As love's vitalistic harmonies musically surge, ecstatically flourishing for the curious young couple, condescending and encouraging conceptions cut-off and receive their rapturous transmissions, best interests taking shape in both evaluations, the scurrilous and the sanctified, amorously pressured.
To imagine that someone would attempt to prevent something as beautiful as Gabrielle (Gabrielle Marion-Rivard) and Martin's (Alexandre Landry) feelings for one another from joyously entrancing is beyond me, as if love is solely reserved for the prescient and the punctual, rather than for anyone caught up in its (initial) emancipating embrace.
Louise Archambault's Gabrielle does visually and pensively craft several scenes which explore the dangers facing Gabrielle should she choose to live on her own, practically and remorsefully nuancing their breadths, while nurturing her bold explorations.
Better to seek than to writhe.
Love's highly impractical anyways, regularly striking at inopportune moments, to which the application of hindsight can strive to sear logic, and succour an empirical spirituality.
Gabrielle and Martin cogently access their mutually supportive luminescent crunch, the unfortunately partially transgressive aspect of their unity only serving to further strengthen their resolve.
The film's progressively cautious competing rationalities motivate a conjugal oscillation, an illustrative illumination, stabilized through bliss.
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Yi dai zong shi (The Grandmaster)
Reluctantly impenetrable, hesitant yet incomparable, Wing Chun Grandmaster Ip Man (Tony Leung Chiu Wai) invincibly materializes his compact modest integrity, within, flexibly counterpoised, internationally driven.
Kar Wai Wong's Yi dai zong shi (The Grandmaster) celebrates his life, highlighting both monumental challenges and athletic altercations, some likely coaxed from oral and written records of his legend, complexly diversifying the phenomenon of martial arts, woefully positioning a seductive feminine element.
The film's temperament complements his psyche as an invasion commandeers his financial resources and he's forced to relocate to Hong Kong, having refused to collaborate.
Confident, reticent, and didactic, it unreels as if silent while biographically contending.
His post-invasion love interest forges the film's romantic counterbalance as her tragic commensurable conception of honour unwittingly tantalizes.
A Master of the martial arts herself (Xingyi and Bagua), her farsighted father having permitted her to train, thereby breaking with tradition, her devotion to her admirable related vow therefore remains a point of principled controversy, unable to release her desire, celestially sustained.
Yi dai zong shi's final message reflects a pluralistic pedagogical ideal, one which emphasizes study and traditional fluctuation, without betraying one's sense of concrete socioindividualism.
An action-packed wise accessible film, poignant without reference to the austere, insurmountable and unfathomable, tenaciously breaking through the ages.
Kar Wai Wong's Yi dai zong shi (The Grandmaster) celebrates his life, highlighting both monumental challenges and athletic altercations, some likely coaxed from oral and written records of his legend, complexly diversifying the phenomenon of martial arts, woefully positioning a seductive feminine element.
The film's temperament complements his psyche as an invasion commandeers his financial resources and he's forced to relocate to Hong Kong, having refused to collaborate.
Confident, reticent, and didactic, it unreels as if silent while biographically contending.
His post-invasion love interest forges the film's romantic counterbalance as her tragic commensurable conception of honour unwittingly tantalizes.
A Master of the martial arts herself (Xingyi and Bagua), her farsighted father having permitted her to train, thereby breaking with tradition, her devotion to her admirable related vow therefore remains a point of principled controversy, unable to release her desire, celestially sustained.
Yi dai zong shi's final message reflects a pluralistic pedagogical ideal, one which emphasizes study and traditional fluctuation, without betraying one's sense of concrete socioindividualism.
An action-packed wise accessible film, poignant without reference to the austere, insurmountable and unfathomable, tenaciously breaking through the ages.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Camille Claudel 1915
Attaching a strictly temporal dimension to the passage of time, wherein a brilliant delicate artist's psychological sentence is thought to be perennially relapsing, her in/direct encampment in the Real having seared an ominous dread, intransigent incarnate interference, a burning flame shrouded in darkness, no companions, no recourse, no distinctions, hospitable exclusion, reclusively aligned.
She can't break free.
Powerful performance by Juliette Binoche (Camille Claudel).
She is provided with the chance to convalesce and her ability to reason traumatically cloisters logical probabilities whose unrequited lesions awoke excessively paranoid delusions.
Her loved ones remain condemnatory, acting in accordance with principles which they consider to be charitably Christian, imprisoning her for life in an asylum, proudly refusing to listen.
The authoritative sanctioned madness is regally revealed as two differently abled persons are rebuked for not rehearsing their play with the requisite depth of emotion.
Mme Claudel is obviously disturbed, not possessed, and may have benefitted from more suitable surroundings, pharmaceutical aids, and/or an understanding listener.
That's not to say pharmaceuticals should have definitely been administered.
If pharmaceutical companies are run like a business who seeks to see revenues increase every quarter, and they rely upon people being diagnosed with particular characteristics in order for their products to be sold, a rather disreputable culture could resultantly emerge, if specific diagnoses are not cross-referenced.
Pharmaceuticals may not have been required in Camille's case as her self-diagnosis indicates, her hypothesized cure seeming reasonable enough, affable, sane.
A different time; Camille Claudel 1915 examines a different set of historical rationalities.
A patient, helpless, conspicuous film, judiciously stark, the sound and the fury.
She can't break free.
Powerful performance by Juliette Binoche (Camille Claudel).
She is provided with the chance to convalesce and her ability to reason traumatically cloisters logical probabilities whose unrequited lesions awoke excessively paranoid delusions.
Her loved ones remain condemnatory, acting in accordance with principles which they consider to be charitably Christian, imprisoning her for life in an asylum, proudly refusing to listen.
The authoritative sanctioned madness is regally revealed as two differently abled persons are rebuked for not rehearsing their play with the requisite depth of emotion.
Mme Claudel is obviously disturbed, not possessed, and may have benefitted from more suitable surroundings, pharmaceutical aids, and/or an understanding listener.
That's not to say pharmaceuticals should have definitely been administered.
If pharmaceutical companies are run like a business who seeks to see revenues increase every quarter, and they rely upon people being diagnosed with particular characteristics in order for their products to be sold, a rather disreputable culture could resultantly emerge, if specific diagnoses are not cross-referenced.
Pharmaceuticals may not have been required in Camille's case as her self-diagnosis indicates, her hypothesized cure seeming reasonable enough, affable, sane.
A different time; Camille Claudel 1915 examines a different set of historical rationalities.
A patient, helpless, conspicuous film, judiciously stark, the sound and the fury.
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Ekstra
Taking a humanistic approach to the production of soap operas, focusing primarily on the arduous routines followed by their hope-filled extras, digging in real deep, opportunity jostling with obsolescence, divas, directors, and delays, a rigid overworked tawdry hierarchical continuity graciously swoons to sycophantically accommodate, while viciously displacing its retributive wrath.
The extras take the heat for egocentric conceits, yet flexibly flow in bleached toiled caprice.
Irony abounds as the stars and high ranking members of the crew act like precious progenitors of substantial stakes while creating horrendous gaudy cylindrical refuse.
The cigarette burn improvisation.
A tasteless product placement.
The insertion of an automobile.
Cinematically fell for Loida Malabanan (Vilma Santos) as she attempts to breakthrough, her roles functioning as metafictional realistic vindications as she fantastically battles the wicked, heartbreakingly symbolic, cold, and unforgiving.
Ekstra is also filled with congenial moments of accidental amicable trust, tightrope walking starstruck stalking vests, multiple different angles, competing operational perspectives.
On the fly.
The extras take the heat for egocentric conceits, yet flexibly flow in bleached toiled caprice.
Irony abounds as the stars and high ranking members of the crew act like precious progenitors of substantial stakes while creating horrendous gaudy cylindrical refuse.
The cigarette burn improvisation.
A tasteless product placement.
The insertion of an automobile.
Cinematically fell for Loida Malabanan (Vilma Santos) as she attempts to breakthrough, her roles functioning as metafictional realistic vindications as she fantastically battles the wicked, heartbreakingly symbolic, cold, and unforgiving.
Ekstra is also filled with congenial moments of accidental amicable trust, tightrope walking starstruck stalking vests, multiple different angles, competing operational perspectives.
On the fly.
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Vic et Flo ont vu un ours (Vic and Flo Saw a Bear)
Callous direct confrontational cheek infused with rehabilitated romantic longing curiously cohabitates with its surrounding community, comfortably nestled in a formerly saccharine sugar shack, problems with those they encounter, there are problems with those they encounter, in Vic et Flo ont vu un ours (Vic and Flo Saw a Bear), wherein an elderly ex-con whose formative years were likely filled with anger, the film being unconcerned with historical details, an emancipated secluded parareactive present, reunites with her luscious love interest, whose fermenting fugacious boundless wanderlust, delicately soothes, and traumatically glistens.
There are those who are seeking revenge.
Those who vitriolically interact.
The sedate, the facilitative, the confused.
And trusty, tight-lipped, do-gooding Guillaume (Marc-André Grondin).
The sequence where he takes Vic (Pierrette Robitaille) and Flo (Romane Bohringer) to the aquarium and the museum is invaluable.
The film's form itself mischievously mirrors Vic and Flo's grizzled disregard, their justifiable frustrations with their roles in the order of things, as displayed by the rapid fire hyperactive opening credits, overflowing with kinetic energy, setting up a cerebral symphony, as if Denis Cȏté is saying, "yes, I could have done more, but isn't what I have done enough to still warrant critical acclaim, which doesn't concern me anyways, je m'en fous?"
I've only seen Vic et Flo ont vu un ours and it's good enough to make me want to rent the rest of his films, quickly full-speed ahead, this guy is awesome.
The same applies to Guillaume Sylvestre.
They don't actually see a bear but the moment where you're thinking, hey, maybe the title isn't metaphorical, couldn't be more dysfunctionally discomforting.
Jackie (Marie Brassard) looks a bit like Wild at Heart's Juana Durango (Grace Zabriskie) at one point.
Pourquoi? Pourquoi!
There are those who are seeking revenge.
Those who vitriolically interact.
The sedate, the facilitative, the confused.
And trusty, tight-lipped, do-gooding Guillaume (Marc-André Grondin).
The sequence where he takes Vic (Pierrette Robitaille) and Flo (Romane Bohringer) to the aquarium and the museum is invaluable.
The film's form itself mischievously mirrors Vic and Flo's grizzled disregard, their justifiable frustrations with their roles in the order of things, as displayed by the rapid fire hyperactive opening credits, overflowing with kinetic energy, setting up a cerebral symphony, as if Denis Cȏté is saying, "yes, I could have done more, but isn't what I have done enough to still warrant critical acclaim, which doesn't concern me anyways, je m'en fous?"
I've only seen Vic et Flo ont vu un ours and it's good enough to make me want to rent the rest of his films, quickly full-speed ahead, this guy is awesome.
The same applies to Guillaume Sylvestre.
They don't actually see a bear but the moment where you're thinking, hey, maybe the title isn't metaphorical, couldn't be more dysfunctionally discomforting.
Jackie (Marie Brassard) looks a bit like Wild at Heart's Juana Durango (Grace Zabriskie) at one point.
Pourquoi? Pourquoi!
Riddick
After a lengthy hiatus, Riddick (Vin Diesel) returns, once again stuck on a desolate hostile planet, forced to battle and befriend to survive.
The film appeared to be a rip off to me in the previews, The Chronicles of Riddick having ended with Riddick sitting atop the Necromonger hierarchy, having vengefully transitioned from irrepressible individual to potentially influential figurehead, but I thought I would ignore Riddick's retrograde decision (and bland title) to focus more intently on Pitch Black, worrying about what could have been created seeming futile, wasteful, and unproductive, Riddick still featuring Riddick, iconic bad ass, incontrovertible anti-soldier, that being okay.
But Riddick does explain how he came to be isolated once again and the explanation lacks credibility, considering how easily he consistently outsmarts his adversaries, and the obviousness of the trap he falls into, although he does acknowledge his moment of weakness through narration, and was dealing with quixotically clever foes.
Still, how did he fall into that one, seriously, come on?
Also, when he transmits his presence on the planet to the universe at large why didn't the Necromongers come after him? If he's still alive, he's technically still the Lord Marshal, and should have therefore been cravenously or ceremoniously sought after, by those with an interest in logistical legitimacy. Perhaps they wanted to wait and see if someone else could handle their mess for them, but if anyone knows how agile Riddick is, it's the Necromongers, meaning they likely would have wanted to settle the score personally, as the crow flies.
S'pose this sets up the next sequel though, fingers crossed.
At one point during Riddick, I thought he might quickly outmaneuver the two sets of Mercs intent on his capture and escape to reinstate himself within Necromonger lore, but as it became apparent that this would not happen, I begrudgingly acquiesced.
There are some classic Riddick moments, some classic Riddick lines, some classic Riddick obstructions, and the beginning which focuses on his survival tactics is arguably the film's best feature.
Some key developmental diagnostics flaccidly fluctuate, however, leaving a strong, explosive, crystalline character searching for better material, a fitting ending for this film, now that I think about it.
Really loved the edited version of The Chronicles of Riddick. Waited for this film for years.
The film appeared to be a rip off to me in the previews, The Chronicles of Riddick having ended with Riddick sitting atop the Necromonger hierarchy, having vengefully transitioned from irrepressible individual to potentially influential figurehead, but I thought I would ignore Riddick's retrograde decision (and bland title) to focus more intently on Pitch Black, worrying about what could have been created seeming futile, wasteful, and unproductive, Riddick still featuring Riddick, iconic bad ass, incontrovertible anti-soldier, that being okay.
But Riddick does explain how he came to be isolated once again and the explanation lacks credibility, considering how easily he consistently outsmarts his adversaries, and the obviousness of the trap he falls into, although he does acknowledge his moment of weakness through narration, and was dealing with quixotically clever foes.
Still, how did he fall into that one, seriously, come on?
Also, when he transmits his presence on the planet to the universe at large why didn't the Necromongers come after him? If he's still alive, he's technically still the Lord Marshal, and should have therefore been cravenously or ceremoniously sought after, by those with an interest in logistical legitimacy. Perhaps they wanted to wait and see if someone else could handle their mess for them, but if anyone knows how agile Riddick is, it's the Necromongers, meaning they likely would have wanted to settle the score personally, as the crow flies.
S'pose this sets up the next sequel though, fingers crossed.
At one point during Riddick, I thought he might quickly outmaneuver the two sets of Mercs intent on his capture and escape to reinstate himself within Necromonger lore, but as it became apparent that this would not happen, I begrudgingly acquiesced.
There are some classic Riddick moments, some classic Riddick lines, some classic Riddick obstructions, and the beginning which focuses on his survival tactics is arguably the film's best feature.
Some key developmental diagnostics flaccidly fluctuate, however, leaving a strong, explosive, crystalline character searching for better material, a fitting ending for this film, now that I think about it.
Really loved the edited version of The Chronicles of Riddick. Waited for this film for years.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
The World's End
12 pubs.
12 pints.
5 friends.
Grievances.
A youthful night of rambunctious drinking whose objectives were not achieved is revisited later on in life after 4 of 5 friends have embraced occupational stability, its chaotic contours representing the other friend's liveliest memory, after a lifetime of nurturing mind-altering nullifications.
The goal is to finish The Golden Mile, drinking a pint at each of Newton Haven's 12 pubs, sticking together as a team, revitalizing a wayward sense of indestructibility.
Gary King (Simon Pegg and Thomas Law) somehow manages to quickly convince his old friends to join him, once being the leader of the pack, compassion, pity, and camaraderie functioning as motivating factors, the beast gassed up and ready to flux capacity.
But a paradigm shift has occurred in peaceful Newton Haven, and although familiar faces remain, things are no longer quite what they seemed.
A challenge to the evening's nostalgic embroileries unravels a sinister intergalactic plot to colonize the Earth and eat organic food, against which the 5 friends must then contend, while continuing to pursue their dipsomanic agenda.
To the World's End.
Is The World's End a diabolical delusion taking place solely within the demented mind of Mr. King, or have people indeed been replaced with glad handing automata, in search of healthier lifestyles?
The improbability suggests the answer is a simple yes, but the film's extracurricular exhibitionism begs the question, if this is merely obstetric, why does it revel so collegially within its confines?
It does function as a response to Hot Fuzz, Simon Pegg and Edgar Wright examining their own encounters with the aging process.
Functions too similarly to Hot Fuzz.
Contemporary kings they may be, I didn't see This is the End, and don't want to compare them to anyone else, my intuition transmitting that these comedic constabularies have intercepted an apocalyptic discourse.
Smart script though, the situations themselves often funnier than what takes place within them, which, I suppose in my case, is also a sign of age.
I would probably only be able to drink 8 pints.
If I didn't have to work for the next two days.
And had several cans of minestrone soup available at home.
12 pints.
5 friends.
Grievances.
A youthful night of rambunctious drinking whose objectives were not achieved is revisited later on in life after 4 of 5 friends have embraced occupational stability, its chaotic contours representing the other friend's liveliest memory, after a lifetime of nurturing mind-altering nullifications.
The goal is to finish The Golden Mile, drinking a pint at each of Newton Haven's 12 pubs, sticking together as a team, revitalizing a wayward sense of indestructibility.
Gary King (Simon Pegg and Thomas Law) somehow manages to quickly convince his old friends to join him, once being the leader of the pack, compassion, pity, and camaraderie functioning as motivating factors, the beast gassed up and ready to flux capacity.
But a paradigm shift has occurred in peaceful Newton Haven, and although familiar faces remain, things are no longer quite what they seemed.
A challenge to the evening's nostalgic embroileries unravels a sinister intergalactic plot to colonize the Earth and eat organic food, against which the 5 friends must then contend, while continuing to pursue their dipsomanic agenda.
To the World's End.
Is The World's End a diabolical delusion taking place solely within the demented mind of Mr. King, or have people indeed been replaced with glad handing automata, in search of healthier lifestyles?
The improbability suggests the answer is a simple yes, but the film's extracurricular exhibitionism begs the question, if this is merely obstetric, why does it revel so collegially within its confines?
It does function as a response to Hot Fuzz, Simon Pegg and Edgar Wright examining their own encounters with the aging process.
Functions too similarly to Hot Fuzz.
Contemporary kings they may be, I didn't see This is the End, and don't want to compare them to anyone else, my intuition transmitting that these comedic constabularies have intercepted an apocalyptic discourse.
Smart script though, the situations themselves often funnier than what takes place within them, which, I suppose in my case, is also a sign of age.
I would probably only be able to drink 8 pints.
If I didn't have to work for the next two days.
And had several cans of minestrone soup available at home.
Saturday, September 7, 2013
La vie domestique
What a prick of a day.
The bourgeois baggage bumptiously builds up in this one, as 4 housewives reflexively mold their materiality.
A picture perfect life, complete with good schools, automobiles, and giant houses has been secured, yet aging has reintroduced theoretically antiquated distinctions between feminine and masculine, whose casual unconscious biases and restrained level-headed counterbalances (the dialogue keeps a cool reserved yet provocative head) suggest that La vie domestique can be thought of as a prolonged micromanifested scream, each of its nanofrustrations minimalistically implicated in the stifling restrictions of gender based economically reinforced comments, along with the gut wrenching crunch of ostensible opportunity.
The aforementioned predominantly applies to Juliette (Emmanuelle Devos) as she struggles in her role of supportive wife and mother, providing extracurricular guidance to underprivileged youth while trying to find work in the publishing industry.
She's strong, confident, capable, and aware that time lacks its former robust capacities, alarming amplifications assiduously absorbed.
Her husband (Laurent Poitrenaux as Thomas) tries to comprehend at times but keeps saying the wrong things, seeking to control rather than comprehend, turning domineering near the end.
The ass at the beginning directly establishes the rage.
The rest multilaterally multiplies it.
The bourgeois baggage bumptiously builds up in this one, as 4 housewives reflexively mold their materiality.
A picture perfect life, complete with good schools, automobiles, and giant houses has been secured, yet aging has reintroduced theoretically antiquated distinctions between feminine and masculine, whose casual unconscious biases and restrained level-headed counterbalances (the dialogue keeps a cool reserved yet provocative head) suggest that La vie domestique can be thought of as a prolonged micromanifested scream, each of its nanofrustrations minimalistically implicated in the stifling restrictions of gender based economically reinforced comments, along with the gut wrenching crunch of ostensible opportunity.
The aforementioned predominantly applies to Juliette (Emmanuelle Devos) as she struggles in her role of supportive wife and mother, providing extracurricular guidance to underprivileged youth while trying to find work in the publishing industry.
She's strong, confident, capable, and aware that time lacks its former robust capacities, alarming amplifications assiduously absorbed.
Her husband (Laurent Poitrenaux as Thomas) tries to comprehend at times but keeps saying the wrong things, seeking to control rather than comprehend, turning domineering near the end.
The ass at the beginning directly establishes the rage.
The rest multilaterally multiplies it.
Friday, September 6, 2013
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Fènix 11-23
A young child's fascination with Harry Potter leads him to create The Army of the Phoenix online, dedicated to promoting Catalonian language rights, and defending the culture of Catalan.
Due to recent terrorist bombings, however, his activism runs afoul of Spain's anti-terrorism laws, and he's soon absurdly disciplined and punished.
Recalling Jason Buxton's Blackbird, Èric Bertran (Nil Cardoner) makes the mistake of responding to a threat with threatening language, hostilely mentioning a controversial underground organization in his reply, naively behaving as youngsters often do, unaware of the legal ramifications of his rapid fire inflammatory comment.
Both films examine the resulting social consequences but in Fènix 11-23 a support network develops which eases the tension.
Èric's life undergoes monumental changes as his family, friends, teacher, surrounding community members, and love interest come to terms with their fears regarding the penalties, directors Joel Joan and Sergi Lara rationally unreeling these fears, slowly moving from the callous to the understanding, as concepts such as democracy become more tangible.
Fènix 11-23 doesn't maudlinly express its examination of free speech (it's a true story), nor engage in sensationalist practices.
Rather, it shows how sensationalism can be a political byproduct that can ruin the lives of the people politicians are supposed to protect.
You can't write about controversial issues without expecting the police to take note and place you on a list of some kind. They are concerned with fighting terrorism.
You can expect them not to harass children, or anyone, exercising their democratic rights, turning playful miscalculations into seditious intents, winning a few votes and/or budget increases thereby, while sacrificing the ideals they're supposed to uphold.
Èric's unyielding courage is an inspiration.
Talk about bold.
Due to recent terrorist bombings, however, his activism runs afoul of Spain's anti-terrorism laws, and he's soon absurdly disciplined and punished.
Recalling Jason Buxton's Blackbird, Èric Bertran (Nil Cardoner) makes the mistake of responding to a threat with threatening language, hostilely mentioning a controversial underground organization in his reply, naively behaving as youngsters often do, unaware of the legal ramifications of his rapid fire inflammatory comment.
Both films examine the resulting social consequences but in Fènix 11-23 a support network develops which eases the tension.
Èric's life undergoes monumental changes as his family, friends, teacher, surrounding community members, and love interest come to terms with their fears regarding the penalties, directors Joel Joan and Sergi Lara rationally unreeling these fears, slowly moving from the callous to the understanding, as concepts such as democracy become more tangible.
Fènix 11-23 doesn't maudlinly express its examination of free speech (it's a true story), nor engage in sensationalist practices.
Rather, it shows how sensationalism can be a political byproduct that can ruin the lives of the people politicians are supposed to protect.
You can't write about controversial issues without expecting the police to take note and place you on a list of some kind. They are concerned with fighting terrorism.
You can expect them not to harass children, or anyone, exercising their democratic rights, turning playful miscalculations into seditious intents, winning a few votes and/or budget increases thereby, while sacrificing the ideals they're supposed to uphold.
Èric's unyielding courage is an inspiration.
Talk about bold.
La fille du Martin
The passing of a loved one accompanies a young woman's thoughts as she travels to the region of her birth to mourn.
Unbeknownst to her, a free-spirited youth awaits to assist in the grieving process.
As she convalesces basking in the Lac Saint-Jean wilderness, cinematographer Ronald Richard sensuously suggests that its pristine pastimes strengthen her beauty (Catherine Michaud as Sara Leblanc).
That beauty is indeed strengthened, as young love ignites to cause problems for villainous poachers, headaches for parental guidance, undisclosed wisecracks for a fraternal rivalry, and campfire tales for local legends.
Samuel Thivierge's La fille du Martin unpretentiously lodges a romantic reel in the Laurentian filmscape, lightheartedly casting its luminescent lures, hooking urban and rural encampments alike.
Straightforward, freewheeling, and independent yet accountable, it amicably shifts from outstanding shot to outstanding shot, infusing its comedic relations with bucolic luxury, its health sustained by its spry self-restraint.
I'll have to visit Lac Saint-Jean someday.
Only 5 hours away.
Rent an ATV, do some fishin'.
Hey hey!
(Nice porcupine shot).
Unbeknownst to her, a free-spirited youth awaits to assist in the grieving process.
As she convalesces basking in the Lac Saint-Jean wilderness, cinematographer Ronald Richard sensuously suggests that its pristine pastimes strengthen her beauty (Catherine Michaud as Sara Leblanc).
That beauty is indeed strengthened, as young love ignites to cause problems for villainous poachers, headaches for parental guidance, undisclosed wisecracks for a fraternal rivalry, and campfire tales for local legends.
Samuel Thivierge's La fille du Martin unpretentiously lodges a romantic reel in the Laurentian filmscape, lightheartedly casting its luminescent lures, hooking urban and rural encampments alike.
Straightforward, freewheeling, and independent yet accountable, it amicably shifts from outstanding shot to outstanding shot, infusing its comedic relations with bucolic luxury, its health sustained by its spry self-restraint.
I'll have to visit Lac Saint-Jean someday.
Only 5 hours away.
Rent an ATV, do some fishin'.
Hey hey!
(Nice porcupine shot).
Lost in Laos
Alessandro Zunino's sly transformational obscurely poised Lost in Laos potentially situates a metamockumentary between two worlds, wherein survival is latticed with familial, relational, and biological vertebrae, adrift in the Laotian jungle, anxiously struggling at home.
On the bilateral, feisty student Daniela (Daniela Camera) sets out with her partner Paolo (Daniele Pitari) to intermingle inebriated and impressionistic filmic observations as part of a wild abandoned ad hoc international trance known as Lost in Laos.
She keeps in contact with her traditional parents until too many substances are consumed at once and she wakes up with Paolo miles from town, down the river, passports and related pieces of identification missing, no food, soaking wet, lost.
The credits set up the film's serious yet sardonic transitional identifications by creatively yet dazzlingly introducing each letter of the crew's names before the name appears in full, at that point in time each character possessing a stable conception of self developed over time, after which the full name breaks apart into its individual components, thereby foreshadowing the upcoming psychological turmoil by the letter.
The creative yet dazzling dynamic sets up the surreal metamockumentary exposition as well, Lost in Laos intellectually diversifying its subject matter while picturesquely percolating a piquant self-awareness, whose bright abnegations voyeuristically mystify.
The boundary between truth and fiction forms part of Daniela's thesis and this dialectical deployment caused me to wonder if the film was really about either an aging professional couple imagining what life would have been like if they had taken more risks, or a young adventurous couple theorizing on the benefits of a bourgeois life spent together.
At which point I had to take mockumentary itself into consideration, wondering if Zunino was eruditely lampooning this style of analysis to simply present a troublemaking voyage of discovery.
Difficult to say.
On the bilateral, feisty student Daniela (Daniela Camera) sets out with her partner Paolo (Daniele Pitari) to intermingle inebriated and impressionistic filmic observations as part of a wild abandoned ad hoc international trance known as Lost in Laos.
She keeps in contact with her traditional parents until too many substances are consumed at once and she wakes up with Paolo miles from town, down the river, passports and related pieces of identification missing, no food, soaking wet, lost.
The credits set up the film's serious yet sardonic transitional identifications by creatively yet dazzlingly introducing each letter of the crew's names before the name appears in full, at that point in time each character possessing a stable conception of self developed over time, after which the full name breaks apart into its individual components, thereby foreshadowing the upcoming psychological turmoil by the letter.
The creative yet dazzling dynamic sets up the surreal metamockumentary exposition as well, Lost in Laos intellectually diversifying its subject matter while picturesquely percolating a piquant self-awareness, whose bright abnegations voyeuristically mystify.
The boundary between truth and fiction forms part of Daniela's thesis and this dialectical deployment caused me to wonder if the film was really about either an aging professional couple imagining what life would have been like if they had taken more risks, or a young adventurous couple theorizing on the benefits of a bourgeois life spent together.
At which point I had to take mockumentary itself into consideration, wondering if Zunino was eruditely lampooning this style of analysis to simply present a troublemaking voyage of discovery.
Difficult to say.
Monday, August 26, 2013
Blackfish
Glad I don't work for Seaworld.
Seems to me, that if you capture a killer whale, and stick him or her in a bathtub for the rest of his or her life, forcing them to do ridiculous tricks thereafter, there are going to be problems, problems, problems, as the decades go by.
And if one of the orcas kills a trainer, you should release it back into the wild afterwards, making sure to warn current and future employees about the dangers of working with them, in order to mitigate future conflicts, if you don't decide to simply let them all go, to roam the ocean freely at their leisure.
But while working at Sealand formerly of Victoria, B.C., an orca named Tilikum did kill a trainer, Seaworld did then purchase him, they didn't let their trainers know about his problematic past, and he did kill again, what is your problem, Seaworld?
Documentary filmmaker Gabriela Cowperthwaite comprehensively examines Seaworld's business practices in Blackfish, expertly intertwining the plights of both orcas and workers, thereby synthesizing environmental and humanistic concerns, while chillingly interspersing promotional Seaworld commercials, in an attempt to help put a definitive end to socioenvironmental circus acts.
Obviously if you're working with orcas or bears or tigers you need to exercise caution at all times.
Obviously if you're employing people to work with them you have to warn them to exercise constant vigilance, and reevaluate your capitalistic considerations once life threatening patterns emerge.
For example, this whale killed someone. Be careful.
The animals might not understand how much stronger they are than humans and may end up killing someone during what they thought was harmless playtime.
They may also go mad after living in cages for years and grow tired of not receiving staple food allotments after failing to perform the perfect trick, and may seek to teach their trainers a lesson of their own.
Blackfish scientifically explores the nature of orcas and the evidence uniformly indicates that they are highly intelligent beings possessing complex emotional matrices, and strong family bonds.
Leave them in the ocean I say, and let them conduct their leviathanesque affairs unabated.
Whalewatching, a fun family friendly option during the right times of the year.
It's a wonderful thing seeing marine life actively and independently engaged.
Seaworld can recuperate lost profits by building an orca themed roller coaster.
Where people sit in killer whale trains.
And are splashed by artificial sea spray at some point during the ride.
Seems to me, that if you capture a killer whale, and stick him or her in a bathtub for the rest of his or her life, forcing them to do ridiculous tricks thereafter, there are going to be problems, problems, problems, as the decades go by.
And if one of the orcas kills a trainer, you should release it back into the wild afterwards, making sure to warn current and future employees about the dangers of working with them, in order to mitigate future conflicts, if you don't decide to simply let them all go, to roam the ocean freely at their leisure.
But while working at Sealand formerly of Victoria, B.C., an orca named Tilikum did kill a trainer, Seaworld did then purchase him, they didn't let their trainers know about his problematic past, and he did kill again, what is your problem, Seaworld?
Documentary filmmaker Gabriela Cowperthwaite comprehensively examines Seaworld's business practices in Blackfish, expertly intertwining the plights of both orcas and workers, thereby synthesizing environmental and humanistic concerns, while chillingly interspersing promotional Seaworld commercials, in an attempt to help put a definitive end to socioenvironmental circus acts.
Obviously if you're working with orcas or bears or tigers you need to exercise caution at all times.
Obviously if you're employing people to work with them you have to warn them to exercise constant vigilance, and reevaluate your capitalistic considerations once life threatening patterns emerge.
For example, this whale killed someone. Be careful.
The animals might not understand how much stronger they are than humans and may end up killing someone during what they thought was harmless playtime.
They may also go mad after living in cages for years and grow tired of not receiving staple food allotments after failing to perform the perfect trick, and may seek to teach their trainers a lesson of their own.
Blackfish scientifically explores the nature of orcas and the evidence uniformly indicates that they are highly intelligent beings possessing complex emotional matrices, and strong family bonds.
Leave them in the ocean I say, and let them conduct their leviathanesque affairs unabated.
Whalewatching, a fun family friendly option during the right times of the year.
It's a wonderful thing seeing marine life actively and independently engaged.
Seaworld can recuperate lost profits by building an orca themed roller coaster.
Where people sit in killer whale trains.
And are splashed by artificial sea spray at some point during the ride.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
We're the Millers
A cornucopia of unrefined protracted sleaze, non-traditional role models doing their best to advise, their chosen economic insignias problematizing their bourgeois endorsements, choosing questionable yet confident manners of expression, juxtaposed with professional counterparts whose assiduity assumes authority yet lacks respectability, the perseverance of youth humanely automatizing errors in judgment, so many errors in judgment, serendipitously sanctioned, incontinently divine.
The film struggles as its characters acclimatize themselves to each other.
All you really have to do is write about what happens and you're good.
Although you're really not supposed to do that.
There are so many good ideas worked into We're the Millers's script that thinking about what happens afterwards trumps actually watching the film, many of the jokes falling flat, not that there aren't hilarious moments.
For me, it's most significant flaw is a product of the enormous and commendable risks that went into its construction, an attempt to simultaneously deconstruct and build-up cherished yet occasionally hypocritical codes of conduct, the juxtaposition requiring a contraceptive consensus to export its value that never intangibly materializes.
Lacking stability, character development is sacrificed for references and in/direct pop cultural criticisms, leaving it blindly searching for a good episode of Family Guy, rather than focusing on Trailer Park Boys, season 2.
The film struggles as its characters acclimatize themselves to each other.
All you really have to do is write about what happens and you're good.
Although you're really not supposed to do that.
There are so many good ideas worked into We're the Millers's script that thinking about what happens afterwards trumps actually watching the film, many of the jokes falling flat, not that there aren't hilarious moments.
For me, it's most significant flaw is a product of the enormous and commendable risks that went into its construction, an attempt to simultaneously deconstruct and build-up cherished yet occasionally hypocritical codes of conduct, the juxtaposition requiring a contraceptive consensus to export its value that never intangibly materializes.
Lacking stability, character development is sacrificed for references and in/direct pop cultural criticisms, leaving it blindly searching for a good episode of Family Guy, rather than focusing on Trailer Park Boys, season 2.
Monday, August 19, 2013
Elysium
Universal healthcare, workplace health and safety initiatives, and true love are spatially vindicated in Neill Blomkamp's Elysium, wherein the unsympathetic inprickacies of a totalitarian state create an orderly robotic despotic exactitude whose overbearing calculations encourage widespread temporal discontent.
A colony for the wealthiest has been created in space on a station known as Elysium, whose cloistered citizens enjoy incomparable privilege and general legal impunity.
On Elysium, everything is relatively perfect, advanced technologies guaranteeing ideal health and well-being, pools, mansions, extravagance, for all.
For the 99.9% still living on an overpopulated underfunded desolate and impoverished planet Earth, in the year 2154, the law is applied authoritatively and immediately, statistical automatons having replaced the potentially understanding, the struggling worker left with no harmless option but to silently obey.
But even though Elysium possesses enormous technological and financial superiority, Earth's population is too large to ubiquitously suppress, and a group of freedom fighters, whose poverty and encumbering lack of resources necessitates a frugal expedient expensive quid pro quo, covertly flourish in the rubble, using their brilliant hands-on luminosities, to keep a faint degree of hope alive.
Extremes abound.
With characterless villains.
Their attempts to degrade the system even further accidentally nourish an individualistic inductively altruistic messianic thrust, whose attempts to reform were systematically rebuked.
Emphasizing an egalitarian redistribution of resources, and citizenship and advanced healthcare options, for all, Elysium is quite the blockbuster, medically administering a sensationally practical ethical solvency.
Myriad sociopolitical dynamics are built into the script.
Which welds the human factor to the heart of structural change.
A colony for the wealthiest has been created in space on a station known as Elysium, whose cloistered citizens enjoy incomparable privilege and general legal impunity.
On Elysium, everything is relatively perfect, advanced technologies guaranteeing ideal health and well-being, pools, mansions, extravagance, for all.
For the 99.9% still living on an overpopulated underfunded desolate and impoverished planet Earth, in the year 2154, the law is applied authoritatively and immediately, statistical automatons having replaced the potentially understanding, the struggling worker left with no harmless option but to silently obey.
But even though Elysium possesses enormous technological and financial superiority, Earth's population is too large to ubiquitously suppress, and a group of freedom fighters, whose poverty and encumbering lack of resources necessitates a frugal expedient expensive quid pro quo, covertly flourish in the rubble, using their brilliant hands-on luminosities, to keep a faint degree of hope alive.
Extremes abound.
With characterless villains.
Their attempts to degrade the system even further accidentally nourish an individualistic inductively altruistic messianic thrust, whose attempts to reform were systematically rebuked.
Emphasizing an egalitarian redistribution of resources, and citizenship and advanced healthcare options, for all, Elysium is quite the blockbuster, medically administering a sensationally practical ethical solvency.
Myriad sociopolitical dynamics are built into the script.
Which welds the human factor to the heart of structural change.
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Blue Jasmine
Financial fermentations can require that lifestyle adjustments be made, Woody Allen's Blue Jasmine perplexedly yet malleably corrugating lead character Jasmine's (Cate Blanchett) descent into madness, competing economic logistics blending the blunt and the beautiful, comedically interspersing experimental affective influences, opportunity knocking, devotion concocting, bitterness imbibing, ripely spoiled.
The truth can be important.
Truths within truths etherealize.
The ethereal cherishes its material foundations.
Specific bases firmly rooted in itinerant psychohistorical discourses.
Jasmine drifts into the past as social interactions manifest a poppy madeleine effect, but their incremental narrative progressions problematize the device's distractions, the plot being secondary to the reflections in In Search of Lost Time.
I've got to find some way to work Proust into the cinema.
The device itself at first tore me away from Blue Jasmine's narrative thread, interrupting scenes which I was hoping would last much longer, at which point I was mildly frustrated by the intrusion, then lured in by the realism, but initially dissatisfied with the resolution.
Within the resolution, when the distraction's coordinated revelations reveal Jasmine's role as ethical agent, the two narratives synthesize then implode, a symbol for the equation of the imaginary and the real, drinking the water of life, causing her to lose her mind consequently.
Which makes the resolution satisfactory, albeit too neat and tidy, apart from the madness, I suppose.
The act of going with the flow is subtly and not-so-subtly lampooned throughout.
With Sally Hawkins (Ginger), Bobby Cannavale (Chili), and Andrew Dice Clay (Augie).
The truth can be important.
Truths within truths etherealize.
The ethereal cherishes its material foundations.
Specific bases firmly rooted in itinerant psychohistorical discourses.
Jasmine drifts into the past as social interactions manifest a poppy madeleine effect, but their incremental narrative progressions problematize the device's distractions, the plot being secondary to the reflections in In Search of Lost Time.
I've got to find some way to work Proust into the cinema.
The device itself at first tore me away from Blue Jasmine's narrative thread, interrupting scenes which I was hoping would last much longer, at which point I was mildly frustrated by the intrusion, then lured in by the realism, but initially dissatisfied with the resolution.
Within the resolution, when the distraction's coordinated revelations reveal Jasmine's role as ethical agent, the two narratives synthesize then implode, a symbol for the equation of the imaginary and the real, drinking the water of life, causing her to lose her mind consequently.
Which makes the resolution satisfactory, albeit too neat and tidy, apart from the madness, I suppose.
The act of going with the flow is subtly and not-so-subtly lampooned throughout.
With Sally Hawkins (Ginger), Bobby Cannavale (Chili), and Andrew Dice Clay (Augie).
Thursday, August 8, 2013
2 Guns
Centripetally incensing two sharp sabre-toothed cynosures to shifting psychotic solipsistic syndicates, vengefully frothing from within and without, taking precautions which establish guidelines ad hoc, a weathered weaponized multileveled liaison, 2 Guns fires, 2 Guns fires back, a Fred Ward cameo keeps things intact, the script sometimes swoons, occasionally falters, through cutbacks monterey jack, transitional malters, but chemistry can be a wonderful thing, and Denzel and the Wahlberg flow smoothly, ching ching, learning to trust what they've often been taught, is foolhardy nonsense, born, to be bought.
They should seriously do more movies together.
Functioning in fraternal unison.
Excited for the sequel.
Their are a bunch of, for lack of a better phrase, prick moments, where one prick talks business with another, both express their angst, neither comes across looking particularly sympathetic, but their points are made, confidently, confidence backed up by bravado.
The soldiering aspect of this Summer's blockbusters, already inculcated by The Wolverine's frenzy, bridges an international divide in 2 Guns, as Trench (Washington) and Stigman (Wahlberg) are forced to bypass the vehicularly qualified Mexican/American border with a group of hopeful workers, reminiscent of a theme from Pacific Rim as well (soldiering also present in Pacific Rim), Trench and Stigman having been abrasively abused by the CIA (Trench), the American Navy (Stigman), and a cartel Kingpin (Edward James Olmos as Papi Greco)(both), leading them to forge a more comprehensive understanding of social democracy, American style.
The 'oak leaves costume' comment worked well, this being a work of fiction.
Strong female role models are lacking within.
Not much of a focus on technology either.
Also, there's no way Trench and Stigman would have been able to kidnap Greco that easily.
The ease with which he was kidnapped does accentuate raw individualistic teamwork however.
Yes, it does.
They should seriously do more movies together.
Functioning in fraternal unison.
Excited for the sequel.
Their are a bunch of, for lack of a better phrase, prick moments, where one prick talks business with another, both express their angst, neither comes across looking particularly sympathetic, but their points are made, confidently, confidence backed up by bravado.
The soldiering aspect of this Summer's blockbusters, already inculcated by The Wolverine's frenzy, bridges an international divide in 2 Guns, as Trench (Washington) and Stigman (Wahlberg) are forced to bypass the vehicularly qualified Mexican/American border with a group of hopeful workers, reminiscent of a theme from Pacific Rim as well (soldiering also present in Pacific Rim), Trench and Stigman having been abrasively abused by the CIA (Trench), the American Navy (Stigman), and a cartel Kingpin (Edward James Olmos as Papi Greco)(both), leading them to forge a more comprehensive understanding of social democracy, American style.
The 'oak leaves costume' comment worked well, this being a work of fiction.
Strong female role models are lacking within.
Not much of a focus on technology either.
Also, there's no way Trench and Stigman would have been able to kidnap Greco that easily.
The ease with which he was kidnapped does accentuate raw individualistic teamwork however.
Yes, it does.
Fruitvale Station
Tragedy strikes a young struggling family in Ryan Coogler's Fruitvale Station, as a tough ex-con (Michael B. Jordan as Oscar Grant) makes the hard decisions necessary to turn his life around.
The film doesn't make him out to be a saint, rather, it delivers a down to earth condensed synopsis of the last few months of his life, during which he comes to terms with the potentially damaging consequences of his extracurricular economic pursuits, and decides it's time to stop selling drugs, find and keep a job, and start applying a higher degree of respect to his partner (Melonie Diaz as Sophina) and daughter (Ariana Neal as Tatiana).
Not so easy to do if you're used to working on your own for more money, but there's respect for working within the law, if you believe in yourself.
Oscar starts to believe but isn't given the chance to make good on his promises after an abusive cop (Kevin Durand as Officer Caruso) unnecessarily roughs up him and his friends one night, another police person then shooting and killing him.
The police had no right to drag them off the train so they were justified in actively voicing their criticisms.
If you do happen to run into a bad lieutenant, however, who has the power to make things difficult for you, and then they start to make things difficult for you, I recommend not saying anything, just keeping quiet, even if they try to provoke you, think of something beautiful, close your eyes after trying to catch their badge number and/or name, and resist passively.
Then they'll have no reason to detain you and if they do anyways just remain quiet until it becomes clear that they have no reason to detain you later on.
There are a lot of situations where this strategy won't work, but if you fight back, things will only get worse.
Freedom is more important than lipping off and the police can take that freedom away.
Or go so far as to take your life, as they did with Oscar Grant.
I'm assuming that in many cases what I'm writing here doesn't apply because the police aren't going to abuse their authority.
They certainly did in Oscar Grant's case though, he was justified in actively voicing his criticisms, and should be currently working and taking care of his family, in the land of the free.
The film doesn't make him out to be a saint, rather, it delivers a down to earth condensed synopsis of the last few months of his life, during which he comes to terms with the potentially damaging consequences of his extracurricular economic pursuits, and decides it's time to stop selling drugs, find and keep a job, and start applying a higher degree of respect to his partner (Melonie Diaz as Sophina) and daughter (Ariana Neal as Tatiana).
Not so easy to do if you're used to working on your own for more money, but there's respect for working within the law, if you believe in yourself.
Oscar starts to believe but isn't given the chance to make good on his promises after an abusive cop (Kevin Durand as Officer Caruso) unnecessarily roughs up him and his friends one night, another police person then shooting and killing him.
The police had no right to drag them off the train so they were justified in actively voicing their criticisms.
If you do happen to run into a bad lieutenant, however, who has the power to make things difficult for you, and then they start to make things difficult for you, I recommend not saying anything, just keeping quiet, even if they try to provoke you, think of something beautiful, close your eyes after trying to catch their badge number and/or name, and resist passively.
Then they'll have no reason to detain you and if they do anyways just remain quiet until it becomes clear that they have no reason to detain you later on.
There are a lot of situations where this strategy won't work, but if you fight back, things will only get worse.
Freedom is more important than lipping off and the police can take that freedom away.
Or go so far as to take your life, as they did with Oscar Grant.
I'm assuming that in many cases what I'm writing here doesn't apply because the police aren't going to abuse their authority.
They certainly did in Oscar Grant's case though, he was justified in actively voicing his criticisms, and should be currently working and taking care of his family, in the land of the free.
Friday, August 2, 2013
The Wolverine
A critical plastic treatise on indestructibility, wherein the mighty Wolverine's (Hugh Jackman) regenerative distinction is resolutely compromised, a family's billions intergenerationally contend with their honour, a seductive viper embodies intransitive antidotes, and an adopted perspicuity prognostically makes dire predictions, James Mangold's The Wolverine sentimentalizes Logan's recrudescence, as he reluctantly travels to Japan, to visit, a man whose life he once saved.
Not the best of X-Men films but full of intense scenes which decoratively dilate their doctrine.
Including a wicked-cool high-speed train workout.
For me, it wasn't the trip to the veterinary student that caused Wolverine to begin questioning his mortality, the look on his face as Shingen's (Hiroyuki Sanada) sword punctures his chest lacerating a more penetrating ageless lesion, combatively materializing his countless confrontations with death.
Which strengthens his own conception of honour, reminding him that if he is to die he should die honourably, his encounter with the grizzly earlier on, Wolverine, friend of the bear, laying the foundations of this theme, returned to often enough throughout.
While pointing out how cruel it is to hunt with poison.
But, don't read this if you haven't seen the film, how is it that Professor X (Patrick Stewart) lives again?
He blew up in X-Men: The Last Stand, blew up.
I'm happy to see him back, preferring his approach to Magneto's (Ian McKellen), and am wondering if he transferred his consciousness to Magneto's before his body shattered, and now has the power to create a projection of himself for those by whom he wants to be seen, only after he has stopped the passage of time, which provides a bilateral explanation for how Magneto was able to partially move the chess pieces at the end of X-Men 3, and a rather tight resolution to the Professor X/Magneto conflict, the powers of both leaders adhesively united as one.
Wondering how Mystique will fit into this one.
Her powers must have returned somehow.
Considering watching All of Me again.
Awesome bear scene.
Not the best of X-Men films but full of intense scenes which decoratively dilate their doctrine.
Including a wicked-cool high-speed train workout.
For me, it wasn't the trip to the veterinary student that caused Wolverine to begin questioning his mortality, the look on his face as Shingen's (Hiroyuki Sanada) sword punctures his chest lacerating a more penetrating ageless lesion, combatively materializing his countless confrontations with death.
Which strengthens his own conception of honour, reminding him that if he is to die he should die honourably, his encounter with the grizzly earlier on, Wolverine, friend of the bear, laying the foundations of this theme, returned to often enough throughout.
While pointing out how cruel it is to hunt with poison.
But, don't read this if you haven't seen the film, how is it that Professor X (Patrick Stewart) lives again?
He blew up in X-Men: The Last Stand, blew up.
I'm happy to see him back, preferring his approach to Magneto's (Ian McKellen), and am wondering if he transferred his consciousness to Magneto's before his body shattered, and now has the power to create a projection of himself for those by whom he wants to be seen, only after he has stopped the passage of time, which provides a bilateral explanation for how Magneto was able to partially move the chess pieces at the end of X-Men 3, and a rather tight resolution to the Professor X/Magneto conflict, the powers of both leaders adhesively united as one.
Wondering how Mystique will fit into this one.
Her powers must have returned somehow.
Considering watching All of Me again.
Awesome bear scene.
Monday, July 29, 2013
The Way Way Back
A blunt invasive school-of-hard-knocks step-father imbroglio pejoratively and lasciviously attempts to assert control in Jim Rash and Nat Faxon's dark The Way Way Back, as quasi-conjugal security and stability adjudicates the virtues of its commitment, the historical socializations of both partners and the ways in which they complicate their attempts to activate an ideal contentiously affecting their potentially idyllic summer vacation, a cool misunderstood reserved teen (Liam James as Duncan) struggling his way through, while the bumbling and the beautiful accelerate the malaise.
But a job is discovered, and at this job a carefree yet hardworking cast of endearing lifers collegially coordinate a campy composure, confident and comedic, an freewheeling foil for the judgments of the hyperparticular, wistfully deconstructing their neurotic preoccupations.
I was having trouble coming up with a way to describe The Way Way Back's disconcerting yet feasible obtuse accumulative demeanour, but one scene stylizes this insouciance well.
A fun working day at Water Wizz Waterpark comes to an end, yet the camera suddenly focuses on a young child crying, tantrumly juxtaposing the happy sequence with raw temporal trepidation, editing by Tatiana S. Riegel.
It can easily slip by unnoticed, but if consciously observed, provides a quintessential calibration, which persuasively gesticulates an in/authentically sincere dialectic.
First film I've seen with Rob Corddry (Kip) where he doesn't steal multiple scenes, and it was troubling to see Steve Carell (Trent) playing someone with no redeeming qualities whatsoever (I've only ever watched the British version of The Office).
Sam Rockwell (Owen) and the eye-patch kid (River Alexander as Peter) steal the show.
While watching Rockwell's performance I started to think that he should square off against Ryan Reynolds in a fast-paced kinetic free-flowing homage to jocular jouissance where they're both interested in Carey Mulligan whose a secret lesbian playing them and doting after someone else, directed by Ruben Fleischer.
It could work people!
But a job is discovered, and at this job a carefree yet hardworking cast of endearing lifers collegially coordinate a campy composure, confident and comedic, an freewheeling foil for the judgments of the hyperparticular, wistfully deconstructing their neurotic preoccupations.
I was having trouble coming up with a way to describe The Way Way Back's disconcerting yet feasible obtuse accumulative demeanour, but one scene stylizes this insouciance well.
A fun working day at Water Wizz Waterpark comes to an end, yet the camera suddenly focuses on a young child crying, tantrumly juxtaposing the happy sequence with raw temporal trepidation, editing by Tatiana S. Riegel.
It can easily slip by unnoticed, but if consciously observed, provides a quintessential calibration, which persuasively gesticulates an in/authentically sincere dialectic.
First film I've seen with Rob Corddry (Kip) where he doesn't steal multiple scenes, and it was troubling to see Steve Carell (Trent) playing someone with no redeeming qualities whatsoever (I've only ever watched the British version of The Office).
Sam Rockwell (Owen) and the eye-patch kid (River Alexander as Peter) steal the show.
While watching Rockwell's performance I started to think that he should square off against Ryan Reynolds in a fast-paced kinetic free-flowing homage to jocular jouissance where they're both interested in Carey Mulligan whose a secret lesbian playing them and doting after someone else, directed by Ruben Fleischer.
It could work people!
Saturday, July 27, 2013
Dance Troupe I Saw at JazzFest 2013
Agile poised synchronizations,
juggling symptomatic stations,
as psyches broadly discuter
les choses qui swiftly ondoyer
The world belies its navigation
with lively choice hapless gradations
which require sundry responses,
reckless, reasoned, risky, staunches
inductively carve out a space
to which deductive pastimes trace
an active mobile cognizance
whose discipline inspires a sense
which spirals, shifts, soliloquies,
while winds will blow bends like a reed,
its tendons transmigrate pretexts,
spry locomotions shyly flex.
juggling symptomatic stations,
as psyches broadly discuter
les choses qui swiftly ondoyer
The world belies its navigation
with lively choice hapless gradations
which require sundry responses,
reckless, reasoned, risky, staunches
inductively carve out a space
to which deductive pastimes trace
an active mobile cognizance
whose discipline inspires a sense
while winds will blow bends like a reed,
its tendons transmigrate pretexts,
spry locomotions shyly flex.
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Unfinished Song
Routine.
Rock solid routine.
Never changing, never yielding, always the same cantankerous affect, unless he's spending time with his loving devoted wife Marion (Vanessa Redgrave), which is what he does most of the time.
Who sings in a choir.
But when she's diagnosed with terminal cancer and her health begins to rapidly deteriorate, Arthur (Terence Stamp) must simultaneously bat heads with both a crushing sense of helplessness, crippling emotional dynamite, and his rather morose relationship with his only son, James (Christopher Eccleston).
And yes, this guy's a prick.
A loveable curmudgeon he is not, Unfinished Song's script blandly interring a characterless ice age, locked in a cage, a glacial, barricade.
Only the power of music can regenerate his hearty husbandry afterwards, and the film's best feature, the jovial, ebullient, non-traditional choir, lead by the young adventurous Elizabeth (Gemma Arterton) with whom Arthur strikes up a somewhat creepy friendship, is positioned to enable some serious, sultry, soul-searching, sentimental metallurgy, reclamatingly extracting a diamond.
Still, Unfinished Song's no As Good as it Gets, too tame and barren to compete with James L. Brooks's noteworthy creation, not that it isn't worth a viewing, for its modest yet surly depiction of marriage, family and friendship.
Bit of a tearjerker.
Rock solid routine.
Never changing, never yielding, always the same cantankerous affect, unless he's spending time with his loving devoted wife Marion (Vanessa Redgrave), which is what he does most of the time.
Who sings in a choir.
But when she's diagnosed with terminal cancer and her health begins to rapidly deteriorate, Arthur (Terence Stamp) must simultaneously bat heads with both a crushing sense of helplessness, crippling emotional dynamite, and his rather morose relationship with his only son, James (Christopher Eccleston).
And yes, this guy's a prick.
A loveable curmudgeon he is not, Unfinished Song's script blandly interring a characterless ice age, locked in a cage, a glacial, barricade.
Only the power of music can regenerate his hearty husbandry afterwards, and the film's best feature, the jovial, ebullient, non-traditional choir, lead by the young adventurous Elizabeth (Gemma Arterton) with whom Arthur strikes up a somewhat creepy friendship, is positioned to enable some serious, sultry, soul-searching, sentimental metallurgy, reclamatingly extracting a diamond.
Still, Unfinished Song's no As Good as it Gets, too tame and barren to compete with James L. Brooks's noteworthy creation, not that it isn't worth a viewing, for its modest yet surly depiction of marriage, family and friendship.
Bit of a tearjerker.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Kapringen (A Hijacking)
Pirates, sailing the seven seas, or the Indian Ocean in this case, in search of bountiful booty, navigate, locate, negotiate.
Their hostages crew a vessel of little value in the projections of their shipping business, so Tobias Lindholm's Kapringen (A Hijacking) shrewdly economizes a bureaucratic humanism.
Leading the company's negotiating team, contrary to the advice of the expert they hire, is company representative Peter C. Ludvigsen (Søren Malling), whose unassailable acumen accrues early on, but his superlative skills have never prioritized pirates.
The advice is to sternly yet non-confrontationally play hardball, and stern yet non-confrontational hardball is played, leaving the captives and their families submerged in agonizing limbo.
The film poses the question, "does Ludvigsen proceed within humanistic parameters, delicately balancing an incisive international reputation with the needs of terrorized workers, seeking to bring them home as quickly as possible, without bristlingly breaking the bank?"
Obviously you can't give into the initial demands of pirates, but Ludvigsen can't seem to comprehend that his genius cannot match this style of adversary, and he delays until everything the expert suggested would happen, happens.
The workers don't even complain about the length of their incarceration, which I initially thought was a problem with the script, but it actually accentuates Ludvigsen's insatiable misplaced resolve, since they're so lugubriously loyal, because of their situation.
Imperceptibly hijacking the bottom line.
Their hostages crew a vessel of little value in the projections of their shipping business, so Tobias Lindholm's Kapringen (A Hijacking) shrewdly economizes a bureaucratic humanism.
Leading the company's negotiating team, contrary to the advice of the expert they hire, is company representative Peter C. Ludvigsen (Søren Malling), whose unassailable acumen accrues early on, but his superlative skills have never prioritized pirates.
The advice is to sternly yet non-confrontationally play hardball, and stern yet non-confrontational hardball is played, leaving the captives and their families submerged in agonizing limbo.
The film poses the question, "does Ludvigsen proceed within humanistic parameters, delicately balancing an incisive international reputation with the needs of terrorized workers, seeking to bring them home as quickly as possible, without bristlingly breaking the bank?"
Obviously you can't give into the initial demands of pirates, but Ludvigsen can't seem to comprehend that his genius cannot match this style of adversary, and he delays until everything the expert suggested would happen, happens.
The workers don't even complain about the length of their incarceration, which I initially thought was a problem with the script, but it actually accentuates Ludvigsen's insatiable misplaced resolve, since they're so lugubriously loyal, because of their situation.
Imperceptibly hijacking the bottom line.
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