Big Game

In the remote unforgiving Finnish wilderness, a young lad must claim his manhood, the hunting of wild game demanding his assurance, that he'll respect his forefathers, and bring posterity home.

But evil descends on his quest for ascension, as terrorists shoot down Air Force One, seeking the President's blood, the breadth of a misunderstanding, to see that the party survives.

Accidents collocate immediate reactions.

The President (Samuel L. Jackson) would have found himself abandoned and helpless if it wasn't for Oskari's (Onni Tommila) vigilant eye, his strategic positioning, as if he was unaware of his tumultuous destiny, his unheralded calling, his instinctual expertise.

Bold expeditious horizon.

Fertile and counteractive.

Footsteps, l'Hexicon.

Jalmari Helander's Big Game delivers.

There's an intense sense of disciplinary procedure carefully balanced by the shock of the extraordinary which isn't over exaggerated to accentuate the sensation, chill, mellow, playful metamockery, working within a tradition, to resist definitive cookie cutting.

It's fun.

It's a lot of fun.

The überurban dependent on the rural to ensure its steady survival, the ridiculous scandalous yet tame, chiding while redefining the blockbuster, seriously cohesive corrugation.

It cuts down a lot of stereotypes throughout, details, details.

Perhaps I loved it because it celebrates the unsung, a cabin in the woods, a tree or rock somewhere, abounding with meaning for the initiated, isolated, unheard of, withdrawn.

Muskeg.

Campfires.

Work.

Laughs.

Infusions.