Marigold

Visually brilliant (centered aesthetics of richly illustrated religious circular letters a la Seidl), in some ways irreconcilably cynical, but in some ways a little unnecessarily schematic - especially in terms of the character of the protagonist's husband, who in some spots seems a bit declamatory regarding his statements, which is definitely not customary for Seidl. Even some scenes tend to move from observational brilliance and awkwardness to mild apathy. Slightly weaker than the "extreme" Paradies films.

The most conspicuous, most intimate and Seidl's most humble and empathetic film of the trilogy, which irons out the slight disillusionment with Paradise: Faith's occasional schematic style and perfects the director's method of static observation, this time unusually combining it with a moving camera, which gives the film at least a certain touch of "youthful ardor" (albeit fat ardor). The work with space and rituals is excellent and rivals the best moments of Paradise: Love. What's more, when you consider these two films in parallel, this fattened version of Lolita is a bitter pill to swallow. The central theme of sexual and emotional frustration is silenced by the naivety of maturation, but where it is given that the protagonist does not follow the path of her mother or aunt. Its first steps are behind it, and other bites of life can be just as dietary as the last scene. I can't imagine a better peak of the Paradise trilogy.

A banal derangement that, because it is about how nothing leads to nothing, can afford to go nowhere and lead to nothing. It’s put together exactly like the syntax of the previous sentence, full of psychopathic characters and underdeveloped self-reflection, with a few nice jokes and Genz's always nice direction.

Incredibly poser-social depression that tends to pile up disasters to the point where tragedy becomes a farce. Inspiration of Tolstoy and the overall effort to penetrate beneath the surface of social misery remain only an artificial creative gesture - albeit well-directed, but sometimes rearranged in a funny way. It may sound unfair, but Louhimies should let go of Far Away the Clouds Escape and see how a similar genre can be done purely, without the would-be naturalistic machinations and stubborn exaggeration. And then he should release Magnolia again and see how it is possible to ignore chance, absurdity and construct in a similar film and pass it off as social realism "with added narrative value". On top of that, he would learn that if he confuses the fates of several characters, he should do so consistently and in a less utilitarian way. The director and screenwriter behaves surprisingly cynically for a "sensitive humanist" when he abuses some of the characters once for his godly intention to show the evil and inhospitable world of the fringe. This is a similar case to the Czech film Flower Buds, which is a film that looks so deep into the misery of its characters that everything around it escapes. Unfortunately, what is around it is the most important thing.

Well, the film compensates the genre's stupidity and simplicity through self-conscious irony and eye-catching commentary on the conformity of the schemes. However, the long tempo cannot compensate for the few solidly constructed horror scenes. The whole thing is terribly awkward - the acting and the staging, and outside the morgue it lacks atmosphere. I attribute the fact that I didn't recognize the killer when he appeared in the shot more so to the night lobotomy than to the cleverness of Bornedal. Partial things amused me in the film, but the whole is dead and smells of disinfectant.

A truly hypnotic anti-detective story that has no tension, no charisma, and no atmosphere. Moreover, the script is so emphatically retarded that the barely average book by "Mr. and Mrs. Kepler" looks like a masterpiece compared to the film. The highlight of everything is the character of Joona Linna. I don’t think I have never seen a detective who lets a witness go who tells him at the beginning of the investigation that she knows the killer. And I've probably never seen a detective solve a case by sitting on the spot. Sorry, I have - his name was Zeman. In addition, Hallström filmed it unbearably statically (the whole family storyline is stereotyped to death) and in some places senselessly with too much flourish, as if the last thing he saw from a detective story came from the pre-Fincher Hollywood of the 90's. The result is so sexless and stupid that it offends.

Textbook anti-spiritual crap, which achieves emotion by having someone slap someone, someone faint and someone is dying for half the film, a disgusting dove flies into it and symbols appear so retarded that the whole theme turns into a band of absurd scenes, from which one can only stand watching the actress in the lead role. And not because she acts well, but because she has nice blue eyes. The topic of violence perpetrated against the mothers of "bastards" in traditional Turkish communities was grasped by Günes amateurishly and without any sign of empathy. Next to the highlights of Turkish contemplative film, this is a very bad joke.

In a nutshell, it is captured by the scene in the shoddy train station. It starts with an authentic-sounding monologue on the edge of the shot, which has a flow and an edge, and continues with arranged racist shouting, in which even anonymous voices in the background sound like a controlled chorus. It ends with a poser moment at the railway station, where the protagonist, who defended the Roma "a little", is watched by a chorus of white fellow citizens as a foreign object. It always evokes a certain awkwardness, ostentation, play on effect, albeit many times more stimulating and arranged than in Foxes. In my opinion, even the dramaturgy is not OK - again we have a protagonist who behaves unpredictably, while the main motivation is only clarified after one starts to think a little angrily about whether he has anything to do with another of the director's hysterical creations. However, it is more than bearable, especially thanks to the camera, the work with the environment of the scenic social periphery, which helps the dialogues. They still sound like chants sung an octave higher or lower... Non-actors simply can't handle a learned script other than with a recited text. Sometimes it's funny how hard they try (the character of the protagonist's neighbor). Wouldn't it really be worth it to look for inspiration from Dresen, Seidl and others? Overall, My Dog Killer seems to me like a film which, despite its great ambitions and fundamental theme, gets a little stuck in infantile and static gestures. In order for a character to come to life in infinitely long wordless shots, it requires more than just the decently mastered language of others. Even so, I consider this to be quite a sympathetic attempt that paves the way (already a well-trodden path elsewhere).

OK, I don't know what specifically caught Raimi's attention in the 150th generic version of the plot, i.e., "the hero travels to a fantastic realm where three witches rule, one of whom is evil and only he can defeat her." The fact is that the implementation is not bad at all and the result is definitely not an unnecessary remake (Franco really does not resemble Judy Garland, the whole story is about something completely different, and the framework of the world is absolutely different), or prequel, as I thought for a while. So, it's simply different in terms of genre and content than the famous game with songs and a dog from 1939, a song in which the funny-awkward James Franco sings a slightly varying chorus “I'm a bastard / liar / charlatan" and women fall into his lustful arms as if he was Rudolph Valentino. After the poetic, funny and imaginative introduction, it is followed by a widescreen hyper-colored 3D fair with lots of digital flowers, a pastel mindfuck and cute creatures, which, however, Raimi handles with more forethought and irony than Alice’s Burton. He also manages to play around a bit, pay homage to the moving images, and to pay tribute to the details of his predecessor from the late 1930s, but I wouldn't say that he explains to me why I should watch this recycled plot and listen to the second-rate melodramatic croaking of witches. In addition, the 1939 version seems to me to be much smarter, more thoughtful and has nicer singing... and it’s just better in general.

Better to kill an innocent man than to hesitate to kill an enemy. Another Nordic detective exercise in practical Machiavellianism, this time with a refined concept, which, thanks to half the runtime, seems much more concise, focused and dynamic than the first series. Brilliant work with a dehumanized atmosphere and professional masks allows the creators to do high jinks, where the main heroine can be in essence consistently unsympathetic, cold, and an obsessed bitch, and one inadvertently sympathizes with characters who are morally on the edge (the lack of dichotomy of good and evil is essentially a design element of The Killing). Grasping the subject of the war on terror, xenophobia and the boundaries of where the "beneficial bending of democracy" ends and the "autocratic quirks" begin is taken far enough (in the Scandinavian way) to be thought-provoking, and therefore, it's not just mandatory decoration. The plot line is much smoother and clearer, the direction is more stable and, last but not least, the pair of characters - an eclectic politician looking for a mask in the performance of the (always) great Nicolas Bro and the character of a war veteran with a memory disorder (Homeland à la Denmark?) played by the torn down and hunted Ken Vedsegaard. Brilliant, this time almost without any reservations from me.