The Italian Straw Hat

Acoustic consumption fiddlestick fuse emulsive disjunction stratified gruel, morning dove dojo crisp elasticity wandering wince enticed twinkle. 

Magpie crustacean hunchback domicile recital rigour contumely quand', delicious dairy solar extraction nautical nestuary aerodyne swerve.

Maladroit mumble sassafras fugue sycamore zealot pertinent trough, candlestick maker Frankenstein flam counterpinpointy insolent mollusk. 

Tangential Luca poissonion slumber indefatigable muse snippetty snaptitude, embellished snore lackadaisical crush flotsammy flock replenished jetsam. 

Overboard outputs Yucatan yodel byzantine clay humdrumhellarynx, intractable kitten carefree buzzard silocust floss insectivoracious.

Temporal 'mersion fedora flux exiguous dispersal entity croon, bodacious bellow cardiac quibble existential s'loon chortling chug. 

Gregarious guffaw crow's nest crew indecipherable craving sarcophagus shingles, reanimate roundabout cervical sigil offhand bother covetous slug. 

Fractious omelette indefinite standstill 'calibur crucible fission frittata, Goldstein zest preponderant peel mellifluous rhind concerted squirt. 

Exit stage leftoverbroadwaylaidbacktrack unrehearsed libretto operatic shade, bygone impression radiant moog mercantile mingle shoreline stroke. 

Scatterbrained knickknack deciduous gloom alpaca undulate trailblazing polka, accordion swing elementary sound enlivening echo shimmering gong. 

Vintage granule mint inauguration festive dressing peppercorn hue, jade codextraction aloof composure laconic liturgies sawdust snooze.

Incredible backups balanced defence brilliant coaching superlative fans, ferocious sacks bold interceptions fantastic surge focused discipline. 

You will know your ways as if born to them - Dune (1984)

They say your drills were bloodless battles, and your battles bloody drills - I, Claudius (1976)

Broncos!    

Yoyo

A gifted entertainer exactingly resides in opulent isolation within his castle, every second of every day meticulously corresponding to specified curriculum. 

He dreams of the girl he once fell in love with who still routinely travels and brilliantly performs, their improvised union having spiritedly crafted a darling youngster raised in the circus.

The Great Depression miserably emerges and millions of people find themselves out of work, the idle artist losing his staff then rejoining his family on the staggering road.

His son grows up immersed in lively spectacular entertaining multivariable humours, wholesomely ensconced within random variation he gradually becomes a celebrated clown.

World War II despotically interrupts and lighthearted sentiments are cast aside, the mad dissemination of militaristic bravado autocratically obscuring the chill and genuine.

After the war, the invention of television once again problematizes circus life, as more people find immediate entertainment laidback and tranquil with the fam at home.

Yet little Yoyo reinvents himself once more and becomes even more famous within the medium.

Hosting lavish galas back at his father's castle.

With storytelling, everlastingly at home.

I would argue that gifted storytellers never lose their love of animals, and sincerely respond to their adorable genius no matter how austere their lives become.

The just and the wicked, there's a remarkable difference between world-weary desert-of-the-real morbid tales, and blossoming effervescent dynamic lifeforces ethereally etched with generous compassion.

Thus we see in Pierre Étaix's Yoyo a friendly elephant at different times, who genuinely loves the wee mischievous lad at the auspicious outset and at the conclusion.

Yoyo never really feels quite right when requisitely hobnobbing within the superstructure, and is greatly relieved indeed more down-to-earth when that same caring elephant interrupts his ball.

You see the details of his innocent world magnanimously shared throughout the film, as scene after scene showcases warm unpredictable spontaneous carefree pleasant wonder.

Never lose that love of animals and there's no doubt you'll continue to enjoy this film.

Which inherently investigates artistic re/invention.

From the Silent Film Era to the Age of Television.

*Interesting sounds too.

Yoyo doesn't rely on the stock film sounds you often hear.

Piccadilly

A popular night club routinely offers exceptional dynamic crowd pleasing performances, its dancers showcasing sundry coveted moves and flourishing finesse with fluid elegance.

The spice freely flows the rhythms distill freeflowing upbeat pleasant fun merrymaking, half their tables zealously reserved (by noon) intense sprightly jocose reliable industry.

But as so often happens, the urge to change one's steadfast surroundings bluntly coaxes, and one of the famous sought after dancers decides he'd rather entertain North America.

The blow is indeed distressing as dependable revenue streams quickly dry up, his equally flexible former partner remaining but not enough of a draw to firmly bring hundreds in.

Then one night an ornery client vehemently complains about a stain on his plate, which prompts the owner to visit the kitchen the scullery in fact where he finds a new spectacle. 

Soon the act is passionately displayed for the curious public who responds with praise, the newfound sensation turning critical heads and swiftly redefining the business's mantra.

But the old act once incredibly loved isn't as willing to be warm and pleasantly accommodating. 

The owner caught between the stubborn lithe rivals.

Following his heart, wherever it leads.

Several decades before the Civil Rights Movement emerged with formidable vigour, Piccadilly sought to break down race barriers with a bold and courageous daring silent film.

Released in England not the United States and in British cinemas not on American television, it still predates William Shatner and Nichelle Nichols's kiss by almost a dashing and carefree 30 years.

I don't know enough about silent films so I'm not sure if such stories were often told at the time, I just know from my own observations that I've rarely seen interracial tales pre-1960.

Pioneering no less and also cool to watch it's still a captivating film, I was interested to see something starring Anna May Wong after she appeared on the American quarter.

She was tired of being typecast in early Hollywood and moved to Europe to find more diverse roles so I'm told, bravery rewarded in this instance at least she clearly steals the show in Dupont's Piccadilly.

If curious about silent film and alternative ways to tell compelling tales, it's worth checking out for sure with many of its themes still resonating today.  

Body & Soul

I wonder what it was like during the early days of cinema, without sound or elaborate effects, just a narrative and intense emotion, gripping unheard of fascination.

Strange to witness the birth of a new art form, the emergence of such grand distinction, whose origins were much less self-evident, much more dependant on study and technology.

The phonograph still amazes me, how did anyone ever figure that out!, to apply sound to a text of vinyl and then play it with an intricate machine.

Camera and film similarly fascinating, abounding with mysterious alternative applications, the resounding capture of jocose fluid movement, exotic presentations of vivacious life.

The captivating leaps and bounds still a matter of clairvoyant conjecture, perhaps these early films generated equivalent degrees of imaginative wonder, even without the brilliant sets and enormous budgets, with much more streamlined visceral accounts.

It must have been fun to provide musical accompaniment, to orchestrate dynamic soundtracks in real time, so much work for versatile musicians (jobs), so much complementary impacting exegesis. 

Films still struggle to depict the multivariable syntheses of books, with much more freedom to postulate the impossible, novels conjure with infinite reckoning, currents taking on lives of their own.

But film brings together so many diverse elements as it symphonically structures less complex ideas, communal abundance ample work mesmerizing texture creative constellations.

It would have been cool I imagine to have been there during film's silent heuristic genesis, as artists sought to inform and entertain while driven by consistent progress.

Was there an emphasis on sequels in the early moments?, series flowing freely unbound, there would have been so much less precedent to work with, futures motivating enthralling pronounced.

It's amazing to see how much sci-fi and fantasy films have progressed in recent decades, special effects having expanded exponentially, it's still mind-boggling what they can currently do.

But the idea of an adventure film made once again with puppets and physical sets, is one that I find quite intriguing which computational scores can't offset.

Perhaps it could also be silent or presented like old school silent film, with modest musical accompaniment, a rather long length, bears, Mark Hamill. 

Body & Soul brings to life silent film with animate spry invention, transformations testaments tracks tribulations, the tantalizing history of film.

There's so much out there beyond the present, so much lying in curious catalyst.

Conflicting epochs, peaks and valleys.

Awaiting reimagined interpretation. 

The Artist

Pride leads to a tragic fall in Michel Hazanavicius's The Artist, as silent film superstar George Valentin (Jean Dujardin) refuses to adapt to a technological paradigm shift. Losing everything after the advent of the Talkies, he descends into a self-obsessed alcoholic tailspin while remaining loyal to his preferred form of artistic expression.

To which he was an unparalleled sensation.

Paying hommage to an abandoned form of film making which was responsible for cinema's resounding success, The Artist works, presenting a remarkable synthesis of motion and sound whose historical resonances are fashionably festooned.

Ludovic Bource's original music playfully harmonizes with the action and temporally positions us within a revitalized inspirational epoch. Jean Dujardin and Bérénice Bejo (Peppy Miller) use the full range of their creative non-verbal subtly to emit an understated existential dialogue which encourages evocative sensual reflections as one tries to imagine what might have been said.

Even as Valentin seems destined for dereliction, a sense of innocent naivety permeates The Artist's being, as its expertly timed stylistic complexities leisurely conjure an effervescent cascade of childlike simplicity by delicately condensing multilayered supporting complements into an affective cry.

Nothing that surprising takes place in the narrative itself. It's the cohesive viscid micro-details which transform each moment into an exception of its own that make The Artist such a compelling film.

Nice to see Ed Lauter with a supporting role.