Summertime

An American tourist, curious and friendly, finds herself effortlessly immersed in Venice, wondrous monuments and sights to see resplendently resounding with ancient mystery (Katharine Hepburn as Jane Hudson). 

She's been saving for quite some time and her heartfelt sacrifice is finally paying off, the food and fireworks firmaments and fortunes felicitously fascinating with feisty fervour.

An enterprising urchin assists her endeavours as she graciously plays the tourist, his incisive knowledge of the local landscape providing entertainment and commercial escapades (Gaetano Autiero as Mauro).

She enters a shop within which a goblet illustriously guides her acquisitive proclivities, the shopkeeper, having noticed her once before, rather enthused by the striking coincidence (Rossano Brazzi as Renato de Rossi). 

Touristic and tantamount dialectic trajectories then tantalize tactician testaments, with sprightly spontaneous quizzical synergies, a night out on the welcoming town.

They hit it off seductively so soulful stature and synchronous surety, things warmly progressing to amorous awestruck inspiring mutual bold acculturations.

But she's only in town for a limited time and her hour of departure is swiftly approaching.

Could something enduring daringly bewilder?

Romantic poise, cavalier composure?

David Lean's Summertime celebrates love and innocent endearing enchantments, letting go to dynamically dream and embrace relaxed excursions. 

Spellbound sentience impressionable guides not much conflict like a favourite pillow, for once risk is resonantly rewarded beyond grief stricken dispatching doubt.

Venice is picturesquely presented an evocative blend of the old and new, at times it's like you're really there with an animate interest in its unique revelations. 

Not that you're trying to see everything you're rather led by convivial impulse, more of a feeling than a prescribed agenda which calmly takes in everything it sees.

As to how to proceed in similar situations I'm afraid I have no advice. I prefer the European style. Ms. Hudson has no regrets.

Jack Hildyard's cinematography breathtakingly captures so many sights and sounds, revelling in the aqueous undulating abundance as aerial vistas abound.

Perfect if you want to learn more about Venice and life and living too.

I hope to make it there one day.

Would be nice to see so much of Europe. 

Madeleine

A flexible titled dreamer finds a new home in Scotland (Ivan Desny as Emile L'Angelier), equipped with the devoted awestruck l'amour of a reputable fervent lass (Ann Todd as Madeleine Smith). 

She's from a stilted family which discourages intrigue however, her love flourishing incognito, concealed in furtive full-on trust.

Her father (Leslie Banks) hopes she'll accept the courting of a well-to-do local lad (Norman Wooland as Minnoch), who's settled within high society and conjugally keen.

He rules their lavish abode with patriarchal austerity, abiding by strict codes of conduct the subversion of which may lead to ruin.

Or the sanitarium or some such place she has absolutely no desire go, the resultant pestiferous pressure overwhelming her romantic longing.

You would hope there would be more opportunity, other options besides a propitious marriage, but these were different times indeed with fewer outlets for spry prosperity.

Her nerve implodes forlorn and lost she breaks off her clandestine betrothal. 

Her lover notably distraught.

And in possession of secret letters.

David Lean's Madeleine interrogates scandal as a matter of propriety, etched deep with the upper echelons indelicately diagnosing disquiet.

Odd to consider that one so well off would be so strictly bound, not with the desire to promote debauchery, but rather without independent means at her disposal.

It's a shame that tabloid fascination reconstitutes festive fetters, the skeptical gaze of the cynical eye necessitating stealth and cumbersome zeal. 

Madeleine does have deceptive means to be elaborately employed, yet her exceptional liberating scheming fails to pass without further comment.

What risk to take the one which leads to less disputatious uproar, or perhaps to nothing at all, perhaps void of thrill or consequence?

Certainly not a romantic take on lauded cherished flush true love, nevertheless unique in its remonstrations in its unorthodox blinding outrage.

Understanding is of critical import from disconsolate passionate perspectives, commiserating comprehensions deconstructed invariability. 

The inviolable traditionalist may regard Madeleine with horror, as endearing sought after outcomes languish in bitter virulence.

But the novelty remains somewhat comic from alternative dispositions.

By no means grand or exemplary. 

But still encouraging greater freedom.  

Blithe Spirit

A pleasant writer eager to diversify festively flirts with paranormal benediction (Rex Harrison as Charles Condomine), inviting a celebrated medium to his estate to engage in freelance séance (Margaret Rutherford as Madame Arcati).

Scientific objectivity and spiritual curiosity conversationally mingle meanwhile, as his second wife prepares for potential skepticism (Constance Cummings as Ruth Condomine), from the close friends they're sincerely hosting. 

The séance begins and things seem a bit odd as they often do when undertakings lack precedent, and when it suddenly ends humdrum happenstance seems to have been reconstituted. 

But Charles is hearing voices that no one else perceives, his first wife having accidentally etherealized (Kay Hammond as Elvira Condomine), and since he's the only one who can indubitably see her, doting Ruth erupts in fury at the loss of his creative mind.

But even if Elvira can't be seen she can still move objects with physical impertinence, and soon Ruth can't deny her presence, or the resultant distraught envy.

Charles is clever and easy going and does his best to hospitably accommodate, although his diplomatic discernment is cajolingly critiqued as both wives crave attention.

Mortality is habitually embittered as Elvira seeks a self-indulged conclusion.

But Ruth falls into the trap.

Eventually returning to assert predominance. 

The intangible substantially elucidates in David Lean's enigmatic Blithe Spirit, wherein which supernatural composure acculturates through mystical reflection.

The urge to forge consensus irascibly flounders as stalwarts inveigh, monogamy championed in the distracted afterlife, expediency heartily obstructed.

The script's a resounding brain feast for film lovers contesting somnambulistic oblivion, Noël Coward delivering literary liaisons conjugally cultivated through cerebral import.

A comic situation which has likely occurred to some erratically estimating generalized quintessentials, as logical improbability reasonably articulates through grand realistic fiction.

Whether or not there's anything to it I admit to keeping an open mind, as long as it doesn't cost more than 5 or 6 bucks, and an elaborate plot can't be detected. 

I was born predisposed to the otherworldly until science started to make much more sense.

Of course there are so many things it still can't explain.

Yet likely will.

Through the passage of time.

Thunder Force

The preponderance of superheroic heuristics imaginatively captivating multigenerational audiences, has perhaps left the less scholastically oriented behind in its cultivation of characteristic exception, not to critique the academically inclined, such ambitions are no doubt admirable and praiseworthy, and they'd just cause an uproar every day if there weren't brainy jobs out there awaiting them (love my jobs!), driving people crazy at Wendy's or the Gap, as they struggle within practical boundaries, but a democracy is not solely inhabited by studious ambitions alone, and hands-on tacticians deserve more representation in intergalactic narratives, like representatives from the workforce sitting on executive boards, in order to avoid a surfeit of theoretical impracticality (I am not indirectly critiquing the Liberal's most recent generous beneficial budget which I imagine they made in consultation with their grassroots). 

Captain America has played such a role well in many a Marvel film, his humble origins a sharp contrast to Thor or Tony Stark's, but he still lacks the contentious unconcern humorously invigorated by Thunder Force's Lydia Berman (Melissa McCarthy), who's nimble burger & fries lack of pretension leads to endearing syntheses of experimental know-how.

She's teamed up with a brilliant researcher whose parents were murdered by miscreants, the immodest destructive sociopaths who were mutated and given superpowers by cosmic radiation. 

Emily Stanton (Octavia Spencer) has devoted her life to stopping them by trying to find a way to give superpowers to anyone, through experimental research, childhood friend Lydia accidentally interrupting her experiment on the eve of their high school reunion, taking the transformative medication herself.

Once started the process can't be halted without ruining years of dedicated research, a lengthy arduous treatment program ensuing complete with intricate training exercises. 

Lydia is given super strength while Ms. Stanton uploads invisibility, the two eventually heading to the streets to fight crime, where they swiftly encounter the Crab (Jason Bateman). 

He works for the would be mayor who's currently running a duplicitous campaign (Bobby Cannavale), an authoritative miscreant himself who's promising to emphatically thwart them.

Melissa McCarthy brings raw uncompromised grit and tenacity to the superheroic domain, providing wild unscripted alternative impulse to prescribed elitist reckoning.

Like freelance writers doing their own thing or independent filmmakers authentically crafting, Lydia pursues justice with democratic intrigue while coming to terms with her unexpected powers.

There are a lot of funny moments and a memorable date night with McCarthy and Bateman, an extended scene that goes beyond so many neat and tidy encounters ("This is a trigger environment for me" 😂).

As for creating super soldiers I'll never forget Jacob's Ladder, or that episode of The X-Files, or pesky Khan or steroids in general.

Isn't eliminating poverty preferable to creating genetically enhanced warriors?

Doesn't a multidisciplinary sustainable economy also fight poverty and boredom?

Between the Lines

Isn't journalism healthier if it's crafted by a multiplicity of voices, taking local, regional, national and international scoops into account, as myriad stories suddenly present themselves throughout the feisty day, millions of people, multiple interests, a wide variety attempting to take them into account, don't people from Denver want to know what's happening in Denver, don't people from any town or city care about what's happening in their own backyard, doesn't a wide variety of editors ensure more fact checking and less uniformity, an informative multilateral public sphere where subjective outlooks can't be monopolized?

Isn't it a dangerous thing to have only a handful of newspapers for a country with around 350 million people, where every region promotes diversity and particular concurrence is tough to come by?

If there are only a handful of newspapers running the same stories and not bothering to compete with one another, can you trust that they're providing objective accounts of whatever they happen to be disseminating?

Couldn't the various senior editors simply get together for the weekend and come up with a specific focus that their employees would then have to concentrate on in order to present a particularized slice of subjective dubious truth?

If there are only a handful of news outlets and tens of thousands of people want the extremely limited positions, doesn't conformity override independence after an initial dazzling display?

And don't journalists desperate to hold on to their jobs feel more willing to abide by the dictates of a tiny cadre of editors, if there are no other jobs available and independence is judged anathema?

Isn't that totalitarianism cloaked in objective truth, with a monopoly on public opinion that's generally left unchecked?

Doesn't bold risk taking and daring investigative journalism suffer within such an unchallenged hegemonic filtered narrow environment?

Isn't it more likely that the best journalists won't find jobs since they're more likely to possess a dynamic independent spirit?

Won't they be more likely to start thousands of independent websites across the country multivariably focused on examining local daily news?

And won't their voices seem more authentic than a unilateral team which can't question its own institution without risking ostracization?

Won't both sides call each other fake and won't everything seem preposterous as they clash to the point where nonsense starts to seem meaningful?

Has this already happened?

Am I way off here?

Sabita naifu

Witnesses to a crime must choose between cash and conscience, the police desperate to find a witness, the killer flagitiously roaming free.

There's more accommodation than you might expect but not if greed recklessly overflows, grievous tests of heinous hang-ups begetting morose mortal woes. 

The initial crime is callously compounded by further murderous malfeasance, as it becomes apparent that the very same culprit also terminated innocent true love.

When the bereaved forsakenly discovers the rampant illicit carnage, he sets off to furiously avenge his unsuspecting humble sweetheart.

It's much easier to suddenly confront higher-ups in this old school style of film, and soon an extended street fight reminds one of The Quiet Man or They Live. 

But by the belligerent declarative end it becomes despondently clear, that another is responsible heretofore delegating unscathed.

The despondent lover resolutely agrees to help the local constabulary, as does another witness who is soon grimly betrayed.

A crooked counsel distressfully dissembling is soon caught by just repose.

But can his intel make amends?

As righteousness implodes.

Modest nondescript bold filmmaking jurisprudently avails within, as corruption and rehabilitation mutually balliset unhinged.

Imposed amoral mechanization confronts conscientious betrayal, as upright balanced codes of conduct disenchantingly detect treachery.

Suppose that's the way things go as cultures cultivate civilization, alternative visions boisterously clashing swathed in disconsolate ideological conflict.

Those who enjoy the conflict chaotically prosper beyond reason, irreconcilable institutional sophistries ensuring unconcerned abstract elevations.

In the artistic realm such elevations make for compelling books, Proust et les signes (Deleuze) for instance which isn't too abstruse.

In politics however you would hope one outlook doesn't govern inherent multiplicities, unless such a viewpoint encourages multicultural lateral growth and inclusive sustainable employment (or there's a pandemic on and people need to wear masks, stick close to home, and social distance, in order to avoid catching and then spreading a deadly virus).

Too bad mutually constructive lateral growth so often gives way to imperial ambitions.

I'd rather chill in Parc Jeanne-Mance myself.

iTunes music.

Microbrasserie du Lac-Saint-Jean. 

Ripley's Game

Hardboiled sociopath Tom Ripley (John Malkovich) has moved to the peaceful suburbs, where he's intent on making friends, even taking the time to show up at social gatherings, playfully evoking gentility. 

At one such gathering however, a neighbour starts to confidently ridicule him, unaware that he's in the room, and listening with disaffection. 

Not one to let things go, the next time he's propositioned to commit murder, he remembers his unprovoked disparagement, and conceives a wicked plan.

He knows his unsuspecting assailant is terminally ill and could use good news on the home front, so he suggests that his underground contact asks him to commit the murder instead.

In exchange, a meeting with a coveted specialist will be serendipitously set up, where perhaps the new diagnosis will ease his family's despair.

He reluctantly agrees and soon it's off for feisty Berlin, where he timorously performs his newfound duty to his target's mortal chagrin.

But round 2 proves more of a challenge so Mr. Ripley lends a hand.

Where he makes a critical error.

And an unexpected friend.

A fictional glimpse into high functioning psychosis, Ripley's Game lacks ethical cohesion, everything passing by so quickly that morality languishes in ruin.

It's still an intriguing film controversially abounding with radical conscience, like a theatrical response to a philosophical question no ethicist ever thought to ask.

Ripley considers himself charming and likes to indulge in pretentious luxury, yet hasn't lost the quotidian touch which helped him amass his modest fortune.

He's like a jealous predator who sadistically taunts through practical experiment, and if his victims react with flexible accord he learns to cherish them like age old friends.

These friends become intoxicated with the shocking amoral venom, and lose sight of peaceful rationalities as the complacency consumes them.

A chilling examination of untethered ambition monstrously aligned with lavish desire, not entirely lacking in remorse, like a tiger seeking ardent companionship. 

Everything's a logical puzzle requiring a fresh improvised solution.

Like haunting impulsive calculation. 

Devoid of wholesome life. 

Skylines

An alien/human hybrid lives nonchalantly off the grid, remorse constricting personal ambitions, due to a failure to act in battle.

She's diligently sought after however à cause de her extraterrestrial expertise, a new mission having been spearheaded to search for booty on an alien homeworld.

A war was fought between human and alien in the not so distant past, from which terrans emerged victorious, the military mind still engaging recalibrated hypotheticals as it worries about the future.

After the war, abundant alien pilots were freed from coerced somnambulism, making their home on planet Earth thereafter, perhaps fighting to protect animal rights.

But a virus is transforming them back into mindless grasping automatons, who rile and ravage everything they see, in chaotic grand decrepitude. 

Rose (Lindsey Morgan) accepts the mission and soon it's off to the far reaches of space, her compatriots bluntly unveiling envy, while wondering if she'll freeze once more.

But something much more sinister is recklessly salvaged after they furiously crash land, embittered genocidal knowledge which facilitates lofty commands.

Will they outwit Deep Space Nine's Alexander Siddig (Radford) in time to stop the raging pandemic?

Or will coldhearted unaccommodating vengeance seal the fate of millions?

It's emphatic fast-paced sci-fi abounding with hyperreactive apocalyptic import, scene after scene fuelling kinetic reconnaissance through altruistic embellished endeavour.

Astronomical odds extenuating precision displaced diasporas conceived reconciliation, the low budget spirit ascending judiciously through wave upon wave of nimble creation.

Perhaps somewhat too catastrophic inasmuch as genocide is always distasteful, the grim sadistic paranoid leadership unimpressed with interspecial acculturations. 

Nuclear strikes etcetera aren't well-timed with the current political climate, since just a short time ago disarmament goals were radically scoffed at.

Nevertheless, it is just a film operating outside political theatre, perhaps still commentating on jingoistic pretensions in order to encourage less destructive initiatives. 

In fact in the final moments political prisoners are discovered and their release encouraged, a collection of soulful dissenting voices who vigorously critiqued warlike passions.

Cool sci-fi thoughtfully nurturing multilateral collegiality. 

We can think the same way about animals.

And bring those on the brink back from extinction. 

Return to Oz

After having returned from Oz, little Dorothy is having trouble sleeping, her parents believing the care for her insomnia lies in electric shock therapy.

She's transported to a local institution hell bent on legitimizing experimental theory, the radical idea no doubt having been spearheaded by bored opportunistic sadists.

Another patient warns her of the horrors and they make a dashing escape together, during a forbidding storm no less, the "doctors" trailing in hot pursuit.

Dorothy awakes the next haunting morning to find herself having returned to Oz, amidst a lugubrious transformation ill-disposed to posit welcome.

She's remembered with distraught reverence by the absolutists who have brought about ruin, and as she attempts to discover what's happened tribulation maniacally sets in.

Fortunately, she quickly makes friends who are none too fond of totalitarianism, and seek to assist her altruistic endeavours to facilitate reanimated prosperity (I am not saying the COVID-19 measures in Canada are totalitarian. I support them and the ways in which they will save the lives of frontline workers).

But an evil queen and gnome king flourish in the bland malaise.

The bourgeoisie having been crushed.

Along with craft and celebration.

A bit of a puzzle as to how Walt Disney gave this idea the green light, why did executives think the sequel to a cherished family classic should be cultivated through mass depression?

The Wizard of Oz was once perhaps the most popular film, and it festively aired every year on television, even 40 years later in my youth, it was still mesmerizingly reverberating.

Why then did Disney decide to produce a calamitous morose successor, Dorothy has only aged 6 months, and has yet to be tested by practical independence?

From the point of view of teasing or distressing mad comedy it indubitably succeeds, bizarro decisions blended with inane guidance through the art of dysfunctional aneurism. 

It's just so strange to see Disney emphatically promoting what's usually reserved for art house mischief.

No Cowardly Lion, no Tin Man, hardly any Scarecrow, sure let's make a sequel without them!

It's like Newt and Hicks perishing before the beginning of Alien 3.

Instead there's a decapitated moose who talks, a wise robot, a pumpkin man, and a chicken (no Toto in Oz).

Perfect for cynical head wounds.

Otherwise somewhat dismal. 

The NeverEnding Story II: The Next Chapter

*This applies more to my haphazard analysis of American politics.

One of the cool elements of a democracy is that it encourages the development of a multiplicity of voices, the cultivation of sundry alternatives to the heroic master narrative.

It doesn't seek to eclipse the heroic narrative but rather to promote less ra ra alternatives, in order to represent the millions of people who aren't engaged in epic quests.

I suppose this goes without saying but it seems like populists are seeking to reinvent the wheel, as if the heroic narrative was somehow in danger of suddenly disappearing.

I like the application of heroics to humdrum daily life, through the application of general comedic agency and particular tragic commitment, for to deny epic possibility to random modest chill existence, is to foolishly underestimate sociocultural potential, and overlook vast compelling markets (see The Lord of the Rings).

I may prefer to watch a film like Museum Hours, but I still enjoy watching Iron Man or Thor, which unfortunately leaves me on the fringes since so many people prefer one style to the other.

But if you can balance the divergent approaches you can cater to so many different preferences, and perhaps avoid wild confrontation by fulfilling manifold desires.

Snobs digress erroneously by dismissing so many things, and creating categorical prejudices which designate them undesirable.

For so many of these things are culturally celebrated by people who don't wish to be dismissed (I don't really care), or made to feel inadequate because they simply don't like serious drama.

It's just the application of equality to widespread divergent artistic tastes, which seems anathema to elitist snobs who often advocate for greater equality (see life).

It wouldn't be much of an issue if millions of people weren't rallying behind the populists, and creating a vast absolutist network of alternative facts on social media.

Such bizarro alternative reckonings shouldn't be dismissed, they're much too powerful, but rather ways should be found to rework them from within based upon probable fact and reason (like robust dynamic schools).

You see they've created new definitions for "fact" and alternative conceptions of "reason" which they uphold without any evidence in order to pursue a dismissed agenda.

Because mainstream discourse has dismissed them they've found outlets to spread their discontent.

Unless both sides are willing to relax passionately upheld categorical prejudices, the situation could become much worse as The Social Dilemma postulates.

I hope it doesn't descend into one strictly policing the other (unless there are acts of violence).

Brute force is so much less convincing.

Reimagine the emptiness, like The NeverEnding Story II.

Turner & Hooch

A fussy cop works a small town beat in tune with blasé predictable rhythms, everything filed in fortune frisked throughout the flogged fastidious day (Tom Hanks as Scott Turner). 

He's put in for a transfer however to the less familiar big city, and only has a week to go before he makes the shocking move.

But as he prepares to daringly depart a close friend is suddenly murdered, his dog left with nowhere to go if Turner doesn't take him in.

The case offers an enticing break from traditional misdemeanours, albeit fraught with potent woe tragic discourse bitter reckoning.

The dog's a resounding wrecking ball who is unaccustomed to disciplined order, his instinctual rambunctuosity bold and playful yet borderline chaotic.

Turner may be uptight but he's still a gamer and willing to go with the flow, Hooch even accompanying him to work where he quickly generates voyeuristic leads.

Turner may have been ill-prepared for the sudden distressing ill-composed calamity, but his resilient know-how and clever insights make up for the lack of precedent.

Of course, it's first and foremost a dog/cop movie wherein which the canine endearingly wreaks havoc, absurd laughs and heartfelt hyperbole overwhelming the practical element.

In fact adult me noticed the time and thought, "the film's more than half way through and they haven't even started investigating!", but then I remembered that such concerns made no impact as a child as long as they were dealt with in due time.

Turner & Hooch is certainly much less radical than K-9 and also more plausible and collegial to boot, the two forging a bizarro hands-on synthesis if viewed late at night in close succession.

While K-9 upholds improbability with frenetic freeform frenzied excess, T & H celebrates moderate logic as it's applied to bucolic metamorphosis. 

You might think it's just a silly dog movie best reserved for ages 5 to 10, but Tom Hanks by no means dismissed it and delivered an incredible performance considering.

The flexible ways in which he resoundingly reacts to scenes where it's just him and a dog, demonstrate so much otherworldly multidimension that I was instantly reminded of Kyle Lowry. 

I guess you can't make films like these with cats but that shouldn't prevent people from trying, perhaps not just one cat but several and a plot to prevent the subversion of independent theatre.

They do a lot more with Hooch than Jerry Lee not that they both don't have their moments.

I don't know if they were released by rival studios.

But they both came out in 1989.

With Reginald VelJohnson (David Sutton) and Craig T. Nelson (Chief Hyde).  

K-9

A lone cop impulsive and independent seeks to take down a well-heeled ne'er-do-well, who's aware of his unorthodox sleuthing, yet unable to conceal his villainy. 

Dooley (Jim Belushi) proceeds unabashed concerned with neither foresight nor self-preservation, driven solely to uphold the law, he fiercely asserts zealous wild dedication.

K-9 lauds improper procedure and lacks the prudent planning often found in cop films, taking an uncompromised and headstrong approach stubbornly cultivated by just gut instinct.

Its protagonist may be prone to do-gooding.

But his heroics overlook bad lieutenants. 

He's assisted by a dog (Rando as Jerry Lee) who's none too friendly and engages in acts of maligned disobedience, the two forging a reluctant partnership as Dooley moves closer to making his bust.

The partnership intuitively collaborates with ill-mannered ornery obtuse dispositions, Dooley reining in a kindred spirit while still ignoring everything else people say.

Exasperation irreverently railing.

Aggrieved comic quirks, bizarro urban westerns. 

I suppose there will always be a market for audacious rash decision making, which cuts through the bureaucratic rigamarole and produces instantaneous potent results.

In a film or book on the weekend, to escape strategic planning, cautiously employing corporate totalitarianism, it's fun to watch as improvisation prevails, as stilted principles flail to adapt.

Most people aren't CEOs and many still dream of comparable autonomy. 

I don't myself although people think I do at least I've never wanted to be the boss, although to make more money I've had to accept responsibilities which were at times rewarding.

K-9 perhaps isn't the greatest dog/cop film although it courageously perseveres, with Ed O'Neill (Brannigan) and Pruitt Taylor Vince (Benny the Mule) delivering brief entertaining performances.

There isn't much point in critiquing it again although it's kind of funny when you sit back and think about it, how many millions are spent on a daily basis by people who don't seem to know what they're doing?

Well spent.

But here I risk engaging in snobbery for K-9 indubitably found its market, and if it has many loyal fans out there, I can't accuse its creators of negligence.

Multidisciplinary markets.

I've had worse films recommended. 

When given an opportunity, make the most of it.

Lofty pretensions be damned!

Ansiktet (The Magician)

A different time, a feudal age, wherein which independent theatre was severely scrutinized, authoritative sadists ridiculing mystery applying cold-hearted principles to magical daring, inspired performance requiring sanction to entertain through fascination, the hard work sarcastically ignored the illusions castigated.

A tortured artist once proud of his talents travels from town to town, awaiting dismissive observations and outright refusals from obtuse officials. 

Happiness has been transformed into resigned melancholia, for even though he possesses great talent he's governed by austerity. 

Audiences wish to be amused by his tricks as he conjures and casts and calibrates, the integrity of seamless illusion widely sought after from age to age.

Star Trek may have never prospered.

There's no telling what would have become of vampires and werewolves.

The horrors of absolute control.

Far too concerned with practical reason.

It's not that practical reason is in itself a bad thing in fact it's obviously essential to daily life, the smooth flowing of robust commerce dependent upon its logical reckoning.

Practical film and reasonable books also generate compelling ideas, which fruitfully encourage thought and invention leading to progress and even more comfort.

But there's only so much rationality a person can take after working all week and taking care of a family, and if everything has a utilitarian purpose it may seem like work never ends.

Efficacious totalitarianism has no doubt spoiled many a relaxing weekend.

Comedy and the genres presenting absurd breaks.

Which congenially deconstruct obsession. 

Best if they don't get the upper hand either of course, surrealism best reserved for relaxed play, after work when there's nothing left to do but chill out sit back and dream.

Albert Emanuel Vogler cheats his haughty oppressors through an exceptional act of improvised dissimulation, their resultant angst increased ten-fold by the sudden news that they've been outdriven.

And a brilliant smile adorns Vogler's face as he prepares to perform once again.

The melancholia temporarily subsiding. 

As the middle-class emerges. 

Nattvardsgästerna (Winter Light)

I suppose when you're happy doing your own thing and you've generally created spiritually enriching films, according to improvised guidelines which imaginatively mutated over time, it may at some point occur to you to direct the saddest most despondent film ever conceived, to make a distressing point cloaked in sheer austere lugubrity. 

Pushing things past the strictly solemn to approach rarefied uncompromised misery, Ingmar Bergman's Nattvardsgästerna (Winter Light) distills utter complete hopelessness. 

It's unfortunate to shyly say that the lack of hope is derived from honesty, from a pressurized irreconcilable desire to share one's thoughts with imposing candour. 

Does such a truthful need reflect genuine social lucidity, inasmuch as the ability to freely express oneself is oft admired and sincerely celebrated?

Is the sharing of doubts and misgivings not encouraged by different cultures, to avoid pent up obtuse hardheartedness followed by shocking emotional explosions?

In Nattvardsgästerna, the individual under examination occupies a prominent position however, and people look to him for strength in difficult times of spiritual stress.

When he makes his own lack of faith apparent and expresses it with candid levity, the results are completely disastrous for his diminutive humble flock.

He attempts to ease troubled minds by modestly employing frank concern, but misjudges tortured temperaments who were seeking guidance not familiarity. 

The cultivation of ideals thus receives distraught import, through morose unrestrained melancholia blindly abandoning its lofty discourse.

It's an extreme example sheltered in woebegone obfuscation, utilizing provocative misjudgment to comment upon mortality.

If you could approach every social interaction like a French judge interpreting the Civil Code, socially, not judicially, each interaction adapted to specific circumstances, then perhaps through lauded perspicuity you could efficiently prescribe communal medication (one case at a time).

Populism has wildly challenged the establishment of wise decision making however, through realistic democratic loopholes which instinctually bewilder.

Those occupying positions of power must proceed confidently nevertheless.

As alternative rationalities clash and codify.

A bleak film.

Disposed noblesse. 

Rosewood

An affluent stranger arrives in town perhaps intent on settling (Ving Rhames as Mann), a veteran of World War I who's fed up with violent chaos.

He proceeds with reservation meeting many people without saying much, his experience far too disconcerting to suddenly chill unbound and trusting.

In a neighbouring laidback town two lovers meet for an assignation, the aftermath extremely cold as toxic masculinity furiously erupts. 

Her face is bruised and battered and can't be hidden from her timid husband, so she runs out into the quiet streets to proclaim she's been assaulted by an African American.

Her white assailant visits a local black homestead in case hounds are roused to follow him, as her story enflames racist tensions and a mob gathers seeking vengeance. 

The residents of the African American town misjudge the situation, since they've lived there in prosperous peace for amicable generations.

The stranger quickly departs but bigots head out in hot pursuit, while the mob descends with unleashed fury and women and children flee to surrounding swamps.

He returns to assist and guide but it's too late for the honest town.

But a local shopkeep keeps his head.

And brings an engine round.

Many of the women and children escape but the cultural damage is done, no reparations or retribution for the innocent victims of terror.

According to Posse and 19th century chronicles this was by no means an isolated incident, as hard fought freedoms were vigorously asserted within a climate of grand dismissal.

It's beyond depressing to sadly think about how racist pretensions never faded, or how over a hundred years after the American Civil War they still persist with blunt derision.

Aren't the regions where they still culturally persist still economically disadvantaged, with overflowing prisons and lacklustre public institutions and the majority of the wealth possessed by an elite few (see The Spirit Level: Why Equality is Better for Everyone as I've mentioned before)?

Rosewood highlights the insanity associated with passionate hatreds, the lack of rational thought applied when zealous fervour actively pontificates.

Seeing disproven conspiracy theories proliferate in the current bizarro reckless public sphere, people drinking bleach and attacking pizza parlours, is disheartening to say the least.

When I was younger there was a much stronger emphasis on fact based evidence and journalistic integrity.

Not to mention public education.

Which hopefully isn't being replaced by YouTube videos. 

Posse

Sentenced to life in the military, a soldier reacts intuitively driven (Mario Van Peebles as Jesse Lee), his services valued depended upon exploited, the situation coercive, treacherous, untenable.

He's tasked with covert ops requiring stealthy habitual concealment, to disrupt an antagonistic supply chain, and secure chip chop munitions.

But as the mission proceeds uninhibited a coveted chest of gold is detected, and it becomes clear they'll be betrayed by those seeking ill-gotten enrichment.

Another battle is fought from which he escapes with the gold and his life, plus a dedicated resilient crew, and a plan to return home unscathed. 

He's followed by his former commander (Billy Zane) who's aware of his path however, but through tenacious nerve and reservéd foresight he's able to avoid ballistic conflict.

He's headed back to the scene of a crime which saw an honest man outrageously cut down, for wondrously sharing a peaceful dream freely envisioned by many others.

He seeks vengeance for the racist wrongdoing for the coldhearted dismal injustice, even though things have generally settled down and his former love interest misses him dearly (Salli Richardson-Witfield as Lana). 

But the guilty derelict perpetrators raise the alarm upon hearing he's returned.

Just as the former commander arrives.

High-stakes ferocious westerns.

Posse presents preponderant perdition incredible acts of racist abuse, how could things have deteriorated so much, in a country celebrated for widespread freedom?

The posse itself is an innovative eclective prone to cohesion and uniform rigour, embracing difficult choices through courageous wherewithal as they're left with no other options.

The films adds enviable depth of character as they fight their way countering insurmountable odds, playful breaks and solemn flourishes peppered throughout the cataclysmic forays.

Existence is a wonderful thing and laissez-faire socioeconomic spirits augment it, if power and control leave you paranoid is it not better to persist less emphatically?

Or to let communities peacefully develop according to the same sets of laws, the same initiatives and opportunities that enable so much constructive thought?

Why would any country want overflowing prisons and general pugnacious unrest?

The answer to that question's mind-boggling.

When compared to productive alternatives. 

*Loved this film in my youth. It made a big impact (made me hate systemic racism).

Finding 'Ohana

A trip to Hawaii, to settle in with the fam, who's been sorely missed for the past decade, yet is still just as feisty as ever.

Leilani (Kelly Hu) moved away to New York shortly after her second child was born, embracing hectic traversed transformation, and acculturated distinct juxtaposition. 

Not that bad of a situation albeit fraught with geographical discord, the best of both worlds occasionally accessible, even if her children have trouble adjusting.

They're used to an accelerated pace innately attuned to unexpected variability, and although the countryside offers accredited novelty, Pili (Kea Peahu) and Ioane (Alex Aiono) still crave extrapolation. 

Fortunately, Pili discovers an old journal chronicling the history of legendary treasure, and after effortlessly making a new friend (Owen Vaccaro as Casper), has soon borrowed a vehicle in headstrong pursuit.

Her brother soon learns of their plan and after acquiring the aid of a new acquaintance (Lindsay Watson as Hana), proceeds to follow them with grouchy intent, eventually finding them in the depths of a cave.

They must sleuth and search synergistically if they're to locate the vast booty however, while bearing in mind additional myths which may complicate tonal procedures.

Gramps (Branscombe Richmond) and mom worry at a bright local hospital after the children cannot be found.

As New York and Hawaii unite.

Adventurous forays unbound.

Energetically disseminating bold exposition and grievous error, Finding 'Ohana ebullionly excavates inquisitive confident reverent equipoise. 

Character intergenerationally flourishes upon ancestral lands, disputes familially interlocking ignored free-spirited commands.

The family within is a striking example of innovative postmodern Indigenous peoples, many of whom work within the dominant discourse without having sacrificed code or tradition.

The film's generally light of heart even if its subject matter could have been much more solemn, several disheartening economic and spiritual realities endemically generating enlivened enterprise.

The voyage interrogates ecstatic endeavour in order to emphasize austere imposition, without losing sight of the playful innocence naturally embraced by active minds.

A campy blend of enlightened spirits temporally tempered and passionately gaged, Finding 'Ohana revels in multidisciplinary archaeologies at wondrous impacting play.

Genealogical. 

______ wishes.  

Penguin Bloom

Tragedy strikes a loving family on an adventurous trip to foreign lands, as a wooden railing suddenly breaks and then leads to partial paralysis.

Mrs. Bloom (Naomi Watts) is none too impressed and struggles to adjust to immobile life, her husband and children also uncertain as to how to convalescently proceed.

One day at a time piecemeal slowly developing compensating characteristics, the shocking disheartening unknown tumultuously traversed resiliently reconciled.

But there's a long natural stasis throughout which catalyzed incentives fail to materialize, ineffable qualms maddening frustrations routine resignation nihilistic necessity.

Until one day little Noah (Griffin Murray-Johnston/Essi Murray-Johnston) brings home an injured bird, who was in the sights of a hungry lizard before he was miraculously saved.

The magpie is criticized at first due to its wild habitual shenanigans, but as time passes his industrious resonance endearingly charters soulful serenity.

Mrs. Bloom grows less weary and even takes on kayaking, and as her children joyously revel in her recrudescence, the magpie gradually learns to take flight.

It's a charming heartfelt enlightened illustration of resurgent life, a family coming to terms with calamity as newfound hope rapturously reckons.

It doesn't whitewash the depression nor overlook the corresponding despondency, the resultant gritty reanimate life all the more compelling in its vital complexity.

The fam is patient and understanding and they progress as a supportive team, friends stopping by to altruistically aid through the art of cohesive community.

Penguin Bloom also excels at heuristically highlighting the tender benefits of resplendent pets, who spiritually heal downtrodden fortunes as they effortlessly bark, mew, and wag.

Or chirp in this airborne instance in Penguin's caring awkward stride, how did they accumulate so many cute scenes?, at times I thought Penguin was a robot (say "no" to pet robots!).

Cool to see Naomi Watts back at it she shows up in so many cool films, an impressive diverse array of characters snuggly embowered in eclectic environs. 

I think she deserves more recognition, she's performed so well in so many films, unless she's happy doing the independent thing, throw in Hawke and Dern imagine the Criterion!

Penguin Bloom's pretty cool too, Netflix is rockin' it, so good to see.

Nice to see hopeful family films sometimes, especially when they integrate animal friends. 

My Brilliant Career

Ill-equipped for traditional confined pastoral life, an independent headstrong maiden habitually engenders conflict, composed in daydream resilient reverie off-kilter audacious autumnal resolve, she challenges presumed propriety through bold recourse to undaunted vigour (Judy Davis as Sybylla Melvyn).

Warning signs abound and she's critiqued with chagrined austerity, the counsel sympathetic yet hardhearted clad in strict coattail admonishment. 

She listens with feisty disbelief somewhat respectful, rather dismissive, her determined insurmountable spirit soulful sprightly stern and striking.

Ill-amused with worldly prejudice concerning sedate superficial aesthetics, she excites through rapt improvisation and presents provocative enticing gambits.

Two men fall for her inspired enchantments even though she's aloof, uninterested, radiating tantalizing unconcern with natural grace and uncanny dignity. 

She likes one of them, however (Sam Neill as Harry Beecham), yet still can't respond to his sincere affection, her dreams far too intense and enlivening to settle for domestic rations.

Yet frontier economics destabilize her multifaceted salient repose, and unfortunate concrete necessity leads to unexpected unnerving circumstances.

The dream perseveres throughout, as she adjusts to working life.

Her awestruck suitor doesn't forget her.

As she contends in the startling Outback.

Who's to say what path to follow how things will end up what will pass along the way?, Sybylla finds literary success as do many others the world loves good books.

If you aren't that concerned with recognition it's easy not to be disappointed, if you're happy with the material you come up with and aren't consumed by envy, you should be fine.

In Search of Lost Time offers ample support for any artist who likes doing their own thing, manifold praise for uncelebrated artistic endeavour can be found peppered throughout the different volumes.

I diligently tried to follow the conflicting advice I was presented with in my youth, but could never really make sense of it, always knew I didn't posses the right psychology.

Perhaps it's better if you aren't consistently bombarded with different compelling visions, Sybylla doesn't have online access, she just has books to read in the country.

I've always liked the chaos though, the general wide-eyed spontaneous diversity.

Frenetic flux frenzied fixation.

A wonderful film.

An animate must see.

Long Weekend

Throughout my life, my family has encouraged a healthy love of nature, whether it be a walk through the woods or intensive birdwatching, a love of heartfelt naturalistic programming, or even camping whenever visiting large cities in Canada and Québec or the U.S (you save a fortune); there's always been an environmental edge to our various activities that's cultivated a robust admiration for the great outdoors, with which I've tried to interact to the best of my abilities, by writing hundreds of films reviews and poems in parks and forests.

Montréal's parks are great for nature lovers and give residents ample opportunity to briefly forget the city (Jeanne-Mance, Jarry, La Fontaine, Jean-Drapeau . . .), or easily recapture that emancipating feeling one often gets laidback in the woods.

Plus you can head out for lunch shortly afterwards or just wander around at random. Can't wait til this pandemic's over. I hear they've already vaccinated more than 40 million people in the United States. 

In most parts of Canada and Québec you have to put up with a long winter, but this keeps the population small, and ensures abundant space for the lazy days of Summer.

Plus, venomous snakes and spiders seem to generally dislike the cold, so our forests aren't as dangerous, although you have to watch out for ticks and bears.

Apart from polar bears, however, bears are generally harmless, predominantly omnivorous in fact, although you should still always keep your distance, since you never really know what they'll do.

I've read several books about bears anyways (The Sacred Paw, Bears: An Altitude SuperGuide, The Blue Bear: A True Story of Friendship and Discovery in the Alaskan Wild, Grizzlyville, Shadow of the Bear: Travels in Vanishing Wilderness . . . ), and they all highlight the generally peaceful nature of bears, but they still do attack at times, so it's best to always keep your distance.

I wonder what the island of Montréal was like on first contact and how many bears used to live there. There must be old studies from the 18th or 19th centuries at the BAnQ. Someday I'll have the time. 

Long Weekend takes place in Australia and sees a married couple head off to the woods, disputes regarding their destination abounding even though it's clearly incredible once they get there.

Unfortunately for them, however, nature is rather irritated by their recreational presence, and assails them throughout their visit, more intensely after they start to fight back.

It's somewhat ridiculous to curiously watch as opossums bite and birds swoop with ill-intent, special effects would have greatly enhanced Long Weekend's trepidation, although I imagine it was cutting edge at the time.

It's not meant to be a comedy but may have benefitted through recourse to the ludicrous, there's a little bit too much sincere improbability to take without a grain of disingenuous salt.

Worth watching for a taste of the bizarro, nevertheless, wildly crafted with frights Down Under.

I wonder what Australia was like on first contact.

So many new species unlike anything Europeans had ever seen.  

Amistad

The 19th century.

A group of slaves being transported at sea courageously revolts and takes control of the vessel.

Unfamiliar with nautical logistics, they rely on two former captors to sycophantically steer, but weeks later provisions grow slim, and they're forced to gather fresh supplies on land.

They weren't being led back to Africa as promised, and are soon detected by the American navy, who imprisons them as runaway slaves, thinking their bondage was secured legally.

At the time, Britain has nobly outlawed slavery but Spain still permits human trafficking, the Spanish crown seeking to reobtain what it claims is its property, the Americans confused by conflicting demands.

If the individuals whose freedom has been denied turn out to have been born in a Spanish country, they then belong to the Spanish crown, or the scoundrels who acquired them on its behalf, and, unfortunately, there's little the abolitionists can do.

But since they were illegally obtained in Africa their rights to freedom have been scurrilously denied.

But their lawyer needs to prove they came from Africa.

And he can't speak their language.

It takes quite some time in fact before they find someone who can, and even with the reliable African testimony, the Africans still have to prove their innocence three times.

Amistad covers a lot of ground as it champions liberty and freedom, intertwining multiple diverse threads as it weaves a compelling plot.

The independence of the American courts is analyzed through political intrigue, since the freedom of the wrongfully enslaved Africans will enrage the American South.

President Van Buren (Nigel Hawthorne) is worried about losing the next election, but also about starting a civil war, so he interferes behind the scenes, although he thankfully can't guarantee specific outcomes.

The abolitionists approach Christianity with open-minded considerate impacts, religion at times an instrument of persecution, here it pursues social justice.

Amistad is at its best as lawyer Roger Sherman Baldwin (Matthew McConaughey) gets to know his clients, notably the feisty Cinque (Djimon Hounsou), who led the sublime revolt in question.

As they slowly learn to communicate a world of enriching ideas opens up, Baldwin interested in learning about African customs, Cinque generally frustrated by appellate courts.

Kindness and understanding guide Amistad's resiliency, as it concentrates on compassionate endeavours, interwoven into a practical dynamic.

Its graphic depiction of slavery's innate horrors encourage impassioned just pursuits.

Difficult to imagine anyone could have ever treated people that way.

Amistad successfully assails such injustice.

*Billions of animals still suffer from much worse circumstances around the world. The abuse inflicted is horrifying. I'm glad so many people are trying to change things.

In the Heat of the Night

An honest cop, possessing advanced skills sought after expertise, awaits a train in the middle of the night, unaware a murder has been committed. 

He's been visiting family in the area, and is hoping to travel north, but the local police are searching for culprits, and the colour of his skin makes him a prime suspect.

Difficult to imagine how something as harmless as the colour of someone's skin, could result in so much injustice, so much fear, so much confusion.

Can you remember when you were really young and there were just assortments of different people, and the colour of their skin meant nothing, as it hopefully still does, they were just people, some dark, some light?

Long before disreputable influences tried to ignorantly promote racist ideologies, that have no basis in fact, and encourage violent rather than peaceful communities, wasn't it just cool that some people were black, some white, some brown, some Asian?

And so on.

There were babysitters, classmates, local shopkeepers, friends, nothing mattered but what they had to say, or didn't if they were quiet and thoughtful, a world free from distressing prejudice.

Doesn't the breaking down of barriers encourage more productive collegial thought, as a wide spectrum of compelling ideas resultantly considers and complements diversity?

Isn't it fascinating to learn new things and don't racist ideologies prevent the flourishing of ideas, the development of new technologies, the cultivation of art and sport?

Isn't it preferable to visit every neighbourhood in a community without the fear of confrontation, isn't it preferable to feel safe wherever you go wherever you happen to live?

That's been my general experience in Canada and Québec and I imagine it's the same in large swathes of continental Europe. It's tough to imagine cities with neighbourhoods you simply don't visit, because segregation has become cultural.

Biden and Harris are fighting it anyways and millions of other constructive Americans, as Virgil Tibbs (Sidney Poitier) does in In the Heat of the Night, with assuréd courageous confidence.

He's taken into the local police station where they're surprised to find out he's a cop, who specializes in homicide, and can help them find the killer.

He ignores the racial tension and rigorously applies himself, with such tenacious freedom that Chief Bill Gillespie (Rod Steiger) fears for his life.

Gillespie adds a lot as someone who would likely push for reform, if he wasn't alone and isolated, if he had a network, friends, community.

He recognizes how essential Tibbs is even if he fears the repercussions, and that it's not the colour of one's skin which determines competence, but the ways in which people proactively apply themselves.

Racism was fought so actively in my youth In the Heat of the Night became a TV show, it's been incredibly depressing for the last 5 years to see racism reemerge with political support.

In the U.S.

It's simply never made sense to me, why would people brazenly ignore fact and science?

Doesn't every religion support peaceful communal development?

Regardless of ethnicity or race?

It's one of the most old school ideas.

Generally free of charge.

Hospitable and chill, calm, constructive.

Open-minded.

Edifying.

The Last Unicorn

A lone unicorn forages in her forest (Mia Farrow), rather peaceful and unaware, as two hunters ride by attentively, distraught yet boastful as they search in vain.

But they converse as they critique their fortunes and unicorn listens closely, only to discover she's the last of her kind, should their bold declarations prove to be true.

Then accidentally, shortly thereafter, a boisterous butterfly stops by to say, "hello"(Robert Klein), full of song, rhyme, lyric, and flutter, composed through verbose disorientation.

Unicorn expresses her discontent with butterfly but still asks if she's the last of her kind, and he eventually presents a statement that's less befuddling if not still indirect.

Consequently, equipped with legendary knowledge and the passion to expedite change, she ventures forth in search of the Red Bull who has cruelly cloistered her fellow immortals.

Unaccustomed to questing or the world beyond her forested domain, she soon finds herself trapped by a witch and suddenly showcased in a travelling sideshow (Angela Lansbury). 

But also within the witch's employ is Schmendrick the Magician who's grown rather frustrated (Alan Arkin), not only with his position but with his fickle powers as well.

He's able to see the unicorn, her innate magic isn't hidden from view, he feels sad, he helps her escape, they move forward together, with undaunted high hopes.

A world of riddles and cryptic bemusement playfully yet hauntingly awaits, as a decrepit castle and its melancholic ruler guard a wicked age old secret (Christopher Lee). 

In terms of magic, The Last Unicorn bedazzles through charming character enchantingly invested, the narrative's music, romance, and import conjuring eloquent rhythms eclectic.

If legendary genesis never seems quite so lofty at the time of its humble début, its cheeky contemporaries full of suspicion, its requisite quest somewhat less mesmerizing, then any legend can take on the visions of a disgruntled merrymaking present, and a timeless quality effortlessly emerges, as ahistorical, as it is wise.

Thus, The Last Unicorn, while cultivating agéd times and lands, still resonates with postmodern fortitude, with ancient concurrent melodies.

Is "postmodern" still a synonym for "contemporary", insofar as this has been claimed to be the postmodern age, for some time, an incredibly diverse inclusive metaimpetus 😌, with loopholes outrageously exploited through aggrieved populism?

Nevertheless, I'm resoundingly hopeful that Rankin & Bass's Last Unicorn will endure, I never saw it in my youth, and have watched it twice in recent memory.

The butterfly scene more than that, what a beautiful idea, butterfly and unicorn.

I have seen their Hobbit cartoon several times. But alas. I can no longer find it. 😔  

The Dig

A forthright curious widow seeks to investigate ancient mounds, their presence a striking imaginative catalyst radiating mystery and fascination (Carey Mulligan as Edith Pretty).

A sturdy local excavator well-versed in trowel and spade, is eagerly sought after to conduct the dig personally (Ralph Fiennes as Basil Brown). 

He's archaeologically acclimatized and has learned his trade at home in the field, years of thoughtful constructive labour cultivating multivariable know-how.

He patiently sets to work unaware of what he'll find, it must be exciting to take part in such projects, blind trust generating vision.

He finds something.

It's big. It attracts the attention of the British Museum. Soon his modest dig is a going concern fraught with picturesque potential and rapscallion regard.

Interpersonal dynamics hedge various particular outcomes, love and romance intermingling, along with questions of birth and status.

World War II looms on the horizon with haunting chaotic disregard, members of the dig to be called up, others embracing resignéd sorrow.

It was Basil's work that discovered the treasure yet the upper echelons do not approve, since he's self-taught and lacks social standing, that hasn't been passed down through the haughty ages. 

A solemn film intriguingly attired humble examinations of quote and culture, feminine strength and adroit awareness revealing august historical resolve.

The entrepreneur can attain recognition as his or her sales demonstratively increase, even if they built their business from nothing and had no contacts moving things along (many thanks to the people who like reading me blogs).

Perhaps after they've become established and their determined workforce starts creating new ideas, the CEO or the president may take credit for their marketability.

But in Basil's case (not mine, I'm not playing some metaphorical game, perhaps there are some people who like my writing, that's cool, I'll continue doin' my best within a limited time frame), he was often associated with an institution, who at the time, from what I gather from the film, gave credit for discoveries to whomever was responsible for leading or financing the dig.

It's a simple matter of just creating a list of individuals involved and showcasing it as well in the museum, like film credits. It makes culture much more social. Much less feudally disposed.

But Basil's discovery in The Dig is made while leading his own private excavation, and the higher-ups still refuse to acknowledge him, likely calling him proud for hoping for recognition. 

It's an excellent film first rate drama I was beginning to forget what they're like 😜, I love action-adventure and sci-fi, but they still lack dramatic prestige.

There's nothing quite like sustained stoic resonance sombrely deconstructing perplexing absolutes.

Focused upon will front and centre.

Netflix continues to expand and impress.

*Great performances.

Holiday

Independent unsettled magnetic jocose daring finds itself spontaneously infatuated with amorous resolve.

Unsure as to how to proceed yet abounding with assuréd confidence, he pays a call on his bride to be at her lavish pad in New York City (Cary Grant as Johnny Case).

Where he meets her eccentric family as they prepare to briskly depart, well heeled established variability wry, eclectic, thoughtful, smart.

I suppose the word is dashing he makes a grandiose impression, but he lacks stratospheric censure and old school entrenched connections. 

Pas de problème, paps is unconcerned, assuming he seeks to work, a job readily available should he freely jive besmirched (Henry Kolker as Edward Seton).

But he's more interested in travel, can't engrain the 9 to 5, his fiancé hopes to see him efficaciously prescribed (Doris Nolan as Julia Seton).

Her brother sees things differently even though he lives the life, yet still productively pursues his music every night (Lew Ayres as Ned Seton).

Her sister lives according to a different sketch however, laidback in tune forthrightly groomed for imaginative endeavour (Katharine Hepburn as Linda Seton). 

He can't see straight the bride's irate commitment who's to say?, he plans a trip the jazzy script uncertain rhythmic brave.

It's a light examination of differing industrious proposals, one tied down to a strict routine the other randomly articulated.

Many scenes are spacious sparse straightforward directly focused on something particular, yet still slightly odd and otherworldly subconsciously strewn critically conjured.

Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn take the uncanny blend, and add spirited bold conjecture that creates playful dividends. 

Different backgrounds respectfully exploring mutually constructive staunch alternatives, snobbery generally left behind as curiosity prevails.

A life of unassuming wild free-spirited fun discovery, is cherished courted championed without blinds or cold obstructions.

Money isn't an issue although things are so much more interesting if it never is, no matter how much you have or hope for if you keep things active seraphim.

It's nice to see chill characters in fiction who are so well-suited for one another, overcome learnéd inhibitions and set off for destinations unknown.

If you're searching for a lack of cynicism for something hopeful, joyous, romantic, Holiday genuinely delivers the heartfelt trusting vivacious goods.

I can't recommend a specific path, it depends on what's right for you.

It's still nice to have a multivariable spectrum with so much random conflicting advice. 

Detour

Nestled in an imaginative enclave, precociously performing with enigmatic adrenaline, an artistic couple contemplates progression, alternative gigs, perhaps a move. 

The piano player entertains wedlock and dreams of resonant conjugal consummation, but the singer sets her sights on Hollywood and soon she's hit the road for L.A.

Inclined to romantically subsist on un/conscious conceptions of loyalty and devotion, her distraught beau haplessly hangs on until his presence is one day requested.

But he can't afford a bus ticket so it's time to hitchhike west, a crash course in random interpersonal attentive discourse phased ensuing.

But one of his jaded interlocutors passes away in the forlorn night, and Mr. Roberts (Tom Neal) doesn't know what to do, so he ditches the body, and keeps on drivin'.

He makes it through a routine scan before patiently stopping to shyly gas up, when he notices a wayward belle seeking passage off to the side (Ann Savage as Vera).

Their discussions are initially glib before she ferociously lays it on 'im, she's had a ride in this car before only with a different lonesome driver.

He emphatically insists that he is not a murderous criminal, yet she isn't the trusting kind, even if she doesn't fear for her life.

She's more interested in selling the car and using the money to go shopping, again, and won't let Mr. Roberts slip away or disappear without dire reckoning.

He's as unlucky as they come, prone to grand idealistic reveries, on his own without a network or an institution to back him up.

She swoops in on his fecund fervour and has soon assumed imperial prominence, the two forging an antithetical derelict dismal gender bias.

His hopes to one day wed and settle down and banally intrigue, mutated into anxious suspicions hysterically clad in verbose irritability. 

If looking for rarefied woe lugubriously distilled through befuddled dis/enchantment,  Detour strays from the master narrative to embalm disgruntled folds.

No chummy freewheeling joyrides or clever concise improvised amelioration, just a steady increasingly angst ridden rollout despondently trekked and touring. 

Not sure if you're really that into old school woebegone film noir, but Detour's a crushing exemplar of the disputed genre's disillusioned tropes.

A good book, canned soup, a recital, a walk through the park, a beanbag chair.

Detour revels in maligned microcosm.

Misguided mischief.

Visceral atrophy.

*I don't mean to be so glum, I just like film noir. And Dostoevsky. But I'm also loving Dickens more and more these days. Plus, Biden's administration seems tip top, and mass vaccinations are on the way. It's still the month of February, but positive things are on the horizon. 

The Cobweb

A secluded institution abounding with practical reforms, struggles with its newfound freedoms as competing visions clash.

Responsibility has been encouraged and decision making facilitated, for one learns to productively cooperate by showing respect for individuality.

Two psychiatrists collegially compete to constructively promote level-headed convalescence, their authority granted by a distant board who casually observes on infrequent occasion.

The daily operations are overseen by a self-assured resilient administrator, who's worked there for quite some some time and prefers how things used to be.

At one time management unilaterally decided how to manage and decorate, and freely pursued grand interior design with neither coax nor consultation.

But as democratic reforms have been progressively accepted, patient committees have gained cultural influence, their tastes attempting to diversify integral home decor.

Ms. Inch (Lillian Gish) is restrained yet furious and wishes they could quickly chose then buy new drapes, instead of waiting for collective reckoning to agree upon a course of action.

She also thinks new age liberalities are glibly obstructing bureaucratic efficiencies, and collusively sets about introducing conflict to egalitarian cohesivities uprightly sought.

Thus, as the residents wholesomely discuss the merits of different fashions, the superstructure begins to break down as it tries to coldly reassert itself.

The new age doctor (Richard Widmark as Dr. McIver) stands his ground having devoted his life to his inclusive vision.

Be he spends little time with his family.

And his wife's (Gloria Grahame as Karen) grown rather irritated.

It's a brilliant unaffected microcosm cleverly enacting universal criticism, each character motivated by personal ambition yet frustrated by general resolve.

It's not about making correct decisions although every character maintains unabashed omniscience, but more of an insightful fluid investigation of ideology in political action.

Strengths and weaknesses a chaotic case comedically nurtured and tragically obscured, the perils of professional isolation tasked with self-centred piqued initiative.

The point perhaps may be that if you seek definitive clarification, you'll be frustrated by interpersonal practicality as the level of your commitment increases.

To function you have to go with the flow but to change things you have to innovate, and engrained historical preference will likely resist ethical reforms (even if juxtaposed historical preferences duel in time, as they do in politics).

But if competing ethical intensities become so specified they lose sight of the overarching picture.

People lose faith in the resultant confusion. 

Best to keep general health in mind.

Spock's needs of the many, conversation and dialogue.

*Perfect for political science students. What an animate illustration of work/life balance. 

It Happened One Night

Surrounded by luxury, everything you desire at hand or accessible, no need to work, struggle, justify, elucidate, toot toot, the gravy train, chugs onwards ever after.

Yet within the boundless infinities of grand ostentatious profound torqued hebetude, the imposition of paradigmatic pressure still traditionally refrains, and blasé prim prognostic propriety banally beckons with callous call, as gender roles crafted by ancient custom reemerge to contend and classify.

Ellie (Claudette Colbert) breaks free casts off the bonds of disquieting matrimony, swimming away from her father's yacht to life on the random exuberant road.

Meanwhile, a freespirited journalist castigates his editor's hackneyed rebuke, standing up for the integrity of free-verse, sweetly flowing unfiltered, unpasteurized (they're old friends) (Clark Gable as Peter Warne).

They wind up on the same lively bus heading south through carnivalesque cascades, an understanding reluctantly reached as lacklustre finances briskly balk.

Her father's enlisted the press and manifold detectives to track her down, fellow travellers on their communal steed eventually figuring their story out.

Escape is necessary to actively deconstruct the limits of their sly emancipation, so they vigorously font du puce and have soon procured their own automobile.

Lost indeterminate flux wildly drives their spontaneous momentum.

It's possible they'll never return.

Unless they fall in love.

It's solid rebellious romance firmly frenetic in loquacious languor, earnestly exercised enigmatic ursine, otherwise known, as begrudged true love.

He's not after wealth or prestige and like Lone Starr, he doesn't take the million, yet a kindred and quaint yet quizzical clutch still clasps in clamorous cuddle.  

Even though I love It's A Wonderful Life and watch it every Holiday Season, it never occurred to me to watch something else by the oft lauded sincere Frank Capra. 

And the genuine concern for chillaxed common dignity found in his yuletide yarn, is intriguingly present in rambunctious rapture disgruntled dispute heartfelt happenstance.

Several scenes don't end quite so quickly, they're much longer than one might expect, the cultivation of clandestine character acclimatized patient demonstrative depth.

It must have been a wondrous time when people still believed in dignity beyond wealth or station, when there was perhaps cultural support for public education and widespread constructive activism.

Otherwise, how do you explain the nimble bus scene where its passengers burst forth in song, unconcerned for rank or nobility, simply laidback, relaxing, resting?

And its focus on spirited improbability rooted in frank materialism?

Where things suddenly work out.

As they often do.

Barefoot in the Park

A newlywed couple moves into their first apartment, freely intent on necessitously nest(l)ing.

Their dynamic is somewhat old school inasmuch as Corie (Jane Fonda) doesn't work, yet applies her industrious inclinations to recreation and home decor.

She excels at entertaining and embracing newfound pastimes, her open-minded inquisitive temperament wondrously courting jazzy vigour.

Mr. Bratter (Robert Redford) is a bit more cautious, much less improvisationally disposed, feeling safe within a steady paradigm wherein which everything fits trusted custom and precedent.

He's trying to advance his career or at least make a productive start of it, so he gets used to lively nights intermingling work and conjugal creation.

They live in a provocative building abounding with random curious character, one eccentric neighbour in particular full of vivacious lofty spirit (Charles Boyer as Victor Velasco). 

He invites them out on the town and Corie thinks he may make a good match for her mom (Mildred Natwick), the four of them heading out to a playful restaurant to sample tantalizing ethnic cuisine.

But Mr. Bratter proves less experimental than his enthusiastic wife anticipated, somewhat too sheltered by codes of conduct which don't permit enigmatic alternatives.

A dispute resultantly erupts back at home later on in the evening, which leads to passionate calls for divorce and general flustered mayhem.

It's an endearing amorous investigation of well-matched compassionate opposites, the congenial juxtaposition coaxing clash and conviviality. 

I usually love trying new things especially food from other countries, but I've found this can be just as off-putting as obstinate full-on unbridled dismissals.

I think it's because my traditional embrace of difference conflicts with gender based preconceptions equipped with historical complaint.

That is, it's more endearing to engage in standard arguments derived from habitual expectations, than to wholeheartedly agree on a course of action that doesn't involve varying degrees of intrigue.

I haven't had many relationships, but I've noticed that most people have been having them consistently throughout their lives, and that typical discussions regarding potential actions, are actually rooted in decades worth of stereotypical role play.

When Mr. Batter tries to move beyond his traditional role in Barefoot in the Park, the results are catastrophic, and since he lacks extemporaneous composure, distressing calamity sets in.

But they work things out and forge a consensus as rich with discord as it is cohesive.

A mischievous examination of married life.

Overflowing with constructive wherewithal. 

Cat Ballou

A promising recent graduate heads home to teach school, instructed to read the classics, even if she prefers trendy westerns.

Prone to seek justice yet mischievously enthused, she accidentally aids two ne'er-do-wells in their pursuit of reckless freedom.

Back home on the range her kind-hearted father (John Marley as Frankie Ballou) has enraged his covetous neighbours, who have corruptly engaged a cruel hired gun to dispose of his innate virtue.

She immediately responds in kind after having learned of the disgraceful deception, and hires a renowned gunperson of her own who turns out to lack reliability.

Soon woe melancholically descends with no recourse to lauded panaceas, and her gang of unorthodox misfits has relocated to a forlorn corral.

Yet Cat Ballou (Jane Fonda) is well versed in storied ethically clad adventurous pastimes, and refuses to let impregnability coldly prevent her from reacting non-traditionally.

Her newfound friends see sudden success after embracing strategically sound comeuppance, sincerely kerfuffling entrenched trajectories which presumed to cajole discordance. 

It's blunt and brandished bounteous barm proceeding in sultry sing song, the underprivileged thoughtlessly dismissed as they reimagine communal identities. 

Integrity harnesses spirit and exuberantly coaxes conundrums, which bewilder through sacrificed innocence impenitently reified. 

It's light of heart and rather merry as it confidently elucidates, upholding honest feminine strength through tribulation and testy temperance.

With insightful thoughts about marriage or relationships or plain old courtship or perhaps a fling, Cat deconstructs hardboiled gender bias yet still finds herself falling in love.

The musical accompaniment playfully enlivens crafty clemency cascading, direct yet quaintly coated in enchanted new age charm.

The traditions of the western see lay radical reversal, those oft dismissed their cares remiss enlightened brave dispersals.

Perhaps an oddball comedy like Cat Ballou would make more of an impact than serious drama, as it reaches a wider audience less immutably disposed.

A lot of people prefer absurdity since it more accurately reflects prim daily life, wherein which the application of reasonability sometimes leads to bumptious bedlam.

The immersion of absurdity in the arts anyways, not politics, reliable political leadership is preferable to instinctual madness.

Political leaders who don't toy with global tensions.

Because they respect their power and influence.  

Wander

Like an episode of The X-Files reconstructed through hungover flashbacks, Wander frenetically examines zealous bright shocking psychosis. 

The subject under examination lacks traditional plausibility, and therefore struggles to nurture reason as it's typically pontificated. 

A detective remains obscurely aware of conspiratorial potential, but lacks the reliable focused balance to rationally share his distraught ideas.

Through recourse to the non-linear he follows leads and gathers evidence, disjointed points of clarification eclectically construed.

The circumstances are theoretically sound inasmuch as they construct a translucent narrative, lacking substantiated coherence yet still argumentatively profound.

He has a partner who trusts his instincts and inquisitively tags along, the two attempting to lucidly gather plotted disconcerting memorabilia. 

Wander proceeds through amorphous haze to medicinally materialize malcontent mayhem, the inordinate structure like a swelling head-wound pulsating disproportionately. 

The resultant opaque confused malady grimly transmits wild hypotheses, as a bewildering uncanny impetus interrogates mild obsession.

Validity esoterically stultifies as improbability brazenly baffles, the unpronounced dismayed mélange characteristically scaling scowl.

A private investigator unlike any other detects with comatose import, resultant maligned chaotic diagnoses discombobulating dissonance.

Perhaps Fox Mulder would have ended up like this if he hadn't been supported by the F.B.I, and The X-Files would have seduced in cryptic innocent conjured stupor.

If you're looking for dependable trajectories oft elucidated in detective fiction, you may be somewhat disenchanted with the unorthodox dazed Wander.

A sure and steady sense of sentience has been feverishly forsaken, like you're randomly bushwhacking unhinged through verdant jungle in ancient ruins.

Wander stands out as it employs obfuscation to generate unsettling purpose, if a situation like this indeed existed its revelation would invoke peril.

If you're in the mood for otherworldly exposition crafted through borderline realistic sci-fi, Wander may harrowingly enthuse in seeming barmy batshit blunder.

If you're looking for something more sober you may find it somewhat vague.

I like to promote variety.

Great for a late Saturday evening.

Mank

Coincidentally, I had no idea this film (Mank) existed when I started writing about movies from a different age during the pandemic (different ages), that seemed to me much more daring and literary than 21st century outputs, as the idea applies to mass markets and their obsession with sequels, and not the less commercially oriented laissez-faire narrative scene.

It's difficult to situate Mank within a specific scene since it was released by Netflix (without being too obvious), whose matrices cover a wide divergent spectrum, and often impress when they aren't bewildering.

I would argue that the room for creative endeavour (and have previously) within Netflix (and other online streaming sources) is vast and modestly expanding, it's a different business model less dependent on advertising (as far as I know) and perhaps therefore retaining more vital independence (flush with cash).

I don't see many films like Mank or The Irishman or Marriage Story or Roma on Netflix (that's quite a few good ones come to think of it), but to have thought I would have seen such films on their site 10 years ago would have seemed utterly preposterous.

I shouldn't be too hard on contemporary cinema for lacking my oddball literary qualifications either, its current strengths are fantasy and adventure, not that it's impossible to blend the two (see William Gibson).

Besides I forget ye olde mutations as they apply to unexpected epochs, when suddenly there's a tangible utopian surge that hasn't been calculated through strategic planning (Aliens).

Who knows when it's bound to erupt but I think it's best not to search for it or attempt to cultivate it.

Just hopefully become viscerally aware when it happens (different styles, different tastes, relativity).

While keenly focusing on independent cinema.

Mank heads back to the '30s and '40s to recapture a waylaid aesthetic, eventually abandoned as tastes transformed and the unforeseen reimagined cinematic life.

It follows prominent screenwriter Herman J. Mankiewicz (Gary Oldman) as he writes Citizen Kane in alcoholic dismay, and reflects upon the just calamitous social confrontations that motivated bygone days.

A series of flashbacks leading to conflicts with a daring ambitious headstrong Orson Welles (Tom Burke), loves lost and uncompromised confidence spearheading bold mischievous caricatures.

Just think something up and pitch it if you have to come up with something.

In flux to subtly entertain.

People who are tired of boredom.

*Just to be clear, I find strategically planning in the arts to be somewhat dull, or to lack the excitement oft generated by spontaneous endeavours. Not that planning something isn't important, it's just that if the plan is too strict, it may miss out on many thrilling accidental opportunities. I suppose not planning something leads to mistakes, but playful mistakes are so much more fun than preplanned pretensions.

**I do think strategic planning is very important when combatting a pandemic. I'm glad I don't have to make such decisions. Hospitals are being overrun and frontline workers must be extremely stressed. I've never seen a more serious no-win situation. Eventually, a vaccine will be available. Patience and prudence.

Deepwater Horizon

You'd think that if you were about to engage in dangerous intricate underwater oil extraction, you would want to make sure your equipment was running smoothly before enabling workplace operations.

You would just have to run some tests to ensure technological sustainability, to reasonably assess your endeavour's viability in terms of probable dependable reliance.

You've invested hundreds of millions, the project will make billions, it's just a matter of time before the cash starts rolling in.

Why wouldn't you take steps to maximize workplace health & safety simply by testing your multi-million dollar equipment?

It's not just the integrity of your mechanical infrastructure that's at stake, but, much more importantly, the lives of your vital workforce would be imperilled if something went wrong.

Then you lose versatile hands-on resolute practical know-how, knowledge possessed by resilient workers who have actually worked in the productive field.

Life is more important than fluctuating budgets or financial forecasts, more integral than the projected bottom line.

I've never worked in an environment where people didn't take their jobs seriously.

But if you work somewhere where you feel your health is at risk, perhaps it's time to consider forming a union.

In Deepwater Horizon, a worst case scenario chaotically and volcanically presents itself, as managers overly concerned with budgetary delays neglect workplace health & safety.

Other managers contradict them and attempt to proceed according to safety guidelines, but they're unfortunately overruled and extreme disaster strikes.

A true story, it really happened, and many integral lives were lost, their names chronicled at the end of the film, so they'll never be forgotten.

Not to mention the environmental chaos that consequently ensued (and is likely still polluting delicate ecosystems to this day).

Catastrophic coastal confines.

What happened to all that oil?

It's obviously not simply offshore oil rigs that need to manage resilient efficiencies, if you casually apply economic relativity manifold applications effortlessly emerge.

If the company in Deepwater Horizon (BP) had tested their equipment, they would have hopefully found the problem, and many lives would have been saved and their rig wouldn't have been destroyed.

The profits may have started rolling in at a frustrating much later date.

But they would have kept rolling in after that.

And their workforce would have been safe.