Recalcitrant rhythms resonantly radiating, extant titans in solace and storm.
Oceanic depths demonstrously reckoning, with iron clad rigour, tempestuous, torn.
Meaninglessness instantaneously manifested like unexpected irate judgment, lost in languorous indecipherable fathoms undulating 'cross sundry shivers, timbral shock declaring ubiquity unstable impacting environs, slow and steady primordial pace, intuitive galactic prayer.
Empirical algebraic reduction.
Coldly, chaotically, induced.
Windswept whispers elusively locked down glacial permanence reconcilable embrace, polar movements unpredictably sculpted, incessant vibes, transport routed.
Clues in/determinately emerge obscured in novel revelation, patterns, designs, coordinates, attuned in isolated drafts, unfiltered divined tidal blooms.
Forlorn physicist.
Iceberg embers.
Proceed with caution, with no definitive structure subsumed in sunstruck substance.
Perennial voyage, distinct discovery, august illusion, as a matter of fact.
Built up bulbous bewilderments belittlingly break free, unseasoned shards of dissonant longevity, set adrift to shyly spree.
Ride fickle withering waves in jagged awestruck miniature, your momentum erratically fissured, your contention like fitful shrouds.
Steering through known logical flux, carefree yet crucibly ground, raw pure unkempt asseveration, viscounted, inveterate, cortical.
Washed ashore.
So that the world would resign to forget what it's trying so hard to remember.
Ambrosia, aeronautic amnesia.
Synchronistically bound.
Viktor Kossakovsky takes impressive risks in Aquarela to film the unparalleled power of water.
Around the aqueous globe.
As it overflows with stubborn caprice.
And hesitantly taunts conception.
Voluminously.
Friday, August 30, 2019
Tuesday, August 27, 2019
Toy Story 4
Toy Story 4 takes a less menacing look at life beyond suburbia, as Woody (Tom Hanks) and the gang make friends with a new toy (Tony Hale as Forky) before heading out on an ill-defined road trip.
The new toy was created by Bonnie (Madeleine McGraw) during kindergarten orientation, and even though he now breathes life, he still seeks wide-eyed independence, with neither code-bound duty nor congregational chore, and one night he escapes, rashly jumping from a speedy camper's window, leaving loyal Woody no choice but to follow, to bring Bonnie back her most beloved possession.
But after locating Forky and encouraging him to return, he notices signs of a lost love in a local shop.
Hopeful to see how she's doing, and overwhelmed with feelings of good luck, he carefreely and quickly enters, only to discover envious misfortune.
For a doll whose voice box has never worked lies covetously waiting within, a doll who's never known the thrill of companionship, nor the love of enraptured being.
Woody's voice box still functions, and it's indeed a miraculous match, altercations maladroitly ensuing, Forky laid-back and none the wiser.
But Toy Story 4 isn't as traditional as its predecessor, there's room for change and compromise.
Bo (Annie Potts) shows Woody that life can flourish in the wild unknown, if one's attuned to wit and invention.
Times are tough for Woody, even if he's turned a blind eye.
He's not as popular as he was once was, and is sometimes left behind in the closet during playtime.
He's still as determined as ever, nevertheless, and does everything he can to delight little Bonnie, honourably exemplifying unyielding fidelity, in the pursuit of irrefutable happiness.
But there's also Bo, with whom he intuitively prospers, with a different kind of love he's never explored, in realms that could nurture alternative thought, where his exceeding talent could find new meaning.
Plus he's been loved throughout his entire existence, he's known the comforts of well-defined responsibility.
And understands that Gabby Gabby (Christina Hendricks) never has, even though she's ever so adorable.
Toy Story 4 considers identity in flux perhaps as its original youthful audience comes of age.
The film's still innocent enough for the next generation of youngsters, but also introduces mature thought for ye olde old school devotees.
I suppose if they saw the first Toy Story when they were 5 they'd be 29 now, so no. 4 may have been released a bit too late.
But so many young adults are living at home for so much longer these days, many who perhaps have never considered moving out.
With rents soaring sky high in many places, I can see why they've chosen to stay.
It's alright living at home a lot of the time too, if your lifestyle isn't too disruptive.
There's no clear path, no precisely defined pattern, just extremely confidant justifications for whatever path you've chosen.
Just gotta choose one and give 'er.
'Til something else comes along down the way.
*Loved Toy Story 4's Canadiana.
**And Buzz Lightyear's (Tim Allen) commanding inner voice.
The new toy was created by Bonnie (Madeleine McGraw) during kindergarten orientation, and even though he now breathes life, he still seeks wide-eyed independence, with neither code-bound duty nor congregational chore, and one night he escapes, rashly jumping from a speedy camper's window, leaving loyal Woody no choice but to follow, to bring Bonnie back her most beloved possession.
But after locating Forky and encouraging him to return, he notices signs of a lost love in a local shop.
Hopeful to see how she's doing, and overwhelmed with feelings of good luck, he carefreely and quickly enters, only to discover envious misfortune.
For a doll whose voice box has never worked lies covetously waiting within, a doll who's never known the thrill of companionship, nor the love of enraptured being.
Woody's voice box still functions, and it's indeed a miraculous match, altercations maladroitly ensuing, Forky laid-back and none the wiser.
But Toy Story 4 isn't as traditional as its predecessor, there's room for change and compromise.
Bo (Annie Potts) shows Woody that life can flourish in the wild unknown, if one's attuned to wit and invention.
Times are tough for Woody, even if he's turned a blind eye.
He's not as popular as he was once was, and is sometimes left behind in the closet during playtime.
He's still as determined as ever, nevertheless, and does everything he can to delight little Bonnie, honourably exemplifying unyielding fidelity, in the pursuit of irrefutable happiness.
But there's also Bo, with whom he intuitively prospers, with a different kind of love he's never explored, in realms that could nurture alternative thought, where his exceeding talent could find new meaning.
Plus he's been loved throughout his entire existence, he's known the comforts of well-defined responsibility.
And understands that Gabby Gabby (Christina Hendricks) never has, even though she's ever so adorable.
Toy Story 4 considers identity in flux perhaps as its original youthful audience comes of age.
The film's still innocent enough for the next generation of youngsters, but also introduces mature thought for ye olde old school devotees.
I suppose if they saw the first Toy Story when they were 5 they'd be 29 now, so no. 4 may have been released a bit too late.
But so many young adults are living at home for so much longer these days, many who perhaps have never considered moving out.
With rents soaring sky high in many places, I can see why they've chosen to stay.
It's alright living at home a lot of the time too, if your lifestyle isn't too disruptive.
There's no clear path, no precisely defined pattern, just extremely confidant justifications for whatever path you've chosen.
Just gotta choose one and give 'er.
'Til something else comes along down the way.
*Loved Toy Story 4's Canadiana.
**And Buzz Lightyear's (Tim Allen) commanding inner voice.
Friday, August 23, 2019
Where'd You Go, Bernadette?
Crushed by a devastating thoughtless blow, a brilliant artist can no longer create, and although she finds solace in her loving daughter, and aloof husband, her interactions with neighbours and local professionals perspire maladroit dysfunction, and as time passes, repressed creative impulses manifest scorn, imaginatively characterized and robustly contorted, then transformed into bitter confrontation.
An old colleague (Laurence Fishburne as Paul Jellinek) explains how she's become a menace to society, with a particularly astute caricature, which cleverly outwits diagnoses and accusations, hits the nail on the head as it incisively were sir, observant synopses, regenerative calm.
But her husband's taken a more traditional route, and enlisted the aid of mainstream psychiatry, which does produce effective results at times, but is unfortunately ill-equipped for his wife's distemper.
It's a shame that he resorts to seeking outside help considering how strong their marriage appears earlier on in the film.
They're mutually supportive, they pleasantly talk to one another, they're both full of love for their daughter, they seem like a conjugal success.
But they've lost touch deep down, as some playful editing emphasizes, and even though they consistently converse, they do so without saying anything.
If they had just been talking to each other in the concurrent scenes.
Elgie's (Billy Crudup) 20 years of constant work have left him blind to his wife's grief, caused him to forget what she gave up long ago, that she needs outlets, projects, challenges.
Work.
Thankfully the film's quite level-headed even as locales switch to Antarctica.
It's a charming adventurous warm and friendly soul search that concentrates on understanding as it's refined by insightful youth.
Listening.
Where'd You Go, Bernadette? does air grievances as it diversifies Ms. Fox's (Cate Blanchett) portfolio, her exchanges with superkeen PTA neighbour Audrey (Kirsten Wiig) bearing disputatious fruit, her sharp dismissal of a curious admirer suggesting she could be somewhat less anti-social.
But she's totally not PTA, she isn't interested in textbook trajectories, she could likely write a book that no one would understand, with the same ingenious mischievousness found in Ulysses.
Categorically beyond expression, she's still devoted to her loving family, her daughter Bee's (Emma Nelson) sincerest bestie, she's grounded yet requires initiative.
Projects.
Their daughter teaches them to listen and because they're chill they hear what she's saying, finding fun working solutions down the road, realized with core resiliency.
The penguins and sea lions are worked in well.
They just kind of show up and aren't focused on with adoration.
Cutting back the rug to find the sprout is impressive.
As is Bernadette and Audrey's rapprochement.
A feel good family film that isn't cheesy or gross, Where'd You Go, Bernadette? remodels mature compassion.
It's a lot of fun too.
Can't wait to see it again.
Would have chosen a flavour instead of naming the dog Ice Cream (Inception). 😉
With Judy Greer (Dr. Kurtz [mainstream solutions are like Bernadette's Heart of Darkness?] and David Paymer (Jay Ross).
An old colleague (Laurence Fishburne as Paul Jellinek) explains how she's become a menace to society, with a particularly astute caricature, which cleverly outwits diagnoses and accusations, hits the nail on the head as it incisively were sir, observant synopses, regenerative calm.
But her husband's taken a more traditional route, and enlisted the aid of mainstream psychiatry, which does produce effective results at times, but is unfortunately ill-equipped for his wife's distemper.
It's a shame that he resorts to seeking outside help considering how strong their marriage appears earlier on in the film.
They're mutually supportive, they pleasantly talk to one another, they're both full of love for their daughter, they seem like a conjugal success.
But they've lost touch deep down, as some playful editing emphasizes, and even though they consistently converse, they do so without saying anything.
If they had just been talking to each other in the concurrent scenes.
Elgie's (Billy Crudup) 20 years of constant work have left him blind to his wife's grief, caused him to forget what she gave up long ago, that she needs outlets, projects, challenges.
Work.
Thankfully the film's quite level-headed even as locales switch to Antarctica.
It's a charming adventurous warm and friendly soul search that concentrates on understanding as it's refined by insightful youth.
Listening.
Where'd You Go, Bernadette? does air grievances as it diversifies Ms. Fox's (Cate Blanchett) portfolio, her exchanges with superkeen PTA neighbour Audrey (Kirsten Wiig) bearing disputatious fruit, her sharp dismissal of a curious admirer suggesting she could be somewhat less anti-social.
But she's totally not PTA, she isn't interested in textbook trajectories, she could likely write a book that no one would understand, with the same ingenious mischievousness found in Ulysses.
Categorically beyond expression, she's still devoted to her loving family, her daughter Bee's (Emma Nelson) sincerest bestie, she's grounded yet requires initiative.
Projects.
Their daughter teaches them to listen and because they're chill they hear what she's saying, finding fun working solutions down the road, realized with core resiliency.
The penguins and sea lions are worked in well.
They just kind of show up and aren't focused on with adoration.
Cutting back the rug to find the sprout is impressive.
As is Bernadette and Audrey's rapprochement.
A feel good family film that isn't cheesy or gross, Where'd You Go, Bernadette? remodels mature compassion.
It's a lot of fun too.
Can't wait to see it again.
Would have chosen a flavour instead of naming the dog Ice Cream (Inception). 😉
With Judy Greer (Dr. Kurtz [mainstream solutions are like Bernadette's Heart of Darkness?] and David Paymer (Jay Ross).
Tuesday, August 20, 2019
Stuber
The friend secretly absorbed with each and every amiable interaction, from the request for a ride to the desire for advice, overwhelmed with romantic longing, as futile as it is interminable.
The work obsessed dad blindly caught up in locked down affairs, his commitments demanding fidel ubiquity, a daughter used to absent-minded gruff brooding.
The blunt co-worker, in possession of more authority, who brands nicknames and thinks you love them, and revels in economic gloom.
Corruption on the force creating volatile deadly conflicts, needs for versatile flexibility, chaotic discredited isolation.
Vic Manning (Dave Bautista) still needs a ride.
And Stu (Kumail Nanjiani) is there to pejoratively provide one.
He's even recruited to take part in the action, and rapidly learns to take disturbed risks.
His protests register even if they're ignored, as leads are followed and clues deciphered.
Parenting and personal relationships introduce romantic distractions, as they briskly Uber around town, from one total disaster to the next.
In search of a monstrous killer.
Who's escaped Manning's clutches before.
Stuber crosses mild-mannered and hardboiled streams to track down supernatural malevolence, generously disputing in begrudged mismatch, reluctantly computing with forlorn self-sacrifice.
It's a bit far-fetched.
Stu has never fired a gun before and Vic can hardly see yet they outperform the competition with soul searching relative ease, the showdowns not as slapstick as they could have been, disbelief acutely shuddering in echo.
In order to suspend disbelief, situations should be genuinely ridiculous, and when they blend in too much realism, they disrespect fantasy and simply seem improbable.
Not cool improbable, improbable improbable.
Cool improbable like when Stu's ride blows up in the end.
Could have ran with that throughout.
Batista and Nanjiani work well together though, and it's fun to watch as they mindfully meld.
Stuber is another film where the nice guy learns to be manly by being forced to engage in violent combat, however, but the man's man also learns to be more of a nice guy by having to rely upon gentle grief within.
Which almost gets them killed at times, but works out well when they aren't battling, Manning eventually coming to terms with his past, then strengthening his relationship with his passionate daughter.
A bit too ra ra but slightly saved by an unlikely duo, Stuber's full of head shaking novelty, that wildly plays with contemporary phenomena.
Some laughs but of the "wow that must have hurt" variety, Stuber could make a cool Ride Along crossover, especially if they leave rationed reason far behind.
The work obsessed dad blindly caught up in locked down affairs, his commitments demanding fidel ubiquity, a daughter used to absent-minded gruff brooding.
The blunt co-worker, in possession of more authority, who brands nicknames and thinks you love them, and revels in economic gloom.
Corruption on the force creating volatile deadly conflicts, needs for versatile flexibility, chaotic discredited isolation.
Vic Manning (Dave Bautista) still needs a ride.
And Stu (Kumail Nanjiani) is there to pejoratively provide one.
He's even recruited to take part in the action, and rapidly learns to take disturbed risks.
His protests register even if they're ignored, as leads are followed and clues deciphered.
Parenting and personal relationships introduce romantic distractions, as they briskly Uber around town, from one total disaster to the next.
In search of a monstrous killer.
Who's escaped Manning's clutches before.
Stuber crosses mild-mannered and hardboiled streams to track down supernatural malevolence, generously disputing in begrudged mismatch, reluctantly computing with forlorn self-sacrifice.
It's a bit far-fetched.
Stu has never fired a gun before and Vic can hardly see yet they outperform the competition with soul searching relative ease, the showdowns not as slapstick as they could have been, disbelief acutely shuddering in echo.
In order to suspend disbelief, situations should be genuinely ridiculous, and when they blend in too much realism, they disrespect fantasy and simply seem improbable.
Not cool improbable, improbable improbable.
Cool improbable like when Stu's ride blows up in the end.
Could have ran with that throughout.
Batista and Nanjiani work well together though, and it's fun to watch as they mindfully meld.
Stuber is another film where the nice guy learns to be manly by being forced to engage in violent combat, however, but the man's man also learns to be more of a nice guy by having to rely upon gentle grief within.
Which almost gets them killed at times, but works out well when they aren't battling, Manning eventually coming to terms with his past, then strengthening his relationship with his passionate daughter.
A bit too ra ra but slightly saved by an unlikely duo, Stuber's full of head shaking novelty, that wildly plays with contemporary phenomena.
Some laughs but of the "wow that must have hurt" variety, Stuber could make a cool Ride Along crossover, especially if they leave rationed reason far behind.
Friday, August 16, 2019
Majo no takkyȗbin (Kiki's Delivery Service)
Sometimes you get lucky.
I didn't find what I was looking for earlier this Summer when I went out to see Die kleine hexe (The Little Witch), but decided to see Majo no takkyȗbin (Kiki's Delivery Service) last week on a whim, and I'd be lying if I didn't say it was exactly what I'd been searching for, apart from the fact that it was released in 1989, and therefore lacking in contemporary applicability.
If it was indeed contemporary, it would have ideally and bewilderingly fit.
Not that I'm complaining.
Finding something in the present that produces an affect you cherished long ago reliably revels in enigmatic ecstasy, but finding something from the past that commensurately impresses, shouldn't be dismissed for ye olde bygone praise.
I'm reminded of people dismissing classic films because they aren't contemporary, the assumption being that the current moment must be the most advanced, because the arts evolve in an unerring progression.
I've tried to explain that the arts are more like a mutation, and that seminal works emerge at different intervals regardless of what mesmerized the past, or will dazzle the future, by citing several well known examples (Citizen Kane, Dr. Zhivago, Casablanca, Dr. Strangelove), and arguing passionately to the viable contrary.
I've never gotten very far, but it's true if you can wrap your head around it, although it was much easier to access classic films in my youth (many are available on Itunes) at what were called "video stores", where you went to rent movies, some of them having better collections than others, many of them wiped out as Blockbuster rose.
It's even hard to come by a film from back in the day that disseminates age old wonder, for I'm sure you've watched some of the beloved films of your youth in recent years, and found them lacking in tantalizing appeal.
Or you've streamed films you missed way back to reimmerse yourself within an old school aesthetic, and found some of the exemplars lacking in eccentric magnetism, or at least not as spellbinding as you had hoped they would be.
Majo no takkyȗbin (Kiki's Delivery Service) resonates with that innocent yet risk-fuelled ageless atemporal fluidity you find in Dickens and Proust however, as the little witch Kiki (Minami Takayama) heads out on her own, to build a life abounding in unchecked novelty.
With her wise contradictory cat Jiji (Rei Sakuma), who supplies grumpy yet pertinent commentary.
It's like otherworldly cool and alternative pluck were joyously yet controversially distilled to craft a regenerative narrative elixir, as intergenerational as it is unique, as wondrous as it is compelling.
I'll have to see every film crafted by Ghibli Studios I'm afraid, and share observations from time to time.
I could have just as easily seen something else that night.
Good fortune when that kind of thing happens.
I didn't find what I was looking for earlier this Summer when I went out to see Die kleine hexe (The Little Witch), but decided to see Majo no takkyȗbin (Kiki's Delivery Service) last week on a whim, and I'd be lying if I didn't say it was exactly what I'd been searching for, apart from the fact that it was released in 1989, and therefore lacking in contemporary applicability.
If it was indeed contemporary, it would have ideally and bewilderingly fit.
Not that I'm complaining.
Finding something in the present that produces an affect you cherished long ago reliably revels in enigmatic ecstasy, but finding something from the past that commensurately impresses, shouldn't be dismissed for ye olde bygone praise.
I'm reminded of people dismissing classic films because they aren't contemporary, the assumption being that the current moment must be the most advanced, because the arts evolve in an unerring progression.
I've tried to explain that the arts are more like a mutation, and that seminal works emerge at different intervals regardless of what mesmerized the past, or will dazzle the future, by citing several well known examples (Citizen Kane, Dr. Zhivago, Casablanca, Dr. Strangelove), and arguing passionately to the viable contrary.
I've never gotten very far, but it's true if you can wrap your head around it, although it was much easier to access classic films in my youth (many are available on Itunes) at what were called "video stores", where you went to rent movies, some of them having better collections than others, many of them wiped out as Blockbuster rose.
It's even hard to come by a film from back in the day that disseminates age old wonder, for I'm sure you've watched some of the beloved films of your youth in recent years, and found them lacking in tantalizing appeal.
Or you've streamed films you missed way back to reimmerse yourself within an old school aesthetic, and found some of the exemplars lacking in eccentric magnetism, or at least not as spellbinding as you had hoped they would be.
Majo no takkyȗbin (Kiki's Delivery Service) resonates with that innocent yet risk-fuelled ageless atemporal fluidity you find in Dickens and Proust however, as the little witch Kiki (Minami Takayama) heads out on her own, to build a life abounding in unchecked novelty.
With her wise contradictory cat Jiji (Rei Sakuma), who supplies grumpy yet pertinent commentary.
It's like otherworldly cool and alternative pluck were joyously yet controversially distilled to craft a regenerative narrative elixir, as intergenerational as it is unique, as wondrous as it is compelling.
I'll have to see every film crafted by Ghibli Studios I'm afraid, and share observations from time to time.
I could have just as easily seen something else that night.
Good fortune when that kind of thing happens.
Tuesday, August 13, 2019
The Farewell
A matriarch is stricken with illness, and a family overwhelmed with grief, but she isn't told of her dire affliction, to avoid distressing emotions of fear.
They decide to gather, back home in China, one brother having spent his life in Japan, the other far away in North America.
She's ecstatic to see them, even if her joy's somewhat reserved, everyone assembled to celebrate a wedding, the bride and groom full of flowing good cheer.
It's a bit of a shock.
They've only known each other three months.
But a sense of responsibility motivates their actions, and they play intergenerational ball, Grandma excited to cater and plan, dutiful reckonings, improvised romance.
Granddaughter Billi (Awkwafina) may blow it all though, for she's unaccustomed to hiding her feelings, her relatives hoping she won't attend, and spoil everything with distraught candour.
The Farewell invigorates familial concerns, thoughtfully composed honest observations, blending in harmless well-meaning lies, to uphold sincere age old integrity.
Within a specific context.
Fully aware of the pressures of truth.
The sons feel guilty for having left home, for having left their loving mom far behind. They didn't just leave for another city close by, they made their ways in far off foreign lands.
She's tough though, and doesn't critique or condemn, is rather proud of her children, who modestly succeeded in the great wild unknown.
Grievances aren't absent from the film, in fact they're aired with heartfelt lucidity, less obsessed with who's right or wrong, than acknowledging tension to facilitate healing.
Perhaps they are just a little obsessed with who's right, but their mutual remorseful feelings betray unsure convictions, their conversations relieving pent up grief, embraced maturely by people who get over things.
Perhaps the West is more obsessed with individual desires, and its personal pursuits often overlook family ties.
However I know a lot of people who genuinely love their families, and make sacrifices to spend quality time with them.
Not just at Christmas or on Mother's or Father's Day, or on birthdays, but the whole year through, thanks to the miracle of web based communication.
I find familial bonds transcend the religious and the secular, and that people who have never been to church are just as loving as those who tithe.
My stats are based on conversation and personal experience.
I like to listen to the things people say.
Plus well rounded novels and films.
I don't know much about domestic life in China.
They decide to gather, back home in China, one brother having spent his life in Japan, the other far away in North America.
She's ecstatic to see them, even if her joy's somewhat reserved, everyone assembled to celebrate a wedding, the bride and groom full of flowing good cheer.
It's a bit of a shock.
They've only known each other three months.
But a sense of responsibility motivates their actions, and they play intergenerational ball, Grandma excited to cater and plan, dutiful reckonings, improvised romance.
Granddaughter Billi (Awkwafina) may blow it all though, for she's unaccustomed to hiding her feelings, her relatives hoping she won't attend, and spoil everything with distraught candour.
The Farewell invigorates familial concerns, thoughtfully composed honest observations, blending in harmless well-meaning lies, to uphold sincere age old integrity.
Within a specific context.
Fully aware of the pressures of truth.
The sons feel guilty for having left home, for having left their loving mom far behind. They didn't just leave for another city close by, they made their ways in far off foreign lands.
She's tough though, and doesn't critique or condemn, is rather proud of her children, who modestly succeeded in the great wild unknown.
Grievances aren't absent from the film, in fact they're aired with heartfelt lucidity, less obsessed with who's right or wrong, than acknowledging tension to facilitate healing.
Perhaps they are just a little obsessed with who's right, but their mutual remorseful feelings betray unsure convictions, their conversations relieving pent up grief, embraced maturely by people who get over things.
Perhaps the West is more obsessed with individual desires, and its personal pursuits often overlook family ties.
However I know a lot of people who genuinely love their families, and make sacrifices to spend quality time with them.
Not just at Christmas or on Mother's or Father's Day, or on birthdays, but the whole year through, thanks to the miracle of web based communication.
I find familial bonds transcend the religious and the secular, and that people who have never been to church are just as loving as those who tithe.
My stats are based on conversation and personal experience.
I like to listen to the things people say.
Plus well rounded novels and films.
I don't know much about domestic life in China.
Friday, August 9, 2019
Once Upon a Time . . . in Hollywood
Blending realism and fantasy with convincing creative bombast, Quentin Tarantino's Once Upon a Time . . . in Hollywood masterfully cloaks the absurd.
Closely following Rick Dalton (Leonardo DiCaprio) and Cliff Booth's (Brad Pitt) declining filmic fortunes, it patiently develops resounding depth where a closed mind might only breed shallows.
It's quite long.
I asked myself, why are we following Booth home for 7 to 10 minutes to watch him feed his dog and eat Kraft Dinner? The sequence establishes him as a loveable everyman, but this characteristic could have been highlighted without taking up so much time.
Similarly, Sharon Tate (Margot Robbie) goes to the movies. Her visit doesn't seem to have much purpose besides paying visceral tribute to a star who's life was cut brutally short, but it's there, again and again, taking up ample sensuous space, it's kind of cool to see an actress go out to see her own film, but couldn't the scenes have only lasted for a minute or two, in total, or been removed entirely without effecting the plot?
In less gifted hands, these scenes may have seemed trite, and the film might have become unbearable after the 45th minute, but they add so much character to Once Upon a Time without really saying anything at all, like essential gratuitous indulgement, generating agile lucid meaninglessness.
It's quite long, but also quite good.
What first drew me to Proust's Search was the ways in which he seemed to enable every one of his ingenious indulgements no matter what happened to be taking place in the story, and there's a little of that bold genius at work in Once Upon a Time . . . 's sweet nothings, so much of it could have been cut, but the film's so much stronger because it was left in.
The whole Manson subplot could have been cut, and you'd still have a tragic tale of a struggling actor who may have blown it unreeling for 100 minutes or so (he could have met Polanski [Rafal Zawierucha] in a different way), Tarantino's love of genre actors shining through with understated ease, Dalton's trials heartfelt and revealing, DiCaprio exemplifying generic tenacity.
Sort of wish his character had been played by Michael Biehn.
Dalton gives the film its strength as he strives to keep keepin' on, delivering a powerful performance for a pilot no one will remember.
But here I've written, "no one will remember", and it's precisely that kind of snobbery Tarantino critiques, he truly loves television with all its wondrous diversity, whether it's genius or ridiculous or hokey, the ideas networks come up with and for who knows what reason decide to share (see They Live?), whether the stories are haphazardly crafted, or the narratives expertly hewn.
Where would I be without Cheers, a show where everyone hung out in a bar for 11 seasons praising shenanigans that were generally lighthearted?
Clone High? Parker Lewis? Star Trek? Twin Peaks (The Original Series)?
Once Upon a Time . . . absurdly plays with history but genuinely brings struggling actors to life, forging an imaginative dreamy mélange that's as otherworldly as it is down to earth.
It's the first Tarantino film I've liked since The Basterds, but unfortunately it's still too toxic to recommend.
One of the protagonists murdered his wife and got away with it and this is supposed to be okay, the other lost his license for drunk driving and still gets wasted all the time, hippies are one-dimensionally vilified, Bruce Lee (Mike Moh) comes across as a flake and he's the only ethnic character to be found, Dalton stars in a filmic adaption of The Only Good Indian is a Dead Indian, and violence often solves the problem.
Perhaps it's just a product of its time, but the film is ultra-violent, and doesn't offer alternative points of view.
He diversifies dimensions that are often one-dimensionally depicted (Westerns) while one-dimensionally depicting others to exaggerate the distinction.
A more balanced approach would have generated higher yields.
Especially in light of MeToo, and the intensifying climate crisis.
Kitschy insubstantial cool yet chilling art, obsessed with things that look pretty, putting a capital P back in patriarchal.
Why spend so much time thinking to wind up thoughtless?
Still better than so many of his films.
Closely following Rick Dalton (Leonardo DiCaprio) and Cliff Booth's (Brad Pitt) declining filmic fortunes, it patiently develops resounding depth where a closed mind might only breed shallows.
It's quite long.
I asked myself, why are we following Booth home for 7 to 10 minutes to watch him feed his dog and eat Kraft Dinner? The sequence establishes him as a loveable everyman, but this characteristic could have been highlighted without taking up so much time.
Similarly, Sharon Tate (Margot Robbie) goes to the movies. Her visit doesn't seem to have much purpose besides paying visceral tribute to a star who's life was cut brutally short, but it's there, again and again, taking up ample sensuous space, it's kind of cool to see an actress go out to see her own film, but couldn't the scenes have only lasted for a minute or two, in total, or been removed entirely without effecting the plot?
In less gifted hands, these scenes may have seemed trite, and the film might have become unbearable after the 45th minute, but they add so much character to Once Upon a Time without really saying anything at all, like essential gratuitous indulgement, generating agile lucid meaninglessness.
It's quite long, but also quite good.
What first drew me to Proust's Search was the ways in which he seemed to enable every one of his ingenious indulgements no matter what happened to be taking place in the story, and there's a little of that bold genius at work in Once Upon a Time . . . 's sweet nothings, so much of it could have been cut, but the film's so much stronger because it was left in.
The whole Manson subplot could have been cut, and you'd still have a tragic tale of a struggling actor who may have blown it unreeling for 100 minutes or so (he could have met Polanski [Rafal Zawierucha] in a different way), Tarantino's love of genre actors shining through with understated ease, Dalton's trials heartfelt and revealing, DiCaprio exemplifying generic tenacity.
Sort of wish his character had been played by Michael Biehn.
Dalton gives the film its strength as he strives to keep keepin' on, delivering a powerful performance for a pilot no one will remember.
But here I've written, "no one will remember", and it's precisely that kind of snobbery Tarantino critiques, he truly loves television with all its wondrous diversity, whether it's genius or ridiculous or hokey, the ideas networks come up with and for who knows what reason decide to share (see They Live?), whether the stories are haphazardly crafted, or the narratives expertly hewn.
Where would I be without Cheers, a show where everyone hung out in a bar for 11 seasons praising shenanigans that were generally lighthearted?
Clone High? Parker Lewis? Star Trek? Twin Peaks (The Original Series)?
Once Upon a Time . . . absurdly plays with history but genuinely brings struggling actors to life, forging an imaginative dreamy mélange that's as otherworldly as it is down to earth.
It's the first Tarantino film I've liked since The Basterds, but unfortunately it's still too toxic to recommend.
One of the protagonists murdered his wife and got away with it and this is supposed to be okay, the other lost his license for drunk driving and still gets wasted all the time, hippies are one-dimensionally vilified, Bruce Lee (Mike Moh) comes across as a flake and he's the only ethnic character to be found, Dalton stars in a filmic adaption of The Only Good Indian is a Dead Indian, and violence often solves the problem.
Perhaps it's just a product of its time, but the film is ultra-violent, and doesn't offer alternative points of view.
He diversifies dimensions that are often one-dimensionally depicted (Westerns) while one-dimensionally depicting others to exaggerate the distinction.
A more balanced approach would have generated higher yields.
Especially in light of MeToo, and the intensifying climate crisis.
Kitschy insubstantial cool yet chilling art, obsessed with things that look pretty, putting a capital P back in patriarchal.
Why spend so much time thinking to wind up thoughtless?
Still better than so many of his films.
Tuesday, August 6, 2019
The Last Black Man in San Francisco
Two friends chillin', creative paths, the days go by.
One, a gentle artist, the other immersed in local history.
His old family home, in fact, built generations ago, in which a new family now resides, whom he visits all too frequently.
To do housework, to maintain its atemporal integrity, a bewildering skyline nurtured with tact, the confused owners not quite sure what to do.
'Til tragedy strikes and they have to move out, leaving the age old mansion empty, at which point Jimmie (Jimmie Fails) and Montgomery (Jonathan Majors) move in, and make plans for a not so certain future.
Livin' it up.
Integral crosshair chronicles.
Dreams and reality quizzically coincide within, as a harmless inability to let go nurtures tactile belief.
It may be absurd in terms of expectations, but it's poetic as a matter of fact, as romantic people seek solutions beyond the law, and loving sympathy promotes amiable construction.
There's enough reality to challenge accusations of the ludicrous, inasmuch as traditional criticisms gradually emerge, but it's an old school brand of spiritually enriching understanding, that builds warm communal bonds, and encourages compassion as opposed to conflict.
Perhaps it's somewhat naive or a little too innocent, but wouldn't more innocence and less condemnation develop a less violent world, a thoughtful embrace, a declaration of love, or one less prone to desensitized destructive carnage?
The film isn't solely concerned with a house and who happens to own it.
Lives living adorn its fantastic frames with inquisitive dynamic yields, which add multidimensional depth.
A group of struggling youth question if not heckle on a disputatious daily basis.
Atomic legend and environmental impacts validate feisty folklore, as conversations define the moment, and move beyond the strictly personal.
An impassioned preacher assails injustice with mesmerizing soulful beats.
Subtly attired pedestrians and other curious randoms shake things up with unorthodox flax and thought provoking comic contrariety.
Montgomery ties so much together in a remarkable performance held in Jimmie's home, attended by friends and family, perhaps cut much too short.
Captivating in the moment nevertheless, observant vivacious infinites.
Joe Talbot's directorial skills erupt in the opening moments as he roller coasters through the community, struggling to get by yet still overflowing with life.
If you're looking for law and order and a predictable clamp down on bizarre behaviour, this film may not suffice, who looks for that?, but if you enjoy non-violent alternatives flush with lively independence, you may thoroughly enjoy it, as much as I did.
Abounding with creative grace.
Damned impressive.
One, a gentle artist, the other immersed in local history.
His old family home, in fact, built generations ago, in which a new family now resides, whom he visits all too frequently.
To do housework, to maintain its atemporal integrity, a bewildering skyline nurtured with tact, the confused owners not quite sure what to do.
'Til tragedy strikes and they have to move out, leaving the age old mansion empty, at which point Jimmie (Jimmie Fails) and Montgomery (Jonathan Majors) move in, and make plans for a not so certain future.
Livin' it up.
Integral crosshair chronicles.
Dreams and reality quizzically coincide within, as a harmless inability to let go nurtures tactile belief.
It may be absurd in terms of expectations, but it's poetic as a matter of fact, as romantic people seek solutions beyond the law, and loving sympathy promotes amiable construction.
There's enough reality to challenge accusations of the ludicrous, inasmuch as traditional criticisms gradually emerge, but it's an old school brand of spiritually enriching understanding, that builds warm communal bonds, and encourages compassion as opposed to conflict.
Perhaps it's somewhat naive or a little too innocent, but wouldn't more innocence and less condemnation develop a less violent world, a thoughtful embrace, a declaration of love, or one less prone to desensitized destructive carnage?
The film isn't solely concerned with a house and who happens to own it.
Lives living adorn its fantastic frames with inquisitive dynamic yields, which add multidimensional depth.
A group of struggling youth question if not heckle on a disputatious daily basis.
Atomic legend and environmental impacts validate feisty folklore, as conversations define the moment, and move beyond the strictly personal.
An impassioned preacher assails injustice with mesmerizing soulful beats.
Subtly attired pedestrians and other curious randoms shake things up with unorthodox flax and thought provoking comic contrariety.
Montgomery ties so much together in a remarkable performance held in Jimmie's home, attended by friends and family, perhaps cut much too short.
Captivating in the moment nevertheless, observant vivacious infinites.
Joe Talbot's directorial skills erupt in the opening moments as he roller coasters through the community, struggling to get by yet still overflowing with life.
If you're looking for law and order and a predictable clamp down on bizarre behaviour, this film may not suffice, who looks for that?, but if you enjoy non-violent alternatives flush with lively independence, you may thoroughly enjoy it, as much as I did.
Abounding with creative grace.
Damned impressive.
Friday, August 2, 2019
L'Incroyable histoire du facteur Cheval
Purpose can be difficult to clarify.
Lots of actions seem reasonable enough, in terms of achieving or working towards short or long term goals, but repetition leads to logical flux, classifications of the indeterminate, and what once seemed spiritually sound, can lose its lustre if not reimagined.
Rediscovered.
If you ever find yourself sincerely bragging about something you found easy to do the first time, weeks or months or years later, it's perhaps time to find a new job, or spice up a relationship, such circumstances emerging in middle-age sometimes, which seems to go on forever and ever, and doesn't really change much overnight, unless someone's preparing bruschetta or enchiladas.
Things seem easier for this deer fly that just bit the bottom of my foot.
It's nourished itself on my lifeblood, and one would think, is about to digest the nutrients.
And it's hanging around.
It wants more.
I am now irritated and riled so I'm shooing more regularly, but even with the excessive shooing it returns, just dodges and lunges forward, perhaps seeking to limitlessly gorge him or herself to reckless epic proportions, as if my blood were an everlasting boon, and he or she was saturated with vampiric integrity.
It's bitten my ring toe too, the most useless of my toes, which has now found purpose, for it desperately desires eager scratching, I've noticed it for the first time since I last cut my toenails, and can honestly say that it's itchier than my other toes, it stands out indeed, like uninspired graffiti in an abandoned factory, that perhaps once produced socks, shoes, or bug spray, none of which adorned my foot before the lasting bites, which I must admit, are greatly disturbing the writing of this paragraph, I'm now itching with moss, rocks and nails.
Fingernails.
The deer fly just landed on my finger as I checked the time on my phone.
It won't relent and proceeds insatiably.
I cover myself in spray.
Remember why I had kayaked to this slab.
Joseph Ferdinand-Cheval (Jacques Gamblin) didn't have time for such distractions.
Was much more focused and driven.
L'Incroyable histoire du facteur Cheval chronicles how he slowly built a palace of rocks beside his home, for decades in his spare time, never wavering from his eccentric commitment, which was oft judged odd by curious surrounding townsfolk.
Tragedy strikes on several occasions yet he perseveres with herculean intensity, defining meaning through random exploration, purpose through awkward planning.
He never really says much, and when he speaks his words aren't that well chosen.
But he slowly learns it's important to say something, and not to worry about semantic injunctions, that a lot of people just like shootin' the breeze, and there's purpose in light conversation.
It complements the palace building.
Which proceeds with inspirational resolve.
Remarkably adept dedication.
A cool family film smoothly bringing it to life.
Nice.
Lots of actions seem reasonable enough, in terms of achieving or working towards short or long term goals, but repetition leads to logical flux, classifications of the indeterminate, and what once seemed spiritually sound, can lose its lustre if not reimagined.
Rediscovered.
If you ever find yourself sincerely bragging about something you found easy to do the first time, weeks or months or years later, it's perhaps time to find a new job, or spice up a relationship, such circumstances emerging in middle-age sometimes, which seems to go on forever and ever, and doesn't really change much overnight, unless someone's preparing bruschetta or enchiladas.
Things seem easier for this deer fly that just bit the bottom of my foot.
It's nourished itself on my lifeblood, and one would think, is about to digest the nutrients.
And it's hanging around.
It wants more.
I am now irritated and riled so I'm shooing more regularly, but even with the excessive shooing it returns, just dodges and lunges forward, perhaps seeking to limitlessly gorge him or herself to reckless epic proportions, as if my blood were an everlasting boon, and he or she was saturated with vampiric integrity.
It's bitten my ring toe too, the most useless of my toes, which has now found purpose, for it desperately desires eager scratching, I've noticed it for the first time since I last cut my toenails, and can honestly say that it's itchier than my other toes, it stands out indeed, like uninspired graffiti in an abandoned factory, that perhaps once produced socks, shoes, or bug spray, none of which adorned my foot before the lasting bites, which I must admit, are greatly disturbing the writing of this paragraph, I'm now itching with moss, rocks and nails.
Fingernails.
The deer fly just landed on my finger as I checked the time on my phone.
It won't relent and proceeds insatiably.
I cover myself in spray.
Remember why I had kayaked to this slab.
Joseph Ferdinand-Cheval (Jacques Gamblin) didn't have time for such distractions.
Was much more focused and driven.
L'Incroyable histoire du facteur Cheval chronicles how he slowly built a palace of rocks beside his home, for decades in his spare time, never wavering from his eccentric commitment, which was oft judged odd by curious surrounding townsfolk.
Tragedy strikes on several occasions yet he perseveres with herculean intensity, defining meaning through random exploration, purpose through awkward planning.
He never really says much, and when he speaks his words aren't that well chosen.
But he slowly learns it's important to say something, and not to worry about semantic injunctions, that a lot of people just like shootin' the breeze, and there's purpose in light conversation.
It complements the palace building.
Which proceeds with inspirational resolve.
Remarkably adept dedication.
A cool family film smoothly bringing it to life.
Nice.
Tuesday, July 30, 2019
Les Fauves (Wildcats)
Difficult, where to situate this film, if anywhere in particular, or nowhere notwithstanding.
If it's supposed to inspire horror, it's far too tame and light, coming across as more of a creepy drama than anything truly frightening.
It is more of a kids film though, a teenage film, an adolescent film, a film basking in youthful articulation, so perhaps the short scenes that never really lead anywhere were still long enough to develop tension for younger audiences, searching for something more than a campy slasher, looking for melancholic distress.
Les Fauves (Wildcats) does take place in a campground and many of its characters are therefore camping, and it is somewhat campy I suppose, insofar as it's hesitant and awkwardly disposed, and perhaps the distraught psycho has lost its appeal in recent years, and horror directors are searching for more thoughtful borderline visceral illustrations, as they consider the globalized world, and step into the harrowing cascade.
Could be, although if horror is shifting paradigmatically, Les Mauves may not be seminally equipped, but it is chock full o' Summer, and there are without question much much worse things.
For presenting horror without a vicious monster and sincerely attempting to generate chills that are more cerebral, Les Fauves should be commended, even if it falls far short of the haunting Midsommar.
But I'm wondering if it's not supposed to be taken that seriously, as a horror film, or if it's more of a horror-comedy, to be accurate, or definitively precise.
The opening scene is certainly comedic and (forgive me if I'm wrong here) couldn't have possibly been intended to disorient, in fact after viewing it I thought I was in for a romp or at least something just a wee bit delirious.
The pool-filled-with-dead-animals scene functions in a similar way, and is also kind of campy, if not disreputable.
There's a long sad monologue in the end as well that's presented as if it's genuinely fond, but it's so histrionic and overwrought that I thought Vincent Mariette was trying to trick us into taking it seriously, and that if you were indeed irrefutably impacted, you had indeed unwittingly bought it.
Perhaps it's meant to be rationally analyzed, and I plain and simply didn't get it, but it seemed like something was out of place throughout, something that made me think I was immersed in shenanigans.
There are some really cool cave scenes that are kind of creepy and otherworldly, but they unreel so quickly that I never thought there was anything strange taking place, or that anything was in fact out of order.
Seemed more like we were just checking out some cool caves that happened to be located within a not so far fetched plot.
It's cool to see more brainy horror flicks but sometimes they're simply ridiculous.
At least Les Fauves promotes confusion.
With some cool characters.
Kind of sleazy.
If it's supposed to inspire horror, it's far too tame and light, coming across as more of a creepy drama than anything truly frightening.
It is more of a kids film though, a teenage film, an adolescent film, a film basking in youthful articulation, so perhaps the short scenes that never really lead anywhere were still long enough to develop tension for younger audiences, searching for something more than a campy slasher, looking for melancholic distress.
Les Fauves (Wildcats) does take place in a campground and many of its characters are therefore camping, and it is somewhat campy I suppose, insofar as it's hesitant and awkwardly disposed, and perhaps the distraught psycho has lost its appeal in recent years, and horror directors are searching for more thoughtful borderline visceral illustrations, as they consider the globalized world, and step into the harrowing cascade.
Could be, although if horror is shifting paradigmatically, Les Mauves may not be seminally equipped, but it is chock full o' Summer, and there are without question much much worse things.
For presenting horror without a vicious monster and sincerely attempting to generate chills that are more cerebral, Les Fauves should be commended, even if it falls far short of the haunting Midsommar.
But I'm wondering if it's not supposed to be taken that seriously, as a horror film, or if it's more of a horror-comedy, to be accurate, or definitively precise.
The opening scene is certainly comedic and (forgive me if I'm wrong here) couldn't have possibly been intended to disorient, in fact after viewing it I thought I was in for a romp or at least something just a wee bit delirious.
The pool-filled-with-dead-animals scene functions in a similar way, and is also kind of campy, if not disreputable.
There's a long sad monologue in the end as well that's presented as if it's genuinely fond, but it's so histrionic and overwrought that I thought Vincent Mariette was trying to trick us into taking it seriously, and that if you were indeed irrefutably impacted, you had indeed unwittingly bought it.
Perhaps it's meant to be rationally analyzed, and I plain and simply didn't get it, but it seemed like something was out of place throughout, something that made me think I was immersed in shenanigans.
There are some really cool cave scenes that are kind of creepy and otherworldly, but they unreel so quickly that I never thought there was anything strange taking place, or that anything was in fact out of order.
Seemed more like we were just checking out some cool caves that happened to be located within a not so far fetched plot.
It's cool to see more brainy horror flicks but sometimes they're simply ridiculous.
At least Les Fauves promotes confusion.
With some cool characters.
Kind of sleazy.
Friday, July 26, 2019
Menteur (Compulsive Liar)
The material fabric of ethical reality is fraught with drastic peril, its mystical binding extravagantly unravelling, as falsehood and slander tax baseless appeal.
Possessing no qualms concerning much of anything at all, Simon (Louis-José Houde) lies ad infinitum, never admitting even the most harmless of truths, deriding body and mind beyond limitations, with exasperating recall, and peerless raging bull.
Those caught up in his labyrinthine web of lies have grown accustomed to his disreputable blather, but since they're less serpentinely disposed, still slurp it up with torrential capacity.
For he's still a family member, and a high ranking valued employee, and as distraught as everyone else may be, they still rely on his frank indiscretions.
Like Loki in a way, yet less destructive, less obsessed with universal domination.
Even if that very same universe, within its terrestrial confines, authoritatively takes vengeful note, and punishment suddenly wildly decrees, that all his lies become sincerest truth.
Indubitably.
In the aftermath, he must find a way to reverse manifold adverse effects, with the aid of a suffering sibling (Antoine Bertrand as Phil), and the potential of bold shrewd romance (Catherine Chabot as Chloé).
Much like a world where fake news turns out to be real, Menteur (Compulsive Liar) waxes chaotic with rationed logic abruptly aggrieved.
As if all the tricksters out there who simply make sensational things up had to make amends for their viral charlatanism, Menteur playfully critiques the flamboyant fausses nouvelles, through recourse to cosmic justice.
Shyly merged with joyful repentance.
Publish or perish can produce its own varying degrees of irrationality, especially if struggling non-tenured journalists or academics can't come up with an appealing idea (and hate being boring), but if they transform speculation into fact or theory into reality without evidence, a competitor will most likely call them out, and most of them don't wish to have damaged reputations.
Fake news seems to be more like the spawn of malicious junior high shenanigans (école secondaire niveaux 1 et 2) expressing themselves maturely, and what used to be the respectable madcaps of Saturday Night Live or genre fiction, has become mad rational high-jinxed tabloid discourse.
When the comedy fades you are left with horror, like witch hunts and inquisitions, rumour used to be widely looked down upon.
Don't ask yourself if the rumour is true, ask yourself what whomever you're speaking with has to gain by spreading the rumour.
There's usually something in it for them. Especially if they use a malevolent or all too friendly tone.
And aren't simply hooked on gossip.
Menteur has a remarkable ending.
Could things in fact be that simple?
With mutual respect, I'd wager they can.
Flourishing with laidback synergies.
As demonstrative as they are symbolic.
As industrious as they are simply chill.
Possessing no qualms concerning much of anything at all, Simon (Louis-José Houde) lies ad infinitum, never admitting even the most harmless of truths, deriding body and mind beyond limitations, with exasperating recall, and peerless raging bull.
Those caught up in his labyrinthine web of lies have grown accustomed to his disreputable blather, but since they're less serpentinely disposed, still slurp it up with torrential capacity.
For he's still a family member, and a high ranking valued employee, and as distraught as everyone else may be, they still rely on his frank indiscretions.
Like Loki in a way, yet less destructive, less obsessed with universal domination.
Even if that very same universe, within its terrestrial confines, authoritatively takes vengeful note, and punishment suddenly wildly decrees, that all his lies become sincerest truth.
Indubitably.
In the aftermath, he must find a way to reverse manifold adverse effects, with the aid of a suffering sibling (Antoine Bertrand as Phil), and the potential of bold shrewd romance (Catherine Chabot as Chloé).
Much like a world where fake news turns out to be real, Menteur (Compulsive Liar) waxes chaotic with rationed logic abruptly aggrieved.
As if all the tricksters out there who simply make sensational things up had to make amends for their viral charlatanism, Menteur playfully critiques the flamboyant fausses nouvelles, through recourse to cosmic justice.
Shyly merged with joyful repentance.
Publish or perish can produce its own varying degrees of irrationality, especially if struggling non-tenured journalists or academics can't come up with an appealing idea (and hate being boring), but if they transform speculation into fact or theory into reality without evidence, a competitor will most likely call them out, and most of them don't wish to have damaged reputations.
Fake news seems to be more like the spawn of malicious junior high shenanigans (école secondaire niveaux 1 et 2) expressing themselves maturely, and what used to be the respectable madcaps of Saturday Night Live or genre fiction, has become mad rational high-jinxed tabloid discourse.
When the comedy fades you are left with horror, like witch hunts and inquisitions, rumour used to be widely looked down upon.
Don't ask yourself if the rumour is true, ask yourself what whomever you're speaking with has to gain by spreading the rumour.
There's usually something in it for them. Especially if they use a malevolent or all too friendly tone.
And aren't simply hooked on gossip.
Menteur has a remarkable ending.
Could things in fact be that simple?
With mutual respect, I'd wager they can.
Flourishing with laidback synergies.
As demonstrative as they are symbolic.
As industrious as they are simply chill.
Tuesday, July 23, 2019
Dogman
A kind man.
An awkward man.
A shy man.
A loving man.
He loves animals and his daughter and works hard to impress them, grooming dogs throughout the day to earn money for rest and leisure.
He's done well for himself considering his coastal town's depressed jade, and has friends, clients, healthy relations, and respectability.
He gets by and isn't concerned with that much, but at least still keeps track of the score.
But there's a problem.
A huge problem.
A drug abusing violent bull who cheats and robs the whole neighbourhood takes advantage of his kindness (Edoardo Pesce as Simoncino), and due to his habitual timidity, he has trouble refusing his requests.
You can't negotiate with stark abomination.
And have to one day just strictly say "no".
And take the beating, as it inevitably approaches, Matteo Garrone's Dogman presenting one prick of a criminal abyss, jacked up on malevolent testosterone.
And amphetamines.
It's diabolical dispassionate juxtaposition, each favour just a little more ruthless, and even though each demand's grim and shocking, the door's never shut tight with resolve.
Take care of all things. No matter how brutal. Embrace as they bite, provide guidance they'll ignore.
Marcello (Marcello Fonte) likes being with people. It doesn't really matter who. He wants to fit in, play ball, take part, revel. Enjoy a long lunch. Play soccer in the morning.
But he's too friendly to know when to draw lines.
Seems more like the kind of guy who would read stories to sick kids at the hospital, or plant trees and gardens for his community on weekends.
But if such or similar opportunities exist, he has yet to seek them out or find them.
The film sharply blends innocence and contempt with dismal tragic scorn.
It's painful to watch as Marcello agrees, and is left direly scathed and scrounging.
In a community less saturated with toxic masculinity, he likely would have modestly bloomed, or would have had different options available, that may have encouraged less destructive reckonings.
Dogman makes quite the solemn impact, as lost as it is soul searching.
A world devoid of the feminine.
With good intentions pushed far far away.
An awkward man.
A shy man.
A loving man.
He loves animals and his daughter and works hard to impress them, grooming dogs throughout the day to earn money for rest and leisure.
He's done well for himself considering his coastal town's depressed jade, and has friends, clients, healthy relations, and respectability.
He gets by and isn't concerned with that much, but at least still keeps track of the score.
But there's a problem.
A huge problem.
A drug abusing violent bull who cheats and robs the whole neighbourhood takes advantage of his kindness (Edoardo Pesce as Simoncino), and due to his habitual timidity, he has trouble refusing his requests.
You can't negotiate with stark abomination.
And have to one day just strictly say "no".
And take the beating, as it inevitably approaches, Matteo Garrone's Dogman presenting one prick of a criminal abyss, jacked up on malevolent testosterone.
And amphetamines.
It's diabolical dispassionate juxtaposition, each favour just a little more ruthless, and even though each demand's grim and shocking, the door's never shut tight with resolve.
Take care of all things. No matter how brutal. Embrace as they bite, provide guidance they'll ignore.
Marcello (Marcello Fonte) likes being with people. It doesn't really matter who. He wants to fit in, play ball, take part, revel. Enjoy a long lunch. Play soccer in the morning.
But he's too friendly to know when to draw lines.
Seems more like the kind of guy who would read stories to sick kids at the hospital, or plant trees and gardens for his community on weekends.
But if such or similar opportunities exist, he has yet to seek them out or find them.
The film sharply blends innocence and contempt with dismal tragic scorn.
It's painful to watch as Marcello agrees, and is left direly scathed and scrounging.
In a community less saturated with toxic masculinity, he likely would have modestly bloomed, or would have had different options available, that may have encouraged less destructive reckonings.
Dogman makes quite the solemn impact, as lost as it is soul searching.
A world devoid of the feminine.
With good intentions pushed far far away.
Friday, July 19, 2019
Die Kleine Hexe (The Little Witch)
A novice witch (Karoline Herfurth as Kleine Hexe), full of pluck and curious mischief, abounding with energy and playful vigour, seeks to attend the communal Walpurgis Night, even though she lacks the requisite age.
She's only 127.
But she still feels it's in her best interests to clandestinely attend, ignoring the counsel of her loving raven (Axel Prahl as Abraxas), who advises caution with reliable amiability.
She's bored and can't resist the lure of good times however, and soon finds herself engaged in outright revel, doing her best to cavort at ease, underneath the enchanting night sky.
But she's discovered, and reprimanded severely, forced to engage in voluminous study, under threat of the loss of her powers.
She's too light of heart for the others, yet wants to fit in regardless, but has trouble spreading fear and contempt, as she's coldly encouraged to do.
Abraxas warns her.
And her actions are under surveillance.
But warmth and good cheer still spellbindingly animate, as if kindness were resolute, and understanding crystal clear.
A spirited apprenticeship.
Enriching good deeds.
Die Kleine Hexe (The Little Witch) briskly excels at conjuring mirth and wonder, unconcerned with traditional role play, enamoured with innocent charm.
Tasks can indeed be clad in bemusement, and rigour as fabled as distress or scorn, but slowly and surely hard work endeavours, to bewitch the belittlingly thorned.
If you're not fond of Kleine Hexe and her raven, the film may seem a little (or way) too much, but if you appreciate their wondrous candour, it overflows with bizarro amour.
He's a cutey.
Grown weary with the passage of time.
Focusing too intently on Hexe's relationship with the older witches may have resulted in too much conflict, even if the ending's far too easy.
As it stands, Hexe's goodwill and daring affably adjudicate, even if she struggles beneath a grouchy unamused cloud.
Not Abraxas, the other witches.
I thought it was going to be a cartoon when I bought my ticket, but was still pleasantly surprised by the sets and costumes.
Not as well balanced as the Harry Potter films in terms of magical diversity, old witches bad, young witches good, but perhaps such a comment is well beyond the film's target audience, which may have been no older than nine, at least younger than 11, although really, what's a postmodernist to say?
I thought it might be a new European Secret of NIMH or Last Unicorn.
And wish ravens could talk.
Alright film.
Overflowing with fun.
Character driven.
She's only 127.
But she still feels it's in her best interests to clandestinely attend, ignoring the counsel of her loving raven (Axel Prahl as Abraxas), who advises caution with reliable amiability.
She's bored and can't resist the lure of good times however, and soon finds herself engaged in outright revel, doing her best to cavort at ease, underneath the enchanting night sky.
But she's discovered, and reprimanded severely, forced to engage in voluminous study, under threat of the loss of her powers.
She's too light of heart for the others, yet wants to fit in regardless, but has trouble spreading fear and contempt, as she's coldly encouraged to do.
Abraxas warns her.
And her actions are under surveillance.
But warmth and good cheer still spellbindingly animate, as if kindness were resolute, and understanding crystal clear.
A spirited apprenticeship.
Enriching good deeds.
Die Kleine Hexe (The Little Witch) briskly excels at conjuring mirth and wonder, unconcerned with traditional role play, enamoured with innocent charm.
Tasks can indeed be clad in bemusement, and rigour as fabled as distress or scorn, but slowly and surely hard work endeavours, to bewitch the belittlingly thorned.
If you're not fond of Kleine Hexe and her raven, the film may seem a little (or way) too much, but if you appreciate their wondrous candour, it overflows with bizarro amour.
He's a cutey.
Grown weary with the passage of time.
Focusing too intently on Hexe's relationship with the older witches may have resulted in too much conflict, even if the ending's far too easy.
As it stands, Hexe's goodwill and daring affably adjudicate, even if she struggles beneath a grouchy unamused cloud.
Not Abraxas, the other witches.
I thought it was going to be a cartoon when I bought my ticket, but was still pleasantly surprised by the sets and costumes.
Not as well balanced as the Harry Potter films in terms of magical diversity, old witches bad, young witches good, but perhaps such a comment is well beyond the film's target audience, which may have been no older than nine, at least younger than 11, although really, what's a postmodernist to say?
I thought it might be a new European Secret of NIMH or Last Unicorn.
And wish ravens could talk.
Alright film.
Overflowing with fun.
Character driven.
Tuesday, July 16, 2019
Midsommar
Spoiler alert.
Extreme tragedy strikes, and a young student is torn asunder (Florence Pugh as Dani).
In her hour of need, her partner steps up (Jack Reynor as Christian), providing dependable loving care, even though things would have ended otherwise.
A trip.
A vacation.
A friend invites them and others to visit the Swedish community that reared him (Vilhelm Blomgren as Pelle), an anthropological opportunity adored and beckoning, a remote adventure which seems harmless enough.
They gather and set off, unsuspicious and unaware.
They're greeted with somnambulistic sustenance, and proceed in the interests of friendship.
Yet something's not quite right as they settle in to total isolation, and strange rituals harrowingly bewilder, with no explanations genuinely forthcoming.
Nausea.
Disappearances.
Pure utter terror.
Ari Aster's Midsommar cultivates occultist acculturation, as realistic as one two three.
It's the best horror film I've seen in years, in the same league as The Exorcist or The Omen.
Better even.
I don't even really watch horror films anymore, unless it's Halloween, and never thought it would impress so monstrously.
It maintains an innocent carefree aesthetic throughout, as it slowly matriculates ubiquitous discretion.
Alternative ideas guide the insulated community.
The magnitude of the shock is too severe for outsiders, and even though things don't make sense, nothing is done to countermand or break free.
Thus, rather than spending time and effort presenting a failed escape followed by woeful incarceration, Midsommar's characters incredulously stay put, awaiting what can't possibly be, in confused awestruck senseless immersion.
There's no heroes, no heroics.
No passion. No universal code.
An ancient offbeat strictly orthodox idiosyncrasy has wickedly endured, as manifold perspectives would likely view it, and it recruits new members with neither pretence nor precaution, convinced that once they arrive, they'll never be able to set themselves free.
Even if they aren't kept waiting long.
The realism haunts you afterward since it's difficult to quickly dismiss, it isn't improbable or ridiculous or insane, it's more like vibrant documentary fiction, highlighting novelty's dark side.
Proceed with caution.
Perhaps view with a friend.
Freedoms require limitations.
Through limitations, set yourself free.
😌
Extreme tragedy strikes, and a young student is torn asunder (Florence Pugh as Dani).
In her hour of need, her partner steps up (Jack Reynor as Christian), providing dependable loving care, even though things would have ended otherwise.
A trip.
A vacation.
A friend invites them and others to visit the Swedish community that reared him (Vilhelm Blomgren as Pelle), an anthropological opportunity adored and beckoning, a remote adventure which seems harmless enough.
They gather and set off, unsuspicious and unaware.
They're greeted with somnambulistic sustenance, and proceed in the interests of friendship.
Yet something's not quite right as they settle in to total isolation, and strange rituals harrowingly bewilder, with no explanations genuinely forthcoming.
Nausea.
Disappearances.
Pure utter terror.
Ari Aster's Midsommar cultivates occultist acculturation, as realistic as one two three.
It's the best horror film I've seen in years, in the same league as The Exorcist or The Omen.
Better even.
I don't even really watch horror films anymore, unless it's Halloween, and never thought it would impress so monstrously.
It maintains an innocent carefree aesthetic throughout, as it slowly matriculates ubiquitous discretion.
Alternative ideas guide the insulated community.
The magnitude of the shock is too severe for outsiders, and even though things don't make sense, nothing is done to countermand or break free.
Thus, rather than spending time and effort presenting a failed escape followed by woeful incarceration, Midsommar's characters incredulously stay put, awaiting what can't possibly be, in confused awestruck senseless immersion.
There's no heroes, no heroics.
No passion. No universal code.
An ancient offbeat strictly orthodox idiosyncrasy has wickedly endured, as manifold perspectives would likely view it, and it recruits new members with neither pretence nor precaution, convinced that once they arrive, they'll never be able to set themselves free.
Even if they aren't kept waiting long.
The realism haunts you afterward since it's difficult to quickly dismiss, it isn't improbable or ridiculous or insane, it's more like vibrant documentary fiction, highlighting novelty's dark side.
Proceed with caution.
Perhaps view with a friend.
Freedoms require limitations.
Through limitations, set yourself free.
😌
Friday, July 12, 2019
Spider-Man: Far From Home
I briefly considered taking a break from Marvel Studios after viewing the last Avengers film.
It was incredibly intense and seeing another related film shortly thereafter seemed borderline overload; I wasn't sure if I could hack it!
The thoughts weren't too demanding though, just one of the hundreds that float around deep down and then suddenly pop into one's head at random individualized intervals while they trek around town throughout the day, and I eventually found myself ready for Spider-Man: Far From Home for one of its first screenings, with an IMAX ticket no less, purchased for a matinee showing.
And I wasn't disappointed.
Not to heap too much praise on Marvel Studios, and it's important to never rest on your laurels or think you've found that magic touch that works each and every freakin' time, but they do consistently release creative stunning convincing witty films that cleverly blend action, drama, comedy, and science-fiction, to present thrilling tales that'll likely hold up for multiple viewings, for now, and far into the foreseeable future.
Adventure films which made similar impacts were few and far between when I was growing up, which likely explains why I find Marvel Studios's consistency so mind-blowing.
It's like what you used to wait 4 or 5 years for comes out every 3 or 4 months.
And the quality's usually high.
With incredibly deep interdependent storylines.
The new Spider-Man film functions as a spellbinding overconfident-emergent-villain vs. doubt-plagued-protagonist revelation, but it's also a chill coming of age Summer teen comedy, the two thematic thrusts imaginatively seasoned with narrative expertise.
If you want multiple characters developed in varying degrees, there are at least 14 given room to manoeuvre within, and the brisk pace sees them observing and commenting along different youthful and aged lines, as responsibility irritates Peter Parker (Tom Holland), who foolishly thought he was going on vacation.
Happy Hogan (Jon Favreau), Mr. Harrington (Martin Starr), and Mr. Dell (J.B. Smoove [who could have used more lines!]) skilfully present differing variations of the appropriate, proceeding in awestruck error, in situations far beyond their control.
Perhaps the situations are a bit too out of control for a student trip to Europe.
It's sort of like an elite counter-terrorist is still in high school and on vacation with his unsuspecting classmates, who become indirectly involved as he confronts dire globalized ambition.
But their somewhat far-fetched integration does make for some thrilling comedy, as long as you're confident nothing will go wrong, and Spider-Man will enact game changing regional parity.
But will he?
I highly recommend Far From Home for both fans of the superheroic and people looking to chaotically chill.
In the Summer.
The Summertime elements are so thoughtfully interwoven I'll likely watch it every Winter and Summer for years to come, in Winter as preparation for Summer, in Summer since Summer is Summer.
I should say that Marvel Studios brought their A plus plus game to move their Spider-Man films into the Iron Man position.
Thor and the Guardians have their work cut out for them.
Along with Black Panther.
And so many many others.
Laidback cool synergistic overload.
I do love these new Spider-Man films.
Overflowing with raw contemplation.
It was incredibly intense and seeing another related film shortly thereafter seemed borderline overload; I wasn't sure if I could hack it!
The thoughts weren't too demanding though, just one of the hundreds that float around deep down and then suddenly pop into one's head at random individualized intervals while they trek around town throughout the day, and I eventually found myself ready for Spider-Man: Far From Home for one of its first screenings, with an IMAX ticket no less, purchased for a matinee showing.
And I wasn't disappointed.
Not to heap too much praise on Marvel Studios, and it's important to never rest on your laurels or think you've found that magic touch that works each and every freakin' time, but they do consistently release creative stunning convincing witty films that cleverly blend action, drama, comedy, and science-fiction, to present thrilling tales that'll likely hold up for multiple viewings, for now, and far into the foreseeable future.
Adventure films which made similar impacts were few and far between when I was growing up, which likely explains why I find Marvel Studios's consistency so mind-blowing.
It's like what you used to wait 4 or 5 years for comes out every 3 or 4 months.
And the quality's usually high.
With incredibly deep interdependent storylines.
The new Spider-Man film functions as a spellbinding overconfident-emergent-villain vs. doubt-plagued-protagonist revelation, but it's also a chill coming of age Summer teen comedy, the two thematic thrusts imaginatively seasoned with narrative expertise.
If you want multiple characters developed in varying degrees, there are at least 14 given room to manoeuvre within, and the brisk pace sees them observing and commenting along different youthful and aged lines, as responsibility irritates Peter Parker (Tom Holland), who foolishly thought he was going on vacation.
Happy Hogan (Jon Favreau), Mr. Harrington (Martin Starr), and Mr. Dell (J.B. Smoove [who could have used more lines!]) skilfully present differing variations of the appropriate, proceeding in awestruck error, in situations far beyond their control.
Perhaps the situations are a bit too out of control for a student trip to Europe.
It's sort of like an elite counter-terrorist is still in high school and on vacation with his unsuspecting classmates, who become indirectly involved as he confronts dire globalized ambition.
But their somewhat far-fetched integration does make for some thrilling comedy, as long as you're confident nothing will go wrong, and Spider-Man will enact game changing regional parity.
But will he?
I highly recommend Far From Home for both fans of the superheroic and people looking to chaotically chill.
In the Summer.
The Summertime elements are so thoughtfully interwoven I'll likely watch it every Winter and Summer for years to come, in Winter as preparation for Summer, in Summer since Summer is Summer.
I should say that Marvel Studios brought their A plus plus game to move their Spider-Man films into the Iron Man position.
Thor and the Guardians have their work cut out for them.
Along with Black Panther.
And so many many others.
Laidback cool synergistic overload.
I do love these new Spider-Man films.
Overflowing with raw contemplation.
Tuesday, July 9, 2019
Yesterday
It's mind-blowing how many memorable songs the Beatles wrote.
In such a short span of time.
In 5 years they released Help!, Rubber Soul, Revolver, Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, Magical Mystery Tour, The Beatles (The White Album), and Abbey Road, in just 5 years they released 7 of the best albums ever recorded, albums that didn't fade with time or grow stale, 7 albums, 5 years, not to mention Let it Be or everything from their earlier years, how did they release that much high quality original material in such a short span of time?, it doesn't make sense when you consider the history of pop music, there's no other band that produced that much quality in such a short period, others have come close, but haven't achieved the same level of astonishing brilliance.
You sometimes have to wait three years for contemporary artists to release a new album, and then it isn't even that good, how long does it take talented artists to write 10 songs I ask you, how long!, how long!
It didn't take the Beatles that long, and assuming they weren't extraterrestrials posing as gifted songwriters while they let loose for a remarkably productive sojourn on Earth, the question of how they superlatively merged quality and quantity so effortlessly in such a short period, a feat that has never been duplicated although many bands have had impressive runs, makes me think they were either just the most gifted songwriters to ever fortunately meet and form a band, a group that used its fame productively, that didn't self-destruct when their popularity become overwhelming (even after they stopped touring), or that the music industry changed so much in their wake that its current makeup won't permit the release of so much monumental material due to the corresponding mass hysteria it generates, as if the goal of denying the release of brilliant material is plain and simply to manage crowds, or prevent people from wildly enjoying themselves, as if they've classified unconscious bliss, and reckoned it an unfavourable commodity.
It could be that the Beatles set the bar so high they discouraged a lot of potential songwriters from seeking genius, so many talented young people worried about being like them instead of zeroing in on their own creative selves.
But if they discouraged some, they inspired many others, who perhaps never would have insisted had they not grown up listening to them intently.
So many songs I still love listening to for what must be the millionth time.
They diversified their material with every album after the early years.
Why has there been no one else like them?
They were much stronger together than they ever were as solo acts.
Yesterday imagines a world where the Beatles never existed, but one struggling singer-songwriter (Himesh Patel as Jack Malik) still remembers all their songs.
He's an instant success when he starts playing them live and suddenly finds himself on the threshold of superstardom.
It's a feel good film blending hope and miracles to find romance through a lack there of and integrity in its most spellbinding.
I think the world'd be worse off if the Beatles never existed; they not only wrote some of the best pop music I've heard, but they also inspired so many other artists to give 'er.
The "if they had never" question doesn't make sense of course since "if they had never no one would have ever known".
I do know though, and I'm glad I've spent so much time listening to their music regardless.
Because of Ferris Bueller's Day Off no less.
My favourite album, Rubber Soul.
Damned innovative.
In such a short span of time.
In 5 years they released Help!, Rubber Soul, Revolver, Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, Magical Mystery Tour, The Beatles (The White Album), and Abbey Road, in just 5 years they released 7 of the best albums ever recorded, albums that didn't fade with time or grow stale, 7 albums, 5 years, not to mention Let it Be or everything from their earlier years, how did they release that much high quality original material in such a short span of time?, it doesn't make sense when you consider the history of pop music, there's no other band that produced that much quality in such a short period, others have come close, but haven't achieved the same level of astonishing brilliance.
You sometimes have to wait three years for contemporary artists to release a new album, and then it isn't even that good, how long does it take talented artists to write 10 songs I ask you, how long!, how long!
It didn't take the Beatles that long, and assuming they weren't extraterrestrials posing as gifted songwriters while they let loose for a remarkably productive sojourn on Earth, the question of how they superlatively merged quality and quantity so effortlessly in such a short period, a feat that has never been duplicated although many bands have had impressive runs, makes me think they were either just the most gifted songwriters to ever fortunately meet and form a band, a group that used its fame productively, that didn't self-destruct when their popularity become overwhelming (even after they stopped touring), or that the music industry changed so much in their wake that its current makeup won't permit the release of so much monumental material due to the corresponding mass hysteria it generates, as if the goal of denying the release of brilliant material is plain and simply to manage crowds, or prevent people from wildly enjoying themselves, as if they've classified unconscious bliss, and reckoned it an unfavourable commodity.
It could be that the Beatles set the bar so high they discouraged a lot of potential songwriters from seeking genius, so many talented young people worried about being like them instead of zeroing in on their own creative selves.
But if they discouraged some, they inspired many others, who perhaps never would have insisted had they not grown up listening to them intently.
So many songs I still love listening to for what must be the millionth time.
They diversified their material with every album after the early years.
Why has there been no one else like them?
They were much stronger together than they ever were as solo acts.
Yesterday imagines a world where the Beatles never existed, but one struggling singer-songwriter (Himesh Patel as Jack Malik) still remembers all their songs.
He's an instant success when he starts playing them live and suddenly finds himself on the threshold of superstardom.
It's a feel good film blending hope and miracles to find romance through a lack there of and integrity in its most spellbinding.
I think the world'd be worse off if the Beatles never existed; they not only wrote some of the best pop music I've heard, but they also inspired so many other artists to give 'er.
The "if they had never" question doesn't make sense of course since "if they had never no one would have ever known".
I do know though, and I'm glad I've spent so much time listening to their music regardless.
Because of Ferris Bueller's Day Off no less.
My favourite album, Rubber Soul.
Damned innovative.
Friday, July 5, 2019
The Grizzlies
A small community in Nunavut struggles with alcoholism, drug addiction, and suicide, as traditional ways backed up by authentic millennia merge with the legacy of the residential school system.
Strong hunters still persevere, establishing direct links with their ancient descendants.
And some students see the benefits of rigorous study, even if practical applications don't readily present themselves.
It truly is another world, a diverse alternative spirituality.
Inaccessible by road.
Blanketed by the midnight sun.
A somewhat naive teacher lands in this far off realm, unaware of local realities yet determined to make a difference.
He's clueless as the film begins but isn't hardhearted or dismissive.
He listens to local concerns and adjusts his teaching style accordingly.
Well-versed in lacrosse lore, he decides to start up a local team, his dedication and tenacity inspiring local youth, who are hesitant to join yet still curious.
Sports can help combat substance abuse in any community inasmuch as they encourage constructive goals.
If the choice is between loosing oneself in booze and drugs or joining a team that builds character through discipline, I'll take the latter every time.
It's not that simple in The Grizzlies because the community isn't affluent and economic hardships present conflicting responsibilities.
Some kids can't play on a team because they're needed at home, and since the lacrosse team is something new, some families and teachers have troubling believing in its positive effects.
During a town meeting where the team tries to obtain funds to attend a tournament down South, many citizens voice reasonable concerns in opposition, and it's a situation where no one's really right or wrong, but some options take precedence over others.
It's tough to see the benefits of alternative ideas at times and easy to dismiss them. They may seem like they conflict with time honoured traditions at first because they still haven't found a way to culturally co-exist amongst them, and putting food on the table's top priority without a doubt, and sometimes playing games can seem just a little bit silly.
Sports can be a bit ra-ra at times but they promote teamwork, healthy living, interdependence, and communal strength.
They make a huge difference for the lives of the kids in The Grizzlies, and open up doors many residents thought had been shut, permanently.
The North needs dedicated teachers like Russ Shephard (Ben Schnetzer) who are humble enough to adapt to local customs which can teach them to become community leaders.
The North has so much to offer and living there's an experience like none other.
If students have trouble seeing the benefits of education in remote Northern communities, perhaps focusing on astronomy could make a difference.
The night sky is as practical in the North as a transit system is in a city.
I don't see why astronomy can't be used to synthesize the study of math, art, sport and science.
There are endless applications.
Relevant in any age.
Strong hunters still persevere, establishing direct links with their ancient descendants.
And some students see the benefits of rigorous study, even if practical applications don't readily present themselves.
It truly is another world, a diverse alternative spirituality.
Inaccessible by road.
Blanketed by the midnight sun.
A somewhat naive teacher lands in this far off realm, unaware of local realities yet determined to make a difference.
He's clueless as the film begins but isn't hardhearted or dismissive.
He listens to local concerns and adjusts his teaching style accordingly.
Well-versed in lacrosse lore, he decides to start up a local team, his dedication and tenacity inspiring local youth, who are hesitant to join yet still curious.
Sports can help combat substance abuse in any community inasmuch as they encourage constructive goals.
If the choice is between loosing oneself in booze and drugs or joining a team that builds character through discipline, I'll take the latter every time.
It's not that simple in The Grizzlies because the community isn't affluent and economic hardships present conflicting responsibilities.
Some kids can't play on a team because they're needed at home, and since the lacrosse team is something new, some families and teachers have troubling believing in its positive effects.
During a town meeting where the team tries to obtain funds to attend a tournament down South, many citizens voice reasonable concerns in opposition, and it's a situation where no one's really right or wrong, but some options take precedence over others.
It's tough to see the benefits of alternative ideas at times and easy to dismiss them. They may seem like they conflict with time honoured traditions at first because they still haven't found a way to culturally co-exist amongst them, and putting food on the table's top priority without a doubt, and sometimes playing games can seem just a little bit silly.
Sports can be a bit ra-ra at times but they promote teamwork, healthy living, interdependence, and communal strength.
They make a huge difference for the lives of the kids in The Grizzlies, and open up doors many residents thought had been shut, permanently.
The North needs dedicated teachers like Russ Shephard (Ben Schnetzer) who are humble enough to adapt to local customs which can teach them to become community leaders.
The North has so much to offer and living there's an experience like none other.
If students have trouble seeing the benefits of education in remote Northern communities, perhaps focusing on astronomy could make a difference.
The night sky is as practical in the North as a transit system is in a city.
I don't see why astronomy can't be used to synthesize the study of math, art, sport and science.
There are endless applications.
Relevant in any age.
Tuesday, July 2, 2019
Late Night
A fresh unsung outspoken new talent (Mindy Kaling as Molly Patel) suddenly finds herself writing for a popular late night talk show.
Its ratings have been slipping as of late however, and its charismatic host (Emma Thompson as Katherine Newbury) is bluntly searching for new ideas.
But she's become somewhat detached from the scene over the years and could be criticized for having lost the human touch, and although she excels at lauding the high brow, she still has yet to warm up to bold YouTube and Twitter theatrics.
Etcetera.
When she discovers her network is hoping to replace her, she has to dig deep and reimagine her worn image.
Thus she actually sits down with her writing team to quickly craft an alternative plan.
They're as uncertain of how to proceed as she is, since it's been years since she's taken an active role in her show's production, and doesn't even recall the majority of her staff's names.
It can be like that, so she gives them all numbers, acclimatizes herself to workplace codes she's forgotten, and slowly begins the painstaking process of improvised identity transformation.
Thankfully Ms. Patel is as unfamiliar with showbiz ego as Ms. Newbury is with contemporary audiences, and though she's reprimanded openly for plainly expressing her raw ideas, Katherine and her staff soon realize she has something to say.
She's in touch with postmodern pressures, and couldn't have come along at a more opportune time, sharing her ideas just audaciously enough, to make enlivening game changing droll ratings impacts.
Late Night excels at convincingly cultivating change.
Its clever script and dynamic characters compellingly fluctuate as the film progresses, offering insights into diverse social phenomena (dating, moving to a city, marriage, working, friendship, rivalries, social media, popularity, competition, . . .) while confidently managing constant change.
Like thermodynamic life in motion, Late Night flexibly introduces conflict and camaraderie, their schematics realigned as trial and error deconstructs, characters readily adapting to the unpredictable shifting frame.
The characters aren't ideal or all-knowing, flaws abound as they search for solutions, but they're strong enough to move forward after having proceeded in error, or to celebrate success without losing sight of the cold and fleeting.
Real world.
Late Night's super real world and professionally polished, but since Ms. Newbury's persona has to be creatively redefined, unorthodox grit leads to splotches and blemishes, which gradually emerge as best practices themselves.
For a time.
Must be hard to harness all the conflicting creativity and transform it into a convincing narrative night after night.
Films and books can be worked on for years, but late night talk shows unreel in real time every night.
Weeknight.
It's remarkable how they remain relevant year after year while existing in permanent flux.
Balancing the random with tropes and traditions.
Always moving forward regardless.
Best American comedy I've seen since The Big Sick.
Impressive realistic fiction.
Its ratings have been slipping as of late however, and its charismatic host (Emma Thompson as Katherine Newbury) is bluntly searching for new ideas.
But she's become somewhat detached from the scene over the years and could be criticized for having lost the human touch, and although she excels at lauding the high brow, she still has yet to warm up to bold YouTube and Twitter theatrics.
Etcetera.
When she discovers her network is hoping to replace her, she has to dig deep and reimagine her worn image.
Thus she actually sits down with her writing team to quickly craft an alternative plan.
They're as uncertain of how to proceed as she is, since it's been years since she's taken an active role in her show's production, and doesn't even recall the majority of her staff's names.
It can be like that, so she gives them all numbers, acclimatizes herself to workplace codes she's forgotten, and slowly begins the painstaking process of improvised identity transformation.
Thankfully Ms. Patel is as unfamiliar with showbiz ego as Ms. Newbury is with contemporary audiences, and though she's reprimanded openly for plainly expressing her raw ideas, Katherine and her staff soon realize she has something to say.
She's in touch with postmodern pressures, and couldn't have come along at a more opportune time, sharing her ideas just audaciously enough, to make enlivening game changing droll ratings impacts.
Late Night excels at convincingly cultivating change.
Its clever script and dynamic characters compellingly fluctuate as the film progresses, offering insights into diverse social phenomena (dating, moving to a city, marriage, working, friendship, rivalries, social media, popularity, competition, . . .) while confidently managing constant change.
Like thermodynamic life in motion, Late Night flexibly introduces conflict and camaraderie, their schematics realigned as trial and error deconstructs, characters readily adapting to the unpredictable shifting frame.
The characters aren't ideal or all-knowing, flaws abound as they search for solutions, but they're strong enough to move forward after having proceeded in error, or to celebrate success without losing sight of the cold and fleeting.
Real world.
Late Night's super real world and professionally polished, but since Ms. Newbury's persona has to be creatively redefined, unorthodox grit leads to splotches and blemishes, which gradually emerge as best practices themselves.
For a time.
Must be hard to harness all the conflicting creativity and transform it into a convincing narrative night after night.
Films and books can be worked on for years, but late night talk shows unreel in real time every night.
Weeknight.
It's remarkable how they remain relevant year after year while existing in permanent flux.
Balancing the random with tropes and traditions.
Always moving forward regardless.
Best American comedy I've seen since The Big Sick.
Impressive realistic fiction.
Friday, June 28, 2019
Shadow (Ying)
Two dynasties rule a torrential realm yet one has sunk into subservience.
Its nobles protest their King's diplomatic digressions and seek to battle once more those who rationed their defeat.
But their commander has suffered a fearsome blow, and though he can no longer lead, his disciple remains fierce and willing.
A surrogate, a double, a shadow, a brother, found lost in the streets one day years ago, was taken in to become his shelter, should battle prove wanton and reckless.
This shadow effectively deceives far and wide, until he is ready to formidably challenge.
Aided instinctively by a proud weary court, he prepares for the fated day, his patrons having expediently conjured defence through the feminine, as has never been utilized or anticipated before.
Lithe dissonance expounding alarm.
Discreet novel exposure.
Bewitching in convex complement.
Yimou Zhang's Shadow (Ying) presents compelling tragedy.
Modest settings and stately composure give way to shocking excess, as strategic plans denote tactile wonder, and outcomes tax spry febrile throes.
It's like a play, multiple characters nuanced and referenced, august consequences sheathing reward, stark confines generating precepts, latent desire tempting envy.
If you think it lacks distinction or pressure or complaint or pulsation early on, invoke patience as it masterfully proceeds, a narrative rich in subtle intrigue, intricately concealing age old passion.
Bursting forth with beautiful song.
Spiralling in wavelike arrays.
Like a flexed symphonic whirlwind, it classically encircles sworn objectives, alighting loyalty, quest, and betrayal, as it presumes dynastic resonance.
Assurance is by no means decreed and trust consumes arrogant remonstrance.
Impossibility is wildly taunted, depression adroitly commandeered.
As if it never did stop raining.
And there was no other thought to consider.
Outstanding film.
Echoes of Kurosawa.
Its nobles protest their King's diplomatic digressions and seek to battle once more those who rationed their defeat.
But their commander has suffered a fearsome blow, and though he can no longer lead, his disciple remains fierce and willing.
A surrogate, a double, a shadow, a brother, found lost in the streets one day years ago, was taken in to become his shelter, should battle prove wanton and reckless.
This shadow effectively deceives far and wide, until he is ready to formidably challenge.
Aided instinctively by a proud weary court, he prepares for the fated day, his patrons having expediently conjured defence through the feminine, as has never been utilized or anticipated before.
Lithe dissonance expounding alarm.
Discreet novel exposure.
Bewitching in convex complement.
Yimou Zhang's Shadow (Ying) presents compelling tragedy.
Modest settings and stately composure give way to shocking excess, as strategic plans denote tactile wonder, and outcomes tax spry febrile throes.
It's like a play, multiple characters nuanced and referenced, august consequences sheathing reward, stark confines generating precepts, latent desire tempting envy.
If you think it lacks distinction or pressure or complaint or pulsation early on, invoke patience as it masterfully proceeds, a narrative rich in subtle intrigue, intricately concealing age old passion.
Bursting forth with beautiful song.
Spiralling in wavelike arrays.
Like a flexed symphonic whirlwind, it classically encircles sworn objectives, alighting loyalty, quest, and betrayal, as it presumes dynastic resonance.
Assurance is by no means decreed and trust consumes arrogant remonstrance.
Impossibility is wildly taunted, depression adroitly commandeered.
As if it never did stop raining.
And there was no other thought to consider.
Outstanding film.
Echoes of Kurosawa.
Tuesday, June 25, 2019
Rocketman
Abounding with characteristic irresistible melody, Rocketman presents the early life of Elton John (Taron Egerton/Matthew Illesley/Kit Connor).
By no means like warm fuzzy lighthearted hot cocoa, it hits hard at John's blunt childhood trauma, while illustrating how it affected his sudden rise to fame, and led to years of conflicted unrestrained hitched soul searching.
But it's not all that depressing, that's just the frame his actions are depicted within, and at times it overflows with chill wonder, rich with doubts and expedient sublimation.
He was younger once, not so long ago, and although the details of his youth aren't elaborately nuanced, we learn that his father (Steven Mackintosh as Stanley) never loved him, his mother (Bryce Dallas Howard as Sheila) could be mean, and his grandmother (Gemma Jones as Ivy) recognized his talent, which began to flourish at a young age.
He could play anything he heard and write soulful original music, the former winning him a scholarship at Britain's Royal Academy of Music, after which he found himself leading memorable bands.
Rocketman features his lifelong working relationship with gifted lyricist Bernie Taupin (Jamie Bell), and how the two have productively worked together for a mind-boggling 5 decades strong.
With Taupin's lyrics John wrote so many enduring classics, many of which are still played regularly today, and shot them into the stratosphere in the early '70s, from which they've never really descended.
But the excessive wealth and wild lifestyle took its toll, especially considering that he fell in love with his hard-edged manager (Richard Madden as John Reid), who was strictly a man of business.
Rocketman's recalled through a series of defining moments John shares with a self-help group after seeking aid to attain sobriety.
According to the film, he was never really that rowdy, that vain, that hostile.
That much of a prick.
On the contrary, he was a humble brilliant laidback musician who wanted to showcase his talent but didn't do anything excessive to gain recognition, like a really fun cool guy whose ambition was acknowledged without spectacle.
After he became a star his outfits were flamboyant but that was and possibly still is part of the show, part of the thrill of seeing him perform.
Costume design by Julian Day.
The film's musical biography so it isn't overflowing with details from John's life, but the music's enticing and creatively interwoven to sympathize, emphasize, ritualize, and contextualize, reimagining so many great songs, with a damn fine new version of Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting.
It doesn't shy away from presenting hardships but in so doing adds depth to John's character, the chosen details resonating with significance, his style still diversifying to this day.
An incredible artist.
And a cool guy too.
Taron Egerton puts in a great performance.
Gentle intense life.
By no means like warm fuzzy lighthearted hot cocoa, it hits hard at John's blunt childhood trauma, while illustrating how it affected his sudden rise to fame, and led to years of conflicted unrestrained hitched soul searching.
But it's not all that depressing, that's just the frame his actions are depicted within, and at times it overflows with chill wonder, rich with doubts and expedient sublimation.
He was younger once, not so long ago, and although the details of his youth aren't elaborately nuanced, we learn that his father (Steven Mackintosh as Stanley) never loved him, his mother (Bryce Dallas Howard as Sheila) could be mean, and his grandmother (Gemma Jones as Ivy) recognized his talent, which began to flourish at a young age.
He could play anything he heard and write soulful original music, the former winning him a scholarship at Britain's Royal Academy of Music, after which he found himself leading memorable bands.
Rocketman features his lifelong working relationship with gifted lyricist Bernie Taupin (Jamie Bell), and how the two have productively worked together for a mind-boggling 5 decades strong.
With Taupin's lyrics John wrote so many enduring classics, many of which are still played regularly today, and shot them into the stratosphere in the early '70s, from which they've never really descended.
But the excessive wealth and wild lifestyle took its toll, especially considering that he fell in love with his hard-edged manager (Richard Madden as John Reid), who was strictly a man of business.
Rocketman's recalled through a series of defining moments John shares with a self-help group after seeking aid to attain sobriety.
According to the film, he was never really that rowdy, that vain, that hostile.
That much of a prick.
On the contrary, he was a humble brilliant laidback musician who wanted to showcase his talent but didn't do anything excessive to gain recognition, like a really fun cool guy whose ambition was acknowledged without spectacle.
After he became a star his outfits were flamboyant but that was and possibly still is part of the show, part of the thrill of seeing him perform.
Costume design by Julian Day.
The film's musical biography so it isn't overflowing with details from John's life, but the music's enticing and creatively interwoven to sympathize, emphasize, ritualize, and contextualize, reimagining so many great songs, with a damn fine new version of Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting.
It doesn't shy away from presenting hardships but in so doing adds depth to John's character, the chosen details resonating with significance, his style still diversifying to this day.
An incredible artist.
And a cool guy too.
Taron Egerton puts in a great performance.
Gentle intense life.
Friday, June 21, 2019
The Souvenir
Spoiler alert.
A lost bored romantic intellectual befriends an aspiring filmmaker who's too blind to be disenchanted 'til they're both very much in love.
She's determined yet shy (Honor Swinton Byrne as Julie), slowly learning to articulate her ideas, and he's in command of thoughtful expressions (Tom Burke as Anthony), which amusingly comment on the artsy world.
He sees something light in her innocent charm which his stilted life is sorely missing, and she enjoys the interactive ideas they warmly share without cost or confrontation.
Early on.
Her first love, her first scandal, her first apartment, her first immersion.
You can interpret the film in different ways but in the beginning their attachment seems genuine.
She genuinely loves him anyways, even after his addiction's revealed.
And the souvenir he provides her with near the end suggests he had genuine feelings too, he wasn't just taking advantage of the free ride, even if he lost control of his reason, and succumbed to blunt bland self-destruction.
Is The Souvenir Joanna Hogg's début film?
If so it's remarkably farsighted.
It's light, charismatic, thoughtful, a bit wild, blending comedic elegance with tragic realization, as if the mind's a random orchestration sweetly plucked in wondrous symphony.
With agile variation.
Composing relevance, nonsense, creeds.
'Til there's something else to do, the film presents wide open-minded invention.
You aren't tethered to specific patterns and expectations even as Anthony gets worse, it's much more freespirited, less checked and balanced like a craze, confident enough to try something novel, yet reliable as if there's something to do.
Some of the scenes, some of the editing, are/is borderline genius.
There were moments when I was close to approaching acritical ecstasy, but the lines weren't as mind-blowing as I instinctively hoped they would be.
The form is though, and many others likely found the content more compelling than I did, who am I anyways?, to even approach something like that in your first film is incredible, and no doubt a brilliant sign for the future.
I imagined Joanna Hogg making brilliant period pieces in the future in fact, rustling up some British history to discursively explore, overflowing with character and subtlety, making points that elucidate tremors.
I keep thinking this is how Jane Austen got started, 19th century style.
Who makes a film like this as a début?
Captivating.
Unique.
Thoughtful and precocious.
Tantalizingly distressed.
A lost bored romantic intellectual befriends an aspiring filmmaker who's too blind to be disenchanted 'til they're both very much in love.
She's determined yet shy (Honor Swinton Byrne as Julie), slowly learning to articulate her ideas, and he's in command of thoughtful expressions (Tom Burke as Anthony), which amusingly comment on the artsy world.
He sees something light in her innocent charm which his stilted life is sorely missing, and she enjoys the interactive ideas they warmly share without cost or confrontation.
Early on.
Her first love, her first scandal, her first apartment, her first immersion.
You can interpret the film in different ways but in the beginning their attachment seems genuine.
She genuinely loves him anyways, even after his addiction's revealed.
And the souvenir he provides her with near the end suggests he had genuine feelings too, he wasn't just taking advantage of the free ride, even if he lost control of his reason, and succumbed to blunt bland self-destruction.
Is The Souvenir Joanna Hogg's début film?
If so it's remarkably farsighted.
It's light, charismatic, thoughtful, a bit wild, blending comedic elegance with tragic realization, as if the mind's a random orchestration sweetly plucked in wondrous symphony.
With agile variation.
Composing relevance, nonsense, creeds.
'Til there's something else to do, the film presents wide open-minded invention.
You aren't tethered to specific patterns and expectations even as Anthony gets worse, it's much more freespirited, less checked and balanced like a craze, confident enough to try something novel, yet reliable as if there's something to do.
Some of the scenes, some of the editing, are/is borderline genius.
There were moments when I was close to approaching acritical ecstasy, but the lines weren't as mind-blowing as I instinctively hoped they would be.
The form is though, and many others likely found the content more compelling than I did, who am I anyways?, to even approach something like that in your first film is incredible, and no doubt a brilliant sign for the future.
I imagined Joanna Hogg making brilliant period pieces in the future in fact, rustling up some British history to discursively explore, overflowing with character and subtlety, making points that elucidate tremors.
I keep thinking this is how Jane Austen got started, 19th century style.
Who makes a film like this as a début?
Captivating.
Unique.
Thoughtful and precocious.
Tantalizingly distressed.
Wednesday, June 19, 2019
Godzilla: King of the Monsters
Spoiler alert.
Godzilla continues to freely roam the Earth's oceans, with impunity, and since revealing his monstrous longitude, others like have him have indeed been discovered.
Across the globe, lying dormant in slumbrous isolation, as titanic as they are formidable, yet cute and cuddly if considered in miniature.
Bewilderingly conscripted, rogue environmentalists conjure 12 Monkeys, blending in Riddick's Elementals, to unleash destructive fury.
Environmentalists and scientists less interested in freeing giant monsters to destroy half the planet, challenge them, with the aid of the American armed forces, led by Admiral David Strathairn (Admiral William Stenz).
And after Godzilla is defeated by the 3-headed alpha Monster Zero, they track him to his underwater domain, determined to accelerate his convalescence, as he rests following menacing blows.
Mothra comes to his aid in the end, but the other monsters owe allegiance to his nemesis, and it's unknown who will victoriously prevail, while Earth's best and brightest instinctively speculate.
In Monster Zero's corner lies Dr. Emma Russell (Vera Farmiga), her ex-husband (Kyle Chandler as Mark Russell) backing Godzilla.
The result is as wild as it sounds, complete with mythological vindications.
A cool prehistoric Atlantian civilization is even found deep beneath the ocean's waves, abounding with architectural wonders, depicted as Godzilla's home.
How well does Godzilla: King of the Monsters cultivate its ludicrous blockbustering?, and how successfully does it exhale ridiculousness?
It doesn't lack sincere characters, even if what takes place is incredible.
It seems as if it wants to be taken seriously, although what transpires suggests it's of no concern.
There are a lot of cool comments mixed in with chest-pounds that led me to consistently laugh then shake my head, Bradley Whitford (Dr. Rick Stanton) stealing so many scenes, Ken Watanabe (Dr. Ishiro Serizawa) and Sally Hawkins (Dr. Vivienne Graham) adding sublime depth.
But seriously, weapons of mass destruction are no laughing matter, and shouldn't be used to solve problems, and even if Godzilla thrives on radioactivity, there's always a less explosive alternative.
The monster fights are super badass even if they're interrupted much too frequently.
Kyle Chandler's too much a lot of the time.
Which is kind of perfect for a blockbuster.
With the kitsch factor so high he could have made even more of an impact.
Although that could be saved for other films.
Ramboesque films, in which he wears a bandana.
Co-starring Bradley Whitford.
If King of the Monsters had been less serious, it would have been more ridiculous, which would have been nice, but I suppose it's not a comedy, even though it's the comedic aspects of blockbusters that make them memorable.
Too much woe perhaps.
Very heavy on the woe.
The bad decisions made in response to an overwhelming unknown.
Would world leaders really make decisions that shortsighted if confronted with giant monsters hellbent on destroying one another and/or taking over the planet?
Who's to say?
Pretty crazy new Godzilla movie anyways.
A must see for Godzilla alone.
Godzilla continues to freely roam the Earth's oceans, with impunity, and since revealing his monstrous longitude, others like have him have indeed been discovered.
Across the globe, lying dormant in slumbrous isolation, as titanic as they are formidable, yet cute and cuddly if considered in miniature.
Bewilderingly conscripted, rogue environmentalists conjure 12 Monkeys, blending in Riddick's Elementals, to unleash destructive fury.
Environmentalists and scientists less interested in freeing giant monsters to destroy half the planet, challenge them, with the aid of the American armed forces, led by Admiral David Strathairn (Admiral William Stenz).
And after Godzilla is defeated by the 3-headed alpha Monster Zero, they track him to his underwater domain, determined to accelerate his convalescence, as he rests following menacing blows.
Mothra comes to his aid in the end, but the other monsters owe allegiance to his nemesis, and it's unknown who will victoriously prevail, while Earth's best and brightest instinctively speculate.
In Monster Zero's corner lies Dr. Emma Russell (Vera Farmiga), her ex-husband (Kyle Chandler as Mark Russell) backing Godzilla.
The result is as wild as it sounds, complete with mythological vindications.
A cool prehistoric Atlantian civilization is even found deep beneath the ocean's waves, abounding with architectural wonders, depicted as Godzilla's home.
How well does Godzilla: King of the Monsters cultivate its ludicrous blockbustering?, and how successfully does it exhale ridiculousness?
It doesn't lack sincere characters, even if what takes place is incredible.
It seems as if it wants to be taken seriously, although what transpires suggests it's of no concern.
There are a lot of cool comments mixed in with chest-pounds that led me to consistently laugh then shake my head, Bradley Whitford (Dr. Rick Stanton) stealing so many scenes, Ken Watanabe (Dr. Ishiro Serizawa) and Sally Hawkins (Dr. Vivienne Graham) adding sublime depth.
But seriously, weapons of mass destruction are no laughing matter, and shouldn't be used to solve problems, and even if Godzilla thrives on radioactivity, there's always a less explosive alternative.
The monster fights are super badass even if they're interrupted much too frequently.
Kyle Chandler's too much a lot of the time.
Which is kind of perfect for a blockbuster.
With the kitsch factor so high he could have made even more of an impact.
Although that could be saved for other films.
Ramboesque films, in which he wears a bandana.
Co-starring Bradley Whitford.
If King of the Monsters had been less serious, it would have been more ridiculous, which would have been nice, but I suppose it's not a comedy, even though it's the comedic aspects of blockbusters that make them memorable.
Too much woe perhaps.
Very heavy on the woe.
The bad decisions made in response to an overwhelming unknown.
Would world leaders really make decisions that shortsighted if confronted with giant monsters hellbent on destroying one another and/or taking over the planet?
Who's to say?
Pretty crazy new Godzilla movie anyways.
A must see for Godzilla alone.
Tuesday, June 18, 2019
The Dead Don't Die
The traditional zombie film finds itself lackadaisically reanimated, as the ravenous undead seek out mortal sustenance, with organic flavouring, in Jim Jarmusch's The Dead Don't Die.
Much less lively than Zombieland or Planet Terror, it cultivates bewildered slow motion, without letting loose moribund haze, or struggling to refine grassroots bemusement.
It's funny.
It's aware of its chillaxed impersonal lounging, the ways in which it would rather present laidback ingenuous cheek than novel paramedic frenzy, and consistently dispassionately suggests that it could have offered more if it had only simply bothered to do so.
Efficiently.
Thus its form harmoniously complements its genre, its dislocated frostbitten content, a zombie film conjuring primordial zombie, like a tasty craft brew considering mass production.
There's no doubt it emits rebellious angst and bedridden drool, like mad productive insomnia regenerating meaningless gumption, as if it sculpted what it means to turn 40, while leaving out cursive progress and ambition.
While viewing I asked myself if the film would still be cool without the star-studded cast, if it would have still lured me in with decadent charm had it been stacked with unknowns.
There are several unknown actors in the film who add curious depth and unsung integrity, but several big names still intermingle, and seem somewhat out of place in hindsight even if they revel in agile somnambulism.
I think it would have succeeded either way.
It likely would have been stronger without the stars in fact, inasmuch as determined unknowns often make nimble impacts in the genres.
The world has been tipped off its axis after fracking in the arctic disrupts polar reckoning.
And as the sun no longer sets with reliability, governments insist there's no cause for alarm.
Shortly thereafter, the undead descend on unsuspecting towns, arising on different days, to illustrate cannibalistic bedlam.
Had alternative energy sources been globally adopted, and cuts to education vilified with legislative resolve, the world would have likely embraced a much less disturbing future, as if working toward planetary goals was expressly paramount.
What will hopefully seem like absurd cool creative storytelling one day doesn't even seem far fetched at the moment.
Isn't it actually easier and less costly to start transitioning to a greener economy than it is to frack the arctic?
Doesn't going green make more sense than that?
You know it does.
And don't tell me there aren't huge profits to be made.
If it costs more to buy a burger made from plants than it does to buy one made from animals that you have to feed and take care of, there are obviously huge profits in green.
Versatile verdure.
Biodiverse trestle.
Much less lively than Zombieland or Planet Terror, it cultivates bewildered slow motion, without letting loose moribund haze, or struggling to refine grassroots bemusement.
It's funny.
It's aware of its chillaxed impersonal lounging, the ways in which it would rather present laidback ingenuous cheek than novel paramedic frenzy, and consistently dispassionately suggests that it could have offered more if it had only simply bothered to do so.
Efficiently.
Thus its form harmoniously complements its genre, its dislocated frostbitten content, a zombie film conjuring primordial zombie, like a tasty craft brew considering mass production.
There's no doubt it emits rebellious angst and bedridden drool, like mad productive insomnia regenerating meaningless gumption, as if it sculpted what it means to turn 40, while leaving out cursive progress and ambition.
While viewing I asked myself if the film would still be cool without the star-studded cast, if it would have still lured me in with decadent charm had it been stacked with unknowns.
There are several unknown actors in the film who add curious depth and unsung integrity, but several big names still intermingle, and seem somewhat out of place in hindsight even if they revel in agile somnambulism.
I think it would have succeeded either way.
It likely would have been stronger without the stars in fact, inasmuch as determined unknowns often make nimble impacts in the genres.
The world has been tipped off its axis after fracking in the arctic disrupts polar reckoning.
And as the sun no longer sets with reliability, governments insist there's no cause for alarm.
Shortly thereafter, the undead descend on unsuspecting towns, arising on different days, to illustrate cannibalistic bedlam.
Had alternative energy sources been globally adopted, and cuts to education vilified with legislative resolve, the world would have likely embraced a much less disturbing future, as if working toward planetary goals was expressly paramount.
What will hopefully seem like absurd cool creative storytelling one day doesn't even seem far fetched at the moment.
Isn't it actually easier and less costly to start transitioning to a greener economy than it is to frack the arctic?
Doesn't going green make more sense than that?
You know it does.
And don't tell me there aren't huge profits to be made.
If it costs more to buy a burger made from plants than it does to buy one made from animals that you have to feed and take care of, there are obviously huge profits in green.
Versatile verdure.
Biodiverse trestle.
Friday, June 14, 2019
Dark Phoenix
The world of the X-Men and Women has become less inherently conflicted, as they have assisted non-mutant kind during many a dark hour of need.
Yet the distrust and fear of their abilities still institutionally lingers, requiring just the slightest provocation to erupt with volcanic fury.
Professor X (James McAvoy) still fights the good fight, but has become so accustomed to praise and reward that he's lost sight of the dire misgivings blindly focused on oppressing his people.
The X-Men and Women aren't revered like the Avengers, theirs is a more hostile world within which old world prejudice still infuriates.
Old world is perhaps the wrong word to be using here, for I doubt multiculturalism is something new.
It's likely existed in manifold alternative forms since the inquisitive dawn of time, perhaps without having to be conceptualized during more enlightened forgotten epochs.
As Foucault would wager.
Without radical designs.
Jean Grey (Sophie Turner) finds herself embodying godlike superhuman powers in Dark Phoenix, and after expressing herself too combatively, leaves Xavier's peace in ruins.
But he refuses to give up on the virtue he still knows constructively resides within, and even as Magneto seeks vengeance, he will not let her drift away.
Not the best X-Men film but it still resonates with endearing themes.
To promote and believe in the goodness of humanity reflects genuine spiritual resolve, but to deny the existence of terror is as foolish as it is naive.
Professor X and Magneto strategize somewhere in between, constantly aware of the other's next move yet still attuned to bold improvisation.
Through the ages.
The fight is fought internally by everyone at times, but losing sight of the value of difference leads to perpetual disillusion.
There's nothing wrong with a bit of spice.
To liven things up a bit.
Chocolate sauce or some gritty granola.
Takes the hardboiled edge off.
From time to time.
And tastes good.
Yum!
Yet the distrust and fear of their abilities still institutionally lingers, requiring just the slightest provocation to erupt with volcanic fury.
Professor X (James McAvoy) still fights the good fight, but has become so accustomed to praise and reward that he's lost sight of the dire misgivings blindly focused on oppressing his people.
The X-Men and Women aren't revered like the Avengers, theirs is a more hostile world within which old world prejudice still infuriates.
Old world is perhaps the wrong word to be using here, for I doubt multiculturalism is something new.
It's likely existed in manifold alternative forms since the inquisitive dawn of time, perhaps without having to be conceptualized during more enlightened forgotten epochs.
As Foucault would wager.
Without radical designs.
Jean Grey (Sophie Turner) finds herself embodying godlike superhuman powers in Dark Phoenix, and after expressing herself too combatively, leaves Xavier's peace in ruins.
But he refuses to give up on the virtue he still knows constructively resides within, and even as Magneto seeks vengeance, he will not let her drift away.
Not the best X-Men film but it still resonates with endearing themes.
To promote and believe in the goodness of humanity reflects genuine spiritual resolve, but to deny the existence of terror is as foolish as it is naive.
Professor X and Magneto strategize somewhere in between, constantly aware of the other's next move yet still attuned to bold improvisation.
Through the ages.
The fight is fought internally by everyone at times, but losing sight of the value of difference leads to perpetual disillusion.
There's nothing wrong with a bit of spice.
To liven things up a bit.
Chocolate sauce or some gritty granola.
Takes the hardboiled edge off.
From time to time.
And tastes good.
Yum!
Friday, June 7, 2019
Amazing Grace
You change and grow over the years.
Develop. Diversify.
You still love to do some things that you'll probably always love doing, while other interests fade or at least lose some of their lasting appeal.
It seems like this for awhile anyways, but then what seems like 4 years turns into 15, and some of those things that lost their appeal start fascinating again, with qualities beyond expression, seeking unbridled laidback articulations.
You start to notice different things to, or at least observe features you've never noticed before, even though they've been right there in front of you all along, but for some reason have never registered.
Thus the middle-age malaise slowly transforms into a constructive resonance, with a decade and a half more worth of material generating new multifaceted syntheses.
Compelling new ideas and old school boasts of the wild eternal instructively present themselves thereby, revitalizing aspects of the same old same old, while cultivating alternative realms for exploration.
I used to only really zero in on leaf colour in the fall, for instance, but I've started to notice so many wonderful varieties of green this year, perhaps because so many trees were late to bloom.
One prick of a cold Spring dagnabit, that's finally abounding in nascent wonder.
I doubt Aretha Franklin ever lost this regenerative spark of irrepressible contemplation, as she changed and grew over the years, without losing sight of where she came from, or missing a spry tenacious sprightly step.
In Amazing Grace she returns to her gospel roots by performing hymns she loved to sing in her youth, reinterpreted with agile soul, flexibly delivered with profound freedom.
It's like her music found a way in the '60s and '70s to harness communal revelation, blending unique characteristic rhythms with timeless distinct style, gracefully flowing with burgeoning traditions while discovering inspiring orchestrations of her own, thoughtfully scored moving fermentations, abundantly provoking rich frank soulful thought.
And feeling.
She wrote rapturous music that still resonates today with that timeless emboldened innocence that leads to so much wonder.
Cool to see her rockin' it old school in Amazing Grace.
Overflowing with lithe intensity.
Damned impressive age old age old.
Develop. Diversify.
You still love to do some things that you'll probably always love doing, while other interests fade or at least lose some of their lasting appeal.
It seems like this for awhile anyways, but then what seems like 4 years turns into 15, and some of those things that lost their appeal start fascinating again, with qualities beyond expression, seeking unbridled laidback articulations.
You start to notice different things to, or at least observe features you've never noticed before, even though they've been right there in front of you all along, but for some reason have never registered.
Thus the middle-age malaise slowly transforms into a constructive resonance, with a decade and a half more worth of material generating new multifaceted syntheses.
Compelling new ideas and old school boasts of the wild eternal instructively present themselves thereby, revitalizing aspects of the same old same old, while cultivating alternative realms for exploration.
I used to only really zero in on leaf colour in the fall, for instance, but I've started to notice so many wonderful varieties of green this year, perhaps because so many trees were late to bloom.
One prick of a cold Spring dagnabit, that's finally abounding in nascent wonder.
I doubt Aretha Franklin ever lost this regenerative spark of irrepressible contemplation, as she changed and grew over the years, without losing sight of where she came from, or missing a spry tenacious sprightly step.
In Amazing Grace she returns to her gospel roots by performing hymns she loved to sing in her youth, reinterpreted with agile soul, flexibly delivered with profound freedom.
It's like her music found a way in the '60s and '70s to harness communal revelation, blending unique characteristic rhythms with timeless distinct style, gracefully flowing with burgeoning traditions while discovering inspiring orchestrations of her own, thoughtfully scored moving fermentations, abundantly provoking rich frank soulful thought.
And feeling.
She wrote rapturous music that still resonates today with that timeless emboldened innocence that leads to so much wonder.
Cool to see her rockin' it old school in Amazing Grace.
Overflowing with lithe intensity.
Damned impressive age old age old.
Tuesday, June 4, 2019
John Wick: Chapter 3 - Parabellum
Once again with the John Wick (Keanu Reeves) immortalizing survival, this time as the entire criminal underworld extolls chaotic fury.
Congenially, as he's wildly pursued, he seeks the loyal aid of his friends, even if there's little they can do, besides coax divine personal sacrifice.
15 million or so to take his invincible life, too tempting for foolish addicts, too irresistible for would be rivals.
He makes his way to Casablanca in search of He-Who-Sits-Above-the-Table, a lone trek across the desert awaiting, with no guarantee he'll be warmly received.
Yet fortune smiles kindly upon him, and indeed a new deal is made, but not without giving up freedoms, and returning to bogeyman shade.
'Til further complications arise which jeopardize so many many lives.
Madness in searing discountenance.
Focused through utter dysfunction.
Except for Wick of course, who instinctually governs dispassionately.
Although there are points where he could have succumbed, where he almost falls stricken asunder.
The action's intense and the bedlam well choreographed as multiple opportunists seek scathing derisive leverage.
But it isn't as nutso as I thought it would be, and though Wick's still embattled for much of the menace, I still thought there would be less dialogue, less lengthy non-threatening exchanges.
Another dog is imperilled, another ally outcast.
I understand that the dialogue is supposed to be raw, to reflect unpretentious communication with sincere direct honesty, but there are films who use similar conversational strategies which make more of a lasting impact, Paris, Texas, for one, Robert Rodriguez remaining the master.
The first John Wick film was just so good that I keep hoping for similar effects from its successors.
I love Terminator 3 for instance, I'll watch Alien 3 again, Star Trek III, Blade: Trinity, Die Hard: with a Vengeance.
Christopher Nolan's Batman Trilogy excelling far beyond my expectations, with august realistic agency, cinema needs more Christopher Nolan.
I don't consider the Iron Man or Thor films etc. to be trilogies anymore, rather I see them as instalments in an unprecedented colossus that's too vast for these kinds of comparisons.
John Wick: Chapter 3 - Parabellum's still cool though, I'll give it that, but it's not more than you would have expected.
The rest of the film could have been as impressive as the fight scenes.
I like how Wick understands animal kind.
Congenially, as he's wildly pursued, he seeks the loyal aid of his friends, even if there's little they can do, besides coax divine personal sacrifice.
15 million or so to take his invincible life, too tempting for foolish addicts, too irresistible for would be rivals.
He makes his way to Casablanca in search of He-Who-Sits-Above-the-Table, a lone trek across the desert awaiting, with no guarantee he'll be warmly received.
Yet fortune smiles kindly upon him, and indeed a new deal is made, but not without giving up freedoms, and returning to bogeyman shade.
'Til further complications arise which jeopardize so many many lives.
Madness in searing discountenance.
Focused through utter dysfunction.
Except for Wick of course, who instinctually governs dispassionately.
Although there are points where he could have succumbed, where he almost falls stricken asunder.
The action's intense and the bedlam well choreographed as multiple opportunists seek scathing derisive leverage.
But it isn't as nutso as I thought it would be, and though Wick's still embattled for much of the menace, I still thought there would be less dialogue, less lengthy non-threatening exchanges.
Another dog is imperilled, another ally outcast.
I understand that the dialogue is supposed to be raw, to reflect unpretentious communication with sincere direct honesty, but there are films who use similar conversational strategies which make more of a lasting impact, Paris, Texas, for one, Robert Rodriguez remaining the master.
The first John Wick film was just so good that I keep hoping for similar effects from its successors.
I love Terminator 3 for instance, I'll watch Alien 3 again, Star Trek III, Blade: Trinity, Die Hard: with a Vengeance.
Christopher Nolan's Batman Trilogy excelling far beyond my expectations, with august realistic agency, cinema needs more Christopher Nolan.
I don't consider the Iron Man or Thor films etc. to be trilogies anymore, rather I see them as instalments in an unprecedented colossus that's too vast for these kinds of comparisons.
John Wick: Chapter 3 - Parabellum's still cool though, I'll give it that, but it's not more than you would have expected.
The rest of the film could have been as impressive as the fight scenes.
I like how Wick understands animal kind.
Friday, May 31, 2019
Pokémon Detective Pikachu
Spoiler alert.
I admit, that prior to seeing this film, I knew next to nothing about Pokémon.
I had seen various Pokémons out and about from time to time, but mistakenly thought Pikachu was Pokémon, like Spongebob Squarepants is SpongeBob SquarePants, or Dora the Explorer is an explorer named Dora.
Incorrect was I, as I discovered shortly after tuning in to my first Pokémon film, Pokémon Detective Pikachu, a hard-hitting soy young adult feature.
I say young adult because the themes seemed too frightening for younger audiences, considering that animal fights, genetic manipulation, and steroid abuse metaphorically intermingle within, albeit with cutesy cuddly unabashed observations, and two struggling young professionals unaccustomed to workplace romance.
Come to think of it, if you took away the animation and the metaphor, perhaps substituting Bruce Willis and a hangover for Detective Pikachu with amnesia, you'd have a grizzled potentially hard-boiled gut wrenching agitation, with robots instead of Pokémon?, an affair, an obsession, an ulcer?
But on the surface the film's much less 12-step.
It's rather idyllic in fact, a bustling city where humans and Pokémon live in robust harmony, like if everyone in Seattle had a loveable family pet, and was eagerly encouraged to take them to work, to the park, to the cinéma, out to eat.
Everywhere in fact, it's a highly advanced idea, which unfortunately doesn't receive much screentime, as Tim Goodman (Justice Smith), Lucy Stevens (Kathryn Newton), and Detective Pikachu (Ryan Reynolds) uncover more traditional pillow pastimes.
Sigh.
The mastermind behind Ryme City is confined to a wheelchair and desires to briskly walk again.
But since his mortal leverage lacks fluid mobility, he hopes to transfer his mind to a lively Pokémon, the formidable Mewtwo no less.
But not only that, he develops a gas that will merge everyone in the city with their cherished Pokémon companions, whom he will then diabolically rule forever after, employing extant whimsy, brawn, and caprice, however he sees fit, as the wayward crow flies.
Failing to have consulted his constituents, we've no idea if they were hip to the idea, but fortunately critical inquiry comes a characteristically calling, the brazen altruistic intent, sweetly sleuthing with fact-based reconnaissance.
Most environmentalists aren't mad obsessed plutocrats coveting immortality.
They just want to curb pollution and live symbiotically with nature, according to humanistic customs, I'm assuming.
I don't think there's anyone out there who wants to flood nature with toxic pollutants that make people and animals sick; so why aren't we searching for solutions to make such a reality marketable?
Green shifts are becoming available.
They've certainly found one on Apricot Lane Farms.
Where I imagine Pokémon would co-exist.
Perhaps even lighten the load.
Adorably.
Synchronously.
Was there ever any doubt?
Love the Pokémon.
Cool film but not for really young kids.
I admit, that prior to seeing this film, I knew next to nothing about Pokémon.
I had seen various Pokémons out and about from time to time, but mistakenly thought Pikachu was Pokémon, like Spongebob Squarepants is SpongeBob SquarePants, or Dora the Explorer is an explorer named Dora.
Incorrect was I, as I discovered shortly after tuning in to my first Pokémon film, Pokémon Detective Pikachu, a hard-hitting soy young adult feature.
I say young adult because the themes seemed too frightening for younger audiences, considering that animal fights, genetic manipulation, and steroid abuse metaphorically intermingle within, albeit with cutesy cuddly unabashed observations, and two struggling young professionals unaccustomed to workplace romance.
Come to think of it, if you took away the animation and the metaphor, perhaps substituting Bruce Willis and a hangover for Detective Pikachu with amnesia, you'd have a grizzled potentially hard-boiled gut wrenching agitation, with robots instead of Pokémon?, an affair, an obsession, an ulcer?
But on the surface the film's much less 12-step.
It's rather idyllic in fact, a bustling city where humans and Pokémon live in robust harmony, like if everyone in Seattle had a loveable family pet, and was eagerly encouraged to take them to work, to the park, to the cinéma, out to eat.
Everywhere in fact, it's a highly advanced idea, which unfortunately doesn't receive much screentime, as Tim Goodman (Justice Smith), Lucy Stevens (Kathryn Newton), and Detective Pikachu (Ryan Reynolds) uncover more traditional pillow pastimes.
Sigh.
The mastermind behind Ryme City is confined to a wheelchair and desires to briskly walk again.
But since his mortal leverage lacks fluid mobility, he hopes to transfer his mind to a lively Pokémon, the formidable Mewtwo no less.
But not only that, he develops a gas that will merge everyone in the city with their cherished Pokémon companions, whom he will then diabolically rule forever after, employing extant whimsy, brawn, and caprice, however he sees fit, as the wayward crow flies.
Failing to have consulted his constituents, we've no idea if they were hip to the idea, but fortunately critical inquiry comes a characteristically calling, the brazen altruistic intent, sweetly sleuthing with fact-based reconnaissance.
Most environmentalists aren't mad obsessed plutocrats coveting immortality.
They just want to curb pollution and live symbiotically with nature, according to humanistic customs, I'm assuming.
I don't think there's anyone out there who wants to flood nature with toxic pollutants that make people and animals sick; so why aren't we searching for solutions to make such a reality marketable?
Green shifts are becoming available.
They've certainly found one on Apricot Lane Farms.
Where I imagine Pokémon would co-exist.
Perhaps even lighten the load.
Adorably.
Synchronously.
Was there ever any doubt?
Love the Pokémon.
Cool film but not for really young kids.
Tuesday, May 28, 2019
The Biggest Little Farm
The light shines brightly in this humble holistic documentary.
There's a lot of well-researched well-documented logical doom and gloom out there, to which The Biggest Little Farm resiliently responds.
The situation's bleak and new terms are being created to discuss climate change, but individuals are still tilling new ground, and finding innovative ways to persevere.
Protests are paramount.
They're important to raise awareness and demonstrate active criticisms.
Purchasing decisions effectively sustain them too, inasmuch as what you buy directly effects climate change.
I'm not perfect, I don't make 100% environmentally conscious decisions all the time, but I have cut most of the meat out of my diet, recycle everything I can, usually purchase green, and currently snack on fruit rather than chips much more frequently.
It's handy that many grocery stores are selling sliced fruit in small containers (which will hopefully become biodegradable) in Montréal for 2 to 3 dollars a piece.
If the choice is between a helping of pineapple or a bag of chips for $2.50 when I don't have much time and need a quick snack, the decision's a no-brainer, I'm buying pineapple every time.
Businesses do respond when they start losing money, and if there's people powered momentum to make significant impacts, plastic can be replaced by green alternatives, and our reliance on oil can become much less overwhelming.
When I see how many young people attend climate change protests I'm encouraged.
They clearly care about their future and the future of our planet as well.
If even a figure as low as 60% of them grew up to start environmentally friendly businesses and/or farms, selling environmentally friendly products for competitive prices, products perhaps generated by a hemp revolution like the one mentioned in the film Grass and others, while making environmentally friendly purchasing decisions themselves, greenhouse gas emissions would certainly decrease, and biodegradable containers could seriously reduce plastic waste.
We live within a capitalist system and it's through capitalism that we can fight global warming.
Big money tracks how people spend and if it anticipates mass profits in green markets it will lucratively respond.
If North Americans boycotted McDonald's for a month mouth watering vegetarian and vegan options would definitely appear on its menu, as they have on A & W's without a boycott.
Scrumptiously so.
The Biggest Little Farm's about biodiversity, about farming symbiotically with nature.
The Chester's don't just plant one crop, they plant dozens, and cultivate an awe-inspiring abundance of different foods.
They encounter serious setbacks as they embrace sustainable farming, hiring farm whisperer Alan York to guide them along the way.
They wait it out.
They find solutions.
Symbiotic solutions.
Evergreen solutions.
When snails threaten their fruit trees, their ducks devour the snails. When birds threaten their crops, birds of prey move in to challenge them. When gophers threaten their produce, every animal from miles around shows up to chase them. When torrential rains threaten their farm, its bountiful greens prevent catastrophic run off.
They work with nature in an inspiring way that must make David Suzuki and David Attenborough proud.
It's like they've planted a farm in the forest without harming the animals and are still making a steady profit.
The forest animals are even encouraged to live there, with resident owls numbering close to 100.
It's game changing inclusive brilliant revolutionary farming that radiates distinct harmonies through its patient biodiverse strengths.
And it works, at least it's working for them, although they don't shy away from presenting hardships endured.
Our Planet passionately argues that maintaining biodiversity is integral to fighting climate change and preventing species from going extinct.
If more people farmed like the Chester's in The Biggest Little Farm, if more disposable containers and other products were made with hemp, if more green businesses started popping up, and more people made regular greener purchases while out and about, we would significantly reduce greenhouse gasses, and live more enriching lives.
A definite must see.
You can visit Apricot Lane Farms in California too.
They've expanded into ecotourism.
Mind-blowing game changing impacts.
One of my favourite films.
There's a lot of well-researched well-documented logical doom and gloom out there, to which The Biggest Little Farm resiliently responds.
The situation's bleak and new terms are being created to discuss climate change, but individuals are still tilling new ground, and finding innovative ways to persevere.
Protests are paramount.
They're important to raise awareness and demonstrate active criticisms.
Purchasing decisions effectively sustain them too, inasmuch as what you buy directly effects climate change.
I'm not perfect, I don't make 100% environmentally conscious decisions all the time, but I have cut most of the meat out of my diet, recycle everything I can, usually purchase green, and currently snack on fruit rather than chips much more frequently.
It's handy that many grocery stores are selling sliced fruit in small containers (which will hopefully become biodegradable) in Montréal for 2 to 3 dollars a piece.
If the choice is between a helping of pineapple or a bag of chips for $2.50 when I don't have much time and need a quick snack, the decision's a no-brainer, I'm buying pineapple every time.
Businesses do respond when they start losing money, and if there's people powered momentum to make significant impacts, plastic can be replaced by green alternatives, and our reliance on oil can become much less overwhelming.
When I see how many young people attend climate change protests I'm encouraged.
They clearly care about their future and the future of our planet as well.
If even a figure as low as 60% of them grew up to start environmentally friendly businesses and/or farms, selling environmentally friendly products for competitive prices, products perhaps generated by a hemp revolution like the one mentioned in the film Grass and others, while making environmentally friendly purchasing decisions themselves, greenhouse gas emissions would certainly decrease, and biodegradable containers could seriously reduce plastic waste.
We live within a capitalist system and it's through capitalism that we can fight global warming.
Big money tracks how people spend and if it anticipates mass profits in green markets it will lucratively respond.
If North Americans boycotted McDonald's for a month mouth watering vegetarian and vegan options would definitely appear on its menu, as they have on A & W's without a boycott.
Scrumptiously so.
The Biggest Little Farm's about biodiversity, about farming symbiotically with nature.
The Chester's don't just plant one crop, they plant dozens, and cultivate an awe-inspiring abundance of different foods.
They encounter serious setbacks as they embrace sustainable farming, hiring farm whisperer Alan York to guide them along the way.
They wait it out.
They find solutions.
Symbiotic solutions.
Evergreen solutions.
When snails threaten their fruit trees, their ducks devour the snails. When birds threaten their crops, birds of prey move in to challenge them. When gophers threaten their produce, every animal from miles around shows up to chase them. When torrential rains threaten their farm, its bountiful greens prevent catastrophic run off.
They work with nature in an inspiring way that must make David Suzuki and David Attenborough proud.
It's like they've planted a farm in the forest without harming the animals and are still making a steady profit.
The forest animals are even encouraged to live there, with resident owls numbering close to 100.
It's game changing inclusive brilliant revolutionary farming that radiates distinct harmonies through its patient biodiverse strengths.
And it works, at least it's working for them, although they don't shy away from presenting hardships endured.
Our Planet passionately argues that maintaining biodiversity is integral to fighting climate change and preventing species from going extinct.
If more people farmed like the Chester's in The Biggest Little Farm, if more disposable containers and other products were made with hemp, if more green businesses started popping up, and more people made regular greener purchases while out and about, we would significantly reduce greenhouse gasses, and live more enriching lives.
A definite must see.
You can visit Apricot Lane Farms in California too.
They've expanded into ecotourism.
Mind-blowing game changing impacts.
One of my favourite films.
Friday, May 24, 2019
Zagros
Zagros pulls you in with the simple genuine honesty often disseminated by documentary films.
Patiently listening and modestly sifting through vivid delicate realizations, it sincerely brings to life different aspects of a traditional art, whose practitioners have fallen on hard times, inasmuch as their markets are stifling.
And it's a shame considering how beautiful their finished products are, how stunning, how unique.
How integral.
The herculean labour that goes into creating just one exemplar is mind-boggling from a mechanized point of view, but each individual carpet radiates such intense authenticity that it's surprising they don't sell for a bundle.
To an eager sympathetic clientele.
Zagros begins by introducing craftspersons then investigates their age old supply chain.
We meet feisty nomads who herd sheep across inhospitable terrain, forced to both cross busy roads with their flock, and carefully plan each conspicuous graceful movement.
The domestic remonstrations of ill-tempered critical children taunt a man who dyes thirsty wool, as he has for over 40 years, their protests related to a sparse income earned, his defence uplifted through blithe perseverance.
His children are still unaware of how fortunate they are to have unmitigated access to a mastercraftsperson, who can teach them everything he knows for the asking, and help them earn their own living one day.*
Assuming markets bounce back.
Starting from the top.
His job isn't rich with diversity and uproar, but is still steeped in patrimonial passion, as he skilfully demonstrates with ease, much like Kierkegaard's Validity of Marriage.
Aesthetic Validity of Marriage.
Location makes no difference to the craft although it may to the income generated.
I imagine traditional craftspersons across the globe pursue their art with equal degrees of dedication.
You pay a bit more (hopefully) but it's worth it; I'll never look at carpets the same way again.
I was vilified once in my youth (not for long) for lauding wallpaper. I couldn't understand why at the time. Still don't really. It looked quite nice.
Zagros takes the time to profoundly examine its subject, long relaxed scenes catalyzed in thoughtful homage.
It's like that feeling you get on a sunny afternoon when you're engaged in various tasks but don't have much to do.
I would never have the patience to craft a handmade carpet, although I have nothing but praise for the art.
The harpist creates music, carpets are woven melodically.
Meticulous essentials.
Innate hearty blooms.
Respiring.
*I was lucky to have caring teachers in my youth, and unmitigated access to an old school Irish lexicon.
Patiently listening and modestly sifting through vivid delicate realizations, it sincerely brings to life different aspects of a traditional art, whose practitioners have fallen on hard times, inasmuch as their markets are stifling.
And it's a shame considering how beautiful their finished products are, how stunning, how unique.
How integral.
The herculean labour that goes into creating just one exemplar is mind-boggling from a mechanized point of view, but each individual carpet radiates such intense authenticity that it's surprising they don't sell for a bundle.
To an eager sympathetic clientele.
Zagros begins by introducing craftspersons then investigates their age old supply chain.
We meet feisty nomads who herd sheep across inhospitable terrain, forced to both cross busy roads with their flock, and carefully plan each conspicuous graceful movement.
The domestic remonstrations of ill-tempered critical children taunt a man who dyes thirsty wool, as he has for over 40 years, their protests related to a sparse income earned, his defence uplifted through blithe perseverance.
His children are still unaware of how fortunate they are to have unmitigated access to a mastercraftsperson, who can teach them everything he knows for the asking, and help them earn their own living one day.*
Assuming markets bounce back.
Starting from the top.
His job isn't rich with diversity and uproar, but is still steeped in patrimonial passion, as he skilfully demonstrates with ease, much like Kierkegaard's Validity of Marriage.
Aesthetic Validity of Marriage.
Location makes no difference to the craft although it may to the income generated.
I imagine traditional craftspersons across the globe pursue their art with equal degrees of dedication.
You pay a bit more (hopefully) but it's worth it; I'll never look at carpets the same way again.
I was vilified once in my youth (not for long) for lauding wallpaper. I couldn't understand why at the time. Still don't really. It looked quite nice.
Zagros takes the time to profoundly examine its subject, long relaxed scenes catalyzed in thoughtful homage.
It's like that feeling you get on a sunny afternoon when you're engaged in various tasks but don't have much to do.
I would never have the patience to craft a handmade carpet, although I have nothing but praise for the art.
The harpist creates music, carpets are woven melodically.
Meticulous essentials.
Innate hearty blooms.
Respiring.
*I was lucky to have caring teachers in my youth, and unmitigated access to an old school Irish lexicon.
Tuesday, May 21, 2019
Diane
Guilt haunts a reliable community volunteer as her grown son's drug addiction becomes increasingly distressing.
She's sure and steady, well-oiled, remarkable, overflowing with humble self-sacrifice, always willing to lend helping hands.
She serves food to the down and out, finds time to visit sick friends, takes care of the elderly, and loves sitting back to discuss bygone days.
Except for one moment in particular, one extravagance that led to grief.
It's unknown if it brought on Brian's (Jake Lacy) troubles, but she unfortunately acts as if it was the root cause.
But she won't give up on him.
Stops by almost every day, brings him food, is critical but not overbearing, sympathizes unless he's reckless.
He responds. Seeks help. Sort of recovers. Becomes overbearing.
Their relationship's somewhat dysfunctional, Brian either wallowing in despair, or seeking to hoist the upper hand when he's sober.
Diane (Mary Kay Place) patiently deals, showcasing the unsung grace of spry active virtue.
Unassured yet sheltered.
Remorseful yet feisty.
She isn't a saint, I don't mean to suggest she's saintly, but her indiscretions are by no means scandalous, in the present moment, long after an impassioned youth.
Or young adulthood.
The time frame isn't specified but you can guess from the relative age of the characters.
A strange film nevertheless, one which possibly makes more sense if you've ever done good deeds, or been weighed down by guilt for things you haven't done, or simply like chillin' with family.
Why the film explicitly presents Diane engaged in hard drug use is a point of confusion, but notwithstanding a bizarre dream sequence, it does resonate with communal optimism, and establish a strong group of friends.
Who argue, reminisce, listen, tease, protest, are there for each other like a sponge or a duster, understand one another, facilitate, appease.
With that familiar kind of camaraderie that presumes but doesn't judge, that predicts but doesn't wager.
Diane and Brian forge a troubled symbiotic nomenclature nestled within discursive drives.
Actively administering.
Flexible choice composure.
Most of the time.
She's sure and steady, well-oiled, remarkable, overflowing with humble self-sacrifice, always willing to lend helping hands.
She serves food to the down and out, finds time to visit sick friends, takes care of the elderly, and loves sitting back to discuss bygone days.
Except for one moment in particular, one extravagance that led to grief.
It's unknown if it brought on Brian's (Jake Lacy) troubles, but she unfortunately acts as if it was the root cause.
But she won't give up on him.
Stops by almost every day, brings him food, is critical but not overbearing, sympathizes unless he's reckless.
He responds. Seeks help. Sort of recovers. Becomes overbearing.
Their relationship's somewhat dysfunctional, Brian either wallowing in despair, or seeking to hoist the upper hand when he's sober.
Diane (Mary Kay Place) patiently deals, showcasing the unsung grace of spry active virtue.
Unassured yet sheltered.
Remorseful yet feisty.
She isn't a saint, I don't mean to suggest she's saintly, but her indiscretions are by no means scandalous, in the present moment, long after an impassioned youth.
Or young adulthood.
The time frame isn't specified but you can guess from the relative age of the characters.
A strange film nevertheless, one which possibly makes more sense if you've ever done good deeds, or been weighed down by guilt for things you haven't done, or simply like chillin' with family.
Why the film explicitly presents Diane engaged in hard drug use is a point of confusion, but notwithstanding a bizarre dream sequence, it does resonate with communal optimism, and establish a strong group of friends.
Who argue, reminisce, listen, tease, protest, are there for each other like a sponge or a duster, understand one another, facilitate, appease.
With that familiar kind of camaraderie that presumes but doesn't judge, that predicts but doesn't wager.
Diane and Brian forge a troubled symbiotic nomenclature nestled within discursive drives.
Actively administering.
Flexible choice composure.
Most of the time.
Friday, May 17, 2019
The Hustle
I suppose I don't know much about con artistry, but I've never considered it to be anything less than shady, a disreputable means to earn a living, for as long as you can avoid suspicion.
Whenever it shows up in the news, I don't exactly recall the Vampire Lestat, certainly not ye olde Robin Hood, nor anything remotely spry and charitable.
But perhaps a code does exist between some of its practitioners, complete with its own particular form of tithing, and it's possible that it's only upheld by the most ingenious amongst them, which explains why it's never been deciphered.
Inveterate concealment.
Undetected dividends.
Don't mistake this for a conspiracy theory, it's just lighthearted speculation, it's incredible what people are willing to believe these days, and how they could possibly believe it having graduated high school.
The creative mind speculates, postures, theorizes, contemplates.
But the logical mind applies rationality.
Considers the truth value of a proposition.
And doesn't drink bleach or think minorities are taking over.
A code of sorts exists in this film inasmuch as Penny (Rebel Wilson) and Josephine (Anne Hathaway) are depicted cheating scoundrels.
Not all of the time by any means, but when confronted with what they think is genuine honesty, they still demonstrate concerned sympathy.
Penny is hands-on, rough and tumble, down and dirty, scandalous.
Her scams are light yet lucrative and she enjoys her free time indisputably.
Josephine's more sophisticated, but no stranger to feigned affection, aware of the benefits of the single life, with little patience for soundproof tomfoolery.
She tries to get rid of Penny after she shows up on her Beaumont-sur-Mer turf, which naturally encourages her to stay, which calls for a chaotic plan B.
They wind up in a duel of sorts, the first to con their agreed upon mark out of $500,000 the winner.
But the mark can't help it if he's downright adorable.
Generating the sweetest of codes.
It's daring and brash and raunchy and elegant, a verifiably bold juxtaposition radiating sincere gnarly charm.
I never did see Bedtime Story, but I did see Dirty Rotten Scoundrels several times.
But that's beside the point, The Hustle making inroads of its own, even if the next incarnation may diversify itself even further, if it takes the O Brother, Where Art Thou? approach.
Not bad.
Whenever it shows up in the news, I don't exactly recall the Vampire Lestat, certainly not ye olde Robin Hood, nor anything remotely spry and charitable.
But perhaps a code does exist between some of its practitioners, complete with its own particular form of tithing, and it's possible that it's only upheld by the most ingenious amongst them, which explains why it's never been deciphered.
Inveterate concealment.
Undetected dividends.
Don't mistake this for a conspiracy theory, it's just lighthearted speculation, it's incredible what people are willing to believe these days, and how they could possibly believe it having graduated high school.
The creative mind speculates, postures, theorizes, contemplates.
But the logical mind applies rationality.
Considers the truth value of a proposition.
And doesn't drink bleach or think minorities are taking over.
A code of sorts exists in this film inasmuch as Penny (Rebel Wilson) and Josephine (Anne Hathaway) are depicted cheating scoundrels.
Not all of the time by any means, but when confronted with what they think is genuine honesty, they still demonstrate concerned sympathy.
Penny is hands-on, rough and tumble, down and dirty, scandalous.
Her scams are light yet lucrative and she enjoys her free time indisputably.
Josephine's more sophisticated, but no stranger to feigned affection, aware of the benefits of the single life, with little patience for soundproof tomfoolery.
She tries to get rid of Penny after she shows up on her Beaumont-sur-Mer turf, which naturally encourages her to stay, which calls for a chaotic plan B.
They wind up in a duel of sorts, the first to con their agreed upon mark out of $500,000 the winner.
But the mark can't help it if he's downright adorable.
Generating the sweetest of codes.
It's daring and brash and raunchy and elegant, a verifiably bold juxtaposition radiating sincere gnarly charm.
I never did see Bedtime Story, but I did see Dirty Rotten Scoundrels several times.
But that's beside the point, The Hustle making inroads of its own, even if the next incarnation may diversify itself even further, if it takes the O Brother, Where Art Thou? approach.
Not bad.
Tuesday, May 14, 2019
Long Shot
A passionate writer (Seth Rogen as Fred Flarsky), dedicated to pursuing social justice, finds himself unemployed in protest, after a multinational swallows his resolve.
A close friend (O'Shea Jackson Jr. as Lance) sincerely sympathizes and soon they're out about town jocosely revelling.
Finding themselves at a decked out chandelier soirée, Fred notices his old babysitter, who's morphed into the U.S Secretary of State (Charlize Theron as Charlotte Field).
And as fate would have it, she remembers him, is looking for a new speech writer, isn't put off as he lambastes another guest (the owner of the multinational), nor after he engages in further awkward spectacle.
He joins her team, much to the annoyance of other team members, and must quickly adjust his independent style to something more suited to delicate black tie repartee.
He sort of does, although he eventually doesn't have to, as Charlotte falls for his charming rough edges, and the too craft an uncharacteristic bitterly critiqued political brew, less concerned with image and pork barrels, more attuned to environmental embyronics.
The result's like a Disney film written by a John Waters fan who watched too much Family Guy, love driving a highly unlikely scenario, the raunch gaseously scandalizing atmosphere.
But it's still too polished for its lascivious underpinnings, and even if what takes place is ideal, its biodiversity remains somewhat undernourished.
It seeks a less corrupt political sphere wherein which politicians can enact laws beyond the influence of the plutocratic lobby, but it doesn't present a complex narrative that cultivates alternative pastures and therefore fizzles when it should be flourishing, as if it's more concerned with making clever references and sleazy comments than developing a convincing plot, while relying on truest romantic love, alone, to justify its wild ambitions.
It doesn't need much, just a few more scenes explaining how a novel political approach could successfully lead to a less top heavy political spectrum, plus a couple more depicting Fred becoming more accustomed to political life, and more that profoundly explain how playing the maverick card could produce sustainable initiatives, by contradicting long established evidence-based mainstream convention.
But Long Shot is somewhat of a mainstream conventional film that prefers instinct to logic inasmuch as it celebrates action without thought, unconsciously arguing true love's enough indeed.
True love may indeed be enough, but Charlotte is still a remarkable woman, and if she had been given more remarkable lines and had made more remarkable arguments, Long Shot would have seemed more like the validation of a remarkable woman, than the ascension of an ethical man.
Politicians around the world do seem to be making careers for themselves based on instinct, however.
Perhaps traditional parties need to embrace populist bravado to reestablish less reckless international relations?
Bernie Sanders comes to mind.
With his genuine charismatic appeal.
A close friend (O'Shea Jackson Jr. as Lance) sincerely sympathizes and soon they're out about town jocosely revelling.
Finding themselves at a decked out chandelier soirée, Fred notices his old babysitter, who's morphed into the U.S Secretary of State (Charlize Theron as Charlotte Field).
And as fate would have it, she remembers him, is looking for a new speech writer, isn't put off as he lambastes another guest (the owner of the multinational), nor after he engages in further awkward spectacle.
He joins her team, much to the annoyance of other team members, and must quickly adjust his independent style to something more suited to delicate black tie repartee.
He sort of does, although he eventually doesn't have to, as Charlotte falls for his charming rough edges, and the too craft an uncharacteristic bitterly critiqued political brew, less concerned with image and pork barrels, more attuned to environmental embyronics.
The result's like a Disney film written by a John Waters fan who watched too much Family Guy, love driving a highly unlikely scenario, the raunch gaseously scandalizing atmosphere.
But it's still too polished for its lascivious underpinnings, and even if what takes place is ideal, its biodiversity remains somewhat undernourished.
It seeks a less corrupt political sphere wherein which politicians can enact laws beyond the influence of the plutocratic lobby, but it doesn't present a complex narrative that cultivates alternative pastures and therefore fizzles when it should be flourishing, as if it's more concerned with making clever references and sleazy comments than developing a convincing plot, while relying on truest romantic love, alone, to justify its wild ambitions.
It doesn't need much, just a few more scenes explaining how a novel political approach could successfully lead to a less top heavy political spectrum, plus a couple more depicting Fred becoming more accustomed to political life, and more that profoundly explain how playing the maverick card could produce sustainable initiatives, by contradicting long established evidence-based mainstream convention.
But Long Shot is somewhat of a mainstream conventional film that prefers instinct to logic inasmuch as it celebrates action without thought, unconsciously arguing true love's enough indeed.
True love may indeed be enough, but Charlotte is still a remarkable woman, and if she had been given more remarkable lines and had made more remarkable arguments, Long Shot would have seemed more like the validation of a remarkable woman, than the ascension of an ethical man.
Politicians around the world do seem to be making careers for themselves based on instinct, however.
Perhaps traditional parties need to embrace populist bravado to reestablish less reckless international relations?
Bernie Sanders comes to mind.
With his genuine charismatic appeal.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)