Hubie Halloween

As Halloween ascends, devout Hubie (Adam Sandler) prepares to celebrate, decorating his yard with festive rigour, taking the time to trust and care.

He also instructs local children at the high school he once attended, and even if they respond critically to his counsel, he still persists with animate declamation.

He still longs for his childhood crush whom he still has difficulty approaching (Julie Bowen as Violet Valentine), although he can string verbal loci together, when tasked with delicate comment.

His mom (June Squibb) does her best to encourage his loyal safety-oriented verbose reckonings, even if the rest of the town has taken to responding with varied projectiles.

But a new neighbour has recently moved in who's unfamiliar with traditional testaments (Steve Buscemi as Walter Lambert), and advises against disturbing him even if noise proves dire and irksome.

Local police are well-versed in Hubie as he consistently warns them of danger, and have developed related protocols designed to rapidly appease his qualms.

But on the particular Halloween in question Hubie's unease is more on the ball.

As people begin to disappear around town.

People known to lambaste his self-sacrifice.

It's been a long time since I've seen an Adam Sandler film, and I was wholeheartedly impressed, the old school magic still playfully enchanting as the ridiculousness flows unhinged.

Well-attuned to the rowdy shenanigans freely generated by social interactions, Hubie Halloween proceeds unabashed for another round of Sandlerian mischief.

A narrative such as this could have shifted and swerved into harrowing hysterical heartache, but it was hewn by less psychotic impulses to emerge imaginatively constructive.

As is often the case, the do-gooding lack versatile camaraderie, and struggle to cohesively integrate as they pursue less raunchy endeavours.

But Hubie's actions do not pass unnoticed as he employs freeform unsupervised tutelage, for members of the community do respond to his altruistic forgiving theatrics.

Hubie Halloween transported me back to a time less schizoid and volatile, when statespeople seemed to care more about governance than likes and shares on Twitter and Instagram.

When things seemed like they were moving forward far beyond O'Doyle's rules, consistent current manifestations mind-boggling grim unfathomable reversals. 

I'd say Sandler's still got it, can still teach while having some fun.

The urine stained sheet, the would be werewolf.

Nice to see a Halloween film that's a bit more lighthearted.  

*Buscemi doesn't show up in spellcheck. 😎

The Prestige

Professional rivalry, two up and coming magicians, each determined to present the most striking spectacle, imaginable, yet one is careless, and the other's cherished love interest passes, things taking a vicious turn in the aftermath, as they both refuse to back down.

One believes in dangerous risk taking while the other is more reserved, although the intensity of their grim competition provokes grand transformations forthcoming.

One visits the coveted Tesla (David Bowie) at his residence in the wilds of Colorado, and requests the creation of a machine that can transport matter from one location to another.

He believes such a sensation has already been acquired by his adversary, and spends a fortune to flagrantly duel, his nemesis not in possession of exhaustive funds, yet more innovative counterintuitively speaking.

I've never understood compulsive obsession and the personal desire to win at all costs. Sportspersonship is too valuable a concept to be obscured by personal ambition.

It's preferable to lose having played by the rules than to succeed through nefarious means, as long as you give your best effort and suppress destructive envious tendencies.

I pay too much attention to sports to proceed otherwise, not that I'm by any means a great athlete, but so many great athletes compete year after year without ever winning anything.

This doesn't prevent them from competing or trying to win one more time, they're great role models for the active spirit who never grows weary of enriching fair play.

Alfred Borden (Christian Bale) and Robert Angier (Hugh Jackman) take things to levels I can't comprehend, to resort to sabotage or deliberate vengeance insults the art they're skilfully crafting.

I thought the arts would be much more friendly in my youth since so many of the artistic people I knew were often kind, the realities of the art world somewhat disconcerting as people critically jockey for position.

I suppose there are fewer opportunities to succeed as an artist than there are for sporty peeps, and the lack of engaging opportunity drives ambition to psychotic levels.

But it seems better to chill on the fringe than embrace destructive psychologies.

If you want the world to be a better place and you adopt ruthless means how will anything ever change?

Beyond what's written.

More respect for aging artists in the Anglo-American sphere may lead to less intense conflict, I'm by no means an expert on French culture, but it's clear they hold the arts in much higher esteem.

In general, not in relation to me, French culture seems to cultivate a much more level playing field for the arts and sports, which could explain why they're so successful at both, why they keep generating such incredible outputs.

The Prestige is an excellent film that showcases unsettling realities. 

There's so little to soulfully gain.

Through bland underhanded corruption. 

My Octopus Teacher

In keeping with the fame of YouTube's adorable octopus video(s), Netflix has released My Octopus Teacher, a stunning documentary that follows an octopus, shifting from one aqueous locale to the next.

It's a nature documentary like no other, focused on one flexible beastie in particular, not a seal or a dolphin or a whale, but a camouflaged octopus, hiding away.

Undaunted by the challenge of locating the same octopus every day for months in chilly water, Craig Foster proceeds like a diligent inspector, and learns to find clues in the imposing seabed, until enough knowledge is acquired for routine confidence.

He's inspired by African tribespeople who can track wildlife in manifold forms, because they read their environment like a book that's as logical as it is multifaceted.

I encourage pursuing higher learning at length or at least for as long as it compels you, but that doesn't mean people who don't acquire a formal education simply sit back and shut off their brains.

They just apply their intelligence to alternative variables just as rich with imaginative wonder, never tiring of intellectual endeavour, as it relates to non-scholastic rhythms. 

Thus, you find ingenious indigenous peeps who can't read or write or use a computer, who still understand their natural landscapes like surgeons preparing for open-heart surgery.

Hence, Foster doesn't give up, as he slowly teaches himself to track octopi, his troubles compounded by a lack of oxygen, or having to constantly resurface.

Total respect for such aquatic ambition, tracking earthbound wildlife seems much lighter in comparison, tack on the cold and the fluctuating visibility, and you've got wondrous herculean composure.

Planet Earth 2 seems like the apotheosis of nature documentaries, with countless shots of remote terrains, terrains that are incredibly difficult to access, its material presented with vigorous narrative.

But nature documentaries are vast and consistently mutating, finding new ways to resiliently captivate, My Octopus Teacher a remarkable feat of filmmaking ingenuity.

Plus Foster is interviewed throughout and provides thoughtful commentaries about his labours, which capture the stages he patiently went through as he learned more and more about his shifty subject.

The octopus isn't exactly chillin', indeed things are rather intense when sharks come a' callin'.

But he eludes them as best he can.

A must see examination of a fascinating creature.    

THX 1138

A totalitarian society, all-encompassed inanimate below ground, every aspect of daily life accounted for, no slip-ups, no love, no quarter.

Drugs are used to manage every aspect of existence, each with its own specific function, ubiquitous relentless mind-control, from the unsuspecting cradle to the strung out grave.

Physical love is anathema, forbidden, and theoretically resigned to the past, those who find themselves amorously stricken assigned chemical recalibration.

Computers monitor everything and not even the most ingenious citizens can outwit them, but there's nothing else to do so they try, the consequences at least a novel distraction.

Leisure time consists of televisual depictions of those punished for immoderate transgressions, all sense of individuality or uniqueness having been thematically sterilized.

A woman and a man living together find themselves caught in the grips of illicit passion, their newfound wanton recklessness quickly detected and sternly dealt with.

But THX 1138 (Robert Duvall) is able to miraculously escape, robot police following in hot pursuit, as he seeks his domain's outer limits.

But this film was made in the '70s, so there are less guards to flexibly elude, the budget generated to ensure his capture, swiftly spiralling exponentially ascending.

A chilling take on a panoptic alliance between religion and the sciences, binding psychiatric liturgies coldly blended with ascetic computation.

It often seems that if science and religion could simply try harder to collectively resonate, the world would be less fanatically divided, and balance and order would felicitously reign.

It also seemed like the cyberspatial genesis wouldn't be transformed into a hotbed of lies, that truth and reason would inevitably flourish, harnessing foresight and benevolent judgment. 

I suppose Animal Farm comes into play, the founders of a new scientific-religious equanimity reasoning with resplendent illumination, before the next generation realizes less cohesive principles, and the balance of power is transformed anew.

It doesn't have to be that way of course, Scandinavia has seemed sure and steady for decades, with a strong commitment to responsible schools, intently focused on cultivating respect.

If there could only be more profit in respectable truths and less of a willingness to cash in on crazy, more opportunities for people left behind in an affluent system, paving the way to act constructively.

As generations raised by the internet mature then lead and govern, it will be interesting to see what happens, if political discourse changes profoundly.

Still a decade or so to go.

Endless narratives could be written meanwhile.

If Animal Farm is taken for granted, doesn't utopia have novel appeal?

Even if it only emerges for mandates.

Isn't that still something to strive for?

Midnight Special

With manifold signals being transmitted ubiquitously throughout the air, who knows what mental or physical transformations are in store for forthcoming cyberspatial generations?

If physiological indiscretions are emerging nonchalantly, they're passing by generally unobserved, or at least I've never heard them commented upon, in my active yet limited experience.

If there are any pathological side-effects of widespread wi-fi whispers, I imagine they would be carcinogenic in nature, but those immune to such theoretical maladies may still develop previously unheard of synthetic adaptations.

I don't deny the oft maligned potential for supernatural emergence, I just approach it scientifically, the classic unique characteristics that mystifyingly seem divine, the product of uncategorized mutations challenging established truths.

You need established truths to consistently function, but taking them too seriously leads to error, especially when they don't apply to a political context that emerges as variable forces interact.

The emergence of unpredictable situations tests political wills with animate rigour, and responses motivated by ideology may fall short if adjustments aren't flexibly adopted.

But without an ideology how do you ever inspire or drive or motivate, without some goal that's always out of reach why would you ever bother trying to do anything?

Alton (Jaeden Martell) just tries to exist but his gifts generate spiritual passion, in a strict localized religious cult devoted to translating his peculiar reckonings.

His unique abilities lead to prophetical acclamations as the status quo seeks to readily adapt, but it's no life for a confused young child, so his father (Michael Shannon as Roy) helps him break free of the compound.

His devotees are ill-amused and set off to track him down (as does the F.B.I), endemic clashes inevitably ensuing, in a traditionally focused sci-fi drama.

Classifying what he can do in general is beyond my limited comprehension, but it's like his mind is an organic computer that blindly communicates with various satellites.

Midnight Special's focus on the supernaturally down-to-earth offers a humbler vision than many Übermensch testimonials, the larger-than-life phenom immersed in environments more akin to the X-Men than the Avengers.

It's somewhat straightforward yet still exciting, I freely admit that I love this kind of narrative, with a surprising ending and calm and collected characters instinctually reacting to volatile circumstances.

Perhaps they are really are out there.

But without more evidence, who's really to say?

I like Joe Biden's down-to-earth progressions.

He seems like a really cool guy.

Fotbal Infinit (Infinite Football)

Sometimes you savour the sweet conversation effortlessly generated by bizarro dreams. 

The improbability encourages rash exploration the ridiculousness of which augments middle-age.

Or any free-spirited time period wherein which dreams distract distinctly, and sweet nothings or crafty fantasies conjure wayward cogent reckonings.

Everything'd be too serious otherwise, there would be no compassionate touch, assuming the difference between reason and absurdity still maintained a coherent balance.

An unacknowledged coherent balance, the irregularities of sincerest trust, cultivated through fleeting foundations, or mutually presumed ill-favour.

In conversation.

There's an art to this kind of conversation which preserves imaginative youth, and myriad compelling narratives have theoretically been spawned thereafter (Ferris Bueller's, Strange Brew . . . ).

Fotbal Infinit (Infinite Football) examines a champion who's taken things way too far, so caught up in his gripping imagination that he's lost sight of the inherent humour.

It seems like he's taking his idea seriously, far beyond rational realistic applications, but he may just be humorously distressed, and there doesn't seem to be much else to talk about.

An injury suffered in his youth led him to stop playing soccer/football, and his dreams of moving to the U.S. were forgotten after his country joined the EU.

Expecting to find excitement in the years following, he instead wound up in a permanent position lacking bureaucratic fluidity.

As the years past his thrilling fantasy became much more appealing than his daily routine, and began to permeate every discussion integrated into his private life.

Does he take things too far in his reckonings and turn every conversation into an awkward exchange, or is there just nothing else left to talk about, and has he found expeditious refrain?

He finds ways to apply his dream to each and every social interaction, it's a remarkable feat of maladroit dynamism, that revels in novel disjunction. 

I'm not sure if he notices the difference between dream and reality any longer, but he's found a way to spice up his life that's at least individualistically invigorating.

What reality's in fact the most ludicrous is perhaps a pertinent question?

Beyond the public sphere.

Quizzical misgivings.

Discursive implosion. 

All About Eve

A celebrated actress at home on the stage, routinely delivering multifaceted exonerations, of unspoken thoughts and dreams, desires, ambitions, theories, a daring picturesque virtuoso, caught up with rhythmic sage.

Involved with a significant other, in a situation lacking scandal, discursive variation tact frivolity, consistent thoughtful bustling capers.

An idea forged through shades transformative delicately shared to invoke dispute, enlivening playful courageous wagers, and joyful crazed repute.

The introduction of another, obsequious and bashful, offering her services for little in return, as the weeks pass she slowly accumulates subtle regard for performance earned.

Her name emerges in conversation with consistent animate praise, remarkable piecemeal code conversion sundry trades professed liaised.

Enriched through understudy awaiting fortune shifts stage lights, the occasion swiftly surging with a levity airtight.

As newfound inspiration reimagines ways and means, novelty or contagion flows sustains the evergreen.

Bit of a downer for the resourceful Margo (Bette Davis) who didn't see it comin'. Fame persisting less assured now that Eve (Anne Baxter) is in the running.

A traditional take on awestruck rivalry that extols acting, reflective fervour, All About Eve introduces a competitive element that transfigures as it stupefies.

I imagine its age old subject matter still resonates today, not only in terms of acting, but Netflix etc. and countless ads prove there's neverending commercial work for any actor.

I even saw David Spade starring in a recent Netflix film (it was terrible) and it looks like a new Bill & Ted film has been released (not on Netflix), plus famous directors like Martin Scorsese, Michael Bay, and the Coen Brothers have released films on Netflix, which I never thought I'd see happen, it's like the medium's extending careers indefinitely while still forging opportunities for younger talents, the game has seriously changed, and it's fun to view the superstructural transformations.

For advertisements, when I was growing up, if you ever saw famous actors at the height of their careers in ads it was surprising, I don't recall it ever happening, but from time to time you see it nowadays, meaning there's less work to go around (love the A & W guy!).

It's like there used to be a code of sorts where film actors never did television/series or commercials, and television/series or commercial actors wanted to be film actors, perhaps that's slipped away into the past, along with reputation and prestige.

Margo takes a break in All About Eve and perhaps will work no more, which would have been a shame, considering the incredible work Nicole Kidman's doing, not to mention Jeff Bridges or Tom Cruise. 

Adversarial competitions aside, All About Eve's concern with acting as opposed to writing or directing reminded me of my youth, when it was important to see everything an actor had made, before I became familiar with auteurs. 

And I doubt that will ever go away, the public love of actors is something timeless. 

I'll still go see a film if it's starring one of my favourites.

Even if I'm supposed to know better.

😉

Clue

It seems that at one time the Clue board game was so popular that a feature film was compacted to playfully stipulate in tandem.

Murder/mystery perennially brooding shocks cross-stitched semantics airtight, it makes sense to periodically lampoon them with irreverent slipshod proclivities.

I enjoy watching detective drama as inspectors set about a' sleuthing, so why not blend such solemn preferences with carefree yet stilted amusement?

Clue's cheeky insincerity spryly lauds its commercial underpinnings, its lucid recognition of its charter slyly cast consoled ridiculous.

Yet it doesn't shy away from embracing traditional logic, as characters hectically discuss the morbid outcomes of their tether.

While I do enjoy detective fiction, the genre's obsession with vilifying do-gooding, is manifestly disconcerting, I'd argue its narratively pandemic.

Well-meaning communally focused characters are often hypocritically portrayed, or found guilty of improprieties they've kept hidden in the shade.

If you think American film and television is guilty of racist bias, let me introduce you to British crime drama where minorities are so often corrupt.

Courageous women are bound for trouble as are gay people and the otherworldly, let alone anyone introducing something new which conflicts with age old tradition.

I cheer for the do-gooders as I watch but the outcomes are so often grim. The world could use a new Columbo. A self-made lieutenant unconcerned with privilege.

Clue presents a group of strangers being blackmailed by the same man, for social misdemeanours coldly reckoned fibbed offhand.

They come together as a group to delineate strict character, but get along like woebegone curmudgeons none the merrier.

Tricked they've been wry Grenadine their startling frayed pronouncements, ill-considered spoiled and quivered distillates accounted.

Could a feature length film be made based upon a less scandalous game such as trivial pursuit?

It's really quite elementary.

You just answer a random question which then provides direction for the plot and then each subsequent question answered serendipitously transforms it.

The transformations could be genre-based as well in order to inspire homemade postmodernism.

Sports. Literature. Politics. Drama. 

Kitschy campy gold.

At integral multigeneric play.

Indubitably trivial. 

The Social Dilemma

From time to time, I've written about how much I love my cellphone, and that's certainly the case, it's a remarkable tool that simplifies so many things and makes life so much much easier.

For social media, I like to play games and post the odd article or picture on Facebook (or Twitter or Instagram). I post articles from reputable sources that abide by codes of conduct to share information I find relevant to the outside world. I don't update my profile status too often because my daily life's just not that interesting, or perhaps it's because I tend to annoy people, or don't have much to say.

Social media apps seemed like wonderful tools when I started using them, they facilitate the sharing of information and let you see what your friends are interested in. They let you express yourself creatively in a variety of different ways that make for a robust compelling caricature that celebrates the active life. Further, the tools are available to everyone so elites don't have a monopoly on shaping public opinion. If used in accordance with ethical guidelines the situation seems rather chill and democratic. But as Jeff Orlowski's The Social Dilemma suggests, the pursuit of logic and reason is seriously off course.

The documentary presents individuals who worked for companies like Google or Facebook and asks them to share their thoughts about their legacies, or the impact their tools have had upon the world at large. And according to the statistics they present, things have taken a turn for the worse.

For instance, they claim that fake news spreads 6 times as fast as news shared from legitimate sources, or that fake news reaches a much wider audience than that crafted by professionals adhering to ethical standards.

The line between comic criticisms of daily newscasts (The Onion) and flagrant disingenuous lies seems to have disappeared entirely as people vainly seek popularity.

If fake news spreads at a much faster pace it makes less sense to tell the truth if you want to be popular, and millions of people are aware of this, and expressing themselves thusly.

Considering that billions of people use social media, it's like the telephone game's gone galactic, as has an unsettling mistrust of professionals who separate fact from fiction.

I think it's important to speculate or theorize or comment or observe, but you need to present your ideas as possibilities, not facts, as you democratically engage with the outside world.

A lot of people don't seem to be able to tell the difference or would simply prefer to bask in sensation, and with the billions of people who access social media every day, the situation's potentially catastrophic.

Suicide rates have simultaneously expanded at an alarming speed and people are spending much less time socializing offline.

Hate is spreading as well and little is being done about it.

I was surprised recently when I attended a campfire at a cousin's where a number of youths showed up. And didn't sit around chatting with one another, but rather spent the entire evening on their phones (I figured cyberspatial obsessions would have less sway in the country).

The doc paints a grim picture of how polarized things are becoming and how the willingness to find consensus is rapidly fading. I suppose building bridges is at a low ebb. But I can't help it, that's what I do.

Even if the stories I share don't spread as quickly as lies, I'll still continue to share them. People need to fight rampant misinformation. And embrace holistic hug power.

As they suggest in The Social Dilemma, it's clear that there has to be some kind of change. There's no going back to the '80s, but there needs to be some sense of social media responsibility.

I don't know if there's much of a difference, democratically speaking, between someone without much education sharing a theory, or an academic publishing an argument, but the academic usually indicates that they may be incorrect, or at least suggests they're engaging in high end speculation. 

It's a compelling continuum where no one's correct but peeps aren't necessarily mistaken either. 

Social media is similar.

But it needs to highlight it's engaging in speculation, or find reputable sources to back up its claims.

If millions of people just make stuff up and then cite each other regularly without proof or argument as if they aren't engaging in speculation, then the world suffers from excessive stupidity.

Enter conscious free-flowing surrealism. 

The doc shares much more information than that (available on Netflix).

The Windermere Children

When I was growing up, the horrors of World War II and Nazi oppression still weighed heavily on hearts and minds, and cultures went to great soulful lengths to instructively ensure they wouldn't be forgotten. 

You didn't have to search for very long to find outlets condemning the racist violence, and politicians who condoned hatred had very short-lived careers.

The state of the public sphere today is a reckless mess. There's no general emphasis on consensus or teamwork or collegiality or reconciliation, just a mad reactionary groundless onslaught of grotesque irresponsibility. 

Even something as consensus building as a plague has been divisively politicized, and official acts of incredible stupidity abound with gleeful unconcern.

But if I remember correctly, sowing deep rooted contempt for government by promoting bureaucratic chaos (the government appears to be dysfunctional all the time so people lose faith in politics) is a far right strategy, which is being employed ad infinitum to champion sheer catastrophe (see Chomsky).

The Nazis took power in such a climate in hopeless post-War Germany, and unleashed an unprecedented deluge of hate that crippled Europe for decades.

The holocaust was the most revolting undertaking ever unleashed on unsuspecting peoples, and the racist ideologies that encouraged it are once more circulating in the public sphere.

The Windermere Children presents survivors of that unimaginable horror, that extreme repugnant terror that claimed millions of innocent lives.

To see what the kids have been reduced to near the beginning of the film, is to witness utter despondency pure and ghastly total war.

But thanks to the caring endeavours of a British philanthropist and a group of teachers, they were delicately nursed back to health as the film wondrously demonstrates.

There are politicians like Biden who truly care about humanistic enterprise, and have no interest in dividing a nation into disparate unintegrated groups.

They seek non-violent productive community, not the profits of war.

The world can be more peaceful, it's just a matter of respect and productivity.

A focus on international community.

That doesn't leave behind individualistic ambition. 

The Island

Every day like every other, a clone colony habitually persisting, keeping productive, following the rules, maintaining social distance, no need for further questions.

They believe they've survived a plague that has destroyed all life above ground, and that they're lucky to have escaped civilization's wanton biological destruction.

They have friends and abundant contacts but everything's been accounted for, there isn't the slightest most minuscule deviation from their overlord's strategic plan.

Traditionally this passes unnoticed, like routine shifts undiversified ubiquitous, until one clone (Ewan McGregor as Lincoln Six Echo) starts to question his existence, thereby challenging the consummate order.

There's one way to overcome confinement, they must be chosen to move to the island, the last vestige of sustainable life, still enriching upon the surface.

A glorious day if they win the lottery, full of felicity and jaunty applause, vigorous opportunities surely awaiting, joyous pastimes inveterate pause.

But while sleuthing Six Echo discovers an unspoken terrifying master narrative, which he must share with his blind compatriots, if they're ever to know robust justice.

He breaks free with his frightened love interest (Scarlett Johansson as Jordan Two Delta) to the unforgiving world beyond, mercenaries intent on tracking them down, as they flee for the wilds of Los Angeles. 

Perhaps not the best time to be reviewing The Island, considering its metaphorical import, but it is just a film after all, and COVID-19's a viral reality.

Frustrating to see the spread of fake news which refuses to believe COVID-19 exists, which doesn't take the pandemic seriously, such narratives will only ensure the plague intensifies.

You can also see The Island as a metaphorical critique of working in unregulated industry, without safety procedures or sick days, or pension or difference or critique.

You can work for months for years without incident, but to last decades without sustaining injury is against the imposing odds.

Thus you live in relative comfort with everything provided for year after year, but eventually you have to make sacrifices which seriously endanger your health.

Critiques of the situation aren't tolerated, and accessible knowledge only relates to your job, you can get to know people but not seriously, and you're stuck eating what a computer suggests.

The ending's like the emergence of self-employment, or paid sick leave, higher wages, and an ombudsperson, plus the ability to live somewhere else besides work, and spend your income on manifold goods and services.

If I remember correctly The Island wasn't well received but I'd argue it's one of Michael Bay's best. 

I've never seen him so concerned with social justice.

It's solid thought provoking sci-fi.

6 Underground

A self-made billionaire well-versed in hardboiled expression embraces volatile altruism after having been reanimated (Ryan Reynolds as One).

Having given up on the political process (not me), and assembled an eclectic mulitdimensional team, he proceeds to take on a cruel haughty despot, who bombs schools and gasses his own people.

His brother's the exact opposite and would rule by upstanding means, if he wasn't locked down in a lavish penthouse under cloistered lock and key.

The mission: take out the despot's generals to destabilize the military, then free the forlorn bro from ostentatious disenchantment. Afterwards head to the nation in question to launch a coup and inaugurate political reform. Try not to make friends along the way. And engage in optic dissimilitude.

The team is ready and willing to achieve herculean ascension.

It's full-on cloak and dagger.

With sensationalist logistics.

I don't mean to critique their ambition nor mitigate their heroic impact. Despots who tyrannize their own people when they could be educating them or encouraging communal development are certainly disheartening. 

6 Underground's still somewhat basic, however, with sharp divisions, like a Western for kids, morals fitting snuggly within a domain that overlooks contradictory realities, not that the domain doesn't appease widespread outrage, or challenge ennui claiming nothing can be done.

In this instance, sending in an elite independent group to bring about political reform within a repressed nation seems apt, and there's even a plan to smoothly transition from one political platform to another. No decades of fighting afterwards by warring factions with no interest in harmony. No general hunger or unrest or unemployment while the country tries to figure out what to do.

Haven't both left and right wing proponents encouraged clandestine coups around the globe to disastrous effect, though, isn't political change more substantial if it's self-generated, as seems to have been the case in many currently peaceful countries?

It would be nice if things were as simple as 6 Underground makes them out to be, but simple solutions for problems this complex are often sought for nefarious means.

The film resolutely approaches the fight against tyranny with rapid fire multidisciplinary dialogue, but it's also abounding with gratuitous violence, prostitution, and characters lacking identity.

If you're critiquing a despot for using poisonous gas on his own people, you shouldn't have your heroes use gas to attain their goals later on, even if their gas is harmless.

I know the characters aren't supposed to know each other due to mission parameters, but this film would have been stronger with much more character depth.

Depth of action excels in the opening moments, however, with the best car chase I've ever seen.  

It's a solid action film.

That loses something in its naive oversimplification.

Flash Gordon

Here's a film that's much better the second time round.

During my first viewing, a logical bias prevented me from appreciating the freeform glib absurdity, as I engaged in rational calculation rather than unlocking wondrous intuition.

True, the script provides scant detail as it embraces grand complication, a motivating reason consistently postulated, without much time added for thought or pause.

And these reasons conjure unerring as Flash (Sam J. Jones) confronts intergalactic authority, in a complex web of political fascination, stitched together with impacting law.

Studied skilfully nurtured pretensions led to accusations of the ridiculous, of disenchanted criticism unilaterally applied.

But when I laid down to watch it again I couldn't wait to bask in frenzy, in chaotic disproportion altruistically askew.

Characters once dismissed as empty took on vibrant intense substance, and a plot thought to be immersed in dispatch emerged with complementary cohesion.

There's something to be said for fun, for lightheartedly revelling on set, Gordon's jocose mischievous nonchalance concerned with neither plight nor threat.

And after anticipated reasonability gives way to cultivated implausibility, the joy of filmmaking viscerally shines through, as it jumps from scene to scene.

It's not that the film's irrational, in fact with multiple short and sweet scenes moving the action along, it abounds with agile meaning, multifacetedly composed.

But considering what needs to happen and the likelihood of even considering such an unorthodox plan, the constant eruptions of clever catalysts seem too radical before amazement's factored in.

True to form, Flash Gordon never forgets that it is based upon a comic book, and I'm uncertain if ever I've seen another comic book film so admirably respect its illustrious origins.

In comparison to contemporary Marvel and DC films they're certainly less controversial, less likely to lose large swaths of their target audiences due to impulse, inspiration, or feeling.

But I'll watch Flash Gordon again anytime, perhaps because they had no clue what they were doing, yet still strung something together that's exceptional, not to mention epically imbued (production design by Danilo Donati).

I'm not saying Marvel and DC should stray from what works for them.

But Flash Gordon's spirit's no doubt electrifying.

Like wild influential discontinuum.

*Once again, it's cool to see works of art that seem as if they're uncertain as to how to proceed. This doesn't work so well in sports or politics. Where such an aspect is foolish or frightening.   

Neko to Shôzô to futari no onna (Shozo, A Cat and Two Women)

Lazy Shôzô (Hisaya Morishige) catches a break when his lacklustre relationship suddenly dissolves, much to his mother's (Yuko Minami) delight, and perhaps also that of his cat.

He's seeing someone else who's not adverse to domestic subversion, but she's somewhat younger than he is, and prone to fits of righteous outrage (Kyôko Kagawa).

She's quite rich however so Shôzô's mom adores the match, and counsels thoughtful feeling as opposed to obtuse thatch.

But Shôzô's wife (Isuzu Yamada) soon strives aggrieved to reverse the situation, for her sister isn't too enthused with providing accommodation. 

Another seeks to rent the room and will pay three times as much, so she needs swift clever calculation manipulatively clutched.

She knows of one thing Shôzô loves more than anything at that, his distant furtive purcolating agile nimble cat.

Even more than escapading, even more than sleeping in, he loves his tactile independent erudite unhinged.

Cat. 

He loves his cat and his ex-wife knows it and wants to live somewhere less packed, so she tempts her newfound rival to consider devote paths.

She declares to lazy Shôzô that he must freely chose, betwixt his age old loving feline and his cherished muse.

Mother pleads and even begs he listen to her sweetly, the rent is due their business through she explains quite discreetly.

But he's determined unabashed to abide by no one's will, other than that which surmises lackadaisic chill.

It's an odd sort of comedy that boldly theorizes what life would be like for someone who's never sought to do anything at all, whom the opposite sex still finds irresistible.

His shop doesn't make money, he doesn't even know what to charge for the items he sells, he sleeps half the day and loves to spend time at the beach, and his mother's stuck coming up with the rent, yet he's still sought after and even fought for due perhaps to bucolic notoriety. 

Shôzô, even though he has lived as an adult for quite some time, still knows nothing of worldly affairs that don't facilitate relaxation.

Yet he still loves, he loves spending time with his cat: should this loyal devotion be criticized?

Should he be reprimanded or even assailed for living an honest life?

Never feeling lash nor censure?

Boldly sought after.

Loved?

The Cat's-Paw

A man raised in China by missionaries suddenly finds himself in New York, his first trip back home to the States since he was but the weest lad.

Unaccustomed to anything besides a life of study in rural environs, he accidentally finds himself running to become mayor of the bustling city.

The party he represents is controlled by their opposition, and was instructed to find a candidate who would without a doubt most certainly lose.

But as fate would have it through blind dumb luck he aptly wins race, and proceeds to set the highest bar altruistically apace.

He's also searching for a wife to one day bring back to Asia, and meets a streetwise countergirl breathtaking poised regalia.

Having no knowledge of worldly affairs and even less of bureaucratic intrigue, he governs according to the philosophy of Ling Po, a Chinese sage he's studied exhaustively. 

His alternative methods disgruntle his adversaries who are used to the status quo, and unfamiliar with philosophy, and none too pleased with all the extra work.

They take advantage of Ezekiel's (Harold Lloyd) innocence and soon he's the victim of a scandal.

To which he fluidly responds with an ancient epic gamble.

The Cat's-Paw's wondrous naive enthusiasm generates holistic applause, as working solutions combat corruption in a metamorphic state of bureaucratic nature.

Ezekiel applies his knowledge with well-meaning bold intent, and finds effective cost cutting measures that encourage less dependent fiscal enterprise.

It's fun to watch as a sheltered intellectual governs with no strings attached, his worldly shocked advisors in a constant state of panic.

A sense of calm restorative ease ascends as he honestly settles the score, like deficits and graft and cons will fade forevermore.

But for every wide-eyed dreamer who ably governs through ancient texts, a hundred more and then some keep them historically in check.

Certainly old school writings can influence the present, but when they outstrip their mortal bonds things become rather unpleasant.

That is, new sets of circumstances inevitably emerge (an overpopulated planet, extremely stressed environmental resources) to which the antiquated writings cannot be applied, and if cultures need new strategies to solve the unprecedented problems, a reliance upon ancient texts can be problematic.

You would think they would simply adapt to reasonable scientific observation.

But that doesn't seem to happen.

Perennially at odds, no progress, no quarter. 

The Highwaymen

Two old school lawpersons are tasked with tracking Bonnie & Clyde, who have unleashed a rampant crime spree on unsuspecting middle-America.

They've been on the road for most their lives but had recently been enjoying retirement, until the stakes became too high and Ma Ferguson (Kathy Bates) came a' callin'.

Their knowledge gives them a shrewd leg up as they set out in search of madness, the couple already having shot 6 professionals, and evaded capture amidst spurned ubiquity.

The outlaws are loved and cherished which makes acquiring information difficult, and they're familiar with multiple jurisdictions and have widespread contacts along the way.

But Frank Hamer (Kevin Costner) and Maney Gault (Woody Harrelson) are familiar with drastic protocol, and confident in their sleuthing, even if they've aged since yesteryear.

They vigorously hit the road in search of moribund crisis.

Casting roll call aside.

The limits of their territory presenting non-negotiable constraints, they engage like wild frontierpersons, inviolable stalwart contingencies. 

Difficult to say if it's a matter of luck or swift determination that lithely guides them. 

But they do proceed unerring.

Omniscient, as it's written.

Perhaps written a bit too directly, as if Frank and Maney possessed divine instinct, and were therefore justified in taking reckless steps, to put an end to the wanton bloodshed.

I suppose Bonnie & Clyde were exceptional inasmuch as they gunned down so many policepersons, and seemed like they were getting away with it, across so many state lines.

But so many others are shot down by the police in routine circumstances having done no wrong (so many of them African Americans), The Highwaymen's more of a character study of grim fatalistic rangers, than a multidimensional perplexity replete with cultural intrigue.

It's cool to see so much Costner and Harrison, but a closer examination of the abstruse terrain would have been clever.

Not that the film isn't intelligent it just employs a less intricate style, like the honest controversial scenarios you find in a derelict western.

It's not that it isn't well done with several thoughtful memorable scenes, it's just so bluntly good vs. evil that so much is lost in between.

If it's remembered that the circumstances are exceptional and Bonnie & Clyde need to be hunted down that's one thing, but its one-dimensional promotion of the evil criminal implicitly suggests so many are absolutely guilty.

And that's simply not the case, circumstance and upbringing should be considered, prejudicial shackles and hopeless impoverishment often resulting in misguided crime.

Not that people should get away with it or victims shouldn't have their say, but the reasons explaining why someone chooses a life of crime go far beyond cookie cut polarities.

Good jobs, a foreseeable future, can lead to much less poverty.

An emphasis on racial equality can fight against internalized prejudice. 

Nakitai watashi wa neko wo kaburu (A Whisker Away)

First love strikes an eccentric youth and harrowingly passes unnoticed, the would be love interest concerned with other things, and rather embarrassed by her written declaration.

Fortunately she's accidentally met a cat spirit who facilitates transformation, who provides her with an enchanted mask which gives her the power to frisk and frolic.

With the opportunity to become a cat, Miyo (Cherami Leigh) visits Kento (Johnny Yong Bosch) in disguise, and learns of his intimate secrets, while thoroughly enjoying the rapt attention.

But as time passes she learns that the deal has spiritual reciprocations ethereally attached, and that just as she can take on cat form, cats can become human if they're granted a mask.

Cat form begins to seem preferable and soon Miyo's lost the ability to change back, and will soon transform irrevocably if he she can't retrieve her hominid craft.

But her old cat has stolen her identity and seeks to remain supported upright, human lifespan's lasting much longer than animate feline respites. 

The cat spirit will obtain Miyo's lifespan if she's unable to switch back in time.

Her prospects become more and more unappealing.

Even after discovering a secret cat sanctuary.

Nakitai watashi wa neko wo kaburu (A Whisker Away) criticizes rash passion as it proceeds without forethought or consideration, anxieties generated by discourse immutable, by sincere feeling somewhat overdrawn.

I suppose in terms of genuine emotion lacking precedent it honestly depicts incipient l'amour, and therefore doesn't have to be thought of as reckless, as it's freely and honestly presented.

The idea's a good one I agree, transformative comprehensive adventure, with chillaxed elements quizzically diversifying, like the magical realm only cats can see.

I thought it could have provided more detail, more elaborate interdimensional parlay, we're introduced to an intriguing world of cats but don't learn that much about it.

A comical exploration of the trials of first love or bewildering newfound infatuation, how to go about expressing the irrational as it pertains to another, amicably, perhaps is one way to describe it.

Familial bonds and sympathetic friendship offer counsel throughout the transition, although there's not much they can do as she becomes more and more anthropomorphic.

It's fun to watch as the cat becomes human and embraces her expanded capabilities, I'd wager animals transforming into humans hasn't been explored enough in the history of cinema.

Perhaps I'm too old for this one but having read the synopsis I couldn't resist. 

Life can be so serious at times. 

It's cool that Netflix is making cat movies. 

Wonder

A child who looks different anxiously prepares for the fifth grade, having been homeschooled up to this point by his mom (Julia Roberts), having made little contact with the outside world (Jacob Tremblay as Auggie), now ready to thoughtfully engage.

His mother and father (Owen Wilson) are more nervous than he is, as he courageously departs, sincerely worried about their son, whom they've diligently help to prepare.

His sister (Izabela Vidovic as Via) provides prudent counsel and lays down the skeletal score, a brief barebones adolescent treatise, on inherent enervating distress.

But he's a gamer, he doesn't back down, although he's faced with acerbic prejudice, he hangs in there and academically excels, making some chill real friends along the way.

Wonder isn't just focused on him though, the trials of several young people are explored, their struggles compassionately and intricately blended, as they deal with scholastic realities.

The result's a well-rounded take offering diverse perspectives on the challenges youth face, while trying to carve out an identity, and freely fit in at school.

Parents too, the shocks of child rearing, the difficulties of trying to let go, to be there whenever and wherever, without smothering the affable flow.

It's great to see such honest loving parents who abound with enriching guidance, who don't shy away from the hardboiled vortex, but don't dwell or fixate on it either.

The troubles are there, they haven't been whitewashed, but Wonder still presents lighthearted community, or instances where peeps don't have to defend themselves, since they've found rewarding playful friendship.

Difference is a wonderful thing and adds so much spice to cultural life. Just think of a hot pot of chilli with the more ingredients the merrier.

Taking the time to consider what people are going through instead of bluntly embracing base instinct, can lead to enlivening gatherings overflowing with laidback novelty (post-COVID).

There's so much of an emphasis on power and control these days that it's easy to forget some people just want to talk, without enacting the "holier-than-thou", or resorting to blunt fatalism.

Just because someone has more money it doesn't mean that they're a jerk, just because someone's speech isn't prim and polished it doesn't mean they have nothing to say.

You may find people who comprehend subjects that don't lead to the acquisition of wealth, radiate creative synergies regenerating soulful stealth.

It seems like it'd be easier if youthful discourse permeated the working world, but Wonder demonstrates how difficult it is for youngsters themselves to generate chillaxed disclosure.

It's an excellent film promoting understanding that's neither too harsh nor sentimental.

Rich with compelling observation.

Cheeky poignant and studious kindness. 

Hauru no ugoku shiro (Howl's Moving Castle)

I suppose watching Ghibli films is like moving to a new city, assuming you're intent on exploring.

The imaginative transitions and unexpected revelations disseminate inherent constructive flux, producing gemini ensemble; it's not chaotic or turbulent or nutso, it just takes some time to make sense of it, and because the dynamics are always changing, new hypotheses consistently accrue.

Patterns precociously present themselves which embrace diversification exclaimed, staunch traditions dependably mutated as the unforeseen glibly freely fascinates.

Since cities are vast like Ghibli's repertoire there's plenty of room for cultural investigation, different neighbourhoods/themes influencing one another through variable grassroots multiplicities. 

Changing jobs from time to time can encourage synergistic sleuthing, especially if the jobs demand travel to previously unheard of quarters.

Local cuisine and enticing craftspersonship generate curious reflective lore, folksy fashions and animate complements melodically streaming eclectic impulse.

From scene to scene Ghibli regenerates and humbly presents something unanticipated, like a store that only sells mushrooms or vegan sushi or doorknobs or vinyl. 

Throw in a new language and it's wildly unpredictable as practically everything reverberates fresh meaning. By no means a walk in the park. But illuminating as time slowly passes.

Howl's Moving Castle habitually transfigures from one mobile scene to the next, thematic variation in nimble motion denoting canvas and rhythm and text.

Unfortunately their nation's at war and wizards and witches have been conscripted, before a young adult is suddenly transformed into an aged contemplative constellation.

Howl disrupts the fighting as best he can as it rashly insists, seeing no point in taking a side since they're both hellbent on destruction.

But the most powerful sorceress demands he yield and fight in the rank and file.

Even if his heart's just not in it (not me, this makes more sense if you see the film).

If he's too much of a chill elemental (see The Chronicles of Riddick).

The beautiful intricate scenes overflowing with compelling detail aptly highlight war's thoughtless menace as the bombs abruptly fall.

But many are still intent on living regardless of imperial hubris.

A romantic tale abounding with wonder that won't relent in tumultuous times, it illustrates poetic convection, while harvesting paramount mischief (not looting and destroying things but peaceful protests and critical analysis).

Sen to Chihiro no kamikakushi (Spirited Away)

A traditional family moves to the countryside to embrace less hectic surroundings, the daughter noticeably upset at having left her friends behind.

Upon trying to locate their new home, they steer down a foreboding country lane, only to stop several kilometres on down, at the sign of a diminutive statue.

Uncertain of where they are, exploration seems in order, father believing they've found an (abandoned) amusement park, where they may find something to eat.

Food awaits their lavish appetites and soon mom and dad are feasting, unaware they're gorging upon meals prepared for visiting spirits.

For they have entered an alternative dimension wherein which gods and monsters composedly bathe, their bathhouse managed by a haughty witch (Suzanne Pleshette) who's none too fond of humans.

Chihiro's (Daveigh Chase) parents are transformed into pigs for supping 'pon victuals forbidden, and she's soon looking for work, as advised by the helpful Haku (Jason Marsden). 

But it's tough to settle in since she's never laboured before, and bathing a shy stink spirit proves a vast malodorous chore.

She may be able to escape and set her parents free indeed.

But not before the greedy witch has successfully decreed. 

Sen to Chihiro no kamikakushi (Spirited Away) investigates incorporeal phenomena, substantiated on their own terms, without overlooking endemic economies.

Chihiro soon learns she was wrong to critique her cozy creature comforts, as the prospect of ceaseless work suddenly materializes. Fortunately she makes friends who don't lack sympathy or compassion, and isn't strictly monitored throughout the day, has a bit of time to roam.

Ghibli Studios presents another world overflowing with narrative innovation, unexpected otherworldly creations untethered unleashed at play.

Its characteristic light heart brightly beats as the current doth flow, but it's somewhat less innocent more frightening than some of its equally wondrous contemporaries.

As genuine affection shines through and even monsters slowly relent, the strong bonds forged between workers wholeheartedly freely cement.

In practically every scene throughout the film there's something new to charmingly ponder, even if it's comically startling or slightly stressed or wild or fearful.

As if the peeps at graceful Ghibli were concerned with chill enchantments.

The spellbinding glib green light.

Ethereally expanding.

L'amour en fuite (Love on the Run)

The lighter side of romantic inhibition comically elaborates (through flashback) in Truffaut's L'amour en fuite (Love on the Run).

Antoine (Jean-Pierre Léaud) once again finds himself pursuing the irresistible shortly following his divorce after love interest Sabine (Dororthée) punishes him. 

Driven by genuine liberated invention, his expositions know no bounds, and proceed posthaste wholeheartedly, zephyristic zounds. 

I suppose this goes without saying if you're familiar with the narrative thread, which becomes much more endearing with each instalment frisked and fled.

Indomitable infatuation regal flush disposed curiosity, multivariable assumed inconstant freeform precious jocose romance.

In L'amour en fuite so prone to accident he rediscovers love lost forgotten, who's just purchased the sultry novel he's been writing from film to film.

He takes inquisitive note and seeks rapprochement upon a train, where the details of his book encounter critical acclaim.

He generates appeal beholden flourishes notwithstanding, but can't escape the legal shrewd exotic reprimanding.

Even though he's just incapable of remaining honest, loyal, and true, his partners still adore him unabrasive through and through.

Not to the point where they'll let him get away with it but they still can't deny their feelings, and the lack of boredom he freely generates as he ascertains impulsively.

There's no doubt that creative explanations are his supple imaginative forte, nor that if one enjoys a passionate argument he graciously accommodates.

If so much of life's caught up with routine I suppose there's excitement in experimentation, although it's by no means a general rule but how else to explain the reality?

I'm uncertain as to how feminists or Me Too would respond to the charming Antoine, is he to be condemned for his indiscretions or upheld through honest light?

His inexhaustible enthusiasm demonstrates a thorough love of women, and he isn't forceful or mean or brutal, he's rather quite innocent, inquisitive, enamoured. 

Rascally. 

Is such genuine affection preferable at times to duty and is this why feminists don't condemn him (in fiction), or has Truffaut simply gotten away with it scandalous film after scandalous film?

Antoine certainly means well as he honestly follows his instinct, and doesn't lack ideal sincerity in his explorations of l'amour.

Perhaps just a childish fantasy exaggerating infidelity, to lighten the austere mood that proliferates at times?

Either way it's a funny ending to a story that went way too far.

Not as much depth as Domicile conjugal.

But still traditionally entertaining.  

Things to Come

In 1936, H.G. Wells, in the aftermath of World War I, amidst increasing global tensions, considered Things to Come.

Celebration abounds in the present as another Holiday Season wondrously invigorates, families and friends laidback ensemble to regenerate anew.

But mad imperialistic ambition soon disrupts the lighthearted revelling, and the world descends into total chaos for woebegone cataclysmic decades.

Torn apart, global networks in ruin, a plague ignominiously spreads, and feudal discourse slowly reemerges, as "might-is-right" bluntly takes control.

They see no need for peace in Britain and conflict continues to rage indiscriminately, but since industry is strictly nominal mutual armaments remain indisposed.

On the continent, a different ethos takes hold as cultures regroup, dedicated to scientific expenditure aligned with utilitarian progress.

As time passes innovation ascends, and worldwide reckonings muse collegial, but too much of an emphasis on work eventually ignites inspired criticism.

An apocalyptic vision of the future wildly ascertaining in the film, well versed in grim foreboding and utopian desire.

I'm wary of utopian impulses myself, these days, which lack sincere considerations of the present, too much of a focus on futures unforeseen ignoring blatant systemic disparities.

The ends too often justify cold calculating austere means, which fit well within specific formulae lacking cohesive particularity.

Too many variables to take into account to assure viable collective movement, without forceful binding shackles predisposed to dis/integration.

The desire for change the fluidic instinct grows weary of perennial plans, the constant elevation of rhetoric whose meaning fades without results.

If you consider utopia periodically as opposed to an eternal strain, it does pop up from time to time like mutated verdant grains.

Inasmuch as periods even decades flourish with general prosperity, but sustaining that prosperity indefinitely remains generally elusive.

Perhaps it's spiritually profitable to maintain some lofty goals on the horizon, in order to dispel depression if the present seems rather bleak.

But obsessing about them or defining yourself through them or conspiring to obtain them can leave you blind, to everything else that's happening as steady robust lives unwind.

Perhaps focusing on the present and patiently rockin' it with reasonable means, generates vibrant contemporary futures for daily grindin' dreams.

Many have written about how happy people are in less well-off countries, despite comparable incomes or goods and services. 

If you aren't considering the future how does anything ever change?

If you're living within a prosperous racially-inclusive generally-employed sporty well-educated environmentally-sound present, is there much need for tectonic shifts or grand prophetic technological innovations?

Museum Hours

The active mind having aged to reimagine engagement through interpretive fluid rapt multivariable impression.

A rambunctious youth clad in melodic calculi (managing and touring with bands), then ruminative middle-age embracing quiet illustration (monitoring different rooms in Vienna's Kunsthistorisches Art Museum).

Living a thoughtful solitary life well-attuned to simple pleasures (Bobby Sommer as Johann), he meets a curious tourist one day visiting from Montréal (Mary Margaret O'Hara as Anne).

She's in town to watch over her cousin who's fallen into a coma, and would love to see the sights but doesn't know where to begin.

The film loosely follows their interactions as they travel in and about town, different features brought to life through historical exposition. It's not just the Kunsthistorisches that shines, Vienna's contemporary spirit enlivens as well, evocatively situated in past and present, replete with urban wildlife.

As Anne and Johann converse reflections on art evanescently materialize, not as if they're searching for essentials, more like chill jazzy random observation.

In fact it's like Museum Hours aesthetically cherishes the chill and random, as various images are freely showcased without a particular focus.

It's not presenting a specific thesis arguing for a point of view, but rather sharing different images to let Vienna thrive on through.

According to individual tastes, a clever seminar in artistic analysis attempts to lead visitors away from cocktail clichés, to more expansive literary compositions, as they observe different paintings, like there isn't an essence to be extracted but rather a variety of compelling interpretive exports.

Johann looks on in studious wonder as a guide imaginatively elucidates, her insights applicable to Jem Cohen's style which doesn't seek to blandly distill.

He observes that the right has made things much more serious, and made casual conversation much less prevalent, if the left loses sight of lighthearted argument, don't you wind up with The Lobster?

If the emphasis is on the correct interpretation of a shifting multivariable phenomenon, aren't such aggressive and violent evaluations highly dubious and irrational?

Taking absurd comedic outputs that clearly lack exhaustive scope, and treating them with biblical import, can lead to an unwillingness for people to participate in sustained and vigorous debate.

If they aren't treated with biblical import but rather as just another form of expression, then you have something much less frightening, and more amenable to inclusive discourse.

Under the Volcano

Lost in lounging Kazonned bitterness maladroitly grossly soaked through.

Cajoled intransigent declamatory renown, submerged and settled ripe repository.

Embellished cranky lewd itinerant coy romantic tidal yearning, grim gargantuan grouchy gurgle disembodied unconcern.

Rugged rapids constant thirst evasive rapt recourse insatiable, lucid rash unshorn ebullient wayward raucous exhibition.

Clad austere informative upbeat plaid imposed distraught decorum, quartered diplomatic engagements prim and proper pristine palate.

Abandoned perhaps misplaced paradigmatic imperilled logistics, rhapsodic infidelity satchels sordid crazed acknowledgement. 

Portly purpose in/animate poise discordant rest imbibed resuscitation, fate forlorn contaminant drawn spruced emboldened consummate elixir.

What a performance a ride a calling a cataclysmic egad catastrophe, tragic melancholic brinkspersonship, some of the best acting I've ever seen (Albert Finney as Geoffrey Firmin).

The question of sobriety remains unanswered cloaked in marigold misapprehension, like lathered erudite haze sorely spread in enigmatic disjunction.

Woeful discourse, sincere regret, sheer limitless august mourning, blended with reprieve albeit slightly as his cherished wife (Jacqueline Bisset as Yvonne Firmin) returns.

Yvonne once proceeded freely and then caught his wandering eye, the noble falling for the ingenue who knew nothing of his cozy cluster.

Which was forgotten some time ago in periodic stifled remonstrance, and replaced with unchecked revelling sold surpassing primordial bounds. 

Moments of rich endearing tenderness and bold adventurous distraction attempt to alter his rash behaviour with delicate daring calm.

But he can't forget the affair and proceeds with reckless frank credulity.

Like a comet that's lost its light.

Constellated swath exasper.   

A Scandal in Paris

Career criminals stretch out laidback in prison, as a fortuitous cake emerges, celebrations encoding style.

Having escaped they seek anonymity upon the open road, yet lend their images to a portrait depicting extant legend.

Soon they're reunited with Emile Vernet's (Akim Tamiroff) large outlaw family, who fears for their hard fought freedom, and recommends they join the army.

False identities are procured and they set off to aid Napoleon, still noticing jewels along the way whose brilliance generates temptation.

Years later they've left the service yet still scorn an honest living, and find themselves sheltered in a lavish chateau, presided over by the Minister of Police (Alan Napier as Houdon de Pierremont). 

They decide to rob him anyway and enact an audacious plan, switching the location of the jewels through agnostic sleight of hand.

The Prefect of Police (Gene Lockhart) cannot discover them and is relieved of duty, but Eugéne Vidocq (George Sanders) knows their whereabouts and leads the Minister straight indubitably. 

For his exceptional deductive skill he's generously rewarded, and given the post of Prefect of Police, securing Vernet's relatives jobs thereafter, at the bustling Bank of Paris. 

But his identity remains known to at least 2 adoring love interests, who fortunately enjoy his company, and seek not his instant ruin.

A Scandal in Paris invests striking charm with bewitching clever schematics, which assuage freeform displacements as a matter of upright cause.

Taking things too seriously is not so subtly critiqued throughout, even if Vidocq must watch his back as he nimbly cascades clout.

It seems too farfetched to believe yet is at least partially verifiable, taken from Vidocq's very own memoirs, the validity of which I cannot speak to.

He understood people well no doubt, a master of effortless seduction, freely winning hearts and minds through open-minded grand induction.

Those lacking social graces or appealing fanned conceit, fell swiftly to his daring bold and animate spry feats.

There's a series here within these reels commanding grand detection, each episode a marigold shy intimate selection.

Why not engage a stunning sleuth who once lacked honest virtue, to come to terms with pachyderms investigate the Dooku?

A stunning tale lightly regaled the shocking fluent candour, a charméd life akin to strife concocting goose and gander. 

Flavour.

What a life. 

Paris Blues

Ram Bowen (Paul Newman) and Eddie Cook (Sidney Poitier) have smoothly settled in Paris, where they work as jazz musicians at a local club most working nights.

Their reputation's solid and they work hard to maintain it, routine practise honing creativity, regular performance hot damn experiment, the vibrant chill nightlife.

Bowen's interested in musical composition and Cook tries to help him write, consistently generating new ideas inordinate spirited bright material.

Their act's established, they're part of the scene, living the life in grooves composing, when two American tourists show up one night in search of improvised l'amour.

They're on a well-earned two week vacation and didn't know what to readily expect, but Ram and Eddie weren't prepared for them either, and their resonant domestic echo.

Different traditions contend as they converse, as they consider relationships long-lasting, sure and steady conjugal comportment, the cookie cut stuck out in the 'burbs.

It's a lot to give up but there's so much to gain but everything's happening so quickly, and Bowen's the leader of his nimble band and his fellow musicians rely on him heavily.

He looks out for them anyways and tries to steer them away from soulless excess, relying on them like a coach or trainer, who works for the same productive team.

Was that a regular thing in the '60s, the '50s, the '40s, whenever?

Professional musicians working the same club every night and wildly drawing them in?

Does it still happen in Paris and New York or somewhere in Montréal that I'm unaware of?, if not I'd argue something's been lost, something beyond commercial value.

Imagine what you'd create if you worked that hard, what you'd routinely exceptionally come up with, if you never stopped to rest on your laurels, if life was a constant improvised rhythm?

I think old school musicians were more concerned with sounding good than with not sounding bad, but that's just a casual observation that isn't supported by vigorous research (does the absence of working class vitality within artistic spheres lead to a general spirit that's more academic than artistic?).

Imagine there were several exceptional bands that regularly played the same clubs in Montréal, and you could see them any night of the week, and they never gave anything less than outstanding?

Imagine they still played their instruments too and sought to etherealize with mad reckless solos, or jam here and there at times, as the drive of their audience compelled them?

Paris Blues captures a rhythmic lifestyle caught up with domestic and political intrigue, and celebrates musician's lives without focusing intently on the negative.

The negative taunts in every domain and it's great to see a film that celebrates the artistic life.

Relationships tempt and tantalize.

Resolute competing responsibilities.  

*Duke Ellington's music's incredible and there's an amazing scene where Louis Armstrong (Wild Man Moore) stops by to jam.

The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind

A small village in rural Malawi struggles to make ends meet, farmers reliant on the yearly harvest to generate vital income.

The Kamkwambas have been working hard with the hopes of sending their son to school, they've even paid his initial deposit and purchased the requisite uniform.

William's (Maxwell Simba) eager to learn, to excel, but needs time to sit back and study, competing demands ensuring time management's a full-time strict priority.

As school progresses and routines conflict drought descends with stifling severity, and his family can't pay his remaining tuition and must subsist on meagre preserves. 

But his sister's dating his teacher so he thinks of a crafty plan, and gains access to his school's modest library keeping instructive books on hand.

He's quite adept at finding solutions for quizzical electronic conundrums, his practical fluency highly valued by friends and neighbours and family.

He finds books that teach him new things and give him ideas he never thought possible, including a way to irrigate crops during the lengthy hot dry season.

With this method his family and others can plan to grow crops throughout the year, the extra harvest a bountiful godsend scientifically engineered. 

But book learning's still highly suspect and his idea simply seems too radical, his father (Chiwetel Ejiofor) fearful of making things worse should it fail to produce as planned.

The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind celebrates bold dynamic learning, in an environment suffering from extreme hardship, without staples or resource to spare.

It's a shame the library within wasn't public and required so much wealth just to access it.

Creating public libraries can be rather difficult if there's little to tax, but communal initiative can spearhead exuberance to keep infrastructure intact.

The sharing of ideas the transmission of knowledge the transformative vast applications, await people seeking solutions to questions they may never have known how to ask.

Myriad subjects augment traditions with novel imaginative spice, skies opening up within reason as ingenuity serves to entice.

You can learn a lot through chill conversation while working on various projects, but sometimes the right book will present years worth of discussion in less than 200 pages.

William reads such a book and makes an incredible difference in his community.

Resiliently daring to dream.

Cultivating robust yields. 

With Joseph Marcell (Chief Wembe).

*Also, a great film directed by an actor (Chiwetel Ejiofor).

Cold Dog Soup

An uptight sheltered individual (Frank Whaley as Michael Latchmer) unaccustomed to the underground flow finds himself suddenly embracing l'amour in Alan Metter's Cold Dog Soup.

His flirting skills clock timidity and uncertainty regarding self-worth, yet an act of daring assertion generates shocking relational mirth.

He's soon out for dinner at a love interest's (Christine Harnos as Sarah Hughes) with residing inquisitive mom (Sheree North as Mrs. Hughes), but as they begin to pass around victuals the family dog acrobatically passes.

He's tasked with the objective of burial and sets forth to find a chill park, but the cab in which he accelerates suggests alternative dispositions.

It's piloted by affirmation inclusively metering knowledge freewheeling (Randy Quaid as Jack Cloud), the chauffeur believing a commercial exchange may be more apt than confidential interment. 

Latchmer is ill-at-ease with the proposed moribund scenario, yet lacks the backbone required to refuse and soon attempts to fetch a fair price.

He does briefly escape then swiftly return to Sarah's apartment, but Cloud frenetically follows and enthusiastically enlists her.

They travel together far and wide in search of an appealing price, even contacting the frisky afterlife, learning lessons along the way.

Cold Dog Soup presents a voyage of discovery improvisationally attired, pursuing unorthodox financial goals through the heart of robust intrigue.

Worry and courage conflict throughout as it critiques austere pretensions, or vast categorical dismissals in relation to free-flowing life.

(I recommend taking it easy on the free-flowing these days. The virus isn't disappearing. I'm masking up and remaining cautious).

You could easily replace "worry" with "prudence" and "courage" with "recklessness" at times, but to do so would spoil the fun, which celebrates jazzy absurdist meaning.

It does so well, you'll be surprised by the budget, there's so much going on in this film, the trick is to acknowledge the latent realism without being fully subsumed.

It's sort of like The Warriors but instead of a gang fighting its way back to Coney Island throughout the night, you have a trio attempting to conduct business with different clients till the wee hours.

It's much more clever than it initially seems, the overt ridiculousness cloaks sly observation, beyond predictable commercial conceptions, at wild interactive free play.

A must see if you like independent filmmaking and the joys of why-did-they-make-this? cinema.

So many hilarious scenes.

Lampooning traditional discourse.

Leningrad Cowboys Meet Moses

The Cowboys have fallen on hard times, down on their luck and stricken, forsaken, filiblustered.

They were once one of Mexico's most exhilarating acts, but after duelling with tequila incontestably, collapsed upon destitute ruin.

The band still exists however even if several of its members did not survive, those remaining somewhat revitalized after an invitation to play in New York.

But they've been tricked, hoodwinked, bamboozled, as they learn shortly after arrival, for Vladimir (Matti Pellonpää) their once loathsome manager turns out to have set up a ruse.

He seeks to once again rule them and lead them back to northern realms, and has awoken as a scandalous prophet who refers to himself as Moses.

The band is weary, downtrodden, aghast, and succumb to his ironclad will, which supplies a rickety motorboat for their journey across the Atlantic.

Meanwhile, he stays behind to chisel off spry Liberty's nose, before hitching a ride clasped and wingéd to the lonesome European coast.

They're reunited without much delay and are even joined by old school band members, and set off merrymaking homeward bound through less inhospitable continental climes.

But Vladimir hasn't failed to make headlines and he's become a wanted man.

And the law avails in hot pursuit as they actively gig hot damn.

Leningrad Cowboys Meet Moses adds significant layers and depth, to a narrative eclectically posturing with unyielding jocose inhibition.

A collection of wry self-reliant ideas intermittently staked uniformity notwithstanding, the story appealing to subsequent nodes which elucidate demonstrative beacon.

Sometimes the plot's surely secondary to verbose improvised momentum, providing adhesive broadened outlines which embrace reformed asymmetry.

For 'tis not argument Kaurismäki covets but rather offbeat ironic declension, messages bridled to slam dunk transparency as they softly sway in complement willow.

Enlivening inherent dimension through spatiotemporal interplay, it highlights disembodied ascension with aeronautic grassroots unconveyed.

A break from paramount logic resets and recasts judicious responsibility, inasmuch as too steady a jet stream cloys wise recourse clad indubitably.

Meet Moses takes its time to let loose but then settles to bewilder anew.

The Leningrad Cowboys are a real band apparently.

And still perform to this very day.

Leningrad Cowboys Go America

An unknown band communally flourishes in frozen northern realms, its upbeat traditional variety inspiring personal localized legend.

Yet their manager (Matti Pellonpää as Vladimir) has grown tired of just subsisting in grand obscurity, so he invites a well-known producer to evaluate offhand.

The results are by no means favourable although he provides constructive criticism, recommending a tour of America to showcase their zesty sound.

They've never left their cozy village and are unfamiliar with Western ways, yet they still seek widespread recognition and offbeat accolades.

Fortunately they learn swiftly and can make instantaneous adjustments, for their music doesn't inspire Manhattan and they're soon off for nimble Mexico.

Along the way they must jive and improvise according to regional preferences, for their finances lack exorbitance as they exercise in/congruity.

Their manager embraces capitalism and will not distribute that which they earn, their hunger erupting with molten fury as time slowly and thoughtfully passes.

They have learned the basics of English and can play anything they set their minds to, without ever rehearsing or even practising, acritical discursive maestros.

Yet they've been followed in spite of commands to the sincere vituperative contrary, the acolyte seeking a constructive role, aligned with indeterminate function.

Leningrad Cowboys Go America breaks things down to material instinct, while resilient spirits exuberantly chant, with extemporaneous unsung virtuosity.

And a Jim Jarmusch (Car Dealer) cameo.

Absurdity perhaps depicts the feisty subconscious of the aloud unspoken, but do such invigorations not surely emit down to earth realistic theatre?

If a dream is materially manifested and proceeds through spiritual trial and error, is comedy therefore strictly irrequisite to unpronounced disconsolate duty?

How else does the rational adroitly maintain well-reasoned logical dispassionate argument, if it hasn't been hewn by animate sacrifice born of consequent Kafkaesque rupture?

The Cowboys make their way South and forthrightly and freely excel, but if they had been an instant success, would they ever have even bothered?

Who knows?, it's difficult to say, we don't learn much about what they're thinking, just that they have a gig and they make it after versatile commiseration.

Presumably, so much is unsaid as potent difference decrees manifested.

At one point they present a resonant anthem.

Voltaic demonstrative poise.

Rancho Notorious

The future looks bright, overflowing with bounty, as a couple considers their upcoming marriage, happily thriving through steady employ, ensconced in blooming gleeful rapture.

Yet they live on the Western frontier and soon malevolence comes a' calling, the bride-to-be then passing on, her fiancé sworn to loyal vengeance.

He (Arthur Kennedy as Vern Haskell) sets off on the road following leads where he can engaging in bright conversation, or the eruption of bombast flourishing undaunted, should he ask the wrong person the right question.

He hears tales glamorous and bold deftly crafted through spry resignation, of a coveted socialite (Marlene Dietrich as Altar Keane) widely sought after who teamed up with a formidable gunman (Mel Ferrer as Fairmont).

Haskell discovers the whereabouts of the outlaw and ensures he winds up in the very same jail, soon accidentally aiding his escape, before setting out extrajudicially.

The identity of the killer he seeks still remains frustratingly mysterious, but he soon finds the locale wherein which he's supposed to unconscionably reside.

Alongside many others who have earned their livings through corrupt ill-gotten gains, Rancho Notorious revelling in shenanigans transformative vast illicit booty.

It's direct and hard-hitting like a Western bluntly concerned with irate justice, and works in elements of ye olde film noir, whose generic conventions command infatuated.

The femme fatale's by no means duplicitous and remains loosely hitched to the preeminent bandit, who's rather upright and honourable, as if Bonnie & Clyde had endured.

Haskell makes friends with the virtuous crook and seems like he might be at home casually robbing the odd bank (or stagecoach), but the sight of a striking brooch reminds him of goals which have not been forgotten.

The lines between good and evil are ambiguously forsaken as well-meaning townsfolk quickly back down, and no-good rapscallions ignite honest virtue, while vendettas reestablish antipodes.

Never thought I'd see Marlene Dietrich waxing light so home on the range, and didn't know Fritz Lang directed Westerns sans banal black and white refrains.

There's some minor character diversification but it generally sticks to its winning hand, more abundant less superficial interactions may still have cultivated grizzlier lands.

It excels when Haskell's sleuthing more so than when he hits the ranch, the flashbacks and their spirited horseplay generating crucial binding fragments.

There's a lively soundtrack that keeps things focused if not cleverly cloaking wry deception, Lang perhaps approaching generic overload and unable to keep sabotage at bay.

L'amour takes up much more time than hot pursuits or criminal gains.

Preponderantly peculiar.

Almost like comedic romance.

Blood on the Moon

Spoiler Alert.

Alone in the burgeoning West riding cautious 'cross rugged terrain, a new position lucratively awaiting within lands hitherto unknown.

The services required necessitate fearsome low combative life-threatening confrontation, and have never been offered by the unlucky rider, who thought he may as well help an old friend.

$10,000's available should he choose to abide by the deal's unsettling corrupt regulations, the work at hand just simple enough should he avoid the volatile conflict.

A large herd of cattle once earnestly thrived to provide beef to a local First Nation, but the contract's been lost through duplicitous means and they now must vacate the calm reservation.

A deadline's been set for their thorough removal and remains stern and non-negotiable; if John Lufton (Tom Tully) can't cross the river he'll be forced to sell to the highest bidder.

Local homesteaders don't want him to cross for they fear his herd will take up the best land, and the rider's (Robert Mitchum as Jim Garry) employer (Robert Preston as Tate Riling) has actively led them to make a formidable stand.

But Riling has no interest in farming, he hopes to buy Lufton's cows cheap if he has nowhere to go.

He'll then sell them back to the government at a significantly increased price.

Like a film noir hero, Garry possesses conscience and won't take things too far, he's forced to decide which side's more honourable to appease his critical will.

Not an easy decision to make.

Drifting alone along the ageless frontier.

The law's entirely absent apart from one character in charge of Indigenous affairs (Frank Faylen as Jake Pindalest) (there's no First Nation voice in this film), and the haunting prospect of the army, their dispute relies on strict honour and loyalty.

The outlaws are rather unorthodox for traditional western fare, inasmuch as they aren't robbing a bank or holding up lonesome forlorn stagecoaches.

They uphold ideals to clandestinely gain financial and territorial advantage, the appeal of which would have generated romance with less conniving illicit compunction.

No femme fatales in the mix so seductively contriving intrigue, in fact Amy (Barbara Bel Geddes) and Carol Lufton (Phyllis Thaxter) seek nothing more than just investigation.

A choice must be made but who's to make it beyond material considerations, when the stakes are tantalizingly high and the right thing bears no startling cash settlement?

If Blood on the Moon's a crafty noir it proceeds without poignant despondency.

Garry may struggle with gripping free choice.

But he's by no means utterly alone.

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

Spoiler Alert.

Tired of working for a prison's work farm, one inmate decides to play crazy, and winds up in a different sort of institution still strictly and coldly regulated.

He's rather aggressive and independent and quickly gains disputatious influence, realizing his wits are still intact and keen on promoting seismic change.

But the regulations are rather severe and there's no place for critical controversy; trouble abounds if you can't grow accustomed to the various binding slights.

R.P McMurphy (Jack Nicholson) has never been one to listen to anything besides his passionate emotion, and he goes about setting his brethren free, with oceanic amassed endeavour.

Nurse Ratched (Louise Fletcher) is sympathetic but also concerned with rigorous discipline, the film challenging psychiatric conventions used to theoretically promote sanity.

McMurphy's approach makes more sense for living or thoroughly enjoying undisciplined life, his wild contumelious hedonistic ontology the product of distaste for form and structure.

Nurse Ratched crafts strong workers who can function within a hierarchical structure, and pays less attention to thrilling desire than their productive work at hand.

McMurphy may have made complimentary inroads had he not been so thoroughly combative; life within the hospital may be dull but it's still aligned with reasonable thought.

He is rational or at least he reasons but he's not a trained psychiatrist.

He's well-versed in vibrant life but perhaps overly concerned with chaos.

He introduces fun and playful mischief to people unaccustomed to freedom, or to freely and confidently expressing themselves in order to obtain objectives.

The administration's goals and objectives promote sure and steady stability, but perhaps without considering happiness as it applies to daily life.

Nurse Ratched is often critiqued for being hard-hearted and stubborn, but McMurphy wantonly disrespects her even though she's trying to help.

He doesn't just make rude comments or eagerly disobey, he throws a party with booze and prostitutes and she's left with no choice but to punish him.

The punishment's grossly disproportionate and akin to tacit murder, if such methods are still used today we're clearly still quite a barbarous species.

Blending work and play with logical enjoyment seems like a rational goal to pursue.

I don't know how regulations can promote joy, but how do epicureans finance lavish lifestyles without ever having to work?

The balance is out there somewhere, hopefully emerging after vigorous investigation.

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest examines extremes, bellicosely jostling in stern opposition.

Casting by Jane Feinberg & Mike Fenton.

Drop Zone

I've always wondered what it'd be like to go skydiving?

Or wondered at least since I found out about the phenomenon.

It sounds pretty exciting.

Fly around for a while, take in the view, strap a parachute to your back, and jump the *&$( out of a plane.

Then revel in joyous plummeting and hope the rip cord works.

It's been a long time since I've considered doing it, and it looks like extracurricular activities are out this summer, damn it, but I think I'll add it to my bucket list, again, and maybe give it a shot in 2021.

I imagine it's less complicated than horseback riding.

Although who's to say what's more intense?

I imagine skydiving's more intense since you're jumping out of a plane, even if you're not adventuring through rugged wilderness, but you could perhaps skydive into rugged wilderness and then set about setting up camp, for a better than average reality show, immersed in independent camera work.

And local wildlife.

There's a lot of skydiving in Drop Zone, it's the primary focus beyond the plot, which asks itself, "how many scenes involving skydiving can we realize?", before setting them celestially in motion.

With Snipes and Busey.

Pete Nessip (Wesley Snipes) doesn't know how to skydive, but he's given ample opportunity to learn, as he tracks the elusive Ty Moncrief (Gary Busey), whose scenes are cut far too short.

If you're interested in skydiving or already thoroughly enjoy it, Drop Zone provides generous food for thought, or general aspects to be critically analyzed, while viewing peculiar takes on vitriol.

If it's a little too serious for its flight plan, fret not, no need to worry, soon they'll be wildly taking off then quickly diving towards earth once again.

Or the top of a building etc.

Skydiving shenanigans mischievize upon the ground as well, and there's even a character named Swoop (Kyle Secor) who works odd jobs between subsequent dives.

Grace Zabriskie's (Winona) given a role where she does more than lounge and vegetate, and she's teamed up with Corin Nemec (Selkirk) whose light heart imaginatively sessions.

It was nice to see an action film where characters aren't exceptionally endowed, making things work to the best of their abilities, with old school equipment and regular jobs.

The transitions from scene to scene are noteworthy and upbeat as well, with chill yet discerning guitar riffs announcing upcoming tasked transformations (music by Hans Zimmer).

Why not focus on the hands-on, at times, in cinema and literature, and celebrate feisty determined lives lived, regardless of status or income, in the multidisciplinary United States of America?

Canada too.

France, Ireland etc.

Snipes excels in the leading role and Malcolm-Jamal Warner's (Terry Nessip) airtight as his bro.

The plot may be somewhat direct.

But multiple characters still swiftly take flight.