Matty

When you accept from the beginning that Mike Flanagan (see also the excellent Oculus) is using a horror framework for the purpose of relating a suspenseful narrative about dealing with family traumas, finding trust (the story of a woman who no one believes repeatedly falls victim to attacks, which is very up to date), overcoming fear and the search for a home (i.e. unlike in other horror films, family history does not serve only as pretext for the scares – it is the main subject; fear comes from outside), you can then enjoy this psychologically compelling drama with its layered narrative structure and smooth (visual and audio) transitions between the past and present, facts and imaginings, as well as “old school” scares, based on the intra-shot montages and disturbing movement in different parts of the picture. Though some scenes are shot in a rather run-of-the-mill manner (shot/counter-shot dialogue scenes) and the conclusion with a loosely formed metafiction level is somewhat negatively affected by excessive ambitions and runtime (each of the episodes, usually bound to the point of view of one of the main characters, has its purpose, but many of them could easily have been shorter), The Haunting is excellent overall in terms of acting and directing, and one of the most pleasant surprises of this year among series. The sixth episode, consisting of several multi-minute shots that are complex choreographically and in terms of meaning, ranks among the best that high-quality TV has to offer with respect to craftsmanship.

Next to Wonder Woman, Lara comes across as a poor relation (perhaps producers perceive gamers as a weaker audience than comic-book readers). Tomb Raider offers a total of four environments (London, Hong Kong, an island, a tomb), no spectacular action scenes with the exception of the waterfall, and basically just one (rising) Hollywood star. In the context of the efforts to create a full-fledged action heroine, however, it represents a small degree of progress. Lara Croft is absolutely believable as portrayed by Alicia Vikander, who has natural acting ability. The pair of screenwriters (Geneva Robertson-Dworet also wrote Captain Marvel) did not engage in experimentation, instead offering a traditional origin story that clearly introduces non-gamers to the world of Tomb Raider and gives gamers a satisfying portion of backstory and a number of direct quotes from the game. Lara is introduced to us by the pair of opening action scenes as a woman who does not excel through tremendous physical strength, but through her ability to come up with clever solutions to problems. In both cases, she fails anyway. It is only after she actively resolves here “daddy issues” that she becomes a strong and self-confident (though not fearless), yet relatively credibly vulnerable action heroine. One gets the impression she has always had all of her presented abilities, some of which she owes to her father (problem-solving, archery), but that she only lacked inner balance, as she had no father figure in her life. In this respect, this outwardly progressive film is terribly traditionalist (actually in a similar manner as The Last Jedi – substitute Dominic West for Mark Hamill and you get the middle part of the film). However, the family storyline, primarily presented through flashbacks at first, is incorporated well into the main narrative, driving the plot and explaining the heroine’s motivations, while helping to bridge longer periods of time when the characters are moved to a different location. When it comes to any given scene’s contribution to the narrative, Tomb Raider is above reproach. There are almost no dead spots when we would lose interest in what happens next (Nick Frost’s cameo could have been shorter, or deleted). Everything is nicely connected and all of the parts fit together, though perhaps too smoothly and straightforwardly. The action scenes are sufficiently diverse and boldly reminiscent of the video game (and demonstrate how Lara improves herself in individual areas – hand-to-hand fighting, escaping from pursuers, jumping long distances) and the pace does not slacken. Just as in The Wave, Uthaug displays flawless mastery of his craft and knowledge of the principles of classic Hollywood storytelling. Within the action genre, that is not a bad thing at all, but I hope that the sequel, for which the conclusion of this film somewhat long-windedly and too obviously lays the groundwork, will not be as exceedingly cautious. 65%

Tully is a film at the midpoint between the best and the worst of which Jason Reitman is capable. Charlize Theron excels in the role of an exhausted mother of three children whose life has been reduced to mechanically repeated diaper changes and breastfeeding. Thanks to her performance, situations experienced and measured direction, we experience her fatigue, we understand her postpartum depression, and we feel tremendously relieved when Tully appears at the door. The magical nanny answers the (never-posed) question of what Mary Poppins would look like if she were a millennial and changes the film’s genre from a social tragicomedy that is clearly targeted in terms of narrative into an ambitious magical-realistic statement on losing faith in your sense of you are and what you are doing. As in the appalling satire Men, Women and Children, Reitman succumbed to the temptation to offer us grand, timeless ideas in addition to the minor dramas of ordinary people. In his concept, however, these are comically simplified and sugar-coated for easier digestibility (“A Spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down”) and their presence in the story is justified by a terribly shaky narrative structure, the overbearing revelation of a predictable plot twist to the satisfying resolution of all other problems (the heroine’s unfulfilled career ambitions, lack of funds, her son’s autism). The end of the film, whose creators got a bit lost on the way from point A to point B, then offers a resolution, albeit through something that has not been presented as a problem so far (the involvement of the husband in taking care of the household). With its utilitarian approach to the characters, Tully is actually a terribly cynical and insincere film, despite its authentic beginning. 55%

If you want to tell about the life experience of a closeted high-school student, you should take care to ensure that half of the story does not focus on his straight friends, who are also better drawn (and played by more experienced actors). Love, Simon is a model gay romance for the white heterosexual audience (especially for all fag hags) dreaming of an ultra-tolerant world in which everyone can be themselves if they find the courage to do so. In the fictional world of the film, which is reminiscent of the social bubble in which many liberals live, homosexuality is not understood by only two dumber classmates, who are promptly admonished and do not cause any further trouble. Other manifestations of misunderstanding are not connected with who Simon is (with his identity), but with how he behaves (his character). The storyline with Martin serves as a contrived pretext for at least some sort of conflict in this fairy-tale-ishly non-confrontational and dramaturgically monotonous film. Most of the plot is based on the hard-to-accept premise that a young man shares the intimate details of his life with someone whom he does not know at all (and, despite that, with whom he is in love). More convincing is the second level of the story, which shows how, because of an unhealthy fixation on a person we mistakenly consider to be the only kindred spirit who understands us, we can lose the favour of many other people who actually care about us. Love, Simon is a welcome addition to the subgenre of high-school films for a broad audience, but in comparison with other teenage romances of recent years (Lady Bird, The Edge of Seventeen), let alone compared to more distinctive queer films (Call Me By Your Name, God’s Own Country), it is a matter of playing it safe with the rough edges ground down too far. 65%

I believe that a thoughtfully enriching and formally courageous film can be made about the events in Norway seven years ago that not only leaves viewers shaken, but also forces them to think. Utøya: July 22 is really not such a film. Though I appreciate that its makers wagered predominantly on the realistic motivation of the scenes (which, however, is somewhat superfluous in a film with fictional characters), that in itself is not a guarantee of a good film. On the contrary, it leads to the fact that most of the film’s runtime consists of long, suspensefully simple shots of several characters hiding and sitting tight somewhere in the forest or under a rocky cliff. Furthermore, any authenticity is demolished by tasteless melodramatic crutches (a mother calling her dead daughter, a micro-plot with a boy in a yellow jacket) suggesting that the main and perhaps only (cynical) ambition of the film’s creators was to wring some emotions out of the viewers, to claw at their souls a bit by exploiting real terror (after all, this intention is indicated with a certain guilelessness by the sentence that Kaja delivers at the beginning while looking at the camera when she calls her mother: “You will never understand, just listen to me”). But the narrative is too straightforward (for proof that this can be done more inventively, see Van Sant's complex Elephant) and there are too few variables at play that would draw us into the story, so Utøya does not work even as an “adventure” survival horror movie. We may ask ourselves whether Kaja will survive or not, whether she will find her sister or not, but that’s all. Poppe relies on our connection to the protagonist, but forgets that the film is not a video game in which fear for the character’s life enhances the player’s control over her actions. As Son of Saul recently showed, it is possible to hold our attention without letting us catch our breath in the present moment while also making a complex statement on a particular tragedy. By contrast, Utøya is a paradoxical reconstruction of an event about which we learn almost nothing, with the exception of the opening and closing explanatory titles. For me, this is a prototype of a useless film without value added, which was made mainly to provoke a media response. It is a film in which it is possible to admire the athletic performance of the leading actress and the cameraman (even though the personalised camera work, which sometimes reacts to the surrounding stimuli independently of the characters, creates the misleading impression that we are watching scenes composed of found footage). 50%

Chained for Life is a film about making a film, a contemporary arthouse horror movie with physically disabled characters (the title refers to the exploitation film Chained for Life from 1952). In addition to “normal” actors, the filmmakers decide to cast actors with the required physical disabilities. The lead actress becomes friends with the man with a deformed face who plays her lover. However, it is not clear whether her feelings are authentic or if she is only pretending in order to make herself look like a better person. We can ask the same question about the other actors. The boundary between the story in front of the camera and the story behind the camera gradually becomes blurred, the transitions between filming and being filmed become less and less obvious. Through adroitly directed, long, fragmented shots using self-reflexive drama (with elements of horror satire), the film endeavours to truly capture the experience of disfigured artists (the director himself has a deformed face). It does not attempt to portray them in an overly positive light according to the usual narrative formula of a monster with a good heart, thanks to which the beautiful lady realises in what the true value of a person consists. All characters have physical or character defects and it is not possible to anticipate how they will behave toward each other. In this way, the film beneficially and inspirationally deconstructs certain stereotypes associated with how someone looks and reflects the extent to which our perception of people who are physically different is influenced by their established media representation. 75%

When Christian Bale thanked Satan for inspiring his portrayal of Dick Cheney at the Golden Globes, he not only gained the fondness of the Church of Satan, but also expressed how McKay’s film is problematic. He takes a very easy target and, and with a complete lack of nuance, depicts Cheney as the most demonic figure in modern American history, responsible for the war in Iraq, the torture of prisoners and numerous other crimes against humanity. Despite Bale's convincing physical transformation into the powerful politician and the humorous etudes of the actors in supporting roles (though humorous in a way similar to the celebrity cameos in Anchorman), this is a one-dimensional portrait of a diabolical figure without any psychological depth and tells us nothing that we wouldn’t already know. Furthermore, it is an ugly, dull film with mundane direction and, most importantly – unlike The Big Short, which used the same alienating procedures much more systematically – it is not entertaining. The elitist condescension to viewers who clearly would not enjoy Vice (the girl in the intertitle scene, telling her friend how she looks forward to the next instalment of Fast & Furious) is, despite how clever the film pretends to be, really stupid. 50%

Though Isle of Dogs does not excel in terms of narrative ingenuity like The Grand Hotel Budapest or of playfulness as in Fantastic Mr. Fox, it is still such an incredibly clever film that you want to bark with joy. ___ Anderson continues to refine his style, which he barely contaminates with special techniques that are atypical of him, such as the use of a handheld camera, zoom and some asymmetrical composition here and there. The enlivening segments are most frequently in the form of a change in the style of animation (for example, the security-camera footage is hand-drawn instead of stop-motion), which relates to the motif of translating meanings between various languages and cultures (for example, some utterances in Japanese are interpreted, while the interpreter’s reactions to what she hears have an alienating effect). ___ In comparison with Anderson’s other films, this one is unexpectedly and fully intentionally ugly (or perhaps better said, “not cute”) – dogs live in a huge dump among rats, are infected with weird diseases and feed on rotting garbage. Sometimes we see close-ups of a chewed-up ear or a bit of mangy fur (and a kidney transplant), but the gloomy greyness very well suits this film that thematicises (more openly than Grand Hotel) the rise of authoritarianism, the inhumanity of humans and impending genocide (or rather its canine equivalent). It is not a film for children, who might be bothered by the slower pace and the minimum of “obvious” gags (the humour is based primarily on the ironic juxtaposition of situations/objects, both infantile and adult). ___ Anderson again presents an isolated world with specific rules, from which the protagonists try to escape using a well-thought-out plan (instead of repeatedly resorting to improvisation). For western viewers, such a peculiar world to which one can flee from the ordinariness of everyday life is not just the island where most of the story takes place, but the whole of Japan, whose iconography, history and gastronomy are tremendously beneficial to Anderson (sumo wrestlers, cherry blossoms, Kabuki theatre, the preparation of sushi, Japanese woodcuts, chanbara movies, taiko drums as the foundation of the soundtrack…). His approach to Japanese culture is not always so sensitive – the resistance against treacherous cat lovers, for example, is led by an American exchange student, who shows more courage and awareness than her Japanese schoolmates – but, at the same time, he does not turn the Land of the Rising Sun into a museum of curiosities for Japanophile fetishists. ___ Like Anderson’s other films, Isle of Dogs has a block structure with a prologue, an introduction and four chapters, each of which has a different objective and all of which are interconnected by the development of relationships between the characters. Compared to the nesting-doll nature of The Grand Budapest Hotel, the narrative is linear with the exception of a few flashbacks, which, together with an excess of explanatory monologues, disrupt the smooth flow of the narrative. Though the film does not unfold as quickly as Anderson’s previous films and can be a bit more challenging for viewers who go to the cinema to have a good time, it is still broadly accessible and easily comprehensible, and actually, yet somewhat paradoxically (with respect to theme and environment), one of Anderson’s more cautious films. 80%

Polish folk songs were never so sexy. Besides that, Pawlikovski’s balladic overview of the history of music and of Europe captivated me with its high-contrast black-and-white camera work and highly economical storytelling with sharp cuts, sudden jumps in time and numerous meanings communicated via the mise-en-scène without verbal explanation, thanks to which the film is able to cover some fifteen years of history in just under ninety minutes. At the same time, the atmosphere remains consistent, while the musical style changes along with the degree of frustration felt by the protagonists, who still do not have that which they desire. Cold War is obviously a film under the spell of post-war European cinema (in addition to its academic format, this is also apparent in the number of European countries and languages represented) – not by any means only Soviet-style musicals such as Tomorrow, People Will Be Dancing Everywhere against which it is critically defined – with which it has much more in common than with reality. At the same time, however, the plot is complicated and lovers are separated by the political repression of the time that discomfited artists in communist countries had to face. The major simplification of socio-political contexts, psychological flatness of the characters and bold stylisation serve well the timeless fatalistic story of unrequited love (in whose case it does not matter too much that we are watching only certain [arche]types instead of full-blooded heroes), but as a statement on a particular time and the people of that particular time, which it also wants to be, Cold War fails for the same reason. But if you want to see a very obliging art film that does not put numerous obstacles in the viewer’s way, it is unlikely that you will see anything nicer in the cinemas. 70%

Koreeda further develops the theme of alternative family models that do not depend on blood relations, but rather on what is shared by those involved (he again works a lot with taste memory here) and whether they feel comfortable and safe together. At the same time, the film shows, but by no means excuses, the dubious foundations of some interpersonal ties. The members of the “family” are united not only by love, but also by financial dependency or a dark secret that is gradually revealed through well-thought-out dosing of information (there is thus a pseudo-detective storyline that keeps us in suspense until the end). Because the head says something different than the heart, there is no simple answer to the question of who should ideally stay with whom at the end of the film. Replacing exposition with the gradual revealing of the protagonists’ past and strengthening of the ties that unite them contributes to the variability of the relationships and forces us to constantly reassess our opinions of the individual characters, among whom Koreeda “democratically” divides attention. At the same time, we get an uncompromising cross-sectional sociological view of modern Japanese society, from teenagers who either prefer to go abroad or to receive money for “swinging their breasts” (and offering company to emotionally deprived young men), through the working class that has a form of certainty, to seniors killing time with gambling machines. At its core, Shoplifters is a rather simple drama that is dark but not completely hopeless, while also being complex in many respects. Like all of Koreeda's films, it is characterised by a slowly paced narrative (divided into several blocks divided by fade-outs), a jagged mise-en-scène and economical yet precise camerawork that involves no unnecessary movements and adapts its point of view to the individual characters according to the needs of the narrative. Though Shoplifters does not in any way manipulate you emotionally, it can, without applying any pressure, bring you to a point where all it takes is for one character to utter a single word and you will find yourself in tears. This is further proof of Koreeda’s unpretentious mastery of his craft. Though it is perhaps formally less inspiring than The Third Murder, more accessible to viewers than Nobody Knows and not as fragile as Still Walking, it is still one of the best-directed films I’ve seen this year. Twice so far, but I will definitely come back to it. 90%