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Unfortunately, this has already been done before, in a more conceptual, sincere and self-contained film version. This pilot for a potential Amazon series clearly draws on Mabrouk El Mechri’s phenomenal JCVD, but instead of that film’s balancing on the edge of reflection, homage, mockery and admiration, it is rather an attempt at Tropic Thunder turned on its head. Johnson is yet another contribution of the current line of quantity TV, which is built not on progressiveness, but rather on the comforting variation of what has already been seen and loved. In the age of quality TV, it was true that the main advantage of series was that, unlike films, they had more room to manoeuvre in terms of character development and could thus be less formulaic and thus more complex. In the current state of the flourishing competitive market and a return to classic television consumerism, the focus is on capturing the audience with an attractive and optimally familiar concept and stretching it out endlessly. The main thing is to attract attention, and screenwriting dodges will ensure that viewers keep coming back for more. Johnson is thus another contribution to the main current trend of series production – milking well-known movie brands for all they’re worth. Except at Amazon they properly understood that the brand consists not of the title of the film, but of the main character. On one hand, the pilot is clearly very likable and ticks all the boxes for engaging the chosen audience (generations of Van Damme fans and film buffs). There is thus obvious potential for a long-running series, but, on the other hand, it is impossible to imagine that it could offer a more intense viewing experience than simply re-watching JCVD, followed by Tropic Thunder. The pilot actually works best as a sort of fast-paced commentary on JCVD (it contains variations on the film’s most affecting scenes – Van Damme performing variations on the iconic rush and mountains, meeting fans everywhere and even crying – but due to the absence of dramaturgical structure and context, it lacks the film’s emotional impact).

One of the most terrifying cases of trailer syndrome – individual scenes played up to the maximum, but the whole is fatally incohesive, not to mention the tragic lack of dramaturgy or the half-baked nature of the screenplay. The narrative gives the impression of being a rough bunch of ideas thrown together after the first brainstorming session that no one bothered work out and refine, let alone assess with a clear head. At the same time, the initial ambitious plan to combine the tradition of ’80s children’s horror with the harrowing and repulsive naturalism of the French extreme horror-film production of the new millennium sounds like a great idea, but it simply doesn’t work in practice. The two stylistic approaches differ in basic matters to such a degree that they cancel each other out. Eighties children’s films like The Goonies, from which the filmmakers apparently drew the most inspiration (an underground labyrinth, a pirate ship, a simpleton in a monstrous body), are built on illusion, adventure and innocence. Conversely, French hyper-realistic nihilism turns children into unlikable assholes, taints illusion with rot and, instead of guilelessness and naiveté, employs extreme corporeality, derangement and distasteful grotesqueness. Whereas adventure movies from Amblin and the like are focused on bringing friends and family together, the right opposite has to happen in Aux yeux des vivants. The film unavoidably gives the impression that its creators skipped one essential step between brainstorming and shooting, which was to acknowledge that this was never going to work and put an end to the project. Unfortunately, they didn’t do that, probably because of their own fame and the support provided by the French government, which finances absolutely anything and everything.

The most surprising aspect of Green Room is the non-filmic aspect consisting in the fact that it polarises the audience at all. One would expect that people would simply enjoy a flick that serves up an absorbing survival story in exchange for a drop of suspension of disbelief. Green Room is neither a realistic drama nor an ambitious revision of genre rules, but rather an ingeniously and not quite traditionally constructed genre film. Like Wolf Creek, for example, it takes its time initiating the confrontation. When it comes this time, genre excess does not emerge, but rather realism continues to be applied within the boundaries of the genre. From that, it is apparent that the film does not play completely according to formulas or, said more precisely, that it does not develop the situation predictably through clichés, but spontaneously through the characters and the playing out of the claustrophobic situation. Thanks to that, the overarching survival stand-off narrative gets some fresh blood in its veins. The gradual alternation of attempts to survive and the revelation of facts that are unknown to both the viewer and the characters keeps the tension building. Thanks to the fact that the filmmakers stay grounded in terms of eye-catching genre elements (from overwrought heroism and pompous negativity to superficial attractions), the traditional alienation of the film does not bring up any questions about what will happen next or how it will turn out, and the impulsively behaving characters only carry the viewer onward to the next unconventionally constructed scene. But apparently not for everyone. Then the question is, why? Because today’s film fans have become so enamoured with overly sophisticated blockbusters and high-quality TV that they cannot enjoy a precise, non-camp genre spectacle that is not exceedingly wise, but is just inconspicuously clever?

Ah, the VHS era, when the success of a film was not determined by its qualities, but by its title and cover, or even its trailer. Could there be anything more fabulous than Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama, especially with an attractive picture of scantily clad girls and a promise of the supernatural? Well, practically anything could be. The film concealed behind the masterful promotion is one of the most telling examples of video bullshit. This time, David DeCoteau is in charge of the hopeless blend of teenage pseudo-obscene flicks and horror comedy, while not properly delving into either. With this film, it is impossible to say what the individual scenes contain or how poorly it is made. Here, the only saving grace is amusement over what they do not contain, because the filmmakers did not have the money, skills or inventiveness to get the job done. You will learn from Sorority Babes that the gore, masks and effects of their time were surprisingly more expensive than basic stunts, so in the climax there will be one shot with an overturned car on the roof, but no blood at any time during the film. Which is a major shortcoming in a horror film that can otherwise boast only the futile jokes and tiresome dialogue of its idiotic characters. However, DeCoteau and company surprisingly show that the classic remark about trash, that nudity and sex scenes are cheaper than dialogue, may not be true if you find a sufficiently cheap screenwriter. But in the era of the VHS market, none of the above was a reason for failure; on the contrary, the fame of Sorority Babes remains thesmirking proof that a little was indeed enough to satisfy viewers of a certain age back in the day.

“Ohana means family. Family means nobody gets left behind.” It’s hard to say whether the screenwriters of this soap-operatic action franchise are fans of Lilo & Stitch, but they definitely transformed that film’s motto into the defining principle of the Fast & Furious series. In the seventh instalment about family, not only does absolutely every character on the franchise team yammer on about it, but so does the main antagonist, which opens up endless possibilities for more and more sequels in the future. Furthermore, we can apply the quote to the way in which the series bid farewell to the late Paul Walker, which goes against the expectations of supposedly seasoned viewers. Otherwise, replacement of the director brought forth very few changes (which raises the question of who serves as the showrunner in major film series) and instead rather intensified existing tendencies. Though the film has officially merged with the Forza Motorsport video-game brand, it is still firmly rooted in GTA. In addition to the general over-the-top comic-book stylisation, this is apparent mainly in the narrative, which this time is constructed according to an adventure formula whereby in order to achieve a particular goal, it is necessary to obtain the means to do so, which are connected with the fulfilment of a number of secondary tasks. The alternation of action scenes and melodrama continues in Furious 7 and again the non-action scenes serve as a radical retarder in every sense of the word. Nevertheless, the fountain of blather about family has already taken on an utterly absurd dimension, especially in combination with the ridiculously ripped Diesel and cartoonishly executed scenes. The formulaic nature of the film goes beyond the boundary of insipid soap operas into the realm of hysterical camp, which, however, adds to its fun factor. After all, how seriously Furious 7 should be taken is laid bare in the opening scene, which reliably divides the audience into those who will focus on realism, logic, causality and other things that are out of place here, and those who are in tune with the film’s mix of outlandishly overwrought pathos, kitsch and delirious ostentation. The previous instalment in the series had already gone beyond Bond-esque spectacle to surreal bombast in terms of the conceptualisation and stylisation of action scenes, and that trend continues here. Unfortunately, that includes the desperate climax swimming in CGI. Luckily, we can understand it as material fatigue following much more imaginative previous scenes, both in terms of the action itself and the shooting thereof. The fetishistic details of shifting gears and stomping on the pedals were transformed into a spectacular sequence of impressions with a throbbing cadence of a few windows. This time, the camera remains stable in the details and, conversely, takes greater risks in larger shots, which is beneficial to the dynamics of the sequences. But on the other hand, as has already been mentioned, the change of director did not change the direction of the series. There is no ground-breaking remodelling as in the fifth instalment; instead, only the formula established by that film is varied and a few nuances are added. Whereas comic-book movies strive for some overlaps and emotional swings, Fast & Furious is pure escapist popcorn that is entertaining as both a silly action flick and campy melodrama, and imminently forgettable.

Bloodsucking Pharaohs in Pittsburgh is typical VHS trash–an enticing title, a poster that has very little in common with the film, a promising concept marred by a futile screenplay, and a few moneyshots released in the trailer. This hopelessly lifeless attempt to combine horror, crime and parody crashes and burns due to the utter inability of everyone involved to construct a joke or make a point. As for the promised splatter associated with Tom Savini’s participation, the film, in the interest of a minimal budget, which was spent on costumes and staging, is limited to a handful of static gore shots, but all of the killing happens off-camera.

At the level of the primary plot, this likably obscene variation of Shakespeare's classic wagers only on lengthy sequences whose purpose is to cram as much nudity and dirty jokes as possible into the film. Fortunately, the narrative is constantly disrupted by anarchistic scenes with Dadaist pranks, which with their spectacular dumbness, though not brimming with genius, push this amateurish film into the realm of classic shallow entertainment in the mould of Benny Hill and Kenny Everett.

Frances Ha is a more idealistic, outsider-ish, and melancholic Girls, thanks to which Noah Baumbach’s ground-breaking film has a better rating among most men than Lena Dunham’s phenomenal series. Whereas Dunham’s heroines are sophisticated and not ashamed to be open in their futility and awkwardness, Baumbach’s idealised ode to his new love and co-writer Greta Gerwig rather gives the impression of a deranged and self-centred manic pixie dream girl. The director and the viewers make up the male counterpart who comes to the enchantment of life through her. Like the narrative ideal of a number of indie films, Frances Ha is a pleasing and ostentatiously free-thinking fairy tale that enchants with its concept of friendship and love.

This seriously imbecilic zero budget pop-up book of 1980s trash genres does not abound with originality, but it will appeal to appropriately tuned-in viewers with its dawdling, amateur ethos and shameless plagiarism. On the one hand, it may seem that combining plot motifs, characters and elements from Star Wars, Barbarella, Aliens, barbarian fantasies and post-apocalyptic action flicks could not strike anyone as being a reasonable thing to do. But the infantile logic unhindered by adult genre boundaries and rational causality is one of the advantages of Robot Holocaust. Another advantage is the evidently enthusiastic and punk style of filming. Rather than a professional production, the movie is reminiscent of amateurish projects of enthusiastic children who got their hands on a video camera and wanted to make their own variations of popular films. No shooting was done in studios, but – quite possibly without a permit – in New York in parks, construction sites, old factories and docks, and at the crumbling Smallpox Hospital building on Roosevelt Island. The acting ensemble brings to mind a group of friends with zero acting experience and even less talent for action scenes, which is thoroughly manifested in the local film’s spasmodically edited and horribly clumsy shootouts and fight scenes. As a definitive statement of the movie’s qualities, let us mention the voiceover, which, similarly as in other atrocities in the mould of America 3000, the distributors apparently added to the film in order to give this senseless work at least a semblance of coherence and narrative. In conclusion, let’s add that, from some bizarre interplay of coincidences, this film does not lie somewhere in the realm of the forgotten, but actually belongs to the library of one of the leading Hollywood studios, MGM.

Whereas in Li’l Quinquin Dumont took the genre of police procedurals to task and subjected it to a deconstruction of baseness and dementedness, this time he took aim at delicate midcult costume dramas. This is connected with the deviation from realism that is associated with Dumont and was rejected and misunderstood by most viewers. While police series play on realism and Dumont’s absolutism laid the foundation of his previous project’s subversiveness, there is no realism to be found anywhere in Slack Bay, as the genre does not work with it at all. The film’s subversiveness thus derives from a caricature that emphasises certain features of the target on which Dumont sets his sights. Though Slack Bay is descended from a line of French costume dramas, it has a perfect reference point in the British television hit Downton Abbey, a moving melodrama about empathetic members of the upper class and the servants who love their lordship above all else that wallows in its sumptuous high-mindedness, while allowing viewers to dream dreams about love bridging social chasms and to experience an emotionally extortionate drama in which criminal motives intrude on the idyll. Dumont flawlessly follows these outlines, but he boldly and vulgarly disparages the aforementioned caricature. The upper crust is thus composed of degenerates, retards, psychopaths and inbreds, while the servants merely live off of them, literally. It’s not so hot with love either, since even the most likable character from the ranks of the nobs still has a deformed core. Dumont even recalls miraculous plot twists and moving exteriors that essentially belong to Downton Abbey. An excellent aspect of his variation on Downton is the casting of the cream of grimacing acting greats led by the marvellously and hysterically hen-like Juliette Binoche (those who find her performance inadequate have never seen Elizabeth McGovern’s unbearably obtrusive facial expression in Downton) and setting against them Dumont’s typically asocial non-actors with their bizarre ticks and unique faces. Fans of Dumont as the masterful great of festival films will be very disillusioned with Slack Bay, because instead of a weighty epic, they will get an iconoclastically sophisticated farce that inclines more toward the splendidly demented faecal-humour of the creative duo Christian Clavier and Jean-Marie Poir than toward the laurels won at Cannes. Could it be that with advancing age, Dumont would follow the career trajectory of Takeshi Kitano, who one day also recognised that he’d had enough of the foolishness on the red carpet and began purposefully attacking his audience with absurd freaks of the coarsest grain? If so, keep it up!