The Lighthouse

Strict definitions classifying purpose, semantic utility assessed disfavour, forlorn yet productive acclimatized assertions, grim dismal chortling lugubrity, solar solace sequestered soliloquy, new days dawning in spectral quotes, quibbles quays seaside haze interrogative, must abide, attuned dactyl duties, caught up unaware, latent anger irascible breeze, Unicron scribbled courtly disclosure, endemic disputes surveyed frayed delirium, albeit the shock teeter totters and sways, as incumbent reason fritters away, the boundaries dividing labours concoct, dependable shaved categorical flocks.

Uplifted.

Upheld.

Within Robert Eggers's The Lighthouse.

Wherein legend and superstition frenetically fuze, with old school and ancient praised biblical dues, no comment no quarter no quarry no flight, just master and slave excavating the night.

A friend. A drinking buddy. Not so shy. Not so supple.

Who creates the casts and codes and who then seeks authoritative clarification?

To yield invokes oblivion.

To provoke kindles madness.

Yield provoke, yield provoke, yield provoke, yield provoke.

Resigned inarticulate fever promulgating brands upon brains, the dreamlike hierarchical breakdown dishevelled unfathomed treatise, stately astute confined delineations ill-prepared for potent protest, reproachful uninspired lamentation ill-equipped to lead to follow.

The film locks you down in sombre isolation, presents setting and character, inaugurates daily routine.

But how well can a film with only 2 characters tightly hold itself together for 109 minutes?

It starts off bored, slowly becomes more bleak, then increasingly dire, before settling for full-on nutso.

Fortunately time and care were taken with this one; I'm wondering if there'll be Oscar nominations?

Willem Dafoe is outstanding.

It's tough to tear yourself away, immersed in fog and storm, distressing syntheses hemorrhaging detail.

Like Lucy in the Sky, it sides with the straight and narrow, not without critiquing caprice, or hauntingly assailing rule.

Should have never touched a drop.

Should have kept it real notwithstanding.

A tragedy if you consider how easy it must have been.

To just not be a dick.

Relax.

Extrinsically.

*What's with the details? They give everything away.

The Glass Castle

Lifelong freespirited learning clashes with a daughter's less romantic pending nuptials as social interaction is inquisitively utilized to vindicate love in Destin Daniel Cretton's The Glass Castle.

Jeannette's (Brie Larson) wild unpredictable upbringing inculcated desires to seek out stability.

But schmoozing high and dry has its manicured blemishes, and a life spent precisely calculating the whimsical and/or incisive and/or apt and/or deconstructive impact of every austerely crafted glance, blush, and/or statement, and/or, sterilely severs her invaluable absurd attachments.

Through an intermittent series of sustained past life remembrances we're feverishly introduced to a lovingly versatile chaotically constructive family, complete with self-destructive alcoholic husband, and tender angelic supportive wife.

Their interactions bluntly interweave the traumatic and the endearing to intergenerationally spread a gritty multiphasic aggregate across recent genealogical landscapes, in order to strengthen psychological shielding which counters antiseptic evaluations.

It's well done, joyously celebrating unrestrained freedom while heartbreakingly illustrating potential related consequences, the bohemians and the bourgeois culturally busking and(/or) burnishing, as a family unconditionally demonstrates what it means to love.

Unfortunately, Captain Fantastic was released not too long ago, and while The Glass Castle makes more of a polished mainstream fit, Captain is the more exciting film.

A new subgenre?

Watch the booze peeps!

I love having a drink when the working day is done, a couple more on the weekend, and having learned to drink moderately, I find I now enjoy a glass of red wine or a pint much more.

I believe I learned to do this through cultural osmosis, my definition of the phrase being "learning and/or adopting features of the new culture you find yourself living within without socially interacting with it that often."

I should have posted that phrase when it popped into my head years ago.

It's probably from the 19th century.

Bah!

Colossal

Sensational supernatural synergies conventionally disrupt earth's space/time continuum to coincide with the destruction of a young girl's diorama in the woeful Colossal, extracurricularly transporting her grief to South Korea, where unbeknownst to her, a giant monster covertly seeks vengeance.

But said vengeance is spatially and temporally dependent and the beastie does not return until decades later, when, still consumed with dioramic grief, attempts to self-medicate with alcohol and promiscuity having failed to appease her anguish, she heads back to the small town where she was raised, at which point the destructive culprit comes courting.

Instinctively.

He offers friendship, furniture, a job, free booze, but she still prefers his better looking friend, which drives his responsible sure and steady stamina into a state of pure psychosis, for he has once again entertained the forbidden.

A monster was created for him upon that fateful day also.

And after they discover they both wield giant indestructible surrogates, it's on bitches, in the heart of downtown Seoul.

The potential for an incredible film lies within Nacho Vigalondo's Colossal, but, unfortunately, it's more concerned with possession than comedy.

It's funny when you think about what happens, what transpires, and it's fun to talk about afterwards, not that dark comedic elements don't permeate throughout.

I've never spoken about this film with anyone.

Yet Colossal spends a lot of time just chillin' in a small town, while emphasizing that a hard working character is boring, or that spontaneous bombshells find him boring, which winds up being somewhat boring, and pyrotechnically awkward when he tries not to be boring, until the final moments which are worth the wait, as stoic disinterest unwittingly consumes him.

Let the Sirens be you fool, they know no allegiance, they have no sense of fair play.

Metaphorically speaking, diligence and responsibility are crushed by both self-generated righteous indignation and adventitious independent preferences for alcohol.

Just let things be.

As you approach 40, you may lose most of your interest altogether.

And settle into a general routine of regenerative composure.

Good food, good music and film.

An appreciation for synchronizations.

A cat.

A micropig.

Leviafan (Leviathan)

Isolated in a small town in Northern Russia, a man fights to save his home from a corrupt mayor, relying on an oligarchically inclined legal system, and a lawyer skilled in the art of public sensation.

He's lived his whole life in the town.

Grew up there, became a family man, it's all he knows.

He has personality, responsibilities, a network.

Remote plutocratic politics.

A voice, legal rights, Andrey Zvyagintsev's take on contemporary Russia, Leviafan (Leviathan), like the skeleton of a massive destructive unstoppable procession, religion sans spirituality, futile to fight back, take the offer, drink, drink more, from one historical epoch to the next, take reprehensible thugs and give them wealth, prestige and power, hold them in place with the threat of imprisonment, they'll do as they're told, don't find a middle ground between what things were like before and after the 1917 revolution, recreate the system that lead to that revolution, bask in its imperialistic splendour, lock things down for a generation, flaunt your might, and see what Hobbes gets you.

Trust was placed where trust was deserved, its betrayal ripe with spontaneous idiocy, 10 blissful minutes for the bored, a maximum security sentence for the innocent.

Innocence requires innocence.

Angelic quid pro quo.

The act provides the mayor with leverage, a solid footing, authority.

Opulent construction.

In the gently falling snow.

Bai ri yan huo (Black Coal, Thin Ice)

Yi'nan Diao's Bai ri yan huo (Black Coal, Thin Ice) seems like his first shot at reimagining classic American film noir.

It's dark. Haunting. There's a sense of helplessness on both sides of the law. Wu Zhizhen (Lun Mei Gwei) necessarily seduces. The underground is diversified. Innocence liaises with crime. The investigator (Fan Liao as Zhang Zili) is committed to justice but otherwise an alcoholic sexually aggressive flake. Anxiety persists. Ambiguity laments.

But it's lacking a cultivated heightened sense of permanent desperate byzantine betrayal, the overt narrative shallow and sober when compared to The Big Sleep, The Maltese Falcon, or Trance, too disciplined, too formulaic, to visceralize a dismal atemporal malaise.

Multiplicity's the key.

Multiple egocentric prevaricating convoluted treacherous miscreants, sardonically conceiving obfuscated cul-de-sacs, clues within clues postulating neglect, perseverance sustained, adherence, maligned.

Bai ri yan huo is a solid debut demonstrating Diao's gifts ala cheek, crass, and cluster.

Several main characters speak, but don't play direct roles in the obscurity.

There isn't much collateral damage.

Solid film nonetheless.

Boyhood

Cradling incalculable creative mismatched fluencies, irregularly dispatched as an artist comes into being, Richard Linklater's Boyhood follows a struggling family's progressive course for more than a decade, intermingling climactic catalysts and laid-back observations to serialize the traumatic and the beautiful, the courageous and the chill, helpless free-flowing resilient tenacity, a pervasive sense of wonder, enlightened, eiderdown.

Nice to see an asshole who isn't loveable.

What a strong mother (Patricia Arquette).

Responsibility and teaching are major factors, the children living with their mother, spending weekends with their father, encountering caring facilitators of learning along the way.

Dad (Ethan Hawke) steals a lot of scenes because he has less responsibility and can therefore spend more time being cool, but mom commands more respect, having to make extremely difficult choices as her stable partners turn into beasts.

I liked how the film's divided into different sections as the children age without seeming like it's divided at all; Boyhood has a seamless continuous flow which maturely reflects the passing of the years by not choosing to focus too intently on significant events, while still unreeling cogently enough to recognize their developmental importance.

This style also allows Linklater's characters to smoothly change and grow without constant reminders that they are changing and growing, which may have become tiresome.

Tammy

Crushed by the impact of three significant life altering events, young Tammy (Melissa McCarthy) hits the road with Grandma (Susan Sarandon), destination, Niagara Falls, fuel intake, anything containing alcohol, issues, several issues present themselves, confidence, emphatic, invective, and sworn, tested through the pertinence of picturesque pit-stops, cavorted, as night descends, and the juniper flushes its aromatic cones.

Lessons learned.

Hold-ups congenialized.

Hydrosonic viking burials.

The modest and the mouthpiece.

Fashionably fermenting a fetching frisky fawn, mobilizing jail-time while standardizing the getaway, Tammy transitions both its tempers and its testaments, to lampoon highs in earnest, while pinpointing the pressures, of barometric bonds.

Co-written by McCarthy (also written by director Ben Falcone), I think she can do better.

It's alright, but a long way from Anchorman 2. 

I was searching for a feel-good slightly raunchy twirl-a-whirl summertime swing, and Tammy synchronously delivered.

That's what it did.

Was thinking of my favourite films of Summer earlier that day and The Great Outdoors popped into my head, which fit well.

Thought more could have been done with Gary Cole.

Another Brady Bunch sequel?

Written by Ms. McCarthy?

There's got to be a market for another Brady Bunch film.

From the White House, to Alaska.

Or, Kansas.

Down on the farm.

Ida

Diametrically opposed feminine caricatures, each possessing their own semantic strengths, volatile penitence, the vixen's splurge, contextualize their continuum within Ida's scene, after and during their first unexpected meeting.

They're related.

One is about to take her vows.

The other struggles with her political legacy.

The younger seeks to discover the whereabouts of her dead parents, killed during World War II, her aunt is able to assist, they set out to interrogate 20th century Polish history, stylizing their familial cross-section, with upbeat moving jazzy consolidations.

Existentializing the saxophone.

As blunt, bellicose, and bitchin' as it is chaste and resigned, Pawel Pawlikowski's Ida solemnly soars through perceptible heights, contemporary fusions stern and frolicked, olives, rye bread, beemsters, or a fast with a glass of Soplica.

Unassailable friction diffused in check.

Begets temptation.

An hourglass.

For a crucible's chime.

Perfect companion piece for Robert Bresson's Diary of a Country Priest.

Miraculum

Flight plans, guilt-ridden, felicitous, miserable, and emancipating flight plans, desperately intermingle differing degrees of shock, immersed in Daniel Grou's Miraculum, as risks deteriorate familial stabilities, and the concept of vice, is multifariously de/moralized.

Synoptic suffering.

A weary outcast attempts to make amends through profits earned from drug smuggling.

An affair crushes and/or enlivens the members of two elderly couples.

Distant addictive empty partners seek to rejuvenate their marriage.

A struggling Jehovah's Witness is tempted by secular advancements (blood transfusions).

The four stories downtroddenly unfurl within and without (like Babel or Tian zhu ding), lucidly pinpointing vectorized vertices, occasionally peaking ensemble, dedicating a despondent deconstructive density to open-minded conscientious plights, which resists clear and distinct binding generalizations, to materially matriculate the mundanely divine.

Although communal belonging is fluidly challenged as unforgiving bulwarks fortify their positions.

Wherein resistance is rather futile.

Miraculum isn't like pastis, milk, and honey, more like a caressing melancholic ideological tempest, compelling in its whirlwinds, tight, multifaceted, challenging.

Editing by Valérie Héroux.

Written by Gabriel Sabourin (Valérie Beaugrand-Champagne consulting).

It breathes difficult distinct tetralectics into profound ethical quotients, corrugating crisp conceptions of the beautiful, rationally masterminded, exacting, composed.

Keeping you focused at full attention.

Built to multilaterally stimulate.

The Great Gatsby

Extravagant timidity humbly refrains an opulent recourse to true's love sustain.

Spare no expense, attract the best and the brightest, the emotion's too deep, the goal of the tightest.

Business contacts whose illicit elixirs submerge their protractive congenial mixtures.

Sponsor time honoured traditions of courtship, implying ambitious circuitous quartets.

As fate's lavish weave blends with chance's reprieve, the noblest of dreams hail permanency.

For people, and Queens, and the prettiest things.

Preferred Australia and Moulin Rouge!

Safe Haven

Attaching a dipsomanic dimension to an otherwise light and fluffy romance flick, Lasse Hollström's Safe Haven quaintly juxtaposes psychosis and contentment as a struggling woman (Julianne Hough) searches for a new life.

Along the way she meets Alex (Josh Duhamel), a widower with two children living in a seaside town.

I could relate to his love of the wilderness, his favourite places to chill etc.

They meet, start liking each other, authoritative madness intervenes, the symbolic clashes with the void.

Ms. Hough does a great job representing various components of feminine strength until it becomes clear that she's hooking up with Alex, after which Terry Stacey's cinematography becomes less provocative.

Don't let this trick you into thinking that since you're in a stable relationship you have to sequester your keen fashion sense.

On the contrary, this is when you're at your most beautiful and should therefore continue to find ways to share your beauty on a predictable yet regularly changing basis, thereby vivifying natural and urban worlds, keeping in touch with the changing seasons, transforming them into a living breathing tantalizing work of art.

Springtime.

It's springtime!

The Master

His personality trailing behind, obliviously, inquisitively and contendedly basking in the wake, quietly lounging in his own residual perpetual motion, with a sun he fails to see warmly beating down on his inebriated candour, Freddie Quell's (Joaquin Phoenix) proclivities for the peculiar lead to transformative miscues while the narrative which he inhabits, Paul Thomas Anderson's The Master, derisively lambastes its own nostalgic attachment to film's longing for nostalgic attachments (through its initial choice of music).

Mr. Quell's sense of buoyancy has been quasi-permanently kept afloat due to his wartime experience, as has his creative knack for improvisationally concocting alcoholic beverages.

He also seeks partnership.

Fortunately, he stows away on a ship by chance which has been rented by a carefree spirit (Philip Seymour Hoffman as Lancaster Dodd) and his followers, many of whom share his desire to circumvent sobriety.

They have taken things one step further, though, having devotedly conjured a flexible theoretical fundamental foundation, whose profits have secured a fantastic incorruptibility.

As these two tinkerers intersect, pseudoestablished faith-based charlatanism attempts to absorb obstinate itinerant (restrained, undirected, generally harmless) epicurean anarchy through a series of mind tricks, the confident modest inclusive yet principled performance expertly executed by Mr. Hoffman in their first obligatory interaction sophisticatedly counterbalanced by Joaquin Phoenix's focused resistant exactitude.

As Freddie is lured in, the film's structure attempts to grab hold of its audience's recalcitrance and transfer it deep within its hallucinatory consciousness, as if it's relying on the sheer conviction of its form alone, regardless of what form it takes, to transcribe potential transgressions of the post-modern through personal investments of hesitant, guilt-ridden trust, incipiently causing a cult to appear happy-go-lucky, and attempting to internally harness a distilled independent rationality.

The best American film I've seen so far this year.

Amy Adams puts in a great performance too.

Take this Waltz

Disorientingly positioned between two socio-cultural persuasions (traditional vs. open marriage), one, familiar, cozy, predictable and solid, option 2, unknown, spicy, spontaneous and in inspirational flux, Take this Waltz's Margot (Michelle Williams) struggles to choose a specific gravitational counterpart, their contradictory forces amorously messin' with her mind.

Associated risks and issues of comfort are respectfully juxtaposed with daring intoxicating improvisational interest. 

As if a beautiful funny intelligent woman rediscovers that sensuous spark that unrecognizably redefined her as she let herself go in the arms of another, and it becomes increasingly difficult to dialectically distinguish her two suitors.

Until earthly realities draw attention to the responsibilities of the symbolic and the imaginary must be qualified by a degree of practicality. 

An escape, a happy place, something blissful, is required, where, perhaps, when emotionally tied to demanding conflicting relational engagements, one can reassert a transcendent sense of self while existentially weighing their details against their general affects, one which functions as a secret personalized counterpoint to that generated by the partner's enigmatic propulsive particle, from which balance can be dependently realized.   

Having interiorized and subjectively promulgated the gaze of her subjects of desire.

And negotiated a flexible impervious pact.

The Artist

Pride leads to a tragic fall in Michel Hazanavicius's The Artist, as silent film superstar George Valentin (Jean Dujardin) refuses to adapt to a technological paradigm shift. Losing everything after the advent of the Talkies, he descends into a self-obsessed alcoholic tailspin while remaining loyal to his preferred form of artistic expression.

To which he was an unparalleled sensation.

Paying hommage to an abandoned form of film making which was responsible for cinema's resounding success, The Artist works, presenting a remarkable synthesis of motion and sound whose historical resonances are fashionably festooned.

Ludovic Bource's original music playfully harmonizes with the action and temporally positions us within a revitalized inspirational epoch. Jean Dujardin and Bérénice Bejo (Peppy Miller) use the full range of their creative non-verbal subtly to emit an understated existential dialogue which encourages evocative sensual reflections as one tries to imagine what might have been said.

Even as Valentin seems destined for dereliction, a sense of innocent naivety permeates The Artist's being, as its expertly timed stylistic complexities leisurely conjure an effervescent cascade of childlike simplicity by delicately condensing multilayered supporting complements into an affective cry.

Nothing that surprising takes place in the narrative itself. It's the cohesive viscid micro-details which transform each moment into an exception of its own that make The Artist such a compelling film.

Nice to see Ed Lauter with a supporting role.

The Adventures of Tintin: The Secret of the Unicorn

An adventure accidentally presents itself as commodities are exchanged. A secret lies deep within unconscious depths hidden beneath years of unchecked alcohol consumption. A helpful dog continuously discovers solutions to associated problems. And innocent Tintin proceeds unrelentingly.

Three clues have been placed within the masts of three model ships which represent a sunken vessel known as the Unicorn. A resourceful scoundrel seeks to decipher these clues in order to harvest a bountiful treasure. Tintin (Jamie Bell) is kidnapped and forced to take part in his quest. After cleverly escaping his captor's clutches, he meets a saucy Sea Captain (Andy Serkis) with whom he was born to encapsulate.

Steven Spielberg's The Adventures of Tintin youthfully and energetically galvanizes this filmic variation of the Tintin franchise. Fast paced deliberate inquisitive action meets dedicated trustworthy crafty redemption as comic interjections intermittently lighten the tension and purpose unites difference in the bonds of collaborative friendship. Travel is a necessity. Responses must be made according to specific temporal restrictions. The competition is ruthless and eager to displease. And historical antagonisms have been built into the dynamic so that contemporary animosities take on a legendary character.

It's very athletic.

Amiable and fun and full of life and nimble energy, The Adventures of Tintin is an enlivening family friendly film which pleasantly cushions the holiday season.

L'amour fou

Examining the life and times of fashion designer Yves Saint-Laurent, Pierre Thoretton's L'amour fou lucidly injects a sober biographical sketch with an informative alluring amorous solution.

Within we discover a prolific artist prone to depression and substance abuse whose innovative vision redefined and enabled various voices. An avid art collector, he acquired a vast array of works over the years whose particular features were loosely situated within the specific temporal coordinates of a constantly transforming personalized aesthetic.

Much like Charles Swann.

Primarily framed by the accounts of lifelong partner Pierre Bergé, St. Laurent's trajectory is characterized by brilliance, success, and mental illness. Their relationship endures as Yves creates and Bergé manages, a stable juxtaposition of art and commerce which survives their passion's deterioration.

What Saint-Laurent achieved throughout his lifetime is remarkable, resulting from the ways in which he consistently reinvented himself while continuing to cultivate his insight. The film could have elaborated to a greater degree on the latter part of his engagement, his personal life and idiosyncrasies enjoying more screen time throughout. He's often portrayed as an undeniable genius whose only destabilizing lesions were self-inflicted. There must have been more controversy associated with his pursuits, controversy that could have been focused on more acutely than Bergé's role in his life story.

But the film's about crazy love, and Bergé's role in Saint-Laurent's success was paramount. L'amour fou only presents a brief introduction to their union, and although this introduction provides a significant amount of anecdotal refreshment, it principally serves to encourage further investigations.

Which isn't so bad.

The Hangover Part II

And they made another Hangover film.

This time the Wolfpack's in Thailand, and, thanks to the fact that everywhere they go someone speaks English, they're able to loosely piece together what took place during their second rowdy blackout. Character types are solidified and exaggerated. Phil (Bradley Cooper) once again maintains a level-head and calmly leads the pack from one reconstructed debacle to the next. Stu's (Ed Helms) future father-in-law humiliates him regularly and his adventures in Bangkok potentially complicate the bonds of holy matrimony. And Alan (Zach Galifianakis). Alan consistently elaborates upon his peculiar relationship with highly 'alternative' conceptions of the status-quo, and thoroughly demonstrates that he hasn't the slightest clue in regards to socio-anything. Of course, many of my favourite characters are Alanesque and the status-quo is a slippery conception whose malleable determinants relativistically engage opposing cultural semantic designations (internally and externally) which are dependent upon political and economic (and so on) qualifiers and whether or not anyone pays attention to them. But Alan's such a yutz when it comes to Teddy's (Mason Lee) inclusion in the pack, that it was difficult for me to generate any related sympathy.

Although the generation of sympathy is where The Hangover Part II's strength lies, not simply sympathy generated for the slapdash script, which was potentially written in haste in order to cash in on the simmering Hangover phenomenon, perhaps over the weekend or during daily trips to the washroom, but sympathy for reckless behaviour brought on by years of predictable engagements whose consequences resultantly clarify and distinguish their uniformity, for better or worse. Yes these particular things happened and they were the by-product of other general things which also happened and therefore, while problematic in regards to a strict definition of responsibility, accentuate and integrate said responsibilities into a traditional framework nonetheless, fully and completely, through the art of forgiveness.

It's too hot today.

À l'origine d'un cri

Tackling difficult subject matter in a sober fashion, Robin Aubert's À l'origine d'un cri skilfully examines masculinity through the intergenerational lens of a blunt family.

A road trip is required after a husband (Michel Barrette) walks out on his family following the death of his second wife. His whereabouts are sought by his father (Jean Lapointe) and son (Patrick Hivon). Relations between the three are strained.

The two fathers seek control through the means of condescending commentaries sarcastically delivered at the expense of whomever they address, while the son's pent up anger is indirectly unleashed again and again. Trying to develop his own voice while being consistently ridiculed by his two most cherished male role models has left some scars, as has being sexually abused by a babysitter as a child, his parent's divorce, and his constant drinking. Things haven't been easy for his father or grandfather either as their breakdowns and observations relate.

But they still always find a way to deal.

If you've ever known what it's like to consistently encounter sarcastic witticisms concerning the majority of what you do you'll likely find the conversations within À l'origine d'un cri heart warming, challenging, hilarious, and sly, tempestuously orchestrating a particularized masculine discourse while harmonizing its voices with quotidian cacophonies. It synthetically compartmentalizes the destructively productive realities governing specific son-father-grandfather relationships, agilely using comedy to lighten the tension without infantalizing the catharsis.

Love briefly disseminates its revitalizing aura when it eventually arises, the excessive byproduct of their strict and penetrating criticisms.

Arthur

Not sure what to make of Jason Winer's Arthur. Apart from a commercial they ran on the Comedy Network for a couple of weeks, I'm completely unfamiliar with Russell Brand so this was my first encounter with his work. He's made a bold career move in Arthur, overtly suggesting that he is the inheritor of Dudley Moore's legacy, a move that must be followed up by an exceptional performance to be even remotely legitimized. I haven't seen many Dudley Moore films but I remember he was revered enough to be positively and negatively criticized in the mainstream media for a lengthy period while I was growing up, meaning that he likely has supportive and passionate fans remaining. Will they see Brand's reworking of Arthur as an homage to a great comedian by an up and coming artist who respects his entourage, or as an assault on a solidified characterization already firmly canonized within specific pop cultural histories/theorizations?

They're probably not concerned with either of these possibilities as they have better things to do.

But I don't, so I'm mentioning them in an indirect salute to the phenomenon of potential.

I thought Arthur lacked depth and the story simply recycled basic romantic class conscious true love narratives to produce another feel good romantic-comedy without innovating within corresponding traditions. Difficult subjects like arranged marriage, social barriers, child rearing, and corporate management are introduced and brought to the forefront, but Arthur's happy-go-lucky carefree nature euphemizes the constructive discourses delegated by their presence. At the same time, Brand's portrayal of Arthur is enlivening and revitalizing, cheerfully demanding that attention be paid. He's obviously multi-talented and the depth he instills in Arthur's character is striking. Helen Mirren is not to be bested, however, and she delivers a multi-talented characterization of her own, exemplified by the way in which she states the word "chimpanzee." The writers also provide her character with one of the most sublime of pastimes/interests which was sincerely appreciated by this commentator.

I suppose films whose performers subvert the greater cultural evaluations their director is trying to make by destabilizing them by displaying their talents function as prominent symbols of capitalist individuality. And Arthur is the product of successful capitalists who have amassed an enormous fortune, so, Arthur's form is working hand in hand with its content on one level anyways.

Bears.

True Grit

Revenge. Determination. The Law. Bold teenager Mattie Ross (Hailee Steinfeld) is determined to hire a lawperson in order to bring the man who murdered her father to justice, and she possesses the stubborn constitution and iron will necessary to do so. Refusing to allow the stereotypes regarding her age and gender thwart her, she convinces the grizzled alcoholic U.S. Marshal Reuben J. "Rooster" Cogburn (Jeff Bridges) to pursue, and accompanies him along the way. The bumbling Texas Ranger La Boeuf (Matt Damon) is also in search of their quarry and the ensuing relations between the three roughhouse traditional conceptions of law and order. Cogburn and La Boeuf are like a rugged cantankerous reflection of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson and their argumentative dialogue complicates matters before the Coen Brothers round up their complementary strengths and weaknesses (it's as if they've taken a "good" standard lawperson, separated him or her into two, provided both personalities with piss and vinegar, and then used [in this case] feminine strength to bring them together). Mattie saves them from themselves and maintains a firm influential grip, perhaps suggesting that as patriarchal conceptions of the good drink and qualify themselves to death, strong young women will revitalize and recast their semantics, maintaining a prominent place for men while creating one as equally influential for women, thereby manifesting true grit. The fact that her efforts are only substantialized through a stroke of somewhat random good fortune suggests that an egalitarian feminine and masculine power distribution may be generated both legally and politically and treated as if it was evolutionary publicly, if and only if the actual composition of its resonance is dependent upon frustrated logic reinvigorated serendipitously, i.e., the introduction of and capitalization upon a paradigm which oddly corresponds to and uplifts its socialized framework, something formally similar to Lafontaine and Baldwin's use of restraint in the 1840s. A catalyst, a cyberstone, something from within. Good film.