hamass-mujadid

Everything's fine. Everything but the ground story. And what's not fine is exceptionally bad, as in, really, really bad.

What I've always disliked about Steven Spielberg, whenever he is associated with a movie, regardless of whether he's producing it, writing it, or directing it, is that he has slowly transitioned from a perfectionist to a materialist. Maybe his specs need a new fit, or maybe he is just too ignorant to recognize the basic wrongs with his pieces. Sometimes, it's what you are instinctively capable of. Then, your wreck is justified. But receiving an enormous load of goo from a renowned personality, probably the most successful Hollywood celebrity (money wise, fame wise, and award wise) especially when he is in no way bound to tag himself to that pile of absolute garbage, is heart-breaking. And lately, he's been doing this a lot. Cowboys & Aliens being his worst sci-fi and mystery amalgam.

Super 8 is much like Cowboys & Aliens, except the cowboys. Instead of them, there are kids and county police, and army (which seems to be messing around with civilians for no genuine reason.) A massive train crash, followed by a secretive revelation about the deadly involvement of its stakeholder—the army—by the cause and victim of the crash ignites fear, confusion, and horror among the movie-making little kids of Lillian county. The contents of the train were slightly hampered by Joe Lamb, but it turned out, that it was just a mystery-stunt that had no practical importance to the movie itself. That content, by the way, vibrates like a dildo, is fast as a rocket, and is cubical, and it's claimed to be some kind of an equipment to resist the deadlier content of the wreck—a tree. Hahaha. Well, it's a Groot-like monster, an alien, so to say, who's interested in eating less important characters, and preserves more important ones. And, he's a f**king mechanic.

Super 8 is extremely vague, a half-hearted attempt at sci-fi, and a misleading movie. It's like those online websites that are trying to fool you by making you think that the live webcams—the supplementary Chrome tabs opening when you switch to porn—are actually live. If you believe that, you are good to go for the movie. If not, watch it for the kids. Because the drama that's incorporated into the so called sci-fi is "mint." The kids, their stories, and love stories, their parents, and all sorts of house stuff going on, is catchy. In fact, these are the only things that keep you stuck to your seats until the movie ends. And hey, watch the credits; the short zombie-film they were making plays then. But it's kind of desperate and sad that "drama" is what you find interesting in a sci-fi/thriller/mystery movie. That's the height of non-sensical money-grubbing bullshit this industry is plunging itself into.

J. J. Abrams is perhaps my most disliked director/writer for sci-fi. His Star Trek series is a total mess. His scripts, without mistake, lag all along. It seems like he was never prepared for writing in the first place. He writes, takes coffee, writes some more, sleeps, forgets about it, picks the pencil again, writes some more, but by that time, he has already forgotten what he talked about earlier, but doesn't bother to knock back a few pages to get it in rhythm. And that's exactly what he has done with Super 8. The idea itself was not so bad. But he has yet to learn that when you pick a theme, and corresponding characters, you have to stick with them to create details and story. Abrams, you are not yet Nolan to pick up totems. What exactly were those cubes? And why in such quantity? Where exactly did you use them? And if you had to show U.S Army as the primary villain of the movie, you should have gone into its depth, not just pick the very mainstream factors about it and shove it on the screen. Everybody knows the political and administrative pick they have. But do it with a class. You had Avatar to follow. Believe me, the archives are flowing with movies on army and its haters.

While I was watching the movie, I was almost fatalistic about it. There were some things extraordinary about the movie. For example, the chemistry between the kids, their suitability to the roles (although a little bit too bold, even though apparently they were shown afraid and confused,) their house stories (Charles, his sister (LOL,) Joe, his mother's death, the necklace, the accident and consequent quarrel of Mr. Lamb and Mr. Dainard, was all that made sense in the movie. While I think the kids were a good select, especially Elle Fanning, there's a heavy chance that their characterization was too flake. They were made to stick to certain things. Firecracker maniac, control freak, detective Pus*y—they all had their thing. The lead cast, however, did it sufficiently well to bring longing to the situation.

J. J. Abrams isn't t after all a bad director. He is just a bad writer, I guess, but not entirely so. He did write the kids' parts too. Bottom-line: When it comes to being associated with sci-fi(s), the guy simply doesn't have it. The depth, the understanding, and the subtlety with which logic (despite the movie being superficial) is distinguished from everything else. He's exactly like the pre-pubescents he portrayed in the movie: he thinks he can, but he can't, but he likes to give himself the benefit of the doubt, and so do most of the audience. But I'm not most.

I think Super 8 is just another regular movie you watch and forget, with the exception of Elle Fanning, who is kinda hot. No judgments; she is my age, after all.

The movie follows its intention rightfully, honoring its very title—Lost & Delirious. You get lost, you get delirious, and yes, just by watching the pungent storyline, pungent being the uniqueness, rather aberrant conundrum of the script. The spell gets lost, however, with debilitating performances of the cast, and particularly Piper Perabu (Paulie,) who got awry whenever it came to intense situations. The other actresses (Jessica Pare (Tori), Mischa Barton (Mouse)) didn't have very intense situations so it worked fine with them. Paulie, however, undermined the very serious notion of the movie, and while the script continued to hit audiences with vigor and might, her performance wasn't exactly congenial to it. By the way, Piper now is a wonderful and much better actress now than she was back then, so that's perfectly fine.

Some very peculiar elements, like the raptor, the gardener, and the English Literature classes, and the very liberal and open-minded teacher, together with contradiction of thoughts and behaviors, for example, Victoria's recognition of intimacy with Pauline, but failure to go on with her because of family's inclinations, such as personal attitude and religious affiliations, are all very much applicable to real life, so that's a perfect insight of most high-school, and college students. And that's mainly why the movie continues to serve such profound individualistic influence amongst people so well bound under the society as a whole. And practically even, there's no way out, except private affairs, which again, come under the retaliation of conservatives, and thus, individualistic preferences are subdued with extreme prejudice for subcultures and down-the-road likenesses.

The point is, Lost & Delirious tremendously inflects on subtle necessities and feelings of humans, and highlights the various turns, U-turns in fact, that cross them all, to simply relinquish possibilities of artificial success. So what it's really trying to say is that human is his own enemy. Artificiality kills the man. Our own traditions, lifestyle choices, cultures, and trends are the biggest traitors. They themselves are swords, which slowly penetrate our minds and senses to deprive us of the very happiness. Pauline, for example, is struck in awe of Victoria, and Victoria knew that her family is orthodox, but she continued the same-sex relationship anyway, but when she feared exposition, she turned away. Such is the impact of societal patterns. And I'm not being judgmental here, mind you, I'm only pointing out to the vulnerability of humans to their own decisions, but that's how it goes, and will for decades, and there's no bettering that. Not everyone is a bloody heretic.

I understand that this review is being very unconventional, so much so that you wouldn't call it a review at all, but believe me, the storyline, although lacking numerous editing and refinery skills, is just heart-rending, and deliberately and undeliberately, I'm forced to take this detour, and mostly as a catharsis. It has this conscientious impact on me, and, presumably, on all of us.

Lost & Delirious is the perfect vow to castigation of the very phenomenon of "tranquility." Mary's dad didn't come to the school function, Paulie got f**ked by Tori, Mouse had blood rushing through her veins (probably from the third party's frolicking,) Miss Fay was over-dramatically sensual in her reading of plays, everyone else were the typical dumb and judgy freaks about how lesbian relationships are stains on society. This among several other things—probably "seven deadly sins"—is what Lost & Delirious devotes itself to. I'm not saying that there was nothing wrong with the movie, there sure was, but everything was in the execution and certainly not in the moralistic aspects of the movie itself.

So that's the bottom-line: Despite the six, this easily stands as one of the most memorable experiences I've ever had.

In the name of Xenia (that's personal,) I now move forward with it.

R&R, with a rather frisky direction, take a mediocre idea, but with grip, in the most essential elements—the "feel" and "relation"—making Standby a rather strange piece to like. They might have tried to imitate some similar examples of the same genres, but instead, ended up with an original of their own. And from directors who don't even have their images on IMDb, I think this was a rather admirable attempt by both, and by the writer (he's currently bad at luck too.)

Standby delivers a love story with a colloquial interface, much like done by Linklater every nine years with Hawke & Delpy. Here, it were Jessica Pare (Alice & Anne Hathaway) and Brian Gleeson (Alan & Evan McGregor) roaming around the streets of Dublin with apparent indications of "I'll give you a great time whenever you'll come to Ireland" but frequent crossovers of past and emotions would intervene and spoil the moment, but sometimes, that would give them even more edge to be honest and even closer.

Spoilers include Alice's boyfriend back in America, their eight-year old twenty-something stupidity, Alan's hatred of Lonnie Donegan (I stand with him—he IS a bloke,) and Alan's divorced father (whom he lives with at the visually stinky apartment) and mother (whom he works with at Tourist Information of "toilet inquiries,") all of which makes him a "grand bloke" in the eyes of most. And then there's Beatrice, the physically attractive, yet overly-open character, who takes a blink of an eye to fall for someone, doesn't care about anyone and speaks what she feels in the highly erotic accent. Beatrice makes Alan feel the worst; with her bold utterances, Alan practically feels like sh*t. Yet with all the non-sense and depression, Alan finds hope and happiness through the words of a reservation officer—"Yeah. Life's short. Why not?" And thus begins his venture to give Alice the time of her life.

The initial definitive goes in vain as chronology progresses, as both of them fail to keep them to themselves. While this idea (like at the wedding to Viagra-taker 60+ romanticize(rs) , as whole, is a mundane and mainstream romantic concept, the colloquialism of both characters, along with brilliant characterization of all supplementary roles, filled the gaps brilliantly. From Jack O' Diamonds to hipster, from "where's the ATM machine" to divorced men's support group, and from everything else to anything else, Standby didn't fail to amuse. The jokes and the blokes were all GRAND, so to say. And the night's progression consistently reverberated of Before Sunrise, Begin Again and virtually all convivial movies with a certain level of soberness and decency. Standby didn't try to overdo itself, which most movies with low budget and good plot tend to do. For example, One Day stars one of my finest actresses of all time (Anne Hathaway) but the movie sucked big time; the whole idea of showing whereabouts and how-about(s) was lame from the very start, so was Hathaway's British accent (I'm sorry Xenia.) This one, while starring the infamous doppelganger of Anne Hathaway (Jessica Pare,) has profoundly surprised me (in a good way, of course.)

But like most low-budget, low-hanging dramas, and especially comical reflections, Standby fails to strongly defy the logic behind all proceedings. Sure, it had a captivating effect for most of the time, and even its ending compelled audiences to forsake the very notion of logic and go with the way Standby's delivering it. But somewhere along the way, that resilient force strikes itself down, and you're left in isolation trying to find the reasoning of it all, but you can't, because there was no reasoning. For whatever and however things might be and go, CBA is the Superman behind every practical decision. Sure, the Valentine's Day and a young, cheerful couple intrinsically conciliating is a striking thought for couples paying to watch it in the cinema, but all rational audiences should have had the audacity to at least criticize it—coincident and incidents make accidents—in their minds. Alice gets the cellphone, and the cellphone had the video, ready to be played, rather than the home screen, which Alice found it more comfortable and sensible to play than to get to the plane, for it was the "final call" after all.

But even when they found themselves at an Indian restaurant when earlier, they couldn't get a taxi after fleeing from a rave party, which evidences R&R&PR's lack of professionalism and sharp eye for flaws and goofs, Standby strived, and successfully indeed to cater for love guys' expectations (well, certainly mine) of what a couple must do on a Valentine's Day.

As for the verdict, Standby manages to keep everyone intact until the very end, but after the end, the stance is rather ambivalent. Comically, romantically, and ordinarily, it suffices, quite brilliantly in fact. But logically, sensibly, and rationally, it still has a lot of ground to cover, but, all this vanishes away quite happily when you see who worked on the movie. If it were Woody Allen, John Carney, Linklater, or Richard Curtis, this might only have been an average, with the exception of Allen, where it would have been a straight "2." But R&R&PR have shown their potential in this one, like Carney did in Once, and I really hope they work on themselves to reveal some even better conceptualities of their imagination.

It comes as surprising that with rigorous developments in everything related to entertainment industry, the industry itself has managed to thrust itself into poopholes—they've become lame, lethargic, greedy, and stupid. They've stuck to visuals as the only assets to financial boom. When did they start working for the IRS? If readers don't agree, they ought to follow the Jurassic Park franchise in the right order. The first piece—true Spielbergian—reflected Michael Crichton, or maybe it just didn't have Thomas Tull (f**k you!) as a producer. The second wasn't critically acclaimed, but audiences loved it, so did I. I liked even the third one; there was this kind of momentum to it—the vigor that connected the trilogy, gave it smoothness. And that was 1.5 decades ago. I guess the Jurassic aura became "the lost world" in this gap. Because as far as Jurassic World is concerned, it's a clichéd work similar to Gareth Edwards' twice-its-original-size dinosaur (body-building Godzilla,) and struggles to build up thrill and suspense till the very last moment but severely fails to do so.

It expects audiences to have patience for the first two hours, enjoy the Disneyland of infant and herbivore dinosaurs, eat popcorn, run out of popcorn, and leave before the T-Rex comes to save the day. Even in that, a comedy of errors takes place, and T-Rex himself is saved only by the incidental intervention of Mososaur, who happens to victimize Indominus, not T-Rex, mind you! So what actually saves the day is not Owen (Chris Pratt,) not at all Claire (Bryce Dallas Howard,) not the trying-to-be-swagger Masrani (Irrfan Khan,) and not even turned-doggy velociraptors, it happened to be the shark-eating, and fortunately dino-eating water-dinosaur who knew the movie's about to end, and so he has to play a part. Yep, that's the spoiler, and that's the end. When everything dies and goes away, the freed T-Rex is not the thing to worry about—and this actually mocks the other movies (Jurassic 1 and 2 kinda bred on T-Rex no?) Back then, they had to get rid of T-Rex (and in JP-2, T-Rexes, actually,) but here it had to be Indominus. And T-Rex was kind enough to go back like a half-tamed cat without accelerating forward to cause some further chaos. Bloody lunatics, all of them. And If Steven Spielberg is the executive producer, like they said in the credits, he should probably apologize already.

Loopholes don't end here. The hybrid Indominus, as revealed later on, is half-Rex and half-Raptor. There's that. Okay. And he still seems to camouflage (okay, even that was explained in a lame, unbelievable way) and knows that the park has thermal speculation everywhere, so knows how to dodge that (simply amazing, no? After all, a dino has a better sense than humans, or at least Trevorrow and Tull.)

The one thing that touched the heart was John William's Jurassic Park theme, redefined in its own way by Michael Giacchino (Carl goes up, he sure does.) It's warming, and very sentimental, mostly because of its nostalgic characteristic. I wouldn't say that the soundtrack suited perfectly with the movie—where everything's modernized (I'm talking about the park and everything,) it doesn't really makes any sense to keep retaining the old version. I know it was altered, but that too was out of cohesion. I struggled to mold my emotions to the Stone Age, but just couldn't. And every once in a while, I'd try to remember Hammond's stare at his mosquito-stick, and ride back in the helicopter to get my love for Jurassic back, but nothing worked. As said earlier, it was Thomas Tull,(excellent producer for sci-fi(s), worst for dinos) to a great extent. The guy spoiled my memories of Godzilla, and has successfully spoiled my memories of this one.

Jurassic World brings all dinosaurs back to life, but fails to make them lovable, for both children, parents, and fellow dinosaurs. Late in the day, came Patt's German Shepherds, but as it turned out, they weren't so loyal. But eventually when it came to his life, they were. How did that happen? From what was shown in the movie, and from I interpreted, and I know my interpretation doesn't suck, I'd say the movie sucks enormously. Gareth Edwards, oopsi, Colin Trevorrow, is trying to tell us that animal instinct flushes away in the blink of an eye? And rather than running for their own lives, the Raptors preferred risking everything to save the lead? C'mon, guys!

I understand that I must not expect a lot from and action/adventure/thriller in terms of utter genius, but this wasn't genius, leave alone "utter." This was a crappy attempt at regaining potential Jurassic audiences to make some money. Somewhere deep, and I'll sound retarded here, I feel these Sci-fi geeks are over-obsessed with genetic modifications that's why every other movie talks about "genetic codes" and blah blah blah. Have a go at ordinariness; it's miles better, I'm telling you.

Now, in the very last, I'll discuss the cast. The soon-to-be Temple Runner (Indiana Jones,) and obviously Steven Spielberg's favorite Chris Pratt, plays equal-to-nothing role quite marvelously. By marvelously, I mean he did what was expected, and that's about it. I loved Bryce's Claire. Her personality, unawareness of nephews' age, and don't-exactly-know-when-I-last-saw-you ambivalence, coupled with baffling stripping to get ready for some action, which almost gave a pretty arousing feeling, was beyond lovely. Her hairstyle, clothing, and cocky-but-mocky attitude made it all possible. And then there was her assistant (Katie McGrath of Labyrinth,) who cocked me up despite having a minor performance. As for others, there's nothing substantial to talk about, except to say that they carried JW to its end, without further lagging it down.

JW evidences, much like Transformers: Age of Extinction, and The Hobbit trilogy, that gaps and deviances are costlier. Audiences go back with stains on their nostalgia, and critics get something to write about, in detail, and that sucks. Seriously!

So weightless, that it gives meaning to interactionism. And Imogen Poot's Izzy's accent, kind of a British-Irish hybrid, is the cherry, complementing the whole petite concept, with its innocence, and "sexy" intonation.

SFTW delivers a perfect combination of conversational, idiomatic, and comical milieus. Exemplifications include fluky crossover at the Italian restaurant, where various, and freakin' hilarious relationships spring up, creating an utter chaos of mind, viewership, and mood, all in good ways, of course. There's nothing that seems disparate with the theme, or reality. I mean the entire concept which bases itself upon accidents and spontaneity, when pondered upon idly, may seem fatigued, but from the interactionist perspective, it's coherent, total movie-making stuff, and bears absolute geniality with audiences of all ages, and although the basic—prostitution—may seem deviated-from-norms at first, it's actually not. What's there is a whole Anderson/Tennenbaums amiability, and light-heartedness, and therefore, it wouldn't be wrong to wonder it rendering some important life-lessons, and great personality-enhancers, and ultimately unchains the Django—yes, that's him, that's Mr. Tarantino himself—Oh my God!

So, my darlings, Ms. Poot's response on her transition from being a call-girl to being a Broadway actress so to be a call-girl again, climbing stairs, both literally and metaphorically, to live an idealistic life, is a reverberator, of some of the deadliest anomalies of career and socialization. These implicit thresholds of Bogdanovich's Shmuck-in-the-credits could be rightly categorized as stair-climbing-luck (so you don't fall off,) stair-reaching-milieu (so you do reach the stairs to climb,) family (not belligerent old men & women, of course,) destiny (so you don't face the philanthropist, yet I'd-like-to-never-meet-you sex-partner the very next day for your Broadway audition, and so you don't get stuck with a grateful, yet bitchy woman, greeting you luck while spoiling your whole marital relationship,) and then there are some generic factors, like not meeting your wife's ex-lover and co-judge on audition in the hotel one day before the auditions (here, though, I'd say that Seth's part was awesome; man oh man, his teasing smile, plots to create Vs on audiences' lips, and personality—pure Anderson work; no wonder he was in fact, the executive producer.)

The character development—Derek to Arnold, Izzy to Isabella, Piccadilly to Oh-my-Billy, doctor/client privilege (not really so, got broken off at every other scene, LOL,) private detective to private detective father, judge to perverted, stalker judge, so on and so forth—is basically the integral part. It wouldn't really have thrived. Every character has a particular, distinguishable performance associated, which defines him/her. With Jane (Aniston,) it's the frantic, tormented, and egocentric psychiatrist, who's only good at being rude, illogical, and stupid, quite frequently so. With Delta, it's a lively, bold, but frighteningly mad when it comes to revenge (remember the prolonged kiss, pretty awkward, yeah?)

Arnold's humanitarianism is the root of all social affairs—the trauma everybody faces, who are apparently distinct, but mutually affecting each other and each other's social behaviors. He's generous enough to call escort services for call-girl, and to her own pleasure, not his; it's not the "sex" he's looking for, although it being an eventual outcome of his endeavors wouldn't be bad at all. His help, consequent adventure into the restaurant to have peppery-ass Indian food, (which was actually supposed to be mild), nuts-to-the squirrels, squirrels-to-the-nuts, and his own nuttily-charming and positive self, bring down the intellectuality of Midnight in Paris itself. And although only remotely related, his ventures into absolute philanthropy, coupled with the fact that he is a Broadway director, gives elevation of the meager plot of being somebody for no absolute reason.

His good deed, however, originates from cheat, secrecy, covering-up, and biasness, and ends up with the victims-of-his-revolutionary-cause showing up at his desk, appraising his deeds of compassion, altruism, and spending romantic, self-free nights. And these victims, unfortunately, become indeliberate snitches by Arnold's wife's overhearing—and the difference in interpretations of the exactly same dilemma is the root to absolute chaos. She gets that he calls prostitutes, but not why he does so. This, along with Seth's mocking smile, taunting-presence, and playboy-calls to Arnold's wife is something supernatural, so to say. There's a "naughty" aroma, per se, and that aroma brings a very funny smile that you just can't help.

SFTW is a colloquial insight into the lives of the ordinary, and while nothing exceptional occurs anywhere throughout the movie, it's the tragedy of coincidence and unplanned incidents that charms us all. And where you pause a little to take a deep breath, Mr. Django himself takes the bride away, only to leave us in amusement, and amazement, yet again!

Ava. The first thing, although only remotely related, is Wall-E's best and only friend Eva, who happened to be smart, sensual, and lovable. You could just apply that to Ava, except for the animations, of course. Alex Garland's Ava is a most up-to-date AI-work—something that has never before been brought into existentialism; something that isn't Hotshot, Optimus Prime, or Megatron, neither Atom, Robocop, or Chappie, nor Eva or Wall-E for that matter—not just in Hollywood (not the case with materialists,) but also in consciousness of human minds. It's a message to people of the need for sentiments, conscience, and vulnerability (you just get rigid without it.)

Ava's Nathan Jones single-handed product of AI. She bears most elements of human interactive philosophies; plus, she's elegant, gorgeous, and "polite." But to publicize her—the breathtaking innovation—she needs to go through a test, conducted apparently by a randomly chosen employee of Nathan Jones—Caleb (Domhnall Gleeson; awesome guy; loved him in About Time)—who'll suggest if she's good enough or not. Turns out, Ava's colloquial, and her mother-of-Siri interface nearly knocks him over; sorry, really knocks him over. The guy's practically in love with her, and so am I. These scientific and romantic sessions turn controversial with certain revelations about the "Lone Ranger" of this AI pursuit—Nathan Jones, who is otherwise a working-out, festive, cocky, and egocentric character—and Caleb is drenched into a challenge; he can complete the test and move on, or give zero f*cks about it, and help Ava and himself out. His "algebra of infinite justice" takes innumerable turns here, there, and everywhere; things go awry, and he's left with enigmas per enigmas per enigmas. He appears to be caught—both physically and emotionally—and ultimately "somebody" wins. As for the audience, this win delivers one thing—play-acting is a b*tch!

Alex Garland promulgates a rather mainstream concept with aberrant, and believable strokes of visuals. While his directorial debut lacks finesse,—peeling of the skin, for instance, is disgustingly unbelievable, and really brings the whole experience down—the fundamental structure is worth experiencing. The sensual touch to a robotic-industry is usually uncalled for, and raises questions of realism. But here, it's different. Although his earlier scripts reflect drafts of a similar grip and tendency, this one clicks to the heart, and you really wish for the love-conundrum to undo and converge to happiness—corporeal attachment of 26-year old Caleb, and "1" Ava—but as the yarn delivers, that's only "I'd like to think so." And that's something I really loved about the concept—it's not the traditional, clichéd "happy ending;" it's as close to a true AI as AI could be.

Nathan's suggestions to Caleb were after all sensible—she could be manipulating as a means of escape, or she might genuinely be in love with him. Turns out, AI is something beyond human comprehension; it doesn't matter if you're god (which Nathan liked to think so,) because AI can kill its creator. So in a way, Alex suggests a similar argument—AI takeover.

Ex Machina is a conscientious revelation of acts, counter-acts, tensions, challenges, misperception, misjudgments, misrepresentations, manipulations, unbounded arousal of feelings, and redemption. Its somewhat flawed execution still suffices for its motive. For instance, her ride to self-governance in the helicopter, while no one verified her identity, is rather misleading. I've already discussed the peeling-of-skin part. Similarly, Alicia Vikander's gait in the last part was unsuitable. Despite everything, she's still a robot, and must have followed her original gait, even after the transformation. Moreover, Kyoko's character development utterly lacks. She has no real point of existing until the very end. Initially, I thought Nathan's mistaken about her not understanding English at all—she might be a spy; everything pointed out to it. But since it was his directorial debut, he's bound to be a little off beam. And because it's the faithful, poignant, and humanlike interaction everybody's primarily interested in, these faults could be ignored.

In particular, Ex Machina is an underdeveloped manifestation of a fragile, sensitive, psychologically demeaning, and pondering-over notion. However, despite all the fluctuations of Mr. Dredd, his Ava alone rules out everything and everyone else. And when she says, "Do you want to be with me?" it's you who says, "Forever."

A classy beach drive, prefacing the buoyancy of the whole mind-map. A quick background to the very next scene—affluent mom and her beach house, and the daughter's utilization of resources at her absence, not for herself, but for a 63 year old Harry Sanborn—cigar-puffing magnate, who also assumes to be a playboy, quite favorably so. She strips down, while Harry isn't allowed to smoke another one—it's Marin's mother's house, and she wouldn't like that. But she wouldn't mind Marin making-out with a 63 year-old heart patient. Turns out, she doesn't. Well she does look surprised, but the awkwardness of the moment withers away with the awkwardness of the self—mother's kinky attitude towards Harry seems nerving to the seesaw couple. A couple of misogynistic lessons, and apparently, the true "self" comes out. But with all the Jack n Jill going on, it's ultimately Sex n Pill which save the day.

Viagra, Sanborn-buttocks, turtle-neck-kinda-gal, I-was-going-to-the-kitchen, walk at the beach, and hence, the story moves on. Jack Nicholson is au courant, and upmarket as ever before, but Diane Keaton delivers something truly terrific. Movie aside, she delivers a very important message: age and looks do not go adjoined. Her Erica's is wine-like sophisticated, strong yet fragile, wordy yet sensuous, and most of all, intrinsically leaned towards exploration—the kind that doesn't get frank at a moment's notice, but longs for an eye-to-eye connection to render the purest "self." And that's where Jack's eyes take the lead. Guy has something going on in his skin, probably some kind of a genetic experiment (Sorry, not a science guy.) He takes off with Diane to tune into a magnificent, heart-melting story of two people over-the-rope for this kind of stuff—love and the love-making.

Nancy Meyers shoots it into the sky with exquisite, happy-go-lucky script—it's colloquial, tragic, strenuous, and vividly sentimental. Their first cry in the bed, their wrapping-around-arms, and eventually, "You are a woman to love," is everything that's needed. It sort of completes Erica's biopic. Nancy would definitely have failed if it were not for Jack's gaudily command over expressions and intonation together with Diane's more-then-absolute fitting into the role. With that, Meyer's comical incorporates a different kind of sexy. Honestly, nothing would have rendered appreciating feedback had it not been for Diane's inner-self smile, and Jack's apparently self-regulating but internally contingent upon heartfelt emotions from another state of being, and this is the underlying truth behind Diane Sawyer's ex-fiancé, who has had more than 40 years of "playboy" experience. Because when I think of the storyline only, and not the lead cast, except for a few puns, I'd kill myself halfway through the movie.

Somewhere amidst the epic touchiness of the whole concept, a dull and boring ending arrived, which I expected to be the most unlikely. Sure I could figure it had to be Paris, but it was just mundane. I'm not talking about performances here; I'm talking about execution. And from what I saw, Nancy wasn't aware of the credibility of her idea, and probably went easy on herself, maybe a little too easy.

Now, the legendary wrecker—Keanu Reeves. What is with that guy? He's sort of satisfactory, and sort of lame. Why does he always fail to impress me? I could say that he was the only flaw in the story—even the character he played. It lacked purpose throughout. The movie would have sailed through effortlessly even without him. Alone lady, alone celebration, and alone trip to Paris. What's wrong with that? So that was the only major flaw in the storyline.

From the screen, Something's Gotta Give is literally a journey halfway through the world, not just to and from countries, but individuals, and hearts, and minds of people in those countries. At the end of it all, it's still people, and it's still a movie, because Louis Armstrong's La Vie en Rose, Erica's much-loved Jazz song, translates something like this: life through rose-colored glasses. And that's about it—Paris, superficiality, and everything nice hurries away in no time.

Equivocal. Obvious. Balony. Couldn't be any worse. The underlying principle behind all the caring-family-gets-past-everything stupidity is the hierarchical system of art that Brad Peyton sadly lacks. And sorry to say, such apocalyptic depictions are getting far worse than they used to be, or maybe people have started to like worse. Dwayne Johnson is not shoddier than he is supposed to be; he does what he's expected to: make his appearance, save the day, make some money, and there you go. And Carla Gugino's acting is always uncalled-for, so that's up to her usual standards, which are pretty below the line.

San Andreas depicts the same rotten-tomato story of an ordinary yet exceptional man who risks everything and ventures into dark-holes and "plot-holes" to rescue people, including his daughter (who is miles from appearing so.) Where the whole "effing" world is collapsing and tumbling to the core, Mr. Shoulders (Ray) has the guts to get past everything without a single scratch. So that's how it goes.

I know I'm supposed to be writing a movie review, but this movie is just pathetic, so much so that I'm constantly deviating from my goal here. As with Fifty Shades of Grey, in which Ellie Goulding's Fifty Shades of Grey totally had me, the only thing I found captivating in San Andreas was "California Dreamin'" by Sia—what a song that is, I mean totally. But even that song's congeniality to the movie is limited. They ruined it in the movie trailer, not the song, mind you, but the whole clip was just not so captivating. And now, they ruined it in the movie. It was better off away from this unaesthetic, mainstream, untalented piece of work.

They just do that for the box-office, don't they? Last year it was Godzilla, and this year it's this. Hiring a famous cast, writing a visually entrancing plot, and releasing it in 3-D. Get lost, seriously! I watched Mad Max: Fury Road a couple of weeks ago. Its genres were almost the same. But the way they executed it is beyond words. Miller totally pulled it off. And here, it was just a money-grabbing, regular movie with a rigged ending. Brad Peyton has paved his way for many other visual-stuns, all of which will get slapped by critics, and lauded by ordinary audience, who value collective conscience related to reality more when they are watching a movie. C'mon guys. Beat yourself with baseball bats at home; don't come to the cinema if you want to learn a life lesson. It's not a Nolanized version; it's customary, lame, underdeveloped, and sorely lacking in moralism. And Brad, you want to teach a life session, get us ready for a destined apocalypse? Write a damn article in The New York Times. Don't waste our money, and cinemas' popcorn on something this stupid.

Action and thriller movies constitute the essence of liveliness of cinemas. Drama-movies suit lessons. You don't get your backpacks ready by watching a 3-D action film that saves the actor/actress and kills everybody else. Why doesn't the apocalypse harm them? Why don't they get killed, or injured, or even remotely affected by the physiological and neurological tragedy that just occurred. At the end of everything, film-makers then raise their cameras from helicopters at 1000ft and try to prove how much they feel for everybody. You don't expect positive reviews only on the sidelines you've readied your earnings for. And I must not be criticized and see people "not finding my review useful" only because I didn't find anything good about the movie except its indication to a foreseeable dilemma, which is not really a critic's cuppa-tea.

So in the end, San Andreas is a mundane Armageddon itself. It depicts itself, so to say. It's a catastrophe—an utter disappointment. 2012 had the same plot, World War Z is also remotely linked to it, and so are several other movies. With the exception of World War Z, which was unusually likable, despite the zombie-factor, every other such movie is aesthetically a disaster, a work of a philistine, and sick-and-span-ily misleading. Folding down, folding up, crumbling, disassembling, wide-ranging affect-zone—the skyscraper effect, the hulking cruiser, jack-and-jazz buzz, ireful seawater, smashed-up barricades, barrages, dams, overturning, falling apart, dropping down into the crux, Paul Giamatti's teensy-tiny deliverance, and Alexandra Daddario's lion's share—*giggling*—are all I've liked about the movie. When you're in the cinema, these things rock you up. But at the end of the day, let's face it, the movie sucks badly!

He's no ordinary man—Brad Bird. Guy knows how to provoke immaculate visions, how to provoke the delicacy of human genome—the ability to visualize, conspire, and project our wonderland-concepts. Tomorrowland narrates badly a vision that's unlikely to be thought of before, with the exception of Brad Bird himself.

The story is about a young, cat-eyed girl, who likes to see, to poke into everything that comes around. And in doing so, she is assisted by a magical pin, which was just she needed to further multiply her curiosity. But it comes with a price: her experience is incomplete, and she looks for the guy (George Clooney)—who turns out to be a scientific-genius, isolated, stress-free freak—to get some answers. So starts the epic journey into the mystical Tomorrowland whose set is pretty similar to the annual musical saga—Tomorrowland. They make enemies (like every other movie, but here, it's not a "hero v villain" tragedy; it's suiting to the stakes of progressing,) and prospective audience feel a thrust into the challenging world of Tomorrowland. As colorful, funny-looking, Finding Neverland-like, and almost exactly like Marvel's Guardians of the Galaxy's Xander it is, bloomers, typicality, and re-counting of the chronicle are as bland and featureless.

There's an amusing touch to the futuristic element of the movie. It's pretty congenial to audiences' personal venture into the crazy, mindful concept of algorithmic fantasy, and Space-like odyssey into the land of the future, where everything is so bizarrely familiar (we are getting used to uncanny points now.) Time warp, household gadgets (pretty modern for a simple-looking home,) awesome strategic sense, unorthodox and impending world—but this adventure comes with slip-ups, and lame drags. It's one of the classiest depiction Disney has yet made (non-animation,) with as much feel of supernatural, superhero milieu, as the child-like, having-fun-nothing-else predicament.

Yet with everything Tomorrowland has to offer, it lacks severely in story-telling. It radically fails to engage audience, and the only parts good are the ones vividly open to visuals. Except that, it's nothing but waiting-for-the-hours-to-freaking-end situation. It's like somebody with great imagination but poor language skills is taking the SATs—get it? Bird's latest invention comes with extreme loopholes, but they might tear your expectations up, so I won't disclose them. See them for yourself in the "goofs." And for all I know, this might have been amazingly beyond an action/adventure/drama trio if they had worked on the storyline, for nothing gets rated well for their moderate grasp at display, and behind-the-finish-line song-and-distance. That song-and-distance is utterly lacking. This isn't a much appreciable Disney-work. But it's something that Disney-people have become for quite a while now—mundane, ordinary, tacky, ill-at-ease. Into The Woods is a latest example. They're half-hearted, ready to sell at a moment's notice. And it's costing them loads from opinionated, and factual feedback.

With everything good, bad, and ugly about the movie, it's still a thrilling cinematic experience. At the end of it all, however, the experience fades away instantly. You crack your fingers, neck, pandiculate, and move on.

Cold-blooded, botanically medieval, crusades-like, and horrifically thrilling—that's Fury Road. As for Max, it looks like he's the same archetypal Bane, only this time, he's more immune to "I'm not afraid, I'm angry." He's silent, and angry, and frustrated. He's Rango-like, reflective of the quest to solve the water-mystery. With everything red, orange, and yellow, it seems like you're viewing 300 blended in Saw, and over-the-top F&F.

George Miller revises his ideological construct in the most exhilarating, dreadful, and striking manner this time. For all I know, the audiences spoil themselves with "cinematic orgasms," if that's a thing, throughout the movie. They're not afraid of the porcupine-trucks, maybe a little on the edge of madness, but that goes without saying. Here's a hint as to what it was like: Bane and Miranda beating the beep out of war-painted, anti-Christian, Hulu tribe—only this time, it's some dark, full-raged action with mountain bikes, and trucks, and springy tentacles moving idiotic half-Willy, half-Wonka The Da Vinci Code Bettany's horrendous versions. Miller puts his tribal culture in the crux of action, which reveals an unorthodox, authoritarian, and devout portrayal of enmity. The sport-arena action is complemented by prayers in Citadel, banging of drums, skeleton-wheels, and skeleton-feels. It has a bizarre feeling—you're dredged into the modernity of Prometheus and antediluvian era of the Exodus.

More than anything—Max's deafening seriousness, Furiosa's bald-grace, armless-attraction, sense of responsibility, and and absolute congeniality to the role (always imposingly remarkable,) religious affirmation, banging, puffing, booming, clatter, splash, tick-tick, boom—the "fantasized-realism" behind all the get-off-my-property-you-crazy-lunatic is what gives you the honesty-chills. The stunts, the effort, the don't-care-about-ourselves-just-love-the-movie-please pledge, and the extraordinarily enormous—480 hours of footage into 120 minutes of freaking-awesome warfare—blows me off of my seat in the cinema to the pale, scorching blaze of the sun, amidst the crazy-eyes of this action-genre Orange is the New Black. Even the over-editing has that medieval, darkly comical feel to it, just like 300 for example (can't think of another movie with such aberrant effects, but such positive response.)

But like any other movie, there are points where you start questioning yourself. Nothing seems to justify Max & Furiosa's relationship, mutual combats, strategies, certainty of plans, and stuff like that. But by then, the movie's not about logic or sense anymore; it's more about seeing what you wouldn't in ages. With such a brilliant ensemble—I mean it was pretty good for a solely madness-based movie—you couldn't care less about the abacus-loving dumb-toads sitting in exactly the middle seats of the theater to get the most balanced view of the screen, and judge the minus-plus of the 120 minute long clip. I feel like reporting their stupidity to the CIA—enough with the pen and paper!

Mad Max comes equitably with the characters, their roles, and the titular projections. Each name is qualified by its corresponding characteristic with the character in the movie—Spikers, Rictus Erectus et cetera. This complements the heartfelt glow to the movie itself—everything's done for the movie. They didn't feel any need to impose worldly sense into it, which is the best part, because that miniature world seemed pretty damn believable to me—but why? Maybe it were those religious beats, maybe the dragon-roars of engines, maybe it was just the psychological effect. Whatever it was, it did what it planned to.

Mad Max: Fury Road puts forth the idea that there's so much more to combats than mere combats—MMFR incorporates belligerent, spoiling-for-a-fight attitude, oppressed landscape, estranged and barbaric drug-lords, heavy-weight weaponry and wheelers, and poster-paint bombings. The intensified red-blaze of fire, the sandstorm-effect, the preposterous turn of events, the nonsensical touch of things, and the wacky script—everything wrong with the movie is everything good about the movie. Mad Max: Fury Road revises the post-apocalyptic scene—utter dryness of region and minds—and uses the irritating sense of that dryness into a rigorous will to get past it with victory—Fury Road's victory. It's not about the comparative analysis of protagonists and the white-witty-wackos, it's about what's happening throughout. And when it happens, you're only remark is: "What a lovely day."

"To travel is very useful, it makes the imagination work, the rest is just delusion and pain. Our journey is entirely imaginary, which is its strength."

I Travel and Life Yodels. Now pick the first letters of each word of the first sentence of this paragraph. What'd you get? Yep, The Great Beauty is about all of it. Literally, it's about Rome, but technically, it's about the Italy and intellectual composition of human coordinates (try linking it with biology.)

Festivity of sixty-plus magnates, bodily exposure of twenty-somethings, progressive beat, giggle, perversion, dance, royalty, exuberance, and lavishness—Jep Gambardella's sixty-fifth birthday party. No one knows anything but craze of midnight shaking. Everybody has lost any sense of reality, and is whole-heartedly infused into the regularity of joy. Midway through the party, shoulder-shaking, widely laughing Jep turns towards the screen, and you know he's going to shoot up the evaluation meter. Jep's repute is amplified through the nightlife of a rooftop. He's greeted, hugged, kissed, and danced with.

Fellow shooting "stations of lives" admire, honor, and respect the journalist. Jep's life has so far been a long-stretched cycle of royalty, partying, and "onerously" enjoying. But his sixty-fifth birthday brings a new phase into his life—the phase of enjoying the artistic beauty surrounding him; the phase of Italy in its truest self. The Great Beauty is about a reformed and itinerant aesthete whose personality, influence in all commercial spheres have brought him respect and access to everything. The cigarette smoking novelist goes through the various practices—religious, customary, social, ethical, philanthropic—within his country.

The enthralling anecdote adventures audiences through a journey of positivity, archival excellence that Italy possesses, virtue, dignity, honesty (and sometimes ruthlessness) in conversations, and obliviousness with which the world goes about. It engenders truth about human conscience and affirms Rome as just not a catch that a lay-man would think. The essence of sentiments and artistic apotheosis are shown at numerous places—unceasing kissing for ten days, Jep exposing Stefania to the truth about herself, neighbor's arrest and disclosure about himself and his motive, disappearance of giraffe, girl's painting, Ramona's late-night cruise with Jep into Rome's finest sculptures and artworks with top-secret keys, and Jep's threadbare girlfriend's "now there's something I want to show you."—throughout the movie.

The Great Beauty deals with the minds of observers, and of all critical minds; it's a gift to those who have this deep-rooted desire of exterminating the misery that prevails this ruled-by-choice world and seeing the hidden truth of the omniscient being that engendered everything (this may fluctuate with religious beliefs.) Nothing is impervious to human comprehension abilities, and if pondered upon strenuously, all unimportant elements expose the complexities of human genome. We're all born to experience, but that experience will blunt out into booze and smoke if that's our predilection, which only makes the ruled-by-choice privilege a compromise. If however, we see our surroundings with keenness and search for novelty, then we can see god lying naked on our sofa—that's how close everything is to the truth about universe. And believe me, try seeing things without seeing them—you'll actually create them in some far-off space. Then, you can begin your adventure and scrap out all the rest.

At no point does one start to feel light-hearted. One may feel cathartic, but that is again by the profound tension between space, time, and civilization. Jep's eventual preference from Rome's busiest gables to its serenest corners ship dabblers into forth-dimension, the only difference being the lifelike composition of this dimension, rather than the supernova mess we so ebulliently run for. Once you're there, there's no way out, and you start seeing things from a whole different angle; it's something like this: Mozart pulsating his orchestra behind you in the boat you're rowing through the rivers of heaven. That's not it, you've angel-rings and a harp too.

Don't beat with the bible, instill it.

First of all, and I mean no offense here, I am always ambivalent (and mostly negative) about Asian resorts. There's something artistically plain about it. It's very hard to absorb. This Asian factor gave me a hard time, and I agreed with the lead cast on many judgments. I hold nothing against Asians in particular, it's just that the atmosphere depicted in the movie is truly frustrating sometime. You don't get used to Asian regions in a glimpse, and sometimes even after long periods of time. So while I somewhat loathed the whole Asian part in the movie, I concurrently loved it too, for it exacted my opinions with such clarity and conformity. Call me racist, I won't mind.

Lost in Translation mounts the romantic reformations of two affected individuals. Both Charlotte and Bob have been emotionally unstable and their banal stay in Japan makes their lives even more unbearable. With the whole Asian life going on adjacently, they find their only source of entertainment, or rather peace of mind with each other. They don't mind each other's age, or looks, although Charlotte does complain about Bob's height on one occasion. With simple conversations, they build an extraordinary relationship, which none disclose with words. I reckon Sophia Coppola found it unreasonable to vocally express the bond as it would simplify the whole concept, and I'm one-hundred percent with her on this. The moments I spent with Charlotte and Bob were one of the most memorable moments for me. Their chemistry was beyond excellent. They infused every emotion, every tension, and every reservation with such delicacy and perfection, like when Bob's shooting for the commercial—the face he makes on director's ever-going dialogs, and the face he makes while he actually shoots is both intricate and funny.

The writer obviously implies much against Asians, or is just critical of their routine. It's a rather delinquent subject for most of Asian natives, but a visionary look tells us that Lost in Translation backs opinions and views of a very wide population; people actually feel this way, and it's not a criticism, it's a suggestion to be more cosmopolitan. Sophia undertook this controversial responsibility and improvised it with immeasurable degree of acuteness and neutrality. More than anything else, she exquisitely highlight the various harsh cross-overs of lifestyles, norms, and routines of inhabitants of different regions.

Scarlett Johansson has never seduced me more. I literally despise the present-her for the amount of unspeakable she's doing to herself, her fans, and general audiences. I loved Scarlett for what she did in Vicky Christina Barcelona, Match Point and this one. Her smile was tormenting; she was an aphrodisiac (I'm getting goose-bumps.) Now, she just looks ugly. Lost in Translation is perhaps Scarlett as her best. I fell in love with her from the first scene—her rear peeking through the underwear, and her legs (get me some cold water, somebody!)

Bill Murray—I've never really liked him. The guy picks dumb roles in somewhat dumb movies. I mean he's stuck to Anderson like I'm to media. Anderson makes richly imaginative, yet dumb movies. This becomes even more frustrating when Murray gets all the mortifying characters to play. I saw his true potential for the first and only time in Lost in Translation, and although I still am not a fan of him, I've to appreciate what he's done in the movie.

With everything complementary about the movie, I still have some reservations. Will Sophia Coppola, unlike Lisa Cholodenko, come up with ideas like this? Will she ever come to the level of Woody Allen, Richard Linklater, or Alexander Payne for that matter? I guess not, and that disappoints me. This makes me think that movies like Lost in Translation might just be good-luck for Coppola, Cholodenko, and others like them, and that such movies are therefore, not works of rigorous imagination and aesthetic ability. I hope I'm wrong. But I can't be; it's 2015 and Coppola hasn't done anything else that extraordinary so far. I'm worried.

Sideways caused the "Sideways" Effect, not just on the audiences, but on the wine industry too. Merlot's likeness faced a rapid fall after the movie's wide release, causing audiences to like Miles' preferred brands more. Such was the impact of the movie. Not just the entertainment industry, but economics also fluctuated because of it. Sideways thus, caused the "Sideways" Effect.

Miles starts off in the movie as a struggling novelist, and as his college buddy, Jack's accomplice for the bachelor week and the trip to Santa Ynez Valley wine country. Their course follows infatuation, obsession, one-last-desire (random sexual fling), decent and indecent gratification, wines (a lot of them), cheat, failure, and ultimately acceptance and realization. Alexander Payne shows utmost fluency—he's so good with characters and plot they feel almost real; I'm sorry, completely real. He does it with ease. It's like real people in real scenario with real outcomes—and that's what Payne aims for, so hats off, he's seamlessly accomplished that.

Sideways, apart from an irregularly regular drama, is all about wines. Even Miles' crush, Maya, is a wine lover, while Jack's one-week-stand works at a bar which again is all "winey." No wonder why all four of them mingled together so unflinchingly, except in the end, partially. Pinor Noir, Cheval Blanc, 1961, Merlot, and everything else seemed as culturally powerful and classy as having a vintage car collection—it seemed absolutely distinguishing and novel, and given that a novelist (seemingly nerdy) exhibits such paramount knowledge about wines, the concept appeared naturally convincing for some reason.

Maybe it was the correlation between alcohol and obsession, which are directly congenial to the properties of writing. And not just with Miles, this might be a reflection of Alexander Payne's likeness too, for choosing this script, not in a drunkard-way of course; I'm relating it more to the aesthetic appeal of wines, and how some people feel towards certain things for their braille-like tendencies, which is perfectly reasonable (I mean I go for certain unmentionables only because they stand out for me, it's all relative you see.) Anyway, Sideways has been enormously enlightening for me; it's so good to see movies that stand out from the norm for their closeness to ourselves. You start to feel as if they're working on your personality grooming, and nourishing you for knowledge and preference towards rarity. Movies that deal with obsession carry a generally impertinent but personally a very appreciable content, which is particularly aspiring for viewers of my category, and that's why, even after so much public disregard for movies like this (The Tree of Life, Midnight in Paris, Birdman, The Descendents, The Kids Are All Right, Up In The Air, so on and so forth,) they're able to vary/alter/upgrade the trends of authorities, and public, although the ideologically mundane take unreasonably extended periods of time before adjusting to them.

Sideways's script has left such a mark that I almost forgot to talk about the cast, and other aspects of the movie. Well, as be conjectured from this statement, everything else was not phenomenal, maybe only ordinary, but I'm not entirely certain, because there is a high possibility that I didn't pay enough attention on them. With that said, I'm a big fan of Paul Giamatti, and I believe he's probably a much underrated actor. He was a reasonably perfect choice for the novelist Miles, but a little between the lines for the wine-loving Miles. However, he was never mundane, artificial, or deliberately trying to sabotage the novelty aspect. Thomas Hadden was brilliant. I haven't seen him before, and it's unlikely that I'll be seeing him in future. However, the guy was astonishing. His voice, coupled with his role truly built up the character for him. George Clooney campaigned for Jack's role, but was unsuccessful because Payne thought "he was too big a star for it," but did work with him in The Descendants. I've wildly followed Clooney, but he couldn't do what Hadden did. Virginia Madsen and Sandra were merely supplements; I mean they completed the cast for the movie, but did nothing extraordinary in it. I don't see why Academy nominated Virginia for that role, but hey, I might be wrong, not all my judgments can be correct, right?

If you look at it, Sideways didn't aim for mind-blowing acting; it just wanted to convey some points, and it has been successful in doing so. Sideways has thus, caused the "Sideways" Effect.

Don't look at this movie individually; look at it retrospectively with Linklater's Sunrise trilogy (especially Before Midnight) and Brokeback Mountain and you'll love it even better. Its smooth-flowing and ordinariness is also comparable to the fluency of Alexander Payne's Sideways, which was an "alcoholic" masterpiece, surely.

The Kids Are All Right is a colloquial reference to an unusual situation—kids wanting to meet the part-engenderer of their existence. Brought up in a lesbian household, Joni's (daughter) eighteenth birthday is followed by Laser's request to contact their mothers' (Julianne Moore and Annette Bening) sperm donor (Mark Ruffalo), and so the movie follows a low-pitched, conversational, and touchy discourse. Nic is the man of the lesbian household; she controls everything, being the only breadwinner of the family. The unconventional family goes with sperm donor's eventual involvement and interaction with kids and other kin with consent, conflict, ambiguity, judgment, and family-thing, that is, argument, disappointment, fragmentation, and upheaval. There's implied bias for both spouses on relationship with each others' biological offspring, and although no such thing is genuinely true, it's used as perfecting the rituals and situations of nearly all couples, conventional or not. There is inequality for sure, and that's used as a means by Nic to show her command of the shaft. The movie employs a chronology up until Joni's first day of college which is conducive to the ultimate rehabilitation of the whole family, without the sperm donor, of course.

Paul's character is in question at so many places. He's been brilliantly portrayed by Ruffalo who's had a similar role in Begin Again, where he is an inconsistent and tormented father along with being a struggling song-producer, which he again did brilliantly. He's a good actor—Ruffalo. Paul is in between nothing; he's a college-dropout, but owns an above-average restaurant. His involvement with Jules is a plot of the movie, with many others, Joni Mitchell, and Indian employ being two of them. The little yet filling details made The Kids Are All Right a movie that seems like you're watching the exact life in your neighborhood.

With everything said, I think it was Lisa Cholodenko's big and only one shot. Every once in a while, even a crow becomes a falcon. She might have pulled it out of nothing, and her idea, which was nothing but a regular production, turned out to be eccentrically attractive to many, out of good-luck and somewhat unprecedented potential. But it's very unlikely that she'll write any such piece ever again. However, it doesn't mean that The Kids Are All Right was an accidental discovery. I just think that even Lisa wouldn't have thought that highly of her script before its release.

From Paul's BMW to Laser's skateboard, everything was perfectly synced together, and in those one-hundred and something minutes, I felt like I watched the gay version of Modern Family. It felt comedic, yet lively, and quite appropriable to what actually happens in lives, not necessarily unconventional ones. Actually if you look at it, after some time, it doesn't really matter if it's a hetro- or homo-; the groundwork is always same. The tags and gigs are all the same.

More than anything else, Annette Bening's authoritarian character was most flabbergasting. She was terribly good with Nic, and honestly looked like the practical head of the family. Her gait, expressions, and voice was at times pretty totalitarian, and I personally felt sorry for Jules (Julianne Moore) and her tenderness.

The honesty with which Lisa's presented this idea is simply commendable. It might seem like an easy-going, totally-happening script, but the reality is immensely different. You can't think of so every-day ideas, and present them with the same ease as real-life. Movies are more taken as action, and drama (melodrama is more like it), but coming up with something which underlines the questions that actually come from the growing minds of all families is finite and very confined. So yeah, hats off to Lisa, and Annette for being the core of the movie. I hope to see more of TKAAR thingies.

What do I loathe about the world?—the fact that its genesis is compared to everything else generated by human mind, like the world is not an artificial product itself, huh? I think, and I know that I'm by no means an authority on this matter, that the archetypal form of perfection itself is imagination, and it's the closest to the framework of existentialism that we now call reality. I mean whoever produced the "reality" we see today must have imagined it with his "imagination" at some point.

Anderson has been very aberrant with all his works. Just when everybody thought Anderson can't think of anything but Tenenbaums in his every other movie, he delivered The Grand Budapest Hotel that boasts off the cognitive versatility that man possesses. For Moonrise Kingdom, I think people have been criticizing it for its similarity to Anderson's previous moves, except Fantastic Mr. Fox, in the production proceedings. I have to slightly agree with this claim, but I'd phrase more like, "Anderson has his own way of seeing things." Moonrise Kingdom doesn't really fit into any genre that prevails on the planet. It's not drama for me, except for the nostalgia—like remembering my ex-girlfriend whom I met before you grew them, if you know what I mean. With all the silly things that this movie shows, I still believe that this movie is not for anybody under 15; they can watch it, sure, but for the proper comprehension of its record player, latrine, binoculars, pebbles, Edward Norton (all of him), Captain Sharp & Social Services, raven, and literally so many things.

From this, I would like to make a point: While Anderson adopts the same strategy of reflecting things from his perspective and view of the cinema and the world, he shows his perspective in so many different ways and with so many symbolizations that his emblem doesn't really remain static. I mean I wouldn't take Moonrise Kingdom to be either of drama, comedy, or adventure. It was exploratory, but that exploration had nothing to do with camping, lighting fires, and so on; it had more to do with exploring yourself, your childish predilections, and eventually learning the mature out of that. We all must know this if we've ever experienced infatuation(s) in the very early phase of our life. Everybody thinks the ideal way, where the quest for being sardonic is trashed away for a while and the idealized view of the "self" and the "generalized" is presented for eternal edification. This, just this, even accounts for the nourishment and sustenance of conscience. I know this has all turned philosophical but see, that's the groundwork Anderson wished to induce. Anderson knows that all minds don't sync in uniformity, and he's not trying to invert that. He's only giving you something that sis completely awry of the trend. Why keep everything close to how it happens in the real world? Why not invent something, be ahead of everyone else and called a fool, but then get praised for being one of the finest film-makers of all-time? I'd totally go for that route.

Anderson is one of the very few film-makers alive who really aim for novelty. Even among those handful, Anderson's scripts, and directorial endeavors are by far the most distinguishable, and this really qualifies him as a film-maker. I'm really not kidding by saying that naming the chef in a single bite is nearly impossible. So when they say that glitter is to Anderson as everything-else is to Hollywood (I'm sorry I just made that up), they're truly saying something.

Please don't think of the man as obsessed with pre-pubescent kids; he's just trying to make a point. And he's so good with that than even after audiences like me know that this is all melodramatic, and miles away from pure sentimentalism, they cannot get rid of getting emotional about it.

I can't speak for anyone else, but I've loved him since always, and he continues to surprise me with everything he brings on.

First of all, I'm sorry I watched it pretty late.

I don't think most of us have had the heart, and the courage, to see what this really was. No, this was not an over-sentimental, full-of-tears-and-sadness drama. It wasn't even a pure insight into the lives of the afflicted. It wasn't even an adaptation of Green's novel. It was only the pinching, romantic and delicate imagery I've always had from listening to Wait (M83) and its Kygo remix. By the way I'm not adulterating my every-day's empirical observations and imaginations for the sake of this review. Check my SoundCloud account if you've any suspicions. For those of you who actually did, see? I don't lie. Neither does my review.

So that's the bottom-line: If Wait wasn't in the movie, this might have been six star movie for me. But because Wait is used, and in the exact places as it should have been, I'll give a maximum, not that anybody gives a cuss, but then see, the movie isn't made for getting cusses. It's made for "assimilators" (not a word) like me, who desperately long for content that actually is an honest-to-god discernment of what some lives may be like, and those lives may not be notably similar. I mean I don't have cancer, but something relatable to it.

By the way Willem Dafoe was the best of all of them. The scene where he is first shown is absolutely beautiful, and really adds to the "8" I've given. His character of Gus Van Houden could not have been exploited the way Willem did. I mean the guy's a natural. He looked a sociopath, and intellectually overdosed freak. And when he said, "Lidewij, play Bomfalleralla," ah man, I was practically hoping with the song that followed. The production is of course by Alfasy & Filthy, but its usage here in Th Fault in Our Stars provided it the vigor and intensity. Gus Van Houden was a total mess, and that messiness is what I like. Irregular is the new regular.

John Green's work reached its visualization, and I am not disappointed. It was good, and stick-able because of its eventual sentimentalism, which is the case with most viewers. But with that, I think Green's original work had much more maturity, grip with situation, and smoothness. Everything was too amateurish in the movie, and looked more like a college-typo. Anyways, worked for me; I rarely look for beyond-the-general-standard product when it comes to romance.

Apart from the disastrous editing (sound and otherwise), this movie takes the viewers to a whole different level. There are no extraordinary dialogues, mind it. There is no dramatic story, mind again. There is nothing breathtaking in the plot. There's just an idea. Actually anything said or written about the idea would be an understatement so I'll leave the guidance blow empty here.

Chef in Chef faces challenges, and given his current state, that is, the loser restaurant and loser owner, and his illiteracy with Twitter, he is disappointed by the whole state of affairs. With the power of the sacred bond (with his son), he sets out trying to correct things, but this time, he does just a one dish, which I'll leave to the prospective audiences of this movie to see for themselves.

Movies like Chef are, nonetheless, quite mainstream. But then, such movies only aim at easing their audience. The whole point of having nothing extraordinary elevates these movies to extraordinary levels. Favreau's frustration, anger, grief, comedy is the focal point. His situation throughout makes the watch constantly interesting. There are many flaws, so I'm guessing the only target was making audiences giggle on just about everything, while feeling good about themselves.

In acting, there were two extremes, it was Jon Favreau at his best and Sofia Vergara at her poorest. But don't worry, she isn't the headline. As for the story (not the idea), you'll be hungry throughout the movie. And when you'll leave the screen, you'll not just be a movie buff, you'll be a "tummy puff".

Feurer, command—we follow. It was the slogan of Hitler's tsunami back in those days, which is still found in individuals, underground single-man and obsessive people; they're obsessed with a certain lifestyle, and believe not in discussion, neither in argumentation, but in imposition. Bald-headed or not, individuals like Derek are reality, so are Danny(s) who're confused in choosing roads. What makes their predicaments even worse is the double-minded composition of the world, and that's something that is going to remain constant for a long time. Hence, so are the extremist mobs. I'm not declaring them wrong, I'm only calling them ambivalent. I'm aware of the Holocaust and the society that thinks it's perfectly justified. I wouldn't contradict their viewpoint, but my promulgation will certainly devise the conduct of suggestion, interaction, and double-exchange rather than straight exterminations. I don't wish to be called a monologue-r, although that title gains more viewer-ship. "Appeal to popularity" is an argumentative fallacy that individuals of all levels adopt in their conversational discourse. Now let's go to the review.

American History X captures absence/lack/irrationality of egalitarianism in a very unique way. Using Nazism, it extends its effects to the black community. Edward Norton (crazy-eyes) suited the role only from physical and expressive way; he was pretty bad from the "vocal" perspective; the guy can't do working-class roles at all; I mean let's face it, the guy's voice appears to be of an over-intellectualized kid doing weed, not a hipster or gangster. His acting nonetheless was superb, like when officers are arresting him and he looks at Danny with that psychotic smile (crazy-eyes, no?) The nigga-facta was good. Almost all the extras in the movie were African-Americans. I think this was a directorial flaw. America's still flowing with Whites. I'm not personally against blacks, in fact I've a lot of Afro-Am friends myself. But that doesn't mean that you flood the set with them. But then looking at the low-budget, it's acceptable. Moreover, the movie didn't look at perfection, but realism and digging the small-scale on-goings in America and potentially all over the globe.

American History has nothing but Norton's acting and screenplay (even that limited to the amount of touch with real-life scenario). But what it has is delivered with excellence. The story keeps you ponder over the ruthlessness of all sides. The world isn't so perfect as shown. You can't expect things to be rational, or mildly reasonable. Even paternal guidance isn't entirely logical, neutral and aimed at resolving physical and mental issues.

I was hit down by the movie, and I started to question the logical sense and accuracy of "white man's burden" claim. From Derek's skull-crushing to his assault in prison, and from that to Danny's ultimate redemption, everything builds up your trust with the movie, and believe me, whatever it says, you'll start following it the same way. So yeah that's probably the only good-thing about it.

With everything said, I think if you look from the low-budget perspective and director's mindset, you'll realize that film's intention and imparting was limited and it successfully got what it aimed. However, from the dramaturgical viewpoint, it lacks several accessories.

Most of them chose Boyhood, even I did in the first place. But then I watched Birdman again, and I saw what I had not earlier—Birdman flew very, very high. Sadly, people didn't notice either him or his flight.

The metaphorical and direct connotations of Birdman, or in fact Alejandro, were both comedic and moralistic. The drama hidden beneath the colloquial surface wasn't easy to decipher; it required immense analytical ability. Most of the audiences, while being mesmerized by the cinematography (Lubezki made it as if Birdman were filmed in one shot), found Birdman boring and yawn-making. This was partially because of the ambiguity it ended with, and partially because of the disguised curtain between superficiality and reality. None of them understood the subtle difference between the two. In fact, none of them could figure it out—did it end on "Birdman" or "man"? This ambiguity ruled Birdman out for some because they didn't think it was worth digging into. Well surely those people were wrong.

I internally confess that Birdman has a better screenplay that most movies in Oscars' archives. The Grand Budapest Hotel did defeat Birdman in BAFTAs but so far, it is Birdman that has successfully dominated hearts and minds of most analysts, given its realism, and intellectualized ambiguity (I know that sounds strange). The movie's end is what has become one of the controversial endings of all-time, and believe me, this ending has crossed the Inception and Interstellar thresholds—was it figment of Sam's imagination, or was it Riggan's freaking obsession, or was it the just-before-the-last-breath thingy? What did Birdman say? Surely it remarked upon the mental mingling that sustains in the inner-self of the highly stressed and freaked-out people, myself included. But was it a story of success, despair, or desperation? Even the screenwriters, while on HuffPost Live, said that the movie's ending is left to audiences' interpretation. This interpretation still needs to be figured out, and this unidentified interpretation won for Birdman the Oscar for "Best Original Screenplay".

The plot Birdman picked was entirely unpredictable, over-the-top, core-of-the-diversified-world, and actually-happening. We see people in our daily lives who are obsessed about the things they love, which in my case would be with film criticism and analysis. But in this edifice of unjust and ever-ticking world, nothing happens the way we plan, and although we eventually get accustomed to practicality, we have this idealistic flower inside ourselves that itch, so that we aloof ourselves from whatever hurdles we face, and go on with the undefined journey is ambiguous ways. This quest is so effectively portrayed that it boosts up consciousness and conscience. Scripts like Birdman do not exist; it's singular, and will remain so for a long, long time. While ordinary people were peeved off at it, I was not (although initially I was). Birdman didn't have competition, and so it legitimizes its win.

Birdman was the first runner-up in the chase, following Boyhood in all award ceremonies. It has remained the choice of novels, but Linklater's delicacy with the task-at-hand left everyone vulnerable to his directorial spell. Birdman remains one of a handful of movies that avoid any make-ups, or artificiality, in the film-making. The events of life, in both, were as close to realism as I am to keyboard at the moment—they were really happening. Although I said, and stand by the standpoint that Boyhood is banal, I espouse on the "fact" that the screenplay was too brilliant to be just ordinary, while being only ordinary, as paradoxical as it sounds. However, Birdman goes one step ahead by taking movie-viewers to the height of real-life experience of real, surreal, superficial and mental bundles and leaves us to doubt the existences of destiny, justice, fate, hard-work, and other so-called prolific elements of success.

Birdman follows a course from dramaturgical point of view that is completely unheard of. Alejandro allows such independence and flexibility (not fluctuation) in story-telling that doesn't speak the likes of most, even Kubrick for that matter. Most artists I know might twist and confuse, and deliberately antagonize audience to intensify the scenarios. Alejandro, on the contrary, speaks the human genome. This movie, unlike any other of '15, is made solely for critical thinkers, and the Academy-people have in a long time, agreed with me on the final call.

Which way do you want to look? Factual? Sure, let's stick to that. Boyhood—13 years of filming made Richard Linklater an apparent and obvious winner of '15 Oscars although DGAs preferred Alejandro (quite rightly). DGAs retained their legacy on 22nd February when Alejandro outdid Linklater for Birdman.

With the exception of Boyhood's direction, nothing in the movie is slightly appreciable, maybe cast's far-stretched loyalty and expectations, but that doesn't amount to anything. Even direction was pretty straight-forward if you look at it.

Boyhood is enjoyable only to a certain extent, and after that, you start rubbing your eyes, shaking all "sleep" away, and partly, trying to comprehend if the boy's really growing or is it the booze (that can be taken as a complement). There's nothing to praise the movie for except Patricia Arquette, Richard Linklater, and Lorelai Linklater (Oops I did it again!). It's likable at first, but at the end of everything, you start to question yourself—is it the movie, or is it the filmmaker's abnormal effort? We all know that Linklater is famous for his "Before" trilogy, and consequently, for his inclination to stick with his projects for long period of times (Before Trilogy was completed in 27 years, each sequel filmed and released 9 years after the prequel, something isn't it?). And I am still grateful to his idiosyncratic and unconventional product, but frankly, the movie doesn't have a good plot. It's uncommon, no doubt, but not good. But then the question is, why didn't The Tree of Life take the Oscar back in 2012 when The Artist (quite comparable to The Grand Budapest Hotel) won the title? The mere fact that Linklater spent over twelve years in making the project is not the forerunner of brilliance, rather of devotion. If you look at it, Boyhood was fragmented, with no legitimate discourse following through. Everything was just happening with time, with no "drama" involved. While this was considered as a baffling directorial endeavor, it didn't really have anything to do with direction, rather just sticking with the script, not losing interest, and picking up cameras at every other birthday of Ellar Coltrane.

Boyhood, I reckon, wanted to tell a normal story, that didn't have twists and round-about(s) like conventional movies. It presumed that its conventional story-telling would be deemed eccentric and praised for its realism. I have to say that it got that successfully. But was this conversational narrative better at improvisation than all other nominees? Sadly no. Boyhood failed to have a long-lasting impact—ever-occurring goose-bumps. Intense dramas like The King's Speech, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, The Reader, Chicago, Life of Pi, 12 Years a Slave, and idiosyncratic comedies like The Wolf of Wall Street and The Grand Budapest Hotel were able to communicate their point; there were morals of their respective stories. With Boyhood, this wasn't the case. I couldn't figure out what Linklater was trying to do. He was exceptionally well with his realism in the Before trilogy, but here, it all seemed meaningless. I sure had nostalgia, and craving to experience my childhood again, but it was everything that all of us already long for; it isn't a new dimension that was brought open to us. The impact that winners like Forrest Gump, The English Patient and 12 Years a Slave had on me could never have happened if Boyhood would have won. Birdman, however, has left me puzzled over its bizarre finish, in a good way, of course. I'm so pleased that despite every predictor's incessant attempts at indeliberately modifying my predilection, I was firm. Look what my sound judgment has bestowed me.

As for editing, well it sure went through a lot of it, given the time span it covered; Linklater had to see which segments made the story more legit, unbroken, and sensible. But that's what everybody does. Linklater had to spend more time on it because of the far-stretched circumference he had bound himself to.

In the end, well yeah I watched it, reviewed it; let's just move on already.

I had watched The Dreamers a very long time ago, but it was just nude clips on DailyMotion; I never realized that a movie with NC-17 could have any aesthetic potential, so I thought, "Why bother going through the whole piece?" Now that I was ahead of the "hetro erectus" phase, I watched The Dreamers again, this time whole of it, and I swear, I didn't have any interest in watching those scenes while I was just in the initial stages. This implies that the movie was made for a whole lot of reasons, but nudity was not one of them. Audacity and explicitness might be.

The Dreamers dreams high. It talks about world at a small-scale and minuscule level, it talks about the every-day interaction patterns, and what these patterns symbolize. It talks about the cognitive confusions, dilemmas, predicaments, and everything baffling about this world. It talks about how not every individual agrees with the norm, in fact, doesn't even agree to them being norm. Such individuals consider their lives resembling superficiality, and consider themselves agents of it. They associate every move and variation of their life with the one elsewhere. The Dreamers bring such people to reality. I'm an authority because I'm too, on so many levels, exhibiting the same views of myself.

The script isn't something that only true movie and media lovers will understand and like. For others, it's just three beautiful people in France talking and doing crap for ninety-something minutes. The Dreamers talks about incest, because for the people it talks about, it is one of the sexual relationships that have gone awry from the main course of socialization; it's not considered a norm, while it should be. Incest is just like any other physical bond. You see, the movie uses sexuality, and nudity as agents of vision, not pleasure, which fags of modern-day drama do.

The Dreamers uses ordinary people in ordinary circumstances with extraordinary personalities. These personalities are not the tycoon, magnate ones; they're only commonly uncommon, if that makes any sense. The Dreamers elucidates what's the figment of my imagination (reality while I'm fully submerged into that phase) when I'm listening to Marriage of Figaro or Mozart in general. I'm stuck by the same gust of dreaming and Lego-making when I listen to him, or watch a sentimental movie (not just romance, I mean even Interstellar hit me pretty badly.) The Dreamers provides several links, connections, references, causations and correlations to movies, behave in certain ways reminiscent to those performed in the movies (that's when I started loving Eva Green. Still do.) Eva Green was out of all three, much better in reflecting the theme of the movie. The others just played their part I'd say.

Verdict: Don't watch it if you're even a mild-philistine. You'll know if you're because all philistines don't know what philistine means. I know that was patronizing; I'm like that sometimes.

An erudite and seemingly nerd figure stands in a rather convivial background that seems rather digressed from the life a Cambridge geek might live. He shares an unexpected glance with a charming lady who turns the same back on him. The man wears "coke bottle glasses" that literally conform him to the aberrant grandeur of "nerd". The story takes a natural run and the dedicated stakeholders find themselves in a relationship that has exactly opposite connotations; it edifies and strengthens, while slowly debilitating the long lasting promise of the female spouse. From the start, James Marsh perfected in being banal and ordinary, doing nothing fabulous with the movie except comprehensible story-telling, and one of the most astounding and cherished performances of all time. The latter holds utterly true for the male performance. I wasn't in awe of Felicity anywhere, with the exception of perhaps the moments when she cries and feels for her husband in the movie.

Hawking is found with Amytrophic Lateral Sclerosis just when he was in the early stages of his PhD in cosmology. This diagnosis follows Eddie Redmayne's (Hawking) collapse, which is backed by Johann Johannson's Chalkboard. It was this scene that came out of the screen to hold my right ear and whisper, "How you like me now?" The next ninety minutes have been inscribed on my heart and mind almost permanently. Eddie pulls off a Daniel Day-Lewis (My Left Foot) performance. What other complement does he need than Stephen Hawking's own tears dripping down his cheeks while watching the movie (this actually happened).

Back to the movie. Stephen's then companion, Jane, offers to accompany him because she loves him and they get married. Partly restricted by his physical state, Hawking starts to focus on the origins of time in his PhD thesis. His work opens new horizons to the study of time and cosmology. Although he is initially undermined by a few renowned professors, his work is regarded with global appreciation. Hawking, when asked by Professor Dennis of he would like to do after his PhD, responds that he would prove his theory that even time had a start.

Concurrently, the physicist finds his illness worsening but Jane's dedication continues to be conducive to his mental and physical upbringing. Hawking decides to write a book on "time" and titles it "A Brief History of Time". He colleagues and admirers assist him with an exclusive gadget on which he can write with the properly functional body parts, his fingers. Finally the book is launched, and Hawking's cerebrum dominates the intellectual market. His book goes viral and over ten-million copies were sold. At this stage, he is left terribly desolated by his own "self". He can't speak, he can't breathe in the way a normal person does (he has a ventilator for that), and is entirely guided by his intrinsic cognitive incandescence, affection, and support from kins and peers. But even that starts to fade away as Hawking's dearly celebrated "time" passes and his wife gets concentrated with love for Hawking's former caretaker, Jonathan. This is juxtaposed with Elaine, her current caretaker, who is affectionate towards Hawking, and later in time, they both get married (not shown in the movie).

Hawking is invited to the Queen as a gesture of appreciation from the royal family for all his astounding achievements. The last scene shows him and Jane, who are still married, just outside the royal palace, and Hawking writes the most sentimental comment of the movie, "Look what we made". The screen shows their three children, and then "time" reverses, metaphorically asserting his stance on traveling back in time. The curtains close with a sound cadence of music that culminates the very content of the movie and leaves audience with a contradictory state of happiness and emotional distress.

Throughout the movie, I didn't think of the direction, nor the script. Therefore, I didn't think The Theory of Everything had any chance of winning when it was finally nominated for Best Adapted Screenplay, and I was quite appreciative of the Academy for not nominating the James Marsh for Best Direction, which otherwise would have been an unnecessary and sympathetic nomination. If you look at it, the movie had nothing except Eddie Redmayne's so "cussying" real-life depiction of Stephen, Stephen's original life that he lived, University of Cambiige's prodigious establishment(for the first quarter of the movie), and Johann Johannsson's goose-bumping score, which unfortunately lost to Alexander's comical for The Grand Budapest Hotel (I wish Academy starts giving runner-up awards too.) But just this was enough to qualify it for "thumbs-up" from me.

What I can never forget is how the movie ends. I was in tears. It was a conundrum for me—I felt shivering, because I long for such a moment myself, where I can say "Look what we made," and follow back on my steps to see accomplishment, and struggle, because anything that comes without it loses its charm. I'm feeling the same thing while writing this review. Maybe I'm being melodramatic, but it feels really strong.

After having watched this, I feel like I finally have the collection that can adjoin honestly with my personal tick-tock.

The Indian thingy kept me away from it for a long time. My anticipation truly rose when I got to know that Steven Spielberg was co-producing it. What happened next? It appended itself to my "Legendary" list. I don't care about minor flaws, or flaws in general. I don't know how good the original book by Rickard Morais was. I only know that Steven Knight has added something extraordinary to the script. After all, the guy has absolutely nailed in True Detective. I wouldn't complement or degrade the acting, of either race in this scenario. But one thing: Charlotte Le Bon, or Marguerite, as most of us would know her by—first: she resembles Winona Ryder, second: I've fallen for her in a manner different from the usual oh-she-is-so-French kind of way; she's probably one of the most elegant woman I've ever seen (on screen of course, poor me, eh?)

If you wish a light-hearted movie to cheer you up with "everything nice," this is the thing!

Honestly, if it wasn't for cuisine, cooking, chef related, super adaptation, and *Marguerite*, I might not be reviewing this movie at all.

I pity you dull giants of royalty. You're really spoiling your authoritarianism.

The Homesman is a beautiful movie. Tommy Lee Jones is what everybody expects him to be (especially when it's a western). He can be better but not less, no, not a chance. Hilary Swank? I've always loved her acting; I mean who doesn't, especially after watching Million Dollar Baby? With that said, I have this uneasiness and queasiness inside me due to her weirdly mature look, wide platypus-lips, and so I never really like her (but that's my personal flaw).

The script had that captivating flavor, it was so smooth and touchy, and through a story of despair and misery, it swelled my heart with cognitive vulnerability. I was so "down" after watching it. This feeling might have happened to me after a long time. The two names, out of many others, , that did this to me were The English Patient and Requiem for a Dream.

The score is brilliant; it particularly suits perfectly when Cuddy's estranged. The main track inflicts western-horror that is unprecedented.

The makers of this movie worked off on a tough terrain, not just the literal one, to produce such an exquisite work of art; they had no idea big-bump-freaks dwelling at the hierarchical apex would rather die than being rational.

Bottom-line: Cuddy and Briggs have seamlessly made it through (at least on my watch).

Colin, the apparent chum and tranquilizing love-buddy of Marilyn, fell for what appeared, and still appears as a matter of fact, to be the Greek goddess. It might have been a week for him, and an infinite clocks of wounds, but for the viewers of "My Week with Marilyn" it's only a bloody nightmare. Before going further, let's keep it clear that I loved the movie, the presentation is appreciable, and Eddie Redmayne was superb with his innocent looks and freckles. Kenneth Branagh was good too, only that there was nothing remarkably extraordinary in his act. Michelle Williams, while did justice to the task-at-hand, failed miserably at the hands of structural-mediocrity. The following might be offensive, but I'm not judging by her looks, I'm only stating plain, and hardcore facts that make her inauspicious for the role.

Marilyn Monroe has no look-alike, and although some of modern-day actresses might imitate her style effectively, they may never do it the way she did—innately charming, and unflinchingly pound-making, if that's a word. Michelle Williams, while being awesomely good at acting, looks like a whore (prostitute for mild-readers). She's awfully broad-faced for Marilyn, has vacuum-cleaner lips, and is not pretty at all. Again, I have no issues with her acting, I never have, but c'mon, have some respect for one of the brilliant, and surely the most beautiful actress Hollywood has ever had to see. If you wanted a bloody Oscar nomination, you could have gone with Emilia Clarke (perfectly beautiful, knows how to act, has the mildly-chubby look for Marilyn, and most of all—not a whore (again, prostitute for mild-readers); just had to get rid of her British accent). Or, you could have gone with Carey Mulligan, who again, is far better than "Mr. Williams". Or it could have been Margot Robbie, Kate Hudson or Crystal Reed. Or you should have made the goddamn movie a decade earlier and had Nicole Kidman or Naomi Watts do the role! Everything was possible. You see, when it's about Marilyn Monroe, it's not only about acting. You could bring a real brothel-worker to ditto her acts, but that's the whole point, you don't have to just copy-paste them down, you gotta have the proper "diva", or it will just like a cheap and perverted, and night-club thingy. Why did you spoil such a beautiful theme, and such a brilliant imagery? I hate you for that.

I agree that Michelle probably is only actress with plausible similarity in countenance, like a quarter of one-percent, compared with my suggestions (quarter of a quarter of one-percent). But audience would have liked anyone with half the beauty as Marilyn on board. They know no one can have her looks. Everybody's always reasonable, except those jerks behind the stages.

P.S I loved Michelle in other movies—Brokeback Mountain, Blue Valentine, and several others.