The Great Dictator

I find the introduction of disclaimers (although at times necessary) provides an unfortunate layer of stress to an otherwise upbeat festivity, but nevertheless, please note that when I write about abounding mesmerizing life, I'm doing so to celebrate the fleeting natural world and critique flagitious warmongers. As humans encroach further and further into natural realms they become more and more precious, as does celebrating their vivid wonders with elastic readiness and proactive verve. Simultaneously, as a new generation far removed from the horrors of World War II ignorantly and childishly plays with the world like the Dictator of Tomania (Charlie Chaplin), with no regard for human frailty, the celebration of life becomes inclusively paramount especially concerning the bombarded Ukraine.  I'm not trying to secretly make an argument that is pro-life in regards to abortion, since I believe it is a woman's right to choose and that men have no say in the unfortunate scheme of things. The argument laid-out in (the now unfortunately titled) Freakonomics makes a strong practical case for the sociocultural benefits of permitting abortion within reason, and the ways in which poverty and starvation significantly decrease in jurisdictions where it's allowed.

But it's still an untoward topic when lauding the return of ebullient spring, as the animals wake up from their slumbers and venture forth to see the world again.

I sometimes wonder what their dreams are like while they efficiently sleep throughout the winter, and if they're indeed more inclined to hibernate than they are to reemerge.

There's even an animal dream sequence in Jean-Jacques Annaud's sympathetic The Bear, the idea perhaps deserving of longer treatment within feature length animated films.

It's wonderful to see different life forms the shapes and sizes the species and families, each one of them a thoughtful miracle effervescently composing holistic community.

Although there are many beautiful things various people have crafted throughout the centuries, they'll never be more radiant than a dragonfly, or more worthy of respect than a resilient wombat (as others have noted).

But the cultivation of brilliance at times leads to the dismissal of other life forms, since they struggle with advanced calculus and have never constructed an ornate palace.

As Chaplin relates in The Great Dictator's climax as he presents his bold attempt to end World War II, while intelligence is indeed a remarkable gift, it still shouldn't lead to widespread cynicism. 

I always thought it was the duty of the naturally gifted to nurture the flock and wholeheartedly care for them, notably taking into consideration the lessons they've learned through practical experience. 

It wasn't just to sit in an empty room and listen to fawning praise lacking constructive nerve.

Lost in self-obsessed blunder. 

Lacking animate resonant vitality.

A King in New York

The freedom to think whatever remains universally appealing, assuming you aren't infringing upon the rights of others to freely work and actively play.

It makes for a robust globe overflowing with novel ideas, abounding with compelling variety as productively showcased at bookstores and libraries.

It's the inherent multivariability that makes democracies so enriching, eclectically attuned to collective vigour through individualistic endeavour.

The groups demographically ebb and flow as constructive fluidity naturally composes, stability and routine still widely cherished the reliable economic expenditures.

It's easy to write about the benefits of inclusive sociocultural initiatives, you just have to entertain heartfelt vitality as judiciously applied to peaceful life.

It's a shame such tolerant impulses have lost public ground in recent years, as childish imprudent brash extremists have refused to embrace versatile community.

Or even frustratingly bewildered it with sundry ineffective rules, stilting suffocating melodious free verse by rashly promoting social regulation.

I'm not as familiar with the era as I should be, but from what I've heard Chaplin once ruled incarnate, artistically evidencing his cultivated resonance with practical imaginative enticing foresight. 

But as times changed and new trends and fashions provocatively prospered in old school cinema, a revolution rigorously challenged his exceptionality with fluent discord.

Thus, in the opening moments of A King in New York the King of Estonia (Charlie Chaplin) is forced to flee, and take up residence in the Big Apple where he eventually has to work in advertising.

After having been banned himself from the United States where he had entertained millions for decades, extremist thugs having coercively arisen to stifle the chill cooperative left.

To think that someone so genuinely concerned with innocent goodwill and characteristic savvy, couldn't return to the American heartland fills one with loathing for McCarthyism. 

Chaplin got them back in this film with a funny scene near the lively end, where he douses the brigands down with extensive literal saturated import.

He was just exercising his rights to pursue non-violent modes of communication.

A bold statement by cinematic royalty.

No doubt a friend.

To athletic accords.

The Circus

Jedi training indeed paramount for sundry peeps across the land, prosperous schooling discovering brilliant intrepid bold corresponding padawans. 

But at times the educational system loses track of its young Jedi, and while their powers continue to develop, they have no mentor to lend a hand (see Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them). 

They remain remarkably powerful but have no definitive direction, and while attempting to culturally acclimatize can wind up engaged with routine farce.

Take the Little Tramp's (Charlie Chaplin) brief flirtation with improvised ragtag dissolution, which leads to imperial entanglements throughout his otherwise carefree days.

While trying to escape, he makes his way to the local circus, and accidentally proves miraculous, his raw unfiltered Jedi talent naturally sensational.

He has inherent multivariability which flexibly thrives and athletically entices, the resulting versatile wondrous artistry as mesmerizing as any virtuoso. 

Awareness remains a problem as he consciously realizes his strength, and must apply thought to consistently supply what he never meant to deliver in the first place.

He must intuit the way of the Jedi in front of a live audience no less, and habitually manifest the rowdy chaos instinctually engendered with his waking mind.

How many times when you didn't realize you were good at something did it become difficult to reproduce when animately expected, what was perceived to be nothing more than natural blundering instantly upheld as cultural craft?

To learn to continuously supply captivating comedy without any training, to consciously mimic accidental innovation, can take time and practice at that.

For Charlie Chaplin's The Circus the oblivious Jedi struggles upon the stage, after a period of incomparable productivity widely acclaimed by diverse audiences.

He was doing incredibly well until eavesdropping upon his love interest, and assuming the worst for his amorous ambitions lost that salient carefree initiative.

Having never learned to corral his freeform wild imaginative entertaining thoughts, within an expedient objective enclosure, his performance reflexively struggles.

The frustrating endemic throes of people with talent as they learn to develop, doesn't love always seem unattainable and then supernatural if suddenly requited. 

Fret not, a day will dawn when romantic dreams no longer complicate things.

And you can concentrate solely on your work.

It's not nearly as bad as it sounds. 

*In Chaplin's case, it's like he instinctually wrote the sacred Jedi texts during filmmaking's early days. Texts that were in fact page turners. Still to this postmodern age. 

A Woman of Paris

A curious belle habitually considers the manifold opportunities awaiting in Paris, should she be able to cleverly break free from the dismal prison her father's constructed.

A local lad to whom she's betrothed ventures forth one evening in aid, and after her father discovers she's fallen in love he locks his door to her forever.

The lad's own father is also unimpressed and refuses to provide his heartfelt blessing, but as she buys their dependable train tickets, he suffers a fatal collapse.

She doesn't wait around however and years later she's settled à Paris, dating the richest man in town and rather taken with the luxury.

He's quite the cad notwithstanding and even though he does enjoy her company, he's too much of a carefree schmoozer to seek her hand in objective commitment.

Her former belovéd arrives in town and hasn't forgotten how things once were, hoping to secure a rapprochement yet somewhat crestfallen by how much things have changed.

The plutocrat finds it rather comic until he discovers he's quite distraught.

Tragedy awkwardly ensuing.

Remarkably different how things might have been.

I suppose if you're born into a family that takes particular guidelines seriously, and you mature respecting various categories that may have been established regarding oblivion, the earliest ones encountered being somewhat less scandalous, that when you consider historical narrative conventions, one naturally concludes that in the past they must have been stricter.

Since the past indeed took place at an earlier stage and your earliest stages were indeed quite wholesome, the emergence of contemporary scandal a hundred years ago seems out of touch with spiritual computation.

I've heard from time to time that comedic actors hope for dramatic roles, and want to break through in serious films from a desire to develop increasing clout.

But should contemporary comedians consider Charlie Chaplin's genius, what a great thought I had the other day, just watch Chaplin's films for weeks, and the ways in which his comedic films far outweigh his dramatic endeavours, and, to add further emphasis, remain more appealing than so many contemporary dramas, perhaps such comedians shouldn't feel quite so downtrodden, should they rarely abandon humour.

Although comedy has changed remarkably what would Chaplin be creating this postmodern day?

That's a question that should be asked.

I enjoy his dramatic films, but his comedies usurp reason. 

City Lights

Wandering laidback spontaneously cherished ephemeral awakenings, sundry mysteries modestly revealing the innocent nature of unconcerned life.

An ice cream cone there, a pigeon in a puddle, fresh bread at the bakery, a curious spirit squirrel, exuberant sights wondrously manifesting everlasting charm and atemporal enchantment. 

Through serendipitous accident randomly regenerating ruminative imaginative carefree spawn, convivial soirées lacking animate precedent distractingly emerge with ceremonious flair.

Intoxicating friendship somewhat slipshod yet pleasant on flippant occasion, the generous reward for a gracious good deed effortlessly envisaged with exoteric emphasis.

Eccentric shifts the Jekyll & Hideaway happenstanced heartfelt humanistic harkenings, reified revelling rhapsodic restorative multivariable unattached festive extravagance. 

Prone to dream and accustomed to ponder encompassing romantic tales of yore, not without disconsolate modernist reckoning the expedient means the intrepid underscore.

Genuine affection modestly blooming with characteristically enthused comportment, financial strains calamitously composing exacting employment through requisite stress.

The spirited caricature at times less attuned to definitive structure and integral schedule, opportunities imbued come and fervently go as fortune is sought through frenetic finesse.

Even through pugilistic disorder tantamount temptation courageously met, rambunctious refinement preponderant puma elastic engagement unhesitant concord.

If only cerebral stability assurédly sanctified affable orbit, and night and day enrichingly endowed the Little Tramp (Charlie Chaplin) with communal consistency.

Effort engrained not adamantly enraptured with his less hostile personalized approach, a tarnished cosm abounding with resonance leading to quizzical peculiar dispatch.

Not without their fair share of ingenuity trial and error consortiums inclined appreciated, yet not so overwhelmingly invigorating as to usurp inherent inhibitions. 

But life bewitches corresponding mutually conducive alert resilient storytelling, warm and friendly habitual interaction rather agreeable tractable lively.

You don't have to be born rather rich to spiritually divine wealth from the inside.

Productive piecemeal pairings.

Untold aloft melodious blooms. 

The Gold Rush

The lour of abundant riches fluidly flourishing with feverish frenzy, drives The Lone Prospector (Charlie Chaplin) north to seek his fortune in the outspoken wilderness. 

But luck deceptively eludes him as his adventure encounters the void, and without food as winter sets in he finds himself starving in a crowded cabin.

Two others have joined him indeed one having recently found good fortune, the other hunted by the adamant law and in no mood for friendly conversation.

The awkward potentially dangerous situation is not without meaningful comic effect, as inherent absurdity echoes incarnate throughout the vast remarkable land.

Eventually, after an offbeat rendez-vous with understated ursine munificence, it's off to a nearby town to patiently wait for the upcoming spring.

Wherein which bourgeois potential's cloaked within seemingly radical excess, the incumbent seclusion forging molten magnanimity that takes some time for the prospector to get used to. 

But with resonant hesitant accord he peacefully acculturates piecemeal by and by, at least attempting to earnestly grow accustomed to something he'll never quite instinctually understand.

Such a shame to have to adapt to not simply intuit the habitual happenstance, trial and error deemed somewhat unproductive when generally applied to prestigious social life.

There seems to be an art to conviviality which many comprehend with innate fascination, whereas others observe somewhat bewildered by the odd animate freeform merrymaking.

Competing rationalities discernibly conceal fortuitous facts and fashionable variabilities, which spontaneously mutate according to im/perceptible personalized aggrieved or ecstatic revelations. 

Why not a quiet evening at home swashbucklingly scrutinized with celebratory sentiment, the discursive means questing themselves for alert dis/proportionate vigorous censure?

Established semantic inhibition reflexively refreshes bold exotic tongues, as inchoate interactive fluencies effusively flutter to perplexingly fathom!

While the rowdy festive heralding doth still pose sociocultural temptation, newfound habits and tantalizing tranquility often offer clement consignments. 

Brilliant film, every second romanticized with sporting dis/passionate uncanny revels (Happy New Year!).

Amazing country far off, so I hear.

With so much land still yet to be claimed.  

Modern Times

Charlie Chaplin films were often on television when I was very young, and they were just as entertaining then as they are this thoughtful day.

What an incredible entertainer who pioneered chill agile filmmaking, with innate atemporal intergenerational verve, he just set about tellin' cool stories, with remarkably awkward elasticity. 

Even though it's brilliantly evident that every nanosecond's been cleverly crafted, there's still an inherent nonchalance to his films, to Modern Times and ________ anyways, that makes them seem like real-time documentaries.

With saintly esteemed modesty he maladroitly maneuvers, without animosity or presumption with distilled existential innocence.

A character who tries but never fits in but still never loses that integral curiosity, always hoping to smoothly interact while humorously making a constructive haphazard mess of it.

It's like that when you don't fully understand how people generally coordinate their activities, and one mysterious circumstance after another inquisitively materializes offbeat caricatures. 

The golden rule doesn't seem to apply much anymore if it ever did who knows to be certain, rather irate misinterpretation and erroneous fabrication seem to often hinder communal progression.

Wasn't there a time not so long ago when meaningfully constructed well-reasoned arguments, were more politically and socioculturally appealing than fear-mongering and divisive posturing?

Aren't logic and reason internationally applied more communally applicable to environmental dilemmas, since pollution knows no specific geographic border and pestiferously pesters partout willy-nilly? 

It's like the world's trying to resoundingly change and has thoroughly announced widespread conducive reckoning, but rather than take the impetus of such healthy initiatives, the electoral map is redrawn and voting rights rescinded. 

If political parties can't effectively convince citizens to follow a specific course of action, and stubbornly refuse to adjust that course of action, and then try to prevent people from accessing their democratic voting rights to achieve victory, shouldn't they universally rethink how they act and and what they stand for, to actually become appealing, not just frightening, with less polemical leadership?

It's been utterly mind-blowing to see how stubborn politics have become in modern times. 

Stereotypically dishevelling. 

Ubiquitously volatile.