Blush

We quarrelled regal eruditely
sophisticated scorching slightly
imprecise metaphoric grating
minuscule panoptic raving

kindled intellect regard
she puttered fierce throughout the yard
then dealt a scathing witty blow
within my disputatious flow

the owls 'a hooted the fire harrumphed
I ravenously caved and shrunk
then interjected cavalier
indemnifying pretence sheer

spontaneous starlit embowered
comforting mismatched unscoured
points of logic splayed and skewed
to intonate l'amour pour vous,

for her.

😚

L'Avventura

An artistic heritage so vast and imposing its contemporary admirers can't help but compose themselves with awe.

Quotidian cheek materialistically tethered exchanging observations with speculative mobilization possessing unimaginative magnetism (wry jealousy).

Small towns with no work wherein which the male inhabitants collectively contemplate aesthetics casually passing by.

Playful luxury illusively inconvenienced slumbers with impoverished free speech which differentiates not between beauty and brutality, a life spent with no feminine contact (it's odd when people seek answers and the answers are brutal and you try not to respond but they demand that answer, and if you respond they despise you even more than they would have if you had said nothing, and then treat you brutally).

A culture laments the disappearance of a siren whose mischievous independent preference for theoretical possibility created a sensation which his desire dismissively ignored.

Patriarchically philandering, L'Avventura presents a bored successful man to whom the most sought after precious women helplessly swoon, his innocent unattached habitual eloquence effortlessly ensnaring them within psychological shackles composed of forgiveness, sympathy, contempt, and guilt.

Apart from his betrothed who can't be found.

Culturally inclined, bucolic and urban socioeconomics multifacetedly engender amorous situations which fleetingly comment on relationships and/or conjugal commitment inasmuch as they carnivalesquely sexualize poverty and privilege.

The subject of so many wild comedies intellectually transformed into a literary matriculately meandering exposé, undesirable men imagining they're exceptionally endowed with unqualifiable gravitational irreducibility, which the opposite sex is irresistibly drawn towards, ethically as irresponsible as sadism, politically, masochistically responsive.

L'Avventura gets away with it, cloaking its victorious Lothario in voluminous vulnerable versatility, surrounding his endeavours with enough différence to democratically deconstruct any paradigmatic impulse, wildly commenting with realistic fascination, embroiling and staking with convectional subterfuge, brilliant inspired indulgence or bold calculated virtuosity?, metanarrative expression expressly exalting, cinematic sophistication, love, adventure.

I wish I had a cat.

So I could hug it.

No one could ever replace Jim Lahey (John Dunsworth).

I'd give it a shot though.

The Mountain Between Us

A sudden crash upon a remote mountain top shockingly affects three airborne strangers, plummeting just before achieving thunderous summit, no cellphone service available, no flight plan having been filed, destitute, forlorn, aerodynely abandoned, they classify, catalogue, conjure, and code, embracing logical risk to command desperate passion, blindly preparing for enigmatic descent, wounded yet versatile, adventurously impacting.

Seductive scorned survival.

One traveller planned to be wed the next day, an innovative photographer working for The Guardian on her way to Denver, she refuses to sit still and wait, thereby prompting diminutive exodus.

Another must follow, himself quietly suffering after having lost a loved one, the two slowly traversing frozen inhospitable lands together as one, struggling to limitlessly strive on, with the hopes of rediscovering civilization.

A persevering dog tenaciously accompanies them, spiritually guiding them along the way, enabling them to grasp, grip, and grind, well-placed throughout the film to devoutly distract and domestically foreshadow, his improvised excursions adamantly nestling, the parental and the preconditioned, precociously implied.

Roughing it stark and wayward, lost in the wilderness in the dead of Winter with neither supplies nor sustenance to trek their way through.

Can they endure like inexhaustible inclement feline prognosticators?

While exponentially cultivating, what is known as true love?

The Mountain Between Us metaphorically ices the unforgiving terrain the everlasting requires to harmoniously resound.

Amidst the jaded chaos of hopelessness and the disabling cynicism of despair, a would be couple sustainably compensates.

Cinematographically lacking considering their environment, and much more rich in woodland symbolism than death-defying dialogue, it still presents a tumultuously touching vision, unobscured by constant slights.

Imperative integrity.

Substantiated romance.

I have to admit.

I think I prefer McCartney Beatles to Lennon Beatles.

I keep seeing this apple tree full of apples and wondering why local raccoons haven't been gorging themselves on it all fall.

Brocade

Meandering moonlit pale blossom
spectral torrential cadence

reclined observant murmur
tectonically aware
spirited perch

raspy rustle timelapsed billow
wavelets whispering
weeping willow

Narco Polo nestling nuisance
rambunctious routine zephyr

endearing indignation
a flock, a brood,

exponential inquiry
coddled exclamatory
concise confusion
improvised order

jacks hearts diamonds spades
sprite cavalcade

rest.

Blade Runner 2049

Discontinuous highjacked expedited inevitable irrelevancy.

Circuitous momentous obedience bountifully propelling twisted archaic innate atypical hemorrhage.

Existential awakening argumentative dawn autosuggestive auspices communal cast iron cravings, clues, ambulatory optics, somnambulistic certainty, neigh, whisker.

Fragmentary vestiges ominously scattered cryptic pathfinder serpentinely excavating miracles, whippoorwills, potash.

Direly coaxed into a subconscious vortex transformative sensual belonging propagated harvested posterity.

Suckling within the protospatial womb.

A set plan, goals, preconditioned life programmed to pounce and prognosticate, virtual violations inorganic technotruths, aesthetic vibrations old school orchestrations architecturally hallowed within alternative sanctuary, every scene reigniting the ambivalent distraught investigative visceral momentum, symphonically sequestering emotional anomalies to imagine identity harmoniously hewn, institutionalized on the outskirts primordial emergent feeling, a home, a relationship, a father figure, integration, tacit knowledge extant and mobile, coveted like uncertifiable exception, music, production design, editing, cinematography, as vocal as dialogue, plot, or character.

The most beautiful dress I've ever seen.

Every sequence painstakingly sculpted to intangibly perspire life while inquisitively examining manufactured ontological biology by humanistically juxtaposing desperate and plutocratic being.

Without sharp contrast.

With minimal direct contact.

Non-existent environmental biodiversity morosely levels artistic conflict like a galaxy with no solar system or a workplace without feminine voice.

As fragile as cloistered brilliance she cultivates eternities crafting memories as wondrous as the Saguenay for the fortunate to joyfully consider.

Respectful of its origins while dynamically creating divergent vision, Blade Runner 2049 is on par with Mad Max: Fury Road in terms of revelation, in this case that of Denis Villeneuve's genius, which successfully synthesizes so many gifted subjects.

Harrison Ford's (Deckard) so real.

Ryan Gosling ('K') too.

I wonder how many optometrists cashed-in off the recent eclipse?

Talk about blindsided.

The Jays can't make the playoffs every year I suppose.

Would still be awesome if they made it every year. 😌

As awesome as the selection of beer at a Blue Jay's game.

Expensive but holy crap.

Go Houston.

A Ghost Story

A Ghost Story takes itself rather seriously for a bizarro religious art film, opening with intense sorrowful classical music that accompanies the plodding uninspiring narrative for awhile before unobtrusively fading into the dull background.

Not much is known about the featured character before he chooses to remain with Earthen realms, forever spectating his former haunts, dolorously watching as life continues unaffected, self-inflicted emotional torment meets phantasmagorical purposeless attention, dry lifeless exchanges with other ghosts, pointlessness carrying on.

A number of mournful scenes then adorn the story with motionless static depressing longevity, which would have been more tragic if there was more of a reason to care, before, suddenly, wondrously, the camera starts moving, beautiful music then igniting a jaunty passionate grizzled condemnation of nihilism, the finite, the unimaginative, the plain, no counterargument forthcoming which makes sense considering the circumstances (that guy at the party), as the derelict observes, unable to intervene.

Afterwards we're treated to a remarkably creative lively endearing artistic exposition of convivial charm and romantic playfulness, which compensates for the drab meaningless anguish earlier, providing the rationale for the former bland rendition, from vapidity to virtuosity, David Lowery intellectually shining.

I would have left the ghost business out and focused on developing different compelling dialogues for different historical periods transitioning from one to another within the same remote locale instead.

Watch the whole thing, it's impressive, but could have been much more alluring, more penetrating, more provocative, more enigmatic, if it had embraced random ethereal flux, rather than lugubriously making a point that isn't that sharp or innovative.

Dimple

Orange stoked in jagged dagger

red’s sophisticated stagger

yellow exhales ridicule

in green’s exacting crucible

the spool in/delicately twining

seasoned calisthenic bindings

gentle tethered lullabies

contract the undulating spies

surmised she did so long ago

within St. Laurent’s ebb and flow

prophetic quaint vicissitudes

enrapturing both sage and rube

in passing by along the way

I spotted existential shades

a modern classical expanding

multicultural commanding

chippy scampers by with soul

while blue jay recites mantras droll

the bobcat’s spry resuscitation

energizes woodland salience

speech, a speech, I’ve heard a few,

can write them bold ‘bout me and you,

so many voices materialized

to spiritually impact the skies

gobble gobble.

Kollektivet (The Commune)

I know open relationships can work because I've met people who have rationally embraced free love without jealously descending into the wild frenzied madness that structures so many monogamously themed narratives.

When I listen to sex people tell their lusty tales of spontaneous syntheses and unbridled inspiration, I often wonder how their stable relationship continues to thrive over the years, yet years later still see them dating the same people, and neither partner claims to be consumed by purest envy.

They say it's a matter of maturity.

I still don't get it.

Kollektivet (The Commune) examines a stable relationship that is challenged by the introduction of a third element, who is plainly a much younger version of the man's original life partner.

The mother of his child.

She's seeking change to alleviate mid-life meaninglessness and argues that they should transform their recently inherited house into a lively commune.

She isn't psychologically equipped to sublimate her true feelings, however, and eventually finds herself struggling to logically endure.

More like Cassavete's A Woman Under the Influence than Lukas Moodysson's Tillsammans (Together), Thomas Vinterberg's Kollektivet cruelly illustrates the detrimental effects of a hasty big picture alteration, an incredible paradigm shift, as sure and steady security promotes basic instinct.

I was deceived by Kollektivet myself.

I was hoping to see a multidimensional film wherein which multiple characters were developed and nuanced as they cohesively embraced collective conflict as one.

I suppose it is unpredictable inasmuch as it primarily focuses on the deterioration of a nuclear family rather than the challenges of communal life, but I didn't rent a film about a commune to see what manifold more traditional storylines tend to generate.

The other individuals living within the commune receive little to no character development and bluntly interact throughout as originally presented, the occasional clever comment or the purchase of a dishwasher notwithstanding.

Decisions are made rather quickly as well, as if something as serious as starting a commune and giving away your house is like tying your shoes or trying Indonesian food for the first time.

Kollektivet atypically narrativizes life in a commune thereby tricking its traditional audience into watching the bizarro mainstream.

A dire preachy warning for the experimental, a harsh validation of conjugal revenge, it heartbreakingly explores/justifies adulterous instincts commonly depicted as characteristics of the alpha-male, who ironically wanted nothing to do with them, without sympathy for his partner, a daughter torn apart along the way.

An excruciating attempt to find a way to exonerate misogyny.

It only took an unprecedented technological global economic quiet revolution to allow me to finally apply my schooling at work.

Not bad.

My Cousin Rachel

A loyal adopted son, filled with impotent rage, blindly seeks closure concerning his father's sudden death as it relates to a mysterious relationship beguiled in the Italian countryside, forged with an enigmatic English belle, who had the strength to seduce proud misogyny.

He sets out seeking justice, never having had much interest in women either, but soon finds himself enraptured with the sought after murderess, his presumption quickly fading as her charms mellifluously sway, his fortune soon levitating at her disposal, all-encompassing infatuation contending with more worldly criticisms, is she friend or foe?, matron, or dominatrix?

Beyond classification.

Contraceptive indigo.

My Cousin Rachel commences soundly.

Its sophisticated introduction to character, historical period, familial severance, and exotic cataclysm, gingerly yet coercively narrated with bitter incisive pause, led me to think I had stumbled upon something otherworldly, something radiant, something timeless.

It's not that the rest of the film isn't worth watching, it is, but My Cousin Rachel's first 25 minutes or so lour you in with a compelling cinematic elegance that rarely showcases its distinct eloquent reticence.

There are no answers, no solutions, no conclusions, it's strict theory, strict conjecture, a mystery lacking a brilliant sleuth, wherein which contingencies construct discombobulating distractions that harrowingly question what has indeed come to pass, a man who knows nothing about women obsessed with a woman who knows everything about men, who's intent on achieving independence from stiflingly patriarchal codes of conduct, without ever asking for anything, or seeming as if she desires six pence.

Was Rachel (Rachel Weisz) the hapless generous victim of sexist preconceptions themselves incapable of trusting anything a woman says after having fallen in love, thereby sacrificing their former unconscious unilateral independence, their control, as a consequence, and winding up mad, or was she indubitably trying to poison both father and son in order to access their vast unencumbered fortune?

Can free unattached wealthy male loners ever listen to anything overtly uttered by their curious brilliant feminine correspondants without suspecting conspiracy and treachery, the magnitude of the duplicitous betrayal slowly intensifying as the bond between them grows tighter and tighter?

How would a brilliant woman without a fortune who seeks control over her own affairs ever achieve financial and personal independence without comment in a society dominated by men?

Would both characters have lived pleasant lives if homosexuality hadn't been culturally abhorred?

Sometimes narration works, sometimes it doesn't.

The narration was working in My Cousin Rachel, and I wished it had played a more prominent role throughout the majority of the film.

I thought the Liberals would be prepared for Guy Caron, Charlie Angus, or Niki Ashton, but not Mr. Jagmeet Singh.

When it seems like a party is just going to walk its way to another hands-down election win, you need to introduce the game-changing wildcard.

In solidarity.

Vestibule

Bellerophonic cursive rash
fried up slit bangers and mash
greased up twitchin' crocodile
swims to and fro Algonquin style

released after the tale was told
and Desmond struck cathartic gold
a granite prick upon his shin
then sweet and sour insouciance

chagrin so bashful cherry rose
bouqueted impulse irascible
seductive cheek forlorn refraction
kinaesthetic core reaction

traction progress jubilance
makin' it work in increments;
peeled an orange to watch it bleed
like honeydewn exotic greed

spurting.

The Darkest Hour

A routine business trip to Moscow to sell software which knows how to party, itself fraught with duplicitous peril, is intergalactically interrupted in Chris Gorak's The Darkest Hour, as colonialist extraterrestrials electronically invade.

The entire freaking planet.

Gorging themselves on humanity's energy and power, yet invisible to homo sapien eyes, and protected by impenetrable shielding, Earth is globally gutted in a matter of hours, and our heroes thrust back into an unforgiving dark age.

Nevertheless, good fortune enables them to slowly piece together what has incredibly come to pass, as they juke and gesticulate their way from one improvised shelter to another.

Other survivors are encountered along the way, and from what little knowledge they possess as a whole, they're able to slowly strategize, synergize, swerve, and shock, mounting what little resistance they can, as they desperately seek submerged self-sustaining agency.

To bask in extant logic.

Even if there's nowhere to hide.

Allegorical applications of The Darkest Hour vigorously outdistancing the film itself, one wonders about these chaotic representations and what they indeed substantiate?

We know that once there was a will to party.

We know that energy has been ignominiously expropriated.

Those responsible can neither be seen nor detected.

And are in possession of vastly superior technology.

Yet within the underground alternative methods are ingeniously designed to expose the avarice worldwide.

Therefore, it seems that The Darkest Hour, in 2011, lacklustre and threadbare though it may presently be, was claiming that mad übercapitalists in possession of armies and courts of law were fed up with the leisure activities of the frisky masses, and diabolically dictated that their artistic energies would be direly transformed into concrete labour, with Dickensian dismissals and authoritarian shares, the last remnants of the bourgeoisie left to courageously extend the light, as darkness descended, and individuality soullessly evaporated.

Other interpretations might be more apt.

Rest in peace Bear 148, one of the noblest of bears to ever dare be curious in the face of alarmed humanity.

She was so wonderful.

Has anyone ever made a film about trashy astronauts?

You could call it Asteroids.

Juyuso seubgyuksageun (Attack the Gas Station!)

A group of young adults, who have failed to professionally assert themselves, randomly decide to attack a local gas station, again, in Sang-Jin Kim's Juyuso seubgyuksageun (Attack the Gas Station!), their boredom invigoratingly eclipsed by rash hypertense pretentions, inspirations from which they reclaim the dignity that their culture's strict obsession with obedience has denied them, artists and athletes in/variably adjudicating calamitous caprice, with malevolent will, and assiduous extension.

But through their delinquent acts, through the ways in which they audaciously challenge their neighbourhood's modus operandi, their divergence necessitating that unanticipated rival factions gather, investigate, emerge, the established order riled, jurisprudence gingerly jabberwocked, a serendipitous state of affairs chaotically presents itself, wherein which everyone eclectically entertains novel nubile notions, energetically exceeding the bumptious bottom line, collectively assembled, to irascibly trench and tether.

Extreme masculinity deftly delineating the absurd, Juyuso seubgyuksageun satirizes sociopaths to exorcize easy living.

Note how the no-goodniks must pretend to be constructive citizens in order to eventually acquire the loot they're after.

Comedically crafted psychotically shafted supreme bizarro excess, like Walter Hill's The Warriors sponsored by Red Bull, like paddleboarding down the St. Lawrence, a culture's admiration for fighting shocked but surely syndicated, Juyuso's childlike unconcerned courageous illuminating lunacy still metaphorically cultivates the entrepreneurial path, with cold considerate recourse to hypocrisy notwithstanding, levels and layers and legitimacies, assuming roles to expedite karma.

I suppose if you spend your life discovering everything that's ever been written, you unfortunately never find the desire to write anything.

If you don't need it right away, I can find it really quickly.

Nutrient

Tuckered terracotta multi
perplexing X-Wing crank
ludic mishmash improvised

decor omnivore unicorn
terrain hard-driven cybersentience,
whisker, aromatic chiclet

fuze operative operatic greens
audial glucal digestion
gushing jasmine

portable Nova buzz
galvanized Odessa
ethereal qualm
fourth and inches.