JFL

Hard Target reappears years later in a longer working version (116 minutes), which is considered to be Woo‘s director’s cut. It differs from the theatrically released version mainly in the differently edited and composed action sequences and a handful of Woo‘s trademarks, primarily where his work with pathos is concerned. The most noticeable change is the mirror montages that literally reveal the motivations of Fouchon and Boudreaux, while Henriksen‘s antagonist is introduced while playing the piano in a spacious mansion, which is intercut with documentary footage of wild game being killed by hunters, and Van Damme‘s protagonist receives a shotgun from his uncle in his cottage in the closing part of the film, which is interspersed with shots of people killed by Fouchon; whereas killing is a form of amusement for the bad guy, it is a means of revenge and punishing evil for the hero. Furthermore, the working version contains two sequences of Chance and Natasha coming together, where we learn more about these characters, but there is also a full spectrum of additional shots and brief passages. Conversely, the theatrically released version contains a much longer and more bombastic elimination of the antagonist – in the working version, Van Damme simply kicks Henriksen once from a high jump, launching Henriksen onto a pile of rubbish, and then throws a grenade at his feet, eliciting a look of annoyed resignation from the villain, and finito. ____ From today‘s perspective, Hard Target is an amazing relic due to the fact that they simply don’t make many movies like this anymore; in the new millennium, we are witnesses to the extinction of the mid-budget action-movie category. This is connected with changes in distribution and the gradual restriction of the market for physical media for home use – only big-budget, high-concept spectacles and sophisticated, expensive genre flicks make it to the cinemas today, while the video market is now driven solely by low-budget C-movies and acts of desperation from the likes of Asylum and Tomcat Films. Though it is still possible to find ambitious filmmakers with a distinctive action style in the latter category, they are rarely given the ideal constellation of resources and appropriate actors to show what they can do (see Isaac Florentine and Undisputed III, William Kaufman and Sinners & Saints and John Hyams and Universal Soldier: Regeneration). In its day, Hard Target was one of several generously financed B-movie action projects that enticed viewers with a mid-level star in the lead role and a fresh concept, or rather a variation on a traditional theme. Whereas other contemporary projects in the given category, such as Universal Soldier, Under Siege and Timecop, were based on a strong high-concept premise, Hard Target has a surprisingly straightforwardly trashy screenplay. In this case, no one even looked too hard at the story, because the main attraction was the rising star Van Damme, who presented a new image (though from today‘s perspective, his greasy mullet and raincoat seem rather pathetic, but values were a bit different back in the dark days of the 1990s), and primarily the involvement of the renowned master of action choreography from Hong Kong, which promised a completely unprecedented spectacle (as the film‘s promotional materials repeatedly emphasised at the time). Hard Target is thus a representation of the ideal combination of Woo‘s bloody ballet and an American genre film, where the master was hired specifically for his qualities, but his style had not yet strayed into the realm of bombastic melodramas. Apart from the action passages, the film is interesting as an American B-movie with an unusually bold local atmosphere. The distinctively thematised Louisiana setting, imbued with the motifs of unemployment and poverty, which are further developed to the level of the crisis of the role of men in society and in the context of family, elevate the film above the level of an ordinary, generic action film in the same way that the use of local and historical motifs enhanced Woo's Hong Kong movies.

Let’s start by dispelling a few persistent myths and misconceptions: Deep Throat was not the first feature-length American porn flick to receive broader distribution (Pornography in Denmark and Man and Wife from two years earlier are often mentioned as being among the first), nor was it the first narrative porn movie to be presented in this way (that honour belongs to Mona). Nor is it any sort of revelation that captured the hearts of millions of viewers with its brilliance; rather, it is simply a film that in its time attracted the public’s attention partly due to its hype, but mainly because of the widely publicised accusation of obscenity. Nevertheless, the truth is that Deep Throat became a sensation on the basis of that publicity, as it made attending a porn screening a social event and turned a poorly made pile of shit into the highest-grossing film of all time, across all film categories. Thanks to that, Deep Throat became the most famous and most popular porn flick, which is actually a shame, because it inevitably became the benchmark for the quality of porn. However, it is only a ground-breaking work in the history of porn, but it cannot in any case be taken as a measure of quality. The staggering revenues and media attention garnered by this tragically made or, to put it more kindly, purely utilitarian work showed Gerard Damian and dozens of other directors that the profitability and competitiveness of porn movies would not depend on escalating extremes, as had been the case in the preceding era of under-the-counter distribution, but would rather depend on filmmaking qualities, screenplays, imaginative premises and the charisma of the actors. Though a large number of better and more attention-worthy titles were made in the ensuing golden era of pornography, including in the filmography of its director, Deep Throat is still the main, but unfortunately also the only obligatory porn title for film enthusiasts, who thus form a completely inadequate image of the golden era of porn based on it. Deep Throat doesn’t really fit into that period, as it is rather a transitional title that heralds the characteristic elements of the golden era, when aspects such as creative ambition, distinctiveness and inventiveness were applied to porn, but it largely exhibits the attributes of an earlier period of illicit, quickly made productions, when porn was a purely consumer article that did not receive public recognition. The narrative thus rather has the form of a vague pretence for chaining together individual sex scenes, while the cinematography, sound and production values can best be described as sloppy, and the acting oscillates between the poles of Harry Reems’s surprising comedic talent and Linda Lovelace’s desperate stiffness. The opening psychologising titles (shot on a crumpled sheet of paper with typewritten text in accordance with the budget) is also a typical relic of the era. Besides the fact that it presents a neglected interpretation (according to which the protagonist does not actually have a clitoris in her throat, everything is only a part of psychiatric therapy), it is mainly supposed to give the film and its creators an alibi consisting in the so-called justifying value that legitimises the film in the eyes of the legislation of the day. In the context of the films that came after it, Deep Throat is rather a curiosity, of which mostly secondary elements remain in the viewer’s memory. For example, the unusually small number of shots of bare breasts is surprising, not only by today’s standards, but also in the context of production at that time. Another unique aspect from the ranks of insignificant trivia is the fact that Linda Lovelace was one of the rare porn actresses of her time who shaved their pubic hair. Besides these curiosities, the film offers an imaginative premise fleshed out into a clumsy narrative laced mostly with desperately awkward and obvious jokes. This is best confirmed by the fact that in the decades that followed, the expressive depiction of orgasm through a montage of exploding fireworks, rockets lifting off and ringing bells became common throughout the mainstream, from film parodies to television series.

Slow, non-confrontational and undramatic are adjectives that would normally be taken as negatives, but in the case of Goró Miyazaki’s second directorial effort, they are words of praise and descriptors of the signs of an exceptional work. In this hurried age, in the context of hyper-affected Japanese cinema and, in particular, in the context of the hysterical animated works created there, From Up on Poppy Hill is a unique gem. That is especially true when we consider that, in terms of genre, it is a romance and nostalgia film from the golden years of the 20th century and when we compare it with other such Japanese films of the past decade. Whereas the box-office smash Always – Sunset on Third Street and its sequels and imitators are characterised by an obsessive devotion to the details of the setting and minutely rendered recreations of the iconic buildings of the given period with the help of special effects and an almost propagandistic emphasis on traditional values personified by picturesque characters, Studio Ghibli’s project remains unobtrusive and takes the historical setting only as the rationalisation for the style of its narrative about youthful hopes. Viewers will only incidentally recognise that it involves a historical era from the elements in the second plane and the specific determination of the year in which it takes place comes only about halfway through the film in the form of posters for the upcoming Olympics. In the same manner, the romance in the film not only avoids the gender formulas that are otherwise glorified and hypertrophied in anime, but is completely devoid of any affectation and even artificial chastity. Conversely, the central couple’s relationship is wonderfully deep and dramatic, even without an overabundance of words. Like everything else in the film’s narrative, this relationship simply unfolds in subtle and very slowly developing demonstrations. If the director’s previous Tales from Earthsea was burdened by the immense excess of the plot and the vastness of the world and its mythology, then From Up on Poppy Hill is its exact antithesis – a story that would elsewhere serve for a single episode of a series is given all of the space it needs to calmly develop. The plot twists take the form of calmly stated and equably accepted messages and the dramatic development does not take the form of a steep sine curve, but rather resembles ripples on a calm sea. Using these methods, a retro film was created that absorbs the viewer with its captivating atmosphere of old carefree times without ever sliding into melancholy.

When Marnie Was There, the last film that we will see for a long time from the the legendary Studio Ghibli, which is undergoing a complete transformation following the retirement of its founders, was conceived as a watershed project. As the first film in the studio’s history without any creative input from Miyazaki or Takahata, it is entirely the project of younger creators, including the production crew (led by Yoshiaki Nishimura, who managed the production of The Tale of the Princess Kaguya). Unfortunately, however, the result was also the first Ghibli production in many decades not to top the annual box-office rankings – with revenues of 3.6 billion yen, though more than Takahata’s Princess Kaguya, it earned the least of any classically animated Ghibli film of recent years. This is not Studio Ghibli’s first title targeted at adolescents, so it is possible to speculate that the reason for its weak commercial performance was probably the widely publicised retirement of Miyazaki and viewers’ perception that a guarantor of quality was leaving the established brand. However, such concerns immediately dissipate upon watching the film. In terms of the quality of the animation and the screenplay, When Marnie Was There fits right in with the company’s portfolio, though, unlike Hayao Miyazaki’s classics, it does not contain as many fantastical elements, but instead focuses more directly on the psychology of the characters. And that is the substance of its distinctiveness and exceptionalism. After the inconsistent, though still excellent, Arrietty, Hiromasa Yonebayashi demonstrated his own style and voice in the context of the Ghibli brand. In this case, he has made an enchantingly delicate film about growing up and finding one’s own identity and the personal harmony connected with it. He captivatingly draws viewers into the inner world of his characters, transforming classic issues of adolescence into a densely symbolist narrative that radiates grand emotions even though it takes place in the serenity of a summer holiday in the countryside.

T.I.M is an excellent film for children that doesn’t underestimate its audience. Rather, it fleshes out a seemingly predictable premise into an unusually complex film about the difficulty of saying goodbye, the inability to come to terms with the departure of a loved one and the desperate attempt to hold on tooth and nail at all costs. In addition to that, the film is enchanting due to its distinctive retro-futuristic stylisation, which evokes the long gone era of the early days of personal computers.

Fiddlesticks is a brilliant film for young children that takes their perspective and, at the same time, offers a narrative that can even enchant adults. The overall logic of the shenanigans and boisterousness takes a fresh approach to the central parable about a society that is engulfed in consumerism and is unable to care for the older generation.

This entertaining Korean action B-movie in the style of Crank and early movies from WWE Films captivates with its imaginative action sequences combining contact choreography and post-production CGI. The story of an MMA champion who unwillingly becomes a pawn in a game of bored millionaires is told with healthy exaggeration spiked with humour while offering a wild adrenaline-fuelled spectacle.

As Japanese cinema continues to further disregard the differences between cinema and television, Takashi Miike’s new film is only the first instalment of a film series based on a popular comic-book series. This means that after two hours, viewers get an obtrusive trailer for the second episode instead of a denouement. The film offers an unhinged, hyper-stylised mirror of contemporary Japanese society and the crisis of values of the younger generation. Characteristically of the target audience’s apathy and short attention span, however, it periodically veers away from its foundational elements into the realm of phantasmagorical farce.

Extraordinary Tales is a collection of animated adaptations of stories by Edgar Allan Poe, each rendered in a different style – the result, however, is nothing more than a demonstration of techniques and styles, where the form is in no way aligned with the story, so the result is merely a shallow exhibition intended for festivals.

This computer-animated feature film follows Francisco Ibáñez’s hugely popular Spanish comic-book series Mortadelo y Filemón, which is relatively well known among a generation of Czech readers thanks to the German editions titled Clever & Smart, which made its way here at the beginning of the 1990s. Like the comic books on which it is based, the film’s humour is packed with double entendres, sexism, vulgarity and coarse slapstick. If I had seen it twenty years ago, I would have been thrilled, but today it is rather only a barometer of how much one grows out of certain things and a reminder that some favourite things from childhood are no longer enjoyable in adulthood.