Field of Dreams

August absurdity ludicrously smitten unassumingly attempts to fulfill salient dreams, a mysterious voice, haunting and tantalizing, non-traditionally invoking spiritual temper.

The flamboyant drive to lackadaisically imagine random initiatives and residual endeavours, at times resounding with emphatic simplicity so ritualistically clear it sincerely baffles.

In the age of science and reason caution should no doubt effectively guide, otherworldly ambitions fantastically delineated feverishly according to blinding sights.

Nutrient rich celestial reckoning at times practically and concretely frowned upon, literary anguish liberating in sermon creative liturgies divinely improvised. 

Resonant collectivity or "group dynamics" can customarily achieve abstract enlightenment, like Deleuze's bewitching ethereal entities gallantly awaiting throughout the cosmos. 

The acquisition of neighbourly support for goals and objectives interdimensionally transmitted, may lead to athletic industrious "leg work" as disbelief awkwardly materializes. 

Within the transcendental realm as moderately applied to books and film, more cultural leaning may theoretically syndicate poetic jive and cerebral exhibition.

If only a mutually inclusive sociopolitical playing field indeed adopted, harmonious respect for its philosophical counterparts in terms of conscience and inherent curiosity. 

Would asylums then be less committed to the regular detention of debatable "madness", and more efficaciously attuned to cosmopolitan alternative life?

More resources could be spent on the viably insane and they could live in greater comfort, transitioning from one unbeknownst psychology to another and another and another through mental exercise. 

The definitive embrace of elective alternatives seemed like the gold standard years ago, multivariably equating the seemingly incongruous with ephemeral substance and illusory charm.

Multidisciplinary integrity intergalactically fuming with geometric insight, never led to destructive wars or remarkable sudden increases in the price of fuel.

"Build it", indeed I say, "why not?", "there's probably nothing else to do".

Try to finish the project before December.

Then see what's up next year.

Could be fun.  

Moonshot

You know, if I had my own spaceship and I was heading to Mars, you could have a ride with me. 

If you spend a lot your time rolling bagels and your arm hurts from time to time, there'd be a special masseuse onboard, and you could have a ride with me.

If you wash métro stations at night with those giant industrial floor cleaning machines, your cabin would be idyllically polished, and you could have a ride with me.

If you bust out ye olde weed whacker and cover at least 10k a day, trimming grass with agile endurance, while transitioning to mow and plant and clip and prune, you could have a ride with me.

If you wash dishes with categorical moxie and efficiently keep the supply chain moving, there'll be plates for your cake on board, and you could have a ride with me.

If you enjoy playing the keys as a rhythmic specialist or even a frenzied soloist, we could put the band back together, and you could have a ride with me.

If you can keep the orders in your head and delicately time all the dishes in turn, we can feast on freakin' whatever, and you could have a ride with me.

If you love sundry different films and appreciate vast international diversity, perhaps taking in Fantasia while searching for Criterions, you could have a ride with me.

Pretty much anyone could have a ride with me, but why the hell would we go to Mars, which is basically a barren hostile rock, and live in an oppressive small town settlement, that we could never leave? 

When we could go to Colorado, Tadoussac, Montréal, Hamilton or downtown Muskoka?

There are still billions of years of life left on this here planet.

Give or take a challenging millennia. 

Bis ans Ende der Welt (Until the End of the World)

Fluidly transmitting interactive hybrid tender phenomena, Bis ans Ende der Welt (Until the End of the World) randomly travels around the world.

I can't imagine what it must have been like to exotically film in so many countries, at an accelerated intricate pace kinetically connected universally lithe.

I couldn't watch the entire film in one extended sitting so I divided it into 3 parts, the first two hours, the second two hours, and the last 47 odd minutes.

While I was watching I admired its freedom as it temperamentally trotted the globe, while casually presenting endemic technologies along with brief interrogative artifacts. 

The 4 hour and 47 minute film leaves the viewer full of lighthearted enriching anticipation, comfortably rewarded for investing their time while convivially considering the mischievous details.

Part 1 as accidentally compartmentalized offers a chase as previously mentioned around the world, as a romantic artful passionate soul sets out in search of a would-be lover.

He's stolen some money from her which she borrowed from thieves who stole it from Nice, and as she keeps finding him and he keeps escaping dynamic love blossoms with fugacious flurries.

The second act is much more settled as the lively couple finds rest in Australia, several characters who came along for the ride jocosely joining them then forming a band.

The destruction of a nuclear satellite has knocked out communications around the world, with practically no machines in working order it's time to jam sit back and enjoy life.

The last act sees the principal characters become addicted to an ingenious device (global power restored), which records your dreams and plays them back for you to freely watch throughout your day.

Unfortunately, the dreams become reality and those taking part refuse to do anything else but watch them.

Drifting into cerebral psychosis. 

Like turtles all the way down. 🐢

If searching for an offbeat romance that celebrates active unorthodox lives, improvisationally following their own distinct paths, Bis ans Ende der Welt is worth seeing for sure.

My favourite scenario was the chillaxed jam where music reimagines being and nothingness.

Reminded me of old times in the countryside.

Laidback livin'.

Kitchen jams.

Ed Wood

The robust nature of the American economy not only promotes the cultivation of genius, but also elaborately diversifies sundry spirited markets to relativistically uphold wide-ranging communal distinction.

Thus even without lauded academic study, or even the crafty mentorship of a gifted professional, random improvised passionate hands-on dedication can still ensure regenerative success. 

Are new intellectual embarkations not created when people proceed without skill or knowledge, their prominent errors and mistaken judgments accidentally nurturing novel eccentricity (as others have noted)?

To the curious open-minded enthusiast does enigmatic multivariability not accentuate harmonies as well, not solely within catchy appealing widespread relevance but also through blind innocent misapplication? 

But what may seem like impeti awry indeed brilliantly resonates with others astutely, the obtuse kitschy unconcerned orchestrations intuitively augmenting authentic dis/integration.

There seem to be styles which emerge from time to time which encourage mainstream trends referred to sophisticatedly, their nodes and anthems consistently manifesting popular themes and fashionable echoes. 

Although closer studies meticulously point out the competing ways in which such narratives are constructed, and the primordial multidimensional sociocultural goo amorphously binding everything together.

It all sort of fades genuinely deteriorates when you find yourself hardly ever watching television, or aloofly avoiding ideological interests claiming absolute embalmed authenticity. 

In your free time of course, relaxing, it's nice to envisage courageous alternatives, for a couple of weeks perhaps even a month transitional ephemera constructively cascading. 

So many great works of literature or even film remain inaccessible, it's certainly essential to preserve and study their form and content without generally dismissing everything else simultaneously.

In this manner the spectrum of comments and the variety of audiences interactively expand, thereby introducing manifold interpretations correspondingly attuned to concurrent inclusivity. 

Was the idea much more popular before the internet enabled such an infinite network?

The irony something to study anyways. 

How could definitive conclusions, faced with abounding contradiction and foil, ever culturally reinstate a feudal fulcrum, in a postmodern context as diverse as contemporary science-fiction?

Egads. 

Quartet

The Facts of Life

The free sharing of age old wisdom oft accrues psychological check, as mantra and adage delicately condition economic tumult and ethical expenditure.

But with myriad personality distinctions effervescently flourishing with multifaceted largesse, the germane likelihood of symbiotic sanction may prove disheartening or indeed quite fun.

A father shares his paternal advice only to find every moral qualm deconstructed. 

His son winds up with a new car. 

Who's to say what's to be done?

The Alien Corn 

Theoretically in possession of everything one might hope to desire, yet longing to achieve the ultimate incomparable brilliant maddening incandescence.

Friends and family generally confused as to why the goal's so profoundly meaningful, considering how many other professions remain available, and he doesn't even have to work.

He's crushed by a virtuoso who didn't mean to hurt his feelings, and even though he's still quite talented, can't find the will to go on.

You can write Bazooka Joe comics or even Shakespearian sonnets, it makes no freakin' difference.

As long as you love what you do.

Beware destructive prejudice.

The Kite

Perhaps at times the parental bond is somewhat too tight, and the desire to be appreciated commensurately by others too unreasonable, so that when an imperious grown-up dispute arises, there's no applicable stratagem to discursively relay.

Sometimes incumbent smothering and a voluminous intent to orchestrate obsessively, may stifle the productivity you rely on, and leave a gaping void where you once harvested.

But in theory at times they say mental health professionals can attain results. 

As in the case of this marriage in question.

With Mervyn Johns (Samuel Sunbury), Hermione Baddeley (Beatrice Sunbury), and George Cole (Herbert Sunbury).

The Colonel's Lady

Worst case for an austere admirer of poignant pomp and reservéd circumstance, the unexpected emergence of imaginative scandal ceremoniously upsetting his stilted life.

No doubt many would remain uncertain if such a surprise suddenly diversified, especially if a tried and true dependable routine had gregariously governed for ages past.

Yet the truth residing in fiction can fortuitously lead to regeneration.

With newfound amenities previously unexpected.

Bit of a shocker, still, no doubt. 

My Brilliant Career

Ill-equipped for traditional confined pastoral life, an independent headstrong maiden habitually engenders conflict, composed in daydream resilient reverie off-kilter audacious autumnal resolve, she challenges presumed propriety through bold recourse to undaunted vigour (Judy Davis as Sybylla Melvyn).

Warning signs abound and she's critiqued with chagrined austerity, the counsel sympathetic yet hardhearted clad in strict coattail admonishment. 

She listens with feisty disbelief somewhat respectful, rather dismissive, her determined insurmountable spirit soulful sprightly stern and striking.

Ill-amused with worldly prejudice concerning sedate superficial aesthetics, she excites through rapt improvisation and presents provocative enticing gambits.

Two men fall for her inspired enchantments even though she's aloof, uninterested, radiating tantalizing unconcern with natural grace and uncanny dignity. 

She likes one of them, however (Sam Neill as Harry Beecham), yet still can't respond to his sincere affection, her dreams far too intense and enlivening to settle for domestic rations.

Yet frontier economics destabilize her multifaceted salient repose, and unfortunate concrete necessity leads to unexpected unnerving circumstances.

The dream perseveres throughout, as she adjusts to working life.

Her awestruck suitor doesn't forget her.

As she contends in the startling Outback.

Who's to say what path to follow how things will end up what will pass along the way?, Sybylla finds literary success as do many others the world loves good books.

If you aren't that concerned with recognition it's easy not to be disappointed, if you're happy with the material you come up with and aren't consumed by envy, you should be fine.

In Search of Lost Time offers ample support for any artist who likes doing their own thing, manifold praise for uncelebrated artistic endeavour can be found peppered throughout the different volumes.

I diligently tried to follow the conflicting advice I was presented with in my youth, but could never really make sense of it, always knew I didn't posses the right psychology.

Perhaps it's better if you aren't consistently bombarded with different compelling visions, Sybylla doesn't have online access, she just has books to read in the country.

I've always liked the chaos though, the general wide-eyed spontaneous diversity.

Frenetic flux frenzied fixation.

A wonderful film.

An animate must see.

Holiday

Independent unsettled magnetic jocose daring finds itself spontaneously infatuated with amorous resolve.

Unsure as to how to proceed yet abounding with assuréd confidence, he pays a call on his bride to be at her lavish pad in New York City (Cary Grant as Johnny Case).

Where he meets her eccentric family as they prepare to briskly depart, well heeled established variability wry, eclectic, thoughtful, smart.

I suppose the word is dashing he makes a grandiose impression, but he lacks stratospheric censure and old school entrenched connections. 

Pas de problème, paps is unconcerned, assuming he seeks to work, a job readily available should he freely jive besmirched (Henry Kolker as Edward Seton).

But he's more interested in travel, can't engrain the 9 to 5, his fiancé hopes to see him efficaciously prescribed (Doris Nolan as Julia Seton).

Her brother sees things differently even though he lives the life, yet still productively pursues his music every night (Lew Ayres as Ned Seton).

Her sister lives according to a different sketch however, laidback in tune forthrightly groomed for imaginative endeavour (Katharine Hepburn as Linda Seton). 

He can't see straight the bride's irate commitment who's to say?, he plans a trip the jazzy script uncertain rhythmic brave.

It's a light examination of differing industrious proposals, one tied down to a strict routine the other randomly articulated.

Many scenes are spacious sparse straightforward directly focused on something particular, yet still slightly odd and otherworldly subconsciously strewn critically conjured.

Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn take the uncanny blend, and add spirited bold conjecture that creates playful dividends. 

Different backgrounds respectfully exploring mutually constructive staunch alternatives, snobbery generally left behind as curiosity prevails.

A life of unassuming wild free-spirited fun discovery, is cherished courted championed without blinds or cold obstructions.

Money isn't an issue although things are so much more interesting if it never is, no matter how much you have or hope for if you keep things active seraphim.

It's nice to see chill characters in fiction who are so well-suited for one another, overcome learnéd inhibitions and set off for destinations unknown.

If you're searching for a lack of cynicism for something hopeful, joyous, romantic, Holiday genuinely delivers the heartfelt trusting vivacious goods.

I can't recommend a specific path, it depends on what's right for you.

It's still nice to have a multivariable spectrum with so much random conflicting advice. 

Fotbal Infinit (Infinite Football)

Sometimes you savour the sweet conversation effortlessly generated by bizarro dreams. 

The improbability encourages rash exploration the ridiculousness of which augments middle-age.

Or any free-spirited time period wherein which dreams distract distinctly, and sweet nothings or crafty fantasies conjure wayward cogent reckonings.

Everything'd be too serious otherwise, there would be no compassionate touch, assuming the difference between reason and absurdity still maintained a coherent balance.

An unacknowledged coherent balance, the irregularities of sincerest trust, cultivated through fleeting foundations, or mutually presumed ill-favour.

In conversation.

There's an art to this kind of conversation which preserves imaginative youth, and myriad compelling narratives have theoretically been spawned thereafter (Ferris Bueller's, Strange Brew . . . ).

Fotbal Infinit (Infinite Football) examines a champion who's taken things way too far, so caught up in his gripping imagination that he's lost sight of the inherent humour.

It seems like he's taking his idea seriously, far beyond rational realistic applications, but he may just be humorously distressed, and there doesn't seem to be much else to talk about.

An injury suffered in his youth led him to stop playing soccer/football, and his dreams of moving to the U.S. were forgotten after his country joined the EU.

Expecting to find excitement in the years following, he instead wound up in a permanent position lacking bureaucratic fluidity.

As the years past his thrilling fantasy became much more appealing than his daily routine, and began to permeate every discussion integrated into his private life.

Does he take things too far in his reckonings and turn every conversation into an awkward exchange, or is there just nothing else left to talk about, and has he found expeditious refrain?

He finds ways to apply his dream to each and every social interaction, it's a remarkable feat of maladroit dynamism, that revels in novel disjunction. 

I'm not sure if he notices the difference between dream and reality any longer, but he's found a way to spice up his life that's at least individualistically invigorating.

What reality's in fact the most ludicrous is perhaps a pertinent question?

Beyond the public sphere.

Quizzical misgivings.

Discursive implosion. 

The Island

Every day like every other, a clone colony habitually persisting, keeping productive, following the rules, maintaining social distance, no need for further questions.

They believe they've survived a plague that has destroyed all life above ground, and that they're lucky to have escaped civilization's wanton biological destruction.

They have friends and abundant contacts but everything's been accounted for, there isn't the slightest most minuscule deviation from their overlord's strategic plan.

Traditionally this passes unnoticed, like routine shifts undiversified ubiquitous, until one clone (Ewan McGregor as Lincoln Six Echo) starts to question his existence, thereby challenging the consummate order.

There's one way to overcome confinement, they must be chosen to move to the island, the last vestige of sustainable life, still enriching upon the surface.

A glorious day if they win the lottery, full of felicity and jaunty applause, vigorous opportunities surely awaiting, joyous pastimes inveterate pause.

But while sleuthing Six Echo discovers an unspoken terrifying master narrative, which he must share with his blind compatriots, if they're ever to know robust justice.

He breaks free with his frightened love interest (Scarlett Johansson as Jordan Two Delta) to the unforgiving world beyond, mercenaries intent on tracking them down, as they flee for the wilds of Los Angeles. 

Perhaps not the best time to be reviewing The Island, considering its metaphorical import, but it is just a film after all, and COVID-19's a viral reality.

Frustrating to see the spread of fake news which refuses to believe COVID-19 exists, which doesn't take the pandemic seriously, such narratives will only ensure the plague intensifies.

You can also see The Island as a metaphorical critique of working in unregulated industry, without safety procedures or sick days, or pension or difference or critique.

You can work for months for years without incident, but to last decades without sustaining injury is against the imposing odds.

Thus you live in relative comfort with everything provided for year after year, but eventually you have to make sacrifices which seriously endanger your health.

Critiques of the situation aren't tolerated, and accessible knowledge only relates to your job, you can get to know people but not seriously, and you're stuck eating what a computer suggests.

The ending's like the emergence of self-employment, or paid sick leave, higher wages, and an ombudsperson, plus the ability to live somewhere else besides work, and spend your income on manifold goods and services.

If I remember correctly The Island wasn't well received but I'd argue it's one of Michael Bay's best. 

I've never seen him so concerned with social justice.

It's solid thought provoking sci-fi.

Gattaca

In the not too distant future, children are bioengineered through science, the most striking aspects of their parents' DNA meticulously cultivated to produce ideals.

But some children are still born the old fashioned way, without genetic enhancements or immaculate codes, known colloquially as "god's children", their entire existence diagnosed at birth.

Vincent (Ethan Hawke/Mason Gamble/Chad Christ) is a god child but his brother Anton (Loren Dean/Vincent Nielson/William Lee Scott) is not, the two competing vigorously in adolescence, little Vincent generally coming up short.

But he learns that to compete against impossibility he needs to embrace unorthodox methods, to contradict prognoses through will, to prove the less fortunate can indeed still challenge.

In the working world this is much more difficult since your biology determines your occupation (even if that's technically illegal), and Vincent wants to travel to space, a possibility reserved for the exponentially endowed.

He can purchase the requisite DNA, however, and follow a rigorous routine to ensure he's never discovered, urine tested daily for non-conforming imperfections, blood and hair and skin samples naturally necessitated.

Known as a "borrowed ladder", he finds a willing participant who can no longer walk (Jude Law as Jerome), no record of his troubles existing in America, he's lived in isolation ever since the accident.

Vincent borrows his ladder and is hired by an agency that eagerly explores space.

Everything goes smoothly as they outwit the system.

Until one of its directors turns up dead.

What I've always admired about the American system is that opportunities exist for people who aren't well off.

I don't know how many of such opportunities exist at the moment, quarantine aside, but it's always been a salient feature of American life.

I like that kids in rural Idaho or small town Missouri or neighbourhoods in New York or L.A or Denver can dream about becoming famous artists and athletes, and like to think such opportunities still exist, that there's still somewhat of a level playing field for American talent.

That's one aspect that makes the United States such a great country.

What differentiates it from so much of the world.

Please understand that I don't bear Harry and Meghan Markle any ill will, they're loved by millions around the world and I truly respect how Harry stood by his wife. I imagine they would likely generate huge blockbuster profits if they were successful in Hollywood, profits that could be used to make artistic films, and that's not necessarily a bad thing, actual quality of the films pending.

But I can't say I'm enamoured with former royals taking the place of kids from Washington or Kansas because they suddenly want to be film stars. It's far too easy for them from my perspective, not that the paparazzi aren't likely a huge pain.

I can't tell you if Vincent makes it to space but the last week of his preparations are by no means easy.

Although he does find love and romance (Uma Thurman as Irene).

And there's a good line too: "They've got you looking so hard for any flaw that after a while that's all you see."

It's always important to improve upon your work or game.

But losing sight of what you do well can be miserable.

That's no way to live.

I'll never understand self-manufactured mental illness.

A Vida Invisível (Invisible Life)

Tumultuous times await a romantic spirit after she's left behind with child and her family brusquely disowns her.

Or refuses to allow her to come home after she returns from her amorous adventure, alone with nowhere to go, having fallen prey to dishonest advances.

Made when she was ready to sacrifice everything.

Her sister's left unawares, has no idea what's transpired, and marries as the months and years pass, settling into domestic life.

But she never gives up her dream of playing the piano in Vienna, nor stops thinking about her missing sister, who communicates regularly in writing, her messages intercepted by a disapproving husband.

The oft irreconcilable relationship between emotion and principle forges an ethical current within, the husbands obsessed with how things appear, the wives sympathetic to concrete reality.

I can't understand how a parent could care more about a principle or social standing than the happiness of their child, or how they could disown him or her absolutely for doing something they may have once considered.

Themselves.

Some things lack prestige or appeal until you've reached a certain age, and it's difficult to imagine that one mistake made in the grips of youthful passion could ever prevent them from luminously radiating, for if principle isn't able to take what once seemed irrefutably endearing into aged spiritual account, are the thoughts and feelings of younger generations to perennially persist in ill-defined obscurity?

How could you know that your grandchild is being raised in a neighbourhood close by and that you've given his or her parents no assistance whatsoever to ease their emotional and financial distress?

How could you suddenly dismiss all the wonderful times cherished with your children as they grew, because they didn't follow a rigid rule to its stifling incapacitating letter?

Is it possible to love rules and regulations more than flourishing life?, to abide by stern codes and customs when surrounded by contemporary endeavour?

There's no doubt youth seeks to uphold what they've been taught to behold as rational, but to make sense of rational traditions when you're young overlooks the exuberance of life.

A Vida Invisível (Invisible Life) demonstrates how a young adult cast aside by her family digs in deep and vigorously strives.

And how that family suffers in her absence, how it would have prospered with her vital strength.

A sorrowful tale crafting knowledge woebegone, which contrasts domesticity with independence to challenge stubborn points of view, it exhales tragedy with forlorn breaths while encouraging compassion and understanding, as siblings long for the abandoned innocence that once so thoughtfully bloomed.

Is it not more shameful to abandon your child?

To leave them alone to dismally struggle?

I'm not encouraging reckless behaviour.

But mistakes require sympathy, not severe punishments.

Joker

A confused man who struggles to fit in suddenly responds with unhinged fury, to those who snidely provoke him.

He tries to socialize at work, to enjoy the friendly influence of camaraderie, but is attuned to a different wavelength that pushes others swiftly away.

He sees a psychiatrist on a regular basis to air grievances and seek shelter, but she's ill-equipped to deal with his issues and their encounters increase his frustration.

Before budget cuts bring them to an abrupt end.

He goes off his meds and starts researching his past after reading a letter written by his mother (Frances Conroy as Penny Fleck) to Bruce Wayne's father (Brett Cullen).

And as the woe disparagingly intensifies, he embraces reckless spleen, proceeding wild-eyed and menacing, with neither recourse nor path nor guilt.

Gotham's elite have developed an unsympathetic attitude regarding its impoverished citizens, who find solace in the Joker's (Joaquin Phoenix) rampage.

The result is incredibly bleak.

As despondent as it is abandoned.

A dangerous film, this Joker, released at the worst of times.

Characters like the Joker are often exceptions are they not?, but in recent decades the U.S has seen so much distressing carnage.

Joker could easily be dismissed if it wasn't so well done, and didn't reach such a wild wide audience.

Compassion abounds for the Joker within.

And Batman's father's a condescending jerk.

From the perspective of film, it's easily the best comic book movie, like mainstream tragic arthouse psychological horror abounding with sensitive emotion.

Not just sensational superheroes predictably poised and pouncing, Joker leaves behind both razzle and dazzle to distill nocturnal desperation.

You feel for him as he daydreams, as his explanations are dismissed at work, as he makes friends with a neighbour down the hall, as he traces the roots of his identity.

Perhaps nothing will come of it.

Perhaps people harbouring dark thoughts will see the horrifying nature of their outcomes and be emphatically deterred, like parents who teach children to respect alcohol by getting them drunk, school of hard knocksy pedagogical bedlam.

But hopefully people like Bruce Wayne or his father, people occupying positions of power in the U.S, will consider a more equitable distribution of wealth, and uphold institutions which aid the unfortunate.

It's not perfect in Canada and Québec, Britain, France or Ireland, but there is much less violence, according to Michael Moore's films.

Because these countries have elites who care about the unfortunate, like Bernie Sanders.

And encourage them to be productive team members.

Much harder to own your own weapons too.

Less idealistic.

Much more practical.

The Island

Team building.

An essential component of so many successful businesses, cooperatively flourishing when efficiently matched with loyalty, dependability, consistency, and flexibility, each abstract cornerstone upholding an ethically structured forward thinking impeccability, internal conflicts and romance adding literary jouissance, strong leaders incisively managing the productive tension with agile contemplative discernment, periodic collective excursions strengthening characterized bonds, transformative ventures into alternative realms testing collegial viability, as consent is granted, and the future beckons, ponders, attuned.

Operatic melodies conceptualized thereby, on occasion the unforeseen apocalyptically diversifies, and commercial philosophical insights must be replaced with instinctual backbone, survival skills in fact, when marooned in the clutches of the unknown.

In The Island's case, a giant meteor, the impact of which remains a point of contention, hurtles rapidly towards an unaccommodating Earth.

Coincidentally, the staff of a successful business departs for a unifying exercise in a reliable aquabus upon the vast unsuspecting ocean.

Shortly thereafter, the meteor crash-lands, and a massive tidal wave then spreads out far and wide.

Heading in their direction.

Both workers and executives wake to find themselves stranded upon a remote uninhabited Pacific island, alone, isolated, leaderless, and afraid.

They must come together to ensure their mortal continuity, yet divisions and conflicts compromise inclusive harmonies, as they struggle to cohesively acculturate, with no knowledge of the continental globe's comeuppance.

Random judgment from space.

Intergalactically disseminated.

Not necessarily the best film, but not lacking in enlivening spirit either, Bo Huang's The Island reimagines professional rank to populate wild terrain, comedically embracing the dire and the immiscible without descending into utter illicit chaos.

Always remember that should you find yourself marooned on an island at sea, you're surrounded by the most abundant food source on the planet (which is becoming much less abundant as our population and associated appetites expand), and should you be worried about finding something to eat, ancient forms of marine harvesting may indeed aptly suffice.

They find plenty of fish in The Island but don't do much fishing until they discover nets, yet technological innovations do facilitate thrilling wild beach parties, entertainment which distracts them from disputatious hardships encouraged by their new surroundings.

The film's a bit of a stretch, yet its realistic engagements are more serious than those found in The Meg, even though it's much more comedic at the same rambunctious time.

Will Ma Jin (Bo Huang) cash in his winning lottery ticket, win the love of dismissive Shan Shan (Shu Qi), and develop the confidence he needs to lead?

I can't answer these questions.

Ridiculousness abounds on a lost island in the Pacific, however, bookish learning contending with the experiential, intense improvisation syncopated by the sternest minds.

Eager ones too.

With a whale.

Uncle Drew

A legendary street side basketball tournament known as the Rucker Classic drives feisty shoesalesperson/coach Dax (Lil Rel Howery/Ashton Tyler) to envisage heartfelt impressions.

Yet after obnoxious rival Mookie (Nick Kroll) steals his best player, and then his partner, after she throws him out, wayward Dax must embrace paths followed unbidden.

But as despair begins to weaken his profound resilient temper, a potent force from decades past, still in possession of incomparable skill, suddenly appears ready to contend, if and only if he can reassemble his once duty-bound team.

A member of which remains aggrieved.

Begrudged impassioned youth.

Underscored divisively.

Charles Stone III's Uncle Drew innocently celebrates teamwork to strengthen multigenerational resolve.

Logic is magically reconceptualized within, to artistically metamorphisize concrete athletic biology.

At times it struggles.

Some vegetarian sandwiches need two to three times as much cheese, and even if do-gooding boldly asserts Uncle Drew's regenerative harmonies, it still undeniably serves up a thick multilayered footlong.

Chomp Chomp.

Friendships briefly reestablished to redeem themselves for having missed rare highly prized opportunities illuminate the backcourt.

Enchanting implausibility fuelling huggable lighthearted mysteries acrobatically sashay unconfused.

A healthy examination of sport and the ways in which it can positively impact one's community sharply attunes deeply connected obligation.

And a contemplative disputatious sad yet determined Kevin Hart/Eeyore hybrid enlivens the game with perplexed in/credulous jamméd excitability.

Rewards for versatility redefining alternative options strewn.

A bit o' basketball worked in.

With some loving romance too.

Transported from the bleachers to centre stage primetime, Uncle Drew innocently tenderizes as it renovates old school.

Not the most hard-hitting film, but not a shout out to the dark side either, it boldly cuts down sith with blunt octogenarian sabres, while shedding a little light, on respectful collective views.

Super chill.

Teströl és lélekröl (On Body and Soul)

You've seen practically everything.

Life is now void of excitement, and surprise has been replaced with disappointment.

Occupying a leadership role, many feel compelled to seek your advice, and since it is difficult to find people to work in your industry, you won't humiliate them for sharing their thoughts, and they therefore feel safe discussing things with you, as they would a psychiatrist if their wages were much higher.

Everything has been accounted for.

Accept a stunning new inspector, with a photographic memory.

Much too serious, she has never taken the time to develop social skills, or, listen to music, and she still sees her childhood therapist regularly, to discuss the ways in which other individuals interact with one another.

A strict unaltered routine dating from a precise moment recalled unaccustomed to feeling romantic desire, suddenly, tempted.

And after a depressed co-worker steals the mating powder their slaughterhouse uses to encourage timid cattle to procreate, and the detectives leading the investigation demand a psychiatrist be brought in to evaluate all and sundry, the two lovelorn brainiacs discover they've been meeting nightly in dreams, one a fearsome buck, the other, a curious doe, the novelty of the revelation encouraging them to start dating, even if, he's left all that behind him.

And she's never had a boyfriend.

Or anyone else to talk to.

It may sound absurd, but Ildikó Enyedi's Teströl és lélekröl (On Body and Soul) rationally disbelieves to its advantage, cultivating trusting yet hesitant sociopathic romance, as austerity calculates, and flexibility assumes.

How to take a cold industrial setting, one prone to driving even its most brutal employees to despair, and transform it into a cascading tantalizing mystery, restrained yet overflowing with life, may have been the question Enyedi asked himself before creating this brilliant synthesis of comedy, romance, and horror.

Search in the isolated shops of forgotten small towns and you might just find that priceless knick-knack you didn't know you had been looking for for the majority of your strategically planned life.

Teströl és lélekröl is a masterpiece of anesthetized shock, as awkward as it is enlightening, as unconcerned as it is revealing.

With bountiful tips on how to successfully manage a business, Endre (Géza Morcsányi) functioning like the cool level-headed supervisor risk based capitalism left behind, fired, demoted, shipped overseas.

As fun to think about afterwards as it is to simply sit back and watch, the cattle fortunately not focusing too directly in the narrative, it generates ineffable emotion, the clarification of which still leaves you confused.

A grotesquely beautiful mind fuck.

A bucolic must see.

A romantic comedic triumph.

Frolicking away.

The Dark Tower

A monstrous evil, scurrilously preying on the gifts of the innocent, intent on unleashing a frenzy of chaos upon worlds existing within worlds, rigorously assaulting their towering quintessence, transporting between realms with exuberant malicious discontent to capture a child and exploit his powers thereby inaugurating bedlam's unconstrained malevolence, after he desperately escapes his minion's demonic clutches, landing in a western world thereafter wherein which hope still communally emancipates.

Like a University professor who tyrannically bends the wills of his or her grad students to her or his own, or a teacher conjured by a shrieking nightmarish Pink Floyd soundscape, the Man in Black (Matthew McConaughey) feverishly seeks young Jake (Tom Taylor), who fortunately manages to obtain aid through opposition (Idris Elba).

In the fantastic dominion of Mid-World.

By the light of a despondent Sun.

As crudely cavalier nauseous malcontents continue to flourish in Trump's grossly irresponsible political construct, The Dark Tower disseminates multilateral luminescence, illuminating paths upon which to sublimely tread, during the villainous nocturnal onslaught, and the promulgation of sheer stupidity.

While artists are abandoned within, violence is recreationally devoured, leaders remain isolated and drifting, and attacks wildly increase in ferocity, an undaunted team slowly assembles, afterwards casting utopian firmaments anew.

Not the best fantasy film I've seen this Summer (I'm wondering if that's why Spaghetti Week at the Magestic [or something like that] is advertised near the end [lol]), but still a cool entertaining traditional yet creative sci-fi western, even if I'm unsure how I would have reacted to it if I were 15, I certainly find it relevant enough these days to imagine that I would have loved it.

The magical power of rhetorical/literary/political/interdimensional/. . . metaphor gracefully comments and forecasts, providing young and aged minds alike with plenty of rationales to reify, while still bluntly emphasizing the truth of scientific fact.

Focusing on the good of the many.

As contrasted with unilateral obsessions.

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.

La La Land

Heartbeats in harmonized constructs and contrasts, patience, impertinence, concessions, gall, twirling unfurling enduring expressionless fancies and flights intertwined with supine toyed devotion, blinding cataracts effervescent turbulence trusted and truly exonerating impressions jocose and dear starstruck fearless appearances awe inspired odysseys, caféd candlelit assuréd indiscretions, caught up in each others arms, candied (torn) in La La Land.

The stubborn and the starboard expressly romanticizing multigeneric medleys, relational urgencies bejewel tranced sashays.

That's me being romantic.

A life, of solitude.

Fluttering jittery animated embraces, what seems eternally inclined must professionally brace itself for itinerant scheduling, Mia (Emma Stone [outstanding]) and Sebastian's (Ryan Gosling) relationship fond of its festive familiarity yet troubled by tangents, sand duned by success.

But there's a classic Hollywood ending that anyone who's ever loved and lost may find sorrowfully endearing, the music and the magic and the mirth meteorically meshing with cosmic interplay.

An excellent beginning too, either I've lived long enough to start liking musicals or Damien Chazelle's La La Land is a notable exception, the film thoughtfully mixing different catchy styles to metaphorically synergize loveable forays, ones which last for a while anyways, the mundane micromovements, passionate parlays, intimate insights, and unique syntheses generated through sustained commitment viscerally subsumed.

The film's full of troubles and tearjerks and hugs, celebrating resiliency as it's dismally challenged, the authority a couple creates enigmatically as their own.

For themselves.

Pour La Strada.

Incrementally partitioned with existentially aligned spice, it swirls as it seasons, dips as it sways.

*Couples can be existential.

Yes they can.

The BFG

The crafters of dreams, inaugurators of imagination, humbly humanizing heaven and earth with tragic humour and comedic complaint, magically transforming the mundane and the mechanical into mirthful exhilarations of sprightly cerebral rustic metropolitan whimsy, intergalactic anchovies, pepperoni principalities, the promotion of laughter, cheek, good luck and fortune, legendarily discrediting desperation and doubt, the blending of sundry scintillating elements, diversifying banalities, with intergenerational honeysuckle, and iridescent eclectic salience.

Giants!

There be giants in Steven Spielberg's The BFG and one has taken a shine to slumbering humanity (Mark Rylance as BFG).

He literally gathers dreams and then chooses to altruistically share them.

Smaller than the other giants however, his knowledge an insult to their blunt aggressive disdain, when he encounters others of his kind punishments must be endured, and humiliations ritualistically accommodated.

A young orphan girl (Ruby Barnhill as Sophie) spots him one night as he travels through London and is kidnapped shortly thereafter so that he can avoid detection (an odd way of going about things).

In order to save her from his invasive famished brethren (there aren't any female giants) back in giant land, he must employ stealth and dissimilitude, while she teaches him to be more confident, and to be proud of his clever achievements.

Innocent in its elevations and timid in its temerity, The Big Friendly Giant shyly sticks it to bullying while invigorating artistic expression.

Aside from some peculiar structural elements, it enlightens while it entertains and elucidates while it underscores.

Hey, I read Nicholas Nickleby way back when in school.

Loved that book.

I took flack for reading the whole thing.

And almost produced tears while reading aloud the chapter where _______ dies.

Recommend The BFG for children and adults alike.

Bullying really is the worst.

Peer pressure.

I thought these encumbrances would disappear during adulthood but they remain, oddly enough.

Not in my current job or social life, but I read about them regularly enough to remain intermittently flabbergasted.

Sigh, I could never pretend to love soccer or roller derby.

Or not complain when asked to do something unsafe.

A strange state of affairs this 21st Century.

Not so bad with JT at the helm though.

He doesn't seem like he possesses any bullying instincts whatsoever.

I keep agreeing with the things he says.

It's unprecedented. Uncharted. Uncanny.

Agreeing.

Peppermint.

The Forbidden Room

The derivative extracted percolates like pirouetting chestnut, the motion of which extends imaginative license to respect exfoliating indulgences, transitioning from text to subtext to limbo as tasks require undertaking in unwound fecund interdimensional free verse.

Rapscallions.

Tin cups.

Motivated to achieve yet strangleheld by absent physical qualifications, footholds, dreamlike advice metaphorically displacing, insubstantial links riveting unconnected clues, a Kafkaesque hesitance, pursuing, deliberating.

Insecurely supernatural.

Rasputin.

It's possible that the act of distilling the metaphorical displacements through poetic conjecture could construct links in a theoretical chain attached to anatomical veins focused on discussing Lacan or conjuring the ingredients for a delicious microbrew.

Contentment forthcoming.

A stash.

Treasure.

The flames unextinguished as sparrows scatter to intermittently supplant discourses of the heroic.

Cloth delicately swathes young suckling.

Eternal springs of adolescent visions abscond with gruff jingling clairvoyance, you must do something, respond, jangle, consider, trek, quaff, imprisoned existential platinum withstanding phantasmagorical creosote, a glass of milk, chocolate, prime rib, crackerjacks, blankets in winter, firelight, white pine.

The master narrative's unacknowledged marrow.

O negative.

Superlative improvisational resin.

Whole grains.

The Forbidden Room.