Pistachio

Infinitesimal address
the deadlines lax but still hard-pressed
momentum movement warp core whistle
brass ebullient garlicked gristle

forks and prized implied confounded
pluralized spun jived compounded
mercy me hemlocks and oaks
strung out symphonic burly blokes

bespoke a matronly ursine
coy luminescent prescient chime
let's have a laugh while making merry
tidal supersonic sherry.

Pralines.

Aquarius

The daily plunge, nautical navigation, oceanic unknowns obliviously obscuring reverberating traumas in convalescent translucent harmony, beneath the waves, submerged in seclusion, to the left, eastwards, straight ahead, salty ephemeral centripetal wake, free flowing ideas practically pirouetting with piquant poetic resolve, cardiovascular shade, illuminated marrow, infinite variety routinely sweetening the starchy and the stale insofar as histories heuristically heartache, good eye, optical infusions, testimonial treasures, immersed in ontological sheen, insatiably and abstemiously, current.

Subconscious stamina.

Steady as she goes.

Clara (Sonia Braga/Barbara Colen) is as certain as she is stubborn, and outrightly refuses to sell her cherished apartment.

The interested buyers own every other unit in the building and want to tear it down to construct another.

It's her home, her family's oasis, where she's lived for decades and where she raised her children, she can't even consider living anywhere else, and will not sit down to lucratively negotiate.

Her opposition responds with contempt.

Friends and family question her decision.

She notes their views.

Fully aware of what they cannot understand.

In her urban homestead, an artist tenaciously upholds her rights in Kleber Mendonça Filho's Aquarius, never yielding her firm convictions to the prospects of financial gain.

The film examines her plight from multiple angles while slowly descending from sanity to chaos.

It picks up after about an hour and a half when Clara's children confront her about her decision.

What follows is a stunning array of inflammatory sequences that end in a chilling vibrato.

Just make sure you hang around for it.

The first hour and a half, unfortunately, while patiently developing character and plot, is like sitting in the waiting room at a hospital for hours knowing that your minor injury could be healed in under 15 minutes.

I would have cut 45 minutes from this film.

Still, in its present form, the ending is incredible.

Humpback Whales

I was lucky enough to go whale watching at a very young age in Massachusetts with my father who seemed just as interested as I was in spotting the giant cetaceans.

By the end of the day, we had fortunately seen 3 North Atlantic Right Whales, one of the rarest species of whale out there, but even more majestic was the emergence of a mother fin and her calf, right beside the boat, just as we were getting ready to turn back; I've still never seen anything so startling, so incredible, even if it only lasted for a mesmerizing matter of seconds.

Enduring evanescence.

Optically outfitted.

I still go whale watching whenever I can, but spend most of my time landlocked, malheureusement. I was hoping Greg MacGillivray's Humpback Whales would deliver a fun cinematic whale watching experience equipped with plenty of whale shenanigans for interested landlubbers, and am glad to report that it doesn't disappoint.

The film follows graceful humpbacks as they frolic, bubble net, breach, and sing, whether living apart as mischievous individuals or gathered together in picturesque pods, convivially capturing their unfathomable social interactions, intently observing their wild wondrous movements.

In-depth and circumspected, Ewan McGregor's narration provides educational commentary for young and old alike, attaching sound qualifications to the accompanying historical narrative while pleasantly advancing contemporary research.

They really are wonderful lifeforms, these whales, these humpback whales, living most of their lives swimming freely underwater, exploring, navigating, contemplating, dining, it would be fascinating to be able to communicate with them, to learn more about what it's like to spend almost an entire life beneath the waves, completely different global perspectives submerged, perhaps as inquisitive as you or I, still getting lost for prolonged periods, in the riveting oceanic orchestrations of their own devices.

Who knows!

I can clearly state, however, that whether you're interested in learning more about whales or simply want to sit back and watch whales being whales for a while, Humpback Whales makes a perfect fit, a first rate IMAX experience, offering brief glimpses into the lives of these agile behemoths, which may be enough to kindle a lifelong interest.

Tadoussac, Québec, is a great place to spot them.

Located a couple of hours north of Québec City.

In a stunning landscape.

That demands you come back once more.

Shinny

Shish-kebobbin' shifts transistors
cracklin' spartan woodland whispers
trusty lanterned swerves excelling
wintergreen hoot-hooting swelling

nordic shore lit coursing vixens
vortex reveried betwixting
sapphire curtsies sprucely pined
bemusing stints and starlit vines

chartreuse elusive lakeside glide
the evening crisp and lively, spry,
with constellations clad in flux
traditions ground pulsating pucks

Canucked.

Rogue One: A Star Wars Story

Perhaps releasing a new Star Wars movie every year is a good idea.

They're incredibly fun to watch even if they're not that great (I loved Rogue One), and, instead of waiting 2 or 3 more years to pull-in a gazillion dollars, you can confidently expect to make such an amount every freakin' year, sums that can efficiently facilitate all kinds of alternative endeavours, perhaps jumpstarting artistic revolts thereby.

Independent sci-fi, independent sci-fi!

Now's the time.

I always imagined that the rebels employed the utmost stealth when stealing the Death Star's secret blueprints, and although that isn't the case in Rogue One, the resultant space and land Jediesque battle does manage to rebelliously compensate.

They're not a rag tag bunch, these rogues, these freedom fighters, more of an eclectic cast of wild yet willing individuals collectively assembled to see what can be accomplished.

I thought Jyn Erso (Felicity Jones/Beau Gadsdon/Dolly Gadsdon), Cassian Andor (Diego Luna), Baze Malbus (Wen Jiang), K-2S0 (Alan Tudyk), and Saw Gerrera (Forest Whitaker) were some of the coolest Star Wars characters I've seen, Malbus redefining the force through sheer devotion, Gerrera exemplifying a less peppy aspect of the oft rather perky rebel alliance, K-2S0 is actually funny (outstanding), Andor makes a gripping speech about his commitment to the rebellion, and Jyn slowly yet boldly steps up and strides.

Have these characters been typecast to fit the Star Wars B realm because they have more personality than those brought to life in The Force Awakens?

I bet they could still be managers in California.

Since Rogue One's outcome is already known to all, discussing its internal dynamics seems fitting, dynamics which generally impressed, the Disneyesque opening moments (Jyn's sort of like Bambi) setting the familial stage, the heart wrenching space drama, the assembling of the crew strikingly youthful in its mouthy composure, so many familiar sights from A New Hope (even Dr. Cornelius Evazan and Ponda Baba[I'm still looking for my Walrusman figure]) perhaps endearingly distracting me, tragedy, brilliance, escape, tragedy, brilliance, escape, battle, it's cheesy at points but I thought the good far far outawayed the bad to create the best Star Wars film since Jedi, please never alter the music in one of these films again, or do so in a way that isn't so mediocre.

One point of interest: in a New Hope, Vader critiques General Motti, stating, "don't be too proud of this technological terror you've constructed. The ability to destroy a planet is insignificant next to the power of the force." If Motti constructed the Death Star, why was he left out of Rogue One?

Also, Grand Moff Tarkin isn't so aggressive in A New Hope. His computer animated replacement isn't quite as withdrawn yet commanding.

'Tis true.

Forest Whitaker delivers one of the best if not the best performance/s I've seen in a Star Wars film.

Some day, I'd like to know how many extra millions this film makes because they gave it the more search engine friendly title add-on, A Star Wars Story.

Just Rogue One is clearly the better title.

I'm betting they make an extra 237 million.

Office Christmas Party

Overwhelming pressures voraciously complicating the everyday affairs of a hardworking bunch at play, it soon becomes apparent that a lucrative deal must be struck in order to keep the sultry spice flowing, the troubling news being delivered in überScroogelike fashion, the high-end players responding with executive precision.

There's no other option.

It's time to party.

Festivities of epic proportions are therefore precipitated, the celebrations, ecstatically fuelled.

But as the good times roll, will Josh Parker (Jason Bateman), Clay Vanstone (T. J. Miller), and Tracey Hughes (Olivia Munn) be able to convince Walter Davis (Courtney B. Vance) that their research and development should move beyond the experimental phase?

Will Clay's uptight sister Carol (Jennifer Aniston) shut them down to right misperceived childhood wrongs?

Will human resources rep Mary (Kate McKinnon) engage in merrymaking regardless of penitent restrictions?

And will the prostitute (Abbey Lee as Savannah) Nate (Karan Soni) hires successfully pass as his supple theoretical girlfriend?

Before her psychotic pimp (Jillian Bell as Trina) shows up to destroy everything?

Wildly engaging in dishevelling shenanigans, Office Christmas Party educates as it embroils.

Through the magic of Christmas, Clay and Carol stop fighting and come together as a family, while several hilarious subordinates find the partner they've been so shyly seeking.

Lumps are taken, yet necessary risks ridiculously refine surefire stabilities, and remarkably steady technologies cyberspatially save the day.

Dionysian balance.

Brainiac mirth.

Certainly an adult themed Christmas film that sets a bizarro example, Office Christmas Party still excels at letting loose just in time for the holiday season.

Some scenes could have been cut, and a bit more time could have been spent editing the script, but the highs olympianly outweigh the lows, and it's definitely worth checking out.

With so many supporting voices delivering strong orations, it must have been tough for Jillian Bell to outshine them all.

But that's exactly what she does.

Second place going to Randall Park (Fred).

Rob Corddry (Jeremy) needs better material!

Belly Whopper

Flame broiled festive all-dressed curler
honey struckled wayward whirler
shaded mystic tomfuellery
in snowflaked candied plumbed and kneaded

scarlet shakedown sheen marine
aurora borealis streams
clockmaking precepts joyful mellow
mousey fruity nutty jelloed

cakes partake with saccharine
molasses sweetly intertwined
rewind relax predict sun bathe
within the viscid cavalcade's

concealment up the chimney spout
bejewelled gift giving stocked and stout,
with patience taken to consider,
laughs and loves mismatched and twittered.

El hombre de las mil caras (Smoke and Mirrors)

Cast adrift by the Spanish secret service, disgraced Francisco Paesa (Eduard Fernández) must find other ways to earn a living, his reputation for profound cunning immersed in subterfuge still resonating however, as a crooked formal national police commissioner seeks his admonishing aid.

A plan.

A forecast.

Subordinate reliability a troubling factor, as indelicate months pass and pressures mount, every detail of the plan covertly constructed, contingencies classified with hypothetical clarity.

Interminable patience required by all players, Paesa's foreseen a possible outcome, that leaves him assuredly stacked in the black.

Yet he remains loyal, faithful, truthful, subservient, theoretically, resolute calm submerged and breaching, extrajudicial outcomes speculatively splayed, thatched, patched, acrobatic burlap, either way he's set free, unless he winds up in prison.

For the rest of his life.

Interstitial estuaries.

Comet and cupid.

Compacted nerve.

Expeditiously invigorating cerebral texts and phalanxes, Alberto Rodríguez's El hombre de las mil caras (Smoke and Mirrors) keeps things smooth and steady.

It masterfully pulls you in and then harkingly hails in lockdown.

Penetratingly equipped with pertinent plights enabled, multiple primary and secondary familial and professional plot threads fading then reappearing with expert cinematic timing, thereby effortlessly attaching sub/conscious depth to its politicoethical imbroglio, El hombre de las mil caras is far beyond most of what I've seen this year, another outstanding film from M. Rodríguez.

Immaculately composed.

That's/He's still so much fun to watch.

Verifiable.

*Was into Spanish music last week. Damn it!

It seems that Montréal's Christmas tree is taking some flack this holiday season.

Which made me think of what can be done to make next year's Christmas tree the best ever!

Perhaps a tree could be chosen, and then, regardless if it's bigger than New York's or not, every community in Québec could hire a local artist to produce an ornament for the tree, and then every Québecois community would be represented on Montréal's Christmas tree!

Would such a gathering together of Québecois communities be unprecedented, or is that something that used to done in the 17th/18th/19th/20th century?

Pourquoi pas?

The Eagle Huntress

As I've mentioned before, go out and work some brutal unforgiving high-paying do-it-yourself labour job with a bunch of women seeking to prove themselves and you'll surely find they can tough it out hardcore like any man.

And on the coldest harshest direst days you'll find just as many men seeking shelter as women.

I'm not saying the NFL will suddenly be flooded with female athletes or anything, but I'm sure they'd be welcome if they tried to make the cut.

In a different land, across the Pacific in rural Mongolia, a young girl named Aisholpan seeks to follow her family's traditions and hunt fox on horseback in winter with the aid of an eagle.

Her father is a kind man and agrees to train her even if the patriarchal fox hunting by eagle hierarchy is not amused.

What follows is another brilliant exploration of the strength of the feminine spirit, like the formidable Athena of old, of myth, boldly challenging dismissive conceits, narrated by Daisy Ridley.

I suppose if you live in the badlands with neither television nor internet or within a country that suppresses contradictory proofs, it's still possible to believe women aren't capable of succeeding when prohibitively constrained.

But if such conditions qualify or govern your life, and somehow you're still reading this, note that The Eagle Huntress provides exemplary non-fictional evidence of potentially subversive notions which are likely being stubbornly ignored.

It's quite a positive film that generally focuses on determination as opposed to discrimination, an uplifting story that's strict and to the point, doesn't drag, and generates genuine interest.

Worth seeing.

With excellent eagle-related cinematography by Simon Niblett (Director of Photography).

Felt bad for the foxes.

I'm assuming they thrive in abundance?

Treatise

As decades pass the present year
recalls each tender pioneering
chuckle, hug, embrace, repast
with fourth dimensional elastic

highland ornaments parkside
that bulb from 87's skyline
prized like Aunty Mabel's trinkets
sprucey swooshy jangley intricate

designs spread out condensed
boughs sugar shaded wildly thence
times treasured radiate united
syncopated spately sighted

luminescent synergies
familial constants starlit seeds
to sit and fondly gather round
and see what new joys can be found.

Arrival

Time shifts encoded rifts temporal gifts communication, a brilliant linguist (Amy Adams as Louise Banks) practically applying her knowledge to freelance first contact with an alien race, 12 mysterious ships having suddenly appeared across the globe, but no one knows why they've arrived and even though they haven't attacked or encouraged hostilities many fear the worst, for which they hysterically prepare.

The aliens write using extraordinarily complex symbols the deciphering of which requires the coordinated efforts of worldwide ingenious minds.

But as paranoid tensions continue to increase and the aliens share a sign which appears to mean weapon, the universal olive branch is sensationally shaken.

Fortunately Dr. Banks has the last word, her caring friendly curiosity refusing to abandon peaceful interstellar objectives.

In overdrive.

Another outstanding film from Denis Villeneuve, who's competently directing in different genres, Arrival rationally manages chaotic instincts to surgically fictionalize scientific translation.

Palindromic comprehension.

It flips typical sci-fi by placing understanding in the forefront and violence beneath the surface while still generating an exciting story with multiple ethicopolitical elements.

Bejewelled.

It also questions the nature of time and space to ontologically shiver epistemological certainties.

In relation to origins, to meaning, to the interrelations between the myriad signs presented to a subject every day and their potential interpretations, like an abstract grid infinitely connecting everything within existence with flexible stability, instinct, awareness, knowledge, corrections, detecting harmonies and juxtapositions with piquant patterns or unique exposés, messages, revelations, guides, the artist/mathematician/scientist/politician/welder/ . . . generating imaginative conditionals from such material to cure a disease or make an audience laugh, blending seemingly immiscible particulars to create something uniform, a node, a whorl, a beacon, something distinct, eventually subsiding into overwhelming euphorias fractionally reduced to the pristinely primal, at ease with one's environment, in conflict or judicial correspondence.

I got in trouble when I was young for thinking reincarnation was real, it just seemed obvious to me, which eventually transformed into the idea that perhaps there was no beginning, no ending, there was just being, which doesn't make much sense but there it is, foolishly matriculating.

I also saw the Star Trek: Voyager episode where Q claims the Q have always been years later.

He didn't explain whether or not human consciousness lives after physical death.

I also really loved swamp water when I was young. Once I discovered you were free to mix all the sodas together when fast food restaurants gave you your own cup to fill, it was straight to the swamp water.

Lol.

Sometimes it was rather tasty.

Delicious even.

Exponentially sound.

Like a library.

Rules Don't Apply

Sure and steady representatives of 1960s youth find themselves fetchingly employed in Warren Beatty's Rules Don't Apply, wherein an angelic songwriter with purist heart (Lily Collins as Marla Mabrey) and a loyal driver possessing patient ambition (Alden Ehrenreich as Frank Forbes) are caught between careers and courtships in the employment of Howard Hughes (Warren Beatty).

They're ever so cute.

Yet their employer, however so cunning in the face of adversity, however so adorable in his wild eccentricities, however so unpredictable in his unwavering caprice, however so devoted to reifying his dreams (eccentricity does not imply caprice!), even if he spends every waking nanosecond taking care of his responsibilities (wherein lies the eccentricity [when you work all the time suddenly an undeniable desire hits and you immediately must have that thing /often Denver Broncos related {this works better when you have employees who will bring you that thing |shopping online is changing this|}\]), can't be relied upon to simply do what's right, like a/n h/airline fracture, at critical moments, with destinies in overdrive, with futures notwithstanding.

That doesn't mean he doesn't remain endearing, as he's depicted in the film anyways, since he possesses an inextinguishable fancy free flame, which has come to be idealized in American cinema, with refined audacious tenacity.

Rules Don't Apply.

Young at heart, always.

I'm thinking about renting Cool Hand Luke.

Collins and Forbes romantically drill their way through Rules Don't Apply, frustrated in frenzy, synergistic straight shooters.

I can't say if the film's reminiscent of a cinematic golden age (I'm assuming many people associate such a phrase with the films of their youth and seeing it redefined is a matter of another generation reaching a specific age having made the right arguments), or trying to recapture the magic of watching movies (surprised this wasn't a Disney film), some ethics thrown in, a political struggle, a charismatic tycoon, Matthew Broderick (Levar Mathis), principles plucked im/pertinently, an appreciation for simple pleasures (burgers and fries), a story that could have seemed trite if left in less capable hands, with filmmakers who don't know how to both provoke and entertain, but it pulled me into its dazzling sashay with raw sincere wondrous precision, the split-second editing keeping things lively in the early going (Robin Gonsalves, Leslie Jones, F. Brian Scofield, Billy Weber), and even if it may not be one of my favourite films of the year, it still revitalized my love of going to the movies and writing about them more than any other.

There's a great sequence where the main characters are depicted doing something individually which simultaneously highlights their doubtful loneliness (content) as well as their sense of communal belonging (form), on the job, I suppose I'm a sucker for that kind of thing; poutine once a week you know; and the occasional root beer.

Peppermint

Communication clasped in flux
grinned cheerful intonated clutch
imprinted doting signifiers
chuckling surreal mesmerizers

high-five heaps extract instinctive
gutsy mink ecstatic winklets
swords rewards wherefore phantasms
strum Pandora's chorused chasms

ship shape smoral jersey milk
supine in floral fits unfiltered
currents quagmires ascents rhizomes
flip fond haywire chattel bio

domes the pastures pristine berried
heartstrings regaled ruckus fairly
fun to flippantly unwind
and try to stitch together signs

indigo.

Manchester by the Sea

A brother's death brings an uncle home to the small coastal town where he grew up, mournful memories haunting him as he decides whether or not to become his nephew's guardian, and move back to live amongst old friends.

Disaster struck years ago and he's unsure if he can surround himself with sundry signs, sundry signs of his life that once was, sundry signs of his dreadful misfortune.

His 16 year old nephew (Lucas Hedges and Ben O'Brien as Patrick) has an active social life and does not want to move to Boston. He hasn't seen his mother for years. And his other close relatives live in Minnesota.

Lee (Casey Affleck) has trouble relating since he's completely withdrawn from the world and can't find peace in community.

Can't forgive himself.

Guilt-ridden ubiquity.

Immersed in potential salvation.

And loud ramshackle rumours.

A sorrowful well-acted well-written story which attempts to clear the dismal skies punishing a cocky guy's guy, Manchester by the Sea lightly examines psychological torment to baste and barbecue bucolic briskets.

Many scenes are elongated to pull you in, pull you into the narrative, to help Lee inhume the pain, scenes which encourage thoughtful consideration rather than rash judgment, formal composure, a cerebral chill cornerstone.

Loved the random dude with the whistle.

There's a lot of heart in Manchester by the Sea, a lot of caring.

You see it in the body language, the symbolic actions, as males unaccustomed to embracing emotion have to live with strong feelings in tight quarters.

One of the best films I've seen which soberly accounts for unacknowledged masculine emotion in awhile.

The controversial ending should promote debate.

Tough cross to bear.

Bewildering burden.

*Casey Affleck, Michelle Williams (Randi Chandler) and Lucas Hedges impressed. Casting by Douglas Aibel.

Finally saw the Sarah Silverman episodes of Star Trek: Voyager.

She's still that cute.

Wow!

The Birth of a Nation

A young African American slave preacher responds biblically to his terrestrial owner's recidivistic change of heart as racial tensions vengefully explode in Nate Parker's Birth of a Nation.

Critical applications of dialectical divination, Nat (Nate Parker) and Samuel Turner (Armie Hammer) grow up playing together as friends, their friendship lasting long into adulthood until Sam begins seeking social prestige.

Alcoholism having clouded his judgment, no doubt the result of possessing a tender heart pounding within unjust lands, Sam reasserts himself as plantation ruler and loses the support of his lifelong pal.

Nat has been fortunate enough to receive a rudimentary education, and picks up on both the oppressive and the emancipatory dimensions of the bible as he applies his knowledge to his vicious surroundings.

His people dehumanized and suffering wherever he goes (he has to preach obedience to various plantations so that Sam can earn extra money), he decides their only recourse is full-on insurrection.

What would you have done?

Enslaved in such a hell.

Taught that it was righteous.

Bewitching carnal spells.

The Birth of a Nation celebrates courageous acts undertaken by voiceless desperate beaten down citizens, most of whom were never given the chance to scholastically or industriously define themselves.

Some of the acting isn't the greatest and like many films depicting slavery there's a gratuitous emphasis on the grotesque, which postmodern racists thoroughly enjoy watching, but it's still a solid début from controversial filmmaker Nate Parker, who skilfully if not sensationally demonstrates he could use more time and money.

Similar predicaments still persist in many nations worldwide, dedicated activists still working to spread the word.

A manageable work/life balance is always something to strive for.

Time worked to help businesses remain profitable.

Profits shared to help employees remain comfortable.

Equitable exchanges.

For international communities.

Loving

The daily special, a well trodden path, homemade blueberry pie, that stuff you're getting around to.

Almanacs.

Routine creature comforts, familiarity, trust, the Lovings plain and simply love one another, it's not deeper than that, there are no conditions, no excuses, no liaisons, no subterfuge, just a tradition in bloom as dependable as a grilled quarter pounder, step by step by step by step, a clock, outcrops, a home, that's all they truly wanted, ignoring what came to pass.

The law in their jurisdiction didn't take kindly to mixed race marriages at the time, and still held fast to bizarre justifications for its rules, no matter how innocently they happened to be contravened, no matter how strange they must have sounded to others.

You see, if you believe in God, or making laws based upon biblical texts, Adam and Eve were the father and mother of humanity, and, therefore, brought forth all the Asian, European, American, Australian, East-Indian and Island peoples of the world, and didn't establish strict covenants regarding their matrimonial segregation, naively overlooking demonic trajectories.

Not as simple as all that I reckon, once you work in history and economics and land and desire, but these passions didn't interest Mildred (Ruth Negga) and Richard (Joel Edgerton) Loving, they just wanted to work and raise a family, and didn't even attend when their case reached the Supreme Court, just carefully kept keepin' on meanwhile, setting an example, as dedicated civil rights lawyers strove on.

Jeff Nichols's Loving is a beautiful film which straightforwardly examines love, loyalty, kindness, and security.

It never lets things get out of hand.

In its unassuming bold humility.

It's patient, keeps things on the level, doesn't lose its head, a serious film without much drama.

A chill account, a bucolic masterpiece, Loving lovingly latches to assuredly settle, like down home democracy, romantically fused.

Patter

Snowball shakedown slushy slurry
thrice befrazzled fireside flurries
windows frosting shifting views
not getting up to check the news

the logs should last for 12 and twenty
corresponding glib Ms. Munchie
daylight slowly hatched in phased
heartbeating pleating clubs and spades

all splayed out couch bound ports cathartic
plot the course mentally chart it,
enjoyed a wintry jour congé
with silent Saffron's pure parlay.

I'll say.

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them

Seemingly eccentric fey dissimulated nuances underscore the symphonically seminal seductive Newt Scamander (Eddie Redmayne), his offbeat orchestrations xylophonically zephyring crazed ritzy zigzags, since, you see, he's aware, he's aware, he's aware of woebegone wizarding wilt as stern and dismissive as ridden-stricked guilt, stilted passionless unyielding observant trusts, where difference remains shunned, locked-up in cuffs, hufflepuffed heart a beating in menagerie, secreting repleting so dissidently, to see attitudes change having decoded blunders, a transmuted sideline's reformed as a wonder!

In thunderous.

Zoology.

I doubt Queen Hatshepsut encountered such disdain.

And don't really know if he hopes to start a zoo. Or, a, magizoo.

Sigh.

Nonetheless, globe trotting in search of versed beasties, Scamander lands in New York heading west.

But his briefcase disappears, is accidentally switched with another, some of its residents escaping into feisty urban playgrounds.

He's also arrested by a disgraced auror (Katherine Waterston as Tina) with whom he eventually strikes up a friendship along with her nurturing sister Queenie (Alison Sudol) and a curious flabbergasted muggle (Dan Fogler as Kowalski).

Before he can stun the wizarding world with his dashing discoveries however, he must first find his tacit treasures and prevent a newfound obscurus (Ezra Miller as Credence Barebone)(a destructive force created when a magical child's gifts are violently suppressed) from joining forces with a wicked exclamation (Colin Farrell as Graves).

All the while NewYork's magical community manoeuvres to hide their existence from suspecting No-Mages (American muggles), who are afraid of their tremendous gifts, and hope to see them enervatingly exposed.

A bit of a pickle.

Spiked X-Men style.

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them impresses as it expands Harry Potter lore.

Demonstrating that Rowling and Yates can keep delivering fresh thoughtful and entertaining narratives which provide hungry fans with fertile feasts even if they don't involve Harry Potter, it enticingly develops new characters with innocent depth and capably composes multilevelled meritorious measures (ethics, politics, the individual, the general, the new, the newt . . .).

Apart from the ruminations regarding war between muggles and magicians.

That is way way X-Men and seemed somewhat too grandiose, too tacked-on for a story about Newt Scamander.

These are epic times!

And the collective mindwash is so Jupiter Ascending.

Eddie Redmayne may currently be my favourite actor, his commanding poise and dignity subtly electrifying animated eccentricities.

Undeniably.

Note: I would have added at least 10 minutes to the exploration of Scamander's domain and an additional cheesy scene near the end where he romantically shows Tina his life's work, possibly with Queenie and Kowalski courting within as well.

Probably being saved for a sequel.

I wanted more fantastic beasts, less armageddon!

Can someone cast the independent Newt Scamander American Honeyesque spell?

Quickly, before there are 6 more big budget end-of-the-world blowouts!

Is working at a University really that tumultuous?

For heaven's sake!

CFL Playoffs, Grey Cup Pick

Calgary Stampeders/Ottawa Redblacks: one game remains to be played in the 2016 CFL season, and only one team can triumphantly emerge victorious. An unvanquished foe. Calgary seems unbeatable, having easily dispatched the Lions last Sunday even though they had rested for what must have seemed like an eternity, their offence the most potent, their defence the best in the league. The Redblacks managed to tie them early on this season but the Stampeders came back to crush them in the rematch, 48-23. The 2016 Calgary Stampeders are in fact one of the best CFL teams ever, according to cfl.ca, but that doesn't mean Ottawa will blatantly cower and meekly rollover. If they can hold Calgary to field goals 75% of the time and Burris shows up to executively executive, this game could be close. But don't bet on it, no no no, I wouldn't bet on that. Calgary's simply too good and even though I'm cheering for the Redblacks, Ottawa is going to need to score on special teams, convert multiple risky third downs, and use impeccable trickery to bellicosely bring the Cup home. I'm thinking the Stampeders stomp, shut them down. As far as I know, they haven't played a team from Ottawa in the Grey Cup since 1968, a game which the Rough Riders won. Hoping the Redblacks mercurially manoeuvre. Picking the Stampeders by 17.

*Wow

Juste la fin du monde (It's Only the End of the World)

A decade's shocks in wandering, discoveries, independence, success engrained skin dove, a career, applause, resentment, forgotten pastures, frigid climes, an author travels home for the first time in more than 10 years to visit his sheltered family, bewilderment and/or jealousy estranging their contentment, mom, sis, bro, conjugal aggression, imaginary constructs resonating with crisp tangible immediacy, actual conversations, evidence based yearning, but when people have been thinking about what to say for years they often do in fact say something, and if you're ill-prepared for their hypotheticals, your silence may seem bitterly bemused, like a question of authenticity, in an hypercritical emotional pound.

Lost at play.

Bullies betwitching.

Reminiscent of Tennessee Williams or Edward Albee but not quite there yet, although Xavier Dolan's touch makes Jean-Luc Lagarce's play (screenplay by Dolan) unreel like a lighter work of a criterion bound European composer, Juste la fin du monde (It's Only the End of the World) distances itself from Mommy et Tom à la ferme insofar as the potential for searing venomous outbursts wantonly branding like vehement scorched earth policies are stoically withheld till the end, as Louis (Gaspard Ulliel/William Boyce Blanchette/Emile Rondeau) theoretically transitions Dolan's texts into less sensational artistic realms.

The characteristic panic brought on by domineering feelings of inadequacy is still present, but rather than consistently disorienting throughout, it's patiently reserved for a wildly stubborn yet subdued expansion.

Each character has a private moment with Louis, loving tender cold reflective curious caustic revelatory pleading confused moments clad in nebulous joyful desperation, moving from obliviousness to uncertainty to understanding to contempt, Louis remaining frustratingly hesitant à la carte, wherein lies the film's brilliant delicacy.

No resolutions, no answers, less comment, not that they weren't there for the asking, there's just no way to get a word in edgewise.

Unfamiliarity.

Nerves.

Like a dishevelling enactment of acquiesced deterministic repression, Juste la fin keeps so much locked inside as its open wound penitently interpolate.

Driven to distraction and daydream.

Otherwise a pleasant afternoon.

HAMMER (Versus)

Tragedy strikes as petty jealousies potentially ruin the career of a self-sacrificing international mixed martial arts contender, but the love interest in question and an opportunistic manager make deals with that very same brat to save the career of their honourable true champion.

Yet the date of the sought after fight doesn't give him enough to heal, and one stiff blow could instantly kill him.

He bears this in mind and wilfully responds to the challenge, death in the ring being infinitely preferable than a lifetime passed having disappointed his fans.

His coach, trainer, and lover eventually accept his decision, having expressed their discontent, and realized their aid is paramount.

But the ring doesn't hold the Russian Hammer's (Aleksey Chadov) fiercest foe, as thugs try to force him to disreputably dive.

Egocentric extremities.

Illicit, unsound.

Patriots and psychotics perniciously square off to wield Russia's HAMMER (Versus), honesty and deception contending therewithin.

It's bare bones, built, direct, no pussyfooting around agendas with esoteric mumbo jumbo, just good guys stuck dealin' with wickedness, making the most of it, as a dedicated matter of principle.

It impeccably sticks to its straightforward format and actively achieves its combative goals.

I can't fault it for that.

But if Rocky's in Moscow, this film's still far east of the Urals, not to say writer Oleg Malovichko can't also reach such a goal, but it will take some time, more passion, deeper digging, and a laid-back blizzard stew.

Winter's coming.

Plenty of time to sit back and write.

*Original title, Versus.

Candy Cane

I chanted purred my interjection
toiled in stern concert concessions
twirling whirling brandished birch
hushed in blush confided smirks

besmirched.

Moonlight

Locked-down in isolation but technically free, young Little (Alex Hibbert/Ashton Sanders/Trevante Rhodes) moves between drug abusing mother (Naomie Harris) and violently dismissive classmates as gracefully as he can, finding refuge with a childless local dealer (Mahershala Ali as Juan) whose guilty conscience and ironical good nature suggest he accommodate the boy.

An oasis helplessly haunted, Little still attends school, and the bullies still bully as he ages, as he grows, as he matures.

One way to stop bullying is to fight back but they travel in packs in Barry Jenkins's Moonlight.

Cowardice.

Little (now Chiron) does bash the most vicious of them in one day with a chair after which the police take him away, suffer in silence or respond and go to prison, not much of a childhood for the peaceful gay fatherless African American kid.

Moonlight is a sad film, a resilient film, a crucial film, a sophisticated film.

A simple story on the surface which fluently presents coy critiques of cultural codes without recourse to sentiment while patiently blending in focus, asking why is difference so frightening?, why do so many instinctively suppress it?

Difference spices things up to add alternative flavours which merge and diverge with eye-opening wonder.

Adventure.

It's as simple as bread.

Different types of bread.

White bread tastes good but one day you might try brown, then rye, then pumpernickel, then multigrain.

Then you have 5 options rather than one for making a sandwich, and can experiment to find out what tastes best, for you, on each different type.

If you have to prove you're tough by forming a group to violently suppress another or an individual, you aren't tough, you're pathetic.

If you're afraid of difference ask yourself why?, and try something new, something startling, like blue cheese or a strawberry shake.

Overcoming fears is what Men and Women do.

Took me a while to start loving olives and hot peppers.

Now I eat them all the time.

A lot of the gay people I've met are chill with a great sense of humour.

It makes for good conversation.

Not many films make as serious an impact as Moonlight while just simply presenting a story.

It's profoundly chill considering the tale it's telling.

The highs and lows.

The emptiness.

Crack ruins communities, ruins lives, makes a sewer of superlatives, which otherwise may thrive.

There's no simple solution.

Besides giving up crack.

And refusing to sell it.

If that's the economy something's seriously wrong.

It does not have to be that way.

And takes courage to turn things around.

Bravery.

Dedication.

Understanding.

Will.

In the great wide open.

Moonlight states this without saying a word.

Blessed.