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The new series takes place at the turn of 1928 and 1929. A lot has changed. The main romance doesn't have as much of a spark anymore, although Plánková and Koleník still have a lot to offer. They are replaced by Vyorálek and Boková. Logically, the main theme is progress, and the two daughters of the Valenti family, the doctor and the chauffeur, are interesting. With the Škvors, it's also nice to see emancipation (Arichteva) and elegance (Studenková) moving forward. Emphasis is placed on the legacy of the legions and the complex relations with Germany. The army has luster and traditional values still mean something. Yes, the sets, costumes, and make-up are again very loosely inspired by the real Republic. This series is a beautiful example of how that time period is viewed today and as such will only be appreciated years later. This is not a meticulous documentary, but a fictional recollection of an era we would like to remember. And that comes at a price. With or without a believable crime story.

Of the 7 episodes of the new series, the choice of authors is again worth noting, especially the idea of linking the first two stories according to Petiška. Things are a bit worse with the paraphrase of Divá Bára / Divná Bára. Zábrana and Hrabal are very interesting miniatures with an excellent atmosphere. However, the whole did not go far beyond the much more mature Slovak cycle Nesmrteľní (2010), which approached the classic stories with both more courage and respect. Czechs still have a lot to learn.

Of the 15 episodes of the first cycle, only a few are worth taking note of. Hrdina, for example, is a beautiful little drama set in the environment of homeless people, with a great cast including Taclík and Issová. Diamantová svatba is magically nostalgic. Přirozený talent is better than many similarly conceived feature films with the scheming Langmaier. In S jedním uchem na veselo, we encounter a clever reflection on the four leaf clover phenomenon. No one could help but fall in love with Marika Procházková in Májová romance doktora Mráze. Dobrodružství is a great genre surprise by Czech standards. The title song "Škoda lásky" is the best thing Karel Gott and Karel Šíp have ever made. And finally, Manželka gave Linda Rybová one of the best opportunities of her adult career.

This wouldn't even pass as a small TV film, and yet it's being sold as a feature film. Where there is nothing, there is not much to talk about. Theoretically, it has a decent group of actors, but none of them have anything to do. Xindl, Jícha, Míka and Cieslar signed on to something that anyone in their right mind would have rejected. But at the same time, they did nothing to at least make it interesting.

The 55th feature-length Disney Polynesian Odyssey with a female protagonist? This is obviously a very good idea for a Disney movie. I didn't really believe it at first, but those classic attributes need to be updated all the time and if this trend has been going on since Ariel, there's no reason Moana/Vaiana shouldn't work. She too is a teenager without fear or reproach, she too has a pair of favorite animal friends, and she too is braver than many of the adults around her. She is agile, has a pure heart, and the most beautiful eyes. And, of course, she loves her grandmother. This makes her a good role model for little kids. As a result, it's another film that has a chance to be domesticated.

A nice operetta theme that was liked across the Czech Republic. The pace of the film adaptation is to be appreciated, the theatrical premiere directed by Oldřich Nový was in December 1933, and the film premiered in January 1935. The ambitions were great, but the colorful final scene was dropped and we will never see the true color of those lilac roses. However, there are some really good ideas in the B&W, especially Pešek's etudes on the pink balcony, Nedošinská's classic transformation is charming, and by far the best is the spicy Maria Tauberová, a real operetta diva of those years.

Stelibsky's classic operetta "Nám je hej" in its film transcription offers the pure essence of popular Czech cinema of the second half of the 1930s. The main comedians are Plachta and Pešek, with Marvan (the father) and Nezval (the son) as competing lovers. The love object is none other than the charming owner of the photographic factory Hana Vítová. The films include, of course, Pištěk, Trégl or Kreuzmann, as well as my loves Marie Červená and Marie Norrová. So what's the hitch? Perhaps only the fact that the sympathies directed towards the Czechoslovak Army somewhat obscure the fact that it is an operetta and music is really scarce in it.

If we were to situate Joseph Lanner (1801-1843) on the timeline of the development of Viennese operetta, we would find him in the era of the founders of the Viennese waltz, together with Johann Strauss, the father. And, of course, in the place of great inspiration of the king of Viennese operetta, Johann Strauss' son. While Lanner himself did not live to see the creation of the Viennese operetta, his melodies have become an integral part of this cultural heritage. It was only retrospectively that his work was made into the independent operetta "Alt-Wien" (1911). The complex mirroring of the Czech and Austrian film versions of In the Little House Below Emausy cannot be analyzed satisfactorily, since we only have the Czech version. Its character is described by the film's caption "from ancient times." In retrospect, it may seem that it was a mistake to cast as the main lovers the not-very-experienced Mandlová and Novotný, but the coloring of the other characters played by Pištěk, Hart, or Nováková ideally complements the photogenic nature of the young people and the whole straightforward story of the failed Pygmalion experiment. The setting of the inn and the contrasting castle salons together create a subconsciously familiar environment of memorable stories from old Austria, and if the postman's tune is still heard among the main melodies, there is no reason not to be lulled into happy dreaming.

A thoroughly entertaining operetta, apparently dehumanized by the alleged ravages of time. Yes, Czech film operettas are a completely different experience than other contemporary productions, but understanding that this is not a serious work should not be such a problem. The story of a trio of couples whose love affair culminates over the holiday of St. Anthony is, in its abstract form, the typical stuff of light musical entertainment theater since at least the mid-19th century. The contrasting encounters between modern people (here a Czech-American and a journalist) and the distinctive figures of Slovácko are successful caricatures on both sides. Those proclaimed painted nails of Ljuba Hermanová are not so dramatic, considering that this is a B&W film and there is no detail on her hand in the entire film. The fact that she functions as the female mayor of an entire village (and referee in matters of love) deserves much more attention. The parody of big-city journalist Franta Paul is something that today's media studios would love to play with. Dohnal and Pospíšil are a classic pair of passionate youths. Dohnal is a charming young comedian who prefers coffee above all else, and Pospíšil's fresh voice gives this film a really strong relationship with its original musical score by Jára Beneš. The operetta diva Alena Frimlová, who makes her debut in the film, also represents an ideal link between the original theatrical form and the film adaptation; in addition to her great voice, she also looks great and caricatures her Czech-American character so well that all others must be compared with her version. And Hana Vítová is classically pleasant. It should be added that while the style of operettas in Czech film had been determined mainly by Piskáček, the arrival of Beneš and later Stelibský turned this genre into something excellent.

Czech film had no experience with contemporary operettas by Oscar Strauss. It is therefore very easy to misunderstand this great narrative film. Czech film of the 1930s had a hard time finding its relationship to operetta; the original film operetta was written by Piskáček and the most popular pieces were the ones that were the most human. It was therefore natural for someone who had always felt cosmopolitan to turn to the latest international piece, which premiered in Berlin in the autumn of 1932. And indeed, within two years, two simultaneous language versions of A Woman Who Knows What She Wants were released. Binovec cast one of his many delicate discoveries, Markéta Krausová, in the lead role. We can only regret that she preferred the theater, as this way, we are left with only a fraction of her art in cinema.