The Tone Award Goes to...

Lake Bell's In A World... is that dish you see at the buffet you've never tried before so you went for it. But unlike food that only takes one bite to decide whether you like it or not, and while the film looks promising from both its trailer and accolades, a film is not a good film until the end. Hilarious fresh material, the plot in Russovoir's mouth was for everyone to see - didn't our Mommas ever tell us we shouldn't laugh with our mouths open? He is not even sorry.

"Oh God, I'm naked! Kidding."

It's the battle of the sexes In a World... where beauty, brains, and brawn don't have a voice. Instead, the throat to the matter is, for these people in the voice over business, they don't need to be told to follow their voice; they control it. Down on one's luck but cheerfully persevering, Carol (Lake Bell) strikes a chord as she is the signal the male-dominant industry of voice over picks up. They say women can do what men can but, do they really, or feminism is simply louder?

Six Books of Cassandra Clare. Six Anticipatory Years.

Or seven if they do the profitable and familiar splitting of the last franchise (City of Lost Souls). Expensive and seem money-hungry but advisable especially where every loose end has to be knotted. 

It's a whole, brave new world in Mortal Instruments; a whole new perspective; a whole new love - wait, uhm, a whole new perspective. The characters of Cassandra Clare are more mature, tolerant, and allow Russovoir to say, a literary nonconformist. Speaking for himself, blissful by ignorance of the books, the film has flavor that eschews predictability and cheesiness; instead, it envelops a fantastical fear, similar to the return of Voldemort, impatient how this existing presentation ends because it looks too screwed up to have a happy ending and Russovoir prefers happy endings and it felt like it's been running too long and why is it still interesting, have they revealed all six books, oh my god (breathe). That flush of anxiety and arguably a fanatic spasm, finally in relief the ending assures it's not the end of the complexity of their lives and those affected by it, is a confession that for six years (or seven), Russovoir's money is to their box office. It can only get more engrossing than this (reminder, The Hunger Games: Catching Fire this November; the second book).

"Bach is to demons what garlic is to vampires."

New elements come to play (the symbols, the institution, the clave); new enemies (the Down World); new allies; and visual representations that could only come from Clare's counsel, Mortal Instruments: City of Bones, a decree by Russovoir, should be a concurrent phenomenon.

The plot is so captivating that what good acting maintained was forgotten, and bad acting forgiven - the spell of fresh storytelling.

The Conjuring will SCARE you. True Story.

Russovoir is not good with statistics but sixty percent of the time he was watching The Conjuring, he has had his hands on his eyes, ten percent of which is one hand plugging the left ear (the right ear doesn't function, long story) because he already felt his balls are steel hard to take what menace is about to jump out always after the dead silence. But foolishly he could not (go on, call me names), traces of such, he fears, will be staring back at him in a mirror; so he tips his head a little. Where's that fucking hat? Much better.

One would think what a waste of money, sixty-percently. Russovoir says, he begs to differ, it was worth every penny. Doesn't it if it's comedy, and a good comedy in argument, you'd like, and actually prefer, to laugh until tears come out? Doesn't it as well you prefer to be thrilled to a thriller, baffled to a mystery, smitten to a romance, and sleepless to a horror flick (but that's always relative).

"Mom, where are we going?"

Not exactly sleepless because let's face it, it happened long, long time ago; and while that's not a strong reason not to be scared, the film is actually a true story. Now that, ladies and gentleman, by itself, a true-to-life story of the Perron family, creates teeth to the film that bites and sucks the life out of you in your seat.

Cinematic style reminiscent of Insidious (2010), eased with levity, to allow one's mind a respite from all the suspense that is yet to split the ends of hairs defenselessly standing, as your eyes take in a familiar horror but it's never the same so that's good, The Conjuring, although while it didn't abdicate Insidious (2010) - it's still the scariest! - it shook us; our very own exorcism in the movie house.

A Pornstar with Wag Reflex.

This is not a romantic love story, Russovoir surprises himself in slapping realization as the film unravels. In his defense, the poster looked immaculate and maternal like Amanda Seyfried plays a woman of influence of her time; Russovoir also didn't catch its trailer or, did it even have one? What is to be publicly trailed without spoiling the fact that it's a graphic biopic of a porn star? It was clever of them to keep marketing minimal, even the posters (below), to overwhelm the audience and reach an orgasm of incredulity and inspiration.

But this is all based on a personal account.

Linda Lovelace (click it) was indeed a woman of influence of her time. Not exactly Nobel Peace Prize. She broke the silence of woman abuse. For seventeen days in the orgy (can be literal) of the lucrative porn industry, she was a dog, 'a poodle with a perm' as her best friend Patsy (Juno Temple) put it, to husband Chuck Traynor (Peter Sarsgaard) who has had her on a leash. Lovelace, in hindsight, is only an extended medium of her autobiography Ordeal to those who prefer to spend $12 movie ticket than a $50 book in one day; to those who can't read; to those who prefer to see boobs than imagine; to the visual learners. And definitely, let's not forget, a film crosses borders.

"If I tell you to sit on his lap, you do what I say."

PUBLIC ADVISORY: Explicit images and dialogue are not advisable for the easily horny. That, and below 18 too.

Princess Jasmine of I Rob Ya.

Guaranteed, it will make you blue. Give me a color deeper - navy, it will leave you navy. Blue Jasmine is equally sad as Blue Valentine (2010), by which there is no resolve, no happy ending, naturally leaving you hallow and almost, immobile. The thing is, it wasn't only pity that left Russovoir heavy in sympathy; it was also antipathy for the situation that Russovoir doesn't wish for any woman to be in.

While there are women who knowingly pursue such convenient life, there are also those who are destined, lucky enough to hit the pinata on first try, saving further strikes, and while basking in the fortune the pinata knew will sweeten their appetites. The film critically exposes a woman who holds a Hermes Birkin but not a degree, that which gives the bag more value. Hardly Grace Kelly can teach her anything.

"I wanted you to want me and now you do."

It is a full-scale depressing film, but you can't evoke depression without impeccable performance. Cate Blanchett, far out, 'good actress' doesn't cut it anymore; 'sterling' is a piece of  the adjective puzzle of what Blanchett is on the back of the box and yet we enjoy the process of eventually knowing. Well in this case, Russovoir, because for such performance, hoped it to be a cougar in recovery, something inspiring and forgiving because what she's been through there should be a God to lighten the burden. But sadly no. Director Woody Allen snapped the character so well and so much that it felt like the movie screen suddenly cracked at the end, spurring the broken pieces flying to one's eyes - hurting, spineless, inconsolable.