adding narrative texture and nuance, the local transformed into the intergalactic piecemeal as events impressionably unfold.
Make the most of your talents and budgets increase tenfold.
I imagine.
Like amorous independence.
Galvanized gale force solar.
Tuesday, October 23, 2018
The Wife
The world's rather oddly constructed, some of its pretensions anyways, the idea that female writers can't sell their work for instance, which I imagine was much more prevalent 50 years ago, Foucauldian analysis pending.
The world certainly seems like a much more open place for men, and when you think of the thousands of psychological, financial, political, and ethical barriers preventing women from expressing themselves, the gross injustice of it all makes you wonder why people who are supposed to be fearless are so utterly afraid of a little femininity?
Women make good storytellers, are capable of doing anything men can do really, and cultural codes that prevent them from selling their work under their own name therefore don't make much sense, especially since they have so many compelling stories to share.
Longer explanation in a book some day.
I don't like everything I read or watch or listen to that's written by women, I don't like everything I read or watch or listen to that's written by men, I didn't realize you were supposed to prefer the one that matched your gender when I was really young, and was severely reprimanded, still am I suppose, but since I live in a theoretically free country I should be free to pick and choose who I like, even in my forties, as long as they aren't spreading hate intended to curtail freedoms, and I don't see it as a feminine and masculine artistic continuum, but rather one composed of stories I like and others which I don't.
I'm much more forgiving with films.
If I wrote about music or books I imagine people would criticize me for being too harsh instead of enjoying what I do.
In The Wife we find a literary married couple who's been given the Nobel Prize for literature even though only one of them is being recognized.
Wife Joan Castleman's (Glenn Close) painstaking imaginative endeavours are hailed for their genius, and husband Joe Castleman (Jonathan Pryce) is given all the credit.
He's a bit of a brute, living a life of freedom and ease that's absolutely dependent on his wife's devotion, and rather than reciprocating her heartfelt sacrifice he consumes countless luxuries and never stops womanizing.
The golden ticket.
You'd think that if you had the golden ticket you wouldn't openly mock its charitable foundations or colonize its endemic struggle.
You'd think you'd respect it at least, especially if its purchase had nothing to do with you.
Value it.
Not the case though in The Wife, as Joe recklessly gorges at the trough (things become more complicated as a mischievous biographer [Christian Slater as Nathaniel Bone] inquisitively stirs things up).
The film examines a fed up spouse's desire to be recognized for her brilliance in a patriarchal world prone to overlook essential feminine contributions.
It's quite direct for a movie focused on award winning literature, although the point it makes shines more brightly since it isn't buried beneath sundry literary filmic devices.
The unacknowledged heroine, the burly bumptious brute.
Like he had no leg to stand on so he went out and bought stilts.
He doesn't even consider sharing it.
After so so many years.
The world certainly seems like a much more open place for men, and when you think of the thousands of psychological, financial, political, and ethical barriers preventing women from expressing themselves, the gross injustice of it all makes you wonder why people who are supposed to be fearless are so utterly afraid of a little femininity?
Women make good storytellers, are capable of doing anything men can do really, and cultural codes that prevent them from selling their work under their own name therefore don't make much sense, especially since they have so many compelling stories to share.
Longer explanation in a book some day.
I don't like everything I read or watch or listen to that's written by women, I don't like everything I read or watch or listen to that's written by men, I didn't realize you were supposed to prefer the one that matched your gender when I was really young, and was severely reprimanded, still am I suppose, but since I live in a theoretically free country I should be free to pick and choose who I like, even in my forties, as long as they aren't spreading hate intended to curtail freedoms, and I don't see it as a feminine and masculine artistic continuum, but rather one composed of stories I like and others which I don't.
I'm much more forgiving with films.
If I wrote about music or books I imagine people would criticize me for being too harsh instead of enjoying what I do.
In The Wife we find a literary married couple who's been given the Nobel Prize for literature even though only one of them is being recognized.
Wife Joan Castleman's (Glenn Close) painstaking imaginative endeavours are hailed for their genius, and husband Joe Castleman (Jonathan Pryce) is given all the credit.
He's a bit of a brute, living a life of freedom and ease that's absolutely dependent on his wife's devotion, and rather than reciprocating her heartfelt sacrifice he consumes countless luxuries and never stops womanizing.
The golden ticket.
You'd think that if you had the golden ticket you wouldn't openly mock its charitable foundations or colonize its endemic struggle.
You'd think you'd respect it at least, especially if its purchase had nothing to do with you.
Value it.
Not the case though in The Wife, as Joe recklessly gorges at the trough (things become more complicated as a mischievous biographer [Christian Slater as Nathaniel Bone] inquisitively stirs things up).
The film examines a fed up spouse's desire to be recognized for her brilliance in a patriarchal world prone to overlook essential feminine contributions.
It's quite direct for a movie focused on award winning literature, although the point it makes shines more brightly since it isn't buried beneath sundry literary filmic devices.
The unacknowledged heroine, the burly bumptious brute.
Like he had no leg to stand on so he went out and bought stilts.
He doesn't even consider sharing it.
After so so many years.
Friday, October 19, 2018
The Bookshop
So many harmless ideas.
Why would anyone protest if you wanted to open a bookshop for instance, why would anyone critique sharing ideas and stories, generating dreams, nurturing imagination, long before even television was taken for granted, especially in a small town with no local bookshop?
Books obviously enrich the mind in ways that television and film can't, I simply mention the town's lack of televisions to emphasize how grossly realistic things must have been at the time, for those regularly searching for alternative adventures and fantasies, or sharp cutting-edge non-fiction.
It seemed logical to me, in my youth, that if you wanted to open a store and freely sell things such as books or pizza you would be free to do so.
The thought of living somewhere where the government suddenly banned thousands of books and ideas or forced you to consume specific narratives without comment is baffling and inherently self-defeating.
The Bookshop's set in Britain not long after World War II and I've always taken it for granted that the United Kingdom was rather open-minded at the time, not so naively that I figured there weren't social issues or endemic inequalities that prevented groups and individuals from flourishing, but naively enough to suppose that if you wanted to open a bookshop in a small town without a bookshop, on your own property, you would be able to do so without legal interference.
Bizarro.
Monopolistic tragedies.
Isabel Coixet's The Bookshop is a brave soulful examination of an independent chap's immersion in local culture.
She was so beautiful.
Where many scenes would have ended in similar films, many of The Bookshop's keep unreeling complete with clever added details/suggestions/conflicts/hopes that add so much more to the courageous narrative.
Phenomenally laidback performances well-versed in bucolic sophistication calmly yet severely manifest palpable joys and tensions, actors acting in a serious film as if they were acting in a serious film, cultivating their craft, intently focused on their art.
The Bookshop's like that small town gem you've heard about where you can buy the most wondrous things off the beaten track and they've never even considered advertising.
It's as modest as a Sunday school teacher yet as fiery as a proactive country priest/rabbi/reverend/imam.
Some scenes seem to have been included to simply celebrate life, notably when Florence Green (Emily Mortimer) and Christine (Honor Kneafsey) are unexpectedly showcased at ease playfully enjoying themselves while working, or when Edmund Brundish (Bill Nighy) and Ms. Green are unsure how to end their first meeting, propriety suggesting they part although neither of them wishes to do so.
I'm still terrible at coming and going.
If only life were always spent in the middle of conversations.
A must-see film overflowing with pluck and integrity.
I can't imagine having to shop for books exclusively online.
You can't browse the shelves.
Find the perfect book you never knew you were looking for.
Why would anyone protest if you wanted to open a bookshop for instance, why would anyone critique sharing ideas and stories, generating dreams, nurturing imagination, long before even television was taken for granted, especially in a small town with no local bookshop?
Books obviously enrich the mind in ways that television and film can't, I simply mention the town's lack of televisions to emphasize how grossly realistic things must have been at the time, for those regularly searching for alternative adventures and fantasies, or sharp cutting-edge non-fiction.
It seemed logical to me, in my youth, that if you wanted to open a store and freely sell things such as books or pizza you would be free to do so.
The thought of living somewhere where the government suddenly banned thousands of books and ideas or forced you to consume specific narratives without comment is baffling and inherently self-defeating.
The Bookshop's set in Britain not long after World War II and I've always taken it for granted that the United Kingdom was rather open-minded at the time, not so naively that I figured there weren't social issues or endemic inequalities that prevented groups and individuals from flourishing, but naively enough to suppose that if you wanted to open a bookshop in a small town without a bookshop, on your own property, you would be able to do so without legal interference.
Bizarro.
Monopolistic tragedies.
Isabel Coixet's The Bookshop is a brave soulful examination of an independent chap's immersion in local culture.
She was so beautiful.
Where many scenes would have ended in similar films, many of The Bookshop's keep unreeling complete with clever added details/suggestions/conflicts/hopes that add so much more to the courageous narrative.
Phenomenally laidback performances well-versed in bucolic sophistication calmly yet severely manifest palpable joys and tensions, actors acting in a serious film as if they were acting in a serious film, cultivating their craft, intently focused on their art.
The Bookshop's like that small town gem you've heard about where you can buy the most wondrous things off the beaten track and they've never even considered advertising.
It's as modest as a Sunday school teacher yet as fiery as a proactive country priest/rabbi/reverend/imam.
Some scenes seem to have been included to simply celebrate life, notably when Florence Green (Emily Mortimer) and Christine (Honor Kneafsey) are unexpectedly showcased at ease playfully enjoying themselves while working, or when Edmund Brundish (Bill Nighy) and Ms. Green are unsure how to end their first meeting, propriety suggesting they part although neither of them wishes to do so.
I'm still terrible at coming and going.
If only life were always spent in the middle of conversations.
A must-see film overflowing with pluck and integrity.
I can't imagine having to shop for books exclusively online.
You can't browse the shelves.
Find the perfect book you never knew you were looking for.
Tuesday, October 16, 2018
We the Animals
A creative child, impoverished and sensitive, hesitant and withdrawn, immersed in domestic violence explosive tempers rigid flair, bipolar ontologies practically conditioning tempestuous mindsets artistically grained and fractured, love amorously swathing, freedom recklessly improvising, a lack of consultation disputatiously igniting frayed conscience, with striking elementary animosity, fell off the deep end, woe heartaches disbelief, still anchored constitutionally, to sights sounds preached ruptures too familiar.
Tough life for the little guy.
The love's there, no question, but paps doesn't get that he's just not the type of kid who learns to swim if you unexpectedly let go.
A budding young illustrator, painter, designer, architect, explicitly classifying the chaos as unconfrontationally as he can, attaching meaning to the inexplicable with tactile ambassadorial artifice, a collection accrued amassed, grotesquely misinterpreted upon discovery.
He finds it thrown away.
Learns to keep his head above water.
There's no support network overflowing with concerned expertise.
Just actions, reactions, patterns, nature.
A lack of understanding.
Existence.
We the Animals relies more on emotion than rational discourse as it presents itself, a stunning array of carefully selected snapshots delicately scolding in volatile willow.
There's nothing easy about this film, the characters patiently move from hardship to hardship supporting themselves as they frenetically endure, or become accustomed to livid passionate embraces, some people learn to thrive on conflict, a strange inhospitable disposition divisively characterizing sullen negotiation.
Odd habitual inadmissibilities.
An excellent film regardless which pulls you in with unassuming composure, not to be taken lightly even if endearment shines through, not to be bluntly dismissed even if scenes are strictly brutal.
When you see her sleeping on the couch one morning surrounded by mischief you think that must be something exceptionally adorable to wake up to.
But a lack of both resources and community services, and a strong desire to make their own way, lead to violent emotional outbursts which make their situation haunting and desperate.
Tough life for the little guy.
The love's there, no question, but paps doesn't get that he's just not the type of kid who learns to swim if you unexpectedly let go.
A budding young illustrator, painter, designer, architect, explicitly classifying the chaos as unconfrontationally as he can, attaching meaning to the inexplicable with tactile ambassadorial artifice, a collection accrued amassed, grotesquely misinterpreted upon discovery.
He finds it thrown away.
Learns to keep his head above water.
There's no support network overflowing with concerned expertise.
Just actions, reactions, patterns, nature.
A lack of understanding.
Existence.
We the Animals relies more on emotion than rational discourse as it presents itself, a stunning array of carefully selected snapshots delicately scolding in volatile willow.
There's nothing easy about this film, the characters patiently move from hardship to hardship supporting themselves as they frenetically endure, or become accustomed to livid passionate embraces, some people learn to thrive on conflict, a strange inhospitable disposition divisively characterizing sullen negotiation.
Odd habitual inadmissibilities.
An excellent film regardless which pulls you in with unassuming composure, not to be taken lightly even if endearment shines through, not to be bluntly dismissed even if scenes are strictly brutal.
When you see her sleeping on the couch one morning surrounded by mischief you think that must be something exceptionally adorable to wake up to.
But a lack of both resources and community services, and a strong desire to make their own way, lead to violent emotional outbursts which make their situation haunting and desperate.
Friday, October 12, 2018
A Simple Favor
Goodwill and zealous care giving fashionably articulate elementary communal grammar, A Simple Favor's domestic athleticism convivially contending in audacious absence, a mystery hauntingly captivating studious literature under composite examination, latent auspices duely animated, ambiflextrously endeavoured embroiled.
Beyond implicity.
Suspects torn.
Prudent assumption underestimates meticulous resolve as clandestine excursions regenerate volumes.
A writer (Henry Golding as Sean Townsend) caught between opposing factions caresses seductive leaves.
Mercies meddling concoctions settling dreams incarnate dispute.
Someone is guilty of murder.
Others vent droll miscues.
A film cleverly mixing the brave and the rash while tempting exclaimed propriety, delicately nuancing characteristics blandly dismissed for upholding traditions, alternative fascinations as experimental as they are devout, imaginative tremors subtly bracing reasonability, untamed emergence grasping shocks with steady calm, conceptions oft overlooked or undervalued diversified, to vindicate bourgeois innocence, and celebrate tact defused.
A proactive film capable of appealing to a wide audience, it's also so much more, like a rarefied precious eccentricity concealed yet scintillating in traction, mischievously whispering je suis essentiel, before phasing out of time with reticent cheeky indifference.
If films were still rented in physical stores and viewed with less distraction it may have been a vital exception for film lovers still immersed in the mainstream.
Boredom and desire play definitive roles which pose disquieting ethical questions while sorting through phenomenal intrigue.
I love Theodore Shapiro's soundtracks and have for quite some time, but I wonder why the music not written by Shapiro for the film isn't also available on a downloadable disc in the Itunes store, as compelling as it is with so many bright compositions.
Sandra Kendrick (Stephanie Smothers) is perfectly cast for the role (casting by Allison Jones).
I've noticed her over the years but have never seen her in something where she's clearly stood out.
Historical form and content.
Blake Lively (Emily Nelson), also good.
Comedic observations are worked in well and I loved it every time Sona (Aparna Nancherla), Stacy (Kelly McCormack), and Darren (Andrew Rannells) popped up, especially at the end.
The Vlogging's cool too.
Although the film shouldn't be thought of as educational, Paul Feig still brilliantly demonstrates how young directors can authentically work within Hollywood and still earn a respectable buck or two, throughout.
Loved it.
Costume design by Renee Ehrlich Kalfus.
Beyond implicity.
Suspects torn.
Prudent assumption underestimates meticulous resolve as clandestine excursions regenerate volumes.
A writer (Henry Golding as Sean Townsend) caught between opposing factions caresses seductive leaves.
Mercies meddling concoctions settling dreams incarnate dispute.
Someone is guilty of murder.
Others vent droll miscues.
A film cleverly mixing the brave and the rash while tempting exclaimed propriety, delicately nuancing characteristics blandly dismissed for upholding traditions, alternative fascinations as experimental as they are devout, imaginative tremors subtly bracing reasonability, untamed emergence grasping shocks with steady calm, conceptions oft overlooked or undervalued diversified, to vindicate bourgeois innocence, and celebrate tact defused.
A proactive film capable of appealing to a wide audience, it's also so much more, like a rarefied precious eccentricity concealed yet scintillating in traction, mischievously whispering je suis essentiel, before phasing out of time with reticent cheeky indifference.
If films were still rented in physical stores and viewed with less distraction it may have been a vital exception for film lovers still immersed in the mainstream.
Boredom and desire play definitive roles which pose disquieting ethical questions while sorting through phenomenal intrigue.
I love Theodore Shapiro's soundtracks and have for quite some time, but I wonder why the music not written by Shapiro for the film isn't also available on a downloadable disc in the Itunes store, as compelling as it is with so many bright compositions.
Sandra Kendrick (Stephanie Smothers) is perfectly cast for the role (casting by Allison Jones).
I've noticed her over the years but have never seen her in something where she's clearly stood out.
Historical form and content.
Blake Lively (Emily Nelson), also good.
Comedic observations are worked in well and I loved it every time Sona (Aparna Nancherla), Stacy (Kelly McCormack), and Darren (Andrew Rannells) popped up, especially at the end.
The Vlogging's cool too.
Although the film shouldn't be thought of as educational, Paul Feig still brilliantly demonstrates how young directors can authentically work within Hollywood and still earn a respectable buck or two, throughout.
Loved it.
Costume design by Renee Ehrlich Kalfus.
Tuesday, October 9, 2018
Fahrenheit 11/9
If you look back on Michael Moore's career, starting with Roger & Me, you see several well-crafted documentaries working within the most civilly disobedient of traditions, each of them championing social justice and attempting to inspire political change, as American as Pepsi apple pie, overflowing with effervescent goodwill.
He clearly abhors corporate greed and would like wealth to be distributed more fairly within the U.S, and has gone to great lengths to pursue his altruistic goals even as the situation has become remarkably worse since he began filming in 1989.
It's difficult to get an accurate picture of what's happening in the U.S, apart from the fact that Trump is likely crazy, because so many different journalists are writing about so many different aspects of a labyrinthine abstract construction, physically existing within specific boundaries no doubt, yet truly so vast, so incredibly complex, that I doubt anyone has ever understood the big picture.
Although the ending to Sean Baker's The Florida Project makes a lasting impression.
Just because something is incredible, seems beyond comprehension, even if you read all the latest books about it, doesn't mean you don't try to comprehend it, I only mention the abstract colossus because so many people are currently working in the United States and that is indeed a good thing.
I don't like Trump, he's turned a relatively stable world into a contentious polemic, and I don't know if his policies are directly responsible for the thousands of jobs that have been created down South, and I don't know how many of those jobs are steady 9-5 positions complete with decent wages, breaks, and benefits, but I do consistently read that thousands of people are back to work, and I can't dismiss that categorically even if I support different approaches to politics.
I love that people are working again even if I rather strongly dislike Mr. Trump.
Fahrenheit 11/9 breaks contemporary American politics down with unabashed Moorian vigour, uplifting progressive statistics tragically juxtaposed with downtrodden initiatives, myriad stunning examples as breathtaking as they are horrifying.
The picture painted is bleak to say the least, and I'm not here to contradict his assessment.
His examples aren't numerous enough to definitively frame the Democratic Party within the portrait he depicts, but they are revealing enough to start making reasonable accusations about the ways in which it goes about choosing its candidates.
If you can't allow your members to freely choose who represents you, even if a candidate doesn't fit a specific mold, it's distressing, and prone to manifest disillusion.
Trump rode unpredictability straight to the White House, and hasn't let up since for an instant.
Moore castigates the Democratic Party, Barack Obama, The New York Times, Union Leadership in West Virginia, and his rational enough presentation, which should be accompanied by a recommended reading list (it may have been in the end credits), seems generally hopeless, apart from its praise for Bernie Sanders and rising young Democratic candidates.
I started following Sanders on Instagram and he is incredible, the real deal, the genuine article, Jack Laytonesque.
He's as active as Trump but I rarely read about him in The New York Times.
It's like The New York Times is suicidally linked with Trump, like they're so dependent upon the revenue his antics generate, antics which constantly deride and attempt to ruin them, that they're afraid to take a financial hit and start backing a politician whom they would theoretically adore.
The people clearly love him.
His actions should be making headlines every day.
Scripted, Moore makes everything seem scripted, like people who don't subscribe to The New York Times don't matter, like they've stopped trying to find alternative means to generate revenue, and the Democratic Party is sticking too closely to a worn out formula.
But Sanders, the young alternative Democratic politicians, the teachers, and the workers Moore interviews are first rate, and I admire the ways in which they boldly stand up for hardworking Americans.
At the same time, should the situation become even more bleak, people can always look beyond politics.
You can form community groups which take communal action, work with each other to exemplify dreams elites have cynically classified unattainable, focus on taking non-violent actions that can lead to progressive change, the key perhaps being to simply listen to each other without sarcastically dismissing points of view or making others look ridiculous, and recognizing that within a democracy everyone's voice matters, regardless of income, education, race, gender, or sexual orientation.
If people create what they're hoping the government will create themselves, when a government finally comes along which supports their objectives there could be an extended period of widespread bliss casually sashaying through Congress for an extended period.
It's happened before, even if when people say the system's broken they're technically right.
Always.
To paraphrase Plato, and, I, Claudius, the system has always been broken, there never was a golden age where harmony prospered everywhere and everyone got along harmoniously.
Political systems aren't trucks.
You can take a truck in to be fixed.
One, two, maybe three mechanics work on it, not thousands of people from different regions with different backgrounds.
It's much less complicated to fix a truck.
A truck is real.
It exists physically.
That doesn't mean you don't stop trying to fix political systems.
If you stop trying to fix them, true darkness descends, and, to quote Pink Floyd, [you have to] get out of the road if you want to grow old (Sheep, Animals).
I believe in governments who want to help their citizens prosper and are committed to creating societies where it is possible for everyone to have the opportunity to do so.
But with a situation as grim as that presented in Fahrenheit 11/9, it looks like a lot of American people need to start creating paradise on Earth themselves, one self-sacrificing step soberly taken at a time.
*Idea for grassroots politicians hoping to make a difference: stop campaigning traditionally. Stop going door to door. Find a super rough demanding job and start working hard labour. Not for an afternoon, not for a coffee break in the morning, but for months at a time, tweeting and posting videos all the way. Then you'll really learn what it's like to live that kind of life and be so much more ready to defend those who do in Congress. Plus, you'll get to know so many wonderful people whom you may have never met otherwise. And learn what they really want and why they really want it. Remember. You're not the boss. You need the job. Your family's struggling. And you can't quit. That's my suggestion for new campaigning methods. According to Michael Moore's oeuvre, nothing else is working.
He clearly abhors corporate greed and would like wealth to be distributed more fairly within the U.S, and has gone to great lengths to pursue his altruistic goals even as the situation has become remarkably worse since he began filming in 1989.
It's difficult to get an accurate picture of what's happening in the U.S, apart from the fact that Trump is likely crazy, because so many different journalists are writing about so many different aspects of a labyrinthine abstract construction, physically existing within specific boundaries no doubt, yet truly so vast, so incredibly complex, that I doubt anyone has ever understood the big picture.
Although the ending to Sean Baker's The Florida Project makes a lasting impression.
Just because something is incredible, seems beyond comprehension, even if you read all the latest books about it, doesn't mean you don't try to comprehend it, I only mention the abstract colossus because so many people are currently working in the United States and that is indeed a good thing.
I don't like Trump, he's turned a relatively stable world into a contentious polemic, and I don't know if his policies are directly responsible for the thousands of jobs that have been created down South, and I don't know how many of those jobs are steady 9-5 positions complete with decent wages, breaks, and benefits, but I do consistently read that thousands of people are back to work, and I can't dismiss that categorically even if I support different approaches to politics.
I love that people are working again even if I rather strongly dislike Mr. Trump.
Fahrenheit 11/9 breaks contemporary American politics down with unabashed Moorian vigour, uplifting progressive statistics tragically juxtaposed with downtrodden initiatives, myriad stunning examples as breathtaking as they are horrifying.
The picture painted is bleak to say the least, and I'm not here to contradict his assessment.
His examples aren't numerous enough to definitively frame the Democratic Party within the portrait he depicts, but they are revealing enough to start making reasonable accusations about the ways in which it goes about choosing its candidates.
If you can't allow your members to freely choose who represents you, even if a candidate doesn't fit a specific mold, it's distressing, and prone to manifest disillusion.
Trump rode unpredictability straight to the White House, and hasn't let up since for an instant.
Moore castigates the Democratic Party, Barack Obama, The New York Times, Union Leadership in West Virginia, and his rational enough presentation, which should be accompanied by a recommended reading list (it may have been in the end credits), seems generally hopeless, apart from its praise for Bernie Sanders and rising young Democratic candidates.
I started following Sanders on Instagram and he is incredible, the real deal, the genuine article, Jack Laytonesque.
He's as active as Trump but I rarely read about him in The New York Times.
It's like The New York Times is suicidally linked with Trump, like they're so dependent upon the revenue his antics generate, antics which constantly deride and attempt to ruin them, that they're afraid to take a financial hit and start backing a politician whom they would theoretically adore.
The people clearly love him.
His actions should be making headlines every day.
Scripted, Moore makes everything seem scripted, like people who don't subscribe to The New York Times don't matter, like they've stopped trying to find alternative means to generate revenue, and the Democratic Party is sticking too closely to a worn out formula.
But Sanders, the young alternative Democratic politicians, the teachers, and the workers Moore interviews are first rate, and I admire the ways in which they boldly stand up for hardworking Americans.
At the same time, should the situation become even more bleak, people can always look beyond politics.
You can form community groups which take communal action, work with each other to exemplify dreams elites have cynically classified unattainable, focus on taking non-violent actions that can lead to progressive change, the key perhaps being to simply listen to each other without sarcastically dismissing points of view or making others look ridiculous, and recognizing that within a democracy everyone's voice matters, regardless of income, education, race, gender, or sexual orientation.
If people create what they're hoping the government will create themselves, when a government finally comes along which supports their objectives there could be an extended period of widespread bliss casually sashaying through Congress for an extended period.
It's happened before, even if when people say the system's broken they're technically right.
Always.
To paraphrase Plato, and, I, Claudius, the system has always been broken, there never was a golden age where harmony prospered everywhere and everyone got along harmoniously.
Political systems aren't trucks.
You can take a truck in to be fixed.
One, two, maybe three mechanics work on it, not thousands of people from different regions with different backgrounds.
It's much less complicated to fix a truck.
A truck is real.
It exists physically.
That doesn't mean you don't stop trying to fix political systems.
If you stop trying to fix them, true darkness descends, and, to quote Pink Floyd, [you have to] get out of the road if you want to grow old (Sheep, Animals).
I believe in governments who want to help their citizens prosper and are committed to creating societies where it is possible for everyone to have the opportunity to do so.
But with a situation as grim as that presented in Fahrenheit 11/9, it looks like a lot of American people need to start creating paradise on Earth themselves, one self-sacrificing step soberly taken at a time.
*Idea for grassroots politicians hoping to make a difference: stop campaigning traditionally. Stop going door to door. Find a super rough demanding job and start working hard labour. Not for an afternoon, not for a coffee break in the morning, but for months at a time, tweeting and posting videos all the way. Then you'll really learn what it's like to live that kind of life and be so much more ready to defend those who do in Congress. Plus, you'll get to know so many wonderful people whom you may have never met otherwise. And learn what they really want and why they really want it. Remember. You're not the boss. You need the job. Your family's struggling. And you can't quit. That's my suggestion for new campaigning methods. According to Michael Moore's oeuvre, nothing else is working.
Friday, October 5, 2018
The House with a Clock in its Walls
Tragedy strikes, and an orphaned youth (Owen Vaccaro as Lewis Barnavelt) must move to his estranged uncle's, an eccentric man (Jack Black as Jonathon Barnavelt) whose specialized gifts were vilified by his once adoring family, although his devoted sister truly never stopped loving him.
His house is somewhat peculiar, and as young Lewis settles in, manifold bewitching anthropomorphized elements poetically particularize at random, his uncle and encyclopaedic neighbour (Cate Blanchett as Florence Zimmerman) living distinctly spellbound lives, Lewis's own attuned well-defined semantic inquiries suggesting he will make an apt pupil indeed, they forge an enchanting inclusive didactic openminded consensus, freely uplifting curious minds, unstructured tutelage impacting at play, fantastically composed, like any local library.
Perhaps Lewis may have benefitted from more guidance, however, for soon, in an effort to make friends, he's broken his uncle's only rule, and an evil warlock (Kyle MacLachlan as Isaac Izard) has returned from the grave.
Hellbent on destroying the world which nonetheless seems intent on self-destructing, his spirit crushed after fighting in World War II, he moves back to his once joyous abode, unleashing mayhem despotically thereafter.
Crimson glade.
The House with a Clock in its Walls could have been so much more.
Does every fantasy film have to prevent the destruction of the world these days, or has it simply always been a fundamental aspect?
Is anyone making independent hip artsy fantasy films that aren't animated?
Here we have a wonderful film rich with artful eccentricity overflowing with creative synergies still blindly focused on the end of the world.
Can't fantasy concentrate on creating narratives that are a bit less prone to armageddon, because it really just seems tacked on to this one?
Does the end of the world in fact symbolize the end of one's youth, and is that why fantastic heroes must nimbly face it?
Still though, every time?
Instead of Lewis developing a friendship that's diversified throughout with sympathetic Rose Rita Pottinger (Vanessa Anne Williams), it doesn't happen until the film's final moments.
Instead of Lewis spending at least 7 minutes inspecting his new home by himself, replete with tension and bewilderment and frights and disbelief, a sequence which emphasizes that he's just moved to a new house in a new town following a tragic event, he simply looks around a bit, and freaks when he discovers magic's real.
Denying the auspices of the forbidden.
Clock in its Walls is too blunt, everything happens too quickly, there aren't any build-ups/questions that-go-unanswered/jigsaws/mysteries, it's much too obvious for a film that celebrates originality and never even really decoratively surpasses Pee-wee's Playhouse, even with all its technological expertise.
Why doesn't Florence have a memorable moment where she resplendently shines and figuratively pays back her tyrannical oppressors?
It would have been so #metoo!
Why is the only serious obstacle the trio faces a patch of vicious pumpkins near the end?
Details!
A film as appealing as this one would have benefitted from at least 78 more details/references to cleverly expand upon its traditional yet compelling premise.
The seeds are sewn but don't take root.
Isn't it blasé to make everything so global in the age of globalization?
Another 40 minutes would have been great.
A fun film to watch that misses out on incredible opportunities.
His house is somewhat peculiar, and as young Lewis settles in, manifold bewitching anthropomorphized elements poetically particularize at random, his uncle and encyclopaedic neighbour (Cate Blanchett as Florence Zimmerman) living distinctly spellbound lives, Lewis's own attuned well-defined semantic inquiries suggesting he will make an apt pupil indeed, they forge an enchanting inclusive didactic openminded consensus, freely uplifting curious minds, unstructured tutelage impacting at play, fantastically composed, like any local library.
Perhaps Lewis may have benefitted from more guidance, however, for soon, in an effort to make friends, he's broken his uncle's only rule, and an evil warlock (Kyle MacLachlan as Isaac Izard) has returned from the grave.
Hellbent on destroying the world which nonetheless seems intent on self-destructing, his spirit crushed after fighting in World War II, he moves back to his once joyous abode, unleashing mayhem despotically thereafter.
Crimson glade.
The House with a Clock in its Walls could have been so much more.
Does every fantasy film have to prevent the destruction of the world these days, or has it simply always been a fundamental aspect?
Is anyone making independent hip artsy fantasy films that aren't animated?
Here we have a wonderful film rich with artful eccentricity overflowing with creative synergies still blindly focused on the end of the world.
Can't fantasy concentrate on creating narratives that are a bit less prone to armageddon, because it really just seems tacked on to this one?
Does the end of the world in fact symbolize the end of one's youth, and is that why fantastic heroes must nimbly face it?
Still though, every time?
Instead of Lewis developing a friendship that's diversified throughout with sympathetic Rose Rita Pottinger (Vanessa Anne Williams), it doesn't happen until the film's final moments.
Instead of Lewis spending at least 7 minutes inspecting his new home by himself, replete with tension and bewilderment and frights and disbelief, a sequence which emphasizes that he's just moved to a new house in a new town following a tragic event, he simply looks around a bit, and freaks when he discovers magic's real.
Denying the auspices of the forbidden.
Clock in its Walls is too blunt, everything happens too quickly, there aren't any build-ups/questions that-go-unanswered/jigsaws/mysteries, it's much too obvious for a film that celebrates originality and never even really decoratively surpasses Pee-wee's Playhouse, even with all its technological expertise.
Why doesn't Florence have a memorable moment where she resplendently shines and figuratively pays back her tyrannical oppressors?
It would have been so #metoo!
Why is the only serious obstacle the trio faces a patch of vicious pumpkins near the end?
Details!
A film as appealing as this one would have benefitted from at least 78 more details/references to cleverly expand upon its traditional yet compelling premise.
The seeds are sewn but don't take root.
Isn't it blasé to make everything so global in the age of globalization?
Another 40 minutes would have been great.
A fun film to watch that misses out on incredible opportunities.
Tuesday, October 2, 2018
Don't Worry, He Won't Get Far on Foot
I suppose I write about pastis, or red wine, or craft beer, from time to time.
This may give the wrong impression.
Do I enjoy drinking the exceptional craft beer brewed in Québec and elsewhere?
Yes, many of them are quite good.
Red wine and pastis, also quite good.
But, after one too many parties 15-20 years ago, I found ways to generally limit my drinking that enabled me to actually enjoy what I drink, instead of just drinking whatever.
Moving to a city where English isn't the primary means of communication and having to find work helped, as does having to start work between 5 and 6:30am most of the time.
The most important rule: stay away from the hard stuff.
Just one if there's a brand you particularly like, and enjoy it slowly after a hard week of dedicated work.
Plus never drink if you're sad or you feel like you have to, and take your time while you have a drink, take it easy, orinoco flow.
If you feel like you really have to have a drink try drinking something non-alcoholic like soda or orange juice or something with pineapple. Drink 4 or 5 of them. Keep your thirst occupied.
It's way less expensive than alcohol.
And can be healthy in some instances.
There's also non-alcoholic beer.
But come on.
That's disgusting.
Gus Van Sant's Don't Worry, He Won't Get Far on Foot looks at several lives destroyed by alcoholism, focusing primarily on a quadriplegic cartoonist named John Callahan (Joaquin Phoenix).
He hit the hard stuff full-speed-ahead one night and wound up immobilized for life.
He's super mischievous though, he doesn't let the misfortune get him too down, zipping through town on his motorized wheelchair like it's a Lamborghini, finding artistic ways to express himself and a corresponding job at a local paper.
It helps that he finds a cool partner (Rooney Mara as Annu), and an Alcoholics Anonymous group whose grizzly empathy helps him tone it down a notch or two.
Strange film
Tough fucker.
It defies expectations inasmuch as you'd expect it to depict John suffering intensely, despair pervading throughout in order to function as a solemn indictment.
It's still gloomy, Callahan's confined to a wheelchair and can hardly move, and he does break down at times, but Van Sant showcases his inspiring resilience as well, like an odd blend of the Le scaphandre et le papillon and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, with hints of Almodóvar.
Well-acted, directed, perhaps too light considering the gravity of the situation, but there are some heartfelt moments of acknowledged bitter regret too.
And teams.
Teamwork.
The cartoons are funny but remember making light of the intense suffering of others can have horrendous consequences if it's applied politically.
If you can't come up with something else that's funny, it's possible that, you suck.
Or are extremely lazy.
A glass of wine and then bed for me.
I swear cultural osmosis has taught me a French secret.
I also spend more freely than I used to.
And still like going out from time to time.
This may give the wrong impression.
Do I enjoy drinking the exceptional craft beer brewed in Québec and elsewhere?
Yes, many of them are quite good.
Red wine and pastis, also quite good.
But, after one too many parties 15-20 years ago, I found ways to generally limit my drinking that enabled me to actually enjoy what I drink, instead of just drinking whatever.
Moving to a city where English isn't the primary means of communication and having to find work helped, as does having to start work between 5 and 6:30am most of the time.
The most important rule: stay away from the hard stuff.
Just one if there's a brand you particularly like, and enjoy it slowly after a hard week of dedicated work.
Plus never drink if you're sad or you feel like you have to, and take your time while you have a drink, take it easy, orinoco flow.
If you feel like you really have to have a drink try drinking something non-alcoholic like soda or orange juice or something with pineapple. Drink 4 or 5 of them. Keep your thirst occupied.
It's way less expensive than alcohol.
And can be healthy in some instances.
There's also non-alcoholic beer.
But come on.
That's disgusting.
Gus Van Sant's Don't Worry, He Won't Get Far on Foot looks at several lives destroyed by alcoholism, focusing primarily on a quadriplegic cartoonist named John Callahan (Joaquin Phoenix).
He hit the hard stuff full-speed-ahead one night and wound up immobilized for life.
He's super mischievous though, he doesn't let the misfortune get him too down, zipping through town on his motorized wheelchair like it's a Lamborghini, finding artistic ways to express himself and a corresponding job at a local paper.
It helps that he finds a cool partner (Rooney Mara as Annu), and an Alcoholics Anonymous group whose grizzly empathy helps him tone it down a notch or two.
Strange film
Tough fucker.
It defies expectations inasmuch as you'd expect it to depict John suffering intensely, despair pervading throughout in order to function as a solemn indictment.
It's still gloomy, Callahan's confined to a wheelchair and can hardly move, and he does break down at times, but Van Sant showcases his inspiring resilience as well, like an odd blend of the Le scaphandre et le papillon and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, with hints of Almodóvar.
Well-acted, directed, perhaps too light considering the gravity of the situation, but there are some heartfelt moments of acknowledged bitter regret too.
And teams.
Teamwork.
The cartoons are funny but remember making light of the intense suffering of others can have horrendous consequences if it's applied politically.
If you can't come up with something else that's funny, it's possible that, you suck.
Or are extremely lazy.
A glass of wine and then bed for me.
I swear cultural osmosis has taught me a French secret.
I also spend more freely than I used to.
And still like going out from time to time.
Friday, September 28, 2018
Madeline's Madeline
Raw inimitable frothing exuberant talent exasperated within deductive convention extemporaneously seething through.
Misunderstandings contraceptively disputing improvised codes maladroitly enfeebling eruptive creative scripture, diminutive tisane steeped in self-doubt ominous reckless outbursts wildly stricken angst.
No rules.
No mentor.
Consuming instinct cognizant of its gravity elementally composing ephemeral truths, the art of reflecting a god's experimental impulses editing in universal flux, objectives unrecognized ceaseless mismatched byproducts tempering environmental exfoliation; arboreal glimpses sowing conscious splash.
Climatology.
Raindrops.
She's phenomenal.
Constant motion excavating incorporeal archaeological feeling clasped in whisked conjecture verifiably asymmetrically drawn.
Random impulse subconsciously sleuthing bare recalcitrants embroiled revealed.
Ethereal alma mater intuitively grasped like love blindly struck with congenital nuisance empiric moisture foam.
Mama lynx still a kit feisty mews mystified matriculating.
Exotic overtures.
Prone discomfort.
Abstruse grammar attuned not specialized boldly stoked constrained gusts briskly pounced moans rosetta.
Obscene exhaustion retail shock.
Peace of mind on stage.
Constituent convalescence.
Emotional infinities planetary permutations feline fluctuation omniscient ceremony.
Bertha dans la zone.
It's like performance anxiety is strictly material as Madeline (Helena Howard) disconcertingly asserts stratos.
Duelling with classification.
Alternatives strictly conceived.
Misunderstandings contraceptively disputing improvised codes maladroitly enfeebling eruptive creative scripture, diminutive tisane steeped in self-doubt ominous reckless outbursts wildly stricken angst.
No rules.
No mentor.
Consuming instinct cognizant of its gravity elementally composing ephemeral truths, the art of reflecting a god's experimental impulses editing in universal flux, objectives unrecognized ceaseless mismatched byproducts tempering environmental exfoliation; arboreal glimpses sowing conscious splash.
Climatology.
Raindrops.
She's phenomenal.
Constant motion excavating incorporeal archaeological feeling clasped in whisked conjecture verifiably asymmetrically drawn.
Random impulse subconsciously sleuthing bare recalcitrants embroiled revealed.
Ethereal alma mater intuitively grasped like love blindly struck with congenital nuisance empiric moisture foam.
Mama lynx still a kit feisty mews mystified matriculating.
Exotic overtures.
Prone discomfort.
Abstruse grammar attuned not specialized boldly stoked constrained gusts briskly pounced moans rosetta.
Obscene exhaustion retail shock.
Peace of mind on stage.
Constituent convalescence.
Emotional infinities planetary permutations feline fluctuation omniscient ceremony.
Bertha dans la zone.
It's like performance anxiety is strictly material as Madeline (Helena Howard) disconcertingly asserts stratos.
Duelling with classification.
Alternatives strictly conceived.
Tuesday, September 25, 2018
Juliet, Naked
A long-term relationship, once overflowing with amorous bounty, has fallen into a state of blind extraction, one partner remaining guiltless as the other pans and prospects, crass dismissive routine having disenchanted glib absorption.
Duncan Thomson (Chris O'Dowd) is quite successful for someone who's become even more enamoured with the music of his youth as he's aged, a rare highly-specialized peculiarity who's found both stimulating employment and an irresistible mate without having to adjust his lifestyle, at all, like an uncompromised established radical nerd god I suppose, who may have been diagnosed autistic if he hadn't learned to tame distracting obsessions, level-headed if not unique, examining non-Dickensian media pedagogically throughout the day.
Annie Platt (Rose Byrne) is also a success yet puts up with more bullshit than most women I know would for five minutes. She's spent too many years acquiescing and it's unfortunately resulted in stalemate.
When suddenly, as if a rival divinity decided to mystify his or her earthly spiritual contemporaries, she writes a critical review of the artist Duncan fetishizes, and shortly thereafter, that very same singer/songwriter, one Tucker Crowe (Ethan Hawke), makes first intuitive contact.
Crowe's soon visiting town after attending an hospitable family reunion close by (he's from the States and Annie lives in Britain), and the two hit it off even though/because they're both rather charmingly unsure of themselves.
Multiple characters offering myriad commentaries accompany them as they exchange goods, stewing an atypical bourgeois pot roast of sorts which narratively generates free-flowing conceptual sustenance.
From Annie's worldly lesbian sister (Lily Brazier as Ros Platt) to her town's mayoral sensation (Phil Davis as Mayor Terry Barton) to the subject of an old school photograph (Ninette Finch) to Tucker's thoughtful son Jackson (Azhy Robertson), an active international urbanely pastoral assertive inoffensive multigenerational cluster thoughtfully protrudes, constant flux radiating concerted solitude, domestic clutches loosening vows seized.
Unmarried vows.
Whatever.
The main characters aren't one-dimensional pin-ups either, evolving crises and resurgent settlements interrogatively finagling initial semantic outlines, as a matter of psychological flexibility openly conciliated, in spite of pretence recalled.
Tucker Crowe isn't ideal or anything, but he's changed and is much more responsible than he used to be.
Breakdowns still regularly accompany his daily regimen, often brought on by legitimate grievances cunningly wielded by jaded yet prosperous former lovers.
Wives, partners, fans.
Children he's never met.
Duncan is a bit of a douche but you still feel for him when Crowe bluntly and insensitively ignores his questions, even if from Crowe's point of view he's that guy.
Juliet, Naked is a laidback multilayered serious comedic piece of exceptional screenwriting (Evgenia Peretz, Jim Taylor, and Tamara Jenkins), convincing personalities innocently/frankly/charitably/maturely/helplessly/judiciously observing otherworldly circumstances, while remaining committed to personal affairs which romanticize anaesthetic sensation.
Dozens of cool little ideas and points of view expertly weaved into a funny unconcerned profound teacup tapestry.
It doesn't acknowledge how ridiculous it all sounds.
Adroitly so.
I'll keep coming back to the hospital scene again and again, which was much too short.
Perfectly timed ending though.
Duncan Thomson (Chris O'Dowd) is quite successful for someone who's become even more enamoured with the music of his youth as he's aged, a rare highly-specialized peculiarity who's found both stimulating employment and an irresistible mate without having to adjust his lifestyle, at all, like an uncompromised established radical nerd god I suppose, who may have been diagnosed autistic if he hadn't learned to tame distracting obsessions, level-headed if not unique, examining non-Dickensian media pedagogically throughout the day.
Annie Platt (Rose Byrne) is also a success yet puts up with more bullshit than most women I know would for five minutes. She's spent too many years acquiescing and it's unfortunately resulted in stalemate.
When suddenly, as if a rival divinity decided to mystify his or her earthly spiritual contemporaries, she writes a critical review of the artist Duncan fetishizes, and shortly thereafter, that very same singer/songwriter, one Tucker Crowe (Ethan Hawke), makes first intuitive contact.
Crowe's soon visiting town after attending an hospitable family reunion close by (he's from the States and Annie lives in Britain), and the two hit it off even though/because they're both rather charmingly unsure of themselves.
Multiple characters offering myriad commentaries accompany them as they exchange goods, stewing an atypical bourgeois pot roast of sorts which narratively generates free-flowing conceptual sustenance.
From Annie's worldly lesbian sister (Lily Brazier as Ros Platt) to her town's mayoral sensation (Phil Davis as Mayor Terry Barton) to the subject of an old school photograph (Ninette Finch) to Tucker's thoughtful son Jackson (Azhy Robertson), an active international urbanely pastoral assertive inoffensive multigenerational cluster thoughtfully protrudes, constant flux radiating concerted solitude, domestic clutches loosening vows seized.
Unmarried vows.
Whatever.
The main characters aren't one-dimensional pin-ups either, evolving crises and resurgent settlements interrogatively finagling initial semantic outlines, as a matter of psychological flexibility openly conciliated, in spite of pretence recalled.
Tucker Crowe isn't ideal or anything, but he's changed and is much more responsible than he used to be.
Breakdowns still regularly accompany his daily regimen, often brought on by legitimate grievances cunningly wielded by jaded yet prosperous former lovers.
Wives, partners, fans.
Children he's never met.
Duncan is a bit of a douche but you still feel for him when Crowe bluntly and insensitively ignores his questions, even if from Crowe's point of view he's that guy.
Juliet, Naked is a laidback multilayered serious comedic piece of exceptional screenwriting (Evgenia Peretz, Jim Taylor, and Tamara Jenkins), convincing personalities innocently/frankly/charitably/maturely/helplessly/judiciously observing otherworldly circumstances, while remaining committed to personal affairs which romanticize anaesthetic sensation.
Dozens of cool little ideas and points of view expertly weaved into a funny unconcerned profound teacup tapestry.
It doesn't acknowledge how ridiculous it all sounds.
Adroitly so.
I'll keep coming back to the hospital scene again and again, which was much too short.
Perfectly timed ending though.
Friday, September 21, 2018
1991
An unanticipated spontaneous exotic academic excursion adventurously unravels in sarsaparillic miniature, lighthearted yet fascinating inchoate escapades, romantically acculturated with pioneered social pause, randomly convivializing spades, hearts, haze, clubbing not focused upon although zesty quaffs do saturate several scenes, Ricardo Trogi's 1991 playfully depicting spirited leisure studies in autodidactic swoon, as Jean-Carl Boucher (Ricardo Trogi) recalls familial legends, and mischievously departs for his ancestral patria.
Could Ireland have been worked in?
Yes, definitely, and I'm puzzled as to why the Emerald Isle, in its everlasting effervescent temperate ginger majesty, was left out, although perhaps a less circuitous focus on Italy and France was more apt, even if such evocations overlooked Europe's authentic heartland.
Jean-Carl proceeds through the unknown cultural wilderness, meeting spry eclectic denizens along the way, transported by train across sundry frontiers, regionally speaking, elastically compiling histoires robust and brittle.
In search of truest love.
Studiously awaiting in Italy.
Troji's funny, clever, charmingly observant sojourn overseas presents ambassadorial serendipity in rugged improvisational catalyst.
Mom (Sandrine Bisson) and dad (Claudio Colangelo) still adorably co-ordinate conjugal theatrics, and the aforementioned legends add a touch of outlandish dynamism.
A series of imaginative encounters between Troji and love interest Marie-Ève Bernard (Juliette Gosselin) are particularly appealing, like you're magnetically transported into mock-Antonioniesque dire pragmatism.
It'd be cool to see them crafted into a feature length emulsion (just make sure it's better than Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid [which I may have been too young for when I saw it {and probably has nothing to do with Italian cinema]).
Troji's gifts for creating cool relatable yet quirky characters are cheerfully pronounced as he showcases interpersonal invention by briskly interweaving lost, ambitious, established, curious, and defined souls.
I'd love to see him hit le Saguenay.
With some Tante Tricotante.
And a night out in Tadoussac.
*Not as good as 1987.
Could Ireland have been worked in?
Yes, definitely, and I'm puzzled as to why the Emerald Isle, in its everlasting effervescent temperate ginger majesty, was left out, although perhaps a less circuitous focus on Italy and France was more apt, even if such evocations overlooked Europe's authentic heartland.
Jean-Carl proceeds through the unknown cultural wilderness, meeting spry eclectic denizens along the way, transported by train across sundry frontiers, regionally speaking, elastically compiling histoires robust and brittle.
In search of truest love.
Studiously awaiting in Italy.
Troji's funny, clever, charmingly observant sojourn overseas presents ambassadorial serendipity in rugged improvisational catalyst.
Mom (Sandrine Bisson) and dad (Claudio Colangelo) still adorably co-ordinate conjugal theatrics, and the aforementioned legends add a touch of outlandish dynamism.
A series of imaginative encounters between Troji and love interest Marie-Ève Bernard (Juliette Gosselin) are particularly appealing, like you're magnetically transported into mock-Antonioniesque dire pragmatism.
It'd be cool to see them crafted into a feature length emulsion (just make sure it's better than Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid [which I may have been too young for when I saw it {and probably has nothing to do with Italian cinema]).
Troji's gifts for creating cool relatable yet quirky characters are cheerfully pronounced as he showcases interpersonal invention by briskly interweaving lost, ambitious, established, curious, and defined souls.
I'd love to see him hit le Saguenay.
With some Tante Tricotante.
And a night out in Tadoussac.
*Not as good as 1987.
Tuesday, September 18, 2018
La Tenerezza (Tenderness)
Stubbornness and pride abound in Gianni Amelio's La Tenerezza, as a widower takes a shine to a family next door, while continuing to neglect his own middle-aged offspring, who shamelessly covet their litigious inheritance.
His extramarital appetites produced profound resentment in his young, and his unwillingness to accept responsibility have fostered distraught enmities.
The young family is energetic and full of life, curiosity boundlessly blooming as mother and little ones inspect undiscovered surroundings.
Lorenzo (Renato Carpentieri) finds himself offering fatherly advice and even develops kind friendships with both partners, sharing observations grumpily withheld from daughter and son with his unknown endearing impulsive new neighbours.
Something's not quite right though, Fabio (Elio Germano) often sharing awkward sad thoughts to which Lorenzo responds with empathy.
And as the joy from Amélie is pathologically reconceptualized, La Tenerezza admonishes adventurous spirits, the ramifications of settling with mindsets unsound, obtusely effecting tenants newfound, while those grown accustomed to habitual means, pay full price for taxing soirées indiscreet.
Redemption is sought however misplaced temperate reckonings bearing choice succulent fruits.
The film rhetorically narrativizes clashes between longstanding and recently confirmed residents to examine belonging and community from less romantic social ordeals.
Tenderness breaks through but as a cold heart convalesces psychological precedents confound poised rebirths.
Depicting a less cheerful array of realistic sentiments, losses disparaged erupt with molten inadmissibility.
Its mistrust of male refugees isn't counterbalanced by dependable claimants, even if said mistrust is ostensibly the byproduct of Lorenzo's infidelities, childhood trauma effecting his daughter Elena's (Giovanna Mezzogiorno) professional and personal lives, her inability to trust men perhaps resulting in cynical isolation.
Xenophobia's still xenophobia even when it's intellectually contextualized.
Leaving audiences to sift through clues presented to clarify semantic stresses may ambiguously impress, but effects still hauntingly linger long after characters heal from hard fought lessons.
His extramarital appetites produced profound resentment in his young, and his unwillingness to accept responsibility have fostered distraught enmities.
The young family is energetic and full of life, curiosity boundlessly blooming as mother and little ones inspect undiscovered surroundings.
Lorenzo (Renato Carpentieri) finds himself offering fatherly advice and even develops kind friendships with both partners, sharing observations grumpily withheld from daughter and son with his unknown endearing impulsive new neighbours.
Something's not quite right though, Fabio (Elio Germano) often sharing awkward sad thoughts to which Lorenzo responds with empathy.
And as the joy from Amélie is pathologically reconceptualized, La Tenerezza admonishes adventurous spirits, the ramifications of settling with mindsets unsound, obtusely effecting tenants newfound, while those grown accustomed to habitual means, pay full price for taxing soirées indiscreet.
Redemption is sought however misplaced temperate reckonings bearing choice succulent fruits.
The film rhetorically narrativizes clashes between longstanding and recently confirmed residents to examine belonging and community from less romantic social ordeals.
Tenderness breaks through but as a cold heart convalesces psychological precedents confound poised rebirths.
Depicting a less cheerful array of realistic sentiments, losses disparaged erupt with molten inadmissibility.
Its mistrust of male refugees isn't counterbalanced by dependable claimants, even if said mistrust is ostensibly the byproduct of Lorenzo's infidelities, childhood trauma effecting his daughter Elena's (Giovanna Mezzogiorno) professional and personal lives, her inability to trust men perhaps resulting in cynical isolation.
Xenophobia's still xenophobia even when it's intellectually contextualized.
Leaving audiences to sift through clues presented to clarify semantic stresses may ambiguously impress, but effects still hauntingly linger long after characters heal from hard fought lessons.
Friday, September 14, 2018
Puzzle
You've played the video game thousands of times.
You're good at it.
You know the secrets for every level.
But you've played it over and over and over again to the point where it seems like you're stuck on an easy level forever, with no hope of playing something more challenging or diversifying your agile technique 'til the unforeseeable corked end of time.
Others don't seem to understand.
They like their levels.
They don't mind the routine.
But one day an unexpected diversion suddenly reignites cognitive passions which then exhilaratingly intensify an otherwise typical afternoon.
The predictable structure which has been forlornly upheld for what seems like eons finds itself briefly reinvigorated with novel motivational amelioration.
Harmless enough, additional challenges are sought the pursuit of which reveals hidden wonders complexly layered with alternative options, the new game's design possessing limitless imagination stretched across borderless frontiers inhabited by seemingly infinite individualities stressing nothing indistinct in particular.
The thrilling rush of discovery.
Invaluably articulated.
Marc Turtletaub's Puzzle adventurously fitting these pieces together to modestly celebrate romantic parentheses, each partner a redefined wilderness slowly homesteading unfurnished habitations.
Inexhaustible permutations.
Storylines, respect abounding and although some characters could be less rigid, none of them are presented angelically or monstrously.
Choice is vindicated, Puzzle's like an innocent investigation of manifold worlds the characteristics of which envelope varying degrees of boredom or fascination while taking factors like mood, time, compatibility, and eccentricity into account, leaving abundant room for interrogative developments, catalysts and breadcrumbs, Easter eggs and fireworks atmospherically blending, what's different today?, what can be creatively stitched and spooled?
With a brilliant ending.
Emerging in timeless craft.
You're good at it.
You know the secrets for every level.
But you've played it over and over and over again to the point where it seems like you're stuck on an easy level forever, with no hope of playing something more challenging or diversifying your agile technique 'til the unforeseeable corked end of time.
Others don't seem to understand.
They like their levels.
They don't mind the routine.
But one day an unexpected diversion suddenly reignites cognitive passions which then exhilaratingly intensify an otherwise typical afternoon.
The predictable structure which has been forlornly upheld for what seems like eons finds itself briefly reinvigorated with novel motivational amelioration.
Harmless enough, additional challenges are sought the pursuit of which reveals hidden wonders complexly layered with alternative options, the new game's design possessing limitless imagination stretched across borderless frontiers inhabited by seemingly infinite individualities stressing nothing indistinct in particular.
The thrilling rush of discovery.
Invaluably articulated.
Marc Turtletaub's Puzzle adventurously fitting these pieces together to modestly celebrate romantic parentheses, each partner a redefined wilderness slowly homesteading unfurnished habitations.
Inexhaustible permutations.
Storylines, respect abounding and although some characters could be less rigid, none of them are presented angelically or monstrously.
Choice is vindicated, Puzzle's like an innocent investigation of manifold worlds the characteristics of which envelope varying degrees of boredom or fascination while taking factors like mood, time, compatibility, and eccentricity into account, leaving abundant room for interrogative developments, catalysts and breadcrumbs, Easter eggs and fireworks atmospherically blending, what's different today?, what can be creatively stitched and spooled?
With a brilliant ending.
Emerging in timeless craft.
Tuesday, September 11, 2018
Papillon
Entrenched plutocrats, none too pleased with having been fooled, frame a specialized romantic thief with most scandalous murder.
As lucrative sums casually discern culpability, a bright future slowly fades into unimaginative oblivion.
Banished from France and sent to live in an isolated penal colony, Henri 'Papillon' Charrière (Charlie Hunnam) sets his aggrieved broken heart on escaping.
Fellow less pugilistic prisoner Louis Dega (Rami Malek) provides financial backing in exchange for loyal security, having been rightfully convicted for counterfeiting, the proceeds of which he's partially brought along.
But careless plans, foolish declarations, inclement weather, and treacherous saviours incrementally spoil their impromptu soliloquies, extended time in solitary confinement awaiting, for as long as an excruciating non-negotiable 5 years.
Many spent in total darkness.
Yet Papillon will not forget his cherished homeland (or Québec perhaps [it doesn't come up {would it have been that hard to include a scene where he considers settling in Montréal?}]) nor curtail his efforts to one day return.
As stubborn and incorrigible as he is death-defying, he embraces the unknown with devout frenzied reverence.
If only a love of nature had been inculcated at a young age, the jungles of French Guiana no doubt would have overflowed with tropical sustenance.
But as things would have it, or rather as this somewhat bland account would present them, Papillon continues to trust the small closely-knit members of his colonialist enclave's upper echelons, rather than the bounty of the forbidden wild, only to see severe punishments increase as time lugubriously passes by.
Papillon's somewhat too light for such grave subject matter, too bare, too superficial.
I wanted to learn more about its fascinating characters and listen as they plotted while getting to know one another, but the film only develops one individual diminutively, and it's not even Papillon, the resultant blunt dialogues leaving little room to manoeuvre, even though for decades they must have had nothing but conversation to console themselves.
The crafty Rami Malek effortlessly steals every scene he's in, adding multifaceted flourishes throughout which prove his voice would extoll first rate animation.
But he's like the gold particles in a dull textbook slab of cinematic ore, brilliantly shining through before fading as it's lit up explicitly.
With possibly the least surreal dream sequence I've ever seen.
Hardened inmates innocently greeting one another like they're at Summer camp.
Hardly any time spent actually planning their escapes.
Even less considering the outside world.
Papillon's much more like a caterpillar, covering far too long a period without managing to produce much depth.
Lots of fighting though, nobility of spirit versus basic instinct and such, and even if they dependably relied on one another, it still seems as if they were simply chugging along.
Shizam.
As lucrative sums casually discern culpability, a bright future slowly fades into unimaginative oblivion.
Banished from France and sent to live in an isolated penal colony, Henri 'Papillon' Charrière (Charlie Hunnam) sets his aggrieved broken heart on escaping.
Fellow less pugilistic prisoner Louis Dega (Rami Malek) provides financial backing in exchange for loyal security, having been rightfully convicted for counterfeiting, the proceeds of which he's partially brought along.
But careless plans, foolish declarations, inclement weather, and treacherous saviours incrementally spoil their impromptu soliloquies, extended time in solitary confinement awaiting, for as long as an excruciating non-negotiable 5 years.
Many spent in total darkness.
Yet Papillon will not forget his cherished homeland (or Québec perhaps [it doesn't come up {would it have been that hard to include a scene where he considers settling in Montréal?}]) nor curtail his efforts to one day return.
As stubborn and incorrigible as he is death-defying, he embraces the unknown with devout frenzied reverence.
If only a love of nature had been inculcated at a young age, the jungles of French Guiana no doubt would have overflowed with tropical sustenance.
But as things would have it, or rather as this somewhat bland account would present them, Papillon continues to trust the small closely-knit members of his colonialist enclave's upper echelons, rather than the bounty of the forbidden wild, only to see severe punishments increase as time lugubriously passes by.
Papillon's somewhat too light for such grave subject matter, too bare, too superficial.
I wanted to learn more about its fascinating characters and listen as they plotted while getting to know one another, but the film only develops one individual diminutively, and it's not even Papillon, the resultant blunt dialogues leaving little room to manoeuvre, even though for decades they must have had nothing but conversation to console themselves.
The crafty Rami Malek effortlessly steals every scene he's in, adding multifaceted flourishes throughout which prove his voice would extoll first rate animation.
But he's like the gold particles in a dull textbook slab of cinematic ore, brilliantly shining through before fading as it's lit up explicitly.
With possibly the least surreal dream sequence I've ever seen.
Hardened inmates innocently greeting one another like they're at Summer camp.
Hardly any time spent actually planning their escapes.
Even less considering the outside world.
Papillon's much more like a caterpillar, covering far too long a period without managing to produce much depth.
Lots of fighting though, nobility of spirit versus basic instinct and such, and even if they dependably relied on one another, it still seems as if they were simply chugging along.
Shizam.
Friday, September 7, 2018
A Room with A View
Sometimes it's important to make decisions when you lack knowledge and comprehension.
Contemplating exponential hypotheticals may only serve to sterilize raw emotions unpredictably cascading themselves as the unexpected taxonomically qualifies spontaneity.
Trying to make sense of them may result in an otherwise splendid evening stifled, presumption and preconception phantasmagorically belittling the experimental as if romance (or science) were something to be categorically disillusioned, prior to making first contact without ever having trusted irresponsibly.
Vacations during which you encounter individuals possessing alternative viewpoints semantically nurtured beyond localized frontiers can have rapturous effects, as they do in James Ivory's A Room with a View, as studious Lucy Honeychurch (Helena Bonham Carter) meets daring George Emerson (Julian Sands) and potentialities previously merely conceptualized suddenly invoke unconsidered epistemic senses.
Practically so.
Even if less emotional interactions are to be found in relationships forthcoming, the memories of those fleeting moments may effervescently characterize the dependably conjugal with adventurous imaginatively epic allegories, narratively liaised in intricate domestic reverie.
Unless the thrilling distraction should appear back home at a point in time before you find yourself wed.
At which point the exotic and the classified bewilderingly synthesize in quizzical exclamatory periodic pulsation, hyperbole nor mischief nor heartache notwithstanding.
An awkwardly crafted deeply moving carefree sober exoneration of wills un/tamed, A Room with a View celebrates the impulsive and the accidental while showcasing traditional lives lived.
Blunt forms of journalistic expression masterfully serenade literary proprieties in conjunction, the amorphous blend innocently concocted consequently thoroughly mystifying the cherished theoretically adversarial methodologies apropos.
Dinner for two.
Tarte aux bleuets à la mode.
An all-star ensemble that wasn't commercially assembled to heart-throbbingly cash-in.
Acting, characters, in/discretion.
Flavour.
Is there an underlying self-deprecating cheeky layer of innocent extravagance lampooned, or was such an aspect ironically mixed-in to mockingly impress the interminably austere?
Something given to suppose.
Indubitably speaking.
Contemplating exponential hypotheticals may only serve to sterilize raw emotions unpredictably cascading themselves as the unexpected taxonomically qualifies spontaneity.
Trying to make sense of them may result in an otherwise splendid evening stifled, presumption and preconception phantasmagorically belittling the experimental as if romance (or science) were something to be categorically disillusioned, prior to making first contact without ever having trusted irresponsibly.
Vacations during which you encounter individuals possessing alternative viewpoints semantically nurtured beyond localized frontiers can have rapturous effects, as they do in James Ivory's A Room with a View, as studious Lucy Honeychurch (Helena Bonham Carter) meets daring George Emerson (Julian Sands) and potentialities previously merely conceptualized suddenly invoke unconsidered epistemic senses.
Practically so.
Even if less emotional interactions are to be found in relationships forthcoming, the memories of those fleeting moments may effervescently characterize the dependably conjugal with adventurous imaginatively epic allegories, narratively liaised in intricate domestic reverie.
Unless the thrilling distraction should appear back home at a point in time before you find yourself wed.
At which point the exotic and the classified bewilderingly synthesize in quizzical exclamatory periodic pulsation, hyperbole nor mischief nor heartache notwithstanding.
An awkwardly crafted deeply moving carefree sober exoneration of wills un/tamed, A Room with a View celebrates the impulsive and the accidental while showcasing traditional lives lived.
Blunt forms of journalistic expression masterfully serenade literary proprieties in conjunction, the amorphous blend innocently concocted consequently thoroughly mystifying the cherished theoretically adversarial methodologies apropos.
Dinner for two.
Tarte aux bleuets à la mode.
An all-star ensemble that wasn't commercially assembled to heart-throbbingly cash-in.
Acting, characters, in/discretion.
Flavour.
Is there an underlying self-deprecating cheeky layer of innocent extravagance lampooned, or was such an aspect ironically mixed-in to mockingly impress the interminably austere?
Something given to suppose.
Indubitably speaking.
Tuesday, September 4, 2018
Cielo
Universally coded limitless variation as amorphous as it is particular aloofly showcasing synthesized basking essentials with regard for neither commentary nor broadcast spread out plainly for the naked eye to see.
Infinitely structuring sanguine molecular diversity in puzzling transformative lexicographical serenade, like treasured atemporal ecoblueprints smugly cast aside to exalt sensation, still silently omnipresent awaiting less confrontational loci, delineating epics, as individualized as one two three.
Like everything that could have ever existed had always astrologically exclaimed its infinitesimal foundations transitionally excavated throughout neverending time.
Extraterrestrially organic, a transisted lifeforce speculatively attired, left to mischievously promote clarity and intimate concrete mathematical formulae, while remaining romantically unrequited, persistent concealed lucid revelation, rebelliously consistent illuminated compound pines.
Blinding.
You've found it if you weren't sure what to look for, especially if you were searching for nothing at all.
Misplaced like indirection.
Celestial wherewithal.
I was playing constellation recently, and, as usual, I began by searching for raccoon.
Unsure if I had located the stars I traditionally transform into constellation raccoon, I started to notice raccoon constellations partout.
The night sky was bustling with raccoon activity that evening indeed, as I shyly observed their narrative spontaneity.
If genetic codes or html exponents appeared as they sought delicious slices of chocolate or banana, I can't claim to have found their cyphers.
I did suddenly notice a turtle passing by underwater, however, his or her aquatic foraging briefly caught in faint exterior light.
It was good luck to see her or him, the odds of it passing by unnoticed greatly surpassing those that would lead to its detection, a sight almost lacking historical precedent entirely, if only it hadn't happened once or twice before.
A lil snapper, snapping away.
Symbiotically chillin'.
Snap snap.
Snap snap snap.
Snap snap.
Around 1am.
Infinitely structuring sanguine molecular diversity in puzzling transformative lexicographical serenade, like treasured atemporal ecoblueprints smugly cast aside to exalt sensation, still silently omnipresent awaiting less confrontational loci, delineating epics, as individualized as one two three.
Like everything that could have ever existed had always astrologically exclaimed its infinitesimal foundations transitionally excavated throughout neverending time.
Extraterrestrially organic, a transisted lifeforce speculatively attired, left to mischievously promote clarity and intimate concrete mathematical formulae, while remaining romantically unrequited, persistent concealed lucid revelation, rebelliously consistent illuminated compound pines.
Blinding.
You've found it if you weren't sure what to look for, especially if you were searching for nothing at all.
Misplaced like indirection.
Celestial wherewithal.
I was playing constellation recently, and, as usual, I began by searching for raccoon.
Unsure if I had located the stars I traditionally transform into constellation raccoon, I started to notice raccoon constellations partout.
The night sky was bustling with raccoon activity that evening indeed, as I shyly observed their narrative spontaneity.
If genetic codes or html exponents appeared as they sought delicious slices of chocolate or banana, I can't claim to have found their cyphers.
I did suddenly notice a turtle passing by underwater, however, his or her aquatic foraging briefly caught in faint exterior light.
It was good luck to see her or him, the odds of it passing by unnoticed greatly surpassing those that would lead to its detection, a sight almost lacking historical precedent entirely, if only it hadn't happened once or twice before.
A lil snapper, snapping away.
Symbiotically chillin'.
Snap snap.
Snap snap snap.
Snap snap.
Around 1am.
Friday, August 31, 2018
Blindspotting
Was really impressed with Blindspotting.
It's a tight hard-edged compassionate hands-on free-flowing intense look at strong characters making up for a lack of economic resources with innovative creative reflexive awe-inspiring initiative, their social capital worth millions in transferable commentaries, their general sobriety critically emancipating soul.
Daveed Diggs (Collin) and Rafael Casal (Miles) work exceptionally well together. They don't seem like actors, they seem like they are Collin and Miles and they're shooting a fictional documentary about their lives, so familiar with each other that they generate ultrareal cascading warp-driven synergies, which disperse practical blueprints for coping with traumatic situations.
Without being preachy.
Collin shouldn't have gone to prison but he did. He has three days of probation left when he witnesses a police officer shoot an unarmed African American multiple times.
If he says anything he may jeopardize his parole or just be chucked back in the slammer for an indefinite period of time.
Injustice haunts him as he jogs every morning yet he's composed enough to keep things calm, cool, and collected, most of the time, which reminded me of RBG.
Miles is more chaotic, a gifted salesperson who can't control his temper, gentrification unconsciously fuelling his rage. Collin looks out for him even though he causes trouble, their friendship enduring in spite of argumentative setbacks and controversial outbursts, the women in their lives doing what they can to cultivate a stable non-violent future (Janina Gavankar as Val and Jasmine Cephas Jones as Ashley).
They're clever.
The film's clever.
Practically every scene has relevant commentary that makes a thoughtful positive impact.
And it's not full of pity or sorrow.
It's rough at points, sensitive at others, a hardboiled blend of raw emotion and logical analysis skilfully woven into the script with expert timing that resonantly bleeds passion.
Making impacts on several fronts, from healthy living to reducing gun violence to making relationships work to listening to and challenging alternative points of view, it scorchingly boils international issues down to the local level, celebrating and criticizing Oakland to advocate change without ignoring how difficult change can be.
Unpasteurized sharp streetwise poetic honesty.
One of the best films I've seen this year.
It's a tight hard-edged compassionate hands-on free-flowing intense look at strong characters making up for a lack of economic resources with innovative creative reflexive awe-inspiring initiative, their social capital worth millions in transferable commentaries, their general sobriety critically emancipating soul.
Daveed Diggs (Collin) and Rafael Casal (Miles) work exceptionally well together. They don't seem like actors, they seem like they are Collin and Miles and they're shooting a fictional documentary about their lives, so familiar with each other that they generate ultrareal cascading warp-driven synergies, which disperse practical blueprints for coping with traumatic situations.
Without being preachy.
Collin shouldn't have gone to prison but he did. He has three days of probation left when he witnesses a police officer shoot an unarmed African American multiple times.
If he says anything he may jeopardize his parole or just be chucked back in the slammer for an indefinite period of time.
Injustice haunts him as he jogs every morning yet he's composed enough to keep things calm, cool, and collected, most of the time, which reminded me of RBG.
Miles is more chaotic, a gifted salesperson who can't control his temper, gentrification unconsciously fuelling his rage. Collin looks out for him even though he causes trouble, their friendship enduring in spite of argumentative setbacks and controversial outbursts, the women in their lives doing what they can to cultivate a stable non-violent future (Janina Gavankar as Val and Jasmine Cephas Jones as Ashley).
They're clever.
The film's clever.
Practically every scene has relevant commentary that makes a thoughtful positive impact.
And it's not full of pity or sorrow.
It's rough at points, sensitive at others, a hardboiled blend of raw emotion and logical analysis skilfully woven into the script with expert timing that resonantly bleeds passion.
Making impacts on several fronts, from healthy living to reducing gun violence to making relationships work to listening to and challenging alternative points of view, it scorchingly boils international issues down to the local level, celebrating and criticizing Oakland to advocate change without ignoring how difficult change can be.
Unpasteurized sharp streetwise poetic honesty.
One of the best films I've seen this year.
Tuesday, August 28, 2018
Eighth Grade
What an awkward age.
Shifting random indeterminate interests inflexibly regarded with the highest esteem, indubitably, hormonal fascinations, incrementally saturating fleeting eternal embraces with desire beyond expression, tantalizingly long for receptive semantic clarifications, lifelong emancipating/bewildering psychological points of reference in/judiciously establishing personalized sociological precedents, timid ostentation (class clowning) and flamboyant restraint (mystery) spontaneously mingling within structured boundaries, as rapid forward movements, fluidically conceptualize partout.
In Eighth Grade.
Kayla (Elsie Fisher) is a curious reticent contemplative eighth grader who reflects upon adolescent life online at night to try and overcome habitual daytime shyness.
She's a wonderful kid full of love and compassion who feels the pressure to act as if she's aged even though she clearly hasn't.
Awards given out at the end of the school year to the shyest individuals don't build-up her self-esteem, however, and her concerned confused father (Josh Hamilton as Mark Day) can't find a way to help her feel more at ease.
Possessing a logical nature, simply acting instinctually doesn't meld with her reasonable insights.
Self-obsessed boys do little to nurture a sense of genuine belonging consequently, one in particular representing a desperately loathsome approach to amorous interpersonal relations.
Another isn't much less vulgar.
Although Gabe (Jake Ryan) makes a pretty cool match.
Bo Burnham's Eighth Grade takes a comprehensive look at adolescence in flux which hauntingly approaches the dark side without obscuring lighter reflections.
A well-rounded articulate guide for both shy youths searching for ways to express themselves and worried parents trying to understand why their growing children have suddenly become so detached, it presents situations plausible enough to be qualified realistic, which leave you feeling sincerely invested with the knowledge that hope still abounds.
An empathetic film that doesn't hesitate to consider shocking unanticipated theories, it engineers a heartfelt current and doesn't dam up its inquisitive ebb and flow.
Heuristically exploring sought after challenging discoveries while still presenting tender innocent speculation, it doesn't worry too much about growing up in the end, which is why I suspect it'll never grow old.
Maintaining strong bonds with your parents throughout high school is an admirable thing if you can, sharing your thoughts and emotions with them as often as possible, even if that's totally uncool.
Maybe not all your thoughts.
Great film.
Shifting random indeterminate interests inflexibly regarded with the highest esteem, indubitably, hormonal fascinations, incrementally saturating fleeting eternal embraces with desire beyond expression, tantalizingly long for receptive semantic clarifications, lifelong emancipating/bewildering psychological points of reference in/judiciously establishing personalized sociological precedents, timid ostentation (class clowning) and flamboyant restraint (mystery) spontaneously mingling within structured boundaries, as rapid forward movements, fluidically conceptualize partout.
In Eighth Grade.
Kayla (Elsie Fisher) is a curious reticent contemplative eighth grader who reflects upon adolescent life online at night to try and overcome habitual daytime shyness.
She's a wonderful kid full of love and compassion who feels the pressure to act as if she's aged even though she clearly hasn't.
Awards given out at the end of the school year to the shyest individuals don't build-up her self-esteem, however, and her concerned confused father (Josh Hamilton as Mark Day) can't find a way to help her feel more at ease.
Possessing a logical nature, simply acting instinctually doesn't meld with her reasonable insights.
Self-obsessed boys do little to nurture a sense of genuine belonging consequently, one in particular representing a desperately loathsome approach to amorous interpersonal relations.
Another isn't much less vulgar.
Although Gabe (Jake Ryan) makes a pretty cool match.
Bo Burnham's Eighth Grade takes a comprehensive look at adolescence in flux which hauntingly approaches the dark side without obscuring lighter reflections.
A well-rounded articulate guide for both shy youths searching for ways to express themselves and worried parents trying to understand why their growing children have suddenly become so detached, it presents situations plausible enough to be qualified realistic, which leave you feeling sincerely invested with the knowledge that hope still abounds.
An empathetic film that doesn't hesitate to consider shocking unanticipated theories, it engineers a heartfelt current and doesn't dam up its inquisitive ebb and flow.
Heuristically exploring sought after challenging discoveries while still presenting tender innocent speculation, it doesn't worry too much about growing up in the end, which is why I suspect it'll never grow old.
Maintaining strong bonds with your parents throughout high school is an admirable thing if you can, sharing your thoughts and emotions with them as often as possible, even if that's totally uncool.
Maybe not all your thoughts.
Great film.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)