Remember Me, I'm Robert Pattinson.

And not simply 'that Edward Cullen guy'.

You have no idea what inextinguishable pleasure it, you could say, infected to Russovoir from The Rover for Robert Pattinson. He completely went for the neck, sank his teeth, and from there, it's a waiting game on how far and how much he's capable of keeping you in his grip. The fact that there was more blood to the eyes than to the rest of the body was a clever - of whose blame, really: the actor or the audience? - ploy. Speechless, immobile, but unrelenting rapport for this fresh character, unseen of to the population of Forks, Washington, portrayed by Pattinson; the twilight of a typecast.

The story is simple, without frills, no back story; open-ended, one could say. There was no support to build on from, either the characters and setting; which left one feeling lost (until it gets to the ending, guaranteed). So it dragged on for a while, Russovoir admits. Accent so heavy and deliberate that what the film did instead is disusing one's sense of hearing* to draw focus on one's eyes interplaying between one's feelings. The result is disusage of one's ability to speak. The Rover is without a doubt a Robert Pattinson film. Like a wooden stake into a sleeping vampire, he nailed it.

"Why did you leave me out there? I'm your brother!"

*sparingly

Like two sharp fangs, Remember Me (2010) and this, The Rover, we're not looking at a vampire, no, he's way behind that stage in his career. What we're now looking at is a hound. A Hound in Hollywood. 

The Fault In Our Stars, Starry-eyed from Tears.

Wow, it's been a while, no, in fact, a decade, since our last teenage romantic story told. While Nicholas Sparks' film adaptations have had persistently tried to sustain his classic streak, A Walk to Remember (2002) and The Notebook (2004) exclusively, the subsequent adapted screenplays fell short, personally and mainly due to miscasting, The Last Song (2010) and The Lucky One (2012) curtly (with the exception of Dear John (2010) which was appropriately celebrated).

The grass is indeed greener on the other side, John Green is the morning dew to our eyes. The Fault In Our Stars felt fresh; and like anything fresh, it isn't contaminated with schmaltz nor the tandem outshone the other. Neither the leading actors were seen hugging the camera because they're beautiful people. This, too, was accounted for by the weight of the story. Although while Russovoir thinks it's easy to sympathize with these kinds of film genres, the genre of illness/death as the chord that snaps us (My Sister's Keeper (2009), Letters to God (2010), and from which the reality of things that we do sympathize for the ill and/or dying - that's what makes us human, there are elements in the film that, if one could connect them, one could say is a constellation of beauty.

"Gus, I'm a grenade."

All begins at point 1, dialogue. Okay? Okay; Pain demands to be felt; You gave me a forever within the numbered days. You know how far will these go? "After all this time? Always." That far (if you could name the film it came from, Russovoir has made his point). It's all about that one attributable word, line, phrase, sentence imparted that lingers and later engraved to the audience. "I miss you so much, it hurts." You should already know this. Point 2, chemistry. It should be obvious in a romantic genre and yet some had had no reaction. Shailene Woodley was a perfect cast, both standing alone and alongside another perfect love interest Ansel Elgort (shitty last name, by the way). The exchange of expressions were never stilted nor deficient; it was, deafeningly, ineffable. That which, critically, all points lead to a vertex, point 3, rapport. Unbroken to their chemistry, however the story will unfold. Point 4, the relativity of perceptive teenage romance, as opposed to solely reactive. You do not (just) fall in love with the idea of love, which commonly kicks in quick. Perceptive romance is written lyrically, and often tragically, to complicate it. Only when something basic but complicated that we value it. In the words of James Morrison, "If it was easy, it wouldn't mean nothing though." (Love Is Hard). And finally, point 5. Perceptive romance is especially effective because points 1, 2, 3, and 4 are visible beyond the naked eye. Point 5 is, ultimately, the lucrative story weight. 

All of this was carefully planned (okay, so maybe halfway, as we already are in the subject of perceptive) five points mean five stars. If we scatter them astronomically precise as to when it was first located and connected them, we've got ourselves a Cancer (google it).

Now Serving: The Lunchbox.

Is this the film that will actually supersede Slumdog Millionaire (2008)?, the moot during which time was long far from the film itself than only, rashly inadequately its trailer. The Lunchbox, at normally and teasingly brief preview, and from where Russovoir chanced once as opposed to tenuous trailers he has had seen aplenty, had been contently enough and not a moment had passed since that it was on Russovoir's presiding better judgement, on bizarre occasions, hungry. 

Burdensome, in vain anticipation of what was supposedly on the 28th of February film premiere, Russovoir consoled with the thought that it had now become a St. Patrick's Day special; while people are filing, piling outside pubs with their outrageous ensembles with the color green (a historical inaccuracy, presumably), Russovoir toils to the one and only movie house in the stupor of vast Chicago for this independent film. After which he couldn't walk in a straight line.

Allegory. The Lunchbox packs it. There is beauty, not particular of the visual than of the ritual; charming, delicate, raw; unadorned with anything but a sustainable, mysterious, possibly scandalous story.

"My husband is having an affair but I don't have the courage to tell him."

And yes, the film does make one hungry. Director and screenwriter Ritesh Batra took it upon himself, and influentially because he's a local, to showcase a number of if not popular, accustomed dishes of the Indian palette. No preservatives were added, so to speak, instead was fresh in presenting modern-day India (daunting to those who haven't had been). Sure, India is filthy, grossly populous, and antiquated, but the road to fine cinema is paved with Indian silk; this film in an overly crowded, sweltering train, as well as richness in culture and flavorful, bold, insatiable, craveable recipe of quality story writing; anywhere the train goes, Russovoir aboards.   

Why Leonardo DiCaprio Could Wait.

This blog is much more in depth than why Leonardo Dicaprio could wait, though we're going there later somewhere in paragraph unsure. Russovoir just thought it'd catch your attention where at this point, he's got you, old sport. What are you doing? Don't leave yet. Rose even had had the decency to hold on to Jack for a blistering hour before she let him go. Stay for a while, listen to what Russovoir has to say. He guarantees you it's a blood diamond of an opinion.

Cinema is one of the most powerful mediums of communication. As much as Russovoir would like to quote that to himself, surely it hadn't had taken long for anyone who's been in the industry when the immortality of Hollywood is because they excel in it (what he would rather want instead is you think of Russovoir whenever after a movie you're stricken by it). Cinema can inspire a generation by recollecting historical events; such films inflate in us an air of altruism that make us better people, at least in thought, somehow beneficial in due time. Or maybe even remaining in thought for good, but still, most, you're better than were before. Cinema can influence the decisions one had made by conditioning the present, somehow rewriting the future, pen at an optimistic curve. It entertains, it distracts, it's a tool to exercise emotions unused or untapped, somehow draining us because life will have to fill us up with unsought emotions, and avoid spilling over, and be controlled by them. And at a much larger scale, the one that siphons immortality to the film industry, is by the blood that runs in each and every one of us, race, color, religion, orientation, cinema draws everyone closer as one, of the vulnerable need to be seen, heard, feel, know, learn, adapt, unite, mankind.

The same mankind, at least the musically-inclined or the pop culturist, was in tune to the annual orchestration now at their 56th, Grammy Awards. The music industry is not essentially Russovoir's cup of tea. Well, he takes sips, but it's not something he would go over to the kitchen for for everyone's pleasure. Regardless, if this rusty vinyl record can still play, if you could just blow off the top of dust, the last two Grammy Awards, 2013 and 2012 retrograde, artists who say, scratched the event to sound like a broken record of their own albums; new artists, fresh artists, artists who we never heard before, nor we entirely agree are totally 'music to our ears', but were given due recognition. That's what the Grammy's all about, a fertile platform where anyone who gets music and constantly innovating; vocals high up, vocals way down, above the drone and static, keeping the music industry alive as though on a heart monitor.

Mumford and Sons, 2013 Album of the Year.

Like a tuning fork, the very much alive point system of the Grammys resonates to the Academy with, if not synchronized at least persistent and consistent, under any circumstances outside vibrations will try to intercept the echo they have been trying (and have succeeded) to send.

Why don't you take a break and stretch? 

Come back when you see fit to finish.

You're back. Good. Russovoir made some tea. Because we're finally at his cup of tea, the Academy Awards. The 2013 Academy Awards, still olfactory of mint judgement, has been ambivalent with the public; it's so tawdry, so pretentious - have they no heart for the starving children in Africa? The echo is simple: recognize talent. All else are perks, the jewels to a crown; without them, it's still a crown. They will still have talent over their heads, like a halo had it not been emitting (glaring) luster. The Academy, be they maybe mainstream or independent, is a kingdom that runs by democracy. Although while the final decision(s) is/are determined by the kings and queens of such kingdom, the essential note that we, the people, have had (a) film/s we're rooting for can tell about ourselves, where we stand and believe in the powerful means of communication. This generation and the next.

Ben Affleck's Argo, Quentin Tarantino's Django Unchained, Ang Lee's Life of Pi, these 2013 box office-grossing films sent shockwaves to the world (a little dramatic there but remember, mankind) where as though they were on a three-player game of who has had the last grip. Although while the other six (6) nominees have a unique echo, Beasts of the Southern Wild coming in bold and brave, with which no notable actors nor retaining value, Zero Dark Thirty on terrorism-free America, Lincoln, from which Daniel Day-Lewis won Best Actor as Abraham Lincoln, a figure of historical reform, these three films spat saliva on Oscar and rubbed a reflection of, by, and for the people.

Actor/Director Ben Affleck wins 2013 Best Picture, Argo.

Original screenplay, clean (both clarity and morality) storyline, and cutting-edge cinematography, that's the reflection, at least for Russovoir, looking back at us from our TV screens; the criteria, the winning combination to be knighted (including a nomination) by the Academy. Quentin Tarantino, screen writer and director of Django Unchained - the D is silent - flicked the tuning fork with compassion, "It's our time, screen writers!"; Director Ang Lee couldn't have thanked enough for the people behind the vibrant special effects of Life of Pi. Not to mention the goodness of its storyline; and Ben Affleck, oh this man, it was such an emotional moment for the tenacious director, has had wished a night of recognition for his daredevil efforts. That's what the Academy's all about.

Are you still working on your tea?

Do you want a second pour?

Bearing all of this in mind, just until the last period of this blood diamond has been dotted, as the nine (9) outstanding nominees for Best Picture are below for your convenience, and perhaps a movies must-watch list in countdown to the most prestigious night of the film industry, whichever film you root for says about you, that echoes, almost uncontrollably to the impressionable, inquisitive generation.

Surely bribery, notoriety, and an exhausting reminder of slavery and marginalization aren't the precepts we're imparting to our children's children; that we promote such behavior and perception. Although while as far as performance goes, these films are a prime of each and everyone in them - DiCaprio as one. But you see now, he could wait (moreover, this is the part where Russovoir redacts and specifies that Best Actor in a Leading Role for The Wolf of Wall Street could be his, among many leading roles that would've had been).

If the Academy is anything like the Grammys, which Russovoir still believes so, original screenplay (Gravity, Her) already should have had made extra brownie points. That Hollywood, the film industry is only as sustainable as how ingenuity introduces a curious way to an appended, vigorous pulse (refer to the tuning fork analogy); a church whose homily indoctrinates bravery, resilience, fortitude, and compassion, and awareness of people's extraordinary lives (Captain Phillips, Philomena, Dallas Buyers Club). Each and every emotion that fills up in us inspiration and goodness that hadn't had been there before. A school, hence called Academy, where GMRC (Good Moral and Right Conduct) is what the students (directors, screenwriters, actors) ultimately strive for. It never was about the money, thankfully, nor popularity, or it would've had been a stigma if Avengers (2012), highest-grossing film of all time of $1.5B, won Best Picture. Madness.

Movie Recommendation Time: Geography Club.

Geography Club, at first, one would realize, wow that's funnily curious, it's almost an affected, nostalgic, liking reference to The Breakfast Club (1985). They must've done it on purpose because while the posters (below) are two pancakes in a teflon pan, it's an effective eye catcher. The Breakfast Club is arguably the long-standing timeless classic about high school cliques (funny how that transcends to our very own lives); the discovery of self; the boldness, burden, and blithe of being different; and the opaqueness of which that when crossed creates tension that begins the story.

  

Geography Club at first impression was thought to be the same. Russovoir had never been wrong. Granted the synopsis (where was its trailer?) alludes a purging self-to-self conflict prevalent, oppressing, and pressing issue of recent times, just like how each of the kids in The Breakfast Club then had their own fetters, the film has five (5) personalities alright, but it revolves in one theme. 

"Hey, no one's judging you."

Russovoir won't be that guy telling you its theme; he's never had and never will. What he can tell you is Geography Club adapted itself in hopes of idealizing the society on hand; a society, if not for films like this, deteriorating and prejudiced encroaching. This is Disney's Lemonade Mouth (2011) but there isn't a group of musically-inclined troublemakers, lemonade-in-a-canholics forming a band; however, what the film is trying to accomplish is to tone down what was for a long time loud. Especially every last week of June with this pride.

Heroes. He Rose. Heal rows.

That feeling. That feeling that you inexplicably and suddenly had had the civilian responsibility, on which you're convinced that if you hadn't done so who would, in this brief moment, spur of the moment of looking out for each other; we can be heroes in our own little ways after all - "Is that tub of popcorn trash? Let me get that for you."

You do this because what you have witnessed, the true story of four (4) US Navy SEALs, including those who tried to rescue them, brings to the front and center the nature, crucial nature of what and who to protect, that is ideally everyone, whatever color and racial origin. The little gesture is a thank you to those whom we can still do this.

"Suck. It. Up. You're a fucking frogman!"

Lone Survivor is one of the many films that raises the flag of America in us; land of the free and home of the brave. Truly powerful, awing words in the national anthem indelible and imponderable (that which you needn't to be in the military, to have to go to war to be deemed 'brave'; hence bravery is imponderable). Besides the point, however, those who have served the country and are serving the country could've might as well ensnared an American eagle, plucked one of its majestic plumage, dipped it into their own self-induced slit arm, and finally have, although while painful it too is an act of sheer commitment, written the Star-Spangled Banner onto a surface with their own blood.

"If I die, tell my wife I love her."

Emotions were a minefield: one for Hirsch, one for Kitsch, Foster (above), Bana, and Ludwig. Each is uniquely designed to explode with a unique repercussion in both the mind and body, and ultimately the soul. And they didn't go off in one succession either, no sir. Russovoir had wished it had been the case, to save chronic fit of vicarious suffering; so it would've been just a big, isolated pain. It was, however, as uniquely designed each is, specially a physical strain, incremental at a sporadic. US Navy SEAL Marcus Luttrell, the last man standing - lone survivor, as if the whole operation had had been a Hunger Games for the purpose of full disclosure should one decides to join, sure he and his men failed Operation Red Wings, not that it wasn't a big deal nor we wanted it to happen, but it happened, and the silver lining here is, and Russovoir shamefully admits it was once a shot in the dark, funny how God finally casts a light on this matter through one man's tale, that not all of Afghanistan is barren.

Marcus Luttrell and Mohammed Gulab. Pashtunwali.

  

iTouchment With a OSmeone.

One minute there's connection, another lost it. Dang it, the restarting is the hardest part. Her seems to have made it literally a wireless fidelity (wifi). And just like it, at maybe a cheap motel or an overcrowded Starbucks during which everyone conveniently has their laptops running, the wifi of the plot is a patient progress.

"It's as if you needed oxygen. You're an operating system."

As the audience, much like a man with a purpose with a laptop at a wifi hotspot, you stay because it is at least working; it takes an effect on you than nothing at all. Suppose one is used to have a faster broadband that where one is, what one is experiencing is simply, weird. Because the film was, undeniably and, frankly, for it fell off the cliff where the box was situated - that's how 'outside-the-box' it is, ridiculous. Stay with Russovoir, it gets better.

"I love how you see the world."

Novelty. That's what and why Her is as undeniably, a stunner. As if painstaking in costume design and production value; the deviant, soothing color fusion to where should be a futuristic setting, of supposedly delicate white and chrome. Where we have been daunted by past futuristic films of the downside, the harm of technological advancement: Terminator (1984), I, Robot (2004), Surrogates (2009); the dystopic condition much of which was caused by moral deterioration and neglect: The Island (2005), In Time (2011),  Elysium (2013); and the overused alien/virus invasion: I Am Legend (2007), The Darkest Hour (2011), Battleship (2012), the premise of Spike Jonze, director and the writer of Her, was definitely a pleasant relief and comfort.

And of course, moreover, Joaquin Phoenix (above) with his patriarchal mustache and sensitive, melancholic psyche as Theodore Twombly, where even the name is soft and cuddly, was what was imperious in Gladiator (2007) accentuated by his 'battle scar' cleft lip, made over a king, disrobed of self-regard and ambition, many instances in the film has Russovoir's thumbs up. No shiny crown, rather leaves one a tiny frown.