Marigold

A slowburn detective thriller that sometimes uses its slowness to surprisingly humorous effect. In some aspects, the serious Del Toro appropriates a bit of the Coens’ irony of aimless existence. All of the parallels with Villeneuve and Fincher are appropriate, which can paradoxically be to the film’s detriment. Its tone is less bleak and the twists are rather predictable and, if any objection offers itself, it’s that Singer’s cuts and sudden pauses toward the end of film smack of stretching out the runtime. We can all anticipate what’s coming, but the film deliberately leaves us hanging for a while by jumping into another storyline. In that, it’s obvious that this is the director’s debut. Otherwise, Reptile is Del Toro’s show. His brooding, derisive detective fascinated with the water faucet quickly gets under your skin and drags you through a story that lacks the slightly sharper dramatic edge that would allow Reptile to grab you and not let go. That said, Netflix got lucky in the acquisition this time.

A film whose creators stutter, can’t remember the beginning of a sentence and constantly run the gamut from “original sci-fi” to clichés and desperate banalities that mask one thing: The Creator says nothing relevant about the phenomenon of AI, which is merely another spectacular decorative element in a film that’s completely dependent on design. Neither the plot nor the world of the film makes sense; given how much space The Creator has, it never creates a coherent and comprehensible world. By comparison, even the didactic Elysium comes across as an engrossing fictional world. Edwards’ directing tries to go in depth, but it rather unconvincingly jumps from details to the big picture, from the present to the past. Some of the actors’ lines really could have been written only by Chris Weitz... Washington plays an utterly two-dimensional character who, through his suffering, only reinforces the impression that The Creator demands grand emotions, to which he is absolutely not entitled. Instead, it has the same feelings of emptiness and lifelessness as Godzilla and Rogue One.

This film is a tragically accurate diagnosis of the increasingly powerful scene of purveyors of spiritual fast food. I am not at all denying that by traveling the world and spending time with shamans, Brahmins and Indian tribes, these people may have achieved a deeper level of spiritual understanding. Unfortunately, they lack the basic ability to translate their newfound knowledge into anything other than an incoherent, rambling, affected and cringy mess that wagers on the idea that viewers, in their longing for knowledge, will  sacrifice basic good sense and the demands that they place on film as a narrative medium. The experienced and expressed wisdom ultimately sounds like a parody of a bad Instagram account of life coaches. Life is like a whale because it surprises you and then disappears? Bullshit. Life is like a whale because it lazily rolls over and ends up stranded out of water. Life is also like a whale because it sings songs that disappear into the abyss. Book me as a speaker at a self-help seminar and I will do it cheaper than the guru. While watching Dan Svátek’s random catharsis generator, I came to the following realisation: It’s better to remain blind forever than have your brain gouged out of your skull to the sound of a drum. And if the film’s message is that sobriety is hell: mission accomplished.

The best Brosnan movie of the 1990s inadvertently released in 2023. If I leave aside the slightly WTF technophobic foundation and the chaotic motivations and donkey bridges arising from it, this is a king-sized portion of superbly constructed and charismatic action in which the climax aboard a train is the dominant feature. This is probably what Nolan’s take on Bond would look like. That’s good enough for me. I'm looking forward to part two, aka The Hunt for Red October.

Two-thirds of The Lost Children is a highly competent and disturbing psychological horror movie with an interesting twist, but the final third is a bit insipid. That’s a shame, but I still highly rate the directorial skills and the great choice of child (non-)actors.

A precision attack composed of precisely timed thrusts and elegant feminist passages that sends the genre of “guy flick about fighting” into the maelstrom of current discussions about empowerment and does so without needless violence. The laconic Lacaze, played by Roschdy Zem, is probably this year’s greatest hero-nice guy. Perez is a surprisingly skilled storyteller and the action scenes that give the film its rhythm can easily measure up to those in The Last Duel. The peculiar combination of topicality and old-fashionedness gave rise to a film that can make one feel simultaneously like an adult and a twelve-year-old without any conflict between the two. Touché!

Few filmmakers believe so much in the good of humanity and the power of film to make the world a better place. Few alcoholics have such consistency and detached humor. There is only one king of deadpan. Aki again occupies his unique position as a sentimental bastard and serves up the beautiful best of his tried-and-true moments. Around the fifth minute, I burst into tears of emotion and I never lost the feeling of being at home, in a place where the world can be tolerated despite its cruelty. I don’t know about you, by Fallen Leaves somewhat reminded me of Diary of a Country Priest, or maybe Godard. I’m going to go have my sixth second beer. Kiitos, Aki!

Flawless, pure dramatic form with the magnetic Sandra Hüller and a fantastic child actor. The film’s strength flows from the way it takes the central detective mystery from the field of a procedural crime movies to that of a character study with the child protagonist at the center. The post-Cannes hype was enormous, though I had mild reservations about Anatomy of a Fall due to the fact that it is in some respects too cold and professorial.

Random notes about the dark net, groupies and serial killers mixed haphazardly with the superficial motif of “outwardly beautiful but inwardly monstrous model living in a clinically clean apartment with AI that tells jokes”. The film, which confuses outward effects with profound psychology, unintentionally gives a nod of approval to tabloid fascination with violence and insight into the pathological world with the eclectic alternation of themes, about which it says nothing at all. An empty gesture, horror vacui.

A random collection of futuristic wallpapers surrounded by robotic characters, wooden dialogue and an utterly stupid plot devoid of psychology and a basic characterization of the world. In terms of narrative, Restore Point is on the level of a made-for-TV detective movie. The emphasis on design elevates it slightly, but this post-autopsy Blade Runner and post-trepanation Minority Report can’t be taken too seriously.