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Blazing Samurai Torrent

If almost every live action adaption of an anime or animation film was a disaster, does that mean that creating animes based on live action films will yield better quality? This film argues that it is not the case. I liked the 2017 Bright film which, much maligned, combined the present buddy cop formula with a fantasy concept of a world shared by humans, orcs, elves and what have you. However this felt like one of those lazy productions made for the sole purpose of maintaining an IP.The animation was decent, but also a combination of traditional anime drawing and 3D that made it look fake. The story, for some reason dealing with samurais and the Meiji restoration, was also about a human and an orc bonding to save a Bright elf, but less interesting than any anime fantasy story set in the same period and also less engaging. I bet that if this was a traditional hand drawn anime I would have felt better about it, but even if it was, how could it even approach something like Ninja Scroll with such a simple and formulaic story? And the editing was atrocious.Bottom line: nothing was above average in this film, and many things were subpar. I like the Bright universe, but they have to try better.

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The film is intended to be an homage to Mel Brooks' 1974 Western comedy film Blazing Saddles (and was initially titled Blazing Samurai). Hank (Michael Cera), a beagle who wishes to become a samurai, stumbles upon a strange land known as Kakamucho, which is inhabited entirely by cats. He comes across Ika Chu (Ricky Gervais), an evil cat warlord who helps Hank become a samurai by placing him under the care of Jimbo (Samuel L. Jackson), who was once a great samurai himself. Jimbo reluctantly agrees to train him, and eventually, Hank must save Kakamucho from Ika Chu in order to discover what it means to become a true samurai.

Set during the last days of the Tokugawa (Edo) Period, Moeyo-ken tells the story of Hijikata Toshizo and the Shinsengumi. Hijikata Toshizo is a samurai eager to test his skills and sword and make his first kill.

A kind but naïve dog named Hank (voiced by Michael Cera) has journeyed into the nation of cats to learn how to be a samurai. A ruthless cat leader named Ika Chu (Ricky Gervais) wants to secretly wipe a nearby village off the map in order to take possession of the land.

In order to protect the village, Hank will need help from villagers who hate him for being a dog, as well convince a reluctant teacher (voiced by Samuel L. Jackson) to train him so he can become a samurai and hopefully save the day.

Studied integral philosophy and actually created the world-centric warrior and world-centric leader program, and then has taken this kind of leadership training and elite performance training to all different kinds of leaders in the world, as well as having been entrepreneurial [inaudible 00:01:56] to take these kind of best of performance to the world. [00:02:00] I think Mark is in a category by himself of someone that has this degree of actual military elite forces training and an actual embodied philosophic work and had put that together to what really strikes me as like the closest thing to, at least, the way I romanticize what the samurai were in terms of a real immune system to the world. When we think about [00:02:30] issues of police brutality unlike [inaudible 00:02:33] at today compared to what they need to be, Mark possibly offers something so unique and for so many different reasons. Mark, thank you for being here with us.

Kokoro comes from the Japanese martial tradition, and it means [00:04:00] heart-mind or merging the heart and mind into action or the divine heart of the warrior. How nice, a little bit of tap there with the Divine name. This idea of cultivating the divine heart of the warrior requires true integration. This is one of the reasons you mentioned I studied integral theory. I was so drawn into Ken Wilber's work because I have been [00:04:30] working on a process and a practice of integration since I was 19 years old. I began studying Zen with the martial arts which is an integrated program drawn from that Japanese warrior tradition that had a close ties to the samurai and the budo [world 00:04:46] did not know it at the time.

I teach these skills to these SEAL candidates, and I have them not just teach them conceptually. I have them practice and train it and drill it for however the duration of time they are with me whether that's a three-day or I used to these 30 days. You alluded to the bushido samurai tradition. We used to do 30-day live and immersive trainings that I considered like I called them warrior monk academies. [00:47:30] We were trained from six in the morning until seven or eight at night and sometimes around the clock, because I knew that's what they were and going to experience in BUDs. We're training the body-mind to prepare for them.

At a deserted forge deep within a forested area, the armor of Talpa sits on a stool before a blazing fire. The Ancient One stands before it, chanting. At the end of the chant, the armor melts away. Some time later, the monk sits in deep meditation. He names the virtues of the nine armors: Virtue, Justice, Trust, Life, Wisdom, Loyalty, Piety, Obedience, and Serenity. Four sets of double doors fly open to reveal each of the nine mystical armors.

- Two Hard-Hitting Free Functional Weapons. Aim true with the hard-hitting M1916 or spray a torrent of rounds with the blazing-fast Nikita AVT, both for use in Multiplayer, Zombies, and Warzone.

Their wonderings about the whereabouts of the Predacons are answered when Budora and Bakudora arrive to take the disc off them. Using the power of Dragotron, the two Predacons grow to enormous size. Meanwhile, a blazing dragon comes streaking down into Earth's atmosphere. The Swordbots, initially flattened by the two Predacons, combine into GoHishou and unleash a whirlwind attack. Then they switch to GoSensui configuration and blast the Predacons off their feet with a torrent of water. Finally they switch to GoGekisou and unleash a finishing move that returns the two Predacons to their usual size. As the Autobot combiner moves in to finish them off, a column of fire appears, heralding the arrival of Dragotron. The Predacon leader zaps the Autobots repeatedly and Tobio laments that they're going to lose, until suddenly a blazing dragon streaks out of the sky and headbutts Dragotron right in the face. The energy vanishes from the dragon, revealing Optimus Exprime, Optimus's new form. Optimus dramatically announces that Dragotron's villainy ends here!

Brother Richard liked it loud. He punched the iPod up all the way until the music hammered his brain, its force beating away like some banshee howl from the high, dark mountains hidden behind the screen of rushing trees. He was holding at eighty-five miles per hour, even through the turns, though that took a surgeon's skill, a miracle of guts and timing. The music roared. Sinnerman, where you gonna run to? Gonna run to the sea Sea won't you hide me? Run to the sea Sea won't you hide me? But the sea it was aboilin' All on that day It was that old-time religion, fierce and haunted, harsh, unforgiving. It was Baptist fire and brimstone, his father's fury and anguish, it was Negroes in church, afeared of the flames of hell, it was the roar of a hot, primer-gray V8 'Cuda in the night, as good old boys in sheets raised their own particular kind of hell, driven by white lightning or too much Dixie or too much hate, it was the South arising under the red snapping of the flag of the Confederacy. He rode the corner perfectly, left-footing the brake and coming off it at the precise moment so that he came out of the hairpin at full power. It was late, it was dark, it was quiet, except of course for the thunder of the engine. His right foot involuntarily pressed pedal to metal and the car leapt forward, breaching the century mark, now 110, now 120, right at death's edge, right near to and within spitting distance of oblivion, and he loved it, a crack in the window seal sending a torrent of air to beat his hair. Sinnerman, where you gonna run to? Gonna run to the moon Moon won't you hide me? Run to the moon Moon won't you hide me? But the moon it was ableedin', All on that day A climb and then a sudden turn. It was Iron Mountain, and 421 slashed crookedly up its angry hump. He hit brake, felt the car slide, saw the great whiz of dust white in the headlamp beams as he slipped to shoulder, felt the grit as the stilled tires fought the gravel and ripped it free, but the skid was controlled, never close to loss, and as the car slowed, he downshifted to second, lurched ahead and caught the angle of the turn just right, pealing back across the asphalt and leaving the dust explosion far behind as he found the new, perfect vector and powered onward into the night. If you thought you were in the presence of a young prince of the South, high on octane and testosterone and the beat of an old and comforting spiritual, you'd be wrong. Brother Richard was by no means young; he was a thin, ageless man with a curiously dead face -- a recent surgery had remolded his physiognomy into something generally bland and generic -- and he was well enough dressed to pass for a preacher or a salesman or a dentist, in a gray suit, white shirt, and black tie, all neat, all cheap, straight off the rack at Mr. Sam's big store near the interstate. You'd never look at him and see the talent for driving that was so special to his being, or the aggression that fueled it, or the hatred that explained the aggression, or the bleakness of spirt and utter capability, or even his profession, which was that of assassin. "Nikki Swagger, girl reporter." It was funny, it was corny, but she liked it and smiled whenever she conjured it to mind. Nikki Swagger, girl reporter. It was true enough. Nikki, twentyfour, was the police reporter for the Bristol Courier-Herald, of Bristol, TN/VA. "TN/VA" was an odd construction, and its oddity expressed an odd reality: The newspaper served a single city set in two entities, half in the Volunteer State, half in the Old Dominion State. The border ran smack through the city, a burg of one hundred thousand set in the southernmost reaches of the Shenandoah Valley, where one state became another. It was horse country, it was farm country, it was quarry country, but most of all, and especially this time of year, it was NASCAR country. Race week was coming and soon one of Tennessee's smaller cities would become one of its larger as three hundred fifty thousand citizens of NASCAR nation -- some would call it Budweiser nation -- came to town for the Sharpie 500 a week and days away, one of the premier Sprint Cup events on the circuit. Nikki couldn't wait! But for now, Nikki drove her Volvo down Tennessee's State Route 421 from Mountain City, Johnson County's county seat, twenty-odd miles out of Bristol. She drove carefully as the road wound down the slope of a mountain called Iron, switchbacking this way and that to eat up the steep elevation. She knew she had to be wary, for it was full dark, visibility was limited -- sometimes interstate rigs came piling up on the verge of chaos and hurt, taking a shorter, emptier route at night between podunk destinations -- and to her life was still one great adventure and she wanted to enjoy every single second of it. She checked the speedometer and saw she was under forty, which seemed about right, and the world beyond her windshield consisted of two cones of light which illuminated the next 250 or so feet, a narrow ribbon on asphalt, and curves that came and went with breathtaking abruptness. She was an excellent driver, possibly because she'd studied the nature of vehicles in space so assiduously in her western girlhood where, besides horses, she'd spent years in tough-as-nails go-karting and had the medals and scars to prove it, as well as several roomfuls of trophies and ribbons and photos of herself. The girl in the pictures was beautiful as always but equally as always slightly disheveled, and usually posed in a caged car about quarter-size. In the pictures always were her mother, a handsome, fair woman who looked as if she stepped out of a Howard Hawks movie and should have been named Slim, and her father, whose military heritage seemed inscribed in the leather of a Spartan shield that comprised the perpetually tanned hide of his smileless face. Down the mountain she went at a carefully controlled and agilely sustained forty per, her mind alight with possibility. She'd been in the county seat all day and talked to dozens of people, the subject being her specialty as a crime reporter, methamphetamine issues. Meth -- called "crystal," called "ice," called "killer dust," called "purple death," called "angel breath," called the "whispering crazies," called whatever -- haunted Johnson County, Tennessee, as it haunted most of rural America. It was cheap, it was more or less easily made (though it did have a tendency to explode in the kitchen labs of the trailers and shacks where it was manufactured), and it hit like a sledgehammer. People loved the first few minutes of the high, and didn't remember the last few minutes, where they put their newborn -- in the oven or down the well or just on the clothesline. They didn't remember beating their spouse to death with a hoe or a brick, or wandering down the interstate, shotgun in hand, shooting at those strange things roaring by that turned out to be cars. People got themselves in a whole mess of trouble on meth. Not after every usage but often enough so that lots of ugliness happened. She'd seen families sundered, hideous crimes, law enforcement compromised by the abundant profit, dealers shot or slashed to death in alleyways or cornfields, the whole spectrum of big city dope woe played out in no-name towns the New York Times had never heard of and no movies had ever been made about. She was the scourge's scribe, its Homer, its Melville, its Stephen Crane, even if no one had ever heard of her, either. As she drove, she puzzled over several eccentricities her daylong trip had uncovered. The nominal reason for the trip was to go on a meth raid with Sheriff Reed Wells, the ex-Ranger officer who'd returned home to clean up the county, as the saying went, and who had talked the Justice Department into leaning on the Department of Defense and had somehow acquired a much-beaten but still viable Blackhawk helicopter to permit scouting and airborne tactical consideration. In fact, she'd spent the morning airborne, sitting next to the handsome fellow, as he maneuvered his troops down brushy mountain paths, and coordinated a neat strike on a rusting trailer, which in fact did turn out to house a small-scale meth lab. Nikki had seen the culprit, a down-on-his-luck mountaineer named Cubby Holden, arrested, his apparatus hauled out into the yard and smashed by husky young deputies dressed up like Tommy Tactical action figures. They loved every second of the game, leaving behind a sallow woman, two wormy kids, and a hell of a mess in the yard. A typical triumph for Sheriff Wells, yet the problem was that meth prices, despite his many strategic successes, stayed stable in the Tri-cities area. (The second and third cities along with Bristol were Johnson City -- oddly, not a part of Johnson County -- and Kingsport.) She knew this from interviews with addicts at a state rehab clinic in Mountain City. Kid told her he paid thirty-five dollars a hit yesterday and two years ago, it was thirty-five dollars a hit. Now how could this be? Maybe there were a lot more labs out there than anybody knew. Maybe there was some kind of protected superlab. Maybe some southern crime family was running the stuff in from other places. Then she heard a strange rumor, thought nothing of it, picked it up again, and had a few hours before dark. It held that someone in the mountains was shooting up the night. Lots of ammo being burned, blasting away, somewhere down old Route 167 before it connected with the bigger, newer 61. Now what could that be? Would that be the famous super meth lab, hidden in some hollow, invisible from the sky, its security so professionally run it demanded its own set of Tommy Tacticals to handle perimeter duties and work out with their submachine guns every night? Rumor suggested that it lay in the pie of land around the nexus of the 67-167 routes, and, night still being a bit off, she'd poked around there finding nothing except some kind of Baptist prayer camp nesting behind a NO TRESPASSING sign that she ignored and, upon arrival, encountered a Colonel Sanders in a powder blue Wal- Mart suit who gave her a free Bible and tried to get her to stay for supper. She skipped the food, but driving back down the dusty road to the highway -- It was just a piece of cardboard, trapped by a snarl of weeds and held at a peculiar angle so the sun happened to light it, yielding a color not found in forests in steamy Augusts as well as right angles, not found in any forest, ever. Her eye caught it. So she stopped and plucked it up. Something in it was familiar. It was something official looking, military, at least governmental -- equipment, ammo, something like that. The scrap was torn, rent by being crushed by passing vehicles, but as her father was a noted shooter and always had boxes of weird stuff around, she knew what this sort of thing could mean, though only a bit of official print was still legible on the scrap. But then she was disappointed, as all thoughts of ammunition and explosives vanished. She thought it might be biblical, something Baptist, for it also carried religious connotations. It had been bisected in its rough passage to its nest in the leaves, and only a few symbols remained on the piece. Who knew what started the inscription, but it ended in "k 2:11," though with dirt splashes and spots and crumples she wasn't sure about the colon. But it made her think instantly of Mark 2:11. Bullet or Bible? Weirdly, both. She remembered the crazed Waco standoff of her youth, the gunfight, the siege, the fire-and-brimstone ending. That was something that somehow combined both bullets and Bibles. Maybe that dynamic was in play here, for the world in many places had not grown beyond killing on what was believed to be God's say-so. On the other hand: It's just a scrap of cardboard by the road, that's all it is, it could have blown in and ended up here a million different ways. Maybe it's just a function of my imagination, the reporter's distressing tendency to see more than what's there. She tucked it in the Bible that the old Baptist minister had pressed upon her so it wouldn't get lost or crumpled in her briefcase and drove off in search of answers. But a local gun store, run by a bitter old man who'd turned skank mean after a bit, was of no help, so she set about her drive home. But now she thought: My dad will know. Her dad knew stuff. He was a great fighter, once a famous marine, and more recently had gone away for a while a few times and then come back, always sadder, sometimes with a new scar or two. But he had a talent -- and in this world it was a valuable talent -- and the core of it was that he knew a certain thing or two in a certain arcane subject area. He wasn't reliable on politics or movies -- hated 'em all -- but he was superb in nature, could read land, wind, and sky, could track and hunt with anyone, and in the odd, sealed little world of guns and fighting with them he was the rough equivalent of a rock star. Never talked about it. Now and then she'd catch him just staring off into space, his face grave, as he remembered a lifetime of near misses or wounds that healed hard and slow. But then he shook off his pain and became funny and outrageous again. An


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