Genius

Agonizing labour mingling with the bewildered ethereal basks in potential obscured, a neverending stream of doubtful/joyous speculations as incendiary as they are preposterous, throngingly detached from the chattering corporeal, suddenly projecting auditory flashes of verisimilitude.

Acknowledgements.

Discoveries.

Versatile editor Max Perkins (Colin Firth) embraces eccentric self-obsessed writer Thomas Wolfe's (Jude Law) text with encouraging flattery and fetchingly suppressed awe, the two forging a working friendship that leads to eventual publication.

With a granite gristful, Perkins incisively vets to encourage digestion, while Wolfe thoughtfully considers his arguments with jubilant patience and restrained celerity.

Momentum matriculating.

Existential peculiarities haunt Perkins's purpose, as he wonders if his insights hold back the genius for which he dedicatedly advocates.

The director's cut of The Chronicles of Riddick isn't as good.

Mommy, is very good.

Once free, Wolfe is attached to no one, his loving support, his devoted patroness (Nicole Kidman as Aline Bernstein [it's like she hasn't aged since Billy Bathgate]), crippled by his callous insouciance.

His carefree hedonism.

Her sacrifices shut out.

F. Scott Fitzgerald (Guy Pearce) offers begrudging consul as Wolfe's spite begins to deride Perkins, Fitzgerald critiquing Wolfe's Highlander spirit, his divine gravitational pretensions.

To Genius, the film taking something as unappealing as editing a novel then turning it into a multidimensional commentary on loyalty, fame, artistic expression, family, wantonness, friendship, blending trajectories which eventually polarize, fragile confiscated freedoms, collaborative literary identities, Fitzgerald functioning as synthesis.

Editorial toil.

Sometimes you write something that clearly requires no changes for about three days, others you arduously tear a document to shreds to make the improvements you're not sure it needs, most of the time it's just patience, purpose, progress, perplexion.

I actually find writing something, then working out all day, then editing in a state of exhaustion to work quite well as a technique on occasion.

Usually, if I enjoyed writing a poem or a review it needs serious work although that's not always the case.

Fugacious formulae.

Fleeting fancies.

Rock-solid reliability.

Temporal pressures.

Fragmentary fusions.

Consumption.

Silliness.

Reserve.

Should you just let it tear you apart?

For utility's sake?

Checkered Chattanooga.

Undecided.

*I'm wondering if purchased copies will include a conversation between director Michael Grandage and editor Chris Dickens as a bonus feature.