Paul Martel Figments

When I first mentioned Unfaithful on this account many years ago, I had not fully absorbed Adrian Lyne’s emphasis, and the camera’s focus is one which grows fuller over time, even if the script is nothing we haven’t seen before in relation to discontent and betrayal. The exposition truly functions as a literary device, such as when Martinez glances at the knife on his table, briefly considering whether or not he would need it for defense, or the opening wind storm, all of it. We’re being asked why we get set into habits, routines, comforts, and then shatter them for another card in the deck, another card which leads us back to the same interior landscape. Familiarity breeds contempt, and this is what we kill ourselves over when we’re not engaged in killing ourselves due to ideology. Did I get the ending the first time? A pipe dream straight out of Jane Austen’s comedic moral teachings? Not as fully as on a third capture, with the Sumner’s knowledge that the bough was fully splintered, and undone, sitting there at the police station, all that was needed nothing more than a reality crime drama to reenact the reverberating scandal and consequences to follow. But this telescopic focus isn’t reality, so much as an American copy of a French template, something Gere has done before, simply to remind us that perspective, and point of view function like an acid reflux treatment. What was Constance’s trade off? Freedom to breathe, akin to my knowledge that rolling into thin air, away from my hostile building owner, means merely a foreshortening of the inevitable, my work stupidly locked away because I wasn’t careful enough? Didn’t utilize cloud services to best practices? I don’t feel like telephoning Tom Cook, who undoubtedly isn’t going to go out of his way to restore me to my history without feeling inconvenienced.

I just spoke to him and encapsulated the problem. He had another call. Me? I barely have any food, but what difference does that make, as I’m barely eating. Yes, 365 is nice, but I have to relearn some things, and if I do refinance another machine, I’ll have to relearn that, while we’re all busy scoring points, or consoling ourselves through the images of what the perfect bourgeoise life is or isn’t without hunger, tripping through your kitchen in bare feet. Paraplegics may retain ambulatory memories. I never knew them to begin with. He is my age, this Cook. Perhaps I should bathe, throw on a pair of slacks. He may stop by again tomorrow, because my ability to understand telephone voices is in the decline. This I cannot cure, but neither can I compel sources to respond online. I can hear my debt load increase, the one thing which hasn’t changed. Cash registers, storage and retrieval of promissory notes.

Free Radical Amphibian

The event left her with an enduring dread of cats-- Antonio Frank

The shepherd which had to be buried in the 1993 Sommersby looked like a real dog, and perhaps it was, enjoyed playing dead for an anticipated treat. Richard Gere and Jodie Foster are known quantities by this time, 22 years ago. Mature blooms, certainly not harried by small felines who need to take two hours to cajole beleaguered wheelchair users to watch them eat, then complain, as small carnivores will, wishing to be what they are, but have their cake in the caretaker, a simultaneous desire, which, when all is said and done, remains a contradiction, unless a feral state beckons. Would you adopt cats?

Sommersby is about identity and who we want to be, a not uncommon conceit in historical dramas, where a coward grows into an extraordinary gesture of courage, even if he cannot pick sides in the amorphous spectrum between the blue and the gray. One moment Foster epitomizes the regal widow, and the next she is the tomboy those of my generation grew up with, to become such a conflicted childhood celebrity whose coming out was a mumble.

Foster was confusing because her persona is complex, as veracity is complex. As far as I know, she never played a butch onscreen outright, and this was too her benefit as such a remarkable performance artist we're not likely to see again, as we ossify orientation with identity, and though I am not God, and that is a good thing-- I'd break the covenant with Noah and rain the apocalypse on our hoary pates-- I think Foster is in conflict about her femininity. She certainly wants to be viewed as sexually attractive to men in a good portion of her films, especially The Brave One, 2007, which is necessarily intense, to justify its brutality, full circle back to Taxi Driver (eh). Her ambidextrous duality is intriguing at its most challenging, and yet, there is a certain trigger, hostile to the fact she settles for simulation of intercourse, dildos, kitten tricks for comfort. Is it due to vulnerability, the dark side of Hinckley's claim of susceptibility? Her publicist would never let me wrap her in shrink wrap like this, but she is a deconstruction, the boy girl imprint of my adolescence, and all things being equal, however she bankrolled her economic security for her gentle dimming down as the marquee A-list superstar, she'll outlive me, barring I painlessly replace the hated indolence of my flesh, the complexity of her translation of difference not so easily grasped, by identity militants, by moderates, by her fans. I'd wrote, in archive, that I'd give her a pass, and my study of her in media is still indicative of that, but I'd push her, if I ever figure out my contention and its motif. I'd pry, not to get at her responsibility for deranged assassins, since she has none, but for her responsibility to womanhood, her conflicted signaling within her pliant strength, determination, fuzzy metaphysical conclusions.

Monastic Infidelity

Wang 's book makes the larger case “that aesthetic forms are inseparable from social, political, and historical contexts when it comes to the writing and reception of poetry.”

The CW ran the intriguing Adrian Lyne adaptation from the French over the past week of March 2014, and a toggle to my memory reminded me of the subtext within the film about style and affluence being somewhat fine and brittle. I sandwich this memento in between my more forceful retractions from liberalism in part to illustrate the difficulty of my Gordian knot, since monogamy itself has always been a difficult contract for us, the advanced human primate. I see humanity as nothing more than repulsive apes who made cognitive leaps and bounds by inexplicable accidents of anatomy, and yet remain attracted to ascetic rigor, remain supportive of flings, the liberating aspects of affairs. 

Though I cannot speak for Gere's performance on a single viewing, Lane and Martinez inhabit a chic crackling which leaves me indecisive about both the murder and Lyne's conclusion, but his direction offers a distinctive, haunting collage, one that remains past the narrative itself. I am not sure whether it's worth eating up my usage to view it online or wait for it to run on broadcast again, but for our purposes, the film is a theatrical antithesis.