2021 pt. 5

A nice sunned winter day pushing over melted snow I enter the lobby. Not a soul to see; nor in the theater. Sadly this return remained only an endurance test–though I didn’t stop there. A flier, in the evening probably. A drive down country roads; they don’t know each other. Acquaintances brought together with work. We meet another, but not the prize. Duration so abbreviated–Have I ever gone back?... well, yes, but the well still runs too high. Was this other in an afternoon–No, I’d say early AM. Netflix VOD opening, a chore until it finds a home in the great global market. Why this next? I guess just to be in the know. There was that one (and maybe one other) review. Maybe it was the tease of Anna’s role. It did capture our modern world, which is not so simple. Before I trample too much, there is the glow of the scenes near the open–a precise drill through my own indie predilections. A captivating force in ordinary form. Later that force fades into a mask (and literal possession) and the suffusion fades into parched debauchery. Another early AM, so easy to settle inside. I wanted them to be together. But he demands he’s a predator… life next to an industrial operation is so… A weekend split finished the next morning–TV on the north wall. Maybe some basketball on later. It was just Mom and I. She loved princess Di too, right? Woman in trouble, again. Was that theater insufficiently lit? Have I made that walk since then? A bathroom break, surely. I suppose I was in a mood, where did this push that? I wish there was more from that one, just a little something from the male. But it was a summer movie. Maybe my first time there? The booth didn’t seem to serve entry past the start time. No matter I came right in on that gray image. In a shop, the boy busy with work. There were a couple of groups; me, the right-most. Midway in the halls there was that girl walking through. Did I time my exit well? I guess I play-act my part as a movie person each time he makes a new film. There was more than I expected (or at least what the past rightfully indicated), so I won’t complain. Still, the boy was missing the bib and food-smear he deserved. I don’t know how to cast this anonymity away. Sometimes all the feeling has left–if there was any to begin with. So to be clear–I can say one thing. I owe this choice to the bounties of the past; at the very least, those promises were not unpaid. Finally back to those early adventures to the center. I had to be the only one, though my memory is not certain. And here’s some TV for which my hateful feelings have grown. And then this, another in a late evening, into the AM. One of those you find after a great period lost. The runtime olympics dusted forever. And this other–for the girl, maybe? Adjacent to the current thing? No–but yes to the former. Mostly bloodlust and emotional scattering. Again, in this retrospective address, this choice is shocking. Surely a test-run was involved. There is that nice scene of rural escape. A drive and some logistics. A Banks album and the curve into 694. Sitting in that lot, waiting. At least my scorecard wasn’t empty. Why then was I led to this? Maybe just a whim–files on a hard drive. It’s been so long–thousands of discourse cycles away now. There, it’s done.

2021 pt. 4

Dune

Villeneuve movies can sometimes end up cold if the characters don’t resonate with the expectations of today's movie audience (of which I am a member). This is not the case here, so its rapturous reception is unsurprising. Even with limited exposure, Zendaya leaves an impressive imprint. Chalamet fails to embarrass standing in MacLachlan’s legacy. I’m not sure what to say about Ferguson; I’m on board obviously.

Undine

Lovers meet in a cafe, colliding with each other to shatter a tank and free its great gallons of liquid. The two actors are great together but their separation leaves the film disjoint and wanting. We’re left to wonder why there’s not the maze of upholstery we see in his other films. 

CODA

I don’t like to rain on the parades of emotional Sundance pictures, but the contrivances here were tough to get over. I scored one point for CODA’s mean teacher, but elsewise there’s only tyrannical niceness.

A Floating World

The coldness of the other paired with the newness that accompanies its experience. Walking along and through untouched cobbled streets, seeing not a face at all. I jump at a stone-wall–not quite. Looking across the bay–which of those who stroll through is my friend? A nighttime walk across a bridge–where I should go next? Another temple–have faith, my son; show me. Into another square, another gardened walkthrough–and dreams that bring it all back. Do I know how to walk along the snowed roads, up in a circle? Did I ever really wander? It’s hard to summon anything but praise for the loneliest of pictures.

Ninnila Ninnila

I do like nice restaurant camaraderie with a cycle of dishes to gaze upon. A cartoon about a chef who’s now a magician, presented in warm soft-focus.

As per inevitable comparisons that are made

Time to compare the words written here with those printed inside the notebooks. Are we so served by melding these makings together? This here's bounds are clear--where movies are written to and about. There's not yet any good reason to stray--let's accept the weight of all the history we've built. I do this and the things elsewhere all for myself and my dreams.

The content shifts accordingly with the direction of the writing. So the style changes but processes and form remain consistent.

Fags have a shared history too; each deserves to speak with an awful or suspiciously gracious tone to every entity encountered. This is the only life I know; I follow the balanced trajectory forged by my ancestry in the most vigor I can bear.

We're slowly approaching specific attitudes that address certain stylistic divergences on the blogs I post upon. I feel it's necessary to acknowledge the other, which also still is coming down the pipe. Now this piece--as it develops toward its totality suddenly this evening--bears a sinister and sickly message. I meant in no way to force epistemological entities into place. The totems written in all these places will be splintered and noted individually to ensure a regular flow continues--even in times of great fraught and peril.

2021 pt. 3

Atrangi Re 

Despite its achievements the circumstances of the production have hampered the result here. So frequently the actors are in a frame alone that it's a miracle it works at all. The AK bit somehow manages up-to-snuffness. Dhanush and SAK are very strong as usual. Nonetheless I spent a fair bit staring into the empty space everywhere; I guess I just can't get over the lost potential here. We saw the escalations of TWMR and Zero; ALR is still a fully mature artist dreaming about new views of humanity and its recoveries.

Don't Look Up

The 90s disaster movie isn't dead yet, though this newest version is a bit tougher to chew. The actors carry the weight of the today's moral imperatives. Time to throw hissy fits when your peers are retarded. Time to discuss the role of media. We get a clear and staunch best actor performance from Leo and a JLaw lost in the plague of abstracted anger. The Blanchett is servicable, the Hill oddly fitting, and the Chalamet is a continuation of the bit. A dinner date with death for all those cast, hands held together awaiting grace--a nice touch from McKay.

Karnan 

The mask stares at me in my sleep. I have an increasingly feeble handle on this movie. Dhanush tries to save his village--what else? A bus stop in name only.

Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy

Memory is not without its failures; I found the third part inequal to its counterparts. I fondly recall the professor and his student balancing on the edges of art, desperation, and love. I enjoy the observed luxuries of comparatively minor source material.

Love Story

The star-son himself wrought onto the screen with a Zumba-girl. What am I thinking nearly skipping Virata Parvam?

A New Home Base

What purpose does the public library have? I guess it lacks the gossipy pleasures of the private library, but remains sufficient for us nonsocials. Through these aisles is the history of our species and all its subsidiaries. I fondly recall the textured and nondesigned book coverings of Preus. Each opening into the past into some other man's portal. Once the patterns of these things become too familiar where do we go? I see the same inside every book. Some persons doing things aimed at places my emotions have long since vacated. All that's left is a style that's too familiar by now. Only dead pages and movies exist now. The only newnesses come from the sicko-named podcasts.

So like I walk down the street and sit on a park bench. What do I see? There are the streets and the cars passing. The planted features, the trees, absent litter, the brightness without origination. The same businesses them all--entered long ago; I wonder if they're the same. Is the world really TikTok? Dull clean compositely surfaced interiors. Are there the beaches still? Do we still hang out? 

What is church? Is it still the last stand for the boredom that pushes traditions backward? Our noses, teeth, and retards have been stolen--now only seen occasionally like a blessing from the wilderness, then quickly wheeled back to its engraving. I just want my corn syrup. 

The stream throttled me back to my glory time. I swing the bat from both sides. The sun far and high. The others and I walk as one back to our places. I will remain faithful to the history we've built. Are schizos really not just another loony type? I do love periods where the interests I have fade and I must come here unravel some scrolls until I can return.

Finally the schizo conversation. I know this place I've made the rounds many times before. Dry-booze is really the lifedream of all the time I was waiting for. I know now the place we dream of returning to. I am not supposed to end it that way. Someday I'll understand the pattern and quickly restructure away from that fatal end. YOU GRWM bitch. Would all this go away if we got called fags again? It's 100% agave.

When will I get the motion smoothing TV that makes it look real again? Shall I go back and revise? Please be grateful reader. Time to compile all of this into a greater project? Should I start to organize? The booze is back this week--can you tell? The long hot summer of our afterlife a suicide bunker for us and our immediate proximates. This place can't be branded can it? There are never views isn't that why it remains evergreen and brand shining new. The rest of the internet is a larp--I really feel like and hope this is not!? Reimaging all of this--you'll feel the results.

2021 pt. 2

Uppena

This may be something close to a prototype of what I like in Telugu cinema. It has the romance, some comedic energy (maybe lacking there), the violent force threatening, and an overall respect for the cinema as a place made for the viewer. I fits in piece with all the Telugu movies I saw in this period--where the spring stretched to summer. A year later (or so) it feels like a significant period a lifetime or two ago.

Murina

At the beginning of my movie period, I frequently watched a lot of these woman-led indie and foreign movies on Netflix. I'm glad I'm experiencing this welcoming feeling again. This goes especially well with the director's earlier short led by the same girl. It starts inside pleasant summer feelings and expands as the season continues and concludes.

Drive My Car 

The way Hamaguchi describes cinema tends toward the thesis I would adopt if forced to construct some ideological basis. This long-flowing opus built from suspect source material is further confirmation of his abilities as an entertainer.

House of Gucci

Only just a gray and dreamy romance in a different period--everything adopts the 80s and 90s now. The narrative is honorably abrasive, as indicated in the variance of its reception. The subject and plot calmly flow downstream, collecting onlookers and their sensitivities, until a final discharge rebirths reality for all who endured--in or out of the know.

Rang De

A zombie Dubai shines bright and streaming; this is our home--this city of modern angles, desires, non-desires, and toxic romance. Nithin sticks his head into every place he finds, always tailed right behind by Keerthy's schemes and initiations. This is more boilerplate than the other Telugu film I mentioned. A little entrepreneurial study lab on the side; a hustled lifetime of wealth in Dubai. Stunning and wonderful material in every way. I love the way this industry seems to just unleash capital into the movie industry to create the broadest art possible; don't lose yourself, it's just a job...

2021 pt. 1

The films released in the year 2021...  I have written some about these films but I don't know where these notes went.

Krack

Showplace at West End, some evening in January... Maybe the first of many drives this spring and summer to this theater. I'm trying to describe the feelings that come with obvious pleasures. Songs in the clouds, leering through at a screen of warm and glowing expression.

In the Heights

I've been accumulating a history of the summer picture for awhile--probably almost a decade now; there was San Andreas, Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation, Trainwreck, and whatever else... I wonder if I should include films exuding summer's heat from the screen? The whole long vacation in A Summer's Tale; the downsloping dune in My Night at Maud's; alien creatures staring to the sky in Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets. I think I like musicals, though I hardly know them anymore--where have they gone!? This was our return to the summer dream in a hot city. A wall-face with the sleek design of modernity for all to prance upon. A life perfect atop the summer light, mellowing heat clouding near-naked bodies.

Les choses qu'on dit, les choses qu'on fait

The last handful of Mouret films left me in a bitterness I'm still trying to escape. The structure is the same, but the warm loving feeling we find here is gone. I saw this in the dog days which feels like years ago. It's a picture of obvious late period classification; its mode and sentiment leave the man (and maybe the woman too?) entrenched in the pragmatism that comes with age.

Stillwater

Hollywood plopping the Oklahoman into Marseille, the tip of Europe sprawling with its underlings and leftovers. This man presses through his failures hidden behind an unshaven face and the cap bestowed by his creator.

Nenjam Marappathillai 

Is the near-past gone or merely in a state of dormancy? The first half gave us the romantic dream of the old-world; a true sibling to ENPT which endured a long and troubled path to screen as well. The byzantine imagery of second half went elsewhere. A new design for super zoomers or plot-schizos.

Minnesota Post, Sunday evening, May 1

The strands of reality are all around--up above, below, to both sides, anywhere really. Time to bring into form the synthesis of what's been going around. It seems like personal intuition is not supposed to be applied into its broadest possible expansion. Intuition is just the aesthetic paddle that tilts to the next image of the lifeform. What is all this life for? What are these processes designed to find? There are forms of art and entertainment that aim to answer these questions or reframe and pose them again. The great artists of our time understand the aim of art is the presentation of the stark and obvious, only made accessible via telekinesis between the smoothest brain states imaginable.

The pure aesthete roams entirely in the unconscious.

The future screams toward us, lying around in greatposts. All the things I've written wrangled into one big death wish.

A Brief History of Time - The will to learn placed about a pure form of wonder. Half-checked and verifiably fake systems of thought and long afleet passions. Meaningless beliefs are just as hard to escape.

Death Wish - The bland faceless Bruce Willis versus the aloof aged aface of Charles Bronson.

The Green Inferno - We live in a society circled around again and again by contemporary filmmaker Eli Roth.

Titanic - The great rebirth of our forefathers and long lost scriptural bases. Our Father, who Art in Heaven.

Books opened into a different place each time. Staring at the words and quotations looking for the newness again. Some find a strict sense of themself; others see the world unbeamed back into itself. This world just-opened is gone again. Nothing new yet, just looking into great white spaces until we reach the very-next. Some art becomes realistic through obfuscation. The artifact conveniently trapped in its condition, presenting and forcing indication. 

I am taunted by genres of past generations; the books written years ago well-browned, creased, and flaked. Dipping back to artists who wrote of the future of ideas synthesized into greater meanings and livelihoods. Staring something greater into existence.

From long ago

imagining some different things. is this a restrictive writing space. to add further comment:

I found this lying in drafts. None is recent, but each has its place here.