Matty

Bumblebee is something like E.T., but with a transformer instead of an extraterrestrial: an outsider without a father or friends finds a kindred “spirit” in a visitor from outer space. The whole film is set in the American suburbs in the 1980s, which, in addition to numerous hit songs of that decade, also involves watching Alf on television and a reference to The Breakfast Club. Like the early films from Amblin, it works flawlessly, without slowing down and without a scene that would sooner or later fail to find its justification in the overall structure of the narrative. Though Travis Knight does not offer such uncluttered and spectacular 3D action scenes as Bay, he dedicates much more time and space to the characters, whose actions have comprehensible motivations and are easy to connect with on an emotional level (yes, that includes Bumblebee). The film very skillfully avoids having the protagonist resolve all of her problems (low self-confidence, no friends, longing for her father) by means of getting a car. Thanks to the adventure experienced, she finds the necessary resources within herself. In the “blockbuster for the whole family” category, there is not much to complain about in this film. A very pleasant surprise. 80%

Jake Hannaford, a passionate hunter of Irish descent, as well as a chauvinist and racist, is not so much an alter ego of Welles as he is of John Huston. The Other Side of the Wind captures the last days of classic Hollywood, or rather the decline of the world represented by macho Huston-type patriarchs. Because of her indigenous origins, Hannaford sees the lead actress of his film as an exotic exhibit and mockingly calls her “Pocahontas”. The actress initially reacts with hateful looks and later vents her frustration by shooting at figurines. Hannaford’s publicist, based on film critic Pauline Kael (who couldn’t stand Welles), is not reluctant to engage in open verbal confrontation with the director when she repeatedly points out the macho posturing that he hides behind. The women defend themselves and the men are not happy about it. ___ By giving the female characters more space and enabling them to give expression to their sexuality, Welles comes to term not only with Hollywood, but also with his own legacy. Like late-period John Ford, whom Welles greatly admired, he critically reassesses the themes of his earlier films. At the same time, however, doubts arise as to whether the way in which Oja Kodar’s character is presented in Hannaford’s film (sexually aggressive, captivating an inexperienced male protagonist) also says something about Welles. ___ Hannaford's unfinished magnum opus is clearly a parody of the works of American filmmakers who during the New Hollywood era responded diligently to European works by shooting pretentious and incoherent would-be art films packed with eroticism and conspicuous symbolism. More or less naked, beautiful and young actors wordlessly wander around each other in dreamlike interiors and exteriors. It doesn’t seem to matter that the characters don’t follow the sequences of Hannaford’s film in the right order (if anyone actually has any idea what the order is supposed to be). As Welles divulged in an interview, he shot the film with a mask on, as if he wasn’t himself. Therefore, why should we associate with him what Hannaford’s work says about women and female sexuality? ___ The parodic imitative style, which was not peculiar to Welles, was due also to the raw, intentionally imperfect hand-held shots from a party, reminiscent of the then fashionable cinema-verité. Completed long after Welles’s death, the film is basically a combination of two styles that Welles would not have employed. The question of who Jake Hannaford was (like the question of who Charles Foster Kane was in Citizen Kane) is less relevant in this context than the question of who the creator is and who is imitating whom, which Welles quite urgently asks in the mockumentary F for Fake, which, with its fragmentary style, has the most in common with The Other Side of the Wind. ___ For example, Peter Bogdanovich, who was considered to be an imitator of Welles in the 1970s, plays Hannaford’s most diligent plagiarist in the film. The defining of his character through imitation of someone else, however, is done ad absurdum, when he occasionally begins to imitate James Cagney or John Wayne in interviews with journalists. Though Welles incorporates media images of influential figures into his film, he also ridicules them as improbable and untruthful. All of these contradictions could be part of an effort to offer, instead of the retelling of one person’s life story, an expression of doubtfulness about the ability to recognise who someone really is. ___ Though, thanks to Netflix, Welles’s film can theoretically be seen by far more viewers than would have been possible at the time of its creation, the manner of its presentation by the streaming company recalls a moment from Hannaford’s party, when the producer lays down reels of film and says to those interested in a screening, “Here it is if anybody wants to see it”. Netflix helped to finish the film and raised its cultural capital by presenting it at a prestigious festival, and then more or less abandoned it, as if cinephiles who love more demanding older films were not a sufficiently attractive audience segment. ___ With Welles’s involvement, the film, which was completed 48 years after it was started, would have perhaps been more coherent, had a more balanced rhythm and conveyed a less ambiguous message. At the same time, however, all of its imperfections draw our attention to its compilation-like nature, or rather the convoluted circumstances of its creation – we think about who is in charge of the work, who created it (perhaps Jake Hannaford, whose “Cut!” is heard after the closing credits) and what it says about him, which was probably Welles’s intention. The Other Side of the Wind is a good promise of a great film. 80%

This neo-noir mashup will most probably anger even more people than The Image Book (because more moviegoers will go to the cinema to see it because of Garfield). Rather than creating something original, both films are based on recontextualising earlier media content and seeking hidden meanings in pop culture, which represents the basic frame of reference in Under the Silver Lake. Everything refers to something that someone else invented in the past. There are no originals, only copies and rewrites. Therefore, the story has to be set in Los Angeles, a city that has played a role in so many films that it has become a remake of itself. Mitchell’s third film holds together thanks to its absorbing atmosphere at the boundary between Vertigo and Chinatown and its pseudo-detective plot. It unfolds in such absurd, totally Lynchian mindfuck ways that instead of providing satisfaction from the uncovering of new contexts, it brings only gradually deepened frustration. Both for us and for the main protagonist, a paranoid slacker like from a nineties indie film, it almost involves two and a half hours of a delayed climax (the only satisfying interaction takes place during the prologue). Throughout its runtime, it is also immensely entertaining, while being a deferential and cunning pastiche of classic and post-classic noir films (and the music from such films), most of whose “shortcomings” can be interpreted as conscious and ironic work with certain conventions and stereotypes. For example, we can understand the reduction of the female characters to more or less passive objects as a critique of the “male gaze”, as that is precisely how the mentally immature protagonist, whose perspective the film thoroughly adheres to throughout, perceives women based on their media representation in films by Hitchcock and others. Under the Silver Lake is an ambivalent postmodern work which, thanks to its lack of a centre and its solid structure, succeeds in expressing the confusion of young people who try in vain to find some sort of higher meaning in all of the stories obscuring their view of reality. For me, it was one of the most entertaining movies of the year, but there is roughly equal probability that you will hate it with all your heart. 85%

Chained for Life is a film about making a film, a contemporary arthouse horror movie with physically disabled characters (the title refers to the exploitation film Chained for Life from 1952). In addition to “normal” actors, the filmmakers decide to cast actors with the required physical disabilities. The lead actress becomes friends with the man with a deformed face who plays her lover. However, it is not clear whether her feelings are authentic or if she is only pretending in order to make herself look like a better person. We can ask the same question about the other actors. The boundary between the story in front of the camera and the story behind the camera gradually becomes blurred, the transitions between filming and being filmed become less and less obvious. Through adroitly directed, long, fragmented shots using self-reflexive drama (with elements of horror satire), the film endeavours to truly capture the experience of disfigured artists (the director himself has a deformed face). It does not attempt to portray them in an overly positive light according to the usual narrative formula of a monster with a good heart, thanks to which the beautiful lady realises in what the true value of a person consists. All characters have physical or character defects and it is not possible to anticipate how they will behave toward each other. In this way, the film beneficially and inspirationally deconstructs certain stereotypes associated with how someone looks and reflects the extent to which our perception of people who are physically different is influenced by their established media representation. 75%

Depicting three phases of one relationship in an account of the life of contemporary cosmopolitan youth, Alguma Coisa Assim is a fresh and brisk drama that, with its non-traditional collage-like structure (combining events from three different years) and unforced work with parallels, shows how different situations are repeated in two people’s life together and, at the same time, change over time as both partners get to know each other better and have differing expectations of each other. It is a pity that the film is diminished by ornaments and techniques intended to make it special (slow motion, 360-degree camera rotation, machine-like symmetrical compositions), which draw attention away from the informal acting performances and the dialogue that equally takes into account the perspective of both the man and the woman and addresses, through individual stories, the more general problems of human sexuality (to which the professional focus of the partner involved in the research of infertility treatments is also tailored). The fact that the film was actually shot in three different time periods (2006, 2013, 2016) with the same actors portraying the characters is worthy of attention and, as in Boyhood and the Doinel tetralogy, gives it a para-documentary dimension and the transformation of the characters is thus more believable. Despite a certain unevenness, Alguma Coisa Assim is, on the whole, a narratively original work and in addressing the problems that people deal with in relationships over time, it is a relatively accurate millennial relationship film. 75%

The new Halloween may not be as scary as the original from 1978 or as entertaining as H20, but it is still stimulating and self-aware enough to not be an unnecessary sequel. It can be seen as, for example, a morbidly humorous argument with films and (documentary) series that attempt to understand evil (e.g. with the aid of psychology). Laurie Strode knows that sometimes it is better not to ask too much – as done by other characters attempting to encourage Myers (by whom they are as similarly unhealthily fascinated as some horror fans) to express himself (which they mostly accomplish, but not in the way they would have imagined) – but instead to simply pick up a kitchen knife or shotgun. Based on more than just Laurie’s example, Green’s three-generation horror film shows how in the past forty years women have learned to more effectively protect themselves against danger and to cast off their assigned roles (in addition to costume gender swapping at a Halloween party, an inverted variation of a famous scene from the first Halloween appears). Despite that, they still have to face mistrust and the suspicion that they are deranged hysterics, in which the film is very much in step with the times. The film’s direction is above reproach and the music by the father-and-son team John and Cody Carpenter is blood-chilling. When cult films are brought back to life, this is how it should be done. 85%

When you accept from the beginning that Mike Flanagan (see also the excellent Oculus) is using a horror framework for the purpose of relating a suspenseful narrative about dealing with family traumas, finding trust (the story of a woman who no one believes repeatedly falls victim to attacks, which is very up to date), overcoming fear and the search for a home (i.e. unlike in other horror films, family history does not serve only as pretext for the scares – it is the main subject; fear comes from outside), you can then enjoy this psychologically compelling drama with its layered narrative structure and smooth (visual and audio) transitions between the past and present, facts and imaginings, as well as “old school” scares, based on the intra-shot montages and disturbing movement in different parts of the picture. Though some scenes are shot in a rather run-of-the-mill manner (shot/counter-shot dialogue scenes) and the conclusion with a loosely formed metafiction level is somewhat negatively affected by excessive ambitions and runtime (each of the episodes, usually bound to the point of view of one of the main characters, has its purpose, but many of them could easily have been shorter), The Haunting is excellent overall in terms of acting and directing, and one of the most pleasant surprises of this year among series. The sixth episode, consisting of several multi-minute shots that are complex choreographically and in terms of meaning, ranks among the best that high-quality TV has to offer with respect to craftsmanship.

I am reluctant to use the word “complex”, which for me means a film that offers numerous opposing perspectives and ambivalent impressions, which is not the case in Greengrass’s factually concise docudramatic reconstruction, in which he constructs two relatively unambiguous ideological positions (similar to Bloody Sunday), which he pits against each other so that he can offer the intended political statement in the end (threats against Lippestad only bring shades of grey into the narrative, but they are not laid out in greater detail and can also be seen as a means of supporting the argument for the power of democracy, which, regardless of the possible risks, cannot serve only those who deserve it, but everyone). ___ Good versus evil, love versus hate, a deranged individual versus a community which, thanks to mutual support and cooperation following the trauma, can get back on its feet and face evil. With his movements, cold-blooded thinking and belief in his own infallibility, Breivik is reminiscent of a machine. If we learn anything about his motives, it is from his mother’s statement, which the attorney needs because of the trial, or thanks to the fact that he has become a research subject for psychologists. In the scenes from the prison with a predominance of cold colours, he is aggressively set apart from his surroundings by his red shirt. Conversely, through flashbacks and subjective sounds, we “see into the mind” of the traumatised, insecure and vulnerable Viljar and get to know him in a number of situations with his supportive loved ones in which he gives expression to his emotions. We not only observe him, but we experience who he is. Instead of a “traitor”, a “Marxist” or a “member of the elite”, as Breivik blanketly labels his victims, we get to know an actual person and his story. As we are shown through numerous parallels in the way the two figures are depicted, Viljar is not from a certain moment most at risk from the wounds that he suffered, but rather from the possibility that he, like Breivik, is starting to become isolated from others and will stop seeing himself as a member of the broader community.___ The rhythm of the smoothly flowing narrative is masterfully set by the large number of viewpoints between which Greengrass cuts. After the dynamic beginning, which offers a broad variety of rapidly alternating viewpoints, a calming occurs and we watch only Breivik and Viljar for a moment. If the narrative jumps to another character, thanks to the prologue we are already familiar with them and we know what role they play in the web of relationships and what element of Norwegian society they represent. After this slowing down and narrowing of focus, the film also transitions from individual actions, recorded step by step almost in real time, to their more general sociological and political implications. Of course, they still serve mainly to support the arguments employed in the final trial. The whole film is a textbook example of how to apply dialectical logic in practice. It does not try to depict the reality of polarised Europe in all its complexity, but rather as a clash of two principles, which it succeeds in doing in a very factual and extremely suggestive manner. 85%

I said to myself that it is extremely sad to look at a woman’s life through her relationships with the men who influenced her (to each is bound a certain topic and the narrative is structured based on those topics rather than on the chronological sequence of events), but the final chapter and emancipatory point more or less legitimise the chosen therapeutic concept. The greatest benefit of the film is Fonda herself, who assesses the men in her life (her father Henry is no exception) and her past and her current selves openly and (self)critically, without the need to conceal or sugar-coat anything (e.g. she admits that her beauty and thus sexuality aided her in her career, and she regrets that she did not have sufficient courage to resist undergoing plastic surgery). With her composure, she vindicates the narrative of self-acceptance, liberation from the belief that we can be a complete being only at the side of a loved one, which the documentary adheres to. The other interviewees and even director Susan Lacy are more benevolent toward her, which is in line with the choice of words and topics. The son raised among North Vietnamese soldiers and members of the Irish Republican Army presents his traumatising childhood as a series of humorous incidents; no one who fundamentally disagreed with Fonda’s activism was given more space (except for Richard Nixon, who is even more hated in the United States than she is). Despite Fonda’s sincerity, the tone of the film is thus somewhat sentimental. In any case, it is still far from the celebratory documentary portraits that merely uninventively summarise facts that you can find on Wikipedia. It is an intellectually thorough, inspiring film that, in a very viewer-friendly manner (the use of a large amount of archival materials contributes to its liveliness), addresses issues close to every person, not just a single extraordinarily intelligent and attractive actress, political activist and promoter of VHS aerobics. 80%

I have seen and am reviewing only the director’s cut of both parts of Nymph()maniac. For five and a half hours, the narrative about various methods of physical (self-)satisfaction, which is unsatisfying for viewers, confronts the two greatest themes of all Freudian directors – sex and death. The most striking merger of the two occurs during a drastic miscarriage, at the end of which Joe trembles with arousal, and in the chapter with the dying father, whose black-and-white picture and tone of emotional blackmail give such a (pseudo)artistic impression that it is most likely one of von Trier’s many tactics aimed at depriving viewers of what they want. In the course of both films, he employs a disturbing number of diversions, notional parentheses, jumps in time and changes in the style of the narrative in order to evoke a feeling of unease that makes it impossible to unobtrusively construct a story. The film brings to mind Zanussi with its hypermedia-style encyclopaedic layering of information, Buñuel with its thematisation of fetishes and unstable identity, Bergman with the intimate exploration of relationships, and Tarkovsky with its spiritual excitement (including a direct quote from The Mirror). Though this eclectic and intermedia compilation of styles is held together by the framework narrative, I would not call it a coherent form. How could there be a coherent film that is constructed as a dialogue between two seemingly incompatible worldviews (asexual and nymphomaniac) into which von Trier constantly tries to draw the viewer, whether by shattering visual taboos (I have never seen a more graphic depiction of abortion in a film) or by breaking down the fourth wall between fiction and reality (the camera reflected in a mirror, obvious parallels between the provocatively free-thinking views of Joe and von Trier himself). Despite all of the sexual explicitness and the extreme suffering of the female protagonist, the treatment of the female body seemed less exploitative to me than in, for example, Blue Is the Warmest Colour. Even though the woman becomes a sexual object several times, especially in the first part, and through most of the film her happiness depends on the man’s stamina, availability and abilities, her depiction elicits pain, compassion and disgust more frequently than pleasant feelings. In this context, the most beneficial scene of the director's cut may be the aforementioned abortion, which, with an openness that I believe will be particularly unpleasant for men, demonstrates throughout both films the intensified forms of defending a woman’s right to decide what she does with her own body. Showing us what we do not want to see is closely connected with consideration of that which we do not want to think about. In my opinion, such a provocation makes sense, like Nymph()maniac as a whole. 75% for part I, 80% for part II.