Marigold

MH370 is a documentary that gives unnecessary space to people who don’t deserve it, because they are obvious attention whores and dubious manipulators. It’s nice that, after coming up with two utterly absurd hypotheses based on pure fabrications and technical inaccuracies, it allows the voices of sceptics to be heard, but there is a bit of twisted logic in letting the manipulators make stuff up and then have a few rational voices say that their speculations are contrary to the facts and aren’t even worth addressing. In fact, we learn nothing more than we would get from a single hour of the much more modest and better structured Air Crash Investigation. The voices of the actual investors, who were not involved in the documentary, are replaced by internet enthusiasts and experts who took part in this purely as a leisure activity. The documentary just repeats familiar revelations, complete with a series of annoying wild goose chases and muddled accusations about who is whose agent. Plus the emotional porn of devastated families who, in their desperate longing for answers, sometimes fall under the spell of people who know how to exploit the misfortune of others.

The uncompromising master of Norwegian deadpan at a clearance sale in small-town America. A film that is both rigid in its stylization and soft due to its underlying sentiment...an unfortunate case of a director stuck between realistic stylization and an effort at brutal black irony. From some of the compositions and lighting, the director of Kitchen Stories and Eggs is still recognizable, but it’s like a distant scream. This muddled story of a seeming simpleton who is forced to stare into the abyss until the abyss eventually begins to stare back at him is, unfortunately, one of the worst things that Hamer has done in his career.

The local clique of mostly Slovak homophobic (mentally antiseptic) buffoons did not disappoint. Let’s be nice to them; they don’t have an easy time of it in the world, and they feel their end is near. What bothers me more than Brokeback Mountain is that this episode occasionally falls into sterile romantic pathos. That Bill and Frank’s storyline has changed against the game and isn’t nearly as cruel, which I understand dramaturgically. The third episode wants to show a microcosm of the world in which humanity still resists the apocalypse and to thus create a contrast to the brilliant second episode. The ending is resolved superbly (because it works with the hint) and both of the lead actors are excellent. Despite that, I’m already looking forward to when attention is turned fully back to Joel and Ellie. By the way, The Walking Dead had already made these digression and I venture to say that it sometimes did it better!

An epic opening (which is repeated in the next episode of the  different and no less impressive Indonesian version), then an absorbing exercise in tension and decay live streamed, followed by a slightly torpid march through the post-apocalyptic world which, however, begins to make more sense in later episodes. It’s nice how everyone here talks disdainfully about Craig “Scary Movie” Mazin. Besides the bullshit, the guy is behind one of the best series of all time, and his touch becomes more and more apparent in later episodes. Bella Ramsey is a great choice, though she’s not as cute as the character in the original game, but she is edgier. I can’t wait to see how many fachidiots here fall for her “mongoloid” look. Pedro is incredible. For me, the biggest question is: can a narrative composed of well-known game missions and intimate episodes reminiscent of the Walking Dead’s best moments stand up? After three episodes, I'm cautiously optimistic that it can. P.S. Before the third episode, the homophobic section here should sound the alarm and have a collective masturbation mass to save white hetero civilization. That’ll hurt them!

History from a quarry pit. I regularly see better action in the promo videos of my competent fencing buddies. Foster is fine, but the character is so medievally random that I don’t know why I would identify with it at all.

A pleasant, cruel conversational movie about the fact that sometimes you can simply hate your neighbour for no apparent reason. There isn’t anything especially deep about it; it’s just a pleasantly thick stout with white foam in the form of a great central duo and a setting that’s as hearty as its inhabitants.

Big blue...I know what. Bale is lethargic, Melling plays Poe as if he’s had polio, and it doesn’t help that he looks identical to the master’s iconic likeness. Scott Cooper wrote a florid but hopelessly executed fusion of serious drama and corny horror story involving murders, which under his stiff direction also occasionally seems like a production staged by a university drama club. The would-be melancholic philosophising about the poet’s fate and the half-hearted references to Poe’s work aren’t exactly great either. I was really in the mood for this film, but after a while I found myself cursing and beating my beak against the window of my own nevermore.

Another shallow satirical slurry built on prefabricated procedures and assiduous masking of fast-food ideas with a conceptual masquerade. It’s neither insightful, nor funny, nor shocking. It’s nothing. They invite you in for a refined dining experience and serve you something that looks fancy but tastes like a burger from the drive-through window. No compliments to the chef.

Östlund's sell-out with one luxurious fecal scene and a lot of populism that doesn’t offend anyone at all. In this respect, the Swedish merchant of cheap satire is the best in the world. As a filmmaker, however, he is obviously past his prime. Press play and summon Force Majeure.

Frost/Nixon was no accident. When the formula (not Formula) suits Howard, he is able to evoke extraordinary emotion and, in this case and by his standards, pull dry-eyed out realism out of that formula. Strangely, he doesn’t violate the real story, which was brilliantly handled in the documentary The Rescue; on the contrary, he brings his film into harmony with it by likably incorporating the metaphysics of folk superstitions and the glorification of heroes whose partial autism becomes their greatest strength at a certain point. I found the motif of loneliness and isolation to be touching. In the end, the deepest cavern is Rick Stanton, played phenomenally by Viggo Mortensen. Give that man an Oscar already!