Marigold

A seemingly unpretentious female empowerment indie film that returns to the subject of abortions and tries to impartially, but also empathetically, follow the pilgrimage of two girls from their hometown to NYC, where one of them is to undergo an abortion. Although I very much appreciate Hélène Louvart's typically grainy, anti-euphoric and poetically-authentic filming, it is difficult for me to accept this film as a truly impressive and urgent work. Its constructedness and thesis come to the surface all too often (girls’ solidarity reduced to stylized gestures, a caricatured world full of toxic masculinity), while natural procedural power is rare (the great passage that gave the film its name). What’s more, it all feels strangely inert, languid and protracted, the empathy is limited to close capturing of physical details and a consistently distressed heroine, whose persistent apathy at times causes indifference. We never once see the blend of the environment and the inner world of the protagonists with the ease with which Andrea Arnold is able to perform this mystical operation. Despite the topicality and urgency, the result is actually a bit like singing karaoke of better art films.

In an ideal world, it would be John Wick meets The Raid with a touch of The Punisher... but hey. The first one lacks greater action exaggeration, although there is nothing to complain about with regard to most of the fights and shooting, and the film has a top stunt show-reel. Compared to Gareth Evans and his group of Indonesian suicidal people, Extraction never quite takes your breath away. Hemsworth looks good on the field, but he also carries with him a mediocre back story and a lot of boyish tenderness, which is not very believable, even though I like the guy and enjoy every one of his Instagram posts. There is only one expert on this deadly tenderness deal, and that is Joe Bernthal. I would have given it a higher score had it not been for the blatantly stupid finale and the fact that Bangladeshi Ivan Jonák should have been given more space. Thank you, BTW, for the scene with the beating of children. After a month of quarantine, it’s solidly cathartic. P. S. If someone from Netflix reads this (and they certainly will), shoot the author of the translation in the foot and pay for a proper translator. This man is a fraud and does not need to be rescued, but rather deboned.

Mentions of Netflix's outsider-documentaries (Sunderland, Cheer, Last Chance U) are not beside the point due to the budget. Of course, this is dignified, semi-amateur work, in which mainly the very "raw" sound and sometimes average illustrations are bothersome. But the main problem lies in the perspective. Netflix's docuseries are observational, and the image of the team and fans consists of distance and authenticity. Factory On Ice is brought down by a hellish boyish aggro voice over (Hoffman's low-end macho guy got old fast), which adds a proletarian-romantic hallmark to everything, as well as the fact that, in addition to great traditions and amazing results, Factory On Ice also functions as a 90’s mental open-air museum (the episode with the Swedish player with dark skin, which automatically becomes another "mireček" with the assistance of team marketing). The otherwise sympathetic documentary also includes dramaturgical coincidence - that it was originally a matter of recording an open-air match, which later became a promotional video about what was almost a relegation season, cannot be completely disguised. It's just ultimate, cautious fan service. While Sunderland is able to upset local fans by occasionally unmasking them like the aggressive yokels that they are, this is a caress of the skin that dyed-in-the-wool fans will watch instead of bedtime stories. Czech hockey certainly deserves more discipline, but that was clearly not the point of this. Total! In my opinion, the season did a better (more conceptual) job in the discipline of team PR. Just as a side note, I have been keeping my fingers crossed for Litvínov for years. The 2014/2015 final was one of the best hockey experiences of my life. I have nothing against the north...

Why is it never us? Even the second season is not so much about football, tactics and the dressing room, but rather about the chemistry between senior management, employees and fans. I've only shed tears a few times in my life because of football. And usually for a club I don't even support. This is a sports and social thriller. For me, the best series this year so far.

The series of the year for me so far. A music show that is not about any X factor, but rather about finding a complex musician able to handle all the requirements of the music business under serious pressure. The best judges I've ever seen, led by the Samuel L. Jackson of hip hop, in the middle with the brilliant queen gangster Dylin and on the side with a chic Chicago good boy. I get the emotions of crime and broken families, especially since the series devotes as much space to emotional manipulation as it captures various forms of rap and its magic of the moment. In addition, competing for the main prize is a performer whose complexity I have not fully yet understood. Wow.

It is obvious that the PR department of the individual teams and the FIA have come to understand that Netflix is a gamechanger for this sport and the ticket back to the top. The number of moments when pilots and managers act for the cameras has clearly increased. Nevertheless, the advantage is that we also get to look behind the scenes at Ferrari and Mergl, and also that when documentary filmmakers manage to capture the split between PR and reality (Renault, Williams), these are still very strong moments. The editing and dramaturgical maturity is perhaps not even worth mentioning, as there is currently no better sports series. How it works episodically and as a whole season with one story - the creators of acted shows should watch and learn. Wow.

A great comedy about obesity and a wonderful drama about the fact that sometimes it is necessary to change perspective so that even the most stubborn person can believe his own convictions. For the first time, Wright's calligraphy doesn't seem to be an extra aspect to me. The brutally cut scene with a phone call when someone is on the toilet is one of its highlights. The amazing Mendelsohn and Oldman. The screenplay is very thesis-based, but somehow it has punch even in weaker moments. Wright mobilizes film language and tells perhaps a simple, but impressive message of an unwavering spirit.

It could and should have been a supernatural blunder. In fact, it is a candidate for one of the best series of the year, which, through a horror motif, similarly to Hill House, deals with something very civil and contagiously melancholic. The slow small-town elegy of guilt and reconciliation is terribly captivating, and nothing will change the disconcerted end. Ben Mendelsohn and Cynthia Erivo are the best detective duo of the year.

Brutalism from outer space. A requiem for humanity, which combines the hypnagogic voice over of Tilda Swinton, the slow movement of a 70mm camera and Johann's typically frilled sound design, which begins to resonate somewhere in the large intestine, to immediately thereafter control all your receptors. These are more so museum installations than a film. But also more of a film than most films.

Can a documentary about a meme with a frog be riveting? Indeed it can. Especially when it's a frog that originally demonstrated the benefits of pissing with your pants down at your ankle and subsequently became the flagship of the unsprayed incel frustrates and Nagl troglodytes in the US. Arthur Jones made Pepe great again.