JFL

An often implemented concept receives a superb treatment, wherein all of Waititi’s merits are put to use – playful imagination based on reality but unhindered by realism, immeasurable fondness for total outsiders and the asocial, brilliant comedic timing, pleasure in the local New Zealand motifs, particularly those from the world of the lowest social classes, and a perfect feel for the use of non-actors. In combination with the popular humoristic novel, it is no wonder that the result became the most successful New Zealand film of all time in terms of viewership. Like, for example, Stephen Chow in Hong Kong long ago, Waititi manages to render gags of the lowest register with peculiarity and sophistication. This is not idle, thoughtless humour, but rather perfectly crafted entertainment built on precision timing and flawless mastery of the filmmaker’s art. Charlie Chaplin and Harold Lloyd knew that everyone could fall to the ground, but only a master can do it perfectly for the camera. No matter that some viewers are unable to understand that.

Tower is a brilliant evocation of the situation during the mass shooting on the fateful day in Austin when America lost its innocence, shown from various points of view of the victims and bystanders, who, in the words of one of the witnesses, were sorted into heroes and cowards. It is a chilling depiction of incomprehensibility and chaos that transcends the bounds of society and civilisation, to which every person responds differently yet identically in a certain overarching irrationality. In this respect, it makes sense that the film approaches the shooter as an anonymous and unseen entity. All the more catastrophic for the whole documentary then is the nonconceptual shift in the climax, in which there is suddenly talk of forgiveness and Charles Whitman’s actions are related to violence in the media and Columbine, though not a word is spoken about the man who pulled the trigger.

Bone Tomahawk is broadly discussed and written about as a horror movie in a western setting or, conversely, a western that turns into a horror movie at the climax. This is a one-dimensional view, however, as S. Craig Zahler created an inventive revisionist western in his exceptionally polished debut. The new concept in his interpretation does not mean dirt, nihilism and rejection of heroism, which deconstructionist films like Unforgiven fall back on by default. Zahler brings forth a much more inventive, well-developed and original grasp of the iconic genre. The masterfully written film re-establishes the western for today’s cynical and enlightened times in that it conceives its iconic attributes with a sophisticated perspective, while concurrently updating its basic narrative formulas and ethos. Therefore, the Indians here are not savages, but rather in the figure of a professor they become a biting personification of the wrongs committed by white men, which goes beyond the cowboys not only in being familiar with nature and its wonders, but also with the breadth of knowledge, wit and intelligence. Similarly, the protagonist’s wife can be sarcastic, rational and intelligent, while adhering to the role of object and trophy. Heroism inevitably becomes synonymous with limitations, ignorance and stubbornness. The film’s most essential roles are played by troglodytes as anonymous monsters who defy rationality, returning danger, mystery and, mainly, an element of the strange to life on the edge of civilisation. Those are the ideal erratic, bestial savages like the Indians in the tales of the Wild West, before their traditional depiction took on the foul taste of genocide. As a result, Bone Tomahawk can place in the main female character’s mouth a memorable and eloquent line that provides scathing commentary on the machismo of the film’s men and, at the same time, serves as a heroic celebration of their tenacity and determination.

The comparison of film and a rollercoaster perfectly suits Marvel blockbusters. The standardised products from the shared workshop of the Marvel Studios and Disney divisions attract viewers with a spectacular ride, which is, however, constructed in a completely mechanical way. Just as fairground machines differ from each other in their effect on one’s emotions only in their scary murals, extravagant names and number of flashing lights, Guardians of the Galaxy is absolutely identical to, for example, Big Hero 6. The narrative construction and dramaturgy, i.e. the rails conveying the audience to the individual emotional hoops and loops, are exactly the same; they differ only in their particular twists and turns. This is most striking in the conclusion, when, immediately after the spectacular climax comes an emotional twist that transforms the given film into a tear-jerker. Distinctive directors are hired for Marvel flicks solely for marketing purposes in order to help create the impression that the individual films are different, but in practical terms, their contribution has the same weight as the authorship of carnies who paint unlicensed portraits of pop-culture icons on midway rides.

This is not an amateur pseudo-achievement made in an offhand manner, but a consciously conceived and, mainly, erudite variation on ancient epics. It’s true that it makes very little sense to rank this film alongside contemporary Czech films made by the younger generation of filmmakers, but only in the sense that experimentation and informed wordplay necessarily stand apart from everything else, especially conventional narratives that pick up techniques at foreign festivals. To criticise an intentionally theatrical project by people working in modern theatre simply indicates a sheer lack of understanding and a failure to accept the concept. The merits of Antonín Šilar and Ondřej Cikán’s film lie in its consistent and informed adherence to the ancient epics, not only in their narrative composition, typical motifs and formulas, but also in their ahistorical nature and the mythical world’s relationship to contemporary reality. The film takes these attributes from Cikán’s book of the same name, which he had written after years of studying antiquity. The adaptation adds the imaginative staging of individual scenes and images, combining the techniques of modern scenography, imaginative set design and punkish low-budget aesthetics. At the same time, the contrast between the mythical story, the modern presentation and the creative filming gives rise to a whole that simultaneously deconstructs and strengthens the ancient stories.

First of all, the effort to make a film in a genre that is noticeably absent in the Czech Republic, not in the sense of a parkour film, but a teen film (not to be confused with teen comedies) is worthy of admiration. Like the German film Parkour, the makers of In Your Dreams use sport as a metaphor for a certain time in one’s life and the issues and challenges associated with it. Regardless of the fact that parkour does not have an age limit, Oukropec and co. chose a more appropriate parallel in adolescence and in the themes of unrequited feelings, emotional turmoil and defining oneself, which sets them apart from their German counterparts. Nevertheless, the dream storyline gives rise to doubts, as it seems slightly inappropriate for the female protagonist’s age and brings too much literalness and unambiguity into the film. At the same time, it is a functional device with a number of imaginative elements, but one cannot help but feel that the filmmakers used it as a screenwriting crutch, especially when, in other aspects of the film, they succeed in combining specific symbols with more general meanings (the rope motif) in a realistic storyline. In Your Dreams has several elements that evoke ambivalence and pull the film out of the realm of otherwise stylish fiction – this refers primarily to the dialogue, the formulaic plot twists (a sprained ankle) and the studio interiors. However, these are offset by even more significant elements of things left unsaid and situations that are significant in terms of meaning or important for the development of the characters. The conceptual grasp of parkour itself is also pleasantly surprising, as the filmmakers do not attempt to mimic hyper-spectacular performance videos, but rather employ a down-to-earth style to illustrate the main coming-of-age storyline without drowning it out. And as a final bonus, there are natural non-actors among the parkourers, especially the lead actress, who gives her character naturalness and, primarily, physical prowess. 7/10

“When we wanted to explain something to each other, we could say, ‘We want it to be like in this or that film,’ because I think we know films rather well,” director Jiří Sádek said of the creative collaboration behind the camera. How many times and in which stages of working on The Noonday Witch did they say, “We want it to be like in The Babadook”? Viewers who have not managed to avoid that essential horror movie of recent years will inevitably get a sense of permanent déjà vu from this film. The similarity of particular motifs, elements and formalistic techniques is so strong that it is impossible for it be a coincidence. While other young Czech filmmakers copy the formalistic techniques of foreign titles, the work of Sádek, Chlupáček and Samir borders on plagiarism. If we take that to the extreme, it can be said that while others use a familiar form to appeal primarily to viewers who are also well versed in cinema, The Noonday Witch is conversely targeted at unknowledgeable viewers, to whom it can pass itself off as an original work. At the same time, the filmmakers manage to superbly utilise local elements, which come across as lively and natural even though they draw on the standard contrast between the city and the countryside. Furthermore, the basic concept of a modern non-literal reworking of a canonical poem, built on the motifs of the unhappy aspects of motherhood, has great potential. Paradoxically, however, The Babadook is not only more refined and stylistically cohesive, but also a stronger and more faithful adaptation of Karel Jaromír Erben’s book on which The Noonday Witch is based.

The first Mockingjay is one of the most typical blockbusters in the history of Hollywood. The second most commercially successful film in the Unites States in 2014 and the fifth in the given year in worldwide box-office revenues is completely devoid of money shots, epic scenes and bombastic action sequences. Its two-hour runtime predominantly comprises dialogue scenes, as most of the film takes place in an underground bunker and all of the characters wear baggy coveralls. Here the filmmakers can afford to do what would be commercial suicide anywhere else thanks to the fact that this is a feature-length exposition for the climax, which will come in the second film. The knowledge that, thanks to its title, the film will automatically be a hit regardless of what happens in it gave rise to the film saga’s crucial episode. Instead of a seasonal spectacle, we have here a film that appeals exclusively to adolescent audiences, but instead of the formulaicness and superficiality that is associated with this target group on the part of overly clever old people and pragmatic producers, it relates a narrative from an Orwellian grey world that uncovers deceit and media manipulation, showing the heroine fumbling her way between her own interests and the intentions of others, while offering no resolution of the conflicts that have arisen.

The background of this film’s creation plays a crucial role in fully appreciating it. There actually was a “Chinese Schindler”, Ho Fengshan, who used his position as a consul in Vienna to save thousands of Jews from the Nazis by issuing them Chinese travel visas. However, Michel Adam, who wrote and financed Exodus to Shanghai himself, had a more fundamental influence on this truly unique film project. Adam is bloated Jewish businessman who got rich off the output of textile sweatshops in Thailand and founded the Fashion TV channel in Paris at the turn of the millennium, which made him one of the main drivers of living racks for expensive clothes in later years. When you already have a cocaine-infused brain, a stable of models, warehouses full of clothes, money to burn and a thoroughly bloated ego, the logical next step is to set out into the great wide world of film production. All of this would indicate that Adam’s first creative work would be a sort of Schindler’s List made by a Jewish Zoolander. In relation to Exodus to Shanghai, several instances of emphasising national-ethnic roots are essential, as the film involves pure Jewsploitation that Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds did not bother with at all. Like the most obscure contributions of the 1970s blaxploitation movement, Adam’s coke-fuelled madness combines within itself overblown appeals to emotion, amateur production facilities, amateur acting, the most basic attractions of every kind, bolstering of his own ethnicity’s self-confidence and martial arts. Michel Adam brings us the story of a Chinese consul who, together with his assistants, servants and a chef, issues thousands of visas for Jews, and his kung-fu assistant, who beats hell out of muscle-bound Nazis and teaches kung-fu to kids with side locks and Jewish beauties (portrayed by Aryan models). In addition to that, there is an excellent parallel storyline about a wealthy old Jewish couple who are art collectors whose collection contains naïve drawings made by a young Adolf Hitler, who is now deploying entire divisions to get them back. Of course, there just has to be scenes in which an old Jew lashes out at fanatical crowds of Nazis and a beautiful young woman kicks a sleazy SS man’s ass, and the climax takes the form of a last stand, when the old couple barricade themselves in their home and mow down groups of Wehrmacht soldiers with machine guns in slow-motion shots. But that is just one of a number of aspects that make Exodus to Shanghai a completely extraordinary phenomenon. The narrative jumps from bombastically impassioned scenes to folk comedy (in the better case in the style of French war farces such as Ace of Aces and La Grande Vadrouille, and in the worse case in the spirit of Zdeněk Troška) to a kitschy romance and a hysterical Holocaust flick. In Adam’s eyes, this is supposed to be a seriously intended tribute to his mother, who evidently fell in love with a Chinese consulate employee in the 1930s. Irrationality, pomposity and stimulant-laced artistic license comprise the alpha and the omega here, so it should not be surprising that no one put a lot of thought into any sort of historical accuracy, causality, logic or stylistic restraint. On the contrary, every scene is characterised by unfocused impulsiveness and deliberate excessiveness. It thus comes as no surprise that, for example, the main villain’s office seems to have been designed with the goal of cramming as many swastikas as possible into a single room or that the guards are standing on the windowsills in the shots in front of the consulate. There is also a simple explanation for why prostitutes in a Nazi brothel are dressed like models from the 21st century – because Adam's company has warehouses full of such clothes. A number of scenes do not refute the hiring of all manner of acquaintances, so in the crowd scenes the camera oddly glides past the extras so that everyone can enjoy their fifteen frames of fame. The main poster tableau is reserved for the leading models, which corresponds to their acting performances. The major roles are occupied by veteran actors whose filmographies include titles such as Skyfall and Star Wars, but a closer look reveals that they portrayed characters such as the fourth soldier on the right. Even this does not conclude the list of bizarre and phantasmagorical aspects of this epic, and that’s not to mention the bizarre context that the same story is now being turned into a television series in a Czech-Chinese co-production project. A separate chapter comprises the experience of the film’s screening in the Berlin film market, which involved the properly unsensible premiere with the participation of all of the main actors, creators and models, as well as a delegation from the Chinese embassy. Exodus to Shanghai is simply a truly unforgettable experience and an unprecedented film project.

The shooting of the American film The Sand Pebbles (1966), though itself modest in terms of action, is one of the formative influences in the history of Hong Kong cinema and the roots of its action production and stunt work. Conversely, the French classic Up to His Ears, which a year earlier had taken the streets of the British colony by storm, has at most received only fleeting mention (at least in English-language texts). At the same time, de Broca’s wild farce clearly lends itself to being viewed as a precedent for Jackie Chan’s action comedies. After all, Belmondo, with his burlesque physical comedy and the principle that he would perform all of the dangerous bits himself, could be a direct model for the future biggest star of Hong Kong cinema’s golden era. Hong Kong stunt veterans attribute at least one practical innovation to the French production, as it introduced the practice of using cardboard boxes to lessen the impact of falls. Furthermore, it was the first production that took the action out of the artificial environment of film studios and directly into the streets of the city, with spectacular sequences combining the attraction of hair-raising acrobatics with local exterior elements such as ships at anchor in ports and bamboo scaffolding. With its numerous shots of districts such as Central and Aberdeen and Kai Tak Airport in their long since forgotten form, Up to His Ears thus concurrently serves as a valuable historical memento for Hong Kong. Apart from the considerations associated with the location, de Broca’s film grandiosely paraphrases Bond films and other ostentatious productions whose main attraction consists in the swift movement between various locations around the world. Belmondo’s protagonist ridicules the noble motivations of serious heroes as he heedlessly throws himself into adventures on a whim and in the name of egocentric interests, thus revealing the vagary and senselessness of competing McGuffins.