Ceremoniously shifting from breaking wave to breaking wave, cast adrift to buoyantly submerge, the surf submissively dominating, an exacting cyclical shock, one young playwright, fascinated by insubordination, jostling the erotically profane, is interrupted, is, slowly, commodified, undeniably secure in his misplacements, subdued emphatic gusts, assured of their tidal pertinence, to enact the derailment of triumph.
On its own terms.
Ambiguity/ambivalence beguilingly solemnizes the dialectic, the exchange, a protracted piecemeal purge, sensuously persuasive, overpoweringly contained.
As the page turns.
A reading.
Precision.
Opportunity.
Mesmerizing mythical lambasted seduction generously vouchsafes its domineering obsequiousness, in Roman Polanski's crippling La Vénus à la fourrure (Venus in Furs), existentialism be damned, fiesta.
My favourite filmic adaptation of a play with a small cast and minimal setting is Sidney Lumet's Long Day's Journey into Night, but La Vénus à la fourrure now firmly occupies second place in my thoughts, due to Emmanuelle Seigner and Mathieu Amalric's powerful performances.
Opulently humble.
The ending was a surprise since it makes a definitive suggestion, although ambiguity remains, only a vestige however.
I would have faded with him tied to the cactus.
There must have been passionate arguments here.
Perhaps the definitive suggestion makes for a stronger ending.
I admit to being a sucker for critical controversy.
Not that there isn't plenty of critical controversy in the film.
You could argue that it's about the aesthetics of critical controversies themselves.
The whole night through.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Sunday, July 6, 2014
The Green Line
Waverly reticent concise parlay,
mercurial famished enticement;
retreating approaches, stitched torn and flayed,
conditional sandstone revisements;
tempt for an on-sight resonant rush,
hesitating enveloped credentials;
sporadic flighty sing-song-stencilled thrush,
precisely protracted potential.
One-two hush attendant rehearsals,
three-four slides the opening door;
descend shift uplift twist precursial,
introductions/farewells coyly stored.
This stop suggests craze carnival;
this one a drowsy enthrall;
off to the next destination,
mobile mischievous shawls.
Saturday, July 5, 2014
Transformers: Age of Extinction
Humanity has forsaken and betrayed the Autobots in the latest Transformers sequel, forcing them to strategically dissimulate in order to avoid detection.
An intergalactic jailer by the name of Lockdown (Mark Ryan) seeks to imprison Optimus Prime (Peter Cullen), punishing him for disobeying his creators, uniformly inhibiting his hard-fought freedom fighting.
Megatron's brain has been harvested and the technological secrets residing within have led brilliant scientist Joshua Joyce (Stanley Tucci) to believe that the power of the Transformer can be governed by Homo sapiens.
A new generation of Transformer is therefore created, to be used as military drones, the Autobots having become obsolete.
Fortunately a feisty independent struggling inventor has discovered the whereabouts of Mr. Prime, and he remembers the sacrifices he made, improvisationally fighting by his side.
Scolding his young daughter all the while.
The resulting combat, wherein the American individual boldly teams up with the abandoned to challenge the forces of oppression, is ingeniously summed up in the film's best scene, which sees Mr. Joyce cowering in a Hong Kong elevator, a momentary respite, from the cataclysmic confrontations.
Anyone notice the apartment complexes in Hong Kong?
Wow.
The act of creation unites the converging storylines, along with issues of operational control, to thematically cap the series's 4th instalment.
Convincingly hypothesizing a new set of sociotechnological indicators, while economically aligning them for the film's terrestrial inhabitants, earning a living subconsciously contends with manufacturing a soul, to experimentally produce a sensationally revelled playing field.
Because Age of Extinction is so long, the introduction of the Dinobots seems somewhat tacked-on.
However, the introduction of the Dinobots, is, awesome.
The President doesn't make an appearance and I'm betting when he or she does it turns out to be one of the members of Dark of the Moon's most disputatious romantic couplings.
Their presence was missing from Age of Extinction.
But the anticipation is something to look forward to.
An intergalactic jailer by the name of Lockdown (Mark Ryan) seeks to imprison Optimus Prime (Peter Cullen), punishing him for disobeying his creators, uniformly inhibiting his hard-fought freedom fighting.
Megatron's brain has been harvested and the technological secrets residing within have led brilliant scientist Joshua Joyce (Stanley Tucci) to believe that the power of the Transformer can be governed by Homo sapiens.
A new generation of Transformer is therefore created, to be used as military drones, the Autobots having become obsolete.
Fortunately a feisty independent struggling inventor has discovered the whereabouts of Mr. Prime, and he remembers the sacrifices he made, improvisationally fighting by his side.
Scolding his young daughter all the while.
The resulting combat, wherein the American individual boldly teams up with the abandoned to challenge the forces of oppression, is ingeniously summed up in the film's best scene, which sees Mr. Joyce cowering in a Hong Kong elevator, a momentary respite, from the cataclysmic confrontations.
Anyone notice the apartment complexes in Hong Kong?
Wow.
The act of creation unites the converging storylines, along with issues of operational control, to thematically cap the series's 4th instalment.
Convincingly hypothesizing a new set of sociotechnological indicators, while economically aligning them for the film's terrestrial inhabitants, earning a living subconsciously contends with manufacturing a soul, to experimentally produce a sensationally revelled playing field.
Because Age of Extinction is so long, the introduction of the Dinobots seems somewhat tacked-on.
However, the introduction of the Dinobots, is, awesome.
The President doesn't make an appearance and I'm betting when he or she does it turns out to be one of the members of Dark of the Moon's most disputatious romantic couplings.
Their presence was missing from Age of Extinction.
But the anticipation is something to look forward to.
Saturday, June 28, 2014
22 Jump Street
Unrepentantly unashamed of its recycled ripple effect, yet excelling where Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me did not, 22 Jump Street revisits 21 Jump Street's plot, counting on the strength of its reflexes to convincingly entertain, Hill (Schmidt) and Tatum (Jenko) demonstrating that they've still got it, poetry, football, college, weak on plot but undeniably hilarious, their humouristic confidence reliably overpowering the need to expand, not that they don't bromantically exemplify, how to sustain a flexible working partnership.
The bromance, introduced at the outset with a comparative illustration of both yin, and yang, holds the film together, breaking away to adhesively unite, strategizing football connections in the meantime, relationships, parenting, age.
Giving minor characters from the first film a larger role in the second can work, and it works well in 22 Jump Street, Ice Cube (Captain Dickson) furiously losing it at one point, Tatum's additions to the motif, a side-splitting shining moment.
Hill's best scene comes in the form of an improv slam poetry reaction.
I'm wondering if they wrote his poem beforehand, in which case he should be applauded for his ability to believably pretend to be improving, or, in the case that he did improv his poem, he should be seriously applauded for delivering some successful semantic syllabic breakdowns, immediate and inferential, confident and spry.
Either way, he makes a bold fashion statement.
Is 22 Jump Street a left wing film?
The yin seems to be represented by the more sensitive thoughtful Schmidt, Jenko representing the yang.
But equating sensitivity with the left and aggression with the right is somewhat stereotypical, an organized left often functioning highly combatively, the right seeming quite timid when living outside its comfort zone for extended periods.
What I've just described somewhat reflects Jenko's role in the film, as he is quite timid when interacting with the more intellectually gifted Schmidt, yet, when it comes to applying what he's learned in his human sexuality course, he isn't afraid to defend groups traditionally ignored by the right, making a great point about the problems associated with silence, such actions breaking him away from his social comfort zone, which I would be guilty of examining stereotypically if I thought it didn't support Jenko's actions, it doesn't come up but Jenko does start searching for something more, what he's missing being the fire enflamed through his arguments with Schmidt, that fire enabling them to cohesively function highly combatively, as long as they remain organized, which they do as time goes by.
The Colleges of the United States of America may wish to explore the issue further.
Having Peter Stormare (The Ghost) complain about how things were better in the 90s was a nice touch.
Has he ever been in a Woody Allen movie?
Libraries are unfairly examined.
It's a funny plot device.
But nothing beats having the physical book in-hand.
The bromance, introduced at the outset with a comparative illustration of both yin, and yang, holds the film together, breaking away to adhesively unite, strategizing football connections in the meantime, relationships, parenting, age.
Giving minor characters from the first film a larger role in the second can work, and it works well in 22 Jump Street, Ice Cube (Captain Dickson) furiously losing it at one point, Tatum's additions to the motif, a side-splitting shining moment.
Hill's best scene comes in the form of an improv slam poetry reaction.
I'm wondering if they wrote his poem beforehand, in which case he should be applauded for his ability to believably pretend to be improving, or, in the case that he did improv his poem, he should be seriously applauded for delivering some successful semantic syllabic breakdowns, immediate and inferential, confident and spry.
Either way, he makes a bold fashion statement.
Is 22 Jump Street a left wing film?
The yin seems to be represented by the more sensitive thoughtful Schmidt, Jenko representing the yang.
But equating sensitivity with the left and aggression with the right is somewhat stereotypical, an organized left often functioning highly combatively, the right seeming quite timid when living outside its comfort zone for extended periods.
What I've just described somewhat reflects Jenko's role in the film, as he is quite timid when interacting with the more intellectually gifted Schmidt, yet, when it comes to applying what he's learned in his human sexuality course, he isn't afraid to defend groups traditionally ignored by the right, making a great point about the problems associated with silence, such actions breaking him away from his social comfort zone, which I would be guilty of examining stereotypically if I thought it didn't support Jenko's actions, it doesn't come up but Jenko does start searching for something more, what he's missing being the fire enflamed through his arguments with Schmidt, that fire enabling them to cohesively function highly combatively, as long as they remain organized, which they do as time goes by.
The Colleges of the United States of America may wish to explore the issue further.
Having Peter Stormare (The Ghost) complain about how things were better in the 90s was a nice touch.
Has he ever been in a Woody Allen movie?
Libraries are unfairly examined.
It's a funny plot device.
But nothing beats having the physical book in-hand.
Friday, June 27, 2014
Maleficent
Two kingdoms bordering one another, although kingdoms is the wrong choice of word, for although one is certainly the domain of a king, the other has no definitive ruler.
The other's strongest is respected, however, due to her extraordinary abilities, and her application of them, to the art of realm protection.
An act of charity sparks a romantic flame between occupants of the divergent lands, but whereas a magical aura of egalitarian majesty permeates the one, greed and covetousness rule the other, the relationship's male component residing in the later, not that such couples need be composed of both males and females, a fact the filmmakers use to circuitously cultivate their filmscape.
He craves more power.
And ignominiously betrays.
His betrayal has consequences for both the victim and the beast, as darkness reluctantly descends, to clarify his inestimable wickedness.
The couple comes of age.
And a child is born.
Regally recalling and extending Snow White and the Huntsman's proverbial special effects, comically synthesizing the free and the dependent, ravenously adjudicating a curse's immutability, while cloistering the innocent in an ominous crown of thorns, Maleficent tacitly tracks the course of the fairy tale, abiding by while transgressing, its traditional fantastic forms.
Beautifully stipulated and tragically adorned, it presents insights and prohibitions regarding love's cautious stealth, preferring loyalty to might, the incandescent, to the miser.
The other's strongest is respected, however, due to her extraordinary abilities, and her application of them, to the art of realm protection.
An act of charity sparks a romantic flame between occupants of the divergent lands, but whereas a magical aura of egalitarian majesty permeates the one, greed and covetousness rule the other, the relationship's male component residing in the later, not that such couples need be composed of both males and females, a fact the filmmakers use to circuitously cultivate their filmscape.
He craves more power.
And ignominiously betrays.
His betrayal has consequences for both the victim and the beast, as darkness reluctantly descends, to clarify his inestimable wickedness.
The couple comes of age.
And a child is born.
Regally recalling and extending Snow White and the Huntsman's proverbial special effects, comically synthesizing the free and the dependent, ravenously adjudicating a curse's immutability, while cloistering the innocent in an ominous crown of thorns, Maleficent tacitly tracks the course of the fairy tale, abiding by while transgressing, its traditional fantastic forms.
Beautifully stipulated and tragically adorned, it presents insights and prohibitions regarding love's cautious stealth, preferring loyalty to might, the incandescent, to the miser.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Jeune & jolie (Young & Beautiful)
A cold stark excessively gratuitous portrait of a teenage sociopath, François Ozon's Jeune & jolie (Young and Beautiful) casts a chilling unresponsive gaze at bourgeois stability's apathetic spectre.
It's bare bones.
Or helplessly destructive.
Suddenly nothing interests Isabelle (Marine Vacth) besides pleasure, and she decides to search for this pleasure while earning a comfortable income.
It might be an experiment.
It's as if she can't recognize the danger, or lasciviously profits from its vicious prospects.
Ordinary or traditional forms of social interaction, rich in diverse variations on manifold themes themselves, relationships, poetry, familial warmth, simply hold no interest, a wild rebellious ingénue, blindly and recklessly courting the dark side.
The film's naked manuscript can't adequately capture the depth of her mother's sense of abandonment, but this inherent emotional vapidity augments Isabelle's carnality.
Like Belle du jour without the consequences, Jeune & jolie's bland calculated immature desire precipitates a baleful hush, violently curtailing the flowering of youth, its empty excesses, pathologizing discourses of the beautiful.
It's bare bones.
Or helplessly destructive.
Suddenly nothing interests Isabelle (Marine Vacth) besides pleasure, and she decides to search for this pleasure while earning a comfortable income.
It might be an experiment.
It's as if she can't recognize the danger, or lasciviously profits from its vicious prospects.
Ordinary or traditional forms of social interaction, rich in diverse variations on manifold themes themselves, relationships, poetry, familial warmth, simply hold no interest, a wild rebellious ingénue, blindly and recklessly courting the dark side.
The film's naked manuscript can't adequately capture the depth of her mother's sense of abandonment, but this inherent emotional vapidity augments Isabelle's carnality.
Like Belle du jour without the consequences, Jeune & jolie's bland calculated immature desire precipitates a baleful hush, violently curtailing the flowering of youth, its empty excesses, pathologizing discourses of the beautiful.
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
Bear Sighting
Black bear sighted on the shores of Lake _______.
I've been kayaking around lakes in _______ for over a decade now, and until three days ago, had never seen a bear.
My eyes continuously move from the water (to stay on course) to the shoreline, since if you aren't consistently attentive, you may miss spotting resident wildlife (or hit a rock/sandbar/. . . ).
Foraging on the prowl.
And this time I couldn't believe it.
I've been mistaking stumps and bushes for bears since I started kayaking, is that a bear?, no, not a bear again, that also, is not a bear, the bears are obviously sleeping.
But this time I saw a big black image moving in the distance on a ridge.
The movement made me hopeful, but after years of disappointment, I kept my bliss in check.
As I approached, the image stopped moving, but I had seen it move, and it wasn't that hot, so I figured there was a high probability it was a bear, and eagerly stayed on course.
He or she had spotted me!
And as I came within safe viewing distance, there he or she was, vigilantly keeping track of my movements.
I enjoyed the sight for around 5 minutes, allowing myself to revel in my good fortune, before deciding to take my camera out of my backpack, to focus-in and snap.
But this movement spooked the bear and s/he went running off, up over the ridge into the forest beyond, a smart move for the bear, in case my backpack had been a rifle.
Unbelievably happy for the rest of the day.
Finally that stump or bush had actually been a bear!
Couldn't think of anything else as I kayaked back to my destination, overflowing with bliss, searching the wilderness for more.
I've been kayaking around lakes in _______ for over a decade now, and until three days ago, had never seen a bear.
My eyes continuously move from the water (to stay on course) to the shoreline, since if you aren't consistently attentive, you may miss spotting resident wildlife (or hit a rock/sandbar/. . . ).
Foraging on the prowl.
And this time I couldn't believe it.
I've been mistaking stumps and bushes for bears since I started kayaking, is that a bear?, no, not a bear again, that also, is not a bear, the bears are obviously sleeping.
But this time I saw a big black image moving in the distance on a ridge.
The movement made me hopeful, but after years of disappointment, I kept my bliss in check.
As I approached, the image stopped moving, but I had seen it move, and it wasn't that hot, so I figured there was a high probability it was a bear, and eagerly stayed on course.
He or she had spotted me!
And as I came within safe viewing distance, there he or she was, vigilantly keeping track of my movements.
I enjoyed the sight for around 5 minutes, allowing myself to revel in my good fortune, before deciding to take my camera out of my backpack, to focus-in and snap.
But this movement spooked the bear and s/he went running off, up over the ridge into the forest beyond, a smart move for the bear, in case my backpack had been a rifle.
Unbelievably happy for the rest of the day.
Finally that stump or bush had actually been a bear!
Couldn't think of anything else as I kayaked back to my destination, overflowing with bliss, searching the wilderness for more.
A Million Ways to Die in the West
A Million Ways to Die in the West's opening credits make it clear that nothing within is to be taken seriously.
They playfully ambush a stunning solar-powered sight, calling its dynamism into question, while mischievously reinforcing it at the same time.
Within this ambush lies MacFarlane's gambit, can his wise-cracking intertextual self-aware stir-crazy sense of humour be applied to a Western filmscape, in 1882, the setting wild and untamed, the middle-class, struggling to define itself?
It's a bold move. Apart from Blazing Saddles, Westerns generally lack this kind of exposure. In the spirit of the wild west MacFarlane explores new ground, faces up to the challenge, diversifies, drills, prospects, but the booty accumulated, unfortunately, fails to impress.
The blend's too sour.
That could be the point.
It's not that his chemistry with Anna (Charlize Theron) isn't soluble, or that I didn't love seeing intelligent book smarts talk their way out of multiple gunfights.
The jokes just aren't very sustainable.
Take the moustache song, brilliant idea, but it falls flat, like having nothing but the option of straight whiskey, there's contentment in the availability, but stomach pain in the habituation.
Doc Brown's (Christopher Lloyd) cameo distills what I mean, this device having worked for MacFarlane ad infinitum in his other works, but it just seems bland in A Million Ways's context.
But there is another Back to the Future reference, a bit a subtle foreshadowing, in the form of the old prospector, played by the loveable Matt Clark.
With his lil' dog Plugger.
The subtlety of this reference was more powerful, relating directly to the difficulties Albert's (Seth MacFarlane) having asserting himself in the desert, the Doc Brown reference functioning like the response he generally receives from his neighbours, within the film's meta-formalities.
Correct.
That's correct.
They playfully ambush a stunning solar-powered sight, calling its dynamism into question, while mischievously reinforcing it at the same time.
Within this ambush lies MacFarlane's gambit, can his wise-cracking intertextual self-aware stir-crazy sense of humour be applied to a Western filmscape, in 1882, the setting wild and untamed, the middle-class, struggling to define itself?
It's a bold move. Apart from Blazing Saddles, Westerns generally lack this kind of exposure. In the spirit of the wild west MacFarlane explores new ground, faces up to the challenge, diversifies, drills, prospects, but the booty accumulated, unfortunately, fails to impress.
The blend's too sour.
That could be the point.
It's not that his chemistry with Anna (Charlize Theron) isn't soluble, or that I didn't love seeing intelligent book smarts talk their way out of multiple gunfights.
The jokes just aren't very sustainable.
Take the moustache song, brilliant idea, but it falls flat, like having nothing but the option of straight whiskey, there's contentment in the availability, but stomach pain in the habituation.
Doc Brown's (Christopher Lloyd) cameo distills what I mean, this device having worked for MacFarlane ad infinitum in his other works, but it just seems bland in A Million Ways's context.
But there is another Back to the Future reference, a bit a subtle foreshadowing, in the form of the old prospector, played by the loveable Matt Clark.
With his lil' dog Plugger.
The subtlety of this reference was more powerful, relating directly to the difficulties Albert's (Seth MacFarlane) having asserting himself in the desert, the Doc Brown reference functioning like the response he generally receives from his neighbours, within the film's meta-formalities.
Correct.
That's correct.
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
Tracks
I've always enjoyed a good hike.
Set off into the woods, seek, explore, discover.
After a solid hour-and-a-half to two hours though, 4 hours in British Columbia, I've usually decided it's time to head home, or to a café, either way, to drink coffee, and reflect upon sights seen.
Tracks's Robyn Davidson (Mia Wasikowska) approaches hiking quite differently.
Tired of her predictable daily routine, she decides to hike across Australia's Western desert, departing from Alice Springs with her playful dog, an adventure similar to one which her father embarked upon in Africa decades previously, her goal, to reach the Indian Ocean.
She digs-in and grinds.
Problem.
She needs camels.
Solution.
She works hands-deep-in-the-grit with camel herders until she's learned how to train and lead them, during which time she's ripped-off by a cantankerous old jackass, which only strengthens her resolve.
She eventually receives enough funding to begin with the help of a National Geographic photographer (Adam Driver as Rick Smolan) with whom she begrudgingly strikes up a romance, which intensifies the film's risk-fuelled desert induced heat.
Tracks is still family friendly and Davidson's ultimate hiking is condensed into a series of mis/adventures, plenty of material presented, at a fast energetic pace.
Obviously with a hike such as this, especially considering all the snakes in Australia (Canada only has rattlesnakes scattered here and there throughout the country [it's too cold for poisonous snakes {I can't prove that}]), much can go wrong.
But Davidson takes the setbacks in stride, always focused and determined, unyieldingly pursuing her sweltering objective.
There's a sequence near the end where Alexandre de Franceschi's editing aptly pressurizes Davidson's delirium, intertwining disorienting shots of character and landscape, to accentuate both the length and strain of her quest.
Tragedy strikes here as well, which was somewhat unexpected, since at other points balms are provided to ease the tension, shade provided for her dog for instance.
Intermixing the stubborn, the dedicated, the supportive, and the persevering, to concisely celebrate a triumphant human spirit, Tracks is a seductive struggle that can be constructively accessed by diverse audiences.
Don't think I'll ever be able to hike for longer than 4 hours myself.
How do you pack that many sandwiches?
An extended North-South trek through Patagonia would be fun some day though.
Searching for spectacled bears.
(Which don't live there I'm told).
Set off into the woods, seek, explore, discover.
After a solid hour-and-a-half to two hours though, 4 hours in British Columbia, I've usually decided it's time to head home, or to a café, either way, to drink coffee, and reflect upon sights seen.
Tracks's Robyn Davidson (Mia Wasikowska) approaches hiking quite differently.
Tired of her predictable daily routine, she decides to hike across Australia's Western desert, departing from Alice Springs with her playful dog, an adventure similar to one which her father embarked upon in Africa decades previously, her goal, to reach the Indian Ocean.
She digs-in and grinds.
Problem.
She needs camels.
Solution.
She works hands-deep-in-the-grit with camel herders until she's learned how to train and lead them, during which time she's ripped-off by a cantankerous old jackass, which only strengthens her resolve.
She eventually receives enough funding to begin with the help of a National Geographic photographer (Adam Driver as Rick Smolan) with whom she begrudgingly strikes up a romance, which intensifies the film's risk-fuelled desert induced heat.
Tracks is still family friendly and Davidson's ultimate hiking is condensed into a series of mis/adventures, plenty of material presented, at a fast energetic pace.
Obviously with a hike such as this, especially considering all the snakes in Australia (Canada only has rattlesnakes scattered here and there throughout the country [it's too cold for poisonous snakes {I can't prove that}]), much can go wrong.
But Davidson takes the setbacks in stride, always focused and determined, unyieldingly pursuing her sweltering objective.
There's a sequence near the end where Alexandre de Franceschi's editing aptly pressurizes Davidson's delirium, intertwining disorienting shots of character and landscape, to accentuate both the length and strain of her quest.
Tragedy strikes here as well, which was somewhat unexpected, since at other points balms are provided to ease the tension, shade provided for her dog for instance.
Intermixing the stubborn, the dedicated, the supportive, and the persevering, to concisely celebrate a triumphant human spirit, Tracks is a seductive struggle that can be constructively accessed by diverse audiences.
Don't think I'll ever be able to hike for longer than 4 hours myself.
How do you pack that many sandwiches?
An extended North-South trek through Patagonia would be fun some day though.
Searching for spectacled bears.
(Which don't live there I'm told).
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Los Angeles Kings Second Stanley Cup Victory
Have to admit, that I like the fact that the Los Angeles Kings have now won the Stanley Cup twice.
I would have obviously preferred Montréal to have won, but I honestly never thought the Kings would win, and now they've won twice, in dramatic fashion.
A lot of low ranked teams have made the finals before, but, since I started following the NHL playoffs anyways, none of them ever won.
Was crushed when both Edmonton and Calgary didn't win in the 2000s for instance.
But when LA won the cup two years ago they were ranked 8th in the Western Conference and they then proceeded to destroy everyone they played, easily winning in the finals after going up 3-0 on New Jersey.
And then this year, they're down 3-0 to San Jose in the first round and they come back to win.
And in the finals, they go to overtime versus the Rangers 3 times and win every time.
They also won all of the overtime games they played against the Devils in the 2012 finals (2 total).
Congratulations Kings fans, I never thought you'd win.
What a playoff team.
*They had a low ranking this year upon entering the playoffs as well, having only gained 100 points during the regular season, the 6th highest total in the Western Conference. Crazy.
I would have obviously preferred Montréal to have won, but I honestly never thought the Kings would win, and now they've won twice, in dramatic fashion.
A lot of low ranked teams have made the finals before, but, since I started following the NHL playoffs anyways, none of them ever won.
Was crushed when both Edmonton and Calgary didn't win in the 2000s for instance.
But when LA won the cup two years ago they were ranked 8th in the Western Conference and they then proceeded to destroy everyone they played, easily winning in the finals after going up 3-0 on New Jersey.
And then this year, they're down 3-0 to San Jose in the first round and they come back to win.
And in the finals, they go to overtime versus the Rangers 3 times and win every time.
They also won all of the overtime games they played against the Devils in the 2012 finals (2 total).
Congratulations Kings fans, I never thought you'd win.
What a playoff team.
*They had a low ranking this year upon entering the playoffs as well, having only gained 100 points during the regular season, the 6th highest total in the Western Conference. Crazy.
Wakolda (The German Doctor)
An ingratiatingly intelligent financially secure monstrosity suavely earns the trust of an unsuspecting family in Lucía Puenzo's Wakolda (The German Doctor), a Nazi war criminal having fled to Patagonia to continue conducting his medical experiments, preying on local families, and their innocent children.
Lilith (Florencia Bado) instinctively trusts the doctor, who is in possession of experimental knowledge that can help her grow.
She's growing at a much slower pace than the other children at school, and they've taken to bullying her as a consequence.
Her father refuses to allow the treatment, thinking, "who is this person who shows up out of nowhere, with neither references nor credentials, saying he can help my daughter, with medicine that the local doctors have never heard of"?
There's no cross reference.
Josef Mengele (Àlex Brendemühl) proceeds nonetheless, pursuing his perverted conception of science on the available human resources.
But his presence is detected.
The film's focus on Lilith and her beautiful curious wondrous spirit, seeking friendship, ignoring her tormentors, using the library, adds additional depth to the repugnance of the Nazi, to whom she's simply a T to be crossed, a doll to be played with.
The film doesn't directly condemn, rather, it uses character, setting and confidence to vilify the doctoral aberration, suffusing viewers with an idyllic subconscious revulsion, to passionately overcome the ambivalence.
There have been films in recent years highlighting the fact that many German citizens were themselves caught up in the Nazi's terror, during which time they felt like they had no choice but to follow the party line.
Wakolda's ambiguity acknowledges this, while using emotion to appeal to the intellect, to present a compelling exemplar of the guilty.
They only care for the individuality of the exceptional.
For everyone else, there are no exceptions.
Lilith (Florencia Bado) instinctively trusts the doctor, who is in possession of experimental knowledge that can help her grow.
She's growing at a much slower pace than the other children at school, and they've taken to bullying her as a consequence.
Her father refuses to allow the treatment, thinking, "who is this person who shows up out of nowhere, with neither references nor credentials, saying he can help my daughter, with medicine that the local doctors have never heard of"?
There's no cross reference.
Josef Mengele (Àlex Brendemühl) proceeds nonetheless, pursuing his perverted conception of science on the available human resources.
But his presence is detected.
The film's focus on Lilith and her beautiful curious wondrous spirit, seeking friendship, ignoring her tormentors, using the library, adds additional depth to the repugnance of the Nazi, to whom she's simply a T to be crossed, a doll to be played with.
The film doesn't directly condemn, rather, it uses character, setting and confidence to vilify the doctoral aberration, suffusing viewers with an idyllic subconscious revulsion, to passionately overcome the ambivalence.
There have been films in recent years highlighting the fact that many German citizens were themselves caught up in the Nazi's terror, during which time they felt like they had no choice but to follow the party line.
Wakolda's ambiguity acknowledges this, while using emotion to appeal to the intellect, to present a compelling exemplar of the guilty.
They only care for the individuality of the exceptional.
For everyone else, there are no exceptions.
Saturday, June 7, 2014
Shifting
Symbiotic cycling sails
fluttering didactic gales
fish-fry focused chants freon
interred liaising pantheon
a taste of incoherent pressed
ornately feathered plumes digested
kernels crunched spectaculate
tripartite winged facts relating
succinct newsroomed quarterlies
a gust of hyperfoxedfancy
consumed hypnotic chop-stick bites
interdimensionned stencilled flights
arriving, seastained aviaries
perched proficient stacked in very
able flexéd harpstring bows
from which it rains that which will grow.
fluttering didactic gales
fish-fry focused chants freon
interred liaising pantheon
a taste of incoherent pressed
ornately feathered plumes digested
kernels crunched spectaculate
tripartite winged facts relating
succinct newsroomed quarterlies
a gust of hyperfoxedfancy
consumed hypnotic chop-stick bites
interdimensionned stencilled flights
arriving, seastained aviaries
perched proficient stacked in very
able flexéd harpstring bows
from which it rains that which will grow.
Fading Gigolo
Financial fissures beget liaising insurances while potential clients attract attentive patrolpersons in John Turturro's Fading Gigolo, wherein the world's oldest profession brings good fortune to Murray (Woody Allen) and Fioravante (John Turturro), suddenly caught-up in an historical vortex, secularly lucrative, religiously blasphemed.
The film unreels pleasantly enough, risks taken, rewards cashed-in, comical awkwardness syncopating charm, Midnight Cowboy's lighter side.
Fioravante is a strong character, mild-manneredly reflexive, sensitive yet powerful, equanimously conscious.
His love for Avigal (Vanessa Paradis) isn't tragic or heartbreaking, more like a mature delicate yet robust scintillating red wine, caressed then invested, with lucid modest elegance.
About 50 minutes in I thought, is it starting to drag?, but then Avigal appeared again, and I was immediately reminded of my nightly glass of red wine, and then knew that it wasn't starting to drag at all.
Ancient religious practices follow, a ridiculous patriarchal kerfuffle, chillingly yet playfully impassing an ancient contemporary dialectic.
The negative side of prostitution, apart from a requisite ethical dilemma, is totally absent from the film, but it is a lighthearted comedy, presenting issues of race/ethnicity, identity, and community from a temperately confrontational perspective.
Apart from the nut with the baseball bat.
Not sure if I'm reading too much into some of Woody Allen's introductory lines, but from an off-the-wall point of view, it's as if he's handing off his reins to Mr. Turturro, either sincerely or mischievously, who proves he could be a worthy successor.
There's a volatile scene near the beginning involving a traffic accident.
Minor characters feud to introduce Dovi (Liev Schreiber).
More scenes like this one throughout, not necessarily volatile, just ones which interject cameos to inquisitively motivate the action, work well.
Highlighting the multidimensional nature of the world at large.
Thereby romanticizing the role of individuals within it.
He sort of does this with Murry's kids, but they have a direct relationship to a major character, which lessens their impact.
The film unreels pleasantly enough, risks taken, rewards cashed-in, comical awkwardness syncopating charm, Midnight Cowboy's lighter side.
Fioravante is a strong character, mild-manneredly reflexive, sensitive yet powerful, equanimously conscious.
His love for Avigal (Vanessa Paradis) isn't tragic or heartbreaking, more like a mature delicate yet robust scintillating red wine, caressed then invested, with lucid modest elegance.
About 50 minutes in I thought, is it starting to drag?, but then Avigal appeared again, and I was immediately reminded of my nightly glass of red wine, and then knew that it wasn't starting to drag at all.
Ancient religious practices follow, a ridiculous patriarchal kerfuffle, chillingly yet playfully impassing an ancient contemporary dialectic.
The negative side of prostitution, apart from a requisite ethical dilemma, is totally absent from the film, but it is a lighthearted comedy, presenting issues of race/ethnicity, identity, and community from a temperately confrontational perspective.
Apart from the nut with the baseball bat.
Not sure if I'm reading too much into some of Woody Allen's introductory lines, but from an off-the-wall point of view, it's as if he's handing off his reins to Mr. Turturro, either sincerely or mischievously, who proves he could be a worthy successor.
There's a volatile scene near the beginning involving a traffic accident.
Minor characters feud to introduce Dovi (Liev Schreiber).
More scenes like this one throughout, not necessarily volatile, just ones which interject cameos to inquisitively motivate the action, work well.
Highlighting the multidimensional nature of the world at large.
Thereby romanticizing the role of individuals within it.
He sort of does this with Murry's kids, but they have a direct relationship to a major character, which lessens their impact.
Friday, June 6, 2014
Under the Skin
A complacent harvest of unsuspecting trust, seduced, submerged, packaged, preserved in an hallowed solution, embryonic bliss, conscious of the terror, mesmerizing intake, dangling, merged, afloat, neither here nor there, masqueraded glacial transience, luminescent molecules, directions, paste, a ride, seraphic insulation, enraptured salutation, like a liquified libidinal glaze, slowly processed, then drained.
This film really does get under your skin.
It's patiently moving along, odd and peculiar yet generally non-threatening, light creepy apathetic bursts, then suddenly the horror, no build-up, no preparation, just there on a beach, one after the other, cold heartless calculated observation, purpose and intent, its goal indisputable.
And the next scene just follows, back at it, more of the same, manufacturing a costume, objective, driven.
But a fog descends and the comfort zone vanishes.
Curiosity's necessitated by the conditions.
Habituated disbelief.
A monster.
Jonathan Glazer's Under the Skin isn't like typical horror/sci-fi, its apathetic presentation leaving a much deeper impression than the most maniacal rampage to be found in a well-crafted slasher flick.
Its non-sensational unconcerned impact doesn't fade with the following week's routine.
It's still there.
Haunting.
This film really does get under your skin.
It's patiently moving along, odd and peculiar yet generally non-threatening, light creepy apathetic bursts, then suddenly the horror, no build-up, no preparation, just there on a beach, one after the other, cold heartless calculated observation, purpose and intent, its goal indisputable.
And the next scene just follows, back at it, more of the same, manufacturing a costume, objective, driven.
But a fog descends and the comfort zone vanishes.
Curiosity's necessitated by the conditions.
Habituated disbelief.
A monster.
Jonathan Glazer's Under the Skin isn't like typical horror/sci-fi, its apathetic presentation leaving a much deeper impression than the most maniacal rampage to be found in a well-crafted slasher flick.
Its non-sensational unconcerned impact doesn't fade with the following week's routine.
It's still there.
Haunting.
Saturday, May 31, 2014
Godzilla
The presence of two gigantic destructive monsters competitively reawakens the mighty Godzilla, perviously resting in his or her oceanic layer, content and comfortable, in its overflowing radioactive abundance.
Secrets have been kept from the people of Japan, and one man's overwhelming quest to ecolocute them, sets his son on the path to heroic indentation.
Project Monarch has known about the existence of these ancient beasts for decades and has been assiduously researching their origins, attempting to understanding what might be their purpose.
When it becomes clear that aspects of said purpose threaten the longevity of prosperous American cities, the characters hear the kitschy call.
Pinnacled to pressure.
If at one time in your life you found yourself watching every Godzilla film you could find, Gareth Edwards's Godzilla doesn't disappoint.
It's, pretty awful, intermixing enough cheesy sentimentality to settle anyone's disputes concerning the hyperactivity of microwaved plutonics.
But this is what's to be expected from a film respectfully paying homage to its amusingly light predecessors, like a refreshing glass of chilled mountain dew, stricken yet satisfying, all the way through.
Dr. Ishiro Serizawa (Ken Watanabe) impresses.
Some of the best deliveries I've heard in a blockbuster for a while.
How I looked forward to his next line with unfiltered anticipation.
The scene where the troops skydive into San Francisco is incredible.
Secrets have been kept from the people of Japan, and one man's overwhelming quest to ecolocute them, sets his son on the path to heroic indentation.
Project Monarch has known about the existence of these ancient beasts for decades and has been assiduously researching their origins, attempting to understanding what might be their purpose.
When it becomes clear that aspects of said purpose threaten the longevity of prosperous American cities, the characters hear the kitschy call.
Pinnacled to pressure.
If at one time in your life you found yourself watching every Godzilla film you could find, Gareth Edwards's Godzilla doesn't disappoint.
It's, pretty awful, intermixing enough cheesy sentimentality to settle anyone's disputes concerning the hyperactivity of microwaved plutonics.
But this is what's to be expected from a film respectfully paying homage to its amusingly light predecessors, like a refreshing glass of chilled mountain dew, stricken yet satisfying, all the way through.
Dr. Ishiro Serizawa (Ken Watanabe) impresses.
Some of the best deliveries I've heard in a blockbuster for a while.
How I looked forward to his next line with unfiltered anticipation.
The scene where the troops skydive into San Francisco is incredible.
Friday, May 30, 2014
X-Men: Days of Future Past
Evidently, cause and effect temporally deducing, internal philosophical differences debating an approach, the struggle to survive polarizing its parameters, the fact remains that a choice was made, its destructive consequences perspiring an end game, a solution transporting a stabilized atrophy, back to the source, to realign its origins.
Smoothly and shockingly aspiring to First Class, X-Men: Days of Future Past rivetingly integrates their two timelines, flexibly intertwining the old with the new, investing the best of both worlds with Wolverine (Hugh Jackman).
Harnessing irrepressible elasticities.
Magneto's (Michael Fassbender/Ian McKellen) might-is-right response continues to rebel against Professor X's (James McAvoy/Patrick Stewart) republic, as both are given ample contraceptives, their ideals tumultuously tested, by acts of genocidal supervillainy.
Perceived threats, prejudiced itineraries, Magneto's malignment, Professor X's stand.
Why difference has to often negatively preoccupy powers-that-be doesn't make sense.
Such attitudes can turn potentially productive community members into bitter antagonists, generations of Magnetos, time after time after time.
A cultural framework open to alternatives multiplies the conditions through which it can innovate and progress.
Infinite combinations and constructions.
Limitlessly inducing.
The film's really well done.
What a beginning.
Smoothly and shockingly aspiring to First Class, X-Men: Days of Future Past rivetingly integrates their two timelines, flexibly intertwining the old with the new, investing the best of both worlds with Wolverine (Hugh Jackman).
Harnessing irrepressible elasticities.
Magneto's (Michael Fassbender/Ian McKellen) might-is-right response continues to rebel against Professor X's (James McAvoy/Patrick Stewart) republic, as both are given ample contraceptives, their ideals tumultuously tested, by acts of genocidal supervillainy.
Perceived threats, prejudiced itineraries, Magneto's malignment, Professor X's stand.
Why difference has to often negatively preoccupy powers-that-be doesn't make sense.
Such attitudes can turn potentially productive community members into bitter antagonists, generations of Magnetos, time after time after time.
A cultural framework open to alternatives multiplies the conditions through which it can innovate and progress.
Infinite combinations and constructions.
Limitlessly inducing.
The film's really well done.
What a beginning.
Saturday, May 24, 2014
Neighbours
The questions of how loud one can party is tempered by bourgeois infiltrations as a rowdy fraternity moves in next door to a married couple in Nicholas Stoller's Neighbours.
The fraternity is well versed in the Dionysian arts.
Their goal is to throw a brazen bash nutso enough to ensure their enshrinement on their wall of fame.
Their neighbours, the Radners, are not impressed.
Engaged in the practice of child-rearing, and hoping to maximize what they can of a good night's sleep, they utilize logic and persuasion in an attempt to famish the insatiability.
Their plan backfires however, leading them to employ alternative methods to achieve their sought after repose.
What follows is a diabolical exchange of quintessential quid pro quo, devious in its conceptual understatements, wherein the past congenitally confronts history.
Robust and adroitly wound.
This isn't a typical frat-boy romp.
Residing in its reels are unexpected lessons regarding the cultivation of one's career and the absurdity of dipsomanic progressions.
Teams frat and bourgeois are therefore divided into the successful and the stumbling, as the mayhem imbues.
Neighbours is somewhat tame in its gambits, but these tame gambits lay a reasonably ecstatic foundation, upon which multiple avenues of inquiry merge, to simultaneously question while enabling.
Embligmatic clues.
It's difficult to say who's having more fun.
The fraternity is well versed in the Dionysian arts.
Their goal is to throw a brazen bash nutso enough to ensure their enshrinement on their wall of fame.
Their neighbours, the Radners, are not impressed.
Engaged in the practice of child-rearing, and hoping to maximize what they can of a good night's sleep, they utilize logic and persuasion in an attempt to famish the insatiability.
Their plan backfires however, leading them to employ alternative methods to achieve their sought after repose.
What follows is a diabolical exchange of quintessential quid pro quo, devious in its conceptual understatements, wherein the past congenitally confronts history.
Robust and adroitly wound.
This isn't a typical frat-boy romp.
Residing in its reels are unexpected lessons regarding the cultivation of one's career and the absurdity of dipsomanic progressions.
Teams frat and bourgeois are therefore divided into the successful and the stumbling, as the mayhem imbues.
Neighbours is somewhat tame in its gambits, but these tame gambits lay a reasonably ecstatic foundation, upon which multiple avenues of inquiry merge, to simultaneously question while enabling.
Embligmatic clues.
It's difficult to say who's having more fun.
Le règne de la beauté (An Eye for Beauty)
With the passing of the years, conjugal ecstasies having become strictly formal, extracurricular assignations suddenly appear enlightening, to two young architects tectonically seeking closure.
Life goes on afterwards, routines residing in recreational parlance, sports celebrating individual merits receiving spectacular extensions, taking on constitutional communal attributes, as the seasons change.
Denys Arcand's Le règne de la beauté (An Eye for Beauty) is a mature film, shrewdly exercising the interrelationship between stability and desire, focusing primarily on a couple living North of Québec City, the incredible beauty of their surrounding landscape, and the traditions of lifelong friends and family.
Do English Canadians really seem that pretentious?
They certainly aren't eating chicken wings.
People don't shop at IKEA?
How much money do you have to have not to shop there?
The film thematically picks up where L'âge des ténèbres left off, Toronto and rural Québec functioning as counterpoints, reservedly climactic events taking place in Québec City.
There's a chilling moment when Luc Sauvageau (Éric Bruneau) meets Lindsay Walker (Melanie Merkosky) there while his wife Stéphanie (Mélanie Thierry) considers suicide back home for unrelated reasons, trickery in the foreshadow, smashing insomniatic guilt, divine connections abstractly suggested thereafter.
A sub/conscious account of individuality, critiquing while elevating bourgeois attainments, Le règne de la beauté matriculates a reasonable desire, subjugates caution, then exculpates.
Life goes on afterwards, routines residing in recreational parlance, sports celebrating individual merits receiving spectacular extensions, taking on constitutional communal attributes, as the seasons change.
Denys Arcand's Le règne de la beauté (An Eye for Beauty) is a mature film, shrewdly exercising the interrelationship between stability and desire, focusing primarily on a couple living North of Québec City, the incredible beauty of their surrounding landscape, and the traditions of lifelong friends and family.
Do English Canadians really seem that pretentious?
They certainly aren't eating chicken wings.
People don't shop at IKEA?
How much money do you have to have not to shop there?
The film thematically picks up where L'âge des ténèbres left off, Toronto and rural Québec functioning as counterpoints, reservedly climactic events taking place in Québec City.
There's a chilling moment when Luc Sauvageau (Éric Bruneau) meets Lindsay Walker (Melanie Merkosky) there while his wife Stéphanie (Mélanie Thierry) considers suicide back home for unrelated reasons, trickery in the foreshadow, smashing insomniatic guilt, divine connections abstractly suggested thereafter.
A sub/conscious account of individuality, critiquing while elevating bourgeois attainments, Le règne de la beauté matriculates a reasonable desire, subjugates caution, then exculpates.
Friday, May 23, 2014
La Danza de la Realidad
Alejandro Jodorowsky revisits his childhood in La Danza de la Realidad, where the imagination selectively sways and protectively converges, inconclusive conflict coordinating innocent essentials, a Stalinesque father (Brontis Jodorowsky) bringing the pain, familial embarrassment and shame aggrandizing his persecution, little Alejandro (Jeremias Herskovits) responding with ardour, confusing projections of the masculine violently suppressing his sense of wonder, various community members avuncularly interacting, his poetic mother (Pamela Flores), nurturing his ability to relate.
Like weirdsville on steroids, the poetic and pugilistic merge to forge one of the greatest filmmakers of all time, as he crafts his first film in over two decades, fantasy fascinatingly swathing, the concrete, cruel, and confiscated.
His mother only sings.
Communism is comedically yet fatalistically skewered.
Superpowers are enlisted to fight fascism.
Between these extremes, individuality speaks up, as the feminine attempts to nest her husband's flight from himself.
Natal helpless inquisitive comedic old-world zealous tragedy permeates the film's practical ideology, as politics and religion challenge a commitment to child-rearing, the application of a big picture cause to a singular immigrant family entices, its contradictions featuring its humanism, creativity conversed as its fulcrum.
Difficult times at points for young Alejandro.
What a survivor.
Like weirdsville on steroids, the poetic and pugilistic merge to forge one of the greatest filmmakers of all time, as he crafts his first film in over two decades, fantasy fascinatingly swathing, the concrete, cruel, and confiscated.
His mother only sings.
Communism is comedically yet fatalistically skewered.
Superpowers are enlisted to fight fascism.
Between these extremes, individuality speaks up, as the feminine attempts to nest her husband's flight from himself.
Natal helpless inquisitive comedic old-world zealous tragedy permeates the film's practical ideology, as politics and religion challenge a commitment to child-rearing, the application of a big picture cause to a singular immigrant family entices, its contradictions featuring its humanism, creativity conversed as its fulcrum.
Difficult times at points for young Alejandro.
What a survivor.
Friday, May 16, 2014
The Railway Man
Insurmountable trauma, disturbingly deconstructing any stable sense of self, recurring, regenerating, relapsing, biding its time, crocodiling in crucible, beyond sublimatic recourse, entrenched and ravenous, purloined to renew, its helpless, caustic, blight.
Eric Lomax (Colin Firth/Jeremy Irvine) survived systematic torture in a Japanese prisoner of war camp during World War II to return to Britain a free man, yet the horrific memories have left him sealed and solitary.
Love's invigorating warmth can't help him overcome, and his desperate wife Patti (Nicole Kidman) seeks the aid of his comrades of war to find a sustainable solution.
As luck would have it, the whereabouts of one of his assaulter's accomplices have been discovered, such knowledge providing him with the potential to pursue a just cause.
Hesitant and confused, The Railway Man struggles with this burden, before submitting to the inevitable, and retributively withstanding.
It jumps between the present and the past, the length of the wartime scenes compounding Mr. Lomax's illness, suggesting that he is capable of circumventing its madness for a time, before its destabilizing will pathologically lurches.
I prefer it when filmmakers regularly intercut psychologically debilitating lesions but Jonathan Teplitzky's method speaks to Mr. Lomax's strength, and brilliance.
The Railway Man is a rational film, examining the affects of war on a highly logical mind.
It therefore lacks the emotional depth I'm used to seeing in films exploring the aftershocks of war, triumphing in its temperance, resolving through reason.
Eric Lomax (Colin Firth/Jeremy Irvine) survived systematic torture in a Japanese prisoner of war camp during World War II to return to Britain a free man, yet the horrific memories have left him sealed and solitary.
Love's invigorating warmth can't help him overcome, and his desperate wife Patti (Nicole Kidman) seeks the aid of his comrades of war to find a sustainable solution.
As luck would have it, the whereabouts of one of his assaulter's accomplices have been discovered, such knowledge providing him with the potential to pursue a just cause.
Hesitant and confused, The Railway Man struggles with this burden, before submitting to the inevitable, and retributively withstanding.
It jumps between the present and the past, the length of the wartime scenes compounding Mr. Lomax's illness, suggesting that he is capable of circumventing its madness for a time, before its destabilizing will pathologically lurches.
I prefer it when filmmakers regularly intercut psychologically debilitating lesions but Jonathan Teplitzky's method speaks to Mr. Lomax's strength, and brilliance.
The Railway Man is a rational film, examining the affects of war on a highly logical mind.
It therefore lacks the emotional depth I'm used to seeing in films exploring the aftershocks of war, triumphing in its temperance, resolving through reason.
Elixir
One drop gummy Penticton blush
another bequilling intransigent husks
a thick base of befuddled faint Montesquieu
to settle the impassioned consonant crew
Add vignettes retracing proportionate cyphers
to position pertinent prehensile pipers
the batch cranked by reticent ployed ingénues
distilling coy gradients shuffling through
immersive toyed sentient flush psychedelics
incipient bursts pranking solstile angelics
a trickling illustrious staked periwinkle
alludes to the crafted instinctual tinkle
albeit arisen in draft's estuary
insomnia furnishing flasks on the ferry
a motionless murmur requites then imbibes
staunch august nectars personalized.
another bequilling intransigent husks
a thick base of befuddled faint Montesquieu
to settle the impassioned consonant crew
Add vignettes retracing proportionate cyphers
to position pertinent prehensile pipers
the batch cranked by reticent ployed ingénues
distilling coy gradients shuffling through
immersive toyed sentient flush psychedelics
incipient bursts pranking solstile angelics
a trickling illustrious staked periwinkle
alludes to the crafted instinctual tinkle
albeit arisen in draft's estuary
insomnia furnishing flasks on the ferry
a motionless murmur requites then imbibes
staunch august nectars personalized.
Transcendence
Transcendence is kind of a flop.
But it is fun to think about what happens in the film.
It explores the possibilities of uploading one's consciousness online and then existing cyberexistentially.
Dr. Will Caster (Johnny Depp) and his wife Evelyn (Rebecca Hall) are conducting the research.
An underground organization fears their pursuits and launches a strike with the goal of obliterating them.
They hit Mr. Caster with a poisonous bullet which will kill him if he can't find a way to put said research into action.
Which he does, uploading himself, becoming a socially conscious superbeing thereafter.
His might, strength, reach and power then alarm law enforcement agencies previously dedicated to preserving his life.
Identity becomes an issue: is this superbeing Will Caster or a different person altogether?
Law enforcement reps begin to work with the still determined underground organization to break through the impregnable infrastructure Caster has created.
He's found a way to use nanotechnology to both regenerate physical material almost immediately after its bombardment/disintegration and save the lives of terminally ill individuals.
Whose minds he then enters and whose bodies he can then control, turning them into his loyal zombie soldiers.
Loyal zombie soldiers are his undoing; he never should have interfered with his patient's abilities to think and act freely.
He does though, and doesn't bother to share his plans to use his power to solve manifold environmental issues, an objective brought about by his love for Evelyn, who feels guilty for having worked with the resistance after discovering this fact, and its unfortunate benevolent despotism.
Transcendence suggests that unlimited secretive superpower may unite institutional and rebellious forces since they will likely both be frightened by its omnipresence, and will therefore, try to stop it.
There are a lot of great ideas in the film, and some great lines, but this one's a definite rental, that can be paused from time to time to acquire additional snacks.
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
Only Lovers Left Alive
Utilizing a peculiar rhetorical strategy, Jim Jarmusch romanticizes cynicism and satisfaction through naturalistic, artistic, appetitive, and historical entanglements, engendered and coded by the discussions of an aged vampire couple, a perennially rebellious scamp, and a literary legend, the men weary and woeful, the women full of life, united in their unyielding craving, for fresh, universal, blood.
Living in Tangiers, L.A., and Detroit.
Exploring the depths of sundry melodic intersections for centuries while observing disenchanting impacted awakenings have led Adam (Tom Hiddleston) to orchestrate various funeral arrangements, thereby expressing his enduring distaste, intravenously harmonizing his scrutiny.
Partner Eve (Tilda Swinton) remains more upbeat, still observing the world with an urbane reconnaissance, versatile and prim, eruditely beaming.
One's resounding disaffection materializes the novel, while the other's fascination with the unexpected, the appearance of a skunk for instance, impresses it more literally.
More could have been done with Ava's (Mia Wasikowska) character.
The script interrogates pretension by calling into question time's passing to the point where ego and redirection become facets of a limitlessly cloyed perpetuity.
Brothering a thrust.
With recourse to the enviable.
Living in Tangiers, L.A., and Detroit.
Exploring the depths of sundry melodic intersections for centuries while observing disenchanting impacted awakenings have led Adam (Tom Hiddleston) to orchestrate various funeral arrangements, thereby expressing his enduring distaste, intravenously harmonizing his scrutiny.
Partner Eve (Tilda Swinton) remains more upbeat, still observing the world with an urbane reconnaissance, versatile and prim, eruditely beaming.
One's resounding disaffection materializes the novel, while the other's fascination with the unexpected, the appearance of a skunk for instance, impresses it more literally.
More could have been done with Ava's (Mia Wasikowska) character.
The script interrogates pretension by calling into question time's passing to the point where ego and redirection become facets of a limitlessly cloyed perpetuity.
Brothering a thrust.
With recourse to the enviable.
Monday, May 5, 2014
Uvanga
A single mother and her son travel from Montréal to Igloolik, Nunavut, after the passing of his father, so that young Tomas (Lukasi Forrest) can meet said father's extended family for the first time.
The midnight sun illuminates their visit as familial expansiveness and jealous grudges acquaint him with a different set of cultural codes.
He's curious and chill, open-minded and active, these factors enabling a productive immersion in the North's différence, supportively kindled by his loving relatives.
And problematized by hostile trouble makers.
Uvanga frankly blends the harsh with the heartwarming, synthesizing the fearful and the awestruck in a diverse communal intergenerational resiliency.
Tomas's father's death is a subject of controversy.
His mom's (Marianne Farley as Anna) decision to leave is questioned.
Her return instigates adversarial purges.
A curative step, for the advancement of healing.
At first, I thought the scenes were passing-by too quickly, but this technique allows Marie-Hélène Cousineau and Madeline Ivalu to densely pack their multifaceted narrative with a varied cast from different walks of life, motivations and realities resultantly receiving accentuated depth, thereby directly rebuking any claims of oversimplification.
Situating a mother's grief and a son's acculturations within a lively mosaic of piquant reach.
To-the-point easy to comprehend consistently sharp conversation.
That's not so easy to pull off.
The midnight sun illuminates their visit as familial expansiveness and jealous grudges acquaint him with a different set of cultural codes.
He's curious and chill, open-minded and active, these factors enabling a productive immersion in the North's différence, supportively kindled by his loving relatives.
And problematized by hostile trouble makers.
Uvanga frankly blends the harsh with the heartwarming, synthesizing the fearful and the awestruck in a diverse communal intergenerational resiliency.
Tomas's father's death is a subject of controversy.
His mom's (Marianne Farley as Anna) decision to leave is questioned.
Her return instigates adversarial purges.
A curative step, for the advancement of healing.
At first, I thought the scenes were passing-by too quickly, but this technique allows Marie-Hélène Cousineau and Madeline Ivalu to densely pack their multifaceted narrative with a varied cast from different walks of life, motivations and realities resultantly receiving accentuated depth, thereby directly rebuking any claims of oversimplification.
Situating a mother's grief and a son's acculturations within a lively mosaic of piquant reach.
To-the-point easy to comprehend consistently sharp conversation.
That's not so easy to pull off.
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