A confused man who struggles to fit in suddenly responds with unhinged fury, to those who snidely provoke him.
He tries to socialize at work, to enjoy the friendly influence of camaraderie, but is attuned to a different wavelength that pushes others swiftly away.
He sees a psychiatrist on a regular basis to air grievances and seek shelter, but she's ill-equipped to deal with his issues and their encounters increase his frustration.
Before budget cuts bring them to an abrupt end.
He goes off his meds and starts researching his past after reading a letter written by his mother (Frances Conroy as Penny Fleck) to Bruce Wayne's father (Brett Cullen).
And as the woe disparagingly intensifies, he embraces reckless spleen, proceeding wild-eyed and menacing, with neither recourse nor path nor guilt.
Gotham's elite have developed an unsympathetic attitude regarding its impoverished citizens, who find solace in the Joker's (Joaquin Phoenix) rampage.
The result is incredibly bleak.
As despondent as it is abandoned.
A dangerous film, this Joker, released at the worst of times.
Characters like the Joker are often exceptions are they not?, but in recent decades the U.S has seen so much distressing carnage.
Joker could easily be dismissed if it wasn't so well done, and didn't reach such a wild wide audience.
Compassion abounds for the Joker within.
And Batman's father's a condescending jerk.
From the perspective of film, it's easily the best comic book movie, like mainstream tragic arthouse psychological horror abounding with sensitive emotion.
Not just sensational superheroes predictably poised and pouncing, Joker leaves behind both razzle and dazzle to distill nocturnal desperation.
You feel for him as he daydreams, as his explanations are dismissed at work, as he makes friends with a neighbour down the hall, as he traces the roots of his identity.
Perhaps nothing will come of it.
Perhaps people harbouring dark thoughts will see the horrifying nature of their outcomes and be emphatically deterred, like parents who teach children to respect alcohol by getting them drunk, school of hard knocksy pedagogical bedlam.
But hopefully people like Bruce Wayne or his father, people occupying positions of power in the U.S, will consider a more equitable distribution of wealth, and uphold institutions which aid the unfortunate.
It's not perfect in Canada and Québec, Britain, France or Ireland, but there is much less violence, according to Michael Moore's films.
Because these countries have elites who care about the unfortunate, like Bernie Sanders.
And encourage them to be productive team members.
Much harder to own your own weapons too.
Less idealistic.
Much more practical.
Tuesday, October 29, 2019
Friday, October 25, 2019
Lucy in the Sky
The mind-blowing levitations of supersonic space travel leave go-getting astronaut Lucy (Natalie Portman) high and dry.
Overwhelmed by joyous reckoning astronomically substantiated, she can't readjust to terrestrial tremens and slips up where she once shone.
Asked to join a prestigious club well-attuned to astral planes, she spares time she's never had for spontaneous acts forbidden.
Coaxed on by hulking brawn, which opportunistically sways euphoric, she soon embraces chance, deception, caught up with gracious praise.
Ill-equipped to negotiate raw emotion, while making snap judgments which make things worse, psychosis dawns and fiercely beckons, she's never lost, can't let go, recede.
He is a huge tool (Jon Hamm as Mark Goodwin) who must haven known something like this would happen.
Eventually.
A lot of people live this way though.
If it's not your style, best leave it alone.
Especially if you're prone to obsession.
Lucy's prone in Lucy in the Sky and the results are grim yet fascinating, the whole world innovating unaware, a moment's slack mind-melded menace.
It's like the film's critiquing drug abuse in a way, but rather than deride narcotics, it looks at post-ecstatic stress, if that's a thing, I've never heard of it.
Adulterous sensations reinvigorate the high, but then lead to stark addiction, that's destructive, by and by.
If the other's unresponsive.
Natalie Portman's revitalizing her career by portraying elite achievement recklessly abandoned, her roles rich with intense emotion as they wildly yearn and contemplate.
There's a mystical element in Lucy in the Sky that could have been explored with more depth, as if travelling in space gives Lucy superhuman power, its unknown effects increasing the tension, but it's left behind with vengeful cause.
Perhaps watching as she slowly developed superpowers would have been cheesier than seeing loss drive her mad, although not necessarily so, depending on narrative finesse (even an idea that seems fated to be incredibly cheesy may not turn out so if crafted with thought and care).
Sad to see such an accomplished woman self-destruct so, nevertheless.
A warning to stick to the path you've chosen.
And beware of sedate sensation.
*Of course, who knows, who knows what path to follow, perhaps best not to even consider it, honestly. I find that when change gradually occurs it's less disruptive in terms of serious things like relationships, unlike choosing a restaurant, or a film to go see.
**Bananas.
***Grapes.
Overwhelmed by joyous reckoning astronomically substantiated, she can't readjust to terrestrial tremens and slips up where she once shone.
Asked to join a prestigious club well-attuned to astral planes, she spares time she's never had for spontaneous acts forbidden.
Coaxed on by hulking brawn, which opportunistically sways euphoric, she soon embraces chance, deception, caught up with gracious praise.
Ill-equipped to negotiate raw emotion, while making snap judgments which make things worse, psychosis dawns and fiercely beckons, she's never lost, can't let go, recede.
He is a huge tool (Jon Hamm as Mark Goodwin) who must haven known something like this would happen.
Eventually.
A lot of people live this way though.
If it's not your style, best leave it alone.
Especially if you're prone to obsession.
Lucy's prone in Lucy in the Sky and the results are grim yet fascinating, the whole world innovating unaware, a moment's slack mind-melded menace.
It's like the film's critiquing drug abuse in a way, but rather than deride narcotics, it looks at post-ecstatic stress, if that's a thing, I've never heard of it.
Adulterous sensations reinvigorate the high, but then lead to stark addiction, that's destructive, by and by.
If the other's unresponsive.
Natalie Portman's revitalizing her career by portraying elite achievement recklessly abandoned, her roles rich with intense emotion as they wildly yearn and contemplate.
There's a mystical element in Lucy in the Sky that could have been explored with more depth, as if travelling in space gives Lucy superhuman power, its unknown effects increasing the tension, but it's left behind with vengeful cause.
Perhaps watching as she slowly developed superpowers would have been cheesier than seeing loss drive her mad, although not necessarily so, depending on narrative finesse (even an idea that seems fated to be incredibly cheesy may not turn out so if crafted with thought and care).
Sad to see such an accomplished woman self-destruct so, nevertheless.
A warning to stick to the path you've chosen.
And beware of sedate sensation.
*Of course, who knows, who knows what path to follow, perhaps best not to even consider it, honestly. I find that when change gradually occurs it's less disruptive in terms of serious things like relationships, unlike choosing a restaurant, or a film to go see.
**Bananas.
***Grapes.
Tuesday, October 22, 2019
Wo he wo de zu guo (My People, My Country)
Wo he wo de zu guo (My People, My Country) celebrates significant events that have taken place in China in recent years.
7 events in fact, each brought to life by different directors and writers, courageous stories elevating community and teamwork, the ways in which people forge the backbone of any nation, and how every story, no matter how small, has a role to play in refining plot and character.
As I was watching these gifted filmmakers tell their compelling tales, I couldn't help but wonder about significant Canadian and Québecois events that have helped me to define my personal fluctuating conception of the Canadian and Québecois identity?
Here's a look at the top 7.
Presented in no particular order.
Except the first one.
The last spike: must have been strange way back when in Canada and Québec when there weren't many roads and certainly no cars or airplanes. A bunch of super tough hombres cleared a path from coast to coast over the years, however, and created Canada and Québec's first railway. I doubt many people took the train to B.C back then, it's still prohibitively expensive to travel there, but the colonies were nevertheless linked, which helped generate imagination, travel was at least possible if not probable, and various goods could be interprovincially exchanged. Not bad.
Hydro-Québec: I love living in a nation province that has no nuclear reactors, the radioactive waste generated by such means a health hazard for millennia to come. Québec had the rivers and the will to dam them up and they now provide vital clean power and energy to millions. The sale of Québecois power to neighbouring jurisdictions is quite the cash cow as well. I understand there are environmental impacts. But they're nothing compared to nuclear fallout.
Universal Healthcare: having learned about how horrible it can be to live in a country that doesn't provide universal healthcare, I'll always cherish the fact that everyone has access to medicine in Canada and Québec (brought about by a Liberal/NDP coalition I've heard!). Could you imagine working hard and saving throughout your entire life while raising a family only to find you lost everything and still couldn't afford to pay your medical bills because you got sick? It often happens in the United States. Thank God it rarely happens here.
The Charter of Rights and Freedoms: whole lotta freedom worked into this document. A brilliant stroke of ethical thought, masterfully illuminating post-World War II reckonings.
The Nature of Things: I loved watching The Nature of Things as a kid and was borderline ecstatic when I realized it was still on 15 years later, and had become even more diverse and relevant. You never really know what the next episode's going to be about; it's constantly updating its playbook. Solid, hard-hitting, impacting informative journalism, freely broadcast on the CBC, as incredible in middle-age as it is during childhood, a national treasure often overlooked.
The CFL: my favourite sport's football and I love our version of the game. Only having three downs makes every first all the more precious, the wider field invigorates special teams, the 20 yard end zone adds to the excitement, and who knows when someone will win by a rouge. It would be cool to see the league expand in upcoming years as our population continues to increase. Québec City could use a team. I'm also thinking about ye olde Brampton.
The French Canadian Essay: write what you will but don't expect big things. Appreciate what you've got. Don't be afraid to share an opinion.
The Winters may be long but it's a paradise in Summer.
A wonderful country we've collectively created.
This old school Northern Canada and Québec.
Not so bad when you think about it.
Could use speed trains like the ones in Europe.
😌
7 events in fact, each brought to life by different directors and writers, courageous stories elevating community and teamwork, the ways in which people forge the backbone of any nation, and how every story, no matter how small, has a role to play in refining plot and character.
As I was watching these gifted filmmakers tell their compelling tales, I couldn't help but wonder about significant Canadian and Québecois events that have helped me to define my personal fluctuating conception of the Canadian and Québecois identity?
Here's a look at the top 7.
Presented in no particular order.
Except the first one.
The last spike: must have been strange way back when in Canada and Québec when there weren't many roads and certainly no cars or airplanes. A bunch of super tough hombres cleared a path from coast to coast over the years, however, and created Canada and Québec's first railway. I doubt many people took the train to B.C back then, it's still prohibitively expensive to travel there, but the colonies were nevertheless linked, which helped generate imagination, travel was at least possible if not probable, and various goods could be interprovincially exchanged. Not bad.
Hydro-Québec: I love living in a nation province that has no nuclear reactors, the radioactive waste generated by such means a health hazard for millennia to come. Québec had the rivers and the will to dam them up and they now provide vital clean power and energy to millions. The sale of Québecois power to neighbouring jurisdictions is quite the cash cow as well. I understand there are environmental impacts. But they're nothing compared to nuclear fallout.
Universal Healthcare: having learned about how horrible it can be to live in a country that doesn't provide universal healthcare, I'll always cherish the fact that everyone has access to medicine in Canada and Québec (brought about by a Liberal/NDP coalition I've heard!). Could you imagine working hard and saving throughout your entire life while raising a family only to find you lost everything and still couldn't afford to pay your medical bills because you got sick? It often happens in the United States. Thank God it rarely happens here.
The Charter of Rights and Freedoms: whole lotta freedom worked into this document. A brilliant stroke of ethical thought, masterfully illuminating post-World War II reckonings.
The Nature of Things: I loved watching The Nature of Things as a kid and was borderline ecstatic when I realized it was still on 15 years later, and had become even more diverse and relevant. You never really know what the next episode's going to be about; it's constantly updating its playbook. Solid, hard-hitting, impacting informative journalism, freely broadcast on the CBC, as incredible in middle-age as it is during childhood, a national treasure often overlooked.
The CFL: my favourite sport's football and I love our version of the game. Only having three downs makes every first all the more precious, the wider field invigorates special teams, the 20 yard end zone adds to the excitement, and who knows when someone will win by a rouge. It would be cool to see the league expand in upcoming years as our population continues to increase. Québec City could use a team. I'm also thinking about ye olde Brampton.
The French Canadian Essay: write what you will but don't expect big things. Appreciate what you've got. Don't be afraid to share an opinion.
The Winters may be long but it's a paradise in Summer.
A wonderful country we've collectively created.
This old school Northern Canada and Québec.
Not so bad when you think about it.
Could use speed trains like the ones in Europe.
😌
Friday, October 18, 2019
Downtown Abbey
I suppose I may have once had harsher words for a film about servants desperate to humour British royalty, inasmuch as they don't seem to have much leisure time, and there's no mention of rights or unions.
In fact they don't seem to have any time off at all, and serve altruistically day and night, the demanding nature of their age old situation less amenable to ye olde 9 to 5, any questions of an alternative lifestyle, absent from the master narrative.
I'm unfamiliar with the series so I don't know if they receive adequate wages, and if you're ever thinking about forming a union it's always best to consider whether or not it will bankrupt your employers, but if the idle rich can't afford to pay a decent salary, who can?, and Downtown's nobles don't seem to be working that hard.
Of course they have their own dainty way of labouring, comparatively, which has more to do with socializing and planning events than sweeping or dishwashing, and since a significant proportion of the population expects them to play these roles, handed down through the centuries, who I am to criticize them for doing so?
It's the democratic element you see which ironically uplifts the monarchy insofar as such traditions have just as much right to persevere as any other.
Their workers can still quit at any time should they find something lacking, or a better situation, although in many cases I imagine they strictly soldier on.
Due to the prestige they associate with their position, a bizarro rank and file reflection of aristocratic privilege, a phenomenon where one's proud to be of service to a duke or earl even if their quality of life's somewhat bland, for they imagine that others envy them, oddly enough, but then again, others actually do.
Covetously so.
I imagine serving the nobility must seem idyllic if you're serving the nouveau riche, if that's how you want to live your life (gaining status by association with a snotty clique), although I may be incorrect indeed, depending on how hip newfound wealth finds flex-time.
All I'm trying to say is that when you don't have many options you may settle for something snotty, who am I to judge?, and may even find it quite rewarding, depending on the character of your team.
The film does present a solid team equipped with full-time work by employers who don't hold them in contempt and do honestly listen to what they have to say.
Of course the idle rich don't have to sustain these networks, they could live much more modestly to be sure, but then thousands of people would be out of work, and the people who care about elite social activities would have to find other forms of media to entertain them.
So distressing, the items that trend on AppleNews.
As unimaginative as such pastimes may seem, a democratic conscience should try to tolerate them, assuming they don't imperialistically express themselves, or attempt to squash integral freedoms.
The world of Downtown Abbey is both resourceful and respectful.
Model worker/management relations.
Perhaps too prim and polished.
Remarkably cohesive bonds.
In fact they don't seem to have any time off at all, and serve altruistically day and night, the demanding nature of their age old situation less amenable to ye olde 9 to 5, any questions of an alternative lifestyle, absent from the master narrative.
I'm unfamiliar with the series so I don't know if they receive adequate wages, and if you're ever thinking about forming a union it's always best to consider whether or not it will bankrupt your employers, but if the idle rich can't afford to pay a decent salary, who can?, and Downtown's nobles don't seem to be working that hard.
Of course they have their own dainty way of labouring, comparatively, which has more to do with socializing and planning events than sweeping or dishwashing, and since a significant proportion of the population expects them to play these roles, handed down through the centuries, who I am to criticize them for doing so?
It's the democratic element you see which ironically uplifts the monarchy insofar as such traditions have just as much right to persevere as any other.
Their workers can still quit at any time should they find something lacking, or a better situation, although in many cases I imagine they strictly soldier on.
Due to the prestige they associate with their position, a bizarro rank and file reflection of aristocratic privilege, a phenomenon where one's proud to be of service to a duke or earl even if their quality of life's somewhat bland, for they imagine that others envy them, oddly enough, but then again, others actually do.
Covetously so.
I imagine serving the nobility must seem idyllic if you're serving the nouveau riche, if that's how you want to live your life (gaining status by association with a snotty clique), although I may be incorrect indeed, depending on how hip newfound wealth finds flex-time.
All I'm trying to say is that when you don't have many options you may settle for something snotty, who am I to judge?, and may even find it quite rewarding, depending on the character of your team.
The film does present a solid team equipped with full-time work by employers who don't hold them in contempt and do honestly listen to what they have to say.
Of course the idle rich don't have to sustain these networks, they could live much more modestly to be sure, but then thousands of people would be out of work, and the people who care about elite social activities would have to find other forms of media to entertain them.
So distressing, the items that trend on AppleNews.
As unimaginative as such pastimes may seem, a democratic conscience should try to tolerate them, assuming they don't imperialistically express themselves, or attempt to squash integral freedoms.
The world of Downtown Abbey is both resourceful and respectful.
Model worker/management relations.
Perhaps too prim and polished.
Remarkably cohesive bonds.
Tuesday, October 15, 2019
Abominable
The loss of a loved one drives an innocent youth to seek distraction through work, her bounteous labours distraught self-exclusion, her family concerned, her friends highly critical.
In the evenings, after refusing to sit down for a nice meal, she still regales the slumberous masses with passionate violin song, her emotions as tender as kitten cuddles, her insights conjuring tone, a melancholic im/material maestro, grieving through derelict soul.
One night a mind-boggling surprise timidly awaits her, for a frightened yeti has sought refuge on her rooftop, unaccustomed to concrete or chaos, yet abounding with love for music.
Yi (Chloe Bennet) soon realizes ne'er-do-wells are in hot pursuit, and adjusts her routine accordingly, to facilitate his agile escape, and embrace the forbidding unknown.
But not before friends discover what they're up to, and wind up hitching along for the ride.
There is a slight problem though, for they have to improvise their way from Shanghai to the Himalayas.
With those who would exploit them tracking their every move.
But sometimes risk engenders adventure, and uncertainty begets innovation, saturated with enriching magic, inventing wondrous epic reflex.
Rationally pitched through wild variety.
Blending novelty and convention.
The youngsters indeed strive to reach the legendary Himalayas in DreamWorks's jazzy Abominable, three youths and a gifted yeti cub, exercising latent imagination.
The skills they never knew they had.
The integrity they had been blindly overlooking.
Sometimes you need challenge to awaken vigour and voice, as Paul Atreides does in Dune, although it need not involve interplanetary conflict.
Build a cabinet.
Learn to make pasta from scratch.
It helps if your resolve or your team has recourse to magic, as the lads and lass and yeti do in Abominable, but you can always substitute the word "books" for "magic", and find myriad aids at your local library.
Or libraries if you travel.
Of course conflict demotivates and you need a thick skin to bounce back or continue to move forward, the kids in Abominable persevering against unfavourable odds, assisted by fortuitous transformations.
Perhaps their journey's too cozy, or lacking discombobulation, but it's still fun to watch as they swiftly outmanoeuvre, friendship and family esteemed on the fly.
They're interested in life and living, not cashing in on exploiting difference, and they do what they can to help the yeti regain freedom, proactively managing warm and friendly initiatives.
Inspiring depth.
Like the mysterious yeti.
*It would be nice to have a roommate who played the violin. Just sit back, read or write as he or she practices. That would be amazing.
**With a pet cat too.
In the evenings, after refusing to sit down for a nice meal, she still regales the slumberous masses with passionate violin song, her emotions as tender as kitten cuddles, her insights conjuring tone, a melancholic im/material maestro, grieving through derelict soul.
One night a mind-boggling surprise timidly awaits her, for a frightened yeti has sought refuge on her rooftop, unaccustomed to concrete or chaos, yet abounding with love for music.
Yi (Chloe Bennet) soon realizes ne'er-do-wells are in hot pursuit, and adjusts her routine accordingly, to facilitate his agile escape, and embrace the forbidding unknown.
But not before friends discover what they're up to, and wind up hitching along for the ride.
There is a slight problem though, for they have to improvise their way from Shanghai to the Himalayas.
With those who would exploit them tracking their every move.
But sometimes risk engenders adventure, and uncertainty begets innovation, saturated with enriching magic, inventing wondrous epic reflex.
Rationally pitched through wild variety.
Blending novelty and convention.
The youngsters indeed strive to reach the legendary Himalayas in DreamWorks's jazzy Abominable, three youths and a gifted yeti cub, exercising latent imagination.
The skills they never knew they had.
The integrity they had been blindly overlooking.
Sometimes you need challenge to awaken vigour and voice, as Paul Atreides does in Dune, although it need not involve interplanetary conflict.
Build a cabinet.
Learn to make pasta from scratch.
It helps if your resolve or your team has recourse to magic, as the lads and lass and yeti do in Abominable, but you can always substitute the word "books" for "magic", and find myriad aids at your local library.
Or libraries if you travel.
Of course conflict demotivates and you need a thick skin to bounce back or continue to move forward, the kids in Abominable persevering against unfavourable odds, assisted by fortuitous transformations.
Perhaps their journey's too cozy, or lacking discombobulation, but it's still fun to watch as they swiftly outmanoeuvre, friendship and family esteemed on the fly.
They're interested in life and living, not cashing in on exploiting difference, and they do what they can to help the yeti regain freedom, proactively managing warm and friendly initiatives.
Inspiring depth.
Like the mysterious yeti.
*It would be nice to have a roommate who played the violin. Just sit back, read or write as he or she practices. That would be amazing.
**With a pet cat too.
Friday, October 11, 2019
Official Secrets
Back to Coventry again and the question of whether or not there are instances where it's in a government's bests interest to mislead the public, in order to cut down on panic and/or mass hysteria.
Letting the Nazis know their enigma codes had been compromised would have likely delayed the end of World War II significantly, but it was still known that Coventry was to be bombed, and with that information hundreds of lives could have been saved.
Seems like you could have kept the information on the down low and simultaneously achieved both objectives, the only serious hindrance being spies, or a lack of knowledge of whom to trust.
Why the ambitious stubbornly think the freewheeling are prone to mass hysterics as opposed to order and discipline (when kept fully informed) is a most unfortunate prejudice, and even though twitter and social media quickly shoot down clandestine pretensions, such pretensions still calculate with austere breadth, exposed hypocrisy notwithstanding.
This period of time has become frighteningly ludicrous inasmuch as clearly exposed political plots move forward regardless of blatant corruption, the character of the people who expose them awaiting ruin, large portions of the public choosing to applaud the plots regardless.
It's like we live in the age where the public is incredibly well informed but large swaths prefer non-traditional sources to orthodox journalism, and as the postmodernists continue to deconstruct sincerity and truth, the charlatans amass fortunes adhering to Bacon's negative instance, and the left's doctrinal relative truth.
An age of sensation, where anyone can run a story online, the irony, and many don't critically evaluate what they're reading, or even care when it's obviously false.
Fake news is like alcoholism, actual fake news, not The New York Times or The Globe and Mail or The Guardian.
You know you shouldn't have another drink, you know the same misfortunes await if you do, but after you have that drink, and deal with those very same misfortunes the next day, the only way to make the repercussions go away is to believe that one more drink won't hurt, or if I keep reading this yahoo some day his or her lies will make sense.
I still spend a lot of time reading traditional news outlets who hire people who function according to a code that upholds honesty and integrity.
Sometimes I think I'm out of touch.
Until I see Sanders beat Trump in the latest poll!
And the Brits stickin' it to Boris Johnson.
I actually saw the poll on Instagram, posted by Team Sanders. The mainstream news isn't that hip to Sanders yet.
Sanders!
If aliens existed and we had definitive proof I'd let the public know. I prefer to see what happens and trust in general reasonability.
If all the data demonstrated that the Earth is warming at an alarming rate, as it does, and something needs to be done to cool things down, I'd let people know and implement policies to reduce greenhouse gas emissions, even if it would take 200 years to feel their effects.
In Official Secrets, true story, Katharine Gun (Keira Knightley) discovers that government officials in Britain are intentionally misleading the public to gain support for the Second Iraq War, and she boldly lets the people know.
Takes a lot of flack in the aftermath.
But totally does what needs to be done.
The film's direct, factually predisposed, but still presents a tale of heroism as noteworthy as it is endearing.
Characters are criticized within for being anti-war, as if such a viewpoint is undesirable.
I always thought it was the other way around.
But I'll never work for the secret service.
Phew.
Could you imagine?
Letting the Nazis know their enigma codes had been compromised would have likely delayed the end of World War II significantly, but it was still known that Coventry was to be bombed, and with that information hundreds of lives could have been saved.
Seems like you could have kept the information on the down low and simultaneously achieved both objectives, the only serious hindrance being spies, or a lack of knowledge of whom to trust.
Why the ambitious stubbornly think the freewheeling are prone to mass hysterics as opposed to order and discipline (when kept fully informed) is a most unfortunate prejudice, and even though twitter and social media quickly shoot down clandestine pretensions, such pretensions still calculate with austere breadth, exposed hypocrisy notwithstanding.
This period of time has become frighteningly ludicrous inasmuch as clearly exposed political plots move forward regardless of blatant corruption, the character of the people who expose them awaiting ruin, large portions of the public choosing to applaud the plots regardless.
It's like we live in the age where the public is incredibly well informed but large swaths prefer non-traditional sources to orthodox journalism, and as the postmodernists continue to deconstruct sincerity and truth, the charlatans amass fortunes adhering to Bacon's negative instance, and the left's doctrinal relative truth.
An age of sensation, where anyone can run a story online, the irony, and many don't critically evaluate what they're reading, or even care when it's obviously false.
Fake news is like alcoholism, actual fake news, not The New York Times or The Globe and Mail or The Guardian.
You know you shouldn't have another drink, you know the same misfortunes await if you do, but after you have that drink, and deal with those very same misfortunes the next day, the only way to make the repercussions go away is to believe that one more drink won't hurt, or if I keep reading this yahoo some day his or her lies will make sense.
I still spend a lot of time reading traditional news outlets who hire people who function according to a code that upholds honesty and integrity.
Sometimes I think I'm out of touch.
Until I see Sanders beat Trump in the latest poll!
And the Brits stickin' it to Boris Johnson.
I actually saw the poll on Instagram, posted by Team Sanders. The mainstream news isn't that hip to Sanders yet.
Sanders!
If aliens existed and we had definitive proof I'd let the public know. I prefer to see what happens and trust in general reasonability.
If all the data demonstrated that the Earth is warming at an alarming rate, as it does, and something needs to be done to cool things down, I'd let people know and implement policies to reduce greenhouse gas emissions, even if it would take 200 years to feel their effects.
In Official Secrets, true story, Katharine Gun (Keira Knightley) discovers that government officials in Britain are intentionally misleading the public to gain support for the Second Iraq War, and she boldly lets the people know.
Takes a lot of flack in the aftermath.
But totally does what needs to be done.
The film's direct, factually predisposed, but still presents a tale of heroism as noteworthy as it is endearing.
Characters are criticized within for being anti-war, as if such a viewpoint is undesirable.
I always thought it was the other way around.
But I'll never work for the secret service.
Phew.
Could you imagine?
Tuesday, October 8, 2019
Il pleuvait des oiseaux (And the Birds Rained Down)
An aged free spirit spent her life under lock and key, now a relative passes, and she departs to pay respect.
Her nephew's open-minded and understands she could use a break, and happens to know a secluded location where feisty seniors get by.
The male pair's dialled in off the grid and have been for some time, one prone to grouchy outbursts, the other settled like humble pie.
Their lifestyle doesn't easily accommodate others, remote bush living requiring steady supplies, but they're as independent as they are resourceful, in regular contact with sustained sustenance.
Or Marie-Desneige's (Andrée Lachapelle) nephew anyways, who ATVs them up provisions from time to time, stopping to chat and relax lakeside, not so bad this side of February.
An inquisitive photojournalist comes calling with fresh sets of awkward questions, and since they have no interest in being found, they aren't as willing to respond as she had hoped.
Confrontation maladroitly abounds, as love blooms, identity blossoms, and angst prognosticates.
Il pleuvait des oiseaux.
Off the beaten track.
The urge to rigorously classify each and every individual is expressly resisted within, desires to live untethered, beyond, contesting traditional arrangements.
Practical argument may dispute its chill romanticism, but not without its characters having had their honest say.
Arboreally inclined foresty fomentation.
There's something to be said for the offbeat alternative rough and torchlit tumble, keeps you innocently aware through mature spiritual reference.
You have to appreciate what you have as opposed to imagining what you can get, even if online shopping's levelling the field, although that doesn't apply in this instance.
Note: the city is also amazing.
I love it when I meet people who are cyberspatially detached.
I can't do it myself, I admit I love the online world, but there are certain freedoms that persist if you spend your life offline, almost as if you don't exist, like you can't be tracked or followed.
Like a ghost or a bear, a bohemian, a spy.
A classical romantic.
Less prone to inane distraction.
If you somehow read this even though you live offline, consider that if you have no online footprint, you're perfect for spectral espionage.
Bu if iTunes disappears and therefore stops selling music, where do you go to buy music? Will AppleMusic be the only option? It's like downloading music from the internet for free wiped out millions for emerging artists, and record stores slowly merged into iTunes, but if iTunes stops selling music, and you still want to own albums, even if you can listen to them for free on AppleMusic, will record stores bounce back, and will those millions be made available once more?
It's cool to see people like Neil Young and Keith Richards with millions.
Can't say they didn't earn it.
Almost as if downloading music for free was ironically financed by the right wing establishment, to silence active protest, or at least make it much less comfortable to do so.
Il pleuvait des oiseaux generates aged pluck to state "it's never too late."
Cool characters and convincing situations.
A thoughtful narrative blend.
Provocative ego clash.
With love.
Her nephew's open-minded and understands she could use a break, and happens to know a secluded location where feisty seniors get by.
The male pair's dialled in off the grid and have been for some time, one prone to grouchy outbursts, the other settled like humble pie.
Their lifestyle doesn't easily accommodate others, remote bush living requiring steady supplies, but they're as independent as they are resourceful, in regular contact with sustained sustenance.
Or Marie-Desneige's (Andrée Lachapelle) nephew anyways, who ATVs them up provisions from time to time, stopping to chat and relax lakeside, not so bad this side of February.
An inquisitive photojournalist comes calling with fresh sets of awkward questions, and since they have no interest in being found, they aren't as willing to respond as she had hoped.
Confrontation maladroitly abounds, as love blooms, identity blossoms, and angst prognosticates.
Il pleuvait des oiseaux.
Off the beaten track.
The urge to rigorously classify each and every individual is expressly resisted within, desires to live untethered, beyond, contesting traditional arrangements.
Practical argument may dispute its chill romanticism, but not without its characters having had their honest say.
Arboreally inclined foresty fomentation.
There's something to be said for the offbeat alternative rough and torchlit tumble, keeps you innocently aware through mature spiritual reference.
You have to appreciate what you have as opposed to imagining what you can get, even if online shopping's levelling the field, although that doesn't apply in this instance.
Note: the city is also amazing.
I love it when I meet people who are cyberspatially detached.
I can't do it myself, I admit I love the online world, but there are certain freedoms that persist if you spend your life offline, almost as if you don't exist, like you can't be tracked or followed.
Like a ghost or a bear, a bohemian, a spy.
A classical romantic.
Less prone to inane distraction.
If you somehow read this even though you live offline, consider that if you have no online footprint, you're perfect for spectral espionage.
Bu if iTunes disappears and therefore stops selling music, where do you go to buy music? Will AppleMusic be the only option? It's like downloading music from the internet for free wiped out millions for emerging artists, and record stores slowly merged into iTunes, but if iTunes stops selling music, and you still want to own albums, even if you can listen to them for free on AppleMusic, will record stores bounce back, and will those millions be made available once more?
It's cool to see people like Neil Young and Keith Richards with millions.
Can't say they didn't earn it.
Almost as if downloading music for free was ironically financed by the right wing establishment, to silence active protest, or at least make it much less comfortable to do so.
Il pleuvait des oiseaux generates aged pluck to state "it's never too late."
Cool characters and convincing situations.
A thoughtful narrative blend.
Provocative ego clash.
With love.
Friday, October 4, 2019
Unarmed Man
Harold Jackson III's independent Unarmed Man presents an impassioned interview taking place after a man was killed.
Shot dead even though he was unarmed by a trigger happy policeperson, all too willing to shoot first, none too prone to asking questions.
At least not to African Americans.
He has to give a statement, provide routine answers, in the fatal aftermath, and he's sincerely eager to participate, as long as the script is strictly followed.
But his interrogator's in search of truth, and doesn't play things by the book, asking tough questions that need to be asked, even after he's sharply reprimanded.
The film's fictional content is saturated with verisimilitude, its situations and legal ease striking chords all too familiar.
When does it end?
It happens so often.
Why are unarmed African Americans shot multiple times so often, even though they've done nothing wrong?
And why are the offending policepersons soon back to work without consequence or repercussion, how can they possibly be protecting and serving the black citizens upon their beat?
The racist system's as revolting as the answers to those questions, so many innocent lives cut short, so much potential recklessly shot down.
But Jackson's film doesn't simply preach, it provides a well-rounded argument. Its strength lies in its investigation of alternatives, the policeperson's point of view, which is refuted with upstanding logic.
Unarmed Man lays it out, explains why some policepeople are trigger happy, the stresses associated with their jobs, the fears such stresses naturally produce.
I've often thought about what it must be like to work full-time as a policeperson in a neighbourhood overwhelmed with crime, whether it's white, black, asian, or first nation, and it must be extremely difficult to do so day-in and day-out, especially when your colleagues lose their lives, having made the greatest sacrifice in the line of duty.
But policepersons still need to be trained to distinguish between different scenarios, one obviously threatening (a robbery, a drug bust, domestic violence, gang conflicts), another relatively textbook (pulling cars over for no reason).
If they can't distinguish between these scenarios they should be transferred to less demanding jurisdictions, or perhaps find work elsewhere.
Black people shouldn't have to put their hands on the steering wheel and make painfully slow movements if asked to show something every time they're pulled over.
But it seems like that's what they have to do to objectively avoid being shot.
Since it's clear that policepersons target black Americans.
Time and time again.
Unarmed Man's argument is well worth seeing and passionately brought to life by Shaun Woodland (Aaron Williamson) and Danny Gavigan (Greg Yelich).
Definitely tough subject matter.
Which will hopefully seem antiquated one day.
Shot dead even though he was unarmed by a trigger happy policeperson, all too willing to shoot first, none too prone to asking questions.
At least not to African Americans.
He has to give a statement, provide routine answers, in the fatal aftermath, and he's sincerely eager to participate, as long as the script is strictly followed.
But his interrogator's in search of truth, and doesn't play things by the book, asking tough questions that need to be asked, even after he's sharply reprimanded.
The film's fictional content is saturated with verisimilitude, its situations and legal ease striking chords all too familiar.
When does it end?
It happens so often.
Why are unarmed African Americans shot multiple times so often, even though they've done nothing wrong?
And why are the offending policepersons soon back to work without consequence or repercussion, how can they possibly be protecting and serving the black citizens upon their beat?
The racist system's as revolting as the answers to those questions, so many innocent lives cut short, so much potential recklessly shot down.
But Jackson's film doesn't simply preach, it provides a well-rounded argument. Its strength lies in its investigation of alternatives, the policeperson's point of view, which is refuted with upstanding logic.
Unarmed Man lays it out, explains why some policepeople are trigger happy, the stresses associated with their jobs, the fears such stresses naturally produce.
I've often thought about what it must be like to work full-time as a policeperson in a neighbourhood overwhelmed with crime, whether it's white, black, asian, or first nation, and it must be extremely difficult to do so day-in and day-out, especially when your colleagues lose their lives, having made the greatest sacrifice in the line of duty.
But policepersons still need to be trained to distinguish between different scenarios, one obviously threatening (a robbery, a drug bust, domestic violence, gang conflicts), another relatively textbook (pulling cars over for no reason).
If they can't distinguish between these scenarios they should be transferred to less demanding jurisdictions, or perhaps find work elsewhere.
Black people shouldn't have to put their hands on the steering wheel and make painfully slow movements if asked to show something every time they're pulled over.
But it seems like that's what they have to do to objectively avoid being shot.
Since it's clear that policepersons target black Americans.
Time and time again.
Unarmed Man's argument is well worth seeing and passionately brought to life by Shaun Woodland (Aaron Williamson) and Danny Gavigan (Greg Yelich).
Definitely tough subject matter.
Which will hopefully seem antiquated one day.
Tuesday, October 1, 2019
Honeyland
In the remote wilds of Northern Macedonia, an innovative maiden makes endearing ends meet.
In touch with fickle nature, ensconced within her environs, she harvests nurturing honey, to swiftly sell to local merchants.
A true friend of bee kind, she takes no more than she requires, and shares that which she humbly consumes, with her industrious agile constituency.
Never guided by greed nor gluttony.
In harmony with rustic enrichment.
Not that she's making huge disposable sums, but she has something left over for a bit of fun, and is able to care for her loving mother, who lives with her in modest surroundings.
Itinerant neighbour farmers move in to harvest nutritious honey as well, but they lack Hatidze Muratova's knowledge, and proceed in error in search of profit.
Motivated to gather much larger quantities, they fail to consider the health of their bees, as a third party eggs them on, who's more concerned with sugar than soul.
Shouldn't one always care for their workforce?
Ensuring health to prolifically prosper.
While respecting local traditions.
And maintaining holistic balance.
Honeyland follows Hatidze and her new age neighbours as they employ different management strategies, one in touch with solemn longevity, the other breeding contempt in haste.
The honey looks so delicious.
Eaten right off the comb!
Abounding with innovative nutrients.
Synergistically savouring strength.
Honey's one of the most wonderful things and it's a miracle that it exists in nature, a vital juxtaposition provoking thought, inasmuch as something so sweet can critique so severely.
Bears love it.
I imagine other animals less immune to stinging do as well.
I find bees won't sting you as long as you remain calm. If one lands on you, don't move, rest immobile, patiently wait 'til it freely moves on.
Even if one lands on your lip.
Or your eyelid.
Bees.
Honeyland's also hardboiled and distinct, vividly capturing woes of hard living.
Difficulties of having to start work so young.
Without recourse to community or medicine.
The spirit of independence durably thrives within, vibrantly generating lush sustainability, through hardcore pluck and spry versatility, thoughtful observation, long-lasting care.
Hatidze Muratova's an individual like no other.
Her story brought to life by a documentary team.
A moving imaginative tale.
Overflowing with intense life.
Not to mention some harmless fun.
Laidback immersive simplicity.
Harrowingly disturbed.
Resourcefully contradicted.
In touch with fickle nature, ensconced within her environs, she harvests nurturing honey, to swiftly sell to local merchants.
A true friend of bee kind, she takes no more than she requires, and shares that which she humbly consumes, with her industrious agile constituency.
Never guided by greed nor gluttony.
In harmony with rustic enrichment.
Not that she's making huge disposable sums, but she has something left over for a bit of fun, and is able to care for her loving mother, who lives with her in modest surroundings.
Itinerant neighbour farmers move in to harvest nutritious honey as well, but they lack Hatidze Muratova's knowledge, and proceed in error in search of profit.
Motivated to gather much larger quantities, they fail to consider the health of their bees, as a third party eggs them on, who's more concerned with sugar than soul.
Shouldn't one always care for their workforce?
Ensuring health to prolifically prosper.
While respecting local traditions.
And maintaining holistic balance.
Honeyland follows Hatidze and her new age neighbours as they employ different management strategies, one in touch with solemn longevity, the other breeding contempt in haste.
The honey looks so delicious.
Eaten right off the comb!
Abounding with innovative nutrients.
Synergistically savouring strength.
Honey's one of the most wonderful things and it's a miracle that it exists in nature, a vital juxtaposition provoking thought, inasmuch as something so sweet can critique so severely.
Bears love it.
I imagine other animals less immune to stinging do as well.
I find bees won't sting you as long as you remain calm. If one lands on you, don't move, rest immobile, patiently wait 'til it freely moves on.
Even if one lands on your lip.
Or your eyelid.
Bees.
Honeyland's also hardboiled and distinct, vividly capturing woes of hard living.
Difficulties of having to start work so young.
Without recourse to community or medicine.
The spirit of independence durably thrives within, vibrantly generating lush sustainability, through hardcore pluck and spry versatility, thoughtful observation, long-lasting care.
Hatidze Muratova's an individual like no other.
Her story brought to life by a documentary team.
A moving imaginative tale.
Overflowing with intense life.
Not to mention some harmless fun.
Laidback immersive simplicity.
Harrowingly disturbed.
Resourcefully contradicted.
Friday, September 27, 2019
Ad Astra
Resolute calm enabling worn compact endurance, as split-second horizons galactically persevere.
Haunting commissions convivially prorated invoke distraught conjecture, amidst flossed commanding tremens, a firm shake, hardboiled rations.
Isolated escorts contract both fact and prayer to brave conflicted laments in disputed lunar wastes.
Provoked inherent danger characteristically anointing fury, as reckless impacting recourse gravitationally upends.
Heralds of the absurd embrace age old discretion to definitively proceed and spite incumbent salience.
Prerogative alternatives attuned to crisp latitude, wherewithal in bold defiance, the need-to-know forlorn, askew.
Comma weightlessness, resounding brace, emphatic nebulous accompaniments, maddeningly strained.
A destination charted, strictly relative, the loyal man pursues, a rewarding rash reunion, punchy portents, presence, portals.
Preservation.
In search of awestruck epic, Ad Astra evokes the severe, a textbook sequent caustic quest, a minimalistic slight solemnity.
The action disrupts the logic.
The thought disturbs the action.
It can't decide if it's cerebral psycho-sci-fi or reticent adventure, and the mix is disconcerting if not resignedly underscored.
Take the scenes where they drive across the moon's surface to reach a distant launchpad. There's plenty of opportunity to develop character through dialogue as they cross the inhospitable terrain, while intercutting shots of the heavens to add interstellar savour, but instead they're hounded by bandits shortly after they depart, of course barely making it after sustaining heavy casualties.
Before this scene the film seems serious, like it wouldn't rely on something so obvious, like it's more concerned with brains than brawn, like it has true epic potential.
It's very similar to Apocalypse Now, inasmuch as they both concern young capable determined officers given assignments which demand stealth and sacrifice, which demand they navigate extreme hardships to confront heroes who have lost their minds in remote locations.
There isn't much dialogue in Apocalypse Now either, but it's also an innovative groundbreaking visceral risk-fuelled narrative shot on site in the Philippines, where the actors had to dig deep just to deal with production demands.
Several of its scenes stick with you afterwards due to their enigmatic depth and Captain Willard's odd relationship with his crew. Ruth Negga's scenes (Helen Lantos) stand out in Ad Astra, but without a consistent supporting cast, or much dialogue to work with, and a tiresome psychological test Roy McBride (Brad Pitt) has to take regularly, Ad Astra doesn't measure up, and leaves you wishing it had drawn parallels more precisely.
Apocalypse Now's rich with the spirit of independence that's difficult to create in a studio.
Ad Astra's alright, it's entertaining, I was disappointed but wasn't bored, but from the way it begins and its cast and its premise I thought it would be so much more.
Perhaps a good companion film for Apocalypse Now on a double-bill though.
Make sure to show it first.
Save Brando till the bitter end.
Haunting commissions convivially prorated invoke distraught conjecture, amidst flossed commanding tremens, a firm shake, hardboiled rations.
Isolated escorts contract both fact and prayer to brave conflicted laments in disputed lunar wastes.
Provoked inherent danger characteristically anointing fury, as reckless impacting recourse gravitationally upends.
Heralds of the absurd embrace age old discretion to definitively proceed and spite incumbent salience.
Prerogative alternatives attuned to crisp latitude, wherewithal in bold defiance, the need-to-know forlorn, askew.
Comma weightlessness, resounding brace, emphatic nebulous accompaniments, maddeningly strained.
A destination charted, strictly relative, the loyal man pursues, a rewarding rash reunion, punchy portents, presence, portals.
Preservation.
In search of awestruck epic, Ad Astra evokes the severe, a textbook sequent caustic quest, a minimalistic slight solemnity.
The action disrupts the logic.
The thought disturbs the action.
It can't decide if it's cerebral psycho-sci-fi or reticent adventure, and the mix is disconcerting if not resignedly underscored.
Take the scenes where they drive across the moon's surface to reach a distant launchpad. There's plenty of opportunity to develop character through dialogue as they cross the inhospitable terrain, while intercutting shots of the heavens to add interstellar savour, but instead they're hounded by bandits shortly after they depart, of course barely making it after sustaining heavy casualties.
Before this scene the film seems serious, like it wouldn't rely on something so obvious, like it's more concerned with brains than brawn, like it has true epic potential.
It's very similar to Apocalypse Now, inasmuch as they both concern young capable determined officers given assignments which demand stealth and sacrifice, which demand they navigate extreme hardships to confront heroes who have lost their minds in remote locations.
There isn't much dialogue in Apocalypse Now either, but it's also an innovative groundbreaking visceral risk-fuelled narrative shot on site in the Philippines, where the actors had to dig deep just to deal with production demands.
Several of its scenes stick with you afterwards due to their enigmatic depth and Captain Willard's odd relationship with his crew. Ruth Negga's scenes (Helen Lantos) stand out in Ad Astra, but without a consistent supporting cast, or much dialogue to work with, and a tiresome psychological test Roy McBride (Brad Pitt) has to take regularly, Ad Astra doesn't measure up, and leaves you wishing it had drawn parallels more precisely.
Apocalypse Now's rich with the spirit of independence that's difficult to create in a studio.
Ad Astra's alright, it's entertaining, I was disappointed but wasn't bored, but from the way it begins and its cast and its premise I thought it would be so much more.
Perhaps a good companion film for Apocalypse Now on a double-bill though.
Make sure to show it first.
Save Brando till the bitter end.
Tuesday, September 24, 2019
Freaks
Spoiler alert.
Freaks presents a bleak sociopolitical scenario wherein which mutants are routinely hunted down and taken without reason or hesitation.
Its similarities to the The X-Men resonate with complimentary vibes, but even if the two visions are similar, it should be noted that The X-Men don't have a monopoly on this kind of narrative, as long as its characters aren't flatly duplicated.
Where's the hybridization otherwise?
The main difference between Freaks and The X-Men and Women is that The X-Men storyline is well-known, while Freaks keeps you guessing if you didn't read anything about it beforehand, besides that it's science-fiction and made in Canada, and somewhat provocatively titled.
It's like Magneto's worst nightmare.
The majority has designated anyone who doesn't fit a rather bland personality stereotype as a freak, and if différence is detected, it's wiped out with extreme prejudice.
The mutants are scattered and disorganized, forced to contend with the majority on a terrifying individual basis.
A father (Emile Hirsch as Dad), who doesn't understand the majority's conventions well, tries to teach them to his gifted daughter (Lexy Kolker as Chloe), who's unaware of their predicament, and uncertain as to how to proceed.
He's chosen to hide but can't make his daughter understand why, and as she ages she becomes more curious about the forbidden world outside.
A heavily armed reporter thinks she sympathizes, but the climate's so extreme any attempts to communicate are layered with panicky violent unacknowledged distrust, like the society you find in The Lobster, or what I imagine an atheist confronts if they live in a strict theocracy.
Freaks lacks alternative depth inasmuch as the mutants have no rights or recourse, but it does function as an effective critique of extreme governments, and the violence and prejudices they habitually nurture.
On the right extreme, the best and brightest and their goons use violence to force the majority to yield; on the left the moral majority banishes independent thought to languish in remote obscurity.
This is an oversimplified version of the polemic that doesn't do its myriad nuances justice, but works in relation to the context of the film.
In a well-rounded society the groups respectfully co-exist, the respect a cab driver has for a physicist for instance, due to the physicist's brilliant expertise, and the corresponding respect that same physicist has for the cab driver, extracted from the knowledge that they work extremely long hours, provide a helpful service, don't make much money, and have a remarkable knowledge of the city or town they work in.
It's only when the physicist derides the cab driver in anger for not possessing a similar degree of expertise, or the cab driver lashes out at the physicist for possessing lucrative knowledge, that a rather chill orderly structure breaks down, social relations then becoming more disagreeable.
Ask yourself which political parties support such a public sphere? and you may find yourself voting for good times this October.
For a culture that isn't super uptight all the time.
For a country that genuinely supports différence.
I can't stress how important it is to vote in the upcoming federal election. Voting is one of our most important freedoms as Canadian and Québecois citizens. It doesn't take that long and you can even take time off work to do it. Voting helps you be the change, it's one concrete way that you can in fact make a real difference.
This difference is magnified in a proportionally representative system.
Proportional Representation isn't radical change.
It's simply good governance.
Based solely on the numbers.
Bruce Dern (Mr. Snowcone) shines.
He has some great lines too.
Freaks presents a bleak sociopolitical scenario wherein which mutants are routinely hunted down and taken without reason or hesitation.
Its similarities to the The X-Men resonate with complimentary vibes, but even if the two visions are similar, it should be noted that The X-Men don't have a monopoly on this kind of narrative, as long as its characters aren't flatly duplicated.
Where's the hybridization otherwise?
The main difference between Freaks and The X-Men and Women is that The X-Men storyline is well-known, while Freaks keeps you guessing if you didn't read anything about it beforehand, besides that it's science-fiction and made in Canada, and somewhat provocatively titled.
It's like Magneto's worst nightmare.
The majority has designated anyone who doesn't fit a rather bland personality stereotype as a freak, and if différence is detected, it's wiped out with extreme prejudice.
The mutants are scattered and disorganized, forced to contend with the majority on a terrifying individual basis.
A father (Emile Hirsch as Dad), who doesn't understand the majority's conventions well, tries to teach them to his gifted daughter (Lexy Kolker as Chloe), who's unaware of their predicament, and uncertain as to how to proceed.
He's chosen to hide but can't make his daughter understand why, and as she ages she becomes more curious about the forbidden world outside.
A heavily armed reporter thinks she sympathizes, but the climate's so extreme any attempts to communicate are layered with panicky violent unacknowledged distrust, like the society you find in The Lobster, or what I imagine an atheist confronts if they live in a strict theocracy.
Freaks lacks alternative depth inasmuch as the mutants have no rights or recourse, but it does function as an effective critique of extreme governments, and the violence and prejudices they habitually nurture.
On the right extreme, the best and brightest and their goons use violence to force the majority to yield; on the left the moral majority banishes independent thought to languish in remote obscurity.
This is an oversimplified version of the polemic that doesn't do its myriad nuances justice, but works in relation to the context of the film.
In a well-rounded society the groups respectfully co-exist, the respect a cab driver has for a physicist for instance, due to the physicist's brilliant expertise, and the corresponding respect that same physicist has for the cab driver, extracted from the knowledge that they work extremely long hours, provide a helpful service, don't make much money, and have a remarkable knowledge of the city or town they work in.
It's only when the physicist derides the cab driver in anger for not possessing a similar degree of expertise, or the cab driver lashes out at the physicist for possessing lucrative knowledge, that a rather chill orderly structure breaks down, social relations then becoming more disagreeable.
Ask yourself which political parties support such a public sphere? and you may find yourself voting for good times this October.
For a culture that isn't super uptight all the time.
For a country that genuinely supports différence.
I can't stress how important it is to vote in the upcoming federal election. Voting is one of our most important freedoms as Canadian and Québecois citizens. It doesn't take that long and you can even take time off work to do it. Voting helps you be the change, it's one concrete way that you can in fact make a real difference.
This difference is magnified in a proportionally representative system.
Proportional Representation isn't radical change.
It's simply good governance.
Based solely on the numbers.
Bruce Dern (Mr. Snowcone) shines.
He has some great lines too.
Friday, September 20, 2019
The Lion King
I wasn't going to see the new Lion King because I heard it closely followed the original's script, but I wasn't disappointed as it ceremoniously began, for the live action animation indeed compels and motivates.
It's no substitute for the real thing of course, and I prefer to watch nature documentaries, but that doesn't mean the visuals aren't stunning, or zoologically endearing, like a blizzard after a veggie burrito, a trip to the Planetarium, mango icing, or a macchiato with lots of whipped cream.
I can't stress how important it is to conserve Africa's remaining lions, elephants, rhinos, etc.
Their populations have decreased drastically in recent decades, and if concrete action isn't taken, they may disappear forever.
That's not an exaggeration, it's just basic math.
They have just as much of a right to exist as we do.
And don't really do anything to harm us.
It would be cool if politicians committed to shutting down Canada's ivory market during this federal election campaign, if it isn't distressingly frustrating that it hasn't been shut down already.
'Lil Simba (JD McCrary/Donald Glover).
Who's Canada's 'lil Simba?
Nurtured within the chillaxed Canadian and Québecois social sphere, one day emerging to challenge the dissolute Scar (Chiwetel Ejiofor)?
If you enjoyed the first Lion King film, I can't see why you wouldn't like this one, assuming you can get over how much money the film made without changing the storyline much, when there must be original narratives floating around out there that execs are unwilling to take a chance on, I don't really mind sequels as long as they're taken seriously, but an insane number of sequels and remakes have been released in 2019 thus far, as if pirated internet viewing's deeply cutting innovative bottom lines, and no one can afford to take cinematic risks, as if we're living in the age of bland cinematic prudence, born of misguided internet freedoms, which are transforming the world into Netflix, a remarkable minimalistic paradigm shift (it's cool to watch new films at home I suppose [I don't], but the result is that studios are now even less willing to embrace alternative ideas because their profits have been hit hard, theoretically).
Skyscraper!
Where art thou, Skyscraper!
If you accept that the new Lion King exists, however, regardless of its lack of différence, note, again, that it is a fun film to watch, abounding with commensurate degrees of age old wonder.
And imaginary animals can be placed in adorable situations that real life beasties instinctually avoid.
It's adorable.
And hard-edged, chock full of potent life lessons, much of the film's downright no-nonsense, although hakuna matata still resounds with bounty and ease.
Scar takes over again. Until 'lil Simba comes of age.
But wouldn't it be nice if successive governments respected what their predecessors had done, and didn't set about radically altering what they consider to be dysfunctional, unless you replace Scar, who is clearly dysfunctional.
It seems like all successive governments in Canada and the U.S are doing is reversing the decisions their predecessors made, regardless of the fact that significant portions of their countries/provinces/states value them.
There's no progress in such a situation.
And it must be a nightmare for career civil servants.
Politics is much more of a dog fight these days than it was in my youth, and the results are quite unsettling.
I doubt the NDP would change much of what the Liberals have done.
With the wily Jagmeet Singh.
Who's indubitably Simbiotic.
It's no substitute for the real thing of course, and I prefer to watch nature documentaries, but that doesn't mean the visuals aren't stunning, or zoologically endearing, like a blizzard after a veggie burrito, a trip to the Planetarium, mango icing, or a macchiato with lots of whipped cream.
I can't stress how important it is to conserve Africa's remaining lions, elephants, rhinos, etc.
Their populations have decreased drastically in recent decades, and if concrete action isn't taken, they may disappear forever.
That's not an exaggeration, it's just basic math.
They have just as much of a right to exist as we do.
And don't really do anything to harm us.
It would be cool if politicians committed to shutting down Canada's ivory market during this federal election campaign, if it isn't distressingly frustrating that it hasn't been shut down already.
'Lil Simba (JD McCrary/Donald Glover).
Who's Canada's 'lil Simba?
Nurtured within the chillaxed Canadian and Québecois social sphere, one day emerging to challenge the dissolute Scar (Chiwetel Ejiofor)?
If you enjoyed the first Lion King film, I can't see why you wouldn't like this one, assuming you can get over how much money the film made without changing the storyline much, when there must be original narratives floating around out there that execs are unwilling to take a chance on, I don't really mind sequels as long as they're taken seriously, but an insane number of sequels and remakes have been released in 2019 thus far, as if pirated internet viewing's deeply cutting innovative bottom lines, and no one can afford to take cinematic risks, as if we're living in the age of bland cinematic prudence, born of misguided internet freedoms, which are transforming the world into Netflix, a remarkable minimalistic paradigm shift (it's cool to watch new films at home I suppose [I don't], but the result is that studios are now even less willing to embrace alternative ideas because their profits have been hit hard, theoretically).
Skyscraper!
Where art thou, Skyscraper!
If you accept that the new Lion King exists, however, regardless of its lack of différence, note, again, that it is a fun film to watch, abounding with commensurate degrees of age old wonder.
And imaginary animals can be placed in adorable situations that real life beasties instinctually avoid.
It's adorable.
And hard-edged, chock full of potent life lessons, much of the film's downright no-nonsense, although hakuna matata still resounds with bounty and ease.
Scar takes over again. Until 'lil Simba comes of age.
But wouldn't it be nice if successive governments respected what their predecessors had done, and didn't set about radically altering what they consider to be dysfunctional, unless you replace Scar, who is clearly dysfunctional.
It seems like all successive governments in Canada and the U.S are doing is reversing the decisions their predecessors made, regardless of the fact that significant portions of their countries/provinces/states value them.
There's no progress in such a situation.
And it must be a nightmare for career civil servants.
Politics is much more of a dog fight these days than it was in my youth, and the results are quite unsettling.
I doubt the NDP would change much of what the Liberals have done.
With the wily Jagmeet Singh.
Who's indubitably Simbiotic.
Tuesday, September 17, 2019
Nezha zhi motong jiangshi (Ne Zha)
A couple committed to protecting their realm from demons who maladroitly arise, jests with the birth of a magical newborn, who's an ill-tempered god hellbent on partaking in routine village life, annoyed that his powers are quotidianly ill-favoured, too young to hold back when hospitably disposed.
He seeks friendship yet is prone to mischief and can't comprehend why he's consistently rebuked, which leads to volatile discontent declarations, and generalized feelings of mutual disaffection.
His parents are uncertain of how to raise their malcontent offspring, and trust a hedonistic immortal to both guide and provide active care.
But he responds too precociously to his loosely structured lessons, and the results are both disconcerting and counterproductive, things becoming much worse when he learns he'll live only three short years, and is indeed frenetically fated, to unleash wanton reviled ill-repute.
He meets his counterpart one day, who is destined for greener pastures, seaside pastures, a god of water secretly raised by dragons, who's also inquisitive and young, and seeking to make trusted oddball friends.
The divine proclamations which indisputably govern their predetermined constitutions have been cast in immaterial chrome, yet they're determined to follow different paths, to make their own fates, randomly preconditioned.
Listen for The Terminator theme music.
It's super deep, this Nezha zhi motong jiangshi (Ne Zha), with its lone bemused disposition, abounding with intricate detail, as it contemplates counterintuition.
In action, while it calisthenically unreels, as hyper-reactive as its nimble namesake, as unrestrictive as leaps and bounds.
Part tragedy as it generates sympathy for a youngster who can't help but cause destruction, yet longs for someone to play with, who isn't afraid of him, or easily duped.
Part comedy as symbiotic shenanigans cerebrally startle and delicately sway.
It's as if predictability were vehemently critiqued by innocent gifted youth, aware of their otherworldly powers and dismissive of fate and forecast.
As if it's comic that ties bind no matter how much agency's secured, and tragic that you exist apart especially if you're born romantic.
To be fated for mystic fortunes adds pressure to attempts to chill, as youth imagines the outer world while taxing mundane rhapsodics.
Nezha (Lü Yanting) gives 'er despite scorn and protest, as misinterpretation confounds.
The film's must-see animation for lovers of fantasy and robust storytelling.
Extraordinarily complex and profound.
Still innocent enough for younger audiences.
Downright quizzical.
Epically nuanced.
He seeks friendship yet is prone to mischief and can't comprehend why he's consistently rebuked, which leads to volatile discontent declarations, and generalized feelings of mutual disaffection.
His parents are uncertain of how to raise their malcontent offspring, and trust a hedonistic immortal to both guide and provide active care.
But he responds too precociously to his loosely structured lessons, and the results are both disconcerting and counterproductive, things becoming much worse when he learns he'll live only three short years, and is indeed frenetically fated, to unleash wanton reviled ill-repute.
He meets his counterpart one day, who is destined for greener pastures, seaside pastures, a god of water secretly raised by dragons, who's also inquisitive and young, and seeking to make trusted oddball friends.
The divine proclamations which indisputably govern their predetermined constitutions have been cast in immaterial chrome, yet they're determined to follow different paths, to make their own fates, randomly preconditioned.
Listen for The Terminator theme music.
It's super deep, this Nezha zhi motong jiangshi (Ne Zha), with its lone bemused disposition, abounding with intricate detail, as it contemplates counterintuition.
In action, while it calisthenically unreels, as hyper-reactive as its nimble namesake, as unrestrictive as leaps and bounds.
Part tragedy as it generates sympathy for a youngster who can't help but cause destruction, yet longs for someone to play with, who isn't afraid of him, or easily duped.
Part comedy as symbiotic shenanigans cerebrally startle and delicately sway.
It's as if predictability were vehemently critiqued by innocent gifted youth, aware of their otherworldly powers and dismissive of fate and forecast.
As if it's comic that ties bind no matter how much agency's secured, and tragic that you exist apart especially if you're born romantic.
To be fated for mystic fortunes adds pressure to attempts to chill, as youth imagines the outer world while taxing mundane rhapsodics.
Nezha (Lü Yanting) gives 'er despite scorn and protest, as misinterpretation confounds.
The film's must-see animation for lovers of fantasy and robust storytelling.
Extraordinarily complex and profound.
Still innocent enough for younger audiences.
Downright quizzical.
Epically nuanced.
Friday, September 13, 2019
Tonari no Totoro (My Neighbour Totoro)
A family moves far away to raise young in idyllic surroundings, the peaceful breeze a windswept melody, the silent nights a tranquil balm, even if living in the city can be equally mesmerizing, its rhythmic variations wondrous catalysts, its gritty flux dynamic grains, a different kind of symphonic swing, still in tune with seasonal contrarieties, the countryside presents more immediate environmental difference, the rays of the sun like molten fusion, a livid storm compressed surprise, it's good for restful relaxation, for decompressing from time to time, but can lack what you weren't expecting, if you don't dig deep, experiment, sleuth.
Look for animals.
Learn about different birds.
Make your own diverse mechanics, soaking up whims and signs, like the kids in My Neighbour Totoro, as they nimbly acclimatize.
Prudent planning was exercised in their locale, and patches of forest were left amongst the fields, the rice fields abounding but not all-encompassing, the children still finding lots of room to play.
Wherein which they discover a magical realm, bold immersed unrestrained imagination, a godlike creature with remarkable powers, exhaling induced exclamation.
Like an idea he can slip the mind, but concentration helps Totoro shine through, to perhaps summon the omniscient cat bus, or play music at the end of the day.
The film doesn't retail shock or ceremony.
It's as unobtrusive as it is inquisitive.
The exact opposite of a horror film in fact, you aren't filled with dread or anxiety afterwards.
It's like productive chill curious growth invigorated, as if you've just seen a badger or had dinner at a local restaurant, as if it's distilled that feeling you get when you're free of responsibility and have time to explore, blend, hypothesize, adventure, recall all those things you misplaced in the bustle, like a band you used to really like, or a view you haven't seen for awhile.
Everything's there in the city too, just have to keep your eyes open, like the girl I saw discover a caterpillar at Sainte-Catherine and Peel one day, or signs that look like animals. A wayward soccer ball in the park. Eating sushi as you walk down the street. A bottle dropped with conversational intent.
I missed the conversational intent of the bottle drop because I was too wrapped up in my own thoughts, and didn't realize I was supposed to pick it up, and that the person who had dropped it wanted to talk to me.
I believe the expression is, my bad.
Totoro's like all those things you never expected to see all decked out and rolled into one.
The divine chillaxed im/material.
Always present.
Never forgotten.
Look for animals.
Learn about different birds.
Make your own diverse mechanics, soaking up whims and signs, like the kids in My Neighbour Totoro, as they nimbly acclimatize.
Prudent planning was exercised in their locale, and patches of forest were left amongst the fields, the rice fields abounding but not all-encompassing, the children still finding lots of room to play.
Wherein which they discover a magical realm, bold immersed unrestrained imagination, a godlike creature with remarkable powers, exhaling induced exclamation.
Like an idea he can slip the mind, but concentration helps Totoro shine through, to perhaps summon the omniscient cat bus, or play music at the end of the day.
The film doesn't retail shock or ceremony.
It's as unobtrusive as it is inquisitive.
The exact opposite of a horror film in fact, you aren't filled with dread or anxiety afterwards.
It's like productive chill curious growth invigorated, as if you've just seen a badger or had dinner at a local restaurant, as if it's distilled that feeling you get when you're free of responsibility and have time to explore, blend, hypothesize, adventure, recall all those things you misplaced in the bustle, like a band you used to really like, or a view you haven't seen for awhile.
Everything's there in the city too, just have to keep your eyes open, like the girl I saw discover a caterpillar at Sainte-Catherine and Peel one day, or signs that look like animals. A wayward soccer ball in the park. Eating sushi as you walk down the street. A bottle dropped with conversational intent.
I missed the conversational intent of the bottle drop because I was too wrapped up in my own thoughts, and didn't realize I was supposed to pick it up, and that the person who had dropped it wanted to talk to me.
I believe the expression is, my bad.
Totoro's like all those things you never expected to see all decked out and rolled into one.
The divine chillaxed im/material.
Always present.
Never forgotten.
Tuesday, September 10, 2019
It - Chapter Two
A disturbed slumber, 27 years of rest woebegone, sedate irascibility, contumely comas, hellbent on dispensing despotic discontent, extremely confident of his monstrous prowess, as the virtuous gather, somewhat unsure of their deadly purpose, most of their lives having briskly moved on, careers and love, duty and responsibility, adulthood, maturity, they've forgotten what once fiercely threatened them, although one remained staunch and vigilant, conducting devout immersed freelance research, constructing a strategy to fight round 2, sure and steady, carrying on, assured and brave unwavering commitment, adroitly aware confined productive obsession.
He makes the calls.
They are awkwardly heeded.
But with what seems like miraculous good fortune, they return to Derry minus one, the details of their trauma somewhat hazy, a refresher dynastically awaiting.
Mike Hanlon (Isaiah Mustafa/Chosen Jacobs) believes he's discovered the secret to defeating Pennywise (Bill Skarsgård), but it's complicated if not unnerving.
After visiting local First Nations, who have known of Pennywise since time immemorial, he discovered that they each must locate something personal, they'll just know it when they see it, and that each of these personalized items must then be burned together as one, within a cavern deep below ground, to which the beast will be immediately summoned.
But Pennywise has thought of little else over the years, throughout the tormenting intervening period, and is ready to plague them with fear, as they set out in search of nostalgic essentials.
Alone.
Even though the errors of proceeding individually are pointed out, Hanlon states that the ritual requires personalized sleuthing, Pennywise conscious of their adversarial intent, and everything else that they're blindly thinking.
If you saw the made-for-tv version of It as a child, you can't miss the new cinematic enterprise, which supplies fresh hearty chilling frights, and a corresponding sense of unease.
The narrative's compact, it focuses almost entirely on the adults who defeated Pennywise as children, or were psychologically enslaved by him, there's no police or community at large, just a monster and its courageous foes.
Even though it's 2 hours and 49 minutes long, it still unreels with startling brevity, the wayward adults returning to Derry rapidly, leaving work etc. behind far too quickly.
Except for Mrs. Marsh (Jessica Chastain/Sophia Lillis), who needs to get the *&#* out of there.
The scenes are kind of hokey, passing too abruptly to nurture the genuine.
They each encounter Pennywise again, however, on their own, and these scenes are more lengthy and convincing, the film less concerned with matters beyond the terrifying world of Derry, a tight knit group keeping things crisp, shipshape.
The hasty returns, individual pursuits, and lack of community-at-large involvement, make It - Chapter Two seem a bit slapdash, scary and morbid yet slapdash, especially since each character must accomplish a difficult task after suddenly finding themselves in a frightening inhospitable world they left long ago, and they all succeed while only suffering slight mental distress.
But if the realism isn't going to cut it, or will at least only lead to banal shocks, the ridiculous can indeed be relied upon, fantastic excess outwitting routine expectations.
If horror films are supposed to leave you feeling ill afterwards, It - Chapter Two is a blunt success.
Even if it's kind of corny.
And the Henry Bowers (Teach Grant/Nicholas Hamilton) subplot doesn't add much.
He makes the calls.
They are awkwardly heeded.
But with what seems like miraculous good fortune, they return to Derry minus one, the details of their trauma somewhat hazy, a refresher dynastically awaiting.
Mike Hanlon (Isaiah Mustafa/Chosen Jacobs) believes he's discovered the secret to defeating Pennywise (Bill Skarsgård), but it's complicated if not unnerving.
After visiting local First Nations, who have known of Pennywise since time immemorial, he discovered that they each must locate something personal, they'll just know it when they see it, and that each of these personalized items must then be burned together as one, within a cavern deep below ground, to which the beast will be immediately summoned.
But Pennywise has thought of little else over the years, throughout the tormenting intervening period, and is ready to plague them with fear, as they set out in search of nostalgic essentials.
Alone.
Even though the errors of proceeding individually are pointed out, Hanlon states that the ritual requires personalized sleuthing, Pennywise conscious of their adversarial intent, and everything else that they're blindly thinking.
If you saw the made-for-tv version of It as a child, you can't miss the new cinematic enterprise, which supplies fresh hearty chilling frights, and a corresponding sense of unease.
The narrative's compact, it focuses almost entirely on the adults who defeated Pennywise as children, or were psychologically enslaved by him, there's no police or community at large, just a monster and its courageous foes.
Even though it's 2 hours and 49 minutes long, it still unreels with startling brevity, the wayward adults returning to Derry rapidly, leaving work etc. behind far too quickly.
Except for Mrs. Marsh (Jessica Chastain/Sophia Lillis), who needs to get the *&#* out of there.
The scenes are kind of hokey, passing too abruptly to nurture the genuine.
They each encounter Pennywise again, however, on their own, and these scenes are more lengthy and convincing, the film less concerned with matters beyond the terrifying world of Derry, a tight knit group keeping things crisp, shipshape.
The hasty returns, individual pursuits, and lack of community-at-large involvement, make It - Chapter Two seem a bit slapdash, scary and morbid yet slapdash, especially since each character must accomplish a difficult task after suddenly finding themselves in a frightening inhospitable world they left long ago, and they all succeed while only suffering slight mental distress.
But if the realism isn't going to cut it, or will at least only lead to banal shocks, the ridiculous can indeed be relied upon, fantastic excess outwitting routine expectations.
If horror films are supposed to leave you feeling ill afterwards, It - Chapter Two is a blunt success.
Even if it's kind of corny.
And the Henry Bowers (Teach Grant/Nicholas Hamilton) subplot doesn't add much.
Friday, September 6, 2019
The Peanut Butter Falcon
Crafty strategic planning critical timing pugnacious pudding.
An iron clad tenacious second round deftly wrought greased up leviathan.
Another proceeds in error, thieving what could have been his, rather irritated by austere repercussions, well aware that he's truly at fault.
He responds with fury, as if he were legion and not mortal man, this time raging beyond heartfelt mercy, courageous reckless madness.
He has a good heart, he's just slightly insane, or at least doesn't recognize law, or authority, of any kind, unless it's done right by him.
He then saves a stranger from drowning, and they head out on the resplendent run, applying homegrown irate grassroots logic, heartwarmingly bidden, they build quite a raft.
Another proceeds in hot pursuit, unaware she's given herself away, do-gooding yet friendly and sympathetic, disillusioned by rules, expediency.
Does the wrestling school they seek still exist?, and is the Salt Water Redneck (Thomas Haden Church) still there to train them?
They're sought after with sadistic scorn.
Which doesn't mean they can't fall in love.
The Peanut Butter Falcon flips the bird to prudence and regulations, and celebrates primordial will.
Self-righteous magnetism, as adamant as it is impulsive, organically orchestrates as it blindly flexes.
Tenderness and warmth await as compassion and understanding embrace agile elasticity, improvised reason contemplating with raw passionate substance, like wayward soulful jazz, harnessing modernist themes.
Paramount absurdity realistically toned in stereo, jukebox genesis ebullient bayou, madcap maestros unbound and breathless.
Luminescent unrestrained unrestricted dis/orientation, plunging to suffer quixotically, soaked in ir/reverent s(pl)urge.
Reemerging in familial consensus.
Ready for the great wild unknown.
Glad this wasn't made by Scorsese.
Why should forethought have all the fun?
Okay, one character applies forethought. He thinks he's locked down for life, and is therefore reasonably frustrated because he hasn't done anything wrong. The institution where he lives should have taken him out from time to time. A road trip or a day at the beach. Not just two or three rooms forever. That doesn't make any sense.
There's a cool fun sort of vibe within that you don't often see work so successfully.
Like an old school Larry Cohen film.
I think they had fun while they made Peanut Butter Falcon but still took everything seriously.
The feisty spirit of independence.
I highly recommend it.
An iron clad tenacious second round deftly wrought greased up leviathan.
Another proceeds in error, thieving what could have been his, rather irritated by austere repercussions, well aware that he's truly at fault.
He responds with fury, as if he were legion and not mortal man, this time raging beyond heartfelt mercy, courageous reckless madness.
He has a good heart, he's just slightly insane, or at least doesn't recognize law, or authority, of any kind, unless it's done right by him.
He then saves a stranger from drowning, and they head out on the resplendent run, applying homegrown irate grassroots logic, heartwarmingly bidden, they build quite a raft.
Another proceeds in hot pursuit, unaware she's given herself away, do-gooding yet friendly and sympathetic, disillusioned by rules, expediency.
Does the wrestling school they seek still exist?, and is the Salt Water Redneck (Thomas Haden Church) still there to train them?
They're sought after with sadistic scorn.
Which doesn't mean they can't fall in love.
The Peanut Butter Falcon flips the bird to prudence and regulations, and celebrates primordial will.
Self-righteous magnetism, as adamant as it is impulsive, organically orchestrates as it blindly flexes.
Tenderness and warmth await as compassion and understanding embrace agile elasticity, improvised reason contemplating with raw passionate substance, like wayward soulful jazz, harnessing modernist themes.
Paramount absurdity realistically toned in stereo, jukebox genesis ebullient bayou, madcap maestros unbound and breathless.
Luminescent unrestrained unrestricted dis/orientation, plunging to suffer quixotically, soaked in ir/reverent s(pl)urge.
Reemerging in familial consensus.
Ready for the great wild unknown.
Glad this wasn't made by Scorsese.
Why should forethought have all the fun?
Okay, one character applies forethought. He thinks he's locked down for life, and is therefore reasonably frustrated because he hasn't done anything wrong. The institution where he lives should have taken him out from time to time. A road trip or a day at the beach. Not just two or three rooms forever. That doesn't make any sense.
There's a cool fun sort of vibe within that you don't often see work so successfully.
Like an old school Larry Cohen film.
I think they had fun while they made Peanut Butter Falcon but still took everything seriously.
The feisty spirit of independence.
I highly recommend it.
Tuesday, September 3, 2019
Ready or Not
Ornate bedazzling conjugal prudence, quizzically steeped in risk-fuelled dilemma, substituting strategic seance for picturesque pleasures, familial fraternizing, an evening bygone, enormous wealth obtained through rash demonic recourse, bearing conditions, inextricable bounds, a friendly gathering perhaps, a meet and greet, presumed paternal pastures, pejorative precipitate, malicious discountenance, you must play by the rules, dissembled decrees, overstated maladroit discerned incumbent acrimony, bewitching flights of fancy, hidden codes, simplicity.
It could have been sundrenched and storybook, their marriage freely uplifting protest, age old yet modernly equipped, escapading nascent naivety.
A beach even.
Some ice cream.
Yet their wedded bliss is dependent upon satanic ceremonious sanctity, as humble and waylaid as it is despotic, cruel, assumed tensions with in-laws ballistically manifested, stubborn caprice immortally presumed, a game of chance as alluring as apple pie, with a slice of cheese and whipped cream and cinnamon, no preparation given to the rapturous bride, her adoring husband rather upset.
Run for it.
Deconstruct the embargo.
Grace (Samara Weaving) outwits her adversaries for some time, but in so doing Ready or Not runs into trouble, for the logical course she frenetically follows lacks character and interactivity, the question, "how do you fill a script, wherein which a newly wed must be grimly hunted down and then ritualistically sacrificed, with steady doses of thoughtful conversation?", remaining, the answer to which requires necromantic genius, and supplies more verbose discontinuities.
I think the idea was to keep most of them around to perform the sacrifice in the end, even if it could have been done with a far less complementary ensemble.
Such an approach wouldn't have made as much sense, but it would have provided more spoiled food for thought, I'm not sure how seriously horror writers have to take sense anyways, inasmuch as the genre's inherently nuts.
If they had still made it seem realistic it would have been phenomenal.
There are some great horror films that do come across as if they're real though, their horror producing much more lasting feelings of anxiety, why do I watch these films?, but it's not as if they reasonably or rationally make sense when you think about them afterward, it's more like they do a much better job of making the absurd seem plausible, as if meaninglessness were something profound.
Which Ready or Not could have been with less chase and more pace as it generates distressing alarm.
I know I wrote I don't watch horror films much anymore.
But Les Fauves made a perfect fit with my schedule.
And Ready or Not co-stars Kristian Bruun (Fitch Bradley) from Murdoch Mysteries.
He has some great lines.
I would have ended the film with the phrase, "got married."
It seemed more appropriate at the time.
Not the greatest but still above average.
It's like it has action figures in mind.
*I didn't even mean to rhyme all that.
**Damn.
It could have been sundrenched and storybook, their marriage freely uplifting protest, age old yet modernly equipped, escapading nascent naivety.
A beach even.
Some ice cream.
Yet their wedded bliss is dependent upon satanic ceremonious sanctity, as humble and waylaid as it is despotic, cruel, assumed tensions with in-laws ballistically manifested, stubborn caprice immortally presumed, a game of chance as alluring as apple pie, with a slice of cheese and whipped cream and cinnamon, no preparation given to the rapturous bride, her adoring husband rather upset.
Run for it.
Deconstruct the embargo.
Grace (Samara Weaving) outwits her adversaries for some time, but in so doing Ready or Not runs into trouble, for the logical course she frenetically follows lacks character and interactivity, the question, "how do you fill a script, wherein which a newly wed must be grimly hunted down and then ritualistically sacrificed, with steady doses of thoughtful conversation?", remaining, the answer to which requires necromantic genius, and supplies more verbose discontinuities.
I think the idea was to keep most of them around to perform the sacrifice in the end, even if it could have been done with a far less complementary ensemble.
Such an approach wouldn't have made as much sense, but it would have provided more spoiled food for thought, I'm not sure how seriously horror writers have to take sense anyways, inasmuch as the genre's inherently nuts.
If they had still made it seem realistic it would have been phenomenal.
There are some great horror films that do come across as if they're real though, their horror producing much more lasting feelings of anxiety, why do I watch these films?, but it's not as if they reasonably or rationally make sense when you think about them afterward, it's more like they do a much better job of making the absurd seem plausible, as if meaninglessness were something profound.
Which Ready or Not could have been with less chase and more pace as it generates distressing alarm.
I know I wrote I don't watch horror films much anymore.
But Les Fauves made a perfect fit with my schedule.
And Ready or Not co-stars Kristian Bruun (Fitch Bradley) from Murdoch Mysteries.
He has some great lines.
I would have ended the film with the phrase, "got married."
It seemed more appropriate at the time.
Not the greatest but still above average.
It's like it has action figures in mind.
*I didn't even mean to rhyme all that.
**Damn.
Friday, August 30, 2019
Aquarela
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.
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.
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.
😌
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