Isherwood

There is no doubt about the fact that the realization possibilities of a Hollywood blockbuster are at their peak. An expertly crafted ride that has no time to hesitate or fumble. But it lacked emotionally for me more than I was willing to admit at first. The anticipation of Thanos' uncompromising body count disappears at the snap of a finger, and where others had tears rolling down their faces, I just sat nervously. In that spectacular wringer of emotions, I actually enjoyed one very unexpected emotion when the two grown men just chat on the way to the car. The rest passed me by. Kevin Feige will be taught about someday. Hats off to him.

"Ha ha ha." (Vincent V., 14 months)

The first episode is from a genre textbook. A 30-year-old murder, unclear children's imagination, and divine work with sounds and camera, which maximally exploits the atmosphere of a burned-down village, entice the viewer to the fullest. However, when the second episode starts to overtly omit certain motifs and characters, you don't have to be very sharp to realize who left the murdered child in half. From the moment with the photo album, it becomes pure "lazy writing," when everything breaks apart in the most banal way, and despite the undoubtedly impressive final monologue in the forest, it is simply a failure of several creative elements. Actually, given the development of some characters, it seems to me more interesting that the murderer's identity could have remained forever hidden.

The Black Priestess Germania floats through space and time and is invoked by six worshippers. This isn't a music video anymore, it's a 10-minute load that's worth 2 full-length feature films. The visual stylization of historical futility was last seen in A Field in England, saddled by a technocratic Jägermeister, and it has the spiritual charge of the song "This is America." Yes, it's a pure provocation, but that was accompanying Rammstein even when they didn't have grey hairs peeking out of their thinning hair. The moment of defiance across history is editing perfection that pursues emotion with the urgency of a wolf.

I suppose a few critics will knock it down and talk condescendingly about its (in)qualities, while not forgetting to lean on the underlying ideas. However, I especially appreciate the clean-cut across audience preferences that promise to entertain everyone regardless of who they are. I have to finish watching it just to see if Prušinovský and Kolečko will keep the balance, or if someone will write angry denunciations against the biased dramaturgists. The first episode is a 10/10, and this is a once-in-two-decade event in the Czech Republic.

Halfway through the series, I found myself itching to go on Wikipedia but also making sure not to read all the info about this case, which just drips with bizarreness. I lasted until the end and then marveled at the fact that Ben Stiller had sanded down the edges a bit, especially in terms of the nature of the main duo. They are not laughing con men, but a couple of assholes who you may like for their casting, but in your deep righteous core you don't really want them to escape. It could have been made into a two-hour film with the same message, but then we would have been deprived of a precise directorial ride, with Stiller accurately guiding his characters and a soundtrack that works with a mood that goes against audience expectations and genre clichés. It's slow and you know how it's going to turn out, but I haven't experienced this weekly torture of eagerly pacing in front of the TV waiting for the "play" button to be active on the streaming service in years. There is a lot hiding behind the seemingly plain and grey façade of the prison - a systemic indictment, broken family ties, and the incredible engine of desire for freedom. You can take as much as you like from it. It won't be a perennial in the future, lacking more audience highlights and a bigger push for gold-plated awards, but the overwhelming feeling of a creative job well done will stay with me for a long time.

After watching it, I have more questions than answers, but as an accelerated exploration of the rise of a young fascist, it's very enlightening. I noticeably miss the thought drivers and motivation to bully dozens of like-minded guys, but looking back on history offers parallels that fill in many of the gaps. I suspect a mischievous directorial intent, but the final visit to the hairdresser and the speech in the square are out of this world. Recognition is confirmed by seven raised right hands out of ten.

Singer mechanically cycles through human dramas, studies, and live performances that in parts are brimming with energy, oozing from all sides - from the excellent actors, through the camera and editing, to the last precisely-aimed spotlight. Otherwise, the 130 minutes slip by like a missed chance to go beyond the edge of a slick biopic that suits the screen. But the fact that the audience, regardless of age and musical taste, sits down to watch it in droves means above all that the effort to please absolutely everyone has succeeded perfectly. However, if it wasn’t for the brilliant music (and I say this as someone who is not that fond of it), it's a seasonal dud. Fortunately, it's about the music, and I won't hide the fact that it moved me.

When you've been on maternity leave longer than the biological clock approves, that shrunken world of baby diapers, dirty clothes, and runny noses may need to be stretched beyond the edge where good morals brush up against the paragraphs of the law. It’s a teasing probe into the loving embrace of all-powerful mothers, whose world we may not seem to understand, but in many ways we share with them. I wouldn't be fooled by the detective storyline, as even the less astute will soon figure out who deserves to die. Yet the gradual path to the inevitable end is interwoven with a fascinating web of seeming banalities, conversations eavesdropped on from life that form a fascinating whole. Vallée is an editing master, and all he has to do is look away for half a second at the right moment and he leads the viewer as if on a string. Perhaps this is girl power in a way we may not want to see it and yet we absolutely must. I’m looking forward to the next season.

A fascinating live broadcast in an exhausted format, where you can see that even John Oliver is just skillfully gliding over tabloid topics, except here his ego wins, and although I don't deny Jindřich Šídlo's unique ability to commentate, the need to have a powerful dramaturgist helping him is glaringly obvious. The Prague-centrism is so "over the top" that I wonder if it's intentional. After that massive cleanup on the Stream, when Šídlo was left alone with Jánek Rubeš, the absence of a more capable creative background is too striking. I only watch sporadically now, and it always frustrates me more and more.