JFL

This delirious look at the menagerie that is human civilisation through the magnificently chaotic lens of Terry Gilliam takes us through the disillusionment of not just the hangover that came with the 1970s. It is permeated by a timeless mix of admiring sympathy for all lunatics and wonderful prototypes, but also by an acknowledgement of the atrociousness of even the most brilliant individuals, who are supposedly elevated to a higher plane by God-given talent or perceptiveness. Fear and Loathing intoxicatingly reflects the generally repulsive world of values, experiences and illusions that humanity has created for itself and for which the hedonistic boil called Las Vegas is not the obverse, but merely a caricature. In this vomit-inducing flashback, the protagonists of Easy Rider appear as their own killers, who sought nirvana and freedom, but because of their own inherent human baseness, they ultimately remain the same monsters and oafs as the bumpkins, weasels, derelicts and bible thumpers who comprises the whole of humanity. Only they can more spectacularly live out their downhill slide into the snare of primitivism and more floridly verbalise it. Most of Gilliam’s films contain the duality of cheerful humanism and misanthropic depression, but Fear and Loathing remains his most controversial and most magnificent work not only in the intensity of the blending of these opposites. Each of its public screenings, always attended by various kinds of people, all of whom see themselves in an unflattering light on the screen, is a 4DX reality check, where some are simply entertained, some indignantly shake their heads and others realise with horror that each of us is just another lunatic in the kingdom of lunatics.

It is necessary to make full use of resources obtained at great cost, even if the result is only some kind of bastardised mutant. This is true for Weyland-Yutani and its real-life equivalent, The Walt Disney Company. The most surprising aspect of Alien: Romulus is its anti-originality. This time around, the Disneyfication of the franchise doesn’t have the feel of a refresh with new characters (as was the case with Star Wars: The Force Awakens), nor does it work as cultish fan-service along the lines of the serial clones from Marvel. Fede Alvarez and Rodo Sayagues wilfully turned out a CGI remix of the Alien franchise’s greatest hits, which lends itself to a game of bingo on the theme of “which cult scene, popular one-liner or iconic shot from the preceding films will be paraphrased in the next scene”. The charm (and uniqueness) of the original Alien tetralogy consists in the fact that it comprises diametrically different and stylishly and supremely distinctive films (I won’t even say anything bad about the fantastically crackpot fourth one. Alien: Romulus is only a derivative, or rather the film equivalent of an Alien-themed ride at Disneyworld – we passively pass by a series of well-known scenes that are impressively yet lifelessly rendered and something occasionally amuses or scares us, but we walk away completely unmoved at the end. Though Prometheus was silly nonsense and elicited exasperation and hatred, it is still better than this precisely crafted definition of the term “content” from the vocabulary of media corporations.

Tony Scott for the first time in full-on experimentally impressionistic mode in a feature-length film. The cinematography and editing, or rather the use of fragments of shots, become the equivalent of massive deposits of paint and brushstrokes. In a nervously agitated way, Scott transforms a gritty thriller into fantastical macho camp whose overwrought images are just as infused with kitsch and surreal artificiality as the peak works by the master of melodrama, Douglas Sirk. On a small monitor, it is a ridiculous spectacle for pubescent boys fumbling about in their masculinity, but on the big screen, Man on Fire is breathtaking as a spectacular audio-visual equivalent of kinetic art. The magnificent experience is framed by a mix of impressions from a unique work that manages to be unintentionally funny in its bleakness, cringy in its kitsch, touching in its pathos and captivating in its formalism.

The essence of eighties yuppie assholery, embodied by the two main characters, unfortunately plays the lead role here and overshadows not only the central McGuffin, but also the wonderfully slapstick acting of the always excellent Don Calfa.

This cynically cruel update of John Ford’s classic western The Searchers exposes viewers to a nihilistic world in which the only certainty is death, so the only people who will not become helpless victims are those who are devoted to it and seek it out. The final driving force of the apocalyptically degraded society remains the cycle of violence taken to such an extreme that the people resort to absurdity and monstrousness of Boschian proportions, though spatially spread out over bleak steppes, but paradoxically all the more concentrated in the details. No, this isn’t a Tarantino or Mad Max movie, because there isn’t anything cool or exaggerated here; it’s just desperately cynical, hopeless, grotesquely deviant and depressing. The violence isn’t given any aesthetic value, as it comes terrifyingly suddenly and laconically, going beyond the concepts of misogyny to a dimension of pure ruthlessness towards everyone and always bears down on both the victims and the perpetrators, even though the latter are not aware of it at any given moment. Despite all of that, however, Steppenwolf is a tremendously captivating work. Brutal instinctiveness meets iconographic symbolism in the refined shots, which combine the spectacular standard of modern western genre movies with the aesthetic tradition of the intellectual cinema of the former Eastern Bloc. Despite the details, this is not a midnight romp for an intoxicated audience, but a dramatic vision that cheap trash flicks and calculated exploitation movies can’t hold a candle to.

A subject for a short stretched out to a brief feature-length film (so far, so good) that is appealing primarily because of its cinematography and the great performance of the main child actress. She is the centrepiece of the film, which focuses on the child over the course of a single day, when all of the adults are dealing with a crisis situation and mostly ignore the girl or see her as a burden. Fortunately, this is something different from the promotional slogan promising to show the situation from a child’s perspective – that’s not what actually happens here (which isn’t a bad thing; again: so far, so good). Viewer’s see the girl’s reactions, but they do not perceive the situation from her perspective; on the contrary, they project their impressions onto her. After all, the film’s adult perspective reveals the occasional shift away from the child to views of the adults in crucial confrontational moments (which is a different concept than would suggest itself, but again: so far, so good). However, this framework is disrupted by the pseudo-vintage cutaways, which do not in any way lend depth to the work. In the better case, they don’t have any storytelling value; in the worse case, they are too telling, as they reveal the hollowness of the film’s concept and its superficiality. Unfortunately the sum of all of these aspects is neither a fragile look into the child’s soul nor a tenacious art-house film with a strict concept (though Tiny Lights comes close to both of these forms). Rather, it is merely a precisely crafted and nicely intelligent midcult film. On the other hand, if it had been different in any way, it’s perhaps unlikely that Prima would have put any money into it. ____ PS: If one wanted to make a joke, it could be said that Tiny Lights is Son of Saul from the world of children or a live-action Cow and Chicken from the Czech suburbs. However, both comparisons are completely inappropriate, because Tiny Lights doesn’t have such a consistently filled-out concept as the former, and it lacks the wildness and unrestrained creativity of the latter. But due to its true essence, it was never supposed to have any of those attributes.

Steven Soderbergh is sitting in the editing room, remastering his old film Kafka, when he suddenly asks himself, since he directed the actors so expressively, what it would be like if he muted the dialogue tracks in the soundtrack. And that does have its charm, especially with the additional music and intensified foley effects. The result of this anecdote is one of the freshest and freest approaches to the concept of the director’s cut. Instead of a fixed, obsessive vision (Scott) or fooling around with technological excesses in the interest of viewer immersion (Lucas) or particular aesthetic preferences (Cameron), Soderbergh offers up a bizarrely imaginative experiment. At the same time, Mr. Kneff is like a Reader’s Digest abridged version of the original work, as well as a playful variation on it that is equally obstinately conceptual, caustically derisive and surprisingly stimulating. On top of that, it enables viewers who have seen the original film to experience it again in a somewhat different interpretation.

Ti West completed his trilogy of horror movies starring Mia Goth with a spectacular ultra-pastiche that in a certain respect not only tops off the series and the director’s filmography to date, but also the entire filmmaking tradition of decadent genres. Since time immemorial, all trash filmmakers have longed for acceptance and recognition, which means studio facilities and shooting in Hollywood. West’s trilogy about the alluring nature of filmmaking and promises of fame ends there. The director absolutely delights in the eclectic composition of allusions and references. His film radiates enthusiasm for the high and the low, thus setting side by side allusions ranging from porn to Chinatown, from American trash to giallo, and from Psycho to The Long Goodbye. Taking full advantage of the fulfilled dream of making his film under the wing of the celebrated Universal Studios, he stages a fannish tour of not only iconic locations in L.A., but mainly Universal’s outdoor sets. In so doing, he recalls the VHS era, highlights genre movies made by ambitious female directors and settles accounts with the religionists and moralists who protested against trash filmmakers and their works in the 1980s. However MaXXXine still primarily remains a hedonistic genre fantasy that doesn’t aim for historical accuracy (e.g. female directors were given room to work by Corman, not by the major studios). The main denominator here is the filmmaker’s own joy and, ideally, that of viewers having the same mindset. We could reach for the word Tarantino-esque, but that would be inadequate and limiting in any case. Because whereas Tarantino makes ultimate paraphrases of his favourite genres by ingeniously twisting iconic moments with his screenwriting, West outright composes an enthusiastic tribute that makes do with a fetishistic reconstruction that isn’t much more sophisticated than its inspirations in terms of screenwriting, but is joyfully informed by those films and enthusiastically revels in the possibilities that present themselves (which is perfectly confirmed by the closing vanity shot).

Living Large has fantastic stop-motion animation packed with playful details and it is entirely appropriate to speak of it as a major success not only of Czech animation, but of modern Czech cinema in general. Just as its visual aspect brilliantly straddles the line between bizarreness and attractiveness, the screenplay, informed by foreign models (from works for small children to icons of the genre and teen classics of the new millennium), succeeds in balancing educational ambitions with entertainment value. However, there is one “but”. With such a great and superbly crafted film with a clear message, it is rather regrettable that, despite all of their ambitious intentions, its creators failed to notice that even though they break down certain stereotypes and clichés in a wonderfully casual way, they unfortunately and (probably) unwittingly reinforce others. ___ SPOILER ___ Primarily this involves the excuse that the solution to bullying is physical escalation on the part of the oppressed, which provides relief, satisfaction and recognition, whereas some of the film’s foreign inspirations (at the very least Perks, which Living Large brilliantly paraphrases in one of its several highlight scenes) long ago put this idea into a more appropriate form or at least problematised it. Unfortunately, we can find more such screenwriting weaknesses and elements that are problematic with respect to the personal psychological and social status quo (the personified motivation for personal improvement and most of the associated motives bordering on stalking, including the climax with a false promise). And that’s a shame when, on the other hand, the film’s creators took such great care with the screenplay and educational aspect to ensure that they didn’t make their obese protagonist a lazy victim waiting for someone to save him and others to accept him.

To be successful, every film about an outsider overcoming the odds, whether it involves sports (e.g. Rocky or Dodgeball) or music (e.g. The Commitments or Pitch Perfect), needs only to follow a standard formula and populate it with appropriately likable characters with clear motivations in a distinctive setting. At its core, Kneecap is not a revelation, as it “only” flawlessly fulfils a concept that works perfectly on viewers. It simply makes ideal use of its belligerent agenda, likably impudent real-life protagonists, vigorous form and finely layered screenplay. This recipe for success turned out unsurprisingly well, but that doesn’t take anything away from the power of the cult that is deservedly building up around the film. It could even be bitterly said that the main reason the film is receiving such an enthusiastic response consists in its clever way of reaching international viewers. Instead of mainstream distribution, it took the more meandering route of gaining fame and enthusiastic recognition in the otherwise mostly difficult environment of film festivals and markets. Nor is it surprising that the distribution giant Sony immediately jumped on this Irish hit sold by a French company. I thus only hope that Sony’s Czech division won’t sleep on Kneecap and will just similarly and brilliantly bide its time until the moment is right to release this impactful and cheeky diss track into Czech distribution. This shot of endorphins should be consumed only in mass form.