Allied

Fully cloaked undercover, watching every movement, scrutinizing each step, re/actions precisely measured to maximize discretion, on the road scripted codes liaised lessons, eager learner, coy discerner, modicums, romance, drills, an extroverted beauty chively strung singing along in chorus, friends in high places, versatile integration, his partner, his assigned wife, don't let emotions cloud judgments till it's time to gasp, to fire, to strike.

To love.

Precious freedoms, mission prerogatives.

Canadian Max Vatan (Brad Pitt) breaks with tradition and falls for Marianne Beauséjour (Marion Cotillard) in the field.

Less amorously aware than his new partner, the two make a marigold match.

Wed after accomplishing their objectives in Casablanca, they return to London to settle during World War II (Max is an intelligence officer who still actively strategizes while Marianne raises their daughter at home).

But there's a catch.

According to V-section, Marianne is a German spy, a potentiality Max can't face, having fully devoted himself to enabling their prosperity.

Bliss in crisis, Robert Zemeckis's Allied briskly examines conjugal fidelity, the rival in question a bellicose nation intent on grieving, the rewards of domestic security too high to blindly tow the line.

Torn between resistance and reconnaissance, upside down and inside out, the film passionately obscures Max's trusts, while keeping things strictly on the level.

Mythic misfortune presented in gallant 20th century plight, shorn trajectories and burnt down bulwarks critically commandeering catastrophe, appointments are met and duties kept in check, all the while clad in confidence, for remaining unsuspicious, for never having had a jealous mind.

Internal gridiron grind.

International intrigue, clutched all-weather.

Outstanding.

Somewhat, teary-eyed, was I.

The Walk

The ultimate performance, unannounced and unanticipated, sheer indubitable factualized vision, confidently clinging to an irrepressible irresistibility, lights, camera, action, essential timing delicately stretched, sensational spotlights, a breathtaking parlay.

With the unknown.

The exponential.

High-wire walking between the twin towers.

Nitroglycerin.

At the break of dawn.

Again, a team, symphonic accomplices, taking great risks to accomplish the legendary, photographic amorous mathematical mingling, caught up in the surge, improvised precise romantics.

Hijinks.

It's an entertaining performance, The Walk, its subject matter providing inspirational added value, tenderly heightening taut peculiarities, the underground's apex, transcending on cue.

Joseph Gordon-Levitt (Philippe Petit) holds it together.

He exuberantly functions as both starving artist and master of ceremonies to conjure an athletic tribute to will and determination, like you're seated in the front row of a stealth big top, ideal showpersonship, nimbly navigating in stride.

In English and French.

Walking the line, North to South, back again, wild card or integral force?

You decide.

Although The Walk isn't exactly cultivating fallow artistic ground, it's still permeated by intense awe inspiring wonder, like gelatin or spontaneous friendship, swaying and blowing with the breeze.

It seems like Zemeckis was genuinely concerned with fascinatingly presenting a down to earth yet wily crowd pleasing sentiment, and with the cast and crew energetically on board, and the climax pressurizing the audacious, I found little to critique about this film, caught between two worlds, a Parisian New Yorker's lexicon.