Will seems awed by the experience.
The existence of free will seems to be presupposed by the notion of moral responsibility.
The will seems to hold hidden messages: clues to underground societies and conspiracies.
They failed to do it, and the public's will seems to have abated.
Like many children who play grisly video games, Will seems able to leave his aggression on the screen.
Mr. Chandler's reference to the abortion and same-sex marriage battles, as part of his plea for patience and deference to the majority's will, seems misplaced.
In casting Pattinson and in directing him so anti-dramatically, Cronenberg evokes a distinctive type of character — one whose will seems cut off from desire.
Will seems to be genuinely buzzing about spending his Saturday in a freezing warehouse watching a load of inelegantly piloted "controlled" aircraft.
The handpicked, whimsically named ensemble that tours for a few weeks a year, disbands and then reconvenes at its leader's will seems to be the must-have accessory for middle-aged soloists these days.
Not the least of these is why the vapid, indifferent Will seems able to bed women with ease, a trait that suggests a dismissive, disposable view of the female sex on the part of Mr. Kohn, who also wrote the film.
And its vision of success would be meliorist rather than counterrevolutionary. Gradually but steadily, it would pursue a sexual future in which the choice between patriarchy and permissiveness (or between "Father Knows Best" and Lena Dunham's "Girls," if you will) seems as outdated as the choice between Luddism and Gradgrindism looks today.
