Marigold

A tragic mess. A film that catches a thousand flying shrapnel with a leaky net. Not a character study, not a chilling drama, not a scathing satire, a little crazy comedy, a little politics of war, a little bit of seriousness, a little good acting and a lot of unease, awkwardness and unglued statements that contradict each other. Paradoxically, it constantly arouses curiosity by constantly changing moods, positions and tones, but the unraveling frustrates in the wrong way. Michôd tries to capture the emptiness of the war machinery, but his film is as off as the big-mouthed general in question.

A screenwriting and directing masterclass. The film is precisely built, not only in terms of the story, but also the mood. A chilling image of a society of self-love; a society without empathy. An inspiring fusion of the raw practices of the Romanian New Wave and Tarkovsky's metaphysics of abandoned places and stopped time. Were it not for a few small, false tones and the slightly uneasy, repetitive middle of the film, it would have been another masterpiece after Leviathan. This is "just" a great drama.

A film brimming with meanings and food for thought - from the comic character of a liberal and an egoist, a satirical image of institutionalized art, to a broad metaphor of a society torn between selfishness and altruism. However, Östlund's strength is also his weakness. Unlike the comprehensive concept of Play the and the concentrated relationship study of Force Majeure, in The Square, the Swede wanders, looks for the exact timing of scenes and a disturbing moment when, due to their duration, meaning breaks. It has some great moments, but as a 142-minute film, it works more like a band for controversy and reflection. So: an important topic that is looking for the optimal film shape. For the Palme d'Or? An interesting, not entirely conventional choice. I appreciate the match I had with this. But I rank the previous two Ruben films higher.

Invasion of the thieves of my time. An extremely ambitious sci-fi, which works with an interesting genre element, the overlap of which is purely cognitive-philosophical, but ends with a mixture of stretched scenes, cheesy melodrama and ugly tricks. I wasn't sleeping during anything in Cannes this year, but this cost me all my strength to finish watching without closing my third eye. Kurosawa is a master of literality where it is necessary to direct instead.

OK, gorgeous pictures, almost tableau vivant, fantastic natural lighting, charismatic cast, but I have to ask: WHY? There is a nice word for that - everything in this film is "underwritten". Characters and a story that moves forward through sharp reversals in the mood of a single male character. I get that Sofia wanted to change the perspective, but she failed. Deceived / Deceived / Deceived are too empty to offer material for subversion. In the end, it was best described by an American spectator who, when leaving the Cannes Palais de Cinema, said: COMPLETELY USELESS. I agree.

The Icelanders have a bleak landscape but no ideas. Otherwise, they would hardly have made a horror film where you spend an hour searching in vain for something to be afraid of. The twilight landscapes are quick to become familiar and one successful jump scare simply isn’t enough to make it work.

The "scented fart that hypes Indiewire" genre. An episode of The Walking Dead deprived of adrenaline and dynamics. The visuals are worth it, the actors act relatively moderately. Shults's attempt to help himself with the intentional vagueness of evil and cheap references to classical art does not make terror or brainy stuff out of it. The only terror is thus aroused by the dragging runtime.

A darkened moody film influenced by Terence Malick's films, which surprisingly poetically works with the Tahitian backdrop - they look very shabby and melancholy - and with the face and body of Vincent Cassel, who seems, from the very first shot, like he will die in the next shot. The screenplay works with omissions and unspokenness, but sometimes he draws from Gaugin's Letters To His Wife And Friends through a voiceover, which is instead somewhat uneasy. Pleasantly non-didactic given the conditions of biopics, but clearly derived.

After his weird period, Lanthimos activated internal Greek fate and combined residential horror and ancient tragedy with Efthymis Filippou. A camera that hovers over the heroes like a vicious threat, unmistakably mechanical acting, demonic Barry Keoghan and a morally borderline second half that is the cruelest (and least satirical) of all Lanthimos's films. What used to come from within strange communities is now incomprehensibly imposed on the heroes from above. The unraveling and meaning of this brutal clinical version of Sophie's Choice will probably be discussed at length - the fact remains that the tone and depressing atmosphere make The Killing of a Sacred Deer a real horror. Trier with an acute attack of sociopathy.

A film about political and personal life with AIDS, the perfectly captured pulse of the 90's, a totally overwhelming second half, the conclusion with laughter through tears, a standing ovation - that's why you go to Cannes. Let's count blood cells. A burning reminder of the forgotten (and still current) situation of the decade before last, and at the same time a very sharp reflection of the relationship between activism / intimacy. It is not without mistakes - the procedural in the first half is repeated a lot, it gets bogged down in excessive details, but the catharsis redeems it richly.