That said, "The Call of the Wild," arguably penned in reaction to the encroaching artificiality of things and modes resulting from the Industrial Revolution is, in its goodness, simplicity and virtuous paean to the rules of nature, a needed breath of fresh air in today's cynical climate.
Yet, in taking its uncertain path to some hoped for humanistic revelation, it seems like it'd be much happier if only it could jump the tracks from classically cerebral comedy to safely domesticized farce.
That night at the dining room table, I perceived an especially proud look on Mrs. O'Shaughnessy's face as she served up extra helpings of lamb stew, and all those in attendance jovially pitched in, barn raising style, to help me make my Oscar predictions.
Appropriating some sort of Scottish brogue, made even less audible by a muttering, offhanded delivery a la Popeye, it seemed as if this otherwise naturally glib actor was attempting to trademark his Dolittle with an obscure detachment analogous to Johnny Depp's Jack Sparrow.
Shock and marvel combine in our appreciation of the award-worthy art direction, phenomenal cinematography and special effects that provide a near seamless, non-stop chronicle of the death-defying mission the two young soldiers undertake.
What could this Philistine of a male know about the trials and tribulations of the intrepid March sisters — Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy — and about sisterhood, feminism, devotion to family and the desire to have an identifying career in a stultifying society that believed a woman's place was in the home? In short, while I know, my genes dictate that I don't really know.
What is this aberration, this bizarre concoction of what the human experience can turn into when internal wires cross and hormones contraindicate? There is no propriety, no adhesion to accepted rules of society except under duress or threat of death.
"Richard Jewell," director Clint Eastwood's skillfully told account of how a hero was turned into a scapegoat following the murderous bombing at the 1996 Olympics, stokes that greatest fear upon which our judicial system is based: that an innocent soul might be convicted of a crime.
Fact is, we've been poisoning humankind's well since first we learned how to make a profit out of it while concomitantly rationalizing, if bothering at all, that we'll worry about it later. Well, it's later.
The red-blooded American portion of me, the part that in my youth soaked up John Wayne movies, was gratified by the spirit of director James Mangold's studiously executed "Ford v Ferrari." Rah, rah and all that good stuff.
Expect no answer to the problem in this film but just a good old college try courtesy of Joon-ho Bong who, with co-writer Han Jin Won, astutely delves into the complex tapestry of the relationship between the landed and the impoverished.
If you're that particularly obnoxious sort who has to let everyone in the theater know your uncanny skill at guessing the plot, shh! But for my kindred spirits who, like me, can't figure these things out for the proverbial million dollars, you have to decide whether or not to trust that the director will ultimately tie things up in a manner that will win your satisfaction. I voted in the affirmative.