Office Space

Difficult to know what path to follow as convergent multiplicities stabilize and fluctuate, the sure and steady at times withdrawn, the wild chaotic occasionally solid.

Staying in one position helps you learn more and eventually become a knowledgeable expert, as long as you consistently think about what you're doing and don't get too distracted throughout the day.

Moving around leads to different skills manifestly developed over time, the possibility of learning to work a variety of jobs without ever imaginatively mastering them.

Location can be important, do you like to work inside or outside for instance, downtown or in the countryside, for a small business or a corporation? 

Working online has its benefits since you can productively work from home, and sleep a little bit longer and save on lunch and gas and upkeep.

You miss out on the social dimension often taken for granted at work however, and risk turning into a bizarro shut in if you never have anyone to talk to.

Going to work works well because you get to talk to other people, and learn the effective social skills tacitly governing working life.

If you don't get along well with the people it can be tiresome, nevertheless, and a new position may have to be found where you make a better fit. 

Money can be a huge motivator it is great to make a lot of money, you're able to do so much more and potentially travel and go out for dinner.

If the wage is right there's no possible limit to the variety of things an employee might do, while if it's low freeflowing ambition gradually slips away in the end.

Happiness can be even more of a motivator I'd wager it's worth around $60,000 a year, to make less money - but not too much less - and thoroughly enjoy yourself at work.

You have to spend so much time working why not attempt to achieve contentment?, it's much more appealing than constant flux when you're older, and brings about many more fun days.

Tough to know how to approach it with so many options to fluidly consider.

The most successful people I know have been doing the same thing for most of their lives.

They're really freakin' good at it.

It's cool to see.

Happy May Day!

Zatoichi and the Fugitives

Lonely travels honourable service distinguished expertise impassive unbound, moderate spirits laidback luminosity chillaxed script amicable spawning. 

Village after village undaunted impressions heuristic avenue versatile innocence, thunderous sympathy locked-down elusivity courageous thirst impish bearings.

Synchronous senses volatile venom meticulous maestro macabre maelstrom, jalapẽnned halo vehement vortex invaluable lotus reticent mamba.

Temperate treasure humble happenstance modest mavenlea generous gremlin, supersonic simplicity salt-of-the-earth tenaciously tilled formidably fastened.

Oriole opposition fujitsu fugitives underling unction bellicose bandits, ancillary antennae undisciplined dogma D'artagnan deaconstruct awkward aversion.

Duplicitous deputy calibrated collusion impractical inspection neoclassical nerve, dandelion dodgeball rutabaga ruse cattail collaboration milkweed wham-o.

Humorous doctor fertilized friendship salubrious saki voluminous laughter, adequate slodgings ambient vertices virtuous Vermeer elegant portrait. 

Cacophonous clash macroscopic orchestrations indefinite delineations tsunami surge, Benedictine blade multifaceted mugwamp magnanimusterings trailblazing munificence. 

Despotic dissonance impulsive embarkation rash reorganization insipid rearrangements, woebegone brinkmanship feverish fortitude bold distillations audacious implosion.

The Zatoichi Zephyr freeform and honest carefree caregiving sensational soil, erudite dissections innovative fair play intuitive bravery inherent stewardship.

Consequent wandering itinerant roll call forensic righteousness playful politesse, omniscient albatross farseeing fulcrum compassionate grizzly acute democracy.

Feudal ferocity.

Immortal sympathy.

Cerebral composition.

Heartfelt hommages. 

*A more intricate Zatoichi. With multiple stakes. And tragic final blows. 

A Tale of Summer

A trip to the beach a nice seaside locale enrichingly equipped with chillaxed amenities, the undulant waves and spirited climate effortlessly producing rhythmic sessions.

Waiting for his partner to eventually show up, Gaspard makes another clever acquaintance, who fluidly abounds with interest and insight and has ample time to relax and ponder.

They hit up clubs and hike and wander discussing various random topics, l'amour intently and curiously considered as inquisitive inquiries bear luscious fruit.

His girlfriend takes her time arriving and another woman makes her interest known, one to whom he gives a newly written sea chanty which she helps perform laidback at her uncle's.

He keeps writing and focusing on music while the girls intriguingly present new questions, neither committing nor rejecting nor preferring as summer breezes tranquilly flow.

When his partner finally shows there's a lot already happening in his life.

As pressure mounts to make a decision.

He plays it cool and functions on instinct.

A much less volatile account of people in the act of falling in love, almost without fits and explosions like the mutual infatuations enamour affectionately. 

Without concentrating on love and relationships the continuous dialogue is diverse and thoughtful, examining books and songwriting and individuality it honestly showcases cerebral discourse.

Can he help not being able to make a definitive decision when reasonably tasked, with so many options suddenly available which he didn't initiate or request or engender?

Word choice becomes more and more important as time progresses and feelings intensify, recourse to multifaceted poetic displacements swiftly losing ground to logical accuracy. 

What a summer to exactingly spend overwhelmed with desire and heartwarming expenditure, no doubt conducive to vigorous shanties intuitively written in heart-throbbing throes. 

Life steps in in the end and gives him a way out of the binding dilemma.

Longing and daydream thereby contracted.

Creative efficiency consummately obscured.

Gypsy 83

Bucolic fashions habitually annoy Gypsy Vale as she randomly fluctuates, moving more style to quip to inspiration as concrete dissonance mundanely obscures.

Her friend Clive offers flamboyant accompaniment as they shoot videos and intuitively experiment, their cohesive bond actively facilitating insouciant fun and alternative brokerage. 

One day they learn of an upcoming talent show to be exotically held in New York City, where they've unfortunately never been but would love to energetically check out.

Gypsy's mom couldn't handle the 'burbs and reluctantly moved there years ago, Gypsy hoping to somehow reestablish contact during the voyage although she's still rather angry.

Their road trip adventure spontaneously begins and they soon find themselves travelling state to state, with improvised stops and inconclusive reckonings emergently enabling freeform postures. 

Their keen choice of clothes and elaborate makeup lead to complications as they flourish.

In a world inarticulately composed.

Foolishly observed with dismissive resonance (they run into a lot of flack). 

Good vibes and genuine friendship impressionably motivate in Gypsy 83, as creative sincere individuals find expression through play and fantasy.

Although woe does abound and wherever they go criticisms arise, their inevitable championing of the blasé reverberates dependable amicable rhythms. 

Even amongst their fellow misfits dispiriting vitriol enervatingly erupts, the critical world fraught with intense snobbery which is often more destructive than lowbrow ignorance. 

The Amish hitchhiker adds some flare as they enthusiastically drive along, with complications eventually devastating the inaugural window harmless and playful.

So irritating that so much sadness has to consistently be resiliently overcome, a less vituperative cultural consensus open-mindedly applied leading to less bitterness.

An active life helps the criticisms fade while tenderly engaged in novel exploration.

Tough to believe in a country as dynamic as the U.S.

There aren't more than a handful of chill cities to live in.

Excluding contemporary times. 

*Criterion keyword: lounge.

Microcosmos

If seeking to find a source of enticing limitless variability, look no further than the world of insects, where diminutive dynamism thrives indelicately. 

Lithely chronicled in Microcosmos as patiently directed by Claude Nuridsany and Marie Pérennou, within vibrant versatile insect life peculiarly transmits intense reverberations. 

The scenes they capture motivate wonder to efficiently charm warm and pleasant enchantments, as imaginative random uncanny creatures magically enhance sundry fertile environments.

They present ants and moths and snails and bees and butterflies plus dragonflies to name a few, as they go about their embowering business within sprightly forests, ponds, and meadows.

The shots they take of a random meadow or pond or even the integral backwoods, peacefully remind observant viewers of the incredible life residing yonder.

It's not the easiest thing to do to film or photograph chill insect encounters, to find moments which showcase romance or strife or industry can take a long time.

So worth it when it finally comes to evocatively and picturesquely pass, so many mind-blowing moments in Microcosmos it's a feverish feast for the cerebral senses. 

The unobtrusive close-ups delicately offering detailed macroscopic visuals, that focus on the limbs and bodies and colours which nature has crafted with so much precision.

It's often the colours I find most intriguing the illuminative spectrum artistically manifested, intense greens reds oranges and blues collectively conjuring luminescent spontaneity. 

So many of them have wings as well their bodies are so compact and they can fly, I must admit that if they can sense us they likely pity our lack of flight.

Lol, there's no doubt many of them can sense us dragonflies even protect us when mosquitoes swarm, and bees severely criticize if we seek their honey, and flies indubitably make their presence known!

I've mentioned that it's like an art museum the sundry ludic bug shapes and sizes (and nature generally), as I'm sure many others have as well, the striking majesty of creation/evolution.

The world of insects really is much more diverse than that of rodents or reptiles or birds, there are so many shockingly unique characteristics that fluidly regale multivariable lifeforms. 

I liked the lack of narration and the light-hearted chill and comic soundtrack.

I wonder how many naturalists Microcosmos inspired.

As winter sets in, bring on the documentaries (plus Love Nature)! 

Transformers: Rise of the Beasts

Struggling to get by, an ex-soldier's hardships rapidly increase (Anthony Ramos as Mr. Diaz), his younger brother in need of medical attention (Dean Scott Vazquez as Kris Diaz), his own application for work denied.

He's accused of being unable to work productively upon a team, and even though he consistently excelled, he can't move past one stingy hiccup.

Financial pressures and tormenting temptation lead to inaugural vehicle theft, but within the unsuspecting parking garage, lies a wild unsubstantiated mystery.

He's accidentally broken into a Transformer at a rather formidable time, for an ancient Transwarp Key has just been discovered, and Optimus Prime (Peter Cullen) is recalling the troops.

Unfortunately, the key has been sought for thousands of years by the minions of the planet devouring Unicron (Colman Domingo), and they too reside on Earth, and hope to acquire the interstellar device.

The Transwarp Key would give Unicron the ability to travel anywhere in space without moving, without spiritual gifts or coveted spice, then consume unsuspecting planets.

Noah and the knowledgeable Elena (Dominique Fishback) have no wish to see their planet destroyed, and agree to help the aggrieved Autobots who see the Transwarp as their ticket home. 

But only half of the key has been discovered, the other half hidden in the jungles of Peru.

In which awaits another ancient manifestation. 

Of unheralded honourable Cybertronic beasts.

Ancient legend and contemporary endeavours boldly reveal our kinship with animals, the wild symbiotic sleuthing that provocatively impressed for thousands of years.

With our technological prowess and seemingly limitless expansion, have we not forgotten the lessons they taught us, as we mythologically depended upon survival?

If a God indeed created the planet would he or she not indeed also love its animals, and see such a grand impregnable imbalance as a misguided perversion of biodiversity?

Would he or she not then send calamitous storms and materialize hostile inclement climates, to cut our enormous numbers down and ensure less reliance on imbalanced slaughter?

As we consume without rationalized reckoning our planet erupts with meteorological tension!

Is it a striking divine criticism? 

Of unsustainable global disparity?

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 Horse's Mouth

I imagine The Horse's Mouth has been inspiring cheek for generations, as it magnanimously schemes through stray ludicrous accord.

Hark then, take offhand note, an imaginative artist is released from prison, immediately resuming the stress thereafter which initially led to his foul distemper.

Thus, with no income at hand and no commission retroactively forthcoming, a theoretical deal which may have merit seductively swelters in sordid cynosure.

Strange how someone so sought after just wildly wanders half-starved and disputative, you would think there'd be some kind of role for him to adequately play with solemn disinterest?

But wandering salubriously suits him with soliloquized synergies short and syncopated, the odd connoisseur taking distracted note, random deals struck fugaciously unaltered.

Inspiration indeed surely struts and mischievously materializes maelström and mayhem, as it does within The Horse's Mouth when idyllic lustre illustriously liaises. 

Indubitably, a frenzied subaltern is even enlisted with aggrieved bravado, the lack of orthodox laborious blueprints producing reluctant starstruck nebulae. 

No doubt encouraging flagrant entropy resiliently mutating into adamant verse. 

At times some things go amiss.

Textiles tantamount cantankered probity.

You wonder where he's headed in the auspicious final moments, imagine having a boat fortuitously buoyant and inquisitively seafaring.

I suppose if you can catch your dinner with moderate success there's no horizon, puzzling predicaments at times bemoaning yet still loose and lithe and limber.

With abundant material work may flourish beyond reckless trope and placated gale, regenerative lapse demonstrative brine lopsided latitude elegant shades.

Romance wasn't once so dangerous although tremulous realism distorts as well, without hope how do you ever achieve assuming a hearty practical frailty? 

Sometimes things relax and tactile comforts efficiently abound.

Soak it in, time for a breather.

It may even last.

'About on the seas.

*Essential viewing for Alec Guinness fans. It's like Obi-Wan Kenobi if he'd never had Jedi training. 

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. 

The Rhythm Section

Lost and alone overwhelmed by grief, a former A-list student struggles aimlessly to get by, no will, no drive, no purpose, no quarter, moribundly drifting through the years, until a Samaritan arrives.

He's familiar with her case and seeks to facilitate just closure, and at least has the means at his disposal to provide temporary soulful relief.

Coordinates and probabilities, nothing definitive, eager to learn, never having accepted the official account explaining what caused a fatal accident.

Soon her leads dry up though and she's back on the road researching further, eventually finding an ex-secret service agent, who still takes the time to work in the field.

He agrees to train her resolutely, her resolve quickly becoming an obsession, replete with fierce wherewithal, months later she's determined and ready.

She embarks naive yet feisty and soon takes on her first assignment.

Aware of possible limitations.

Seeking the truth regardless.

The Rhythm Section's quite primal, instinctual, reactive, brazen, there's little argument or variability, just raw unyielding focus.

It pulls you in with blunt alarm and keeps things rough and menaced, crazed and stressed, with striking backbeat discipline, it tenaciously accentuates.

But without the variability its plot's somewhat too thin, too reliant on what takes place considering not much happens.

When you see The Empire Strikes Back as a child you don't think that Luke is only trained by Yoda for a couple of days (is it even that long?) before he faces Vader.

But later you discover the Jedi were once educated from a very young age, for decades under the tutelage of masters, which would make Luke's emergence as a Jedi seem slightly absurd if he hadn't learned his profession under epic duress.

It's similar in The Rhythm Section inasmuch as there's too much improbability. It's a serious film so you're meant to take it seriously and the action's direct and grave so it doesn't promote generic misunderstanding.

At least for me.

I don't mean it would have been more probable if the lead had been a man. It just seems like anyone coming out of circumstances comparable to those The Rhythm Section's heroine finds herself within at the beginning, would have had quite the time suddenly transforming into an elite counterterrorist.

But whereas some films improve as you think about them after they've finished, The Rhythm Section seems more and more implausible, not that something similar couldn't have indeed taken place, but the odds of it actually happening are beyond me reasonable thresholds.

Of course good cinema excels as it takes you beyond such thresholds to present something different from typical life, but if it's meant to be persuasive, and goes out of its way to be grim and realistic, it becomes more difficult not to apply logic, the application of which doesn't aid The Rhythm Section (she fights someone who's breathing from a respirator?).

More characters and a more intricate script and it may have been more believable.

The novel's likely more gripping.

Others likely found it more appealing.

It's always a good idea to forge your own opinion.

Cats

I hesitate to suggest that Tom Hooper's Cats produced its desired affects upon its audience, insofar as laughter was consistently generated within the theatre where I recently saw it, but that's not necessarily a bad thing if entertainment value is taken into account, for that very same audience no doubt foolhardily enjoyed themselves, even if their applause was critically attuned to camp as opposed to melodrama.

Is there a difference?

That would be a fun essay to write (in detail).

I would argue that Cats sets out to romantically investigate life on a thriving fringe, within a talented artistic community, independently predisposed.

It's a wonderful idea.

It introduces a variety of vigorous individuals who have taken the time to melodiously compose themselves, in preparation for a carnivalesque soirée, abounding with life and perhaps reincarnation.

A wicked cat who jealously seeks to live again nefariously disrupts the proceedings with cruel and covetous intent.

The historical social interactions of the innovative neighbourhood are observed by a fascinated newcomer who's introduced after emerging astray.

The songs are sung very well, there's no denying the musical talent, the robust sincere efficacious concerned camaraderie erupting with ecstatic charm.

But they rarely stop, there isn't much intermittent dialogue, and I'm afraid they're somewhat abstruse, or lack helpful points of clarification.

It's not that you can't figure out what's going on or find yourself lost within a byzantine delirium, but if you're not familiar with the story beforehand, you may find it somewhat obscured in the opening numbers, which are rather wordy if not longwinded, and lack sturdy lucid foundations.

Even if they are cats.

But they are cats, and there are a bunch of cool animated felines singing and dancing with paramount glamour, so if you aren't worried about what's actually going on, you have recourse to the wild absurdity.

Even though it's just a bit garrulous, I still wondered if it was primarily made for children, because the cat expressions employed fall flat throughout, but may appeal to the more innocently minded, if they're seeing a musical for the very first time.

The constant close-ups too, which seem like they're trying to generate wonder, but often cause people to burst out laughing, don't worry, the same thing happens to me.

So the melodrama's there, Cats at least approaches serious subjects with a touch that's light of heart, and leaves room for scandal and intrigue as it proceeds with the best intentions.

But if it's meant to be taken seriously, and I can't really see that happening, even if it improves as Ian McKellen (Gus the Theatre Cat) begins to sing, and there's a wonderful break where's there's no singing at all, just dancing, it may not universally succeed, although my hypothesis could be way off.

Nevertheless, films that are meant to be taken seriously which create serious comic appeal can be transformed into cherished camp, if the audience is there and willing.

The audience whom I watched Cats with was overflowing with playful cheer.

Is it always that way with melodrama?

To tell you the truth, I'm far from certain.

But people get angry if you don't take what they're taking seriously sometimes.

A matter of perspective, I try to keep quiet.

The Peanut Butter Falcon

Crafty strategic planning critical timing pugnacious pudding.

An iron clad tenacious second round deftly wrought greased up leviathan.

Another proceeds in error, thieving what could have been his, rather irritated by austere repercussions, well aware that he's truly at fault.

He responds with fury, as if he were legion and not mortal man, this time raging beyond heartfelt mercy, courageous reckless madness.

He has a good heart, he's just slightly insane, or at least doesn't recognize law, or authority, of any kind, unless it's done right by him.

He then saves a stranger from drowning, and they head out on the resplendent run, applying homegrown irate grassroots logic, heartwarmingly bidden, they build quite a raft.

Another proceeds in hot pursuit, unaware she's given herself away, do-gooding yet friendly and sympathetic, disillusioned by rules, expediency.

Does the wrestling school they seek still exist?, and is the Salt Water Redneck (Thomas Haden Church) still there to train them?

They're sought after with sadistic scorn.

Which doesn't mean they can't fall in love.

The Peanut Butter Falcon flips the bird to prudence and regulations, and celebrates primordial will.

Self-righteous magnetism, as adamant as it is impulsive, organically orchestrates as it blindly flexes.

Tenderness and warmth await as compassion and understanding embrace agile elasticity, improvised reason contemplating with raw passionate substance, like wayward soulful jazz, harnessing modernist themes.

Paramount absurdity realistically toned in stereo, jukebox genesis ebullient bayou, madcap maestros unbound and breathless.

Luminescent unrestrained unrestricted dis/orientation, plunging to suffer quixotically, soaked in ir/reverent s(pl)urge.

Reemerging in familial consensus.

Ready for the great wild unknown.

Glad this wasn't made by Scorsese.

Why should forethought have all the fun?

Okay, one character applies forethought. He thinks he's locked down for life, and is therefore reasonably frustrated because he hasn't done anything wrong. The institution where he lives should have taken him out from time to time. A road trip or a day at the beach. Not just two or three rooms forever. That doesn't make any sense.

There's a cool fun sort of vibe within that you don't often see work so successfully.

Like an old school Larry Cohen film.

I think they had fun while they made Peanut Butter Falcon but still took everything seriously.

The feisty spirit of independence.

I highly recommend it.

Quand l'amour se creuse un trou (When Love Digs a Hole)

An undisciplined approach to scholastic endeavours leaves young Miron (Robert Naylor) locked-down in homeschool.

His reserved yet open-minded parents understand that teenagers like to experiment, but are still adamant that their boy should definitively finish high school.

Therefore, their family rents a home in the countryside where it is believed there will be less distractions, and Miron sits down with mom to soberly cast procrastination aside.

Things go well.

The plans seems to be working.

But little do mom and dad know that their son is cut from the purest romantic egalitarian inclusivity, and soon finds himself enamoured of their rebellious widowed neighbour next door.

Florence (France Castel/Emilie Carbonneau) is a daring freespirit who elastically makes ends meet, and while Miron's parents (Patrice Robitaille as David and Julie LeBreton as Thérèse) sympathize with such an approach, at the end of the day they're better acquainted with orderly inflexible routines.

They aren't ogres or anything, they're actually much cooler than many parental units depicted in romantic comedies, yet they still authoritarianly attempt to shut love the fuck down, which thoroughly annoys their son, who effortlessly finds it wherever he goes.

As a side effect, David's increasing strictness revitalizes his wife's latent passions, and their marriage is consequently saved.

Yet their son is much more resourceful than they think, and an idea is generated through pseudo-televisual leisure studies, which just might represent, the apotheosis of truest free love.

Excavated from the heart of despair.

It's been awhile since I've seen such a remarkable Québecois comedy, which outperforms its American counterparts with a scant fraction of their operating budgets.

No doubt because Excentris went under.

A well-written story vivaciously brought to life, cognizant of the ways in which utopian dreams must confront disengaging realities, yet illustrative of the ingenuity which enables them to variably thrive amongst different generations, Quand l'amour se creuse un trou (When Love Digs a Hole) beautifully celebrates love and living, from multiple philosophical perspectives argumentatively voiced and respected.

It ends with perfect timing.

It's important to strive for the utopian but you still have to live meanwhile.

The trick is to do so without becoming cynical, a mindset which dismally breeds decay, if it takes over one's unconscious.

Don't get me wrong, I think finishing high school (and university or college) is very important, especially when you're young and don't have to work all the time, and it does open up doors and lets you expand your mind with cool challenges that the real world rarely offers.

Quand l'amour se creuse un trou makes a stunning case for disorderly reckonings however, undoubtably mischievized after categorial rules were far too dismissively applied.  

Digs in deep.

Indian Horse

The legacy of the residential school system which afflicted generations of First Nations children still reverberates today.

A problem with taking religion too seriously, as noted by many others I'm sure, with institutionalizing it and using it to guide governmental policy, is that the people operating within such a bureaucracy don't think they derive their power from fallible mortal men and women, they believe it comes from an all-knowing supreme being, and if they think that they are correctly acting in the interests of a supreme being, that somehow they logically figured out what that being actually wants them to do, it's a completely different kind of managerial ego, because everything they do is sanctioned by perfection, and if their interpretation of his or her omnipotent designs is legally and politically considered to be nothing less than perfect, they tend to believe their actions are irrefutably just.

No matter how cruel.

The residential school presented in Indian Horse doesn't even teach the students real world skills like mathematics or logic, rather it focuses on meticulously studying the bible as if its compelling stories will help them learn how to become accountants or lawyers or doctors.

Thus, as multiple other sources have noted, many students didn't have the skills to find any job whatsoever after graduating, and since many of them had been systematically abused throughout their formative years, many fell into a dire cycle of drug addiction and alcoholism on the streets.

And were plagued afterwards by uninformed cultural stereotypes which developed.

It's not something you just shake off and forget about.

Indian Horse examines a colonized people doing their best to play with a deck stacked against them.

Racism ubiquitously assaults them as they boldly compete, as they regularly face daunting challenges.

One student is gifted athletically and seems poised to make a name for himself in the NHL (Sladen Peltier, Forrest Goodluck, and Ajuawak Kapashesit as Saul).

But he faces internalized demons and mass cultural characterizations that turn the most thrilling time of his life into a harsh struggle.

He would have made a huge difference for any team that had signed him.

If the goal is to win hockey games, why does anything other than one's ability to help teams win matter?

Red Sparrow

Extreme deception bluntly orchestrating maddeningly corrupt initiatives, coldly addressing severe characteristics with the flippant admiration of vanity in bloom.

Emaciated modus operandi, secretively adjusted objectives, flirtatiously plummeting pirouettes, applauding emotionless utilitarianism.

Innate degeneracy opulently upholding volatile foundations meticulously irradiated.

Occupational hazards phantasmagorically posturing with the resigned duplicitous elegance of nouveau riche ostentation, spread so delicately thin that one's senses aspirationally swoon with treacherous wonder.

Dissimulated.

Prevaricated.

If you can figure out what lies beneath a question's seeming innocuous simplicity as it's delivered with clumsy sincerity by someone who has no respect for you, it's easy to lie and give them the answer they expect to hear, the poorly concealed sarcastic nuances of their tone having betrayed their vicious intentions, their misguided readymade conclusion (along with what they intend to do with it), and after providing the answer for which they search which is easy enough to detect, you'll hopefully never hear from them again, calico.

Red Sparrow.

Wherein incomparable poise is wounded then theoretically transformed into a solicitous unimaginative reflection exalting spirited disillusion, commandeered to effortlessly seduce while never questioning executive artifice.

She does seduce effortlessly and you wonder how an undercover operative could have let his guard down so obliviously, but it does save time in a film that's already considerably lengthy.

For good reason.

It patiently follows resourceful Dominika Egorova (Jennifer Lawrence) from career ending catastrophe to harrowing rebirth, accentuating her helplessness piecemeal before considering an alternative only awkwardly presented hitherto, thus enabling multidimensional character development within the strictest confines.

Pigs at the trough beware, Egorova is comin' to get 'cha.

The Americans are generally presented as trustworthy agents while the Russians betray their government with cause, a comment on the price of bearing petty grudges, one disloyal American voraciously bisecting the cultural stereotypes.

Not as intricate as some spy films, but Lawrence's stark brutal portrayal of a coerced fledgling homegrown psychopath still brazenly holding on to her innocence, as accompanied by a feisty Nate Nash (Joel Edgerton), a reserved General Korchnoi (Jeremy Irons), and a fierce Matron (Charlotte Rampling), situated within a clever direct script whose subject matter is uncannily relevant if Icarus and Russia's other international relations woes are interwoven, still helps Red Sparrow stand out, the groundwork for an outstanding sequel having been provocatively laid.

Perfect February release.

Mind-bogglingly coincidental.

Blade Runner 2049

Discontinuous highjacked expedited inevitable irrelevancy.

Circuitous momentous obedience bountifully propelling twisted archaic innate atypical hemorrhage.

Existential awakening argumentative dawn autosuggestive auspices communal cast iron cravings, clues, ambulatory optics, somnambulistic certainty, neigh, whisker.

Fragmentary vestiges ominously scattered cryptic pathfinder serpentinely excavating miracles, whippoorwills, potash.

Direly coaxed into a subconscious vortex transformative sensual belonging propagated harvested posterity.

Suckling within the protospatial womb.

A set plan, goals, preconditioned life programmed to pounce and prognosticate, virtual violations inorganic technotruths, aesthetic vibrations old school orchestrations architecturally hallowed within alternative sanctuary, every scene reigniting the ambivalent distraught investigative visceral momentum, symphonically sequestering emotional anomalies to imagine identity harmoniously hewn, institutionalized on the outskirts primordial emergent feeling, a home, a relationship, a father figure, integration, tacit knowledge extant and mobile, coveted like uncertifiable exception, music, production design, editing, cinematography, as vocal as dialogue, plot, or character.

The most beautiful dress I've ever seen.

Every sequence painstakingly sculpted to intangibly perspire life while inquisitively examining manufactured ontological biology by humanistically juxtaposing desperate and plutocratic being.

Without sharp contrast.

With minimal direct contact.

Non-existent environmental biodiversity morosely levels artistic conflict like a galaxy with no solar system or a workplace without feminine voice.

As fragile as cloistered brilliance she cultivates eternities crafting memories as wondrous as the Saguenay for the fortunate to joyfully consider.

Respectful of its origins while dynamically creating divergent vision, Blade Runner 2049 is on par with Mad Max: Fury Road in terms of revelation, in this case that of Denis Villeneuve's genius, which successfully synthesizes so many gifted subjects.

Harrison Ford's (Deckard) so real.

Ryan Gosling ('K') too.

Baby Driver

Split-second ingenious unassailable guiltless reflexes, instinctively classifying delicate improvisation, piquant extemporization, serpentine spontaneity, the driver, driving the getaway vehicle, atavistic awareness vigilantly circulating extractions, an unprecedented impresario envisioned in wild heartlands brake swerve accelerate, coordinate chaos with implicit clandestine credulity, pulsating pumping propulsive paved impertinence, irreducibly reacting, to unpredictable explosive larceny.

Mad skills.

Variably exercised.

Character driven.

Edgar Wright's Baby Driver's hilariously character driven, with Ansel Elgort (Baby), Lily James (Debora), Bats (Jamie Foxx), Buddy (Jon Hamm), Darling (Eiza González), Joseph (CJ Jones), Griff (Jon Bernthal), and Doc (Kevin Spacey) each chauffeuring full-throttle eccentricities that make said characters their own.

The well-thought-out creatively choreographed romantically comedic yet harrowingly hardboiled script (Wright) supplies them with ample maneuverability.

In fact I'd argue this is Wright's best film.

There are two notable oppositions within that reflect different intellectual styles.

Baby and Doc's youthful and aged conversations provide the film with an executive frame as they reticently interact, Doc's nephew Samm (Brogan Hall) brilliantly expanding one of their sequences, while Bats and Buddy concurrently represent clever tenacious earnest hard work, as they durably discuss various subjects between jobs.

Nice to see Jamie Foxx rockin' it again.

Doc heartbreakingly embraces romance in the end, risking everything to aid young Baby and Debora as they wildly set off to matriculate on the run.

I've been focusing on the criminal nature of the film but it's also a warmblooded romance.

Baby owes Doc a large sum of money that he's been slowly paying off for some time.

He meets Debora at the diner where his deceased mom used to work and they hit it off, young adult love at its most endearing, hesitantly tender and shyly enthusiastic.

Since he engages in illicit activities quite frequently, however, the nogoodniks eventually terrorize their sanctuary, especially after they craft plans to escape, which unconsciously precipitate embroiled maturations.

Excellent film that's patiently yet boisterously detailed, the dedicated caregiving, the musical artistry, the Mike Myers gag, the paradoxical sense of coerced altruism, the relaxed quiet dignity, the wanton perplexed angst.

Realistic reverberations.

Sweet sweet summertime.

Breezy.

Logan

Fascist forces of dull simplicity have driven mutants to the brink of extinction in James Mangold's Logan, but a few remain, carving out a meagre living while doing everything they can to conceal the beauty that defines their superlative difference.

Rather than cultivating an inclusive public sphere wherein which difference is free to flourish, that difference has been isolated and weaponized by monstrous geneticists intent on rearing invincible super soldiers to achieve militaristic objectives.

But these gifted children fight back, escape, avoid capture, one of them eventually finding Wolverine (Hugh Jackman) and Professor X (Patrick Stewart) who have been living off the grid in severe destitution.

She's (Dafne Keen as Laura) hunted of course, intense battles erupting everywhere she goes, the death count extremely high as the trio travels from Mexico to North Dakota in search of a secretive promised land.

And a family.

There's a very tender scene where they all sit down to dinner on a farm and warmly discuss different topics, a rare moment in superhero films that briefly and humbly exemplifies everything they've been fighting for.

They're reminded shortly thereafter that for some insane reason their idle happiness enrages conformist obscurities.

Suffocatingly.

Patrick Stewart delivers a remarkable performance.

He often has a leadership role that doesn't display much vulnerability, but in Logan he's quite helpless and therefore given the opportunity to heartbreakingly act beyond the borders his characters often rivetingly apply themselves within.

An outstanding supporting role.

Logan's like no other X-Men film.

It's much more stylistically concerned with the human factor than special effects or introducing a wild array of compelling new characters.

Identity, community, belonging, loneliness, rage, and bigotry still drive the narrative, but they're examined less explosively, with more realistically tender tenacity (when the fighting stops), as if X-Men films truly are applicable to global sociopolitical debates, debates within which their characters dynamically distinguish themselves.

A fitting salute to Hugh Jackman who has thankfully been bringing Wolverine to life for the past 17 years.

So many irresistible moments.

Only the death of Captain James T. Kirk effected me similarly.

Who knows, maybe huge assholes with tons of power will stop militaristically expressing themselves while crushing other people who aren't like them some day.

That kind of bullshit doesn't seem to fly in the EU much thankfully.

Currently.

Difference really is a wonderful thing.

When it thrives, the scientific, artistic, and religious benefits are extraordinary.

It's why we have cars, electricity.

The internet.

Refrigerators.

If the people who invented or discovered these things had been callously excluded and beaten down throughout their lives we'd still be living in the dark ages.

And those assholes would still be in charge.

Nurturing contempt.

Ruling with imperialist ambitions.

Recklessly waging war.

To satisfy capricious whims.

Rogue One: A Star Wars Story

Perhaps releasing a new Star Wars movie every year is a good idea.

They're incredibly fun to watch even if they're not that great (I loved Rogue One), and, instead of waiting 2 or 3 more years to pull-in a gazillion dollars, you can confidently expect to make such an amount every freakin' year, sums that can efficiently facilitate all kinds of alternative endeavours, perhaps jumpstarting artistic revolts thereby.

Independent sci-fi, independent sci-fi!

Now's the time.

I always imagined that the rebels employed the utmost stealth when stealing the Death Star's secret blueprints, and although that isn't the case in Rogue One, the resultant space and land Jediesque battle does manage to rebelliously compensate.

They're not a rag tag bunch, these rogues, these freedom fighters, more of an eclectic cast of wild yet willing individuals collectively assembled to see what can be accomplished.

I thought Jyn Erso (Felicity Jones/Beau Gadsdon/Dolly Gadsdon), Cassian Andor (Diego Luna), Baze Malbus (Wen Jiang), K-2S0 (Alan Tudyk), and Saw Gerrera (Forest Whitaker) were some of the coolest Star Wars characters I've seen, Malbus redefining the force through sheer devotion, Gerrera exemplifying a less peppy aspect of the oft rather perky rebel alliance, K-2S0 is actually funny (outstanding), Andor makes a gripping speech about his commitment to the rebellion, and Jyn slowly yet boldly steps up and strides.

Have these characters been typecast to fit the Star Wars B realm because they have more personality than those brought to life in The Force Awakens?

I bet they could still be managers in California.

Since Rogue One's outcome is already known to all, discussing its internal dynamics seems fitting, dynamics which generally impressed, the Disneyesque opening moments (Jyn's sort of like Bambi) setting the familial stage, the heart wrenching space drama, the assembling of the crew strikingly youthful in its mouthy composure, so many familiar sights from A New Hope (even Dr. Cornelius Evazan and Ponda Baba[I'm still looking for my Walrusman figure]) perhaps endearingly distracting me, tragedy, brilliance, escape, tragedy, brilliance, escape, battle, it's cheesy at points but I thought the good far far outawayed the bad to create the best Star Wars film since Jedi, please never alter the music in one of these films again, or do so in a way that isn't so mediocre.

One point of interest: in a New Hope, Vader critiques General Motti, stating, "don't be too proud of this technological terror you've constructed. The ability to destroy a planet is insignificant next to the power of the force." If Motti constructed the Death Star, why was he left out of Rogue One?

Also, Grand Moff Tarkin isn't so aggressive in A New Hope. His computer animated replacement isn't quite as withdrawn yet commanding.

'Tis true.

Forest Whitaker delivers one of the best if not the best performance/s I've seen in a Star Wars film.

Some day, I'd like to know how many extra millions this film makes because they gave it the more search engine friendly title add-on, A Star Wars Story.

Just Rogue One is clearly the better title.

I'm betting they make an extra 237 million.

American Honey

Impoverished entrepreneurial acquisitive camaraderie, credulity, ebulliency, buoyantly wavering breezy undulations, leave it behind and quest curtsey Carolina, viscously reacting to consummate best practice, jousting Jack/Jill, expressly un/fulfilled, expedient liaisons assailing partnershipped fluencies like soul crushing levelling enraging surveillance, betrothals, portfolios, necessitous catalysts ephemerally veiling effacements, attainments, relaxing laid-back chill calm and spatial, their environment stoking anthropomorphic sage, beatific verse terrestrially scolded fleece, blanketed flair rustic resonance, periodic pillows of wind, a rest, jests, caressed tranquility, ecstatic existence, wool undershadowed mellow.

Films like this don't come around often.

Devices you'd find in so many just sort of there for the partaking, not concerned with generating a thought or emotion, more like evocative immediacy living day to day, explosive yet stoic, every 24 hour cycle rewriting codes in kinetic cuneiformed western wrestlin' peach, exotic mundane snuggly fitting docs, the natural world in ribbitting gentle whiles firebright.

I love what Shia LaBeouf(Jake) has done with his career.

Sasha Lane(Star) also impresses.

With poetic fever in erratic fathoms, American Honey plucks and pulsates like unpasteurized raw ambrosia, precepts, dusk till dawn.

Moonshine.

Self-perpetuating brisk momentum.

Quintessential cultural fuel.

Favourite film of 2016 so far.

Another gritty romance.