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"Wildboyz" is accidentally good. It's a far more comprehensive "cultural exploration" than any offered up by usual travel programs – television docs enhancing typifications of a city's carnality, or the snobbish drivel you find on the Outdoor Life Network.

I'd recommend "Wildboyz" to those inquiring what life is "really like" in Thailand, Africa, or wherever. Steve-O and company may not outline any ethos entirely (who could?), but they don't construe the matter to satisfy predominate interpretations like "life outside American is always in squalor and suicidal." And to the other side: Life outside America isn't whimsical; there are no fairy tales for your keepsake.

People, everywhere, are living and breathing, sometimes smiling, sometimes crying. The wildboyz get it.

Science Fiction is hooey, and so too is multi-dimensionality, which is, from what I've heard, the latest theoretical craze in philosophy. These elements may be highlighted in "Possible Worlds"; they can be used to categorize the film. I, contrarily, would rather not fix my viewpoint on "Possible Worlds" while referring to film texts (science fiction), or to texts of philosophy (multi-dimensionality).

I enjoyed Possible Worlds as a whole, and my explanation of what made it enjoyable is inexact. There was a unearthly mood to it, a friction of impossible magnitudes. And then there was the score. Peter Gabriel's contribution mystified "Possible Worlds," a necessity, we may say in hindsight. The film's captured images similarly aided mystification. I didn't at all get the feeling the director was slipping in pictures from a "nature calendar." It seemed "Possible Worlds'" imagery was that of solitary reflection, they were of the detached mind, when memory overrules whatever continuity we're surrounded by. Individuals sat alone, in their minds.

I suppose "Possible Worlds" isn't an everyman's film. And it should not be. It should not find a category whereby it becomes easily approachable.

"For those that hunt the wounded down" introduces Jerry (played by Callum Keith Rennie), a man numbed and haunted by unsettling memories. Jerry, though haunted, carries on with what may be considered mundane activities. The figures around him are loaded with burdens that could be explosive if not also dulled by routine. Emphasis on the particularities of Jerry's sadness sets him apart from others, however. His Sorrow out-stands because it is active: It threatens to invade routine. In this way we observe sorrow as both perpetual and pushy. Jerry is numbed, but doom is coming, and cannot be emaciated. This feature of the story strikes me enduringly. I always imagine Jerry a wounded figure, walking through the forest, tracked by hunters, heading toward nothing other than one final movement. Such finality cinematically arrives, and a last burst is solely becoming. It is not quite heroic, nor is it comforting. One is only left to reflect on this wounded figure's final breath, the very breath that had haunted, a breath that arrives because the severity of the man's pain does not permit anything additional.

I really wish those who hunt would turn away, and leave the wounded to some other fate. But they are hunters. When the hunter strikes, a final blow assertively follows.