Marigold

People like to look for a noble, spiritual dimension in suffering. I suffered like a hyena for two hours, but I didn't find any such dimension (although "my mother is an orangutan" at least brought a wicked laugh to my lips). Objectively, it's very nicely colored, smooth and cleverly told, but I always prefer the adrenaline and animality of 127 Hours over the spiritual Circus Humberto. Perhaps one of the 33 million gods who spiritually sponsor this film will not send me on a ship with Suraj Sharma. Because at the moment I want to kill him.

Reviving dead pets pays off. It paid off in 1984, and it also paid off in 2012. Still, Tim has learned from the wisdom of film teacher Rzykruski, who sees the success of a repeated scientific experiment in a sufficient amount of invested "heart". For the second time in Frankenweenie, there’s enough of it for the story of a boy and an undead dog to entertain. Although only an old well-known nostalgic-infantile-tribute lemonade, but I still found myself, after a looooong period of time, that I have the old well-known burton frog in my throat in all those clever quotes of old horror, the sexy hoarseness of Winona, windmills and talk about science and love. It's a pity that the ending a bit awkwardly turns into a monster horror, and in the whole film there is perhaps not a single unexpected thing, but otherwise I enjoyed it more than anything from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory onwards. However, I don't know how much Burton is going to keep on stealing from himself. There is not much left to take anymore.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been this uncertain and hit out of nowhere as I was in this movie. One thing I know for sure, no one today films like PTA, and few dare to uncompromisingly combine enigmatic fragments and explicit meanings. The Master is a film-psychosis, and even more than There Will Be Blood, it bets on crazy and enchanting characters, whose destinies are described in one great film anacoluthon. Two and a half hours of hints, fragments, vagueness, frustrating volatilization between affect and manipulation, anger and apathy, two and a half hours of deliberate hopelessness, extreme strangeness of words, things and people, but at the same time completely masterful control over each image and the whole. The bond of master and disciple with all hidden and obvious vibrations, an analytical view of spiritual manipulation, a raw image of human desire for meaning and fulfillment, achieving balance through the one who "knows", coldness, virtuosity, at the same time strong doubts whether the whole is not overly calculated, ostentatiously mysterious... a film I "don't want" to see again. "I have to". That doesn't happen to me often. The Master, not Holy Motors, is the strangest film of the year for me. [closed screening] Edit: What I miss about the film is the whole - PTA intentionally does not leave the phase of endless excess and bouts of psychosis. Although some fragments are divine and the character of Freddie's masterpiece (the acting and screenwriting), the film as such does not create a monumental unity like There Will Be Blood - it is a fragmentary image of futile searching, unattainable desire and inner ambivalence - to find who makes sense to us, and to be someone who has no master. The answer to how many topics The Master opens is actually banally simple - a woman made of sand. Maybe that's why the unsettling fact that Daniel Plainview and Eli Sunday cannot be classified is missing. Although the film works in part enigmatically (it does not provide clear motivations and answers to the main character's questioning), it is not the kind of code that draws in, but rather terribly confident flashy authorial gestures (this film has two masters: the character Amy Adams and the director). While There Will Be Blood can be taken as a disturbing metaphor for man, power, faith, and capitalism, The Master is a locked, obscure, yet beautiful structure of a creator who seems to be overly subject to the exclusivity of his visions. And it arouses the kind of frustration without which one cannot think and exist. [85%]

Not the event of the season - American critics and audiences must logically be enthusiastic about a film that is not foolishly simplistic, but at the same time is able to maintain popular schemes and a certain "power-film" patriotism. From my point of view, I appreciate the clever and functional montages (reading the Argo screenplay / drastic scenes from Iran - the heist parallel "escape planning / pursuit procedure"), the famous self-defeating humor of the Hollywood storyline and the escape sequence shot exclusively in detail and semi-details - retro styling and camera movement by Rodrigo Prieta are a pleasure in and of themselves. However, after a "problematic" political introduction, Argo finally capitulates to the tried-and-true schemes, but this does not degrade the fact that Ben Affleck made another uniquely-crafted film, which I "purely enjoyed".

Amorphous, sterile, unpleasant, unattractive, confusing with a difficult border between private and public. Simply a perspective extremely distant for the audience, which captures the current crisis of the state and politics. It's a pity that Schöller didn't make it a little better, but it's still one of the most stimulating “boring" films lately.

This was a loss. A bold and extremely imaginative, variable and deep book transplanted into a dynamic and agile network that does not raise questions, but answers didactically. In addition, the film helps itself with the hackneyed new age symmetries that we know intimately from The Fountain, but also from Mr. Nobody - if you do not know how to connect remote storylines, fateful love is the answer. In addition, the film adds to it the typical pathetism of all-encompassing mysticizing concepts such as Eternity, Infinity, Reincarnation, Destiny, and if the viewer does not happen to get it, one of the characters will literally repeat it 4 times. The result is a completely uninteresting and mechanical work for me, which fails even in moments that I considered "laid" - the 5th story of Sonmi in the book is a poignant picture of capitalist-fascist-totalitarian dystopia, in which rebellion is only a prefabricated part of the consumerist chain. That's terribly little. Compared to The Matrix trilogy, the virtuoso Speed Racer or Tykwer's "gender-deconstruction" Three, this is more of a Junk Atlas.

Beautifully kinetic, not only via movement on the screen, but also the movement around the story. Had I seen it as a child, my brain would have blown out of my nose. Anyway, it is elegant, funny, confidently told and poetically boyish with its pastel-manga-coloring book-family-chimpy style. Even the clichés that sometimes irritate me are completely smooth and high-octane in this cheeky injection. WW may be ahead of their time, or maybe they missed it completely, but to hell with the times, I watch movies and this one works better than any 3D prefabricated product. The added dimension of Speed Racer is probably the art of listening to a complex but completely effective machine for a simple story. Family movies have always bored me. Now I know why. None of them look like Speed Racer.

Waste, city, boredom, death. The libretto is very nice, I like the actors. I miss the minimalism of the Comedy scene and the greater involvement of the Film's opulent scene. A few imaginative moments, a polished camera, mannerism. But mainly words, words, words - nice, vulgar, depressing, alienated. The film adds very little to them, Fassbinder swims in the lights and in the changing civility / stylization of certain voices. In the end, the strange theater wins over the intention to find an exciting film dimension in a play that was a film script. Simply a good production transplanted into stylized Prague exteriors / interiors, which are sometimes makeweight and rather fragment the attention intended for the actors and replicas. Nothing more.

If one’s favorite creator has to disappoint, then he must do so gigantically. That is exactly what Susanne and her court screenwriter (and subjectively for me, one of the most interesting people in Danish cinema), Anders Thomas Jensen, succeeded in doing. A very sour lemon, more acidic than diluted American straws, which do not have to disguise their detachment, fairy-tale aspects and simplicity for 100 minutes as suspicious trips to realism and unexpected openness. All You Need Is Love definitely contains a few moments in which Jensen's cynicism and fondness for genre antithesis is not denied, but when I find out in the end that all these carcinogenic, family-disillusioning and sexually bent moments serve as the cheapest solution to ridiculed romantic sentiment, I get sick to my stomach. This is because Bier is not Trier and can't manipulate the viewer as expertly - the dialogues are annoyingly tedious and tangled, the "realistic" hand-filmed scene looks like a fist to the eye between romantic postcards from Italy, and the characters are showily “turned-out" in order to fill their diverse grotesque roles. I understand that for abandoned mothers and sentimental addicts, the combination of a raffish hairdresser crayfish - a squashed ex-Bond will function as an emotional aphrodisiac, but I felt very sick after this bucket of pink lemonade. This is also because this is not just a "clumsy attempt" to make a genre film, but rather completely targeted blackmail - and the directing is terrible. Shave the Dogma 95 certificate off Susanne Bier and send Jensen to comb Adam's apples for five years. Then he will forget about the citruses.

A film that switches between a POV perspective and "classic" hand-held filming, between passion / police sentiment and a distant monitoring of strange guys for whom the service is an adrenaline ride (and it significantly affects them). The action scenes are brilliant and I must admit that I haven't felt such intense tension for a long time (Elite Squad?) - the combination of personal perspective and raw digital camera works great. As well as the everyday dialogues of both protagonists full of LA dialect and mundaneness. It is worse in terms of the attempts to look into privacy, in which the POV is a bit un-conceptual and disruptive, often as if it should rather obscure quite banal phrases. At the same time, End of Watch has no trouble dropping this sentiment several times. Unfortunately, the lavage between irony and fascination is mostly felt at the end, which is heading toward big things, but in the end it repeats semi-pathetically that which even a blind person could not miss... I give it what I give it for the great Gyllenhaal, the "unresolved" motif of guilt and a few great moments (the final shoot-out, the scene with a search of the house of the "old woman"). P.S. It would be interesting to compare "filming methods" in relation to Stone's thematically related film Savages!