Emojis too.
Perhaps sign language and emojis should become prominent components of political discourse.
A traditional family moves to the countryside to embrace less hectic surroundings, the daughter noticeably upset at having left her friends behind.
Upon trying to locate their new home, they steer down a foreboding country lane, only to stop several kilometres on down, at the sign of a diminutive statue.
Uncertain of where they are, exploration seems in order, father believing they've found an (abandoned) amusement park, where they may find something to eat.
Food awaits their lavish appetites and soon mom and dad are feasting, unaware they're gorging upon meals prepared for visiting spirits.
For they have entered an alternative dimension wherein which gods and monsters composedly bathe, their bathhouse managed by a haughty witch (Suzanne Pleshette) who's none too fond of humans.
Chihiro's (Daveigh Chase) parents are transformed into pigs for supping 'pon victuals forbidden, and she's soon looking for work, as advised by the helpful Haku (Jason Marsden).
But it's tough to settle in since she's never laboured before, and bathing a shy stink spirit proves a vast malodorous chore.
She may be able to escape and set her parents free indeed.
But not before the greedy witch has successfully decreed.
Sen to Chihiro no kamikakushi (Spirited Away) investigates incorporeal phenomena, substantiated on their own terms, without overlooking endemic economies.
Chihiro soon learns she was wrong to critique her cozy creature comforts, as the prospect of ceaseless work suddenly materializes. Fortunately she makes friends who don't lack sympathy or compassion, and isn't strictly monitored throughout the day, has a bit of time to roam.
Ghibli Studios presents another world overflowing with narrative innovation, unexpected otherworldly creations untethered unleashed at play.
Its characteristic light heart brightly beats as the current doth flow, but it's somewhat less innocent more frightening than some of its equally wondrous contemporaries.
As genuine affection shines through and even monsters slowly relent, the strong bonds forged between workers wholeheartedly freely cement.
In practically every scene throughout the film there's something new to charmingly ponder, even if it's comically startling or slightly stressed or wild or fearful.
As if the peeps at graceful Ghibli were concerned with chill enchantments.
The spellbinding glib green light.
Ethereally expanding.
Crisp refreshing meaningless
particular tangential twists
the light extracted incoherent
wayward symptomatic lyric
skeletal ‘scried syndication
plush embodied variation
honest random flux provisions
asymmetrical descriven
impulse unattached impression
infinite devoid digressions
segways cornucopian
unharvested verdant anon
just something lacking unconcerned
with macroscopic unassured
a restful moderate enticement
bidin’ time with peaceful vibrant
festivity.
The lighter side of romantic inhibition comically elaborates (through flashback) in Truffaut's L'amour en fuite (Love on the Run).
Antoine (Jean-Pierre Léaud) once again finds himself pursuing the irresistible shortly following his divorce after love interest Sabine (Dororthée) punishes him.
Driven by genuine liberated invention, his expositions know no bounds, and proceed posthaste wholeheartedly, zephyristic zounds.
I suppose this goes without saying if you're familiar with the narrative thread, which becomes much more endearing with each instalment frisked and fled.
Indomitable infatuation regal flush disposed curiosity, multivariable assumed inconstant freeform precious jocose romance.
In L'amour en fuite so prone to accident he rediscovers love lost forgotten, who's just purchased the sultry novel he's been writing from film to film.
He takes inquisitive note and seeks rapprochement upon a train, where the details of his book encounter critical acclaim.
He generates appeal beholden flourishes notwithstanding, but can't escape the legal shrewd exotic reprimanding.
Even though he's just incapable of remaining honest, loyal, and true, his partners still adore him unabrasive through and through.
Not to the point where they'll let him get away with it but they still can't deny their feelings, and the lack of boredom he freely generates as he ascertains impulsively.
There's no doubt that creative explanations are his supple imaginative forte, nor that if one enjoys a passionate argument he graciously accommodates.
If so much of life's caught up with routine I suppose there's excitement in experimentation, although it's by no means a general rule but how else to explain the reality?
I'm uncertain as to how feminists or Me Too would respond to the charming Antoine, is he to be condemned for his indiscretions or upheld through honest light?
His inexhaustible enthusiasm demonstrates a thorough love of women, and he isn't forceful or mean or brutal, he's rather quite innocent, inquisitive, enamoured.
Rascally.
Is such genuine affection preferable at times to duty and is this why feminists don't condemn him (in fiction), or has Truffaut simply gotten away with it scandalous film after scandalous film?
Antoine certainly means well as he honestly follows his instinct, and doesn't lack ideal sincerity in his explorations of l'amour.
Perhaps just a childish fantasy exaggerating infidelity, to lighten the austere mood that proliferates at times?
Either way it's a funny ending to a story that went way too far.
Not as much depth as Domicile conjugal.
But still traditionally entertaining.
It seems like the best thing to do is to wait until January to head back to school. It's too bad creative solutions to the current economic crisis can't be found to make that a reality (wasn't CERB just extended again?). The local numbers aren't as worrisome as realities being experienced in other parts of the world. Perhaps hardly anything will go wrong.
In 1936, H.G. Wells, in the aftermath of World War I, amidst increasing global tensions, considered Things to Come.
Celebration abounds in the present as another Holiday Season wondrously invigorates, families and friends laidback ensemble to regenerate anew.
But mad imperialistic ambition soon disrupts the lighthearted revelling, and the world descends into total chaos for woebegone cataclysmic decades.
Torn apart, global networks in ruin, a plague ignominiously spreads, and feudal discourse slowly reemerges, as "might-is-right" bluntly takes control.
They see no need for peace in Britain and conflict continues to rage indiscriminately, but since industry is strictly nominal mutual armaments remain indisposed.
On the continent, a different ethos takes hold as cultures regroup, dedicated to scientific expenditure aligned with utilitarian progress.
As time passes innovation ascends, and worldwide reckonings muse collegial, but too much of an emphasis on work eventually ignites inspired criticism.
An apocalyptic vision of the future wildly ascertaining in the film, well versed in grim foreboding and utopian desire.
I'm wary of utopian impulses myself, these days, which lack sincere considerations of the present, too much of a focus on futures unforeseen ignoring blatant systemic disparities.
The ends too often justify cold calculating austere means, which fit well within specific formulae lacking cohesive particularity.
Too many variables to take into account to assure viable collective movement, without forceful binding shackles predisposed to dis/integration.
The desire for change the fluidic instinct grows weary of perennial plans, the constant elevation of rhetoric whose meaning fades without results.
If you consider utopia periodically as opposed to an eternal strain, it does pop up from time to time like mutated verdant grains.
Inasmuch as periods even decades flourish with general prosperity, but sustaining that prosperity indefinitely remains generally elusive.
Perhaps it's spiritually profitable to maintain some lofty goals on the horizon, in order to dispel depression if the present seems rather bleak.
But obsessing about them or defining yourself through them or conspiring to obtain them can leave you blind, to everything else that's happening as steady robust lives unwind.
Perhaps focusing on the present and patiently rockin' it with reasonable means, generates vibrant contemporary futures for daily grindin' dreams.
Many have written about how happy people are in less well-off countries, despite comparable incomes or goods and services.
If you aren't considering the future how does anything ever change?
If you're living within a prosperous racially-inclusive generally-employed sporty well-educated environmentally-sound present, is there much need for tectonic shifts or grand prophetic technological innovations?
So much time sedately passing
evanescence everafting
bleak conflicting cold accounts
prognostic flaked deflated bounce
the longing for secure momentum
uninhibited invention
reemergent unimpacted
routine blasé shades contracted
debt forgiveness wholesome mercy
patient understanding quirky
robust style imagination
charm revitalizing nations
how long till the static thrust
is broken up by antitrusts
and latent haunting daily worries
disappear benign and burly?
acumen.
*Hopefully there's a vaccine soon. Be nice to not have to worry about ye olde plague anymore.
The active mind having aged to reimagine engagement through interpretive fluid rapt multivariable impression.
A rambunctious youth clad in melodic calculi (managing and touring with bands), then ruminative middle-age embracing quiet illustration (monitoring different rooms in Vienna's Kunsthistorisches Art Museum).
Living a thoughtful solitary life well-attuned to simple pleasures (Bobby Sommer as Johann), he meets a curious tourist one day visiting from Montréal (Mary Margaret O'Hara as Anne).
She's in town to watch over her cousin who's fallen into a coma, and would love to see the sights but doesn't know where to begin.
The film loosely follows their interactions as they travel in and about town, different features brought to life through historical exposition. It's not just the Kunsthistorisches that shines, Vienna's contemporary spirit enlivens as well, evocatively situated in past and present, replete with urban wildlife.
As Anne and Johann converse reflections on art evanescently materialize, not as if they're searching for essentials, more like chill jazzy random observation.
In fact it's like Museum Hours aesthetically cherishes the chill and random, as various images are freely showcased without a particular focus.
It's not presenting a specific thesis arguing for a point of view, but rather sharing different images to let Vienna thrive on through.
According to individual tastes, a clever seminar in artistic analysis attempts to lead visitors away from cocktail clichés, to more expansive literary compositions, as they observe different paintings, like there isn't an essence to be extracted but rather a variety of compelling interpretive exports.
Johann looks on in studious wonder as a guide imaginatively elucidates, her insights applicable to Jem Cohen's style which doesn't seek to blandly distill.
He observes that the right has made things much more serious, and made casual conversation much less prevalent, if the left loses sight of lighthearted argument, don't you wind up with The Lobster?
If the emphasis is on the correct interpretation of a shifting multivariable phenomenon, aren't such aggressive and violent evaluations highly dubious and irrational?
Taking absurd comedic outputs that clearly lack exhaustive scope, and treating them with biblical import, can lead to an unwillingness for people to participate in sustained and vigorous debate.
If they aren't treated with biblical import but rather as just another form of expression, then you have something much less frightening, and more amenable to inclusive discourse.
What I miss most about going to the movies isn't the popcorn or the chocolate, the trailers or the big screen, but rather sitting and waiting for a film to begin, while listening to top 40 hits in the lobby. I don't even listen to top 40 radio when I'm driving or relaxing at home, but when I'm at the movies I love to hear hit songs playing as I wait to go in.
*I'm not categorically dismissive of the top 40, in fact I love it when I like a top 40 hit, I just find I often prefer listening to Classic Rock, or a station playing alternative music I've never heard before.
Lost in lounging Kazonned bitterness maladroitly grossly soaked through.
Cajoled intransigent declamatory renown, submerged and settled ripe repository.
Embellished cranky lewd itinerant coy romantic tidal yearning, grim gargantuan grouchy gurgle disembodied unconcern.
Rugged rapids constant thirst evasive rapt recourse insatiable, lucid rash unshorn ebullient wayward raucous exhibition.
Clad austere informative upbeat plaid imposed distraught decorum, quartered diplomatic engagements prim and proper pristine palate.
Abandoned perhaps misplaced paradigmatic imperilled logistics, rhapsodic infidelity satchels sordid crazed acknowledgement.
Portly purpose in/animate poise discordant rest imbibed resuscitation, fate forlorn contaminant drawn spruced emboldened consummate elixir.
What a performance a ride a calling a cataclysmic egad catastrophe, tragic melancholic brinkspersonship, some of the best acting I've ever seen (Albert Finney as Geoffrey Firmin).
The question of sobriety remains unanswered cloaked in marigold misapprehension, like lathered erudite haze sorely spread in enigmatic disjunction.
Woeful discourse, sincere regret, sheer limitless august mourning, blended with reprieve albeit slightly as his cherished wife (Jacqueline Bisset as Yvonne Firmin) returns.
Yvonne once proceeded freely and then caught his wandering eye, the noble falling for the ingenue who knew nothing of his cozy cluster.
Which was forgotten some time ago in periodic stifled remonstrance, and replaced with unchecked revelling sold surpassing primordial bounds.
Moments of rich endearing tenderness and bold adventurous distraction attempt to alter his rash behaviour with delicate daring calm.
But he can't forget the affair and proceeds with reckless frank credulity.
Like a comet that's lost its light.
Constellated swath exasper.
I discovered a neat trick to rediscover the Christmas Spirit months later last February. I had started to read a book during the Holiday Season and for some reason or other put it down for two months before picking it up again. I was happy to find that upon starting to read it again I found myself once again experiencing feelings I had enjoyed over Christmas, which lead to a brief period of unexpected joy. I don't know if this would work for others or if you actually try to do it, but perhaps it might, so I thought I would share the experience and see what happens next year.
Equal opportunity
expansive inclusivity
the focus anti-racial bias
economically the widest
influence communal reach
fully-employed prosperous peaks
dynamic green technologies
interdependent revelry
the morning’s relaxed coffee break
an afternoon blueberry shake
the evening laidback in your kingdom
freely disposed surplus income
time slowly and surely bidin’
prepped to start diversely thrivin’
just need that dispersed vaccine
resuscitated evergreens.
Career criminals stretch out laidback in prison, as a fortuitous cake emerges, celebrations encoding style.
Having escaped they seek anonymity upon the open road, yet lend their images to a portrait depicting extant legend.
Soon they're reunited with Emile Vernet's (Akim Tamiroff) large outlaw family, who fears for their hard fought freedom, and recommends they join the army.
False identities are procured and they set off to aid Napoleon, still noticing jewels along the way whose brilliance generates temptation.
Years later they've left the service yet still scorn an honest living, and find themselves sheltered in a lavish chateau, presided over by the Minister of Police (Alan Napier as Houdon de Pierremont).
They decide to rob him anyway and enact an audacious plan, switching the location of the jewels through agnostic sleight of hand.
The Prefect of Police (Gene Lockhart) cannot discover them and is relieved of duty, but Eugéne Vidocq (George Sanders) knows their whereabouts and leads the Minister straight indubitably.
For his exceptional deductive skill he's generously rewarded, and given the post of Prefect of Police, securing Vernet's relatives jobs thereafter, at the bustling Bank of Paris.
But his identity remains known to at least 2 adoring love interests, who fortunately enjoy his company, and seek not his instant ruin.
A Scandal in Paris invests striking charm with bewitching clever schematics, which assuage freeform displacements as a matter of upright cause.
Taking things too seriously is not so subtly critiqued throughout, even if Vidocq must watch his back as he nimbly cascades clout.
It seems too farfetched to believe yet is at least partially verifiable, taken from Vidocq's very own memoirs, the validity of which I cannot speak to.
He understood people well no doubt, a master of effortless seduction, freely winning hearts and minds through open-minded grand induction.
Those lacking social graces or appealing fanned conceit, fell swiftly to his daring bold and animate spry feats.
There's a series here within these reels commanding grand detection, each episode a marigold shy intimate selection.
Why not engage a stunning sleuth who once lacked honest virtue, to come to terms with pachyderms investigate the Dooku?
A stunning tale lightly regaled the shocking fluent candour, a charméd life akin to strife concocting goose and gander.
Flavour.
What a life.