JFL

First Man is an enthralling evocation of the time when spaceflight was not a matter of course and undertaken at the whim of millionaires, but rather an uncertain enterprise that required sacrifice and tremendous determination. At the same time, it is a perfect example of how to build an absorbing and thrilling narrative from a story whose end everyone already knows.

The last real movie star built a monument of adoration to himself, before which nothing can be done except to tip one’s hat. In the years when Hollywood forgot how to make blockbusters and how to shoot action movies, it was Tom Cruise who brought real amazement back to the big screen. Now that others are beginning to understand that no CGI colouring book or frantic shaky cam can replace the breathtaking dimension of physical attraction, Cruise keeps raising the bar that he set himself in the area of what someone is capable of actually doing in front of the camera for the audience’s amusement.

“Don't you forget about me.” “U WISH” or it is paradoxical that, similarly as Bumblebee himself mixes his comments from radio broadcasts, the film makes it possible to string together quotes to form a review, which unfortunately is not in any way ecstatic. That, however, is a pity and a shame, as the director’s name, or rather his preceding filmography, offered high hopes, and that’s not even to mention the brilliant first trailer, which, as it turns out, offers a more intense spectacle and thus greater promise than the film itself. Whether Travis Knight gave in to pressure from the producers, who wanted a polished product, or is simply a solid director in the sense of an organiser who is only as good as the sum of his collaborators, the sad truth remains that he did not live up to the expectation that he would pull the transformers out of the gluttonous irrationality of Bayhem – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2THVvshvq0Q – and give them heart and emotion. On the contrary, in light of the insipid and mediocre result that merely checks off all of the safe and necessary attributes of a family blockbuster, it shows that, whether you like it or not, Michael Bay is simply unique in his style of spectacular excess and bloated consumerism and, thanks to his overblown ego, he remains such a strong personality that he is able to add a certain distinctiveness to cock-and-bull stories about cars concealing their faces. Though his films are overwhelming for viewers, they remain unforgettable in their own way, which unfortunately is not true of Bumblebee’s solo outing. While we’re on the topic of memory and forgetting, those comprise the central motif of the film. It is essential that this plot diversion is framed by the autobot’s loss of memory, thanks to which it can, well, transform from a cool fighting machine into a cute and cuddly pet for a while, which, incidentally, contributes to one of the really outstanding elements of the film, which is the flawless animation of the titular protagonist. Even though this standard series script element did not give rise to any sort of exceptional contribution in the context of the franchise’s transformers, it still would have been nice if the creators of other franchises adopted it, because it could, for example, bring a breath of refreshing exaggeration to excessively serious comic-book films. In fact, this may also comprise one of the reasons that Bumblebee does not bring forth the longed-for refresh, because the franchise itself or, better said, its dominant form established by Bay cannot be taken seriously. ___ PS: If only the producers and distributors would finally dump the nonsensical 3D in films that are not designed to be 3D movies. With its few characters, Bumblebee is just such a small film that prefers half-details over grand scenes (and grand scenes come across as hopelessly empty in it), so it doesn’t have anything to show in 3D. With a few distinct exceptions, the attraction of 3D has always been merely as a way to justify higher ticket prices and artificially inflate a film’s box-office revenues, but the producer of Bumblebee didn’t even try to justify it with at least one scene or shot where there would be some sort of rationale for the 3D effect.

This mix of Christmas movies, zombie flicks and musicals sounds good on paper, but the result won’t steal anybody’s heart. Rather, quite the opposite is true. More precisely, Anna and the Apocalypse will strike its target audience as a major rave-up and cheeky alternative, but that is due to the fact that its ideal viewers are teenagers. After all, the main characters are built to resonate with this audience as much as possible, but only futilely in a superficial manner. Unlike, for example, the outstanding series Skins, the film doesn’t have the scope that would bring catharsis to its viewers. Here it’s enough for the filmmakers to let the characters constantly stare at their mobile phones and formulaically work through some feelings and worries of adolescence, but this will never exceed the level of banal one-dimensionality. The overall style is on the same wavelength, as it does not have even a hint of exaggeration or campy excess; rather, it remains at the level of the shiny insipidness of Disney’s high school musicals. With its glee apocalypse, Anna doesn’t mine films like Scouts Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse, Zombieland or Shaun of the Dead, though the creators would like to have something in that vein while also not wanting something that is too violent, just a bit of splatter here and there so as not to turn off any of the teen viewers, but it did leave a few cool streaks of blood on the protagonists’ faces. As a result, it is another would-be “non-mediocre” project sponsored by the company XYZ Films whose formula makes for an unwatchable work constantly promoted by its founder. Unfortunately, it is evident that XYZ Films is only looking for unusual topics and no longer gives filmmakers the necessary dramaturgical guidance and critical feedback. Instead of being able to exploit their full potential drawn from imaginative subject matter, they are satisfied only with superficial diversity, which in and of itself is far from a guarantee of a good film.

Some films are bad to the point of being entertaining and some are just simply bad because they are just dumb and hopeless. The Pink Angels is also terribly boring. In the climax, it is rather a textbook example of the far and thus right side of drive-in trash, a film that offers neither cheerful amusement nor guilty pleasure, but rather just a catchy idea comprising a singleplain sentence extended into insipidly shot, lifeless, drawn-out dreck. On the other hand, motorcycle-exploitation films themselves are an extremely lifeless and monotonous offshoot of trash cinema, and the makers of The Pink Angels unfortunately only managed to replace typically hetero caricatures with “queers” in the lead roles, but otherwise did not in any way transform the schematic of the genre, so their whole effort makes no particular sense. Thus, even the word “effort” sounds inappropriate in relation to this artless crap.

United Trash is aridiculously absurd and phantasmagorically boisterous mix of messianic epic, cocaine-fuelled soap opera, primitive myth and surrealistic delirium with Dadaist logic, as well as a work lying somewhere between conceptual creative experimentation and loutishly retarded amateurism, which gives the impression of the deformed offspring resulting from an orgy attended by Jean-Luc Godard, Alejandro Jodorowsky, John Waters, Tommy Wiseau and Neil Breen. It is basically a nice film about the messiah, who, instead of the simple and carefree times of the Bible, has the misfortune of being born into the chaotic and meaningless age of UN peace missions, which futilely conceal their absurdity by importing seemingly advanced civilisation into the world of instinct. Schlingensief creates a deliberately overwrought and ridiculous fresco of a world turned on its head, where the saviour has an enormous cunt on his head and his mother is the overaged sexploitation legend Kitten Natividad and his theoretical father is Udo Kier in the role of a gay UN general. Though it would be easy to discard this work as a case of poorly considered amateurism, it is bizarrely captivating in its deliriously recombined perversity and cunning denigration all authorities, from peacekeepers and churches to doctors without (ethical) borders.

The workprint version of The Thief and the Cobbler – The Thief and the Cobbler: A Moment in Time (90 minutes) – is simultaneously a breathtaking display of phantasmagorical ambitions to create an animated work without creative compromises and, unfortunately, proof that it is simply not possible to complete some things without deadlines and restrictions. And therefore no one will ever see The Thief and the Cobbler in its originally intended form. At most, it will remain in its preserved form in a certain phase of development, which bests illustrates what the dreamt-of film could have been if not for the evil investors who wanted something for their money, but also if there was no unreasonable master of animation who refused to finish the film with compromises. The vision remains quite apparent even in the extant fragments, as the maximum fulfilment of the principle of animation, i.e. breathing life into something, emanates from every second. In addition to that, the version consisting of a mix of finished sequences, unfinished phases and sketches splendidly presents the enormous amount of work and intricate creative genesis that every second of a film must under in the animation process.

Like every proper mega-franchise, Ninja Turtles does not have only one form, but rather a range of variations that are suitable for different target groups. Though a number of people associate the turtles with the children’s television series, there is also the broadest spectrum of spin-offs in the field of comic books that incline toward underground impertinence and utterly adult splatter variants such as the brawny Bodycount. And then there are the feature-film incarnations of Ninja Turtles, which for some reason are condemned to be unhinged bizarro-movies. The trio of nineties live-action cringe-fest features are boldly backed up in this respect by the new flicks from the production company Platinum Dunes. Besides the disturbing CGI design of the turtles, which balances on the edge of the principles of caricature and the uncanny valley, the most terrifying aspect of this film is the incomprehensible harmony between the ethos and aesthetics of the production company’s owner, Michael Bay. The childishness of the CGI/live-action Turtles is not the result of targeting underage viewers, but has the form of the insipid infantility of immature middle-aged men with fat wallets who live in an illusory version of reality woven from men’s lifestyle magazines packed with cookie-cutter models and toys for big boys. Just as the old live-action trilogy represented the essence of the most embarrassing and campiest aspects of the 1990s (including Vanilla Ice), the new films offer up a bizarre example of the most frenzied and stupid elements of the current mainstream. Notably, they do not reach the level of the gluttonous nature of Bay’s own films or his finesse as a craftsman. Thus, unlike Bay’s works, they are not engaging through their silliness, but only try in vain to copy the master’s superficial trademarks. As one watches this mess of rushed animated action sequences interspersed with half-details of magazine-worthy faces and stylised shots of cars, the question of who the filmmakers had in mind as the audience constantly creeps into one’s mind.

In the context of Poland and the local tendencies to rewrite history and the effort to codify a singular correct view of the putative Polish idyll, Mug is certainly an ambitious, courageous and necessary project. On the other hand, let’s admit that, apart from stylistic finesse, it does not exactly bring forth anything innovatively iconoclastic or subversive. Despite a number of stimulating elements, Mug does not contain anything that would cut to the core of society; rather, it is a more sombre Sun, Hay and Strawberries interspersed with metal. Could it be that its enthusiastic reception by critics is due to the fact that, in today’s festival mainstream, people are rather accustomed to seeing emancipatory stories in which the protagonists flourish despite their surroundings, instead of films that depict ordinary people as hicks and bumpkins?

Excellent premise, hopeless execution, sleep-inducing result – these words can describe not only A Touch of Genie, but also practically every film made by Joe Sarno, one of the most overrated hustlers in the field of erotica and porn. Not that he doesn’t occasionally go off and make a surprisingly watchable film, such as Young Playthings and Bibi: Confessions of Sweet Sixteen. However, these seem rather more like wrong turns in an otherwise consistently futile filmography, where most of the entries confirm Sarno’s hopeless inability to tell a story and his dyslexia in the area of film language. A Touch of Genie could be a splendidly entertaining mix of Allen-esque comedy and porn, but due to its half-baked script, obviously cheap production and Sarno’s somnambulant style, it unfortunately remains only a futile promise and, at the same time, hopelessly wasted potential, which is evident in the fact that porn actors Harry Reems and Eric Edwards prove in their scenes to have far more acting and comedic talent than the lead actor.