Jean-Gabriel Pageau, you, have restored my love of the NHL.
That was truly a legendary performance.
I checked the score and Ottawa was down by 2 late in the third.
And I've read that you're from the Ottawa region.
I'm hoping a local Ottawa/Gatineau poet has already written a poem commending your performance.
Outstanding!
Wow.
(Psst. Okay, you see, there's a certain team from a certain city that you're not supposed to talk about in certain places, but, at one time, I furiously cheered for them, yet, they were so bad for so long that I just stopped loving the NHL so much; it wasn't like they were Columbus or Florida or the Arizona Cardinals or the San Diego Padres, they were an extraordinarily wealthy team who just made too many bad decisions for too long for me to stay focused on hockey, how can you have that much money and be so terrible for so long while Nashville and Tampa Bay excel, although there's another team who played well in the meantime that kept me interested, and that team which I cannot mention showed signs of life in 2016/17. Just keep this between us. I didn't say anything. My love of international tournaments never faltered. End communication).
Saturday, April 29, 2017
Wayward Kitten
Protozoic proteins guttural mare
nigh cornet beadled parchment
afternoon squiggles drifting porch slit
contemplation restoration
incantation respiration
with lemon aplomb Little Boot
notwithstanding
stark coincidental savannahs
B'Elanna ma fauna Rwanda
concerted nuthatched acoustics
dialectics vien de childbirth
unappealing impassioned courtiers
condemned to criticism
invalidism confined prisms
cataracts Freejack on track wisecracked
turbulent bustlin' lounge unbound
clutter melodic darlings
aesthetic shiny armadillo
passes by sniffs glances.
nigh cornet beadled parchment
afternoon squiggles drifting porch slit
contemplation restoration
incantation respiration
with lemon aplomb Little Boot
notwithstanding
stark coincidental savannahs
B'Elanna ma fauna Rwanda
concerted nuthatched acoustics
dialectics vien de childbirth
unappealing impassioned courtiers
condemned to criticism
invalidism confined prisms
cataracts Freejack on track wisecracked
turbulent bustlin' lounge unbound
clutter melodic darlings
aesthetic shiny armadillo
passes by sniffs glances.
Friday, April 28, 2017
L'Outsider (Team Spirit)
No limits, no borders, astronomically inclined lucrative instinct wildly cashing in on risk at play, financial fecundity, articulate gumption, stereoscopic synergies in blissful shocked contagion, extraordinary, unprecedented, steady surefire streak, secretively securing nest eggs niched necessities, excessively consisting of self-obsessed belief, the unimaginable success encouraging chaotic exposure, an investigation, oversight, interrogation, one month's extravagance comes woefully crashing down, as France's greatest trader harshly hits ground.
But what a flight.
M. Jérȏme Kerviel (Arthur Dupont) learns quickly and trades and trades and trades until he's up 1.5 billion.
1.5 billion dollars.
Yet his unorthodox propensities cause problems for his private life as feelings of invincibility clash with social codes of conduct.
Having settled into the wolf pack, he is unconditionally respected, although even the most unrestrained amongst them fear his cold audacity.
His reserve.
Unwilling.
L'Outsider (Team Spirit [terrible English title]) playfully examines calculation to add and subtract legerdemain ;) while multiplying cryptic divisions.
Its bromantic aspects are more well developed than its heteronormatively amorous characteristics, although the latter are required to diversify Kerviel's portfolio.
Unalloyed wildman.
He had it all banked and locked away with hundreds of millions to spare.
Steerike!
Like a rowdy blend of The Big Short and Owning Mahowny, L'Outsider investigates the limitations and/or exasperations of addiction to criticize impatience while castigating excess.
I suppose some of the most successful people retain a degree a humility that prevents them from blowing it.
Not the case often however.
It seems like a "you blew it whatevs here's another shot" tacit union sometimes.
Hey, I love unions. Sign me up.
Maybe not to that union.
There's still humility within the abrasive if you know how to detect it (it's a matter of risk management).
Enduring it consistently is another matter.
Find the midpoint between French and English civil law.
Think up some characters.
Proceed.
But what a flight.
M. Jérȏme Kerviel (Arthur Dupont) learns quickly and trades and trades and trades until he's up 1.5 billion.
1.5 billion dollars.
Yet his unorthodox propensities cause problems for his private life as feelings of invincibility clash with social codes of conduct.
Having settled into the wolf pack, he is unconditionally respected, although even the most unrestrained amongst them fear his cold audacity.
His reserve.
Unwilling.
L'Outsider (Team Spirit [terrible English title]) playfully examines calculation to add and subtract legerdemain ;) while multiplying cryptic divisions.
Its bromantic aspects are more well developed than its heteronormatively amorous characteristics, although the latter are required to diversify Kerviel's portfolio.
Unalloyed wildman.
He had it all banked and locked away with hundreds of millions to spare.
Steerike!
Like a rowdy blend of The Big Short and Owning Mahowny, L'Outsider investigates the limitations and/or exasperations of addiction to criticize impatience while castigating excess.
I suppose some of the most successful people retain a degree a humility that prevents them from blowing it.
Not the case often however.
It seems like a "you blew it whatevs here's another shot" tacit union sometimes.
Hey, I love unions. Sign me up.
Maybe not to that union.
There's still humility within the abrasive if you know how to detect it (it's a matter of risk management).
Enduring it consistently is another matter.
Find the midpoint between French and English civil law.
Think up some characters.
Proceed.
Tuesday, April 25, 2017
Power Rangers
Patiently waiting for millions of years buried deep within the Earth's crust surrounded by gold, Zordon (Bryan Cranston) and Alpha-5 (Bill Hader) strikingly reanimate after the universe cosmically brings together 5 curious misfits to courageously battle Rita Repulsa (Elizabeth Banks) and Goldar.
These Power Rangers initially doubt their abilities and require sage tutelage to discover strengths residing within.
Their newfound super powers help them to gain the confidence they never knew they possessed, eventually, and as they embrace their intense warrior spirits, they become more popular in high school.
They aren't blinded by their social prestige, however, for to be a Power Ranger one must act with humble composure.
Regardless of race, sexual orientation, or creed.
Will they develop the unconscious altruistic personas they need to harmoniously combat as one, or will mighty Goldar acquire the Zeo Crystal and enable Repulsa to nuclearly unleash pure wrath?
They must command self-sacrificing teamwork.
And will find the necessary stamina.
If they can only believe.
Dean Israelite's Power Rangers takes a look at the lighter side of irrepressible super human excellence.
The rangers are as endearing as they are unconventional in their pursuit of congruent formidable elasticities.
The film lacks the depth of Iron Man or Thor, but that doesn't mean it fails to moderately compensate in terms of pluck and do-gooding know-how.
Watching as the 5 troubled unique feisty individuals kitschily come together as a daunting unified unacknowledged sleuth was captivating indeed, even if I was perhaps much older than the film's target audience.
Their friendship knows no bounds and they will take them villains down.
A neat examination of thinking globally while acting locally.
Listened to favourite pop hits afterwards.
These Power Rangers initially doubt their abilities and require sage tutelage to discover strengths residing within.
Their newfound super powers help them to gain the confidence they never knew they possessed, eventually, and as they embrace their intense warrior spirits, they become more popular in high school.
They aren't blinded by their social prestige, however, for to be a Power Ranger one must act with humble composure.
Regardless of race, sexual orientation, or creed.
Will they develop the unconscious altruistic personas they need to harmoniously combat as one, or will mighty Goldar acquire the Zeo Crystal and enable Repulsa to nuclearly unleash pure wrath?
They must command self-sacrificing teamwork.
And will find the necessary stamina.
If they can only believe.
Dean Israelite's Power Rangers takes a look at the lighter side of irrepressible super human excellence.
The rangers are as endearing as they are unconventional in their pursuit of congruent formidable elasticities.
The film lacks the depth of Iron Man or Thor, but that doesn't mean it fails to moderately compensate in terms of pluck and do-gooding know-how.
Watching as the 5 troubled unique feisty individuals kitschily come together as a daunting unified unacknowledged sleuth was captivating indeed, even if I was perhaps much older than the film's target audience.
Their friendship knows no bounds and they will take them villains down.
A neat examination of thinking globally while acting locally.
Listened to favourite pop hits afterwards.
Saturday, April 22, 2017
The Little Parlour, Chagall
Sunny today. Glib wind breezin'.
All over the patch. Insides of my pockets
perspiring like jackals. Howling through
rings of smoke. Vitamins. Cooped up
Caroline. Brought me a snack. Didn't seem
pissed. There was something I did.
Remembers everything. Boiled it down. Too
tired to flush and feint, penchants, patterns.
Tick tock. Cuckoo. That's way down the
list. Chug-a-lug. Door prizes. Focused on the
the view a bit at points. That fucker drove
by again. Tailspins and testaments. Ritzy dust
jackets. She said porcelain. I chirped. Not
like that, no. It's all melted. It's gone. I
almost laid down. It's quiet right now
like a seven month dawn. Back at it.
Residuals. That was three years ago.
Scurry away 'lil Casey. Droplets nestlin'.
Sketch. I might just do that. Not today
though. Not today.
All over the patch. Insides of my pockets
perspiring like jackals. Howling through
rings of smoke. Vitamins. Cooped up
Caroline. Brought me a snack. Didn't seem
pissed. There was something I did.
Remembers everything. Boiled it down. Too
tired to flush and feint, penchants, patterns.
Tick tock. Cuckoo. That's way down the
list. Chug-a-lug. Door prizes. Focused on the
the view a bit at points. That fucker drove
by again. Tailspins and testaments. Ritzy dust
jackets. She said porcelain. I chirped. Not
like that, no. It's all melted. It's gone. I
almost laid down. It's quiet right now
like a seven month dawn. Back at it.
Residuals. That was three years ago.
Scurry away 'lil Casey. Droplets nestlin'.
Sketch. I might just do that. Not today
though. Not today.
Friday, April 21, 2017
Boost
Friendships fiercely fraternized, habitual restraint mingling with wanton risk to wildly impress and collegially incarcerate, an idea, contrasts, audacity, accolades, admonitions, contrition, relapses, there's an intelligent way to go about things in films, in films I've seen there's an intelligent way to commit crimes, exercising extreme stealth, keeping things on the down-low, but young Anthony MacDonald (Jahmil French), recently suspended from school, likes to brazenly advertise, his mild-mannered accomplice (Nabil Rajo as Hakeem Nour) unable to withstand his will, their successful colleagues having stayed in business by remaining mature and sober, as bold youthful extravagance clashes with reticent age.
Hakeem's obligations leave him isolated, exhausted.
Duties to family, co-workers, culture, and friends, excruciatingly conflict as they seek the knowledge he's acquired.
But the only way to placate them without self-destructing is to expressly keep things zipped, zigzagged.
With staggering composure.
And multilateral calm.
Repercussions abound in Darren Curtis's Boost after two adolescents screw things up for hardened car thieves.
A slight taste of the spectacle leaves them ostentatiously entwined.
Balancing the headstrong with the pensive, the excessive with the shaved, Boost interrogates responsibility while matriculating resolve.
Demonstrating a sound understanding of the youthful confines of age, it fairly investigates cultural mis/conceptions to dialectically dis/integrate cunning hardboiled c(l)ues.
If you move here I wouldn't worry so much about becoming a Canadian, about fitting in.
It's one of those things where the more you try to do it, the less integrated you become.
Unless you're filthy rich.
Before you've lived through a couple of Winters people tend to doubt you'll hang around.
And after you have they may still not be that curious.
But they like to see familiar faces.
Have brief chats once in a while.
Even pay attention sometimes.
Like moving to most countries I suppose.
With a bitterly cold Winter.
If you're active though, and join some organizations and contribute something, you'll meet people.
Just give it some time.
Be patient.
And don't stress about it.
Hakeem's obligations leave him isolated, exhausted.
Duties to family, co-workers, culture, and friends, excruciatingly conflict as they seek the knowledge he's acquired.
But the only way to placate them without self-destructing is to expressly keep things zipped, zigzagged.
With staggering composure.
And multilateral calm.
Repercussions abound in Darren Curtis's Boost after two adolescents screw things up for hardened car thieves.
A slight taste of the spectacle leaves them ostentatiously entwined.
Balancing the headstrong with the pensive, the excessive with the shaved, Boost interrogates responsibility while matriculating resolve.
Demonstrating a sound understanding of the youthful confines of age, it fairly investigates cultural mis/conceptions to dialectically dis/integrate cunning hardboiled c(l)ues.
If you move here I wouldn't worry so much about becoming a Canadian, about fitting in.
It's one of those things where the more you try to do it, the less integrated you become.
Unless you're filthy rich.
Before you've lived through a couple of Winters people tend to doubt you'll hang around.
And after you have they may still not be that curious.
But they like to see familiar faces.
Have brief chats once in a while.
Even pay attention sometimes.
Like moving to most countries I suppose.
With a bitterly cold Winter.
If you're active though, and join some organizations and contribute something, you'll meet people.
Just give it some time.
Be patient.
And don't stress about it.
Tuesday, April 18, 2017
Wilson
I often love it when I meet people like Wilson (Woody Harrelson).
Feisty and self-taught, they're often up to date with what was popular in the past and can describe many scenes from their favourite films in playfully obnoxious detail.
Extroverted by nature, Wilsons talk and talk and talk about whatever pops into their heads, they have no filter at all and no ability whatsoever to discursively blend with different demographics.
I'm quite introverted and I'm used to navigating fussier domains where you have to watch what you say while people encourage you to speak freely, so it's always refreshing when I encounter free-spirited autodidacts who are flush with alternative phrases and expressions, even if I can only hack it for short periods before returning to my regenerative lair.
They're like conspiratorial sages, blending the hackneyed and the probable with instinctual brazen whiplash, blindly imagining that their interlocutors don't mind being consistently insulted, as they apply their cynical observations to whatever detail those with whom they are conversing are friendly enough to share.
They don't seem to understand that they've caused offence nor that the knowledge they've acquired may on occasion lack truth value.
But they proceed with the unabashed confidence of Olympian gods as they try to create a better world, casually interjecting fact with fiction to elucidate grizzly ideals, practical premonitions, while dis/harmoniously doing whatever they feel like at all times.
Impoverished Joes with aristocratic psychologies.
Try listening a bit longer the next time you meet one.
I usually find it's worth it.
Craig Johnson's Wilson mischievously speaks his mind and loves to talk to strangers as he travels about in search of company.
It isn't the greatest film, in fact the only other person watching it with me in the theatre left halfway through, sort of like St. Vincent's rusty doppelgänger, a valiant effort lacking sustained momentum.
But it does improve about halfway through, shortly before Wilson winds up in prison, and from that point onwards unreels with captivating vulgarity.
When I consider the first half I keep thinking, "that should have been funnier, it's fun to think about what happened anyways, even if the actual dialogue wasn't that funny and lacked any condemned cohesivity."
Harrelson's performance is great but he couldn't turn the bland dribble into something you'd recommend to someone you don't like.
Even if it had been great the whole way through, it would still be glibly satisfying to know someone you don't like, someone who probably doesn't like Wilsons, will have to put up with Wilson for 90 odd minutes.
Could have been better.
Still, don't shut it down midway.
Feisty and self-taught, they're often up to date with what was popular in the past and can describe many scenes from their favourite films in playfully obnoxious detail.
Extroverted by nature, Wilsons talk and talk and talk about whatever pops into their heads, they have no filter at all and no ability whatsoever to discursively blend with different demographics.
I'm quite introverted and I'm used to navigating fussier domains where you have to watch what you say while people encourage you to speak freely, so it's always refreshing when I encounter free-spirited autodidacts who are flush with alternative phrases and expressions, even if I can only hack it for short periods before returning to my regenerative lair.
They're like conspiratorial sages, blending the hackneyed and the probable with instinctual brazen whiplash, blindly imagining that their interlocutors don't mind being consistently insulted, as they apply their cynical observations to whatever detail those with whom they are conversing are friendly enough to share.
They don't seem to understand that they've caused offence nor that the knowledge they've acquired may on occasion lack truth value.
But they proceed with the unabashed confidence of Olympian gods as they try to create a better world, casually interjecting fact with fiction to elucidate grizzly ideals, practical premonitions, while dis/harmoniously doing whatever they feel like at all times.
Impoverished Joes with aristocratic psychologies.
Try listening a bit longer the next time you meet one.
I usually find it's worth it.
Craig Johnson's Wilson mischievously speaks his mind and loves to talk to strangers as he travels about in search of company.
It isn't the greatest film, in fact the only other person watching it with me in the theatre left halfway through, sort of like St. Vincent's rusty doppelgänger, a valiant effort lacking sustained momentum.
But it does improve about halfway through, shortly before Wilson winds up in prison, and from that point onwards unreels with captivating vulgarity.
When I consider the first half I keep thinking, "that should have been funnier, it's fun to think about what happened anyways, even if the actual dialogue wasn't that funny and lacked any condemned cohesivity."
Harrelson's performance is great but he couldn't turn the bland dribble into something you'd recommend to someone you don't like.
Even if it had been great the whole way through, it would still be glibly satisfying to know someone you don't like, someone who probably doesn't like Wilsons, will have to put up with Wilson for 90 odd minutes.
Could have been better.
Still, don't shut it down midway.
Saturday, April 15, 2017
Thimble
Strollin' through resurgent life
the quizzical emergents might
be scampering or sleuthing patchy,
interrogatively hatching
denizens scritch scratch survey
the quiet forested terrain
the satiated snowdrift swish
enriching dormant lushly lit
befitting mossy granite glades
surrounded by seductive shades
sashay adroitly soar amidst
regenerative spirits, pith.
the quizzical emergents might
be scampering or sleuthing patchy,
interrogatively hatching
denizens scritch scratch survey
the quiet forested terrain
the satiated snowdrift swish
enriching dormant lushly lit
befitting mossy granite glades
surrounded by seductive shades
sashay adroitly soar amidst
regenerative spirits, pith.
Thursday, April 13, 2017
The Zookeeper's Wife
Some animals are peaceful, others, ferocious.
Without researching the subject too seriously this evening, I would make the claim that vegetarian animals are generally less hostile, while those who eat meat are more instinctively vicious.
Bearing in mind Yann Martel's analysis of zoos in Life of Pi, and various observations I've made while observing wildlife behaviour, I've come to the conclusion that many animals don't mind living in zoos, especially if they have an abundance of food and lots of space to move around in, unless they are instinctively vicious, or are the resident alpha of an otherwise chill vegetarian herd.
Tigers are less friendly than bison for instance.
A raccoon (raccoons are omnivorous) makes a better fit for a zoo than a wolverine.
But when deciding whether or not an animal makes a good zoo fit, perhaps it's best to see how they react as individuals to suddenly being confined in a limited space that sharply contrasts their wild environment.
They may not travel very far in the wild; they may have a limited range.
But they do have the option to travel far and wide should they so desire, and, psychologically speaking, that makes a big difference.
If an animal is introduced to a zoo but continuously misbehaves and bites it's obvious that it doesn't belong, and should therefore be returned to the wild.
But if it doesn't seem to mind so much (animals, like humans, can be lazy), then the zoo can become its new home, and curious humans can benefit from the opportunity to see them chillin' doin' their domesticated thing, from time to time, should they choose to visit one.
Whales or giant sea creatures obviously don't belong in zoos or sea parks because it's quite difficult for them to grow accustomed to living in a bathtub, as Blackfish brilliantly demonstrated.
A lot of the larger fiercely independent animals like lions, bears and elephants don't seem to like them much either, although there are exceptions to the rule.
Love can play a key role in helping an animal adjust to zoo life.
In Niki Caro's The Zookeeper's Wife, Antonina Zabinski (Jessica Chastain) clearly loves her animals and is amorously devoted to cheerfully caring for them.
World War II commences however, and she's forced to suffer as her animals are grossly mistreated.
Fittingly, her family proceeds to resist Warsaw's Nazi occupation and turns their zoo into a refuge for those seeking to escape to allied territory.
Their self-sacrifice saves countless lives and functions as a shining historical exemplar of how to boldly fight back peacefully.
Come on Chechnya.
The film expertly contrasts the horrors of war with the benefits of community to create a dark sombre narrative that doesn't gratuitously focus on violence.
The terror is present but so is the love, and by revealing how communities can multiculturally come together in virulent times to humbly support one another, extremist mechanics seem pathetic by comparison.
Jessica Chastain delivers a captivating performance.
There were moments when I was thinking, "this response is bound to be cheesy," but the sophisticated way in which she timidly yet confidently stated her replies masterfully transformed the melodramatic into something tender and tragic, which helped me to understand why she's been so successful in film.
First rate.
Balancing the tender and the horrific in a way that clearly demonstrates the revolting nature of war without grotesquely showcasing its gruesome characteristics, preferring to celebrate friendship and collegiality without being trite or melodramatic, instead, is quite difficult to do, and Niki Caro's The Zookeeper's Wife remarkably accomplishes this feat.
Discourses of the solemn resiliently resisting.
If I'm ever in Warsaw, I'm spending the day at the zoo.
Without researching the subject too seriously this evening, I would make the claim that vegetarian animals are generally less hostile, while those who eat meat are more instinctively vicious.
Bearing in mind Yann Martel's analysis of zoos in Life of Pi, and various observations I've made while observing wildlife behaviour, I've come to the conclusion that many animals don't mind living in zoos, especially if they have an abundance of food and lots of space to move around in, unless they are instinctively vicious, or are the resident alpha of an otherwise chill vegetarian herd.
Tigers are less friendly than bison for instance.
A raccoon (raccoons are omnivorous) makes a better fit for a zoo than a wolverine.
But when deciding whether or not an animal makes a good zoo fit, perhaps it's best to see how they react as individuals to suddenly being confined in a limited space that sharply contrasts their wild environment.
They may not travel very far in the wild; they may have a limited range.
But they do have the option to travel far and wide should they so desire, and, psychologically speaking, that makes a big difference.
If an animal is introduced to a zoo but continuously misbehaves and bites it's obvious that it doesn't belong, and should therefore be returned to the wild.
But if it doesn't seem to mind so much (animals, like humans, can be lazy), then the zoo can become its new home, and curious humans can benefit from the opportunity to see them chillin' doin' their domesticated thing, from time to time, should they choose to visit one.
Whales or giant sea creatures obviously don't belong in zoos or sea parks because it's quite difficult for them to grow accustomed to living in a bathtub, as Blackfish brilliantly demonstrated.
A lot of the larger fiercely independent animals like lions, bears and elephants don't seem to like them much either, although there are exceptions to the rule.
Love can play a key role in helping an animal adjust to zoo life.
In Niki Caro's The Zookeeper's Wife, Antonina Zabinski (Jessica Chastain) clearly loves her animals and is amorously devoted to cheerfully caring for them.
World War II commences however, and she's forced to suffer as her animals are grossly mistreated.
Fittingly, her family proceeds to resist Warsaw's Nazi occupation and turns their zoo into a refuge for those seeking to escape to allied territory.
Their self-sacrifice saves countless lives and functions as a shining historical exemplar of how to boldly fight back peacefully.
Come on Chechnya.
The film expertly contrasts the horrors of war with the benefits of community to create a dark sombre narrative that doesn't gratuitously focus on violence.
The terror is present but so is the love, and by revealing how communities can multiculturally come together in virulent times to humbly support one another, extremist mechanics seem pathetic by comparison.
Jessica Chastain delivers a captivating performance.
There were moments when I was thinking, "this response is bound to be cheesy," but the sophisticated way in which she timidly yet confidently stated her replies masterfully transformed the melodramatic into something tender and tragic, which helped me to understand why she's been so successful in film.
First rate.
Balancing the tender and the horrific in a way that clearly demonstrates the revolting nature of war without grotesquely showcasing its gruesome characteristics, preferring to celebrate friendship and collegiality without being trite or melodramatic, instead, is quite difficult to do, and Niki Caro's The Zookeeper's Wife remarkably accomplishes this feat.
Discourses of the solemn resiliently resisting.
If I'm ever in Warsaw, I'm spending the day at the zoo.
Tuesday, April 11, 2017
John Wick: Chapter 2
Releasing a sequel to a visceral revenge film which shockingly surpassed critical expectations is a delicate affair, ironically in John Wick: Chapter 2's case, since you can no longer count on the objective bonus points freely dished out to reward the original's novelty.
You can sustain the momentum however, if you don't let the praise lift your spirits.
While still trying to craft another viral perplexity.
John Wick 2 sticks to the facts.
There are rules to be followed, no exceptions to be made.
Neither fairness nor camaraderie come into play.
At work.
In the age of the sensational superhero, Wick(Keanu Reeves) represents a humanistic counterbalance.
He may be the best assassin living, but he doesn't possess supernatural gifts and can contend without technological superiority.
He's just really freakin' good at what he does.
Don't screw it up.
Lickspittle.
Like pastis, grand marnier, amaretto, or amarula, with the humble demeanour of a 6 pack of bud, Wick reluctantly excels at authentically overachieving, with a kitschy pyrotechnic array of distinguished underground ex-factors.
It's enjoyable even if you know what's coming.
There's an art to writing blunt dialogue that leaves nothing to chance and states exactly what's on a character's mind.
The dialogue in Chapter 2 doesn't blow you away, but it, ah, sticks to its guns, with first rate integrity.
High-stakes slipstream.
Treacherous precipice.
Nocturnal necromancing nostrum.
They set up a hell of a third instalment.
Momentum sustained.
But the evocative visual style of the first film is missing.
There's a cool showdown (multiple cool showdowns) in an art museum though.
Professionalism oddly drives the narrative like sharks at corporate headquarters I suppose.
*Can one of these sequels be Man with the Golden Gunesque?
Chapter 2 is crazy violent.
You can sustain the momentum however, if you don't let the praise lift your spirits.
While still trying to craft another viral perplexity.
John Wick 2 sticks to the facts.
There are rules to be followed, no exceptions to be made.
Neither fairness nor camaraderie come into play.
At work.
In the age of the sensational superhero, Wick(Keanu Reeves) represents a humanistic counterbalance.
He may be the best assassin living, but he doesn't possess supernatural gifts and can contend without technological superiority.
He's just really freakin' good at what he does.
Don't screw it up.
Lickspittle.
Like pastis, grand marnier, amaretto, or amarula, with the humble demeanour of a 6 pack of bud, Wick reluctantly excels at authentically overachieving, with a kitschy pyrotechnic array of distinguished underground ex-factors.
It's enjoyable even if you know what's coming.
There's an art to writing blunt dialogue that leaves nothing to chance and states exactly what's on a character's mind.
The dialogue in Chapter 2 doesn't blow you away, but it, ah, sticks to its guns, with first rate integrity.
High-stakes slipstream.
Treacherous precipice.
Nocturnal necromancing nostrum.
They set up a hell of a third instalment.
Momentum sustained.
But the evocative visual style of the first film is missing.
There's a cool showdown (multiple cool showdowns) in an art museum though.
Professionalism oddly drives the narrative like sharks at corporate headquarters I suppose.
*Can one of these sequels be Man with the Golden Gunesque?
Chapter 2 is crazy violent.
Monday, April 10, 2017
Saturday, April 8, 2017
Succotash
Strained sideswipe ma gellin' mused
bespectacled embossin' blues
excused bemused episodic wry
per severance vortexted vibe
oh my that's simply too precise
kaleidoscopically concise
like frankly marked-up lyric pounds
in stock reduced to cajun eider
down a broth conserved to function
as medicinal compunction
stewed it up with taters coiled
immersed in blends parched sweet hardboiled
olly olly.
bespectacled embossin' blues
excused bemused episodic wry
per severance vortexted vibe
oh my that's simply too precise
kaleidoscopically concise
like frankly marked-up lyric pounds
in stock reduced to cajun eider
down a broth conserved to function
as medicinal compunction
stewed it up with taters coiled
immersed in blends parched sweet hardboiled
olly olly.
Friday, April 7, 2017
T2 Trainspotting
The danger.
The danger of returning 20 odd years later to material which you expertly orchestrated with fertile frenzied finesse in your youth, fans will undoubtedly be expecting equivalent degrees of athletic anguish and bricked portered benzedrine, agonizing adrenaline, hysterical heuristic harkenings, even if they've aged meanwhile, even if the characters have as well.
Godfather III, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, My Big Fat Greek Wedding 2, Everybody Wants Some!!
Star Wars Episodes I-III.
But the impulse to buck the trend must be overwhelming, to revisit old storylines, to reimagine old characters, and revitalize them alma mater.
T2 Trainspotting starts out on a depressing note.
Renton's (Ewan McGregor/Connor McIndoe/Ben Skelton) inspiring speech from the final moments of T1 hasn't exactly widgeted bourgeois effervescence, and he's downtroddenly returned home to reestablish old friendships.
The bourgeoisie has experienced sincere difficulties for the last twenty years so it isn't surprising that he's had a tough go of it.
Grievances are aired and there's a rapprochement of sorts, although Begbie (Robert Carlyle/Christopher Mullen/Daniel Smith) remains extremely hostile, and Sick Boy (Jonny Lee Miller/James McElvar/Logan Gillies) duplicitously presides.
The characters are tetrarchically divided with Renton and Spud (Ewen Bremner/Aiden Haggarty/John Bell) making up one half, Sick Boy and Begbie the other.
Spud is loveable and tragic and incapable of smoothly navigating occupational domains due to years of drug abuse, but Renton is there to help him settle down and remember the sundry positive aspects of life existing beyond narcotic addiction.
Renton and Sick Boy meet in the middle, as mutual love interest Veronika (Anjela Nedyalkova) hilariously relates in one of the film's many lively observations, but Sick Boy got the bad side of the Schwartz, and is still incorrigibly struggling.
Hence, he is better at grovelling when a local phenom (Bradley Welsh as Doyle) threatens their lives after learning that they plan to open a strip club.
His sleazy misdemeanours make him a better fit for Begbie, who escapes from prison and hides out with his frightened family (like the police wouldn't have looked there [Begbie's relationship with his son is one of the best aspects of T2]), and is just as unemployable as Spud although his joblessness is the product of excessive aggression as opposed to chillin' fireside.
Begbie is wicked, yet when he gets together with Spud a brilliant synthesis cinematically unreels, after the initial terror subsides, and the cold violent horrorshow actually considers something tender.
Like Stalin at a spontaneous unannounced small town parade wittingly kept in line with party guidelines.
Trainspotting 2 struggles early on to reestablish the narrative after so many bygone years, and there were points where I thought it should have been left alone, but, when I sit back to consider the preponderance of insightful claims and witty evaluations afterwards, not to mention its bold calculations and tantalizing cutlass, cutlasses, I have no choice but to admit that my misgivings were premature, and that I did indeed enjoy the film, although I'm not buying the soundtrack this time.
Thoughtful depth is patiently added to the four main characters in a way that aptly reflects the trials they've experienced surviving for the past twenty years.
It's grittier than an everything-worked-out tale and more subdued like middle-age.
Jaded and scorned yet cheerfully torn.
Cynical yet aspiring.
Boyle's still got it.
As do David Lynch and Mark Frost.
The danger of returning 20 odd years later to material which you expertly orchestrated with fertile frenzied finesse in your youth, fans will undoubtedly be expecting equivalent degrees of athletic anguish and bricked portered benzedrine, agonizing adrenaline, hysterical heuristic harkenings, even if they've aged meanwhile, even if the characters have as well.
Godfather III, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, My Big Fat Greek Wedding 2, Everybody Wants Some!!
Star Wars Episodes I-III.
But the impulse to buck the trend must be overwhelming, to revisit old storylines, to reimagine old characters, and revitalize them alma mater.
T2 Trainspotting starts out on a depressing note.
Renton's (Ewan McGregor/Connor McIndoe/Ben Skelton) inspiring speech from the final moments of T1 hasn't exactly widgeted bourgeois effervescence, and he's downtroddenly returned home to reestablish old friendships.
The bourgeoisie has experienced sincere difficulties for the last twenty years so it isn't surprising that he's had a tough go of it.
Grievances are aired and there's a rapprochement of sorts, although Begbie (Robert Carlyle/Christopher Mullen/Daniel Smith) remains extremely hostile, and Sick Boy (Jonny Lee Miller/James McElvar/Logan Gillies) duplicitously presides.
The characters are tetrarchically divided with Renton and Spud (Ewen Bremner/Aiden Haggarty/John Bell) making up one half, Sick Boy and Begbie the other.
Spud is loveable and tragic and incapable of smoothly navigating occupational domains due to years of drug abuse, but Renton is there to help him settle down and remember the sundry positive aspects of life existing beyond narcotic addiction.
Renton and Sick Boy meet in the middle, as mutual love interest Veronika (Anjela Nedyalkova) hilariously relates in one of the film's many lively observations, but Sick Boy got the bad side of the Schwartz, and is still incorrigibly struggling.
Hence, he is better at grovelling when a local phenom (Bradley Welsh as Doyle) threatens their lives after learning that they plan to open a strip club.
His sleazy misdemeanours make him a better fit for Begbie, who escapes from prison and hides out with his frightened family (like the police wouldn't have looked there [Begbie's relationship with his son is one of the best aspects of T2]), and is just as unemployable as Spud although his joblessness is the product of excessive aggression as opposed to chillin' fireside.
Begbie is wicked, yet when he gets together with Spud a brilliant synthesis cinematically unreels, after the initial terror subsides, and the cold violent horrorshow actually considers something tender.
Like Stalin at a spontaneous unannounced small town parade wittingly kept in line with party guidelines.
Trainspotting 2 struggles early on to reestablish the narrative after so many bygone years, and there were points where I thought it should have been left alone, but, when I sit back to consider the preponderance of insightful claims and witty evaluations afterwards, not to mention its bold calculations and tantalizing cutlass, cutlasses, I have no choice but to admit that my misgivings were premature, and that I did indeed enjoy the film, although I'm not buying the soundtrack this time.
Thoughtful depth is patiently added to the four main characters in a way that aptly reflects the trials they've experienced surviving for the past twenty years.
It's grittier than an everything-worked-out tale and more subdued like middle-age.
Jaded and scorned yet cheerfully torn.
Cynical yet aspiring.
Boyle's still got it.
As do David Lynch and Mark Frost.
Wednesday, April 5, 2017
Tuesday, April 4, 2017
Life
Peacefully orbiting the unsuspecting Earth, the International Space Station obliviously welcomes pure malice.
Initially cheerful after having discovered that life in fact exists on Mars, that lifeform's inherent hostility soon transforms celebrations into madness.
Ill-equipped to contain an überadaptive ultra-assimilative foe, after a blunder releases it from its confines, the resilient crew still improvises ingeniously.
But can they prevent it from assaulting the verdant planet below?
Or will Earth suffer Mars's fate, and flounder inertly, eternally barren?
One Life to live.
Why this choice of title?
Perhaps a bleak message lies dormant at the core of Life's construction, for one character, David Jordan (Jake Gyllenhaal), resides upon the space station due to his contempt for contentious and warlike terrestrial tendencies, yet within space he is once again forced to confront them, and in the brilliant ending he is the only one capable of saving what lies beneath.
Thus contention and cooperation remain locked in infinite begrudging dispute, while unconcerned fishermen seek, to set them free.
Or in the heavens there is a constant battle being waged which humble good natured down-home denizens neither comprehend nor wish to entertain.
They're too busy living.
To comprehend this aspect of Life.
*Not bad but Deadpool was crazy better. I understand they required different scripts with different demands, but Deadpool was much more impressive.
And touching.
Initially cheerful after having discovered that life in fact exists on Mars, that lifeform's inherent hostility soon transforms celebrations into madness.
Ill-equipped to contain an überadaptive ultra-assimilative foe, after a blunder releases it from its confines, the resilient crew still improvises ingeniously.
But can they prevent it from assaulting the verdant planet below?
Or will Earth suffer Mars's fate, and flounder inertly, eternally barren?
One Life to live.
Why this choice of title?
Perhaps a bleak message lies dormant at the core of Life's construction, for one character, David Jordan (Jake Gyllenhaal), resides upon the space station due to his contempt for contentious and warlike terrestrial tendencies, yet within space he is once again forced to confront them, and in the brilliant ending he is the only one capable of saving what lies beneath.
Thus contention and cooperation remain locked in infinite begrudging dispute, while unconcerned fishermen seek, to set them free.
Or in the heavens there is a constant battle being waged which humble good natured down-home denizens neither comprehend nor wish to entertain.
They're too busy living.
To comprehend this aspect of Life.
*Not bad but Deadpool was crazy better. I understand they required different scripts with different demands, but Deadpool was much more impressive.
And touching.
Monday, April 3, 2017
Saturday, April 1, 2017
The Harlequins, Chagall
Sickled splits in revelled mushing
intimates the fellows flushing
frenetic lithe hallowed trestles
streamin' chides canaveral vesselled
yearns unspurned le burning shire
alight with erudite highwired
transpiring totters voids transfixed
with debutant concocted bliss
ruckuses crescented 'dorned in tune
acoustics howling at the moon
a break to celebrate in flight
joys purposeless enraptured plights.
Willow anon.
intimates the fellows flushing
frenetic lithe hallowed trestles
streamin' chides canaveral vesselled
yearns unspurned le burning shire
alight with erudite highwired
transpiring totters voids transfixed
with debutant concocted bliss
ruckuses crescented 'dorned in tune
acoustics howling at the moon
a break to celebrate in flight
joys purposeless enraptured plights.
Willow anon.
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