Houston, We Have An Oscar.

For a place that shouldn't concern the majority, it now is. Spacephobia, a derivative of Agoraphobia, the fear of open spaces, the absence of 'visuospatial support', looms one feeling pressingly small around something endlessly expanding, nothing to see but uninviting, thick darkness. For an ignorant of space travel and its technicalities, accumulating more fear, Russovoir lived in the consolation that those who have died and might die, at least their loved ones can point to the sky where heaven is supposedly as well.

Gravity reawakens and reunites Russovoir's patronage for Sandra Bullock. Reportedly her biggest opening to date, Academy Award winner Best Actress of Blind Side (2009), and the worth mentioning recent, tear-jerking performance in Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close (2012), Bullock both possesses - deja vu, Russovoir thought about this before, what is an avid fan - while awarely opposing, hence immensely admirable, the empathy of strong and weak in a character; so consistent yet insatiably fulfilling to the fullest of how the film is to be felt. Absent of any object of emotion in space, director Alfonso Cuaron was unmistakable for a lead actress that sucks one in like a gaping black hole to the screen, to her troubled, shared role soul.

"Say that you can make it."

Russovoir must confess, he thought what story could be gleaned in outer space; it looked desolate and at the same time, infinite in material that, from its trailer, where and how it ends must be ridiculous, like co-existing in a parallel universe, or proving aliens. While George Clooney has had a fair share of films that interests, which fueled value, meanwhile, the biggest influence in 'lifting off' to 'explore' what madness it's teased is Bullock.

"Tell her Mommy is so proud of her."

It's not rocket science, Gravity was shot out of this world but is down-to-earth that it's not proving extra terrestrials - something more meaningful, emotional, something existential. There's nothing in space, and by 'in space' we mean what we currently have, not Star Trek nor Star Wars, that which to 'create from the unknown' is another thing, that holds a story together. Heck, things wander up there. Just like a satellite, Gravity echoed a frequency the human heart can hear.

Don Jon: A 50/50 directorial debut.

All directors have a signature style: J.J. Abrams plays with sheer streak of lights, Quentin Tarantino flinches with gut-wrenching blood feud, Zac Snyder suspends suspense with stop-motion, to name a few. It's been discovered fledgling director Joseph Gordon-Levitt has a signature style through scene transition technique called, at least for Russovoir, he doesn't know the proper nomenclature, layering.

Layering tends to progress consciously fast, yet unconsciously, it's sorely just a bunch of rushing snippets that as they increase in number in this particular film, present mostly throughout, especially when it's flatly excessive of nothing but inserted pornographic clips from various porn sites, rapport breaches. Don Jon had a good start, scenes felt necessary and well-timed, then sympathetically, Russovoir lost interest for a good while; it relegated to empty and inflated machismo and unaccustomed chauvinism. Altogether, disconnected.

"Cum, baby, cum."

Russovoir was picking up the pace with the consolation Scarlett Johannson has kept the plot intact, then suddenly, Julianne Moore's role threw him off again. Just when he already found a comforting ground with the story to focus on, here comes a character, apparently broken and sex-deprived made it hard to stay hard. Shallow, superfluous, and towards the end, Johannson now out of the picture - even if she has hadn't, it still seemed compromised of what Russovoir could only assume is incompatible debauchery. Granted that we should see Joseph playing an older role, however, intermissions of his elementary and frivolous affection to porn and it didn't help that, even while he bulked up for the role, his smile, those dimples carved in chivalry and gentleness, it's difficult to accept a role of a New Jerseyan hustler; anyone unknown with suitable good looks could've do. He would've been still revered for writing and directing the film.

That's the first half of 50. This is the second: 

Gordon-Levitt boldly exposes the biggest, longest kept secret (might as well be a controversy too) of every man: porn is better than real sex. Unsure of its reliability speaking rashly on behalf of every man, it does hold truth to an extent: what makes porn incomparably arousing is its one-sided perspective; that while men can't induce the porn star in a woman, and good for him if he does succeed, they resort to an outlet where their wildest fantasexies can be visually attended.

"Women like her always get what they want."

Contrary to what most thought, including Russovoir himself, Don Jon is a film for the ladies. It will open their eyes to what the male population has gotten their balls blue and in a knot. And if you're lucky, only if you're lucky, they will reassess their effucktiveness.