Matty

CODA is a fairly faithful remake of the French comedy The Bélier Family. Director and screenwriter Siân Heder further developed the supporting characters in particular and chose deaf actors to play the roles of the deaf, so we can enjoy watching the excellent Troy Kotsur. With his relaxed performance, Kotsur greatly contributes to the authenticity of the scenes from the life of the deaf. Those scenes are in fact more authentic than Ruby’s fantastically easy transformation from a timid outsider into a capable young singer. Without the trio of non-stereotypical deaf characters, CODA would be just another banal flick about growing up and chasing the (American) dream. The central conflict between the family and singing is not enough to carry the film for two hours and it doesn’t create much tension, since we know how everything will turn out in the end. In order to maintain the comfortable atmosphere, the filmmakers don’t put any major obstacles in the way of the likable characters. On the contrary, they make everything as easy as possible for them. At school, Ruby affectionately gazes at a classmate. A few scenes later, she is chosen to sing a duet with him. Though Ruby sang only for herself before joining the choir, it sounds from the start as if she has had voice training. Other potential complications also easily disappear. Is the family being exploited in the fish trade? No worries, they’ll just start their own business from one day to the next. Ruby can't afford to pay for further education? No problem, here’s a scholarship. The pianist doesn't know the song Ruby chose? Someone will surely show up to fill in for her. The main thing is not to stress out about it. The Rossi’s, as bearers of nothing but positive qualities, don’t deserve any major troubles. Other than the fact that they work with their hands and are deaf, we learn practically nothing about them. It’s as if they live in a vacuum devoid of politics, culture and religion. The environment of deaf members of the working class serves only as a superfluous backdrop for one teenager’s inspiring story. However, it’s possible that the stylistic caution and subordination to clichés is an effective way of making the life of a community that is rarely seen in the media digestible for a broader audience. In any case, if CODA works despite its lack of directorial invention and minimal distinctiveness, then it works not as a film about the deaf (who are merely staffage in the hearing-abled protagonist’s mediocre story), but as a dramedy in which everything is calculated to elicit tears or laughter. 65%

Documentary phenomenon. A Danish journalist embarks on an investigation of the strange circumstances of the death of a former secretary general of the United Nations. In doing so, he encounters a devilish plan that is reminiscent of a second-rate horror movie, including secret laboratories in the African jungle, assassinations and “vaccines” with HIV. The uncovering of a vast conspiratorial network, in which the CIA, several European countries and multinational corporations are clearly involved and which may have had a major impact on the state of contemporary Africa, is framed by director Mads Brügger's attempt to give the narrative some kind of consistent form. That appears to be impossible, however, due to the large number of unreliable witnesses (of which there are many more than credible materials). In parallel with the gripping detective work that uncovers the conspiracy, we also see the journalist’s growing frustration with the fact that the truth continues to elude him and his original attempt to cope with the impossibility of separating fact from fiction by, on the one hand, continuously reflecting on what he has (not) discovered and, on the other hand, through animated sequences, which are admittedly unreliable reconstructions. If you enjoy highly complex spy thrillers with dozens of intricately connected characters in which understanding of the complex structure and links between the individual involved parties is of greater importance than clear and definitive conclusions, you will, like me, hold your breath for two hours. 90%

Polish folk songs were never so sexy. Besides that, Pawlikovski’s balladic overview of the history of music and of Europe captivated me with its high-contrast black-and-white camera work and highly economical storytelling with sharp cuts, sudden jumps in time and numerous meanings communicated via the mise-en-scène without verbal explanation, thanks to which the film is able to cover some fifteen years of history in just under ninety minutes. At the same time, the atmosphere remains consistent, while the musical style changes along with the degree of frustration felt by the protagonists, who still do not have that which they desire. Cold War is obviously a film under the spell of post-war European cinema (in addition to its academic format, this is also apparent in the number of European countries and languages represented) – not by any means only Soviet-style musicals such as Tomorrow, People Will Be Dancing Everywhere against which it is critically defined – with which it has much more in common than with reality. At the same time, however, the plot is complicated and lovers are separated by the political repression of the time that discomfited artists in communist countries had to face. The major simplification of socio-political contexts, psychological flatness of the characters and bold stylisation serve well the timeless fatalistic story of unrequited love (in whose case it does not matter too much that we are watching only certain [arche]types instead of full-blooded heroes), but as a statement on a particular time and the people of that particular time, which it also wants to be, Cold War fails for the same reason. But if you want to see a very obliging art film that does not put numerous obstacles in the viewer’s way, it is unlikely that you will see anything nicer in the cinemas. 70%

Especially in comparison with the flashy American Hustle, Computer Chess makes it apparent how uncanny retro stylisation can be. The analogue camerawork doesn’t draw us into the film’s environment. On the contrary, it constantly reminds us of its technological limitations and thus of its own presence (and the key theme consisting in the conflict between man and technology). Black-and-white, sometimes reminiscent of a low-contrast picture (various shades of grey predominate), 4:3 aspect ratio, smudges, shadows, lines. Like with the Chilean film No, you have the feeling that you are watching a pirated copy of a film (which of course never existed in a different form). The consistent simulation of the visual quality of amateur television shows from the 1970s goes perfectly with the clumsy mumblecore poetics as well as with the awkwardness of the characters, who are a sort of beta version of today’s nerds. Rather than feeling superior, they feel guilty that they understand the language of ones and zeros better than they understand other people. Because society hadn’t yet come up with a specific pigeonhole for nerds, these atypical heroes could seek a balance between the human and the technological, between life in the community and life on their own – their extreme antithesis is the therapy session of a group of hippies running in parallel.  Typical of this is the Kafkaesque subplot with Papageorge, who sees himself as more than a nerd and who (therefore) nobody wants to accept. With its shabby form and sarcastic depiction of a particular generation, Computer Chess is reminiscent of Clerks. However, awareness of the transformation that the IT subculture underwent (dehumanisation and – paradoxically – assimilation into the mainstream) makes this film more bitter and timeless. 75%

With its content and outside interference, Contempt is a cynical deconstruction if the relationship between a man and a woman, and between reality and its artificial representations. Just as Camille and Paul’s marriage disintegrates, there is a dissolution of the line separating real life from fictional stories (Piccoli as Odysseus, Palance as Poseidon and Bardot as the faithful Penelope and treacherous siren – see her adaptation of the bathing scene from Lang’s film). The first shot, which ends with the camera looking into a camera, reveals the chosen approach: a film about filming oneself. It’s as if Godard defied the conscientious fulfilment of the task at hand (a widescreen colour co-production with international stars and based on a famous novel) by means of various subversions and attempted to delay for some time the inevitable end of film, which Auguste Lumière had called an invention without a future. He is not docile in his handling of the film’s main star. For no apparent reason, we see the nude Bardot, whose physical assets are first de-eroticised by a precise description, through a red filter, then yellow and finally blue. Later, the director makes her put on a black wig, thus underscoring the key idea of playing different roles. At the same time, we can see the dark-haired actress as Anna Karina and the whole film as Godard’s relationship therapy. In comparison with Godard’s other films, the style of Contempt is remarkably sedate, though the narrative structure is in some ways reminiscent of his unrefined debut, Breathless (suspension of the narrative through a long inner dialogue), to such an extent that I wonder if Godard was using extraordinarily long yet unexpected cutaways to make fun of intellectual relationship films such as those by upper crust Antonioni, for example. The arrangement of the inanimate mise-en-scéne (colours, spaces) often tells us more about the characters and how they relate to each other than the dialogue, which typically runs to more general themes or allusions to Godard’s favourite films and filmmakers. Perhaps in conflict with what he intended, Godard ultimately presents proof that real cinema, whose images are not entirely subordinated to the story or spectacle, isn’t dead yet. 80%

The content of Stapleton’s documentary fully corresponds to the subtitle of another, significantly juicier look into the backstreets of Hollywood – Midnight Movies: From the Margin to the Mainstream. The erstwhile rebel was appropriated as their spiritual father by mainstream actors, producers and directors, who comprised the system against whose products Corman’s films were defined. Corman himself views this disgrace – made doubly irritating by the awarding of an Oscar for a lifetime of filming busty actresses, severed limbs and carnivorous fauna – with emotion. Why not grant him that, to have a comparably uncompromising pragmatist among American filmmakers. Though I doubt that he would have made his delightful trash flicks, which are so much more entertaining than anything of the like that is now passed off in all seriousness as top-tier genre movies, with the vision of an Oscar and cultural enrichment of his homeland in his head. With respect to its subject matter, the documentary is not very “nasty” as such; with the exception of a brief interlude, it shamelessly omits the essential historical and social context, and during the moments when stories from filming replace personal impressions, it becomes quite slow, but it still serves well for basic orientation and if you have at least a slight weakness for exploitation trash flicks, you will likely end up wanting to get your hands on a few of Corman’s films and spend a pleasant weekend with them. 65%

What feels like roughly four hours of toilet philosophising, which Cronenberg disparages in places, but through most of the film he just lets it monotonously flow forth, which is so mind-numbing that you will probably lose any desire to hear the film’s message, whatever that may be (for example, the message that we haven’t been told anything). I will have to watch it again to confirm or refute the impression that this is Cronenberg’s shallowest and least atmospheric film, but I’m going to need to psych myself up for that over the next several weeks. 50%

Over the course of a number of months, several couples have been going to the kind of therapist that everyone would want (extremely empathetic, listens well, asks pertinent questions at the right time). Just one room, a lot of emotions and words and numerous camera angles. The individual sessions are interlinked by illustrative scenes from the clients’ lives. The composition of the couples is quite diverse (straight and queer, married eleven years, together only two years, different social classes) and they deal with such varied issues that you will surely find “yours” among them: projecting of one’s own anxieties onto their partner, fading sexual attraction, alcoholism, parenting, disconnection from one’s own emotions. Based on the precise editing, thanks to which we are able to see every action and reaction and to perceive the slightest change of mood in the room, and the smooth continuity of the individual shots, it comes across as a scripted series. In reality, it is a documentary directed with tremendous sensitivity, and the participants went into it with the intention of showing the broader public how couples therapy works. Thanks also to the self-reflective conversations between the therapist and her supervisor, I think that after watching it you will actually have a relatively clear idea about that (unlike the dramatically embellished impression given by the Czech series Terapie) and you may come to a few important realisations. If you are not interested in educating yourself in the area of communication in relationships, there is still a decent chance that Couples Therapy will draw you in like a detective show in which a trio of people use questions and answers to peel back the layers and work their way down to the roots of the invisible violence that we inflict on ourselves and others every day. I’m looking forward to the third season, because it's terribly addictive and Orna Guralnik has a wonderful dog.

“Who has the power?” Schorm and Máša placed their scepticism about social development in the character of the last great idealist, a man who still believes. But what exactly does he believe? The slogans that he uses have lost their meaning. The society that he wanted to help build has turned out to be an unattainable utopia. Provincial morality has prevailed. Everybody minds their own business. The main thing is to have something to eat, something to drink and someone to sleep with. The young nihilistically disdain all ideals; they gather within themselves only negative, unproductive energy. They still don’t have any life goals. The old lack the will and strength to make changes. They no longer have life goals. The generational parallels are obvious; it’s not a matter of a particular age. Society has lost touch with authentic life (so the excursion of urban intellectuals to the countryside comes across as comical) and is mired in shallowness. Jarda can either helplessly watch this fading of ideals and mass abandonment of responsibility or adapt. But no matter what he decides, will he not be denying his own individuality? The protagonist’s comprehension of this reality is slow and painful, and Schorm observes it without bias. Though he does delve into the protagonist’s private life and does not abandon him even in moments of bliss or utter hopelessness (in my opinion, the former, more relaxed acting approach suits Kačer better than the latter, deliberately theatrical approach), but he does so in the interest of greater vividness of the conveyed moral profile. He does not judge. As in his later films, the supporting characters pay the price for Schorm’s obsession with the central idea, which is filtered through the male lead character. Despite a distinguished performance by Jana Brejchová, this is especially true of the character of Věra, who remains a one-dimensional consoler, spreading waves of positivity around her (Josef Abrhám’s absolutely profligate Bořek brings darkness into the film to accentuate her lightness). In spite of its partial simplification and formalistic simplicity, Courage for Every Day is at its core a powerful and timeless statement about a man and the devastating consequences of his dialectical connection to society. 75%

Shot in Serbia, this American film, two-thirds of which is set in the basement of an old house, is better than average. Despite its B-movie subject matter, it does not look cheap and offers very solid CGI with animals that do not appear to be digitally generated. Starting with the opening credits, director Alexandre Aja does not squander a single minute and constantly portions out information about the characters and the relationships between them, which later proves to be opportune (almost all of the characters and objects encountered by the female protagonist during the brisk exposition are utilised just as economically). The protagonists are not just walking hunks of meat for the alligators. We understand their motivations and cheer them on, and we comprehend where, despite all of the scars, they find in themselves the strength to grit their teeth and face danger. The overcoming of family trauma is skilfully connected with the eco-horror plot also thanks to the fact that the house where most of the events take place brings the heroine’s childhood, and thus her father’s failure, to light. Its flooding with water (thanks to which Halley can show what works best for her) and its gradual disintegration thus represents an inevitable part of “family therapy”. It is true that the story faulters during longer dialogues, the characters are far too clichéd and, given the R-rating, I would have expected more scenes in which alligators tear people to pieces, but when it reminds us in its entertaining and undemanding way that if we want to survive, we should mainly respect nature, then it works nicely. 65%