Marigold

This was handled poorly. It doesn't make sense as psychological-ghostly madness or as an action thriller. Perhaps the "more mystical" half is worth watching thanks to Jodie Foster, but during the big twist the screenwriter went crazy and, together with the story, the whole film goes to hell. The fact that Robert Schwentke at least manages to keep the directing slightly above average does not change anything.

It's horribly purposeless, but it worked perfectly for me at least thanks to Billy Bob Thornton's performance. Whether it's the scene with the drunken Santa arriving on the escalator and later the brutal massacre of the Christmas reindeer, or the more lyrical positions at the end... I just had a great time and really bought into the main character. I can’t be as positive about Larry Zwigoff's directing. It seemed to me that many of the gags fizzled out, attempts at strong character miniatures (entirely in the style of the Coen brothers, who produced it) end with three dots and not with an exclamation mark, and the film is squeezed only into the character of Santa and a boy who looks like an idiot. But they'll carry that load of presents. The attempts at verbal humor are sometimes too vulgar, and there are not many original gags. Yet the atmosphere and the idea are simply there, and I had fun with the anal-alcoholic "poetics" of the film about fixing one lost destiny. Perhaps it’s too bad that Ethan and Joel did not do more with the film than fund it.

Where can I find John Woo with some screenwriting quality? It is true that when listening to dialogues, there is a serious risk that characters more subtle and more prone to the aesthetic beauty of language will start spewing nonsense, but let’s be honest, it’s just a matter of connecting more and more phenomenal "one/two people against thirty or more" action scenes. If I take out the dialogues, then everything else works 100%, and even the characters were done quite well. The Killer has a typical atmosphere of heroic bloodshed, a bittersweet, melancholic, sweetened "casio-soundtrack", which seems to want to be inspired by the urgency of Ennio Morricone. Of course, it turns out how it has to turn out, i.e., poorly from the point of view of a nitpicker and perfectly adequate from the point of view of a satisfied viewer. The crazy music hits the turbo tempo of the story and the naive venting of emotions. The Killer flows perfectly, everything is in good proportions - the naivety and the bittersweet aspects. The choreography of the shootouts during the 111 minutes show everything that action-packed Hollywood provenance lives on even today, several dozen bastards will die, heroes from both sides of the law will talk about friendship and finally show side by side what the bloodshed is all about from their own veins. Do you like Hong Kong? Then you have to love The Killer.

To put it in concentrated form: Paul Greengrass and the only logical reaction to a hitherto taboo topic – to keep your distance, not to judge, not to evaluate and, if possible, to present verified facts. If the filmmaker is strong and has well-mastered weapons such as a hand-held camera and a civilian-acting ensemble without stars, then the result cannot be anything other than absolutely suggestive, chilling, captivating. This is exactly what United 93 is like. The film does not spare the viewer in any way with reductions, drawing him into the center of events using all possible technical means, and it presents events with chilling authenticity and narrative distance. But the performance itself is literally devouring and fascination with the story, an unquenchable feeling of the unconstructed, and the absence of classic plot schemes - all this creates a space for a strong to horrible spectator experience. There is no moralizing at the end, an unshakable assurance that good can be delineated from evil, that the border is fixed and that crossing it will be punished. At the end we find out that victims and murderers are still and only human. The most chilling moment of the whole film for me was the prayer just before the inevitable catastrophe. At that moment, all the bizarreness and absurdity of today's world materialized aboard Greengrass's United 93. The value of such a film exceeds the prefabricated messages about real heroes a million times over, because it offers the viewer an intense experience without whispering. It's up to you how you evaluate it.

I do not dare judge, but perhaps this is from whence the roots of the poetics of Emir Kusturica or Danis Tanovič grow. Who's Singin' Over There? has all the attributes of a self-reflecting Balkan metaphor – perfect typification of characters without unnecessarily reducing their individuality, incredibly light alternation of tragic and comic positions (and of course their intertwining), wonderfully rhythmic film narrative and close contact of the narrator with the viewer. The parable of Yugoslavia before World War II squeezed into the minimalist space of a bus and a short road movie runtime in the direction of Belgrade. Excellent choice of actors and their performances. A specific soundtrack that gives the film an unmistakable face. Balkan sarcasm with transitions to black cynicism and the related tragedies. And there is also ubiquitous compassion for the fate of his nation. Everything that makes Balkan cinema irresistible to me.

It's not Davy Jones and the Flying Dutchman who cursed Captain Jack, it's the fat Disney purse from which Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest draws from the most. The result is a classic middle film, which does not have a properly designated beginning and end, which means that it feels rather cheerfully chaotic. The characters essentially do what they always do, they bounce here and there, there is constant tomfoolery, they entertain the spectators, they bring a new villain to the party, and when one feels in their bones that something memorable should finally start, Hans Zimmer blows the unforgettable pirate fanfare and sails to the port called "Part Number Three". The cheerful pile of Dead Man's Chest stories thus remains half open, half closed. It is certainly positive that, within the abilities of the screenwriter and the director, the characters develop, they profile themselves, that old animosities and friendships are not repeated, and that new friction and tension arise. Undoubtedly, the film has great effects, and Zimmer's music is also excellent. Those who are more sensitive will be provoked by the aforementioned lack of borders and playing for effect. But this spectacle is mainly about the effects, so why cry? Maybe because the film lacks gradation and brisk acceleration at certain moments. The fact that certain dialogues drag on like the Kraken's slime. That Johnny Depp uses his built-in grimace repertoire and his Jack is no longer the amazing centerpiece. That not all choreographies are as busy as the one on the mill wheel. The second film also caught the wind in its sails and took a gulp of good rum. Maybe the film got a little more serious and perhaps lost a bit of the mischief from the first film. And the film undoubtedly suffers from the syndrome of the middle part of the trilogy. [7/10]

I was curious to see if the third film would top the first film in terms of stupidity, and I was essentially not disappointed. The screenplay is once again an ejaculate of the mind, which perhaps devoured too many C action movies and the worst comic books. The constant desire to convince the world that Blade is more than a stupid shooter film and that it is unlike other vampire movies is magical and ubiquitous. Dracula looks like a luxury gigolo, wears steel plates pinned to his shirt, and when running, he looks like a crook who stole a pound of pears in from a garden, and this cannot be successful. Blade: Trinity is simply funny nonsense about a gang of outspoken types with unclear sexual orientation, what vampires say to each other, and about a sculptural black man who manages to act for 113 minutes without a single expression of emotion. It's simply boring. However, the visual component is at a very decent level compared to the first film, the whole thing is post-Matrix - basically, it’s watchable. The quest for the obligatory coolness is half decent, half absolutely ridiculous. The only reason I don't give it boo! are some of the action scenes. After all, it's an action movie. Although Blade wants to be in a higher league. But it’s too sparse for that.

A traditional Burton film for sight and Elfman for sound. The spice of the second Batman is definitely the atmosphere of Christmas, in which Tim Burton recalls his memories of his legendary godson The Nightmare Before Christmas. Dazzling cynicism, destruction of symbols and especially a yellow duck in the service of evil, this time with huge proportions... Magnificent, cynical, extraordinarily watchable. But looking at the scenery alone is not enough, so there are two key characters - Penguin and Catwoman. Both are much more prominent title heroes, which is not really a bad thing, because rather than the heroic deeds of Batman, the film is about the double-edged nature of these two characters. Batman Returns is able to make do without straightforwardness and in places, unfortunately, without storytelling flair. Burton tells the story incredibly colorfully and easily, but a few times I caught myself thinking: What about, actually? In short, I would expect a little more emotion and experience, but maybe it was just messed up for me by bad dubbing and a bad translation. Otherwise, this a good Burton film with everything it should have. Even with a filling that smells intoxicatingly of German expression.

Sergio Leone knows how to play with the viewer... it starts off as a typical spaghetti western with distinctive main characters and a bank to be robbed, but over time it grows into something quite close to a drama with elements of an adventure film. Originally there is a very simply arranged relationship between John and Juan, then it gets a third dimension, and then a revolution, reflections on betrayal, cruelty, throwing Bakunin into the mud, and retrospectives all make their way into the western plot; in short, it all gets complicated and we are definitely not watching a simple film. Leone's designations are more than clear, there is perfect work with the eyes of the actors, plenty of details, a great camera, and perfect music by Master Morricone. All this gives the film a special lightness with which it balances on the border of comedy, cheapness, tragedy and seriousness.

It’s rare today to enjoy things such as quality acting and skilled craftsmanship by Filip Renč. There is not much more to it than that in From Subway with Love... Viewegh's screenplay is a very shallow affair, alternating successful moments of deliberate shallowness with obviously unintentional shallowness, which completely kills any emotion and meaning of the film and turns it into a rather cheap spectacle with wannabe-cunning messages. But it's just Viewegh’s style - as cheap as a penny and sticky as a lollipop from a fair. So I more or less rejoiced seeing names such as Vašut, Zázvorková or Donutil, I appreciated Zuzana Kanóczová's female seduction and a few well-suited situations from life. In the end, the name Filip Renč is a good example of a director who knows how to make an attractive spectacle. A weak three stars, but you really have to look with these new Czech comedies...