Marigold

A pleasant and precise probe into the depths of imagination, phobias and desires of a middle-aged man which, after the "Forever Young" culmination, is shot down by a slushy and increasingly self-pitying second half with several fantastic scenes, for which I would probably need a shovel to get them out of my head. It is the brutal sincerity, given by the combination of an inner monologue and the intertwining of reality and subjective perspective, that does not ultimately work in favor of the film. Even so, I appreciate the creativity and the chance to show women what is happening in my head.

It’s great that someone tried to look this social snake in the eye with similar straightforwardness as Petr Václav. It's great that both Hádek’s act on a level better than usual, and in particular Kryštof gives the best performance of his career. It's great that Prušinovský captured a whole range of fatal banalities with all the embarrassment, hopelessness and, most importantly, without dissection and the effort to make it into lustful fun. Less great is that The Snake Brothers feels like a social drama without a face, which juggles filming methods all the time without finding a clear concept and a clear identity. It’s downright bad that the first 20 minutes feel like a song in which all the instruments play a semitone falsely (even the otherwise accurate Kryštof is less so). And it’s very contradictory that the double conclusion (shocker / ambivalent view) feels more helpless than burdensome, as if the creators were not familiar with the very vital characters of the council. As a result, the flowers in the background music sound much more suggestive than the film. I understand hype and satisfaction, but I have a feeling that this snake should be able to enchant Karlovy Vary, while on the festival circuit its ambivalence will be a considerable limit. Which is a shame, because the substitution of the gambler with iron and organized crime by robbing cottages is brave and complete. If I wanted to be consistent, I should give **** (I gave them to Sláma for the similarly unbalanced Four Suns and Jiráský got one star less for the weaker Flower Buds). But there are enough people who will give them to Prušinovský for me. [65%]

Like Andrei Zvjagincev's Leviathan, Petzold's Phoenix a slightly anachronistic film with its literacy and novel screenplay. Nevertheless, the anachronism is not at all detrimental here. The German director subscribes to an intellectual tradition that may already be slightly de mode, but does so in an extremely impressive and sophisticated way. The intimate drama based on three characters and a consistent emphasis on trifles, hints and elliptical elements in storytelling is impressive in the most traditional sense - an intellectual emphasis on the layered image of the "face of post-war German society", guilt, identity and of course love - anxiety from someone else. Phoenix is certainly a kind of Jewish Vertigo, but where the distanced analyst Hitch ostentatiously operates on psychoanalytic concepts, Petzold gives the maximum possible care to the inner world of the main character. The way he models the devastated pre-camera space and surrounds Nelly with "shards of sound" uniquely emphasizes her fragile surrender and uncertainty over her identity. The rest is done by the absolutely accurate Nina Hoss. Although the story finds itself on the edge of fabrication in several places, the screenwriter's ability to give up melodramatic moves and to maintain life and semantic dynamics in literary dialogues (and paintings) does not fail. I consider the finale to be a brilliant example of how traditional catharsis is built in the best sense, with an emphasis on all previous psychological nuances. There is no better proof of Petzold's sensitivity and moderation. Phoenix is a cultivated drama and there is no shame if you cry during it. Because it deserves all the burdens honestly.

A film that aroused in me only the essential laziness and the feeling that if I ever wanted to see the American version of Story of a Real Man (with a different scale of values and emphasis on individual physical endurance), I would have to watch Unbroken. At its core, a tolerable chain of hard-working and quite skillfully realized scenes, in which de facto order does not matter, neither does causality (perhaps one does not care why Hedlund suddenly cries in an inserted scene), and psychology not at all. Clumsily embedded flashbacks are based on proclamations that could be heard in any Pixar film, and the subsequent dialogues seem as they came from a random generator of catchphrases from war films. The Coen Brothers kind of write it as material for beginners - we teach about filming heroes. 90 minutes of suffering is more and more reminiscent of soft exploitation (can we sympathize with a character who is just a carrier for rags and makeup?), at the end ambitiously crowned with an quest for a kind of Christian myth… or what does episode with the beam actually mean? Who bloody cares? Angelina is instructed, as a protective child she has an elite crew on hand, so Unbroken moves and looks nice (sometimes incongruously nicely and aesthetically thanks to Deakins' camera). It's a bit of a dinosaur tribute to an old school war film without the ability to understand and bring forth anything essential. War screensaver. Matty's comparison with McQueen is entirely appropriate. In fact, I could just symbolically sign my name under his review. [50%]

A bit of a sucker punch from Matthew, because he plays exactly those strings that a shameful and overripe Bond fan has to love in his post-nerdy nature (well-known superspy choruses acted with a mixture of irony and fanboy love). When you take this world too seriously, you come to the harsh condemnation of its hidden conservatism and aristocratic stiffness (just like certain British critics), but what else is JB's (the only real one) world based on, if not its return to the suit, fireplace, mahogany, and expensive booze? Kingsman is an amusing paraphrase of genre rules, their reflections, distortions and resurrections in all their glory and dignity. The boy gets a suit, the aristocracy enjoys anal, the viewer enjoys Matthew's kinetic tomfoolery, the seamless transitions from scene to scene and the striking catchphrases... we add a bit of honest social drama and we’re home. Being that I am distanced from it, the only objection I have is that Vaughn's inclination to ultimate "coolness" at all costs is already on the verge of self-parody and emotional blackmail. But let’s not be distanced. Kingsman amused me because it had to amuse me. It's that kind of a movie... [80%]

It's like an episode of GTA, from which someone removed the humor and most of the perspective. Unfortunately, Jake put on his "lose weight and get an award (consolation)" costume in a full retard style and the result is a perverted Forrest Gump character. It would have been possible to sit through if Dan Gilroy had not sought to show a perversely serious image of media hyenism. A few humorous moments make it better, but it's hard to balance a number of places where Gyllenhaal adds gas deep under the floor, resulting in a grin instead of freezing. I also have a problem with the structure. The first 2/3 is largely based on trying to engulf the viewer with the neon darkness of LA, but the combination of characters beyond the edge of believability and repetitive situations is not hypnotic, but instead rather annoying. Shock and derailment somehow don't get out through the photogenically overexposed night sets. The last third gets going thanks to the plot, but I rather inadvertently found myself watching Nightcrawler with a similarly shallow interest as reality cop shows (I don't care what happens to who, just that it's simply happening), while Gilroy's material is far cooler, lots of angles, gaps, music and so on... if this film is supposed to be a seductively distorted picture, it really failed. Because in the end it seduces the viewer into dull staring rather than a deep critical reflection on the media snuff. The sexual arousal of Jake and his lady friend at the end is perhaps the falsest moment of Nightcrawler, who stalks with commitment, but he misses the essence of the composition. Hardworking? For sure. Enchanting? No chance.

More volatile and evasive than complex and layered, more rhetorical than intrinsically convincing, more caricatured than sharply reflective. For me, Birdman is a film full of unbearable contradictions, unshaded creative gestures and narcissistic affection in the quite primitive case histories of its creators / artists / critics. The film creates the impression of sophistication by gliding gracefully from topic to topic, from phrase to phrase, and rarely gets under the skin of (not only) Broadway illusion. I could let myself get drunk on it in silence if the transitions between worlds (reality / theater / scene / backstage / interior / exterior / subjective / objective) provided a clever commentary, a surprising change in perspective, and a significant emotional impact. But from beginning to end, Birdman looks like transparent theater - sometimes (praise god) funny, but mostly only fanfare showing off its own erection. I agree with Matty's observation about the blurring of dividing storylines, which are the basic principle of the whole structure. In my opinion, the film is dull and anachronistic. Conceptually, but as a result, also formally. And unfortunately, this is not the kind of dullness that would entice a person to a greater reaction. At least not me. [60%]

It's like a Frost / Nixon Duel, where Nixon and Nixon face each other. Not only a captivating exercise in rhythmic editing, but surprisingly unpredictable at the right moments - none of the characters (teacher or student) represents a positive or negative model here. Instead of enlightenment, creative madness takes place. Chazelle pitted two obsessed and unscrupulous bastards against each other, treating their human aspects the same way they treat each other. He bluntly throws them away as a burden and returns to them only marginally. Whiplash could have been crap in many ways - a melodrama about a boy who appreciates the power of love, a celebration of a genius who rises in a difficult struggle with his unrivaled role model, but in reality it is more of a captivating solo about the obsession and destructiveness of those who desire perfection at any cost. I appreciate that Chazelle avoids annoying genre schemes at key moments simply because he ignores any other themes and dares to uncompromisingly release scenes that we would watch for much longer in other films, and which would "characterize" the characters more and allow us to identify with them (e.g., the preparation for the final concert). Like Andrew and Terence, Whiplash pursues what it wants hard - euphoria mixed with light resistance and never-fulfilled peace between the central duo. In Star Wars terminology: the dark side has once again won. The triumph of sociopaths. That's the way it's supposed to be. Certainly not the most layered film, but definitely something like Black Swan made without a snobbish effort to be demonic. It's there from the first bar. In every tone and in every shot of photogenically dark New York. [85%] P. S. I am categorically asking for an Oscar for jazz Darth Vader.

The Rise of the Planet of the Dogs, filmed with strong art energy and, unfortunately, all the clichés, logical awkward transitions, banalities and playing-for-effect that are more suited to Hollywood disaster schemes. The intended parable of xenophobia and the dominance of the "white gods" over the "inferior races" has shrunk to a few conspicuous symbols, flat characters and unconvincing replicas. The work with dog actors, energetic camera guidance and work with sound deviate in some moments, but despite the dynamic movement of the characters across the mise-en-scène, White God feels more like drawn out dog howling. I am disappointed. I would personally expect more from the winner of the Un certain regard section than just transparent dog eyes.

The master certainly softens slightly, is sentimental, and descends from the ruthless heights of the second floor to the ground floor, where his aging desperate men begin to realize that their knowledge is banal, that no one listens to him, and that he will probably go out for good in a moment. A bitter existential anecdote about a world where everyone says they are doing well, but are in fact fucked, a world in which humor exists only behind glass, and a world in which are reflected disappointed hopes and historical tragedies that change into a farce. Sometimes it can be felt that once extraordinarily unrestrained visions tend toward archaic absurd theater, but, for example, the mundane (and not pointed at all) scenes of everyday life are - I have no better word - beautiful. They show that the boundaries between compassion and hardness are beginning to crumble for Andersson, and some scenes (1943) are simply and captivating without being softly weeping. A certain fatigue of the master and the spectator can be seen in the fact that the points can be guessed in advance and some "sketches" are variations of well-known scenes (the drum with slaves resembles a provocative sequence with gassing children from the short film Something Happened, etc.). But even so, this jammed record, an eternally playing hit about how we meet our loved ones in heaven (which is scary), sounds like nothing from this world. Before or after. Roy Andersson himself is the stuffed pigeon sitting on a branch thinking about life. A museum exhibit that intentionally whitens the face. I will continue to stare at it. I understand its cooing more than anything else. Otherwise, I'm glad you're doing fine.