JFL

Though the constituent elements radiate potential, Walter Hill unfortunately got lost in several time planes and narrators within his own plot and screenplay. Nor is the whole film helped by the effort to incorporate a comic-book framework, which, unlike the director's version of the cult film Warriors, does not work here at all and only creates another unintentionally alienating element. He properly got to the action in only one scene, which serves as a reminder that Hill was once the successor of Sam Peckinpah. Paradoxically, the plot could work in the space of a miniseries, where the characters and ambitious themes at the core of this film about gender and sex would get more space and could be accompanied by more action passages. Crowded into the runtime of a standard film, The Assignment is unfortunately a delirious and disparate mishmash of incomplete elements and an underused yet magnificent ensemble of actors.

An even more spectacularly silly screenplay than that ofits predecessor (which is really saying something) and itsdedication to all of the compliant Thai flicks makes the second Ninja an extremely unbalanced, yetthat much more entertaining spectacle. Classic American ninja movies, bestowed on us by the Cannon Films factory of trashy dreams, offered a unique combination of straightforward clichés, ridiculously recombinant mythology and a tremendous portion of boyish naïveté, and the series from Adkins and Florentine build precisely on that mix. In the second instalment, the filmmakers, following the joint lesson in effectiveness from Undisputed 3, gave up on shooting in studio exteriors and CGI finishers evoking The Room and instead focused on the flawless depiction of fights and action sequences. The primary strength of the sequel lies in the amazing symbiosis of Adkins, the choreography and the camera work, to the point where one wishes the film had an even more basal screenplay, because every minute in which some ninja intrigues are being addressed only delays the arrival of another wonderfully conceived action sequence.

Julien Leclercq spends a lot of time cruising at idle speed here and Earth and Blood is more like a formal exercise on the topic of depressing stylisation of the French countryside on the model of Francophone horror movies than was the case with his previous stylish action flicks. Beyond the colour palette and light sound elements of the director’s typical third-person shots, we find here very few of the peculiarities and ambitions that previously characterised Leclercq and made him the hope of European genre cinema.

Though the visible parallels with Heat cannot be denied, Den of Thieves stands firmly on its own two feet. Whereas Michael Mann, director of the former film, came up with a stylishly refined portrait of two antagonists with professional respect for each other and deals with the ethics of the world of crime and justice, Christian Gudegast offers viewers a precision heist flick with a clever screenplay that deliberately winds up the viewer’s attention. --- SPOILERS FOLLOW --- The story has three central characters, which are presented to us over the course of the film, but only so that we can reassess everything ourselves at the end. However, he gives us ambiguous indications during the film that perhaps everything will not be what it seems. The filmmakers surprisingly use elements of overwrought machismo, where they have sullen mastodons march past the viewers, without in any way depicting them as likable characters. Though, in accordance with genre conventions, we are automatically conditioned to simultaneously sympathise with the cop and appreciate the ingenuity and coolness of his antagonist, over time the film reveals both of them to be unlikable, obstinate assholes. Whoever at first appeared to be a great guy turns out to be a fanatical workaholic, the experienced and shrewd nice guy is shown to be a tragic pawn and revealing the brain of the whole operation shows that whoever can merely play stereotypical masculine roles will always have the upper hand over those who dully live them.

Steven Soderbergh’s variation on Hollywood disaster films is conceived as the exact antithesis of all of the attributes of the classic form of this genre established by A-level studio spectacles in the 1950s and definitively codified in the 1970s. At the same time, however, the aim of the film is not to subvert the genre, but rather to come up with a form of the genre for the era of extensive availability of information, so that it can again function effectively and arouse horror and tension in the audience, as compared to Emmerich-style popcorn tripe. The necessary foundation for this is provided by Scott Z. Burns’s masterful, intelligently constructed and information-packed screenplay, which is based on scientific knowledge and experience from the epidemics of that time (and therefore greatly corresponds to the real pandemic of 2020, unlike the naïve, fantastical scenario of, for example, Outbreak).

A Quiet Place has such a terribly well-constructed world, such a brilliantly layered narrative and such precisely built tension that one does not want to spoil it with nitpicking and cynical remarks. And there would be a number of them, the first of which being how suicidal it is to walk through this world with a spoiled teenager around one’s neck. However, that is not the case here and similar comments show defects in us rather than in the film. A Quiet Place may faulter in particular mishaps, but its power comes from its excellently thought-out world and its presentation through narration. And just like a slice of life from this unique world, the film is absorbing and fascinating.

Extraction has an indisputably significant place on the notional chart of trends in the action genre. This dot chart, marked out in one plane by unbridled low-budget action movies with athletic, ready-for-anything actors and in the opposite by constrained Hollywood big-budget productions with stars, shows us in the points the emphasis on action as an attraction and the evocation of the wow effect by the physical dimension. In this definition, however, Extraction is not an essential or revolutionary milestone. Rather, the very fact that it appeared on that notional chart further reinforces the hope that better times are ahead for the action genre in Hollywood. Sam Hargrave emerges from this as a good and likable apprentice of the 87eleven stunt school and stands somewhere between his masters Chad Stahelski and David Leitch. But Hemsworth is neither Keanu Reeves nor Tom Cruise, so he obviously does not have years of training or personal commitment under his belt. Therefore, his director and choreographer have to come up with gimmicks such as one seeming long shot that is digitally stitched together, which, with its obvious transitions, only brings to mind the ambitions of filmmakers from the lower budget categories, but who gain greater fondness through their greater tenacity despite the production conditions (in, for example, Universal Soldier: Day of Reckoning) or honest craftsmanship (such as in Jailbreak). And that’s not to mention projects that still remain unsurpassed today, where physical action and directorial craft achieve the ideal synergy, us as in The Raid 2. ____ Extraction is a fine contribution to the genre that shows Netflix’s potential, but also its real face as a video rental company. And that will perhaps remain the primary benefit of this project. Netflix is surprisingly consistent in bringing the schizophrenic “VoD video rental” label to mind. Although it will never achieve the pampered selection and community function that carefully curated autonomous video rental shops offered, it needs a regular supply of shiny new products, following the example of the major chains. In the best case, they will attract viewers to the more out-of-the-way sections, where they will discover not unique gems, but a bunch of other genre flicks that will compel them not to cancel their subscriptions. So, if you find yourself in these nooks and crannies because of Netflix’s recommendations, have a look at some of the films mentioned above. However, after these years of shakycams and CGI colouring books that completely lack a physical dimension, we can once again look forward to the coming development. It even makes one want to talk about the renaissance of the action genre.

Moonlight is a fragile and sensitive film about the wounds of adolescence and the difficult climb out of the fortresses that we build around ourselves against the pain, which applies to everyone, regardless of ethnic or sexual identity. For some individuals, however, it is even more difficult and painful because of their surroundings. The environment of the African-American community in poor neighbourhoods is by no means exceptional in this respect, but it is certainly meaningful due to what we see in terms of masculine patterns of behaviour and roles anywhere else in the world. In his outstanding screenplay, Barry Jenkins explores the theme of personal identity through three time planes and the three names of the main protagonist, which he typically never chose for himself, but at the same time tries to live with. Not one of them describes him, however, and the tension arising from whether he is able to answer the question of who is in the end is thus even more agonising. Moonlight is one of the few films that truly deserves the problematic Oscar for Best Film, as it does not reflect any contemporary trends, campaigns or politics, but rather represents one of the ideals of cinema – a personal and distinctive work that, thanks to the perfect use of the full range of vehicles of expression, from acting through narrative structure to formal processes distilled from various models (admittedly here, for example, Wong Kar-Wai and Hou Hsiao-hsien), resonates deep within us and leads us to catharsis involving personal and general humanistic themes. In addition to that, it exposes us to a tremendous onslaught of emotions, even though it conceals them below the surface most of the time.

Hollywood finally reached the level of Hong Kong, though only in the category of action comedies with a freely episodic screenplay. So, there will be variety-show cameos and a screenplay created through brainstorming and jumping across genres without structure. Except it is a shame that instead of real action attractions, we only have video game-style CGI mirages. The question remains as to whether the filmmakers should be cursed for engaging in futility according to western norms, or if we should praise them for creating a perfect product for the Chinese market, where precisely this sort of thing has the greatest success. Nevertheless, it is commendable that the producers finally cut out the weakest and most laughable part of the whole franchise, i.e. Vin Diesel, though the blather about family remained, only this time it is interspersed with more sequences of boring dick-measuring contests that do not have the slightest spark of real homoerotic tension. But perhaps David Leitch made enough money with this job to be able to shoot something proper again someday.

This inconspicuous jewel of the Hong Kong New Wave may not shine as dazzlingly as the genre experiments or social dramas of other key filmmakers, but it is an even more essential work for Hong Kong society. Allen Fong masterfully deceives the viewers by seemingly offering them a nostalgic melodrama about growing up in Hong Kong in the 1950s and ’60s. But behind the façade of shenanigans and vignettes of the everyday life of the lower social classes, who pounded studiousness and diligence into their children’s heads, which gave rise to the middle class, there is a bittersweet indictment of the patriarchy, which survives as a system across generations, sustained by the broken dreams and lost opportunities of individuals. The trickiest yet most eloquent aspect of the film remains the character of the father, who is not depicted as a despot, but rather as kind and caring. This is an ingenious and chilling variation on the subgenre of melodramas about the relationship between fathers and sons, which was popular in the 1950s. In those films, the idealised fathers sacrifice themselves for their sons and families, who then show them gratitude. Father and Son, on the other hand, shows that sons and especially daughters – who are intentionally yet meaningfully side-lined in the film, as they were in their lives – sacrificed their dreams, talents and futures for fathers who stubbornly sought to fulfil the role of patriarchs who provide for their offspring (not in the material sense, but in terms of career). The classic values of Hong Kong society, with familial solidarity and diligence at the fore, thus take on a touch of bitterness.