Matty

In the tradition of the subdued Latin American narrative, this hypnotically slow documentary is based on sharp visual contrasts between evocative shots of a quiet landscape on the one hand and noisy mining and loud protests against it on the other hand. The perspective of the indigenous women is gradually supplemented with the view of a Dutch jeweller and the Bolivians who face the same fate as Nelida. The filmmaker does not try to make the stories of the social actors artificially more moving than they actually are. He uses the contrasting sounds of nature and machines in the soundtrack more often than music. Archival footage of violently suppressed demonstrations complements the present-day events, thus showing that the case has been dragging on for several years. The film also culminates in another clash with the police, when the two basic principles of the narrative (violence vs. non-violence, nature vs. civilisation, living in harmony with nature vs. exploiting it) collide. The documentary attempts to look into the conflict between long-term individual and short-term corporate interests not only from a personal perspective, but also from the broader perspective of industry, trade, ecology and ethics. Despite the appearance of objectivity, the people of the affected communities are given priority and unambiguously portrayed as victims.

This standard documentary portrait offers a chronological cross-section of RWF’s life. The words are mostly those of Fassbinder himself and, to a lesser extent, his two friends/colleagues, Irm Hermann and Harry Baer, who often talk more about themselves than about Fassbinder, and the maker of the documentary, who puts the facts into context with a brief commentary. Though Thomsen knew Fassbinder personally, the documentary maintains a rare matter-of-fact tone and does not even make an attempt at polemics (the film begins with the most explicit expression of opposition to Fassbinder’s work). Due to the uninventive alternation of talking heads and film clips, the documentary comes across as somewhat stiff and monotonous. It is not helped by its division into seven rather vaguely defined chapters. The most beneficial parts of the film are those in which Fassbinder talks about his childhood, which obviously had a great influence on the key themes of his work. The openness of his confessions may be particularly beneficial for those who want to view Fassbinder’s work from an auteur-psychoanalytical perspective. Overall, however, the film contains little information that wasn’t provided many years earlier in, for example, the documentary I Don’t Just Want You to Love Me, which better strikes a better balance between revealing Fassbinder’s personal life and the characteristic elements of his films. Experts in Fassbinder will not learn much that is new; for newcomers, on the other hand, the documentary fails to convey what makes the films of this cynical and, in most shots, apparently ill-tempered man special.

“Women should be allowed to kill babies.” Though the opening of the performance with a comment on abortion seemed like a well-prepared provocation, it was an apt portent of the spirit in which the rest of the special would play out. With his nihilistic state of being pissed off at everything and everyone (pro-lifers, Christians, shitty babies), Louis is starting to resemble late-period Carlin, except that he is more self-ironic, does not go into politics as much and, for the time being, is more careful not to push the envelope too much. If we wanted, at all costs, to seek out a unifying concept of the evening, it is the realisation that nothing is permanent (not even sexual identity, as Louis demonstrates with his experience watching Magic Mike), life isn't worth much (but you just have to love it enough that you don’t to want to kill yourself), and it doesn't get much better after death (because you never know when your wife will come for you in heaven or wherever else). You can spend the time between birth and death either alone, with children who will spend their entire lives blaming you for the mistakes you made when you were raising them, with a dog that you actually hate, or in a relationship that sooner or later starts to irritate you (when love dissipates, as Louis fittingly compares to a large bubble). The most effective way to solve all problems, including the world’s, at least for yourself, is suicide, which is just one of a number of unpopular life truths that C.K. isn't afraid to bluntly say out loud. As a bonus to go with the keen observations and superbly sharp stories, Louis offers good sound effects, many vocal imitations (the stereotypes are terrible, but the weird voices are fun) and an unforgettable acting etude on the theme of “the awakening penis”. This special is a return to top-rate form after the shoddy Live at the Comedy Store. 80%

Try to imagine Beverly Hills 90210 as flawlessly cast and brilliantly paced film noir. 13 Reasons Why has the most in common with the work of Gregg Araki (not only because of the excellent soundtrack that provides commentary on what the protagonists are experiencing), who directed two episodes. The characters include most of the types known from high-school movies since at least Grease (which Tony seems to have come straight out of with his hairstyle and outfit), but the series portrays them with unusual sincerity and perceptiveness, handling them in a rather unpredictable way and viewing their decisions in broader contexts (social and economic), so that in the case of most of them, we better understand why they behave the way they do. ___ The gradual untangling of the tightly woven web of social ties runs in parallel with the revealing of who all contributed to Hannah's suicide, thus bringing about the revelation that no one (including the outsider protagonist or the adults) was actually completely blameless, even though the wrongdoing consisted only in a lack of empathy. The decision to build the whodunit narrative on a melodramatic, slightly emo foundation works also thanks to the fact that Clay gets caught up in the narrative and, during the “investigation”, experiences something similar to what Hannah endured. He essentially becomes her avatar, who does what she can no longer do. On the stylistic level, the interconnectedness of the past and present is reflected in the seamless transitions between “then” and “now” – for example, merely by changing the colour tone (cool colours for the present, warm for the past) – and the graphic continuity of two adjacent shots that are actually separated by several weeks/months (the presence/absence of the scar on Clay’s forehead serves well for orientation in the timeline). The suspenseful nature of the narrative is also aided by the varying degrees of the individual character’s awareness – whereas others have already played all of the tapes and sometimes refer to something that will be explained only several episodes later, Clay remains in the dark (and we along with him). ___ To some viewers, the series, which focuses primarily on themes such as rape, sexism, depression, alcoholism and bullying, may seem exceedingly dark, if not exploitative, but in light of the fact that its creators strive for realism mainly in the development of characters rather than in depicting a fictional world (which is deliberately somewhat of a model) and the story is for the most part told and its direction determined by the main victim of most of the physical and psychological abuse, who finds herself pushed beyond the limits of her possibilities, the chosen tone and naturalism in the depiction of said abuse makes sense (regardless of whether we consider Hannah, in the words of one of the characters, to be a “drama queen”). ___ One more introductory episode in which we would have seen Hannah through the eyes of her classmates would have been appreciated, as it would have later been more apparent that their distorted view of her was due to their ignorance of her circumstances. The suggestions that Hannah was an unreliable narrator and her version of the stories was actually only “one side of the tape” could also have been elaborated upon. Of course, there would have been more to it (the occasionally somewhat cheesy dialogue, Hannah as the embodiment of boys’ fantasies of an unusual, sarcastic and sexy girl), but it is still a stylistically mature, narratively remarkable and, in its comprehension of the issue of teen angst, adult series, and it will take me a while to recover from its devastating finale (by which I don't mean the last few minutes, but the final three episodes).

Free Fire is about a group of people in ostentatiously seventies clothes screaming and shooting at each other in an old factory for an hour and a half. Though it is lengthier and less clear than I would have expected (conversely, the minimal total number of shots enables Wheatley to gradually reveal new corners of the factory), it can be enjoyed without greater reservations as stylish, uncomplicated entertainment that offers exactly what the trailer promises (and not much more than that). Ben Wheatley obviously wanted to find out whether he could manage to turn similarly high-concept material into an engaging genre flick. He did it and clearly very much enjoyed working with the actors, most of whom modelled their characters on a single characteristic trait (appearance, age, accent), so you don’t care who catches how many bullets. Just don’t expect a film that excels due to its sophistication or that rewrites the rules of the genre (I consider one of the cleverest screenwriting moves to be the fact that most of the actors are shot in the leg shortly after the beginning, so it subsequently takes them much longer to cover a relatively short distance and the story thus doesn’t end after half an hour). Compared to Tarantino’s works, Free Fire has a much simpler narrative structure (no jumps in time) and thus a more straightforward course, although there is an obvious, clear effort at setting the rhythm through the revelation of new facts (though in the end none of this really matters anyway, which the film itself ironically makes clear with the point of the scene with the ringing telephone). In comparison with Scorsese, it is not as polished in terms of the camerawork and editing. Wheatley kicks the narrative up a notch occasionally with a sudden zoom in, a shot from high overhead or cutting between two actions, but there is no methodical use of certain stylistic approaches to speak of. What most helps the film is that it refuses to take itself, let alone its characters, seriously, which is the ideal default setting for brutal slapstick scenes when we are supposed to laugh at someone getting shot in the head. The level of absurdity and irreverence for what is fitting and appropriate is at times such that I was reminded of Monty Python (“I'm not dead”), which is probably one of the greatest compliments that can be paid to a film that primarily wants to thoroughly entertain the viewer. 80%

Monsterman is a fannish music documentary built on the contrast between Lordi’s monstrous appearance and public performances and his relatively normal family background. For example, photographs and drawings from his childhood add colour to the image of the wild metal musician. Together with the testimonies of Lordi’s parents, pictures from the family album form a historical narrative line, which recounts the course of Eurovision. We thus see footage of concerts and pre-show preparations, as well as interviews with loved ones. Paradoxically, the only important person who never appears on camera in all his glory is Lordi himself. Therefore, even in a documentary focused on him, the musician maintains his mystery and the legend lives on. The not very well rhythmised alternation of talking heads, veristic shots and concert footage makes the film subjectively rather long. In terms of content, the documentary is revealing, especially by showing that monsters are also only human. It would be interesting to see how such a humanising portrait of a man who performs as an inhuman being would be received by Lordi’s fans. The film is also a remarkable illustration of the infantilisation of society, or rather of the male part of the population, which is living longer and longer with their parents and escaping from reality into imaginary worlds. 55%

El Dorado is an obstinately old-fashioned story of male bonding set in an idealised world that is still dominated by real men, though the question of “I don't know why you're still alive” that Joey utters may have been about the very concept of masculinity in the second half of the 1960s. It is a world of unconcealed sexism and racist humour (Mississippi and the film’s offensive caricature of an Asian) – the positive view of Indian tricks (hangover cure, lying down under a horse), which are of course practiced here by a young white man, can be seen as the only shift in this direction. A world where one shoots first and asks questions later (firearms are practically the only means of solving problems). ___ Everyone knows Thornton as a living legend and shares a story with him. Wayne (again) personifies the essence of American values. He is a headstrong man, but he clearly distinguishes between good and evil. He is eternally on the road to a new adventure, always at the boundary between wilderness and civilisation, taking the best of both. At the centre of events are men who can take care of each other and can also quarrel like a married couple after many years in a relationship. ___ “Women” are what “happens” to a man. They either cause harm or help out. Unless it’s an expression of admiration for a man, a woman’s word has no weight. ___ Professionalism and moral integrity are respected. As in all of Hawks’s films, amateurism is a reason for contempt (“this isn’t a job for an amateur”). But to criticise a western for the faults stated above would be like admonishing a horse for having big eyes and being indolent. ___ In Hawks’s case, the acceptance of such an ossified view of the world is aided by the film’s compelling narrative. What at first appears to be an episodic narrative is in fact an inventive interweaving of motifs (the imagined loss of a son and his rediscovery in another young man). The storylines developed in the first half of the film converge into a single flow in a long night-time sequence that seemingly takes place in real time (thus not allowing viewers to catch their breath). ___ Despite the familiarity of the plot (not only if you have seen Rio Bravo), I enjoyed these two hours of coarse male bickering more than would be appropriate for a young intellectual who otherwise abhors more guileless displays of male dominance. 80%

A Brony Tale is an unexpectedly perceptive, non-exploitative look into the inner workings of a subculture that would be very easy to laugh at. The film is surprising simply due to its subject matter (at least for those who were previously unaware of the existence of “bronies” before). In addition to basic information about one of today’s less common pop-culture phenomena, the film offers enough of a positive mood for a full-grown horse, which makes it different from a number of serious documentaries about the problems of today’s world (the subculture itself, with its ideological foundations, can be seen as a counter-reaction to the cynicism and irony of contemporary society). The effort to combine intimate portraits of “bronies” with an analytically unbiased documentary about them, however, causes a certain schizophrenia in the resulting account, which on the one hand avoids uncritical adoration, but on the other hand lacks greater distance from its subject. In any case, the film is a valuable contribution to the discussion on the crisis of masculinity, gender stereotypes and sexuality. 55%

Bonus points for trying not to show Africa as a land where undernourished children living in slums wait for Angelina Jolie or Bono to fly in to take photos with them. However, this poetic tribute to the dark continent by a colleague and friend of Roland Emmerich has other flaws. In the manner of Emmerich’s (and Bay's) spectacles, it revels in grand details, repetition of the same shots, slow motion and rapid cuts. It is accompanied by slightly ominous, important-sounding music like that heard in a Hollywood epic. We see only Africans during their tribal rituals. The English translation of the natives’ utterances is inscribed directly into the picture, whereby it becomes an inseparable part of the picture and gains the status of great wisdom that must be written down. The second segment, a portrait of an individual set in Brazzaville, is also made up of shot compositions that mainly sound and look good, regardless of how unnatural their half-art film, half-Hollywood (but hardly African) stylisation seems in the given context. The visually no less aggressive final chapter about wrestlers again works with faded colours and fetishising shots of muscular bodies, and the music is somewhat more belligerent. The informational value is minimal, but the visceral experience may be powerful enough for some to forgive the film for forgetting that it is supposed to be “about something”. The platitudinous statements of the people interviewed do not have much narrative value, nor do they add much to the observational shots with respect to the stylisation, which does not fit very well with what we see and thus does not highlight certain topics (the meaning of the rituals performed, the specific features of African wrestling). On the contrary, it draws attention away from them. 50%

“Who the hell was Baby Jane Hudson?” For her, life is theatre. If she isn’t at the centre of events, it’s as if she doesn’t exist. She is also convincing in her new role as a tormentor thanks to the fact that the victim of her (domestic) violence is her own sister, a woman who dared to be more famous. Just the two of them, a large house and the memories in which Jane is imprisoned, just as Blanche is imprisoned in the house (and just as her bird is imprisoned in its cage). Memories of past fame and of a time without television, when the public’s admiration was more valuable than money. And of a father whose authority is newly embodied by Jane herself. Jane will not admit that she has to share favours, especially of the male variety, with her sister, whom she physically abuses particularly at the moments when she feels threatened by a man. Whether it’s Edwin, fixated on his mother like Jane is on her father, or the doctor with his white coat buttoned up to his neck, reminiscent of a scientist from a monster movie due to an overhead shot. ___ Despite the explanatory prologue, however, it is not clear who created the monster called Baby Jane. We don't know enough about the female protagonists to understand the incredible cruelty of one and the partially voluntary passivity of the other. (The claim that the former is a sadist and the latter a masochist makes sense, but is not based on what the film tells us.) Though more straightforwardly shocking than satisfying, the explanation comes just before the end, which, unlike the rest of the film, takes place in an open area, thus escalating Blanche’s helplessness to the limit of tolerability (freedom is within her grasp, and yet she can't reach it). ___ The deficiencies in the psychological profiling of the protagonists and the suspension of plot development in the final third may not be noticeable at first because of the impressiveness of Aldrich’s directing. He combines theatrical stylisation (frontal room shots, lights placed in the foreground, campy makeup) with purely cinematic means of expression (a zoom lens, unconventional angles) while being well aware that the backbone of his psychological monster horror movie (which, unlike classic monster flicks, doesn’t conceal the fact that the titular monster is actually a female person) comprises two Hollywood divas. (Depending on how you look at it, Baby Jane can also be described as, for example, a grand guignol, gothic horror or camp obscurity, but I searched in vain for signs of black comedy in it.) Both of them overact because that was their style (which was already outdated in the 1960s) and because they can. The roles allow it. To be themselves, great actresses. Sincerely and painfully. 80%