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|35 reviews in total|
Mohammed and Abdul are plucked from their livelihoods like plush toys
cradled by a claw. An insignificant coin must be presented to the Queen
of England by authentic Indian men for some apparent reason. This
exchange is to be done in person, and this homey pair will cross
hemisphere lines to fulfill a culture quota.
Both men are aware of the atrocities that the British Empire has carried out on their homeland, but take different approaches in displaying their distaste. Mohammed is a blunt viper with little tolerance. He is beyond justified in his insults, but sleeping in the royal palace dulls his temper.
Abdul has developed a strange admiration for his abductors. He wishes to shape a hybrid history that waters down both the oppressors' actions as well as the natives' reactions. Once in the Isles, Abdul becomes enamored by colonization, and draws parallels to his own country's vivid ledger of creative borrowing.
This whimsical attitude of inclusion leads to one of the most unlikely friendships of all time. A simple glance upon her majesty, and a Hindu coin-bearer opens a door to cultural exchange that will influence the very architecture of the palace he was booked for an one night stay in.
Victoria has reached the down-slope of her storied lifespan. Every soul that she truly loved has vanished into sleep, and she is awfully tired. Once an ambitious and vicious ruler, now a pile of apathetic hunger. Napping between dishes, finally a sight crosses her plane of vision interesting enough to indulge in.
The pair exchange language, food, and art at a ferocious rate. Class struggles dissipate on a daily basis, and the marginalized subcontinent holds the attention of the most powerful woman in the world. Their spokesperson is a dangerously optimistic Muslim whose boldness irritates everyone except the one who sits on the throne.
Quan has been mislabeled as a fugitive his entire life, but now has
settled into an uneventful and tranquil British existence. Living above
the Chinese restaurant that he owns, the aging man has successfully
evaded the enemies that have lined his past. Now with one remaining
possession to protect, simple errands require high security protocols.
When a group of political radicals cross paths with this wise, sleeping giant, a new target transpires. The final love being stolen from Quan, an unsuspecting politician will have to aid in the chinaman's revenge. Liam only has loose ties to the rogue outlet that woke the beast, but nonetheless he will be bullied into servitude.
Quan practices dark blackmailing with precision and ingenuity. Liam underestimates his determination, which results in a wide range of casualties. Both men discover ugly truths of this road to revenge, but only one is looking for them.
The pair develop an endearing respect for one another, never despising the other's mission. They have fought for nation and pride on separate hemispheres, and have buried their blood in pursuit of some imaginary freedom. Liam has turned his struggle into a two- faced political position, while Quan only ever wanted to disappear.
No matter how well you assimilate and hide within a peaceful country, terror can bite, because its victims are always faceless. Quan wants to be the final face these bargain bin anarchists see, and Liam is the only one that can sniff their tracks. A hunter beats his bloodhound into submission.
Fear is a dangerous tool when working towards equality. Scaring your opponent into compromise only turns enemies out of everyone. Collateral damage will come back from retirement and slit your throat for a senseless attack. Cowards plant bombs, but revolutionaries speak with incendiaries.
A poisonous sorority has inundated Bayford University with bitter
rivals. A calorie cutting agenda cuts the crop of wishful debutantes,
while 3 a.m. pledge inductions bloat testosterone and deplete respect.
A mire of social cannibalism, the school common reeks of
Tree, a sisterhood loyal, wakes in a pseudo-nerd's dorm room from a painfully obvious and contradicting ring tone. The three letter word illuminating from her screen elicits audible disdain. The seeds of selfishness are planted as she bosses around the servant boy who never deserved to care for her.
Karma should never be laughed at, but here it is a tone-deaf joke. Tree has ample opportunities to correct her putrid elitism, but even death needs a few semesters' worth of lectures to make a dent in her obnoxious personality. With protagonist that even the most condescending individual would despise, the narrative throws all stakes in a fiery garbage bin where its victimizing one liners should have rested.
When a film's universe is intrinsically tethered to time, it becomes inexcusable to disregard time frames entirely. The viewer becomes punished when they dive into the intricacies of the events that the film subjugates upon the audience repeatedly. No matter how long Tree stalls in waking moments, or how swiftly she jets out of the stranger's door, a timer starts when it is most convenient for the pitiful visual gags to wear themselves out.
A heavy handed score mixed with the most "paper due at midnight" twist push this narrative into new depths of apathetic storytelling. Avoid this film if you have a weak neck, because you are bound to shake your head every two minutes. No laughs are intentional, and this meme nursery only succeeds in being needlessly offensive.
Storms have zero sympathy, and those left stranded by them revert to
rash measures. Alex has an aisle to walk down tomorrow, a bride
traveling abroad to capture images for magazines. Ben has an operating
room to step into tomorrow. Both, a full country away from their
destinations. The stakes of love and live are tussled by rough weather
that ground their commercial aircraft taxi.
Alex's connections in the photojournalism world lead her to a shady private hanger off of the tarmac. Her eavesdropping on Ben's flight desk pleading has roped him into this under-the-table fare. Some phony brand of fate has linked them in this cramped fuselage.
The rogue pilot, Walter, has an arrogant charm that makes more promises than any one person can keep. A musky air of foreboding fills the cabin and his dog serves as impromptu flight attendant. The homey feel of the twin turbine bird frees Alex's spirit, but Ben is preoccupied with the 10-year-old life that will be in his hands sooner than expected.
Disaster cradles the plane and brings it to a premature landing. Casualties are quickly calculated, and now the events of the passenger maybe postponed indefinitely. A surgeon begins to work overtime, and a photographer starts collecting obituary shots.
As diverse of a pairing as possible, Alex and Ben become representatives of anatomical powers. Ben speaks for the brain and the logical capacities that studies survival with cold calculation. Alex champions the heart and the gut instincts that account for intangible breaks of fortune.
Their perspectives grow more inline as their stomach deplete and their temperature plummets. Soon they find peaceful coffins in themselves, and turn to affection to warm their blistered souls. Strangers transform into confidants, and final amendments spew out over strategic cuddling.
Death binds us much more effectively than love. Love only works when all is well. When existence teeters on a cliff ledge, the nearest soul becomes your strongest passion. This compassion is cooked with anger and resentment, cooled with finality and surrender. A sensual secret is buried in the mountains and you have to taste death to discover it.
Toeing the line of artificiality and spirituality, replicants have been
compressed to subterranean tombs and schools. The history lessons have
biblical twinges to them, and the bones have secrets etched into the
crevasses. A breed of manufactured slaves that have wrangled down
consciousness, now await a second coming.
Officer K is a slave of the law. He enjoys the noir lifestyle of a detective, but is chained to diagnostic analysis and a maternal police chief. His blank disposition and indiscriminate decision- making preserve his utility in the eyes of the blue shield. K's obedience almost outlasts his curiosity.
A search that leads K to inconvenient truths, the path is littered with road signs declaring religious opiates. A social structure that necessitates racism for the survival of a species erects an illusive wall to segregate the human from the ultra-human. Humanity loses its superiority when it creates humanoid slaves.
A CEO fabricates a heavenly throne, and spindles angels in his tabernacle of data. His new creation requires a miracle from the past. A hybrid prodigy lost in the wasteland of industrial ruble. Attempting to conquer an universe, this god hoarded everything but the key to transcendence.
Joi is far more artificial than K, but is able to suspend his disbelief by calculated tugs at his generated nostalgia. Nothing more than projected rays, Joi is a slave to a slave. K respects the hollowness of their relationship, and finds a soundboard and close colleague in his luminescent companion.
Reality bends, but it never breaks. The intricacies of sight blur when they are observed, and objects rarely obey their predispositions. Realness betrays reality when synthetic souls begin to cry. Memory is a precious commodity in a world where experience needs to be programmed.
The protection business is booming. Corruption has pushed the demand
for professional armor-guarding above the roof. Wealth is a mountain
climbed with slimy, profiteering hands. Micheal does not think too much
about his clients' ascents, all he is concerned with are the enemies
they have collected on their rise to the top.
Micheal's operation gathers scenarios. He prides himself on foreseeing the unforeseeable. He has rose to his AAA status by being as fickle as the scumbags he chaperons. Saving lives is the business model, but one cannot help but to wonder if this is a misuse of resources.
Darius is Micheal's worst nightmare. An assassin that does not subscribe to any logistical course plans, Darius is the intangible crack in Micheal's security. They are at odds without being enemies. Neither has respect for the other, but they both walk with a subdued fear of one another. Well maybe just Micheal does.
As even the least astute viewer could predict, the two fill the roles of yin and yang in unashamed cookie cutter ways. Conveniently paralleled backstories pull the unlikely duo into a phony symbiosis, and the breaks in character flow from this light bromance.
What is a nobler calling: Saving the lives of pampered villains, or killing them? Neither is righteous, but the origins of these careers hold some promise. Taking up very little screen time are hints of these heroes' calls to adventure, but clearly monetary fulfillment robbed their sympathies along the way.
Is killing an essential ingredient in conservation? Big game hunters
argue that the hunting industry provides the largest refuge for
endangered species. Paradoxical and controversial, this notion has
birthed an African goldmine: Zoos with a twist, murder vacations with
A pricey gift shop of blood thirst, hunting resorts offer a controlled and abbreviated experience of inter-species domination. Some defend the slaughter party with an ancient book, others with a love for the very animals they auction off to North American bullets.
Outside of these death camps, lay sanctuaries that bleed money rather than bathe in it. They too are sitting on a goldmine, however. Their goods just are not as easy to push. The resorts believe selective killing will ensure a species' survival, while the sanctuaries engage in non-lethal harvesting of the majestic animals.
Both parties take in order to preserve. Whether lives or horns, these operations require revenue to fund sustainability. When these two pools of thought intersect, an ugly debate sparks, and the well- being of the animals gets pushed more and more to the periphery.
Hunting is becoming less and less a sport as the commercial appeal grows. But was the sport ever rational? Did it possess an ecological merit? The dangerous five have their nomenclature for good reason. Perhaps wildlife does require a sportsman's buffer to protect native's livelihoods.
Industry shapes legislature. A brutal reality that puts wild animals' futures in the balance. Humanity has ascribed themselves with the responsibility of protecting these beasts. A noble pursuit that has brought division and bickering. Humanity is most concerned with their own offspring, no matter how much it preaches conservation.
Fiction has become Jerry's most successful pickup line. The culturally
accepted version of lying that is: Short stories with arrogant and
witty protagonists. Boys with blistering thoughts and sharp words, his
characters observe only to formulate their next jab. This aggressive
form of storytelling wins him affection from women, and disapproval
Jerry writes himself into his stories, and the characters suffer an identity crisis as a result. His voice swallows up the narrative and the plot suffocates in an ooze of style. Of course, he is blissfully unaware of this clash until Whit lectures him into the floorboards. An editor of Story magazine, Whit still teaches at Columbia to support his fruitless career in writing.
Whit is the first jaded wise man that Jerry encounters on his journey to self-actualization. The veteran abandons his podium often, knowing that Jerry requires a confrontational teaching approach. Sniffing out Jerry's talent, Whit chastised the young artist with noble purpose. A will stronger than titanium, Jerry's character needs to be re- purposed into an insatiable drive.
Greatness comes at a grave cost. Even watering greatness involves countless occupational hazards. The fallout of success contains a special strand of toxicity. Jerry does not become drunk on his notoriety, but rather uses it as an excuse to alienate everything that does not pertain to the magic carpet that delivered him to the clouds.
Jerry's second teacher reinforces this pursuit of isolation in the name of exterminating distractions. The stench from his daydreams sends him to the floor where he becomes enchanted by his breaths. Meditation becomes weaponized within his domestic context, and his productivity only wounds his family.
Whit told Jerry very early on that writing is never about publication, it is about producing without ceasing with no guarantees of recognition. This cozy proverb morphs into an ugly manifesto. A global conflict gives Jerry a muse, but the magnum opus has nothing to do with death. But then again, his masterpiece might have everything to do with death.
Ideas are not birthed, they are captured. Elusive and fickle, thought
frolics like a kid straight out of school. Machines did not equip us
with ideas; they merely help us capture them. Spear them down with
safety pins, a grotesque abdomen of exposed entrails. Our thought is
repulsive but honest, instinctive and pure.
The typewriter is the remaining bastion of expression hunting. Not reliant on electricity, the mechanical cornucopia smashes its appendages on a miniature canvas, splattering emotion in precise linear shapes. The machine asks no questions and is supremely subservient to its owner.
Documenting ideas has become more efficient as technology trudges into the electronic age. The typewriter challenges efficiency by introducing an element of savoring. The process tactile and the sensation tangible, keys clatter with purpose. There are no aids, only obedient marks summoned by an uncensored consciousness.
Those bathed in admiration of the typewriter prefer a partner in their creation, and not a lifeless red squiggle or an absolute backspace bar. Mistakes are reduced to creative quirks and ink elevated to spilled blood. A dialogue forms between person and machine, and incubation of meaning initiates.
Obsession always has noble causes. To outsiders a person's passion might seem overtly sensual or nonsensical, but admiration's roots grow deep in sentimental soil. Faced with a chaotic existence, a focal point for creativity provides a saving grace for those manic and compulsive.
Being particular is becoming less praised in a multitasking world. Satisfaction slowly aligns with speed. A hollow qualification of accomplishment, completion overrides process. The typewriter stands stoically in the stream of this devolution. The journey is the creation, and the creation is the sum of one's creative missteps. Concrete are the symbols of this machine's language: Romantic and dying.
Sometimes heroes need to go to school. Training wheels need to be
attached to their suits, and handlers double as moody nannies. Peter
has been called up to the minor leagues, but that is not where he
wishes to conclude his ascent. Trading in a mashup hoodie for a
technologically perplexing epidermis, he must learn to drive a sports
car without even a permit.
The world's most dominating man, Tony, has taken a fatherly affinity to Peter, yet will never show too much admiration. Peter's success becomes more and more connected to Tony's, and a symbiosis develops between the two prodigies. As with any working relationship, conflicts flare up that risk identities and shelters of unassuming bystanders.
Latching on to the first target in sight, Peter stumbles upon the most successful Robin Hood in the game. Adrian justifies his operation by capitalism, the cruel chess match that has allowed the insensitive to rise, and the burdened to plummet. His family offers a full-proof alibi for his shady business exchanges.
Peter desperately attempts to be seen, while Adrian meticulously digs below the surface. This faceless rivalry will give the orphan child yet another father. The lessons sound eerily similar to Tony's punishments, and Peter's conscious begins spiraling. His hero funds violence probably more so than this hastily chosen villain.
Aging requires compromises. Growing into your place in the world will make you sacrifice even the sturdiest pillars of your morality. Peter foresees this ugly metamorphosis and challenges the tides. Nothing can buy his allegiance, a trait that Tony becomes most proud of in the young maverick.
In an era of shameless self-promotion and needless crossovers, the humble tale of a blossoming superhero washes down rather pleasantly. No horrific casualties loom in the balance. The highest stakes is that some billionaire might lose money he can afford to lose, and a young gun faces a dilemma of remaining loyal to his cause. Lines are never clearly drawn, and so compassion for one's foe might be the only route to salvation.
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