POMO

What I thought the first half an hour of Queen of Hearts is that it’s a decently directed interlude to a “milf-stepmom something” video on Pornhub. And there really are porn scenes, with surprising details and naturalism. However, the irresponsible whim of the fifty-year-old married woman, which at first seems to be mere entertainment for a bored missus, turns into a family drama of unexpected proportions with an impact on everyone involved. The Danes are once again psychologically accurate in how they tackle the topic of the dark side of human nature, this time shown in a dangerous manipulative woman. The main character’s counter-attack when she is cornered by her husband is the most open admission of the most typical failing of the fairer sex. The film is surprisingly open and direct for today’s world. I’m kind of surprised that Trine Dyrholm wanted such a role.

I can stand rather primitive (from the filmmaking perspective) revenge brutality flicks with one-dimensional characters as an occasional guilty pleasure. The Nightingale, with its very limited narrative talent, is capable of being just that, but it aspires to be a significant testimony about the cruel times of the English occupation of Australia with the settlers’ haughtiness and cruel treatment of the Aboriginals and convicts, murdering toddlers, raping, killing farm families just for fun. After a very strong introduction suggesting a brutal revenge flick, the film gradually turns toward a more sophisticated goal, all the while looking like an expensive exercise of an average filmmaking student. [Helsinki IFF]

A study of the character of an Icelandic cop, dad, granddad and, above all, a recently widowed man who reveals the secrets of his deceased wife. This is not a detective story, but a very intimate drama about love beyond the grave, disappointment and forgiveness. The seemingly simple theme is made more interesting by the narration, in which the viewers have to answer some questions for themselves and the creative screenwriting/editing insertions that make the film distinctive (the initial showing of the different faces of Icelandic weather, police monitors, a falling stone, etc.). Ingvar Sigurðsson is excellent.

This film is saved by its black-and-white cinematography, framing and lighting, as well as by the depiction of the era with the right set designs and costumes. The narrative structure, however, is completely monotonous, devoid of any dramatic arc, artistic symbolism, more sophisticated editing techniques and internal emotional development, which could have been at least partially provided by (unfortunately completely absent) music. The Painted Bird misses most of what this type of film needs. The characters have well-chosen faces, but they only appear for a few minutes, barely speak and give nothing to the film. Their ugliness just contributes to the premature loss of the boy’s innocence in a nasty environment. And we come to understand that this loss is the point of the whole film only in the last few minutes, after almost three hours of monotonous stacking of the similarly looking and sounding episodes on top of each other.

Ad Astra is a psychological analysis of the mind of an astronaut who has to sort out his relationship with his dead (?) father. This is no spectacular sci-fi hit, but a cleverly written, self-reflective monologue of Brad Pitt’s character about inner doubts regarding the sense of absolute devotion to his work at the cost of deviating from the path where his heart is telling him to go. Space travel, though nicely conceived, makes the film “only” visually more attractive and adds a magical philosophical dimension. The climax may even disappoint some hardcore sci-fi fans expecting something big to happen. The film is akin to Chazelle’s First Man, which was, however, more emotional and fragile.

The cute, soft film is neither scary nor gory enough, but it shows some quality work with the environment/set designs and nicely captures the 1980s. It would have been more successful if it had also been made in that era, as contemporary horror viewers – including the youngest ones – are used to a more intense, goosebump-inducing experience and jump scares, even in movies with worse writing and direction. But intensity is what the audience craves, and intensity is lacking here.

In telling a dramatic story and portraying characters in a less coherent manner than in the first installment, It: Chapter Two is rather more B-movie improvisation (the weakest quarter of the film is made up of looking for personal artifacts). On the other hand, the plot is denser and contains more monsters, though they are absurdly incorporated or stolen from somewhere else (the spider head from The Thing finally got more space). Sometimes I enjoyed it, sometimes it was boring, and on the whole I kind of don’t care that I won’t be seeing the third part.

A timeless clothing store as a colorful temple of human needs and weaknesses, inhabited by a gothic vampire, a bizarre servant and a few courtesans. In Fabric is a mysterious trip into the realm of human fetishes and internal anxiety with attractive giallo optics. The first half is intriguing and stimulates the viewer’s curiosity. The second half, which turns the page and observes other victims, is interesting only at the beginning, before it begins to connect with the common evil. Then the film starts to become boring by reminding us of the situations from the first half, without escalating in any meaningful way. And the drive of the almost hypnotic narrative is thus ruined. It was as if Strickland didn’t know how to finish the story that he so wonderfully set in motion. The best thing would be to develop this into a series where in each episode the murderous dress would visit another household. The creator could thus try his hand at dozens of bizarre constellations of characters and their intimate activities “behind closed doors”.

Did Fritz Lang really have to so blatantly steal from Hitchcock? This is no homage or tribute to Rebecca; it is merely a less successful copy in every way. Secret Beyond the Door is further marred by its lack of gothic set designs to give it the necessary mysterious atmosphere and by the main male character without the necessary charisma. The potentially most interesting character of his son is criminally underdeveloped and the final revelation is unsatisfactory and banal.

Rather than in the story itself, the joy of watching this movie lies chiefly in savouring the beautiful, elegant filmmaking of early Hollywood, with spectacular scenes and with excellently selected and stylized actors. The story is rather dated, unable to engage as it once did, and it becomes exciting only in the final revelation. Moreover, the anxious position of the main character in the story is more relatable to the female rather than to the male audience. For me, Rebecca is all about Laurence Olivier’s star power and charisma, the design and atmosphere of the gloomy Manderley Mansion, and the black silhouette of a mysterious housekeeper in the interiors with long curtains. These are the elements that Hitchock revisited in his later and, in my opinion, more significant works.