Marigold

The screenplay is far ahead - a complex, delicate, yet with a uniquely-balancing serious theme and humor, overlap and a personal story. A critical and sentimental family story from contemporary Japan, which most evoked Farhadi’s A Separation in Karlovy Vary this year. Beware: the mere "friendliness" is easily confused with the depth and richness of the topics involved. An inconspicuous gem.

A parallel to Refn's journey through hell, Valhalla Rising, is on point. But the Dane's film is much more consistent because it respects at least some order (the order of images) and clearly separates reality and hallucinations, i.e., it has a clear perspective. At the same time, Refn works much better with the classical style. When compared to it, A Field in England really look like a trip of a party of wrinkled swordsmen to a neighbor's field, but filmed by a talented cameraman. The screenplay by Ben's wife may have had an interesting idea, but otherwise it's remarkable rubbish on the edge between a pubescent attempt at an extravagant story with a historical theme and a fencing performance. As a long-time author of castle performances, I respect the principle of "when the characters have been talking archaically for a long time, put words in there such as dick, venereal diseases, shit, beer, women or a kick in the ass", and Amy Jump is very good at it. It really has decent jokes. But otherwise it is a non-committal bet on the denial of all meaning and order, which may seem "eccentric" to some, whereas it seems pubertal to me. Even the most forgettable historical sketch by Monty Python goes much deeper. A Field in England is sometimes amateurishly clumsy, and for my taste the film has few stroboscopic scenes (the one with the rope fest is stupid, the one with the grandfather is quite good), the theme of the lord is always pissed on by some self-serving non-submission, and some of the actors would be good in my famous performance Bloody Feast or the End of the Confessors. Otherwise, it’s paradoxically quite decent crap, from the “fucking" directing to the exodus of spectators from the hall. Anyway, stay away from this type of thing, Ben, and film something truly radical. Keep this infantile crap for psychotropic parties with your wife.

Yes, Szász really did not live up to his reputation as an uncompromising and original filmmaker that he had in the 1990s. The Notebook looks more like an Eastern European HBO production - a relatively intimate expedition, repeating the same locations, and the fact that it is directed relatively sedentarily. If I deviate from these secondary categories, I also have complaints about the script, which is too dependent on the book by Ágota Kristóf. On the one hand, he draws harsh and raw monologues from it, on the other hand, he sometimes quite roughly motivates what seemed to look natural in the book. Nevertheless, Szász conquered me with these lessons in hardness, renunciation and suffering. The central duo of "wolves" is excellent, the grandmother is sweet and some of the supporting characters are irresistible. In particular, the middle of the film, in which the ruin of maternal love intertwines with the flow of swearing and drastic scenes, only captured artistically in a notebook, is amazing. War penetrates the boys' world as a reflection, and they fight their own war in order to defeat emotions and uproot all love. The stream of blows and deviant episodes, culminating in a drastic act, exudes a musty, unpleasant atmosphere that remotely resembles Haneke's The White Ribbon. It’s too bad about the unfinished stylization, but it’s still a significant experience.

A bit of a social drama, a bit of a love film, and a bit of an uncritical fairy tale. He has one thin leg, terrible things are happening to him, so please excuse him for sometimes acting like a weasel... and then wish him a little luck - he dances nicely and the city has ruined him, the countryside will fix everything. Tonally, it’s very mysterious African drollery, which is saved by the director's well-known skill and, unlike A Screaming Man, it is also basically a comedic conclusion, which is crazy and more bearable than anything that would stink of roughness and realism. I guess I have no talent for this kind of compassionate viewing. Especially when Haroun obviously has both film legs working in order.

About 2/3 of the film is great. It is directed with feeling for the exact degree of naturalism, lyricism and laconic hint (the syntax of the wholes and details of some scenes is simply great). The depressing atmosphere, escalating helplessness and frustrated aggression of the main character looking in vain for a harmonious center is also topped off again by a sensitive ellipse. But it is followed by a sweaty detective story, scattered and reinforced with un-artificial symbols, which completely break down the economical structure. The lessons of harmony begin somewhere near the Romanian new wave and end as forgettable lyrical dramas from XYstan. It’s too bad, but Baigazin is undoubtedly a great talent.

Crisis as a pose, beauty as the only principle of construction. Sometimes it works wonderfully (the introduction and the conclusion), whilst other times it's empty, ostentatious, unnecessarily eloquent and awkwardly theatrical. Even the biting irony is only about halfway there. Sorrentino is an excellent director, but unlike Fellini's "Roman frescoes", which are internally experienced and in every chord accurate, he realizes the idea of a nostalgic protagonist in crisis much less convincingly, but all the more heinously and loudly. A film that plays at being a classic just like the protagonist plays at being a blessed man of the world. Sorrentino had already made films that are an order of magnitude better, but also less affectionate.

The masterful direction, which maintains distance, precisely chooses perspective and framing (when to show everything, when to only indicate), perfectly captures the banality of evil and the suffocating mundaneness of helplessness and fear. Yes, it is cold, withdrawn, unbiased, but at the same time it is completely uncompromising, without a hint of consolation or redemption. The image of the increasingly frustrated protagonist and his tragedy-stricken family gives a chilling feeling that stands out only because the film remains procedurally factual at key moments and does not comment on the world of brutality and injustice. Everything is too mundane. The penises are burning, the grandmother is cooking, the children are watching. Reygadas's influence can be felt in some of this - especially in the non-literacy and surgically accurate capturing of the fleeting atmosphere of everyday life. Discouraging, though very uncomfortable for spectators.

After overcoming the Happy-Go-Lucky syndrome of wrathful hatred for the main characters (and the crazy management and atmosphere), I have to appreciate Baumbach's elegant storytelling, cleverly written dialogues, the courage to make unsympathetic characters who are out of the "laid back friends" box, and the literary structure of the story (relationships). Frances Ha didn't particularly affect me, but it's a bright and non-banal conversational comedy that also captures the atmosphere of New York in black and white (and beautifully quotes Leos Carax's Mauvais Sang - which I did appreciate, except for the friendly warning). In the end, a pleasant film, with whose protagonist it is difficult to establish an emotional bond, but it is quite easy to understand and watch with interest.

Women on islands make me happy... Andrea Arnold revived the tradition of social drama with an unprecedented emphasis on lyricism, which Clio Barnard continues - what is mainly phenomenal is the work with the landscape, which over time loses geographical specificity and becomes a universal and dreamy space around the characters, a space of fog, buzzing electric wires, grazing horses and turbulent households. Another strength of The Selfish Giant is the work with the characters and the absolutely convincing child actors, who manifest themselves with the social periphery and still manage to develop their characters internally. It is the relationship between Arbor and Swifty that bridges the only fundamental defect, which is the predictability of the story. Thanks to them and thanks to the extraordinary moderation of Barnard's direction (it interweaves immediacy and functional lyricism), the catharsis of the story represents a believable and captivating moment. The unusual work with the wild motif of the garden and its guardian, sacrifice and unconditional love is unique and distinguishes The Selfish Giant from the fairly numerous competition. Sometimes it could be argued that some of the images are unnecessary and that the film offers a cynical rejection, but it simply has such inner strength and sensitivity that it captivates even when one is aware of what is going to happen. The parallel with Andrea Arnold is not purposeful - Barnard is also able to empathize with the characters, capture their inner marches and reflect them in the landscape, and she also avoids "systemic" contexts and focuses on the inner world of the protagonists. An intense experience and a great selfless discovery.

After watching this film, I definitely understood that here are too many Chinese people in the world. It was torturous watching this toothless entanglement that formally became shameful in the 1990s - I haven’t seen anything this schematic and empty in a long time. It is nice that the film always surprises, but since it completely lacks characters and confuses them with walking nothingness, it's nothing meritorious. There is no point in asking why, just who and how. Four awkwardly intertwined stories, the first and last of which are bearable (the first with a hint of reason and the fourth with a hint of adequacy), but the middle two border on absolute dementia (when a digital snake passed over the screen, I really wanted to shoot something) and naive symbolism. It is quite sad that politically correct awards are given at Cannes - this script is only good for wiping the ass of a naughty Chinese brats, but of course it has the appropriate humanistic-critical overlap. But they also have frustrated swearing when sitting and having a beer and palmes are not given for them. A Touch of Sin is proof that Asian cinema sucks. Everyone to the balcony, Chinese people are going to be born!