Marigold

What part of it makes us more crazy? That, according to Luhrmann, Fitzgerald is a superficial mannerist from the garrulous red library? That the 1920s look like a forgettable industrial dystopia mixed with the extravaganza of a lifestyle magazine? That the "glamor" aesthetic of the film is so ostentatious that it is annoying? That the characters are without exception flat and the most superficial is, coincidentally, the narrator? That the film has a totally nonsensical dramatic construction? That there is nothing left of the elegance and decadence of the "before the great fall" epoch but a flood of confetti and digital sterility? I don't even know and I really didn't care after a few minutes. A silly experience that is best described to me by Rex Reed's words: "This is one of the most maddening examples of wasted money ever dumped on the screen".

Everything I could ask for from an action movie. Well-written dialogues, detailed scenes that wait calmly for half an hour before engaging some of the indicated elements, a polished visual, and a soundtrack that reflects the subtle irony and exaggeration of the whole spectacle. Two hours of dynamism, invention and infiltration, each with more ideas than any previous MI as a whole. Finally, it doesn't take itself too seriously and it bets on only one big currency - spy entertainment. The best MI and overall one of the best and most unique blockbusters of recent years. Thumbs up for Brad Bird - he sees action differently. Where others would bet on monumetality and quantity, the director plays with the perfect execution of de facto relatively tight scenes, the spectacularity of which does not lie in the number of explosions, but rather in the intelligent use of scale and utilization of the environment. Bird just sees better.

Wonderful design, minimalist environment, moderate, though sometimes not entirely consistent directing (exacerbated scenes are hampered by quite awkward changes in perspectives), an old school humanistic drama, which says that under the uniform and ideology are compatible human souls. Sympathetically subdued characters with small stories, a bit unnecessarily sharpened schematic dialogues, but the film has the proper atmosphere of a hunting lodge, where a small war and a small peace occur. A modest film that is easy and pleasurable to watch.

There was no better way to do it after the excessive The Avengers and the boredom of the second film. How do you not make a theater play after a blonde pancake-eater with a hammer hits the ground and New York is threatened by an alien invasion? Make a pure, sometimes even slapstick comedy, which is based on the strongest feature of Iron Man - self-irony, disrespect, audacity. It is no coincidence that Black literally devalues the "sacred" armor, which turns into a pile of recyclable junk. Stark can do without it for most of the film. He is a mechanic, a billionaire, a philanthropist and a laid-back guy who does not lose his humor even during a panic attack. There is something about guilt here and there, but we all know that his only real guilt in the third film is that he remained an outspoken child. It's good that the fatality has diminished and that the third film almost feels like cabaret with a lot of beautiful slips where the floor starts to pathetically stick. Shane Black gave it maximum juice and energy. This is not even about the action that traditionally bothered me at the end with its dull grandeur; it's about cheeky details, small gestures and one of the most luxurious (non) Marvel twists. Favreau managed to film Iron Man as a fun comic blockbuster, while Black filmed Iron Man as Tony Stark sees him. Because he is the Iron Man. And it works great for him.

Three stars for a purely performative gesture, after which maybe something will start to happen. As a documentary, for me, it sometimes goes beyond the edge of what I can stand. To address this heated topic in such a exacerbated spirit, often with the preference of emotions over context and the author's pervading messianism, is unsatisfactory (the use of Vltava, a powerless street scene with March of the Gladiators, and the final fairytale scene with a crying Maruška). At the very least, the analysis of practices and psychological mechanisms is interesting and meritorious; the question is whether, for example, Czech Dream named similar things much more receptively and in a more stimulating way. Are the demonstrations really an anomaly, or is it more of a common systemic process brought on an ad absurdum, and is the fundamental problem not precisely the "dependence" of the participants and the inability to think for themselves, which is far from limited to lonely pensioners? The film told me what I have known for years and said what I did not know in a few sentences. It just needs more analysis, but if the debate starts with this film, why not... P.S. The Blesk logo at the end is an incredible absurdity, which reminded me of a member of SPO, how at the end of Spřízněni přímou volbou he shouts at Klusák "which tabloid are you from?". Who is actually the bastard here?

The Eastern lyricism is, of course, tolerable only with a slight degree of exaggeration, but the "observational" passages from the normalizing mundaneness are excellent, depressing and at the same time free of any awkwardness. The absolute culmination are the wedding sequences and nonchalant philosophizing about the emancipation and influence of Žigulík on married sex. The story of a mother and daughter who are doomed to repeat the same mistakes and fight the prejudices of the environment is not that strong, but Uher's fragmentary nature essentially works for him - in general, this is an atypically lyrical view of a prosaic time.

An interesting antithesis of a typical version of a disaster film - instead of bringing together and restoring ties through a borderline situation, we observe the breakdown of friendship, the disappearance of sexual attraction and the alienation of two brothers (neighbors become menacing neighbors and not vice versa, as is customary in Hollywood). The film is composed as a series of disillusioning encounters that only deepen the feeling of hopelessness. Carriers is similar to Soderbergh's Contagion, but unlike Contagion, Carriers is only average in terms of film quality and is more like a TV movie in terms of the arrangement of some scenes. Nevertheless, the absence of traditional clichés and schemes keeps your attention - also because Chris Pine, as the main (anti) hero, is tolerably unbearable.

Excellent. Cival's parallel with Eyes Wide Shut doesn’t falter much (an internally incomplete character attracted to the obscure community), and I would also add Wickerman (pagan cult), and praise the film for its almost "veristic" approach to leading actors and working with mise-en-scène and editing. It's sick, it's derailed, it's raw, it's absorbing... dirty dumplings, somewhere between absentee sex, ubiquitous death, and fleeting love.

An ode to Icelandic tenacity and the Nordic "story of an ordinary man" who subdued the elements and limits of the body. That evocation of the title of Boris Polevoj's book is not malice and not cynicism, the seal man Gulli simply acts in the film as an epic hero who is strangely "roundly whole". The Deep is a film with drama, but without conflict; a film that, for its miracle unexplained by science, seeks an explanation for Iceland's resilience and ability to face ruthless conditions. Filmed with a sense of composition, it’s not offensive at all, but there is also nothing captivating about it - it's muted heroic poetry with an impenetrable protagonist who speaks to seagulls as a character of a heroic epic at a moment of strain in his life. A cultured film that has no edge.

You can't come up with anything new, so at least deliver it Norwegian frozen and run it through a rancid filter, which is quite addictive after a moment of resistance. In all seriousness, Uthaug manages to maintain a restrained decorum and a properly stiff atmosphere without enormous hysteria or unnecessary chatter. That's kind of how I like my slashers.