JFL

Made eight years after the first Death Wish, the sequel is an even more feverish and radical display of fascist exploitation legitimising frontier justice. This time Bronson’s vigilante is in Los Angeles, which in the eyes of the filmmakers is no less a hotbed of crime than New York, which served as the setting of the first film. The protagonist’s quiet life with his new girlfriend is cut short when a gang of appropriately and obtrusively demonised goons find him. Unlike the first film, this time the screenplay does not problematise the matter of taking justice into one’s own hands; on the contrary, it populates the narrative almost exclusively with characters, including those from the ranks of the police, who agree with the protagonist’s biblical retribution and assist him, or at least say that the official legal system doesn’t work. The only character who disagrees with the elimination of the savage, racially profiled hooligans is the protagonist’s new girlfriend, who is thus portrayed as an irrational bleeding-heart liberal who fails in her traditional role as a pillar of support for the hero. It can be assumed that the sequel was made primarily as a desired contribution to the portfolio of the head of Cannon Films, Menahem Golan. Death Wish II is the first of a full range of sequels of older films by other companies that Cannon Films made, and it also fits precisely into the trend of dusting off old hits and hiring old acting stars that Golan, as a movie fan, used to admire at the cinema. On the other hand, the film’s hardline conservative tone and radical approach to rampant crime clearly tapped into the mood of the day. Let’s recall that major American cities at the time were struggling with rising crime, intensified by a flood of cheaper drugs, such as crack cocaine. Today, however, we know that it was not so much the radical zero-tolerance programmes as the much broader collaboration between social and police programmes that contributed to the fall in crime rates in the late 1980s and early 1990s. Nevertheless, the exploitation of the mood at the time made Death Wish II one of Cannon Films’ biggest hits, leading to three more sequels and making Charles Bronson both an action star and an iconic defender of conservative American values on the home front (as opposed to Chuck Norris, who defended those values on overseas missions).

How peculiar that a director who had previously worked in the field of animation brought a necessary breath of fresh air to the action genre, which had become dependent on the post-Bourne chaos cinema style. Bird’s Pixar movies abound with astonishing action sequences built on the clarity of the scene, long shots and the interconnection of the action with the setting and its elements. Bird brings the same qualities to Ghost Protocol. Replacing animation with live action enhances the strengths of the medium, thus bringing back the attraction of physical action. At a time when blockbusters are rather cartoonish CGI mess with the deepfaked faces of live actors, Bird had Tom Cruise climb the façade of the world’s tallest building. Similarly, the brilliantly designed and always spatially uncluttered chase through a sandstorm is an expressive counterpoint to the cluttered mess of scenes composed of tremendously brief shaky-cam shots that have inundated big-budget action productions in recent years. In comparison with the dark, tense and sophisticated nature of the competition, particularly movies based on comic books, Ghost Protocol also offers a big, longed-for dose of exaggeration and light-heartedness. In addition to that, Bird manages to combine all of the aforementioned elements into brilliant sequences abounding with inventiveness, charming humour, physical action, playful interactions between the actors and a surreal upgrade of the technological gadgets. If what remained of the third Mission: Impossible in the audience’s memory was the playing with expectations and building of suspense with no action sequences, the fourth instalment does not rely on its twists and turns, as its action passages (not only the Burj Dubai and the robotic parking lot, but also the sequences in the prison and the corridor in the Kremlin) rank among the absolute best of the genre.

The strength of the Mission: Impossible franchise has always been the combination of clear constants and creative deviations between individual instalments. Iconic elements had already been established by the original television series (the disguises, assignment of missions with messages that self-destruct, the burning fuse), and the movies use these original attractions as identifying elements that can be altered or simply set aside. The individual films place greater emphasis on the distinctiveness of style and inventive action sequences, both of which are provided by the fluctuation of the directors. In this respect, the fifth film of the franchise is precisely crafted but, at first glance, it is seemingly the least distinctive of the M:I movies. Judging from his work as screenwriter, Christopher McQuarrie gets along very well with Tom Cruise and has precise command of the filmmaking craft, but he is not a filmmaker with a distinctive formalistic signature or a clear concept of action sequences. With the precise spatial arrangement of the action scenes and the inventive interconnection of those scenes with attractive settings, McQuarrie’s Mission: Impossible picks up where Brad Bird left off. However, the distinctiveness of Rogue Nation and thus the benefit of having the screenwriter in the director’s chair are reflected in the dialogue, as well as in the interaction of the characters and their motivations. More than in the previous instalments, this time the story relies more on teamwork and thus loyalty, friendship and professional ethics, which form the foundation of the key narrative twists and are embodied in the fascinating, ambiguous character of Ilsa Faust. Ilsa draws attention to herself not only due to the charisma of the actress portraying her, Rebecca Ferguson, but also as the prototype of a new action heroine. Not only is she equal to the main protagonist in terms of ability and tenacity, thus forming a perfect professional team with him, but she also doesn’t slip into any traditional clichés and takes on some key privileges of her male colleagues (rescuing the hero, the final fight). In fact, she superbly balances between charm, toughness, exaggeration and fatefulness, flawlessly epitomising the entire film and its personality. ____ P.S. Who would have thought that an ambitious character actor would become the Hollywood equivalent of Jackie Chan (from the golden era of Hong Kong cinema)? And, what’s more, in an era when American cinema does not have any action stars, at least not the kind whose name is synonymous with or guarantees a certain type of attraction. Starting with the fourth Mission: Impossible, interviews with Cruise and making-of videos absolutely evoke Jackie Chan’s ethos. Like Chan, Cruise emphasises that the breakneck sequences and the permanent exposure of himself to real danger are done for the viewers and their sense of amazement. From Ghost Protocol to Rogue Nation, Cruise’s passion, determination and fanatical hard work deserve all the more recognition for forcing the competition to also back away from deceiving audiences with computer-generated sequences and camera flourishes, thus making Mission: Impossible the vanguard of a new era of spectacular action films.

Karel Zeman: Adventurer in Film is a precisely rendered popularisation documentary that smoothly and effectively fulfils the objectives set by the filmmakers, namely to commemorate the work of Karel Zeman, to present his filmmaking career and the techniques that he used to create his distinctive works, and to highlight his importance and renown on the level of both domestic and global cinema. It would perhaps be possible to criticise the film for not including more archival material or for the fact that the passages with Tim Burton are merely idle chatter that says nothing about Zeman and his films, instead only adding a popular talking head to the documentary. However, such criticisms would essentially involve how differently the documentary could have been conceived if it had been focused on different goals, which in turn would have negated its purpose of popularisation. In this respect, it is worth highlighting the tactic of outlining the significance and international reputation of Karel Zeman by including the statements of renowned popular filmmakers, critics and educators from abroad, who in most cases speak of Zeman’s work not only with obvious enthusiasm and respect, but mainly with knowledge and insight. The imaginative nature of Zeman’s vision and the brilliance and difficulty of its practical realisation are clearly illustrated in the passages where contemporary film students try to imitate Zeman’s iconic tricks in their training. The combination of statements from people who were there, his daughter, film critics and historians ensures an optimum balance of biographical information, recollections, critical detachment and the placing of Zeman’s work in a broader context.

Diamonds is a typical example the eclectic, even seminally post-modern work of Menahem Golan, a director and producer who earned a minor mention in the history of cinema (literally, in the case of Bordwell and Thompson’s book) as the mogul who headed Cannon Films in its golden era. However, it’s rarely mentioned anymore that he was also absolutely unique among the Hollywood bosses of the second half of the 20th century, because despite popular stories about his naïveté and salesman’s attitude, he was an avowed movie fan at heart. A significant number of the films on which he served as a producer and, in particular, as a director are characterised by the fact that they can be described as variations on successful films of either recent years or from the classic era of Hollywood. Golan was in fact a prototype of the film-enthusiast director who wanted to create a portfolio comprising his own versions of the films that he loved as a viewer. In this case, Diamonds is one of Golan’s typical derivatives of classic heist movies. At the same time, this means that, though the project does not conceal its ambition, it also unfortunately suffers from Golan’s lack of distinctiveness in terms of film language. In the hands of another, more talented, stylistically distinctive and skilful filmmaker, the film’s concept could have been shaped into a brisk genre flick. However, Golan’s typically half-baked screenplay and utilitarian, unappealing execution make the result simply and hopelessly uninteresting and bland from the viewer’s perspective. The film’s chase sequences and parallel plots are a clear example of the dramaturgical futility and zero sense of tempo and drama found in Golan’s films. Similarly, a distinguishing feature of the characters is their lack of development and individuality, from which even the stars, who for Golan were merely another coveted item in his portfolio, fail to rise above clichéd one-dimensionality. Like many of Golan’s productions, Diamonds is much more noteworthy in its own context and as a historical artefact than as a film. Specifically, Diamonds is Golan’s first attempt, together with his production partner and cousin Yoram Globus, to conquer Hollywood while still with his own production company, AmeriEuro Pictures Corp., which ceased to exist after making three films (the other two were variations on gangster flicks). Golan and Globus apparently learned at first hand that it is practically impossible to succeed in the movie business with a new company, because the company has neither distribution connections nor a catalogue of films to serve as a foundation for new titles. This obstacle was resolved four years later when they bought a majority stake in Cannon Films, which they built into the chief competitor of the major Hollywood studios during the 1980s.

All of the screenplays that wound up at Cannon Films’ headquarters were allegedly first divided into two piles for the company’s two main stars, Chuck Norris and Charles Bronson. The accuracy of this story is evidenced by promotional materials for unmade movies, as well as films in which someone entirely different played the given role (Norris was thus announced as the star of American Ninja and Fifty Fifty, for example). In this context, Hero and the Terror comes across as the result of a mix-up or the collapse and resultant blending of the two piles. Norris appears here in a role that rather typically fits Bronson’s Cannon image, which is apparent not only in the fact that the film contains practically no action or martial-arts sequences. Another drawback of the film is the fact that the role requires at least some basic acting talent, which indeed is not really one of Norris’s strengths. However, the film’s problems are not due solely to the bungled casting. Perhaps the film was originally supposed to be a slasher flick in the style of Friday the 13th about a homicidal hulk, but partly because of the inclusion of a few demonstrations with Chuck and, primarily, the completely moronic premise that the tough guy kills by breaking necks, there is no excitement here. If we add to that the absurd idea that the killer lives in the ventilation system of an old theatre and disposes of women in the toilets, the exercise in futility is complete. As in a number of other Cannon productions, the only memorable thing about Hero and the Terror is the excellent Steve James, who with his charisma, energy and ability to enthral the camera, draws attention to himself in every scene in which he appears. It’s a shame that he was an African-American in the 1980s, when the era of commercially lucrative blaxploitation was a thing of the past – otherwise, he would have been a star instead of merely a sidekick.

This attempt at a sophisticated meta-film descends into the realm of television variety shows featuring has-been stars and tiresome declamatory babble. As such, it is generally a low-quality project from the head of Cannon Films, who wanted to have in his scrapbook a group photo with the legends of British horror whom, as an avid movie fan, he once admired at the cinema. Like many of the projects that Golan produced as last-chance vehicles for past-their-prime stars and variations on older hits, this project is attractive thanks to its concept (the famous faces of classic British horror movies together for the first time in one film; plus it was directed by the trash legend Walker, whom Golan dragged out of retirement), but due to Cannon’s typical eagerness, it suffers from a quickly slapped-together screenplay and zero dramaturgy. So, whereas the source work functions well on the stage, especially if the actors interact well with each other and with the audience, the film adaptation merely jumps between meritorious greats who, in their bombastic theatricality, never work together as an ensemble, but only as competing individuals. The supposedly sophisticated point of the narrative turns out to be rather a cruel reflection of the whole project or of the fact that it is indeed possible to cobble together a narrative in a single day, but despite the swaggering self-regard, it is not a story that could in any way move its audience.

Hell Comes to Frogtown combines elements of both trash and genre classics like America 3000, A Boy and His Dog and Escape from New York, has a wonderful cast led by Roddy Piper and Sandahl Bergman, and a premise and individual elements that could have made it a superbly campy trash flick. Unfortunately, however, all of that potential is buried under the incompetent direction and a shoddy screenplay, if there even was a screenplay. It’s no coincidence that director Donald G. Jackson later became famous as a practitioner of Scott Shaw's “Zen filmmaking”, which is based on dispensing with screenplays entirely. Hell Comes to Frogtown thus remains a typical product of the VHS era, when it sufficed to have an idea that could succeed based on the poster or trailer (both of which are excellent in this case), whereas the film itself was sort of a secondary obligation and it was preferable not to put too much effort into it. Nevertheless, this fiasco is now an unexpected curiosity, as it exhibits surprisingly strong parallels to nothing less than Mad Max: Fury Road. Here we also have an iconic hero (Roddy Piper was a famous wrestler) who is a passive onlooker through most of the film with no influence over the development of the narrative, strong active heroines and a story about liberating breeding-stock women from the clutches of the villain, which escalates in a chase scene involving insanely modified cars through a wasteland. However, it is necessary to add that unlike Miller’s thoroughly emancipatory masterpiece, Hell Comes to Frogtown is in the expected spirit of 1980s machismo and flattery of the patriarchy, not to mention a disturbing scene approving of rape as a penalty for drug use. It’s nice to see that society and pop culture have advanced since the time of Hell Comes to Frogtown.

Lucy is a magnificent roller-coaster ride through the mind of a mad fantasist in which anything is possible. Besson has always been a wonderful storyteller, but it is time to realise that seriousness, rationality and reality are binding for any bard. For Besson, the turning point came with The Fifth Element, where he cast off the shackles and turned toward stories to which boundaries do not apply. Even though he has seemingly come back down to Earth in the past twenty years, he has always adhered to that liberating realisation that as long as the result is coherent in its logic, it is not necessary to limit oneself with rationality. Projects such as Taken are not momentary awakenings from the fever dream, but merely proof that he is able to tell “believable” tales when he is so inclined. But for the most part, he simply doesn’t want to do that, and it’s up to every viewer whether or not they will accept the game of an “unreliable” narrator (in world cinema, Tsui Hark is the only one with whom we can compare Besson). To wonder over Lucy’s absurd sci-fi new-age premise is like watching a roller coaster instead of strapping yourself into a seat and enjoying the ride. The fact that Besson doesn’t set aside this phantasmagoria for even a moment, but instead presents his narrative with a straight face and takes it to its internally logical conclusion is not a sign of madness, but of storytelling brilliance. It is necessary to add that the storyteller’s straight face does not in any way mean that he is telling a serious story. On the contrary, Lucy stands right at the edge of absorbing entertainment and camp, but never slides into it, and therein lies its distinctiveness. Besson never peeked at viewers, but only gazed at them with open eyes, in which it was so easy and delightful to drown. In the context of his work, Lucy is something like The Fifth Element 2.0, though it differs from the first version by inverting the initial elements and adjusting the narrative devices. Instead of the fate of all life, what is at stake here is the existence of a single being, which, however, is the universe itself. Instead of Willis’s cynical hero, behind which stumbles the personification of good, here we have a formulaic cop in the position of an appendage of the universe. And whereas part of the fun of The Fifth Element was built on breaking up space by using editing to turn the monologues of distant characters into dialogues, Lucy entertains by putting the power over space, time, people and matter, which was previously possessed only by filmmakers, in the hands of its heroine, as well as by interconnecting the plot with external narrative elements and hypertextual references.

It may sound like the grumbling of an old man, but they just don’t make films like this anymore, and that is the key reason for the deserved unanimous enthusiasm that accompanies Fury Road. Against the background of today’s technology, the new Mad Max is a film from an era that has long since passed – in terms of style, it comes across as the essence of 1980s Australian trash flicks laid out in the form of an epic fresco following the example of the peak of Hollywood’s creative era of the 1970s. Fury Road is simply Miller’s Apocalypse Now or Heaven’s Gate. In the promotional campaign, the constantly emphasised appellation “visionary director” was for once not a hollow phrase, but an appropriate statement, in every sense of the word. Miller reveals himself to be not only a filmmaker with a well-though-out vision, from which he builds a portrait of a distinctive post-apocalyptic world thought out to the smallest detail, but also a filmmaker who has yielded completely to his own delirious vision, which is both absorbing and fascinating. Though Fury Road is both a variation on the original trilogy and its continuation, it thus remains fundamentally distinctive and unique. So, even though fans will identify various similarities between the new film and the trilogy, Fury Road never engages in that current pop-culture scourge, quotespotting. There is no recycling, no knowing winks at fans, no references to other films or pop culture, and not even any franchise elements. Fury Road is not exclusive and elitist like contemporary blockbusters, which create enclaves of true believers by flattering different audience segments. Into the artificial and overly sophisticated waters of the contemporary mainstream, Miller has released his own raging monster, which, with the roar of an infernal machine, cuts a path through all of the rules about the habits of the target audience, commercial trends and the producer’s calculations, and it has no regard at all for what a contemporary blockbuster is supposed to look like or what supposedly works in it and why. Like its world, the film is simultaneously disjointed and deranged, yet in spite of that, it is also completely coherent and functional. The archetypal three-act narrative concept is crushed here by a single permanent confrontation and non-stop tension (the first shot, in which the characters are not in motion or in immediate danger and are only talking to each other, seems as if it is from another world). Out of the bowels of the degenerate macho action-movie genre, a matriarchal parable has grown, with the male characters surprisingly relegated to supporting roles. And all of this is set in a pulsating world, which we don’t see from the outside, but are rather thrown into. As the characters carry us along at a frenetic pace, we see, unwittingly and literally at the edge of the field of vision, that world’s practical functioning and, primarily, its complex mystique, which emerged from omnipresent madness and pain. In an interview, Miller said that he liked the feeling he had when, as a child, he walked out of the cinema and felt like he had stepped off a roller coaster and wanted to get right back on it. Whereas the seasonal blockbusters of recent years have merely zipped passed viewers, leaving only a dim memory on the horizon, Fury Road picks up viewers at full speed and, like its protagonist, runs them paralysed and strapped to the hood through the tumult of its creator’s vision. If the post-apocalypse previously infused archetypal heroic stories with new blood and replaced the foul taste of the distant era of westerns and chivalric tales with the intoxicating promise that the age of heroes would come again in the future with the fall of civilisation, then Fury Road likewise revives the validity of the mythological epic in the destruction of the world. Though the film’s narrative has certain similarities to The Iliad and The Odyssey, its matriarchal level refers to even more ancient traditions. Even though it evidently undermines machismo and the patriarchy, it also offers a celebration of heroism and masculinity in accordance with the aforementioned revitalisation of archetypes. The appearance of those traits here, however, is not only classical in nature, but also mythically absolute and post-feministically complex in equal measure. When the roar of the engines subsides and the smoke from the explosions clears, we see the tragic and paradoxical nature of the heroism of not only Max, but primarily of the other main character, who, infatuated with the myth of patriarchy, rushed like a raging dog of war to the gates of Valhalla, but only achieved true heroism when he abandoned the father figure and accepted the role of helper and protector alongside his mother. Fury Road takes a no less complex approach to women, who, in the manner of legendary matriarchal societies, not only personify life and procreative and regenerative power, but also serve as warriors. However, they are not limited to the one-dimensional ideal of badass goddesses of war. Like the male characters, each of them has her own story and motivations, which are alluded to in the narrative, and those are what condition their heroism, which is all the more impressive thanks to its believability and inspirational nature.