King Arthur: The Legend of the Sword

In an age flourishing long before the ascension of technocratic opalescence, wherein which the supernatural and the wayward majestically manifested authenticity, the gifted and the gaunt galavanting and genuflecting, magnificence reliant upon impunity, servility wavering mistrust, an honourable King was nefariously betrayed by his kin, his only son cast adrift with neither warmth nor privilege to suckle, then discovered, and nurtured, by the independent and the forthright, inductively instructed in brawn, conviviality, mischief, loving evaluated through sanctuary, costs wholesomely hyperconnected, impulsive riled frantic mores, one chance still remaining to reclaim his unknown throne, skittishly and jealously revealed, through treacherous enfeebled woe.

Muggles and mages peacefully coexisting in cheerful luminescent palm, until the balance is thrust asunder by those who do not share power.

Fidelity to the old ways survives nonetheless, a dedicated lot sagely educated in myth and legend.

Patiently awaiting.

August sublimity subsumed.

Guy Ritchie's King Arthur: the Legend of the Sword reimagines an English epic by blending the surreal and the sacrificial with athletic cinematic prose.

Through recourse to the bewitching, he shamanistically summons convergent forces, which subterraneanly sanctify a waking vision enchantingly his own.

Snakes aren't evil.

Nature is bold and relevant.

The music and the action and the emotion made me wish I was sitting in an inn in the 5th century constructed of stone with a giant cauldron of stew simmering over a communal fire, our ales robust, our bread hearty, and as the practical and the spiritual became more rapturously entwined, I could almost taste the feast, I could almost consume the vittles.

Young Arthur (Charlie Hunnam) reincarnates the Snatch/Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels aesthetic, as do his feisty companions as they resiliently battle both themselves and the supposed King.

It isn't about armies or sieges, preferring rather to laud cults of personality.

It revolves around Arthur, but there are more than enough well-developed characters to ensure he's part of an influential collective.

He doesn't seem to care much for ruling yet wants to progress as challenges and quests present themselves.

An homage to British First Nations?

To conscientious individuals?

An eclectic international incantation regardless, if not a concentric mysticization, or a definitive indissoluble divergence.

Quite different from contemporary action/fantasy films.

Estuary.

The Man from U.N.C.L.E.

The lighter side of the cold war squares off in Guy Ritchie's The Man from U.N.C.L.E., as the CIA and the KGB team up to hunt down nuclear weapons, polished and grizzly, both agents preferring to work alone.

An East German bombshell (Alicia Vikander as Gaby) tearjerks and tantalizes to provide them with cover, diligently driven, ready to cut loose.

What follows is fun if not formulaic, it's meant to be a good time, not striving for originality here, it's definitely not Snatch., Sherlock Holmes, or Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, a less explosive cross-cultural collision, still cocky enough to serialize fried snarky charm, pleasant, entertaining, like a seaside pitcher of lemonade.  

It's quite sure of itself, a much better A View to a Kill sans Christopher Walken, you keep thinking, "their cover should be blown and it's not, their cover should be blown, and it's not," before you just roll with it, sit back, consume.

There is one scene that stands out, and it unreeled just when I was thinking, "now is the time for an unexpected break from the predicability," Solo (Henry Cavill) then escaping death only to find himself seated in a truck accompanied by Dionysian delights, of which he partakes, while Illya (Armie Hammer) frenetically frisks and flounders (Ritchie's take on the [manufactured?] west/east antagonism?).

Solo smashingly rejoins the fight moments later.

I found it odd that we was drinking Johnnie Walker Black near the end, unless it was blue and I couldn't distinguish the colour, but Solo seems more like a JW Blue man, although the black is much more unconsciously accessible.

Harvesting trust.

Also, I was surprised by the amount of detail Solo learns about Illya during the night, claiming he read up on him.

The Man from U.N.C.L.E. doesn't take place in the age of exponential information access.

How did he come across all the highly classified details?

What was read, shared, exposed?

*Hold on. Further research has proven that Johnnie Walker Black was a good choice. Still, Solo, Blue, Blue, Solo.

Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows

Wasn't as impressed with Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows as I was with Guy Ritchie's first instalment. Holmes's (Robert Downey Jr.) remarkable wit and resilient problem solving skills are once again prominently on display and his whimsical interactions with Dr. Watson (Jude Law) continue to entertain. The fast paced reactive comedic drama moves the plot along with picturesque pinpoint precision. An erudite athletic warrior who constantly goes out of his way to massage his own ego still seeks to prevent the masters of war from obtaining their goals. And the meticulous attention to detail worked into his split second evaluations commands a heightened degree of respect as the concept of awareness receives a veraciously sharp intrepid exposition.

But these elements aren't tied together particularly well.

Professor Moriarty (Jared Harris) struggles to maintain Holmes's level of acute alacrity. Some of the novelties which worked well in the first film such as Holmes's pugilistic propensities take up too much time in Game of Shadows to the detriment of his observational acumen. While the dialogue energetically motivates the action while hypothesizing/researching/analyzing/synthesizing the script seems like it was written with an equal degree of haste and more care could have been taken to include harmonious linguistic formulations (some incredible synergies would have resulted had these been in place)(linguistic formulations whose appealing character could have matched the intellectual intensity of the action). Having Holmes attempt to halt the escalation of a major European war places him in a position too grandiose for the execution of a successful first sequel (it's too over the top). And the female characters become static cardboard cutouts as the action progresses, Irene Adler (Rachel McAdams) having been poisoned in the opening moments.

While exciting enough and possessing a rationalized frenetic frequency, Game of Shadows attempts to move beyond the constructs of its predecessor too quickly while relying on them too strictly, and comes across as rash rather than bold, violently crashing into the sun.

Sherlock Holmes

Enjoyed Guy Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes. Within, Holmes (Robert Downey Jr.) and Watson (Jude Law) are much more human than some of their previous imaginings, Holmes eagerly pit fighting and Watson trying to avoid gambling compulsively. Don't know what pit fighting and compulsive gambling have to do with being more human, but they certainly weren't borderline ideal. They are tasked with capturing the resurrected Lord Blackwood (Mark Strong) who is attempting to 'cleanse' Britain's parliament in order to bring about a new world order. Professor Moriarty monitors the situation closely with the assistance of Holmes's former love interest, Irene Adler (Rachel McAdams). And the conventional Inspector Lestrade (Eddie Marsan) rounds out the cast, providing institutional relief, beguiled brooding, and unexpected assistance.

The plot's complex if not a bit over the top and the intellectual action is constant. Holmes comes across as a scatterbrained aloof eccentric who acutely, succinctly, and charismatically solves every presented problem. The dynamic between Holmes and Watson is playfully professional, Holmes trying hard not to hold back, Watson unafraid to physically express his discontent. Adler adds an additional layer of brainiacness whose sultry suppositions intensify the film's sensitivity. And Lord Blackwood's a creepy, maniacal, lunatic, whose particular brand of insanity is rationally and reasonably displayed. A definite treat for both its brains and brawn, Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes will likely enjoy a prominent position in the Holmesian canon.