Marigold

A classic local shapeless mess, which squints at "rougher paragons" (I would call it a Czech attempt to create a black comedy drama like Terribly Happy), but then it dissolves into inconsistent templates. Here we find typical techniques from the bad comedy (Sokol's hero, his self-deprecating and self-pitying humor), certain signs of reflection on family crisis and alienation (Finger's cold declamation), an extravagant thriller (mechanical smearing of various glaring signs on familiar acting faces - gay, undertaker and assassin Roden), a clever effort to create an absurd fateful chaining of events (the dog in the car)... instead of a dense, cynical and exciting spectacle, but The Lake is more reminiscent of ambitiously framed scenes from ribbons, which last an unreasonably long time, are cheesy and without a good point. A typical goulash from the local film station, sparse, full of flavorings and boiled ambitions. In addition, it disguises its dramaturgical helplessness as "genre openness", the impotence of which is best reflected in the indecisive soundtrack by Jan P. Muchow, who languidly irons possible emotional organs into an indifferent badge (the music cannot be described as instructive because it leads nowhere). One then notices a thoughtless series that reveals how persistently the individual situations are mashed together so that the screenwriters can get them to some sort of point. However, it smells of typical post-revolutionary exploitation, which stems from pure clumsiness rather than thoughtfulness / foresight. [40%]

It’s not great, but this parade of nonsense and DIY mediocrity is quite likable, if you consider it a crackling B-movie about a guy who now has his own lightweight parody.

I guess I don't like movies where Leo is very rich and indulgent. The fact is that except for a few jokes in the style of The Hangover, it all seemed to me like an opulent cocaine carnival, hiding quite a relevant (and fortunately very subdued) parable about the pernicious appeal of selling pens and a glaring paradox of sweaty balls in the subway, circumscribed elegantly in the last minutes. I appreciate that Scorsese accepts the player's perspective (and not the critique of the system) and does not push the viewer to disgust - Belfort is, of course, a repulsively attractive mediator of the world of speculation. However, the metaphors of the brokerage community as a prehistoric tribe / sect are unnecessarily obvious (although the extravaganza is nice to look at). Also remarkable is the obvious "immorality" of the film, which actually calmly claims that a similar lifestyle is cool in a way - and Scorsese is, of course, right. If he wasn't, the Wolf would have nothing to eat. The best thing about the film in this regard is about 5 minutes, which the brokerage shaman McConaughey hums to a hypnotic rhythm. I have nothing to criticize it for at its core - it plays back the worn out notes confidently and without mistakes, it just didn't speak to me at all with its frenetic cadence. It’s the similar problem of "numbness of sarcasm" that I had with Gavras' more engaged film Capital. At least The Wolf of Wall Street brazenly says, with a smirk, what we all know about the speculative nature of capitalism, admittedly unreliably and without unnecessary rhetorical phrases. And it doesn't burden you with unnecessarily complicated details at all. Why would it, when another reduction is waiting around the corner? But the film still takes 3 hours, in which I did not find enough stimuli. Of course, except for the cocaine, prostitutes, and those damn deceleration pills...

I was afraid of self-poignant historical frescoes about a cohesive black community and ugly southern slaveholders, but I got a surprisingly bright and complex story of a man who will perhaps too quickly acquire a forced identity and live his 12 years not in chains, but in separation (from his family, but also from the "community" of Negro slaves). Like Tarantino a year ago, McQueen ticks off too-simple boxes and pleasing catharsis. Although the screenplay sometimes casts unnecessarily large words under his feet, but the narrative through images, the emphasis on ambiguous "looking" into the face of the protagonist and his companions, and the inner stratification of individual Lords keep him close to his central theme - lack of freedom, which is not the result of specific enslavement, but rather existence itself. In the end, we can come to the surprising discovery that more than anything, 12 Years a Slave is a film about the acceptance of someone else's identity and the traumatic loss of oneself. Hence the often mentioned passivity of the main character, which is in fact an essential part of his choice to survive even through the greatest compromises. More like Frantz Fanon than Steven Spielberg, the film is masterful and strong in the best moments, despite its imbalance. In the others, perhaps safely approaching conventions, it is still at least fascinating and worth thinking about. [85%]

Cyclo-fascist Levitt versus informer Shannon in Grand Theft Bike full of limits (time, space and unfortunately also narrative). The wheels fall off at the end, because humane Chinese oil from children doesn't work right now, but it's still enough to have some great fun. It is too bad that the initial euphoria will pass relatively quickly, leaving mainly the first-class ascents of Shannon and his psychopathic mental derailleurs.

Interrupted masturbation. There are basically two ways to read this metaphor. 1. Being pulled out from deep fascination with watching the volatile dialogue of an aging cultural man (Seligman) and an impulsive, animal woman (Joe), who describes to him her sexual maturation with an emphasis on earthiness, while he places details full of vaginal secretions in a network of parallels, archetypes and classical art procedures. 2. Interruption of Lars von Trier's directorial masturbation. The third sinner in a bizarre psychoanalytic session is undoubtedly the Danish enfant terrible, who exposes the meanings and his directing method to the viewer. Shia LaBeouf's penis is not the "most explicit" component of Nymphomaniac: Vol. I. The most explicit component is the way in which Trier consistently turns the challenging theme into the ancient genre of Bildungsroman, which, following the example of old texts, reveals in the introduction what the next chapter will be about, what the viewer will learn from it, and with what intention the narrator tells it. A quirk? Certainly. Does it work? Not always. Since there is no point in evaluating the fragments that Trier ingeniously assesses during the ENTIRE narrative. I will just stick to the fact that this public masturbation, which does not avoid excess, but at the same time has a sometimes surprisingly tame and cultured effect on Danish conditions, has my focused attention for the next two hours.

I will no longer cry over spilled milk, i.e., that the division into three films does not make sense (but it still doesn't). For the first few tens of minutes, a digital cup of part one spreads across the screen with a sunset / sunrise sprouted behind it. I remember with love the times when Middle-earth was more material and objective for me than the digital figures of orcs and the magnificent play of colors. Jackson stuffs wherever he can. I hope he grows antlers for the elven travesty show. Tauriel is beautiful and annoying, Legolas seems half a century older than in The Lord of the Rings and because he can't be the more casual athlete who actually likes dwarves, he pretends to be a shepherd whose flock of sheep has been sodomized (hello Znojmo) and his contribution lies in spiral choreographies (which is really annoying at the end). For me, the second film is divided by the scene with the barrels. The liquid action voyage is divine, and with the arrival of Bard and Esgaroth, I once again get the feeling that I want to be a part of The Hobbit and engage in it in some way other than just by staring at it. The conflict between the demonically blooming Thorin and the charismatic rioter Bard has an old nobility, and the disgusting sub-grave bourgeois mayor returns to The Hobbit a piece of overlap and humorous theater. Suddenly there is something to discover and something to be surprised and amused by ("why are dwarves crawling out of the toilets?"). The feeling that I was really looking forward to the three-leafed narrative lines intersecting in the grand action finale at the end gradually left me. Smaug is interrupted by a sad love-funeral episode with Kili, and I can't say that I would enjoy watching the stretched part of Kahan's melter in the Misty Mountain. In addition, the final triple cliffhanger is pretty cheap and ruined my assumption that the second film is better structured than the first. So, just like last time. This time even closer to four stars, but given those disappointed expectations... no. No way. Edit after the second watch: Ok, fine.

Garbage film model 2013. It moves away from the gray mundaneness and ground perspective, raises its eyes to the stars, takes place in a space that has a clear symbolic dimension (accentuated by compositions and the appearance of the pre-camera space), and is not afraid of cues and ambiguous episodes. It is simply more confident, but paradoxically trudges through same mud as its more provincial colleagues. The characters are equally unsympathetic, apathetic, painful and thesis-like. Intimacy, deeper empathy, the opportunity to engage (even if only) in banalities are lacking. Nicer packaging, just as disconcerted interior. In addition, some of the "social-gender-critical" jokes suffer from awkward humorous sketch syndrome. For the effort to see the spurious "life of misery" at least a little from a vantage point, and for the few shots that reveal a more consistent directing concept, I give Delight (which does not evoke delight even by the consistent absence of delight) a slightly above average grade. The only thing that really fascinates me is how all these "generational" statements pass me by. Ever since Loners. With regard to Delight, I can at least blame it on the fact that it takes place in a completely different reality, where in French films from the 1930s it is refocused in one shot and MOVIE THEATERS are given with fast dubbing. Haha.

I originally thought I was going to direct this accusation more at Gravity, but in the end it will fall in the middle of the ocean. This film lacks any added value. The situation is tense, and in terms of craft it more or less very decent (even captivating in places), Redford acts to his last breath, but if I don’t take into account the intense 106 minutes, filled with the sequence of my worst nightmares, then All is Lost is just a very superficial metaphor of loneliness and hope. The character of "our guy" (title label) is very approximate, and it's more about loving Redford's charisma, vitality and economical acting - “fuck" hasn't sounded this authentic on the big screen for a long time. The film consumes almost all the words during the introduction for a rather banal epitaph of the hero, whilst paradoxically the subsequent course does not tell us much about it. In no way does it lack an epic dimension, and the runtime flew right by. What was missing was something vertical (except for the emphasized vistas and camera ceilings). Maybe this is because the film can be read through Redford's personality mainly as the symbolic image of the withering "old America" (which did not impress me), and the challenge to endure to the last Amen, because there is a ray of hope even in absolute darkness. As sung in Alex Ebert's final song: "Old man, the word... raised on golden days, God love the USA". But there is simply something missing here that, with a bit of pathos, I call a universal, and, at the same time, a specific view of exposed humanity, the opportunity to identify not only with the situation, but also with the protagonist. It is powerful, but only when it is happening. Looking back, it slowly but surely disappears like a sailboat with too fragile a hull. [70%]

It comes slowly and creepily sadly with the detective, who is trapped in a wheelchair with his gray cells. After about an hour, waiting for sentiment and tears, the biggest twist in 25 years and one of Suchet's best acting etudes (shots in the dark) will come. Nordic whispered colors, a perfect touch for framing, an excellent villain - simply amounting to precisely dealt cards. This is not a safe episode for the older generation, but rather a moral dilemma overcoming Philip Martin's famous Orient Express. The great "broken" composition of the second half hides THE little sentiment in a cute cup at the last possible moment, when the curtain almost touches the stage. They were good days. They have been good days. Until the end. It is an intoxicating feeling when an aged companion leaves life with dignity, without self-pity, and at the same time leaves you feeling that you did not know him as much as you thought until the last moment. [90%]