All this self-indulgent perspective noted, I thank director Bryan Singer for jogging these memories into high-relief via his superb biographical film, "Bohemian Rhapsody," which astutely and soulfully details the birth of the group Queen and the star trajectory of its lead singer, Freddie Mercury.
Such hyperbolic self-examination, while exaggerated for my own literary purposes here, is nonetheless proof of what a fine period piece this film is. Still, while boasting Keira Knightley in a superb title portraiture, those indifferent to belles-lettres and avant-garde sensibilities need not apply.
The acidic, relentless deluge of ominous signs Moore points out is overwhelming, not only because it threatens nearly everything we cherish, but because we know that bury-your-head-in-the-sand apathy is the greater menace. If ever we needed proof that our vote counts, this is it.
We all know one or more couples who confound us entirely; folks who appear to be tragically immersed in a marriage made in Hell, and yet, for none of the usual rationalizations, like kids money or religion, persevere in their obviously troubled plight.
If you were already of the mindset that we regular folks are helpless at the hands of the moneyed interests both above and below ground, who are of course in cahoots, this film will throw further fuel on your fire of disgruntlement.
Translation: It's a love story, but a hesitant one worried about all the baggage Cupid must drag over the finish line if the fabled musician and the modest docent are to sail off into the sunset. We have hope, but also allow for the possibility that reality will rear its devastating head.
Whether it's a simple matter of history repeating itself or the dynamic of readily available similarities and metaphors offering us insight into our own current debacle, the hairs on the back of our necks stand up when Eichmann scoffs at the notion of truth ("Whose truth?" he rants) and calls Jews animals. Sound familiar?
We know full well that for every passive Agnes who experiences an epiphany regarding her plight and potential, there are tens of thousands resigned to suffering in quiet desperation. There will be no police coming to their homes, no counselor offering a safe house or a cellular phone until Madame Surreptitiously Abused can find a life away from her thankless condition. It is a quiet
violence. At best maybe she's had a longtime confidante to hear her unaddressed cries.
This is stirring stuff, devotedly ferrying the viewer from intriguing adventure yarn to the realization that racism, whether in its inept reaction to inner-city violence or through the reckless injustice perpetuated at our borders, has tacitly become official policy.
In this colorful, travelogue-like landscape, smugglers, powerbrokers, mad ideologues and guv'mint agencies of nearly every stripe fall over each other in dire attempt to gain ownership of nothing less than the (drum roll, please) plutonium cores. It takes no great leap of the imagination to foretell that before closing credits roll, said potentially world-destroying bombs will be wired to a timing device, and that there'll be a death-defying race to the finish like no other ... until the next ti
While the camera intermittently switches among psychiatrists who came to be familiar with the case, and who chime in with their opinions, we can't help but mull our own analysis of what we're witnessing.
Unlike in the Great Depression, when cheerful movies tried to paste things over until happy times were here again, this intense, artistic muckrake dives headlong into the tribulation. But expect no answers as we witness Reverend Toller navigate the whims, wiles and sometimes disingenuous perpetrations that attend the approaching, 250th-anniversary celebration of his little, antique-status church in Snowbridge, N.Y.
With these parameters for pardons of the motion picture variety long in place, I scoured my brain to find what great accomplishment or rationale gives Sandra Bullock's Debbie Ocean and her seven accomplices the right to heist a $150 million necklace at the Met Gala.
Deeming myself the test canary that miners lower into the prohibiting depths, I emerged from "Adrift" rather impressed by its ability to render me uncomfortable and anticipatory, as well as to make me worry, at least for the length of the movie, for the well-being and destiny of its likable enough protagonists
At worst, it is relatively harmless, your understanding of this outer space Western not dependent on a cognizance of the jargon and minutiae of George Lucas' cultural phenomenon. Plus, former Hippies who coordinate the viewing with a flashback might enjoy the light show.
Now, you know full well that one-by-one, each of our damsels in fretfulness is destined to wind up in at least a better place, if not perfectly fulfilled, by the closing credits. Don't be angry with me. Giving away the conclusion of "Sleeping Beauty" or any other fable wouldn't draw your ire.
Light, frothy confections that specialized in proving that one can indeed turn lemons into lemonade, they featured silly but likeable characters who, through some unseen benevolent power or just sheer luck, were able to navigate a series of farcical and convoluted perplexions.
Enters the nursery, Tully: part Mary Poppins, part Mother Theresa and part Kahlil Gibran in a 23-year-old, neo-hippie personage. Played with vivacious allure and no small amount of mystery by Mackenzie Davis, she is a dream come true.
But the fact is, your blockbuster enrapturing of what seems to be almost everyone but myself is proving a challenge to my individualism. Hustling out of the theater with a pal eager to discuss how much he absolutely loved every pixel of your spectacle, I begged off, suddenly remembering I had a late-night dental appointment.