novoten

A step better than the arbitrarily interwoven first part, but it doesn't reach a higher rating even after having thought about it for a longer time. I admire Frank Miller for Sin City, 300, and even for the heavily criticized Holy Terror, but his trips to Gotham didn't speak to me. The original suffers from a strange perspective on legendary female characters (the contrast between the appearance of Batman or the Joker and Lana Lang or Selina feels disturbingly aggressive) and the adaptation refuses to update the now-questionable period realities like Soviet enemies or the falsely cheerful President Reagan. And while the unnecessarily sharpened perspective on Superman doesn't suit me either, paradoxically, it's the only place that deserves to be stretched out rather than shortened in the film adaptation, so I have to stay in the average rating. Because in my mind, there remains only Kal-El's battle with a chemical reaction and a sufficiently intense (although clumsily edited at the end) fight with the Joker. It's almost not enough in the end, but I've gotten used to that with works bearing Jay Oliva's signature.

It is incomprehensible to me that while all the unmistakably Batman-style stories that were later adapted into animated adaptations (Batman: Hush, Batman: Gotham by Gaslight) are modified, shortened, and even have the endings changed, Frank Miller's ticket to the comic book elite is instead rewritten in a servile and almost laughable way. It does have a sufficiently dark titular hero and a perfect storyline with Dent, but very often it tells the story through reporters on the TV screen, which repeatedly threw me off pace in the source material and unfortunately doesn't make sense in the film adaptation either.

I was expecting a musical about how a musical is made, and I got the epitaph of a hurried man. I didn't catch Bob Fosse either with Cabaret and Lenny, so his multi-genre farewell caught me quite unprepared. It is not really a musical film in the true sense of the word, perhaps not even a drama, romance, or family film. It's actually a combination of everything intentionally wrapped in a knot of depression with extra points for editing that was ahead of its time. With such a subject, the whole experience could be melancholic, nostalgic, and maybe even tearful, if there was time for it. From beginning to end, there is constant strain in rehearsals and in the private lives, to the point that your T-shirt is soaked through with the burden of the somber themes. There are countless knives in the back from the screenplay, but that torn look of Roy Scheider, a man with big ones who knows how many times (and believe me, many times) he has failed, is deeply ingrained in me forever.

A sad and unwelcome moment when one of the best directors puts a group of people I love (Matthew McConaughey, Colin Farrell, Charlie Hunnam) or even adore (Hugh Grant, Michelle Dockery) in front of the camera and creates a new contribution to one of the most beloved genres, and the public reacts more than positively – and I end up sadly shaking my head at the result. The form, the pacing, it's all there. But sticking to drugs, poses, and dialog competitions about who can pee further after the age of fifty seems at least unfortunate to me, in some twists even stagnant. In the details, it's still the same Guy Ritchie from Snatch, but on the whole, for the first time ever, nope.

A chatty and intimate walk through favorite world cuisines, where the likable He and the unattainably beautiful She get to know each other, eat, talk, eat again, walk, indulge, and constantly contemplate whether it could work between them. The first half, where basic facts about the characters almost effortlessly emerge and every fleeting touch is a big event, is perfectly inventive and engaging. The second half, where they stand in one place most of the time and think more about "why not" rather than "why yes," loses its charm and, despite the traditionally worn-out truths and Isabel Coixet's reflections, it becomes noticeably harder for me with the couple. In the end, a clean 70, rounded up for their intense chemistry.

Perhaps because the Pawnee Rangers annoy as many people as unconditionally love them, it cannot be described as anything other than essential. Such an achievement comes once in a television generation. Unlike other ensemble companions, it is not afraid of occasionally expanding or narrowing the main cast; on the contrary, thanks to such a change since the transition from the second to the third season, it becomes an inimitable gem out of a very pleasant spectacle. But from the very beginning (from the yes, in my case, disliked first season), it wins me over with one fundamental thing. Even though it initially seems impossible, there is no one extra in this office, no one extraneous, no one who bothers me, and yet surprisingly, at the same time no one outdoes any of the others. For a while, I like Andy the most, then Ben, then Ron, then Chris, and so on in a loop. Likewise, at the beginning, I thought there would be too many of Aziz Ansari's grimaces and affected expressions, but I soon looked forward to his next marketing idea or well-planned scheme. And those running gags (Ron's doors, Tom's smile, Leslie excessively pointing out Ann's "promiscuity", Ben's inability to understand local folk specifics), those unexpectedly emerging and returning supporting characters, I cheer joyfully at each of their cameos (Jean Ralphio, Mona Lisa, Tammy 2, Bobby Newport). Simply put, I don't know if I have ever been so disappointed that I missed catching a series while it was still airing. On the other hand, the feeling of having multiple seasons ahead and not being afraid of its cancellation every year also has its charm. I love my job, but I would head to this office immediately.

The aura of the last concert from The Beatles is indeed thrilling, but unfortunately, that's all there is to it. The Yoko Ono factor is present from the very beginning, as she intertwines herself into the band in her self-proclaimed role as the next band member – and this in itself ruins the experience for me. The same goes for shots of unsuspecting or downright laconic people on the street. I don't need to hear what Londoners in the late sixties thought of "this type of music". Besides, it's already over before the guys get into the right mood, so as a last live wave, it's sufficient only by virtue of its existence.

Season 1 – 80% – I was afraid this would be a series of dry, obvious situations about "a child screaming/crying/talking when it shouldn't". And that's exactly what the parents are like – but luckily only in the pilot episode. There are plenty of moments in there that naturally arise from the premise. The kids are alternately pitiable and annoying, the mom is indifferent, the dad is not, and he constantly shouts and swears at the kids. And then the later episodes come, with longer storylines, unexpected seriousness, honest dramatic moments, and twists, and from an average start this suddenly becomes a likable and seemingly recognizable piece of genre TV. Over time, Martin Freeman plays more and more himself instead of a bundle of nerves, which adds to his likability, and I can immediately empathize with the main character almost unconditionally. The only thing was maybe that his colleague Darren could stay at work next time and not get involved, because he ended up seeming like he was coming from a different series. Season 2 – 85% – Thanks to the modified dynamics, it's even more creative, (melo)dramatic, and simply better. The foundation remains more of the same, but perhaps due to more space for the parents of both main characters (especially Alun Armstrong as Jim), I enjoyed the second season even more. Just like before, it surprises with an unexpectedly forceful final seriousness, but as long as it also brings Freeman's brokenness and tearful smiles (his strongest acting role by far), there is nothing else to do but watch the events on the screen in fascination. Season 3 – 90% – Probably a mature show at its peak, funnier than ever before, and so dramatic that it can almost shake me when the right moment comes. This was a surprising staple of spring evenings that cannot continue indefinitely, and that's why it is more valuable in today's times, which force TV series to achieve their greatest triumphs right from the start. Besides, Freeman has never been better, which counts for even more when the viewer can't always support him, maybe even the opposite.

Season 1 – 85% – I hesitated to start watching this series from our western neighbors because when the plot comes from a German medical faculty, the viewer inevitably fears whether Nurse Stefanie is going to suddenly appear around the corner or if Der Bergdoktor is going to drop by. But Mia and her friends are so different that any comparison seems unfair. The plotline was inspired by various sources but also very precisely. In the end, it is a combination of Revenge and Veronica Mars with a slightly lighter shade of How to Get Away with Murder. Thanks to the restrained (sometimes almost insufficient) number of episodes and their short length, it is a bit of a bite-sized treat, but what can you do – the glowing mice are here and hopefully will stay. Season 2 – 60% – The time jump between seasons is a great storytelling trick, but combined with the amnesia of the main character, it feels quite stretched. During those months that Mia doesn't remember, things have happened that can really mess with your head with a twist at the end of each episode, but their explanations are often banal or even non-existent. Similarly, I can't wrap my head around why the roles (and to a certain extent, motivations) of both important boys in Mia's life changed without a clear reason. I'm really disappointed that such an ambitious piece of work gave up its positions almost immediately after it had the potential to become a small cult hit. Tension for the sake of tension, pleasant side characters – and nothing more the second time around.

Locked on the canvas. It cannot be explained, cannot be fully understood. It can only be interpreted, and that, combined with its increasing hypnotic effect, keeps me from being able to sleep. That's why I still don't know whether it's about death, reconciliation, violence, love, a woman's destiny, everything, or nothing. But because nobody else, perhaps only the authors themselves, knows for sure, I enjoy this uncertainty all the more. If it wasn't for the repetitive opening sentences that became tiresome, when I didn't know whether to laugh or grit my teeth, my rating would possibly be the highest possible.