The Living Daylights

The Cold War once saw fierce international antagonists, cautious regarding thermonuclear war, but still aggressively advancing opposing ideologies. 

Both sides demanded zealous loyalty from civilians, professionals, and soldiers, and should you even joke about defection grand bureaucratic impositions would immobilize you.

Seeking international fluidity a Soviet informant risks defection in The Living Daylights, the British Government open to emancipatory accommodation should he share with them compelling intel.

An elaborate plan is put into place and the tenacious traitor finds his ticket West, ebulliently awaking in celebratory high spirits in a theoretically safe house in the United Kingdom. 

Yet the Soviets condemn the treachery and swiftly come calling for the disloyal comrade, boldly snatching the foolish hamstring from right under MI6's smug noses.

But was it the Soviets who destructively acquired him or is someone else playing an even riskier game?

Duping intelligence agents around the world.

With the audacious hopes of selling contraband.

I always thought Timothy Dalton was given a raw deal with the James Bond franchise, I rather liked The Living Daylights and find it a thrilling engaging spy film.

It would have been tough to overcome the impression held amongst the public at the transitionary time, that Pierce Brosnan would make a great Bond after his performance in Remington Steele. 

Still, don't let the outcome cause you to overlook The Living Daylights, it's a hidden gem that's easy to dismiss since it obscurely contends between auspicious giants (saw it in Prince Edward Island). 

In a lot of Bond films you quickly discover what the terrorist agents are up to for instance, but The Living Daylights keeps you guessing with fast paced reversals and indelicate election.

In contemporary times, it's been 4 years without a Bond film that's a sacrifice of at least a figurative billion, doesn't the franchise make hundreds of millions every two to three years and if they don't release a film haven't they awkwardly eclipsed themselves?

Ah well, a new film is to be released but not till 2028 states Google. 

Cool to see Denis Villeneuve directing. 

Hopefully he also gets the next Star Wars franchise.

Enigma

You wonder how many billions are wasted every year spying on other countries, without producing many results, imagine there was more of a consensus to productively get along, and those billions could be spent on jazz music and preponderant culture.

Were things much more worse off during the obsessed and stealthy brutal Cold War?

Or is there even more multilateral distrust cloaking international relations these days?

Hopefully not, a rather distressing subject such a shame it still persists, banal compulsions to preen and promulgate through listless superlative desire.

Enigma takes place during the Cold War in ye olde locked down strict East Germany, wherein which a covert operative seeks a coveted code scrambler.

The scrambler will theoretically give the West unlimited access to Soviet communications, and help them foil a pressing plot to murder 5 outspoken troublesome dissidents. 

Alex Holbeck (Martin Sheen) can hide in plain sight and has the luxury of remaining anonymous, even as his radio show consistently lambasted censure within the Iron Curtain, agents were never able to identify him, which left him somewhat of a free hand.

He has several contacts in East Germany to provide aid during his hour of need, but Russia has learned of his infiltration and sent their best man to intercept him (Sam Neill as Dimitri Vasilikov). 

A clever clandestine tale multilaterally results, resolute bravery and headstrong conviction guiding initiatives on either side.

Does the cultivation of novelty continuously have to adapt to fads and forums, do goodwill and peace not ethically transcend the cheeky impetus to shake things up?

Shouldn't resource provision and modest comfort not lead the way, with quality goods at affordable prices reasonably presented with dignified poise?

I suppose if trillions weren't spent every year on spying and the military you'd have to find something else for those people to do, notably the ones who weren't good enough to play football yet still sought volatile means at their disposal.

In the interests of taste, it would likely be a disaster if millions of them started to play the guitar, and endless songs about discipline and loyalty interminably bombarded television and the internet.

But I can sacrifice good taste if it means the curation of world peace.

What a strange world in which we live.

The animals couldn't think less of us. 

The Shape of Water

An ancient unfathomed independent environmental consciousness is captured and brought back to the United States, in chains, clandestine military operations responsible for its incarceration, it actively expresses its discontent oceanically, stuck within a container in a back room of a forgotten corridor in a decrepit building, wondering why a similar species would proceed so callously, when so much more could be learned under respectful mutual examination?

Others humanistically understand this point, immediately recognizing the unjustness of the circumstances, and unaccustomed to viewing such sincere pain and suffering, decide it's time to uncharacteristically encourage sneaky boat-rocking initiatives.

Introspectively speaking, it's really the brainchild of a lone sweet cleaning person who discovers the aquahumanoid (Doug Jones) throughout the course of her daily labours, tries to make friends, and eventually realizes she cares enough to save him.

With a little help from the ethically inclined.

Her heartstrung horizons.

Symphonically submerged.

Guillermo del Toro's The Shape of Water might not be the best film I've seen this year, but that doesn't mean it isn't my favourite.

It's still incredibly good, and thought provokingly entertains while crossing comedic, dramatic, romantic and sci-fi streams, the resultant energy discharge composed of purest raw loving artistic soul, the delicately distracted uniting to outwit a nuclear family man, in possession of everything people are supposed to desire, accept for his personal accompanying douche baggage.

The film's so well nuanced.

And casted (Robin D. Cook).

So many spoilers.

I have to mention these things.

There's just too much cool in one film.

Like characters from Ghost World decided to take on the army, there's a struggling painter who's lost his cash cow (Richard Jenkins as Giles), a conscientious Russian spy who's more scientist than commie, more concerned with promoting life than objectifying ideals (Michael Stuhlbarg as Dr. Robert Hoffstetler), a splendiferous local cinema that can't find an audience, Michael Shannon (Richard Strickland), Octavia Spencer (Zelda Fuller), multiple cats, pie slices to go, a potent critique of exclusive diners, amorous eggs hardboiled, hilarity ensues as positive thinking bemuses, even the douchiest character makes a reasonable plea for sympathy (he's used to lampoon by-any-means-necessary so well), dialogue heartwarmingly places the "human" back in "humanistic", Nigel Bennett (Mihalkov) seriously impresses in Russian, fellow Canadian actor David Hewlett (Fleming) burnishes the brash bumble, prim cold war ridiculousness with a taste for culinary excess, a bit of gore here and there, Hamilton Ontario's city hall plus the CFL Hall of Fame, methinks, good people given a chance to do something good which they overcome rational fears to do, a sense that everyone loved working on the film, yet didn't let the good times detrimentally effect their performances.

With the incomparable Sally Hawkins (Elisa Esposito) tenderly stealing the show; she has an endearing knack for showing up in the simply awesome.

The plot elements and cool criticisms and situations aren't just a smattering of amazing either, del Toro brilliantly blends them together into a startlingly clever narrative that keeps you acrobatically positioned to appreciate virtuous leaps and bounds, that seem to be vivaciously drawing you into a fantastic day in your life, during which you make a remarkable difference, during which you are the change.

Looking past racially motivated sensation.

Discourses of the huggable.

Like perennial blossoming unassailable fountains of youth.

Spontaneous trips to candy stores.

Artistically crafted vegan ice cream.

Atomic Blonde

If this is the mainstream cinematic age of fantasy and action, it’s fascinating to see how different directors are imagining themselves franchised in the genre(s), as they create hyperreactive propulsive enterprising incinerations which vehemently ponder conundrums cloaked in smarm.

Brainiac brawn.

Succulent seduction.

King Arthur: The Legend of the Sword, John Wick, and Atomic Blonde do this anyways, offering jousts and jinxes to challenge unconcerned juggernauts.

Atomic Blonde is borderline brilliant with its kinetic complications and extensive improvisations, multiple characters each playing integral roles as a beautiful deadly agent thrives on information hunger.

The cold war is about to end (that’s end!) but not before a coveted list of pejorative players appears for sale on clandestine markets which seek to see its content temporally manifested.

French, Russian, British and American operatives desperately clash to obtain it on the streets of a divided Berlin, double-crossing, combatting, entertaining, conjoining, keeping track of who’s in first simmering hardboiled whats and I-don’t-knows, as it becomes clear that everything’s obscured, and only those who can proportionally balance the incisive with the bellicose have a chance at emerging unscathed.

The judicious exchange of bodily fluids a portentous exemplar of trust notwithstanding.

Or slightly scathed.

Quite scathed perhaps.

I didn’t see Ghost in the Shell so this statement may be incorrect, but Lorraine Broughton's (Charlize Theron) altercations (perhaps) set a new standard for tenacious females furiously and potently defending themselves.

Cool title, cool action, cool interactions, icy wherewithal, David Leitch's upcoming films may be some of the best espionagesque cerebral thrillers to ever gladiatorally grace American cinemas, notably if he keeps working with Elísabet Ronaldsdóttir (editing) and Kurt Johnstad (screenplay). The music’s fantastic too and creatively mixed with the action.

Not for the feint of heart but essential to establish glacial bearings, Atomic Blonde exfoliates in overdrive to romanticize tranquility.

And calm.

Leitch used to be a stuntperson apparently. Has a stuntperson ever gone on to direct before?

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.

The Osterman Weekend

Definitely the worst Sam Peckinpah film I've seen, The Osterman Weekend pretentiously delivers a straightforward thriller in a tawdry fashion. Many of the lines possess merit but it's hard to believe they weren't rewritten to improve upon their catchy yet stark foundation.

Yeah yeah.

So a CIA agent's wife is murdered and afterwards he seeks revenge. He's eventually tasked with convincing television host John Tanner (Rutger Hauer) that three of his closest friends are working for the KGB. The plan: gain Tanner's trust and help him to persuade one of his friends to return to team America and recast himself as a double agent. The setting: a weekend vacation at Tanner's house. The giveaway: the CIA agent (John Hurt as Lawrence Fassett) has actually fabricated the story because he suspects that CIA director Maxwell Danforth (Burt Lancaster) is responsible for murdering his wife. He hopes to expose Danforth's murderous ways on national television in an interview conducted by Tanner. Danforth agrees to the interview after Tanner agrees to betray his friends. Tanner agrees to set Danforth up after Fassett kidnaps his wife and son and murders four of his friends. There's one of the worst car chase scenes I've ever scene. And does shattering glass really need several slow moving close-ups?

The smooth jazz soundtrack doesn't help things. Innovative directors use the ways in which their credits are presented to express meaning. I was fearful that The Osterman Weekend's opening credits were forecasting a predictable bourgeois sickly sentimental swan song, and unfortunately they were. If you're ever wondering where Trey Parker and Matt Stone find a lot of their material, The Osterman Weekend is worth checking out. Otherwise, unless you're a devoted Peckinpah fan or like watching bad movies with exceptional casts, steer clear of The Osterman Weekend ad nauseam.