Marigold

The same postmodern film ailments return... Although the scene is the North Moravian countryside, the emptiness and hopelessness is still the same... The emptiness "outside" of the cinema world, but unfortunately also the emptiness of the film itself. A terrible fragment of dialogues that combines sheer stupidity with fairly decent vulgarity, characters sketched according to the stereotypical scheme "the soul trapped in the environment --- wants to escape / does not want to escape", zero storytelling pace, resignation to epicness with everything it encompasses... I've never had fun with, and I don't like it here either. Yes, the acting performances are decent, but taken as a result, only Michael Pavel Liška has anything to act with, whilst the other characters are rather silent or shouting caricatures in a more refined and intellectual interpretation than offered by Troška's archduke epic Sun, Hay and Strawberries. Bohdan Sláma tried to strike the optimal tone between comedy and drama, but only managed to create a kind of neutral and genderless shouting that reliably lulled me to sleep. The attempt to resolve the "plot" at the dance is no more convincing than the whole process so far. I rank Wild Bees alongside films like Angel Exit, Whisper, Loners, etc. Although they are different environments, the attempt to testify about children their own age is equally stubborn, stylized, awkward... and unsuccessful.

Two stages in the development of Czech culture (cinema) collide in Smugglers of Death. The stage of "art" imbued with ideology, that mythically/metaphysically black-and-white world in which there is a clear boundary of light/shadow – good/evil and a gradually nascent new wave of Czech film. Let us note how the death of the King of Šumava will mysteriously change the climate situation. It can be rightly assumed that the incriminating element in the services of imperialism not only helps to transfer the enemy of the people to the bastion of the West (a hideous hazy viable nothingness on the horizon called Bavaria), but is also responsible for inhumanly ugly weather. Killing him will lead to a hydro-meteorological miracle... Even the power poles hum differently. That's the ideology in the movie... creeping, inconspicuous, hideously suggestive. Perfectly subliminal. It also includes a drawing of the atmosphere of the border guard, a place of pure camaraderie, proper manhood, the lingering harmony of buildings / nascent socialism growing downwards... The camera also contributes to heroic tendencies, often piously capturing heroes from the ceilings and in compositions reminiscent of contemporary fine art. Nevertheless, I do not dare to declare Smugglers of Death to be the same ballast as, for example, the normalizing mess 30 Cases of Major Zeman. Unlike it, this is a very high-quality piece of filmmaking and a perfect example of mastering the basic mechanisms of manipulation and suggestion. The atmosphere simply clings, if only because it is purposefully emanated into a terrifying to almost horror gloom, from which a whole generation of detective stories benefit. Convincing work with (semi)detail, subjective camera and the editing and music are reminiscent of a real glimpse of the principles of nascent "new" cinematography, which withdrew from impersonality into the narrowly subjective sphere of the characters. It's perverted, but I think it's appropriate. I'm not going to draw any consequences from these lines. Smugglers of Death is an excellently filmed "thriller" with a bizarre ideological skeleton, which I have outlined. However, if you do not feel at least a little disgust at this deliberate manipulation, everything is not ok with you.

A series of twenty films with one protagonist is unique, among other things, because this protagonist has several forms. And how's the fourth face of 007? Excellent! The production team's effort was quite clear: to come up with something completely different from the Moore films, with a completely "new" Bond. And the choice of Dalton was a happy one. Unlike the charming Moore, the fourth Bond comes with an image of a dangerous killer and a typical action hero. But it also does not lack the traditionally dry and shaken (unmixed) sense of humor and the art of letting out a sarcastic catchphrase at the right time, much like a deadly bullet. The protagonist so brilliantly combines the murderous cold of blue eyes and a childishly disarming smile. The story (again) tries to return to the model of From Russia with Love (understand: to a traditional spy without unnecessary phantasmagorias), but it has a great weakness in the form of Bond's opposition... In short, the trio of the fat American smuggler, the Soviet renegade, and the Aryan thug (note the reference to the second Connery film here, too) are not particularly great. Also weak is "Slovak" Kara (Maryam d'Abo), whose constant "oooooh James!!!" lifted the bile in my throat. What is most sympathetic about The Living Daylights is the new bond form (oddly not very seductive, but all the more concentrated on his work), the very good action sequence with some of Mr. Q's "gadgets," the rightly deranged realities, and John Glen, who had great form and was able to create a solid spectacle from the average plot that won't embarrass Agent 007... BTW: The Living Daylights is the last Bond film with an original Fleming story... the last?

A great Bond film with one mammoth and inherent BUT. Almost everything works the way it is supposed to for agent 007 – a very decent script, excellent action scenes (unless they happen to be spoiled by the editor with his epileptic and illogical alternation of views), a truly exceptionally charismatic Bond girl, the traditionally excellent John Barry in the orchestra pit, and Blofeld in the luxurious version of Telly Savalas. Peter R. Hunt directed the film with an overview, and the only BUT also relates to his work. The BUT is George Lazenby, playing the lead role of Agent 007, the man on which it all hinges. I have nothing against Lazenby trying to do Bond his own way, give him some warmth of the family fireplace and a desire to settle down. The real stumbling block is the lack of acting skills of the main protagonist, who takes Bond into the role of a wooden doll whose catchphrases sound so starchy and forced that after a while they get on one's nerves. Although Lazenby had excellent physical qualifications, he did not sell them in the film, because he could not smuggle real passion or aggression into Bond. He's just riding along with the rest of the movie, and his chosen Diana Rigg, even his opponent Telly Savalas, are better actors. It's a shame that Albert Broccoli met Lazenby three years before making this film at the barber's. It’s too bad he caught his eye, and it's a shame that no one noticed that this guy might have the skills to play a mannequin and an advertising actor, but he's desperately not suitable for a big film. On Her Majesty's Secret Service could have been one of the best Bond films – it has strength, momentum, tension, a touching and rough finish, but it doesn't have the main thing. A hero. Truly a pity... ___ Bond Song: John Barry: “On Her Majesty's Secret Service"

After the massive success of the underwater Thunderball, Bond finally went to the stars, both literally and figuratively. Bond dads Saltzman and Brocolli have changed almost the entire creative team for the fifth 007 film – Lewis Gilbert took over the director's role, Freddie Young, winner of two Oscars (for Lawrence of Arabia and Doctor Zhivago) stood behind the camera, and instead of mostly "Western" locations, the story takes place all over the Far East... The result is a thoroughbred gem, which I devoured with bated breath when I was a little boy, drifting away with a great imagination of the script and an excellent visual conception. Simply the essential spectator mana of all Bond films, which managed to condense here into a magical "super spy" atmosphere. And the magic still works years later. Mentioning Connery's virtuosity is pointless, but I want to remind of how self-parody tendencies begin to creep into it, which Roger Moore then broke apart. The action scenes are excellent, and especially the helicopter chase, tinted with the notorious Bond theme, electrifies me to this day. It is a pity that the editing sometimes slips into excessive monotony (it is especially evident in the car chases), which slows the film down. Lewis Gilbert isn't as good a stylist as Hamilton or Young, but he has a knack for crowd scenes – and the one in the crater is really worth it, and he calmly trumps a similar scene from his later Bond film The Spy Who Loved Me. The only issue is the fact that after filming the fifth Bond film, Connery disappeared from the series and only returned after four years and one Bond film with George Lazenby... But then it just wasn't the same. The golden age of Connery films ends with this masterpiece.

Roger Moore sure carved a nice tombstone for his Bond. Although time was running out and the charming Englishman was certainly not young, his last Bond film was very fresh and dynamic within its limits. Of course, much is done by the pure race of Zorin, brilliantly cut out by the demonic Walken, and there is also a decent script (by Moore film standards), which has a unified spirit and nicely combines sarcasm, tension and a decent outlook (this time, however, free of self-parody). The deadly MayDay gazelle and the title pop song by hit-makers DURAN DURAN also have magic... The negatives are symptomatic – John Glen's prefabricated directing and the traditional dead spots in the middle passage of the films. It's interesting to note how unbalanced most Moore films are – the brisk introduction and ending are usually brought down by a boring middle. But in A View to a Kill, the filler is bearable, the atmosphere is not lost in the film, and it is part of the gold bond collection. What did Roger Moore leave in agent 007's cult? A great sense of humor, self-downplaying, and more of a mischievous than deadly charm... Enough for seven of his contributions to agent 007's canon with a license to kill to enter the history of action and adventure film. Despite many weak moments.

The problem with Proof of Life is not so much the triviality and transparency of the plot, and not even the love triangle readable as the largest letter in the oracle. The problem with Proof of Life is the script, written in an incredibly schematic and confused style, in which the pathos of the red library, the stupidity of action films and would-be psychological monologues are stacked on top of each other. No wonder, then, that even the actors, who perform great in the film, cannot create even slightly believable and plastic characters from the script. So, we have Crowe, Meg Ryan and Davida Morse. Nevertheless, the skill of the main characters is manifested at least by the fact that their stuttering characters are able to impress the viewer within the limits of their possibilities, and nothing about that will change the bad edit and average direction. As a result, Proof of Life is neither a psychological nor a love film - it is more of a drama, and the drama is not particularly dramatic. Hackford's only happiness is that the title role was played by Crowe, whose charisma triumphs over all the bad...

An old Jewish legend in the timeless robe of German Expressionism. The Wegener-Galeen directorial duo performed a stimulating shape synthesis of Gothic arching and fraying with an expressionist-distorted perspective, resulting in a special visual world on the border between reality and dream, history and myth. The classic story of Rabi Löw and his monstrous creation is a gushing spring of dark atmosphere that culminates in the scene of Astaroth's evoking (timelessly portrayed and extraordinarily suggestive), as well as the sensual prefigurations of stories about "misunderstood" monsters. Wegener himself portrayed the Golem as a source of uncontrollable power, but at the same time as a being slowly abandoning his original destiny and awakening into his humanity. Which clearly foreshadowed a whole branch of major horror films. In the restored version, I especially appreciate the color filter system, which sensitively copies the atmosphere of the plot and then the excellent soundtrack, which perfectly corresponds to the spirit of the film. The Golem is an epic historical piece (of course on the scale of its time), a film with an atmosphere of mysticism and a story that predetermined monsters in cinema once and for all. It's somewhere on the border of the heavily stylized The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and the reality of the poetizing Nosferatu. Embodied pleasure for lovers of black and white dreams with the IFA seal!

When Sean Connery finished with the Bond series in 1971, he said something in the sense of never again... Unfortunately, after 12 years, he changed his mind and returned in a so-called unofficial Bond film with a distinctive title. But he is not responsible for the low quality of this film - on the contrary, it is pleasing to see that, years later, he still has sparkle and charm, even if he is not nearly as convincing in a tracksuit as he once was in Thunderball. Apropos – Thunderball. It was all its doing. The film's co-producer Kevin McClory realized he held the rights to the original script and decided to use them. Unfortunately, those rights were limited... to the characters and the story of Thunderball. So Never Say Never Again is a slightly different retelling classic about the kidnapping of atomic bombs. Different and worse. In the middle passage, where Young managed to captivate the audience with an excellent directorial style that is crucial for the Connery films, Irvin Kershner (director of the gem The Empire Strikes Back) flounders in both futility and bizarreness, and especially in the classic US action style, which is not suitable for Her Majesty's agent. He just can't induce the spirit of a real Bond movie, and that's the whole problem. Of course, the absence of the original Bond theme, replacing the endearingly conservative M with some annoying young bureaucrat, and so on and so forth... This time, Connery should have stayed with his “never again", because his Bond epilogue is at the level of the weakest Moore films.

Kind, pleasant... I find it almost impossible to believe that this felt and experienced direction is the work of the same person responsible for the self-serving Angel Exit. Michálek, with his exemplary work as a strategist and inconspicuous storyteller, gave space for a riveting concert by Stella Zázvorková and Vlastimil Brodský, for whom the film became a will and a kind of final farewell. That's how the real masters say goodbye... Even without the breath of modernity and experimentation, Autumn Spring is one of the gems of post-revolutionary cinema and one of the greatest delicacies of Czech production.