The Lost City

A famous adventure/romance novelist (Sandra Bullock as Loretta Sage) begins to question her professional identity, when the launch of her latest book fails to inspire commercial motivation.

She's done it so many times that the book tour and associated hoopla, seem too superficial to sincerely entertain even though her adoring fans can't wait.

She's jealous of the easy going male model (Channing Tatum as Alan) who adorns the covers of her texts as well, he loves the media sensation, this doesn't evince discerning pageantry.

After she turns the anticipated launch into a dire ill-fated farce, she seeks in vain for heartfelt felicity, before a covetous mean-spirited billionaire (Daniel Radcliffe as Abigail Fairfax) suddenly has her kidnapped. 

She's flown to a tropical island and tasked with locating enticing treasure, local Natives imploring them to leave it alone, the alarming obsession metastasizing madness.

Alan soon follows along with an Indiana Jones/James Bond type rescuer (Brad Pitt as Jack Trainer). 

Ill-prepared for the ensuing task force.

Still improvising with resonant throng. 

The Lost City embraces traditional stately oft criticized tropes and accessories, yet effectively makes the age old adventurous point, that its principal goal is to just entertain. 

Therefore, I had to ask myself, am I genuinely enjoying this film?, beyond multivariable criteria, and I had to admit, I was.

I was lightheartedly reminded that novel bizarre stylistic independence, and counterintuitive literary jigsaw, don't imaginatively motivate some, who are more concerned with intuitive fun.

I suppose a lot of the time it isn't the mischievous wordplay, but just hot bods and romantic adventure that make people interested in watching films.

I also suppose it isn't the goal of many to only enhance the authentic aura, of low-budget brainiac films perhaps one day destined for whimsical cult status (it doesn't make any sense!).

The pandemic's cut me off from theatres and my lifestyle changed as time moved on, and I found for the first time in over a decade I had what is known as free time.

I love the free time I have to just to sit back and listen to music.

But movies are meant to be seen on screen.

The direct experience deconstructing cynicism.  

*Loved the Raiders/Terminator pastiche near the end.

Crocodile Dundee II

Back at it.

Livin' the cosmopolitan crescendo with carefree commitment and resonant calm, his bucolic mannerisms and coy misunderstandings an immersive backwoods buoyant imbroglio (Paul Hogan as Crocodile Dundee). 

His wife continues reporting interrogatively investigating fiction and fact (Linda Kozlowski as Sue Charlton), while enjoying the comforts of bold unpredictable youthful regenerative domesticity. 

But she was married once before and her daring ex-husband has taken perilous photographs (Dennis Boutsikaris as Bob Tanner), of a blunt unforgiving cacophonous execution overflowing with diabolical intrigue. 

He fears for his life and sends her the photos but their destination is soon intercepted, the ne'er-do-wells following them to bustling New York where they engage in flagrant kidnapping.

Crocodile soon learns of his wife's disappearance and comes up with a plan to facilitate rescue, enlisting the aid of a local network of free-wheeling chillaxed non-traditional peeps.

Their unorthodox plan is indeed a success but Dundee doesn't trust the witness relocation program.

And heads with his wife to the hospitable outback.

To range and rustle secluded down under.

A delicate blend of the grim and the gossamer mischievously materializes at ease within the film, as a lighthearted spirit prone to adventurous reckoning reconciles wisdom with resolute tact.

Indigenous knowledge inviolable custom effortlessly guides his freeform endeavours, nature encyclopedically grasped and authenticated through active study and lively application.

The script's logic may perhaps raise questions regarding the plausibility of a detail here and there, the kidnappers pursuit perhaps rather foolhardy considering their destination and incomprehension.

It isn't really that concerned with probability or likelihood however, just that you love the rugged Crocodile as he interacts and explores in different environs.

He is a fascinating character and well-worth checking out if you're unfamiliar. His films were incredibly popular in my youth and I still love watching them to this day.

Traditional gender roles are even creatively deconstructed as Mick discovers urban flexibility, and adapts to the equanimous rhythms of multifaceted abstract economies. 

There's remarkable bush in the wilds of Québec and Canada as well, but I don't recall ever seeing a rural/urban divide ever examined so respectfully in a homegrown film.

Lots of potential there anyways.

Building bridges.

Can't wait to see more of Québec. 

With Charles S. Dutton (Leroy Brown), Kenneth Welsh (Brannigan), Stephen Root (DEA Agent), John Meillon (Walter Reilly), Steve Rackman (Donk), Gerry Skilton (Nugget), and Maggie Blinco (Ida). 

Jigureul jikyeora! (Save the Green Planet!)

A reclusive individual soaks up the sci-fi with eccentric compulsive obsession, his immersive interactive interpretations inspiring conspiratorial hypotheses. 

Much more than that, indeed, an intricate historico-political narrative emerges, theorizing intergalactic genealogies as applied to entrepreneurial life.

The line between fact and fiction slowly fades as interpersonal calamity strikes, his creative in-depth provocative nativity explaining the consistent misfortune.

He concludes it's time to act and then kidnaps a wealthy businessperson, whom he believes is in fact an alien, part of a network controlling the planet.

His partner is rather worried when he returns home with his irate captive, and then proceeds to conduct experiments in order to validate his theory.

His subject refuses to adapt to his newfound interrogative paradigm, and verbally assails his psychotic jailor with cacophonies of sheer defiance.

A famous detective is hot on the trail employing the art of incisive conception, but working alone may prove hazardous as active suspicion buzzes in.

Oddball otherworldly yet realistic mayhem ensues, as a clever yet mad conspiracy theory exacts critical constructs construed.

Is it somewhat irresponsible to create narratives wherein which wild conspiracy theories prove to be true, considering the vast abundance of such unsubstantiated ideas (presented as genuine not speculative) circulating within cyberspatial domains?

In Jigureul jikyeora! (Save the Green Planet!)'s case macromischief irremediably results, the final moments so catastrophic that it becomes clear the film's starkly farcical. 

And where would cinema and literature be if it wasn't for enticing larger-than-life fantasy, that sees mundane routine circumstances transformed into something influential?

The trick is to teach people at a young age to see through conspiracy theories, or at least apply logic to their strange arguments, I don't really follow them myself but I hope such theorists are at least creating partial arguments.

If people see them as comic fantasy creatively generating harmless controversy, then there isn't much difference in either following them or watching The X-Files (great show).

But if people take them seriously, if they become popular and people actually think they're true, it can become rather dangerous for the people targeted who have no knowledge of the jealous conceit. 

The subject's much more vast than what I've written here but a good book could examine these observations more closely (if one hasn't already).

What's the difference between critical and conspiracy theory?

Democratically speaking.

No harm in transforming such ideas into pulp fiction (is that a chicken and the egg scenario?). 

Todos lo saben

A wedding brings a family together to exalt in celebration, the festivities overflowing with spirit, inhibitions let loose to praise.

But as guards are let down and passions erupt, covetous malfeasance clandestinely violates.

Soon it is known that kidnapping is afoot, and the identity of the perpetrator remains a bitter mystery.

Old school social relations call motives into question, as despondent candour joylessly obscures lucid trust.

Financial responsibility dismally beckons, a lifetime of hard work hauntingly underlying stoic sacrifice.

The past interrogatively echoes.

As the present crumbles astray.

Emergent futures contend in Todos lo saben indeed, as disturbing essentials anxiously prognosticate.

Hives of activity maddeningly posture before settling down with forlorn resignation.

Its characters are strong, compassionate, resilient, loving.

They don't only care for their immediate family, but seek the prosperity of their workforce as well.

Like a versatile community.

The film excels at presenting passionate logic, the overwhelming emotions that characterize sincere distress rationally generated with sober feeling.

Everything's understood with astute enough composure.

It matures like the vines its reels cultivate, coming of age in the mid-afternoon sun.

Storms may disrupt its smooth delicate maturation, but not without augmenting rough unique compelling flavour.

It examines religion without preaching, infidelities without scorn, science without authentication, loyalty forbidding dependence.

Even though characters seek just outcomes, it doesn't mean it's easy, and even though they have resources they can access, it doesn't mean alternative solutions are shelved.

Suspicions bluntly arise.

Level heads contemplatively acquiesce.

Like culture under seige.

Todos lo saben peacefully reckons.

All the Money in the World

What would you do if you were the richest person in the world, if you had more money than anyone else, if you made the other plutocrats look like paupers in comparison, if you could turn the Cleveland Browns into a Super Bowl contender?

I suppose I would travel a lot. Buy some nice things. A lot of Ne'Qwa. Donate heavily to schools. Open a bakery and a vegetarian fast food chain and a restaurant that sells its own craft beer. Make a film, tip lavishly, give tens of millions away, support athletes and artists, and vigilantly fight the poaching of endangered species.

A lot of good could be done with the world's largest fortune, a lot of positive changes could be made, poverty could be reduced for millions, a little bit more camaraderie, a little bit less sarcastic fatalism.

Incredible Christmases/Holiday Seasons.

Ridley Scott's All the Money in the World takes a look at J. Paul Getty (Christopher Plummer), who was the richest man in the world yet still never felt comfortable or secure.

A miser in the purest sense, even with all that money he never made much of an effort to get to know his family, his offspring, let alone learn to love them, preferring to acquire esteemed physical objects instead, because they wouldn't change their minds or disagree with him, he even let his grandson be terrorized by kidnappers for months rather than pay his ransom, even after they cut off his ear, even after they threatened to kill him.

Monstrous avarice.

That's what the film's about, the kidnapping of Getty's grandson (Charlie Plummer as John Paul Getty III), the dire straits of his desperate mother (Michelle Williams), the transformation of stern Ex-CIA Agent Fletcher Chase (Mark Wahlberg), and a growing friendship forged between kidnapped and kidnapper (Romain Duris as Cinquanta).

Costume design by Janty Yates.

Michelle Williams keeps getting better. She's capably transitioning from ingenue to matron with remarkable ambivalence.

Duris caught my attention too.

Solid film, well-constructed, super direct but perhaps not the place for metaphorical innovation, a critical examination of wealth backed up by believable characters and situations which energetically, controversially, argumentatively, speculatively, and empathetically move the plot along, sure and steady confident competent filmmaking, emotionally telling a story without histrionically agitating.

In these bizarro political times, I imagine some groups are commending the elder Getty on his moribund intractability.

While mad people argue about whose nuclear missile launch button is bigger.

Sometimes I think they're friends and they just like globally stirrin' the pot.

Such thoughts are dangerous.

*I'm so boycotting Tim Hortons.

El Clan

The aftermath of Argentina's fascist liaison, a vicious patriarch possessing a specialized set of subversive skills, a son seditiously seduced by paternal sentiment, enlisted, nurtured, suddenly kidnapping wealthy citizens then requesting lavish ransoms, the assembled team working in unison to collect the nefarious booty, no quarter for victims, no peace for their families, the Puccios movin'-on-up in the world, as their country settles its psychotic score.

They were considered role models.

But the good life, the freewheeling prestige of excessive contemplation and leisure, beckons with demonic reckoning, envy consuming Arquímedes as he cannot accept a modest homely joie de vivre.

Exponentials.

El Clan focuses heavily on the relationship between Arquímedes and eldest son Alejandro (Peter Lanzani), suggesting the former's corrupt constitution thoroughly polluted his offspring.

The soundtrack's like that you would find in a film uncritically characterizing a rock'n'roll drug trafficker, the highs reached through financial freedom (notably Alejandro's relationship with Mónica [Stefanía Koessi]), while hauntingly foreshadowing losses yet to come.

Introducing neighbours would have accentuated the villainy by depicting Arquímedes engaged in respectable convivialities.

There's a great sequence where the camera follows him through his house as he discusses sitting down to dinner with his loving family before opening a door to feed his terrorized prisoner, which accentuates his villainy, his duplicitous communal role, however, even if the sequence is intense and memorable its impact still fades and neighbourly relations would have sustained the hypocrisy.

El Clan vividly portrays a criminal family and dynamically brings its featured and supporting characters to life, but if more attention had been paid to Argentina's post-fascist deluge it would have attained higher heights.

A convincing illustration of maniacal competence that would have been enhanced by a more thorough diversification of scorched sociopolitical agendas, El Clan douses home fires without igniting paradigm shifts, Pablo Trapero still demonstrating he can take it to the next level.

Hail, Caesar!

Film production, the magnification of dreams and ambitions, pluralizing heroism and gallantry with clear and precise occasionally ambiguous envisioned dexterity, precipices and pageants promulgating objectivity and sentiment with equally concise provocations, the contemporary and the historical rivetingly aligned, mischievously extracting, the im/pertinence of our times.

A film set.

A star.

A gathering of observers. 

Identity in flux.

Hail, Caesar! converses with Trumbo, a comedic counterpoint to its tragic pen, wherein communists have infiltrated Hollywood and are engaged in criminal activities directly undertaken to support the Soviet Union, only a hardboiled behind-the-scenes gruff steady executive and his up-and-coming Western foil standing in their way, laughs consistently produced amidst the touching absurdity, which seriously suggests it's inherently ridiculous, without failing to shrewdly present itself as a matter of unconcerned dazzle, denoted connotations covertly overted, not the Coen Brothers best comic material but it passes, Burt Gurney (Channing Tatum) and his little dog, Baird Whitlock (George Clooney), defender of the dialectic.

It's a compelling tool, this, dialectic, oppositions and syntheses you know, but using it to predict the future with dispassionate inevitability is where it errs, the end of history functioning like a religious utopia (a 19th century form fused with secular content) which foolishly casts out history and religion, people are never going to stop remembering the past or believing in the fantastic, and attempts to laud a future which does so is a naive waste of critical resources.

Although, I suppose, in my mediocre understanding of the concept, in an egalitarian society things are, oddly enough, much more equal, and due to the equality of opportunity and resources people would be less willing to bear grudges, and less concerned with what happened hundreds of years ago, because they aren't labouring at all times for peanuts, make things more equal, more comfortable, and such grudges could decrease in severity because it's easier to let go of a grudge when you have free time and a disposable income, things to do, goods to acquire.

It's kind of like a generational thing though, if that theory is still taken seriously (it should be), new generations rebelliously critiquing whatever happens to be the norm, movements generated by boredom, generations growing up in a culture based on equality still seeking to define themselves by rallying against the system, even if it was that system that gave them the opportunity to rally against it, its opposite having no such recourse, taking it apart so their grandchildren can rebuild it.

I don't think you can eliminate the desire to change things and stand out through change no matter how perfect a system you create unless you can somehow materialize the affects of the adversarial without promoting stagnation and decay.

Sports do this well.

But the dialectic in terms of momentary observation, observances of historical mutations, brief narrative evaluations rather than definitive prognostications, is a constructive tool, fun to play with, there are plenty of oppositions out there to note, many of which haven't been thought up to strategically condition the future.

Maybe they should have been, maybe not, doesn't change my thoughts that Hail, Caesar! is funny and worth seeing, a lighthearted yet brash take on life, a minor film in the Coen Brothers's oeuvre. 

With Clancy Brown (Gracchus), Robert Picardo (Rabbi), Wayne Knight (Lurking Extra #1), Dolph Lundgren (Submarine Commander), Patrick Fischler (Communist Writer #2), and Christopher Lambert (Arne Seslum).

Tim and Eric's Billionaire Dollar Movie

Enjoyed Tim and Eric's Billion Dollar Movie.

Some of the jokes aren't the greatest and one situation almost made me retch, but these guys are undeniably flexible in terms of producing sustained awkward oblivious carefree traumatically endearing comedy, nostalgically nuanced with a 1980s commercial naivety, and overflowing with nimble bad judgment.    

In search of a billion dollars.

Chef Goldblum's (Jeff Goldblum) transitional introduction sets the stage.

The hysterically fruitful job interview where Damien Weebs (Will Ferrell) devotedly demands that Top Gun be played a second time keeps things flowing.

Taquito's (John C. Reilly) epic battle with the mall wolf invokes tragedy.

And Katie's (Twink Caplan) indiscretion cannot tear Tim and Eric apart.

They've been taught what to expect from life and how to approach it from television and the movies, and, as a consequence, haplessly proceed with limitless confidence.

No matter what situation they face.

Ignoring the ways in which everything around them is crumbling and decaying, they manage to not let a little financial instability get them down.

While forging a strategic plan.

And unerringly living the dream.

Contagion

Wasn't that impressed with Steven Soderbergh's Contagion. It successfully manages several different plot threads and introduces a wide variety of characters, positioning them in various socio-political quadrants as they react to the spread of a devastating global plague, establishing friendships, watching as loved ones die, exploiting the situation for personal profit, falling victim to the ludicrous ambitions of a culture of desperation. It starts out well, getting right down to it, not spending much time investigating historical details while still encouraging interest within its accelerated format, disease, widespread contamination, diagnosis, containment. But as it unreels, it inconsistently delivers its subject matter, some scenes astutely demonstrating the talents of its superstar cast, others falling flat and causing you to wonder if Soderbergh ran out of time and didn't have the resources to encourage multiple takes. I suppose that if everything is 'normal,' or the world isn't distinctly suffering from the effects of a plague, and then the disease quickly spreads and disseminates chaos, it makes sense to have orderly and traditional opening scenes followed by poorly executed bourgeois hokum (the film itself is infected). This device can work exceptionally well if the director carefully crafts a seductive self-awareness. I didn't spot such self-awareness within Contagion, however. It seemed more like actors with established reputations running through the motions, as if they had taken Law and Order or CSI's format, tweaked it for the big screen, made a number of definitive, instantaneous, unalterable conclusions based upon a shallow degree of ready made research, waited for the content to easily slide into its manufactured mindsets, threw in something heroic yet disengaged, and gingerly cantered towards an incredible turn out at the box office. Some scenes and performances stand out and it was better than mediocre, but still, a very formulaic piece disguised as hip and innovative entertainment, quietly fading into the trivial.

30 Minutes or Less

Ruben Fleischer's 30 Minutes or Less is a well-crafted ridiculous summertime flick. Full of plenty of diversifying intertextuality, a father/son relationship to comedically rival that maintained between Braveheart's Longshanks and Prince Edward (enlivened by Fred Ward's machismo [the scene where he thinks it's funny that his son is trying to kill him is priceless]), a sharp examination of the concept of role-playing, witty banters exchanged between both pairs of struggling male duos, complete with different brands of particularized logistical clarifications concerning 'mature' and 'immature' approaches to life after 25, and a shoot out involving a flame thrower (brilliant), all wrapped up in an indirect salute to the puzzling benefits of living in a small town, it keeps the juvenile effervescence flowing abrasively and unapologetically, as it levitates towards its incandescent glass ceiling.

Anxiously highlighting the leveraged conditions of possibility, while playfully working within the master/slave dichotomy, the productive output of this individualized synthesis guarantees a destructive resolution.

Is this because Nick (Jesse Eisenberg) and Chet (Aziz Ansari) so eagerly and effectively became that which they had never considered they possibly would due to the imposition of tyrannical constraints, the force of the necessary malevolence which they are forced to distribute overcoming their previously established socially acclimatized psychologies due to the unforeseen consequences of concrete shock?

It's possible that this is what Fleischer means although the point is certainly up for debate. Other phenomenons such as sleeping with your best friend's sister and hiring trained killers are investigated as well.

Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance

A kidnapping scenario where everything goes wrong. The sympathy generated is profound insofar as its apolitical nature sophisticatedly reexamines traditional dichotomies and leaves one anchored in an ambiguous, amorphous juncture. An organ transplant is required. In order to gain the necessary funds a child is kidnapped. After the ransom is delivered, the child accidentally dies. The police and the past-the-point father investigate while a terrorist organization keeps tabs. High and low, rich and poor, everyone is deconstructed while a sadistic sense of humour consistently produces feelings of guilt. Not for the faint of heart, Chan-wook Park's Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance convolutedly presents a nocturnal psychological thriller which playfully and insouciantly complicates its volatile subject matter. Distinct and provocative, it mischievously detonates a compelling aesthetic which creatively questions its audience's motivations. More subtle than Oldboy and an insight into what it's like to live without universal healthcare, Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance oscillates and undulates while establishing definitive strikes, a mutated dialectical homage to kaleidoscopic terms of endearment.