Marigold

Professor Haneke has taken his method to a bland thesis. There’s pathology everywhere, but no diagnosis. Indifference, predictability, and a state where the director registers the changes of the times, but can no longer observe them insightfully, let alone understand them. It’s an empty creative bubble, and that’s a shame. An academic sedan, the windows empty.

A perfectly accurate character study and an ironic play on the genre. It is film about the inability to accept loneliness and the eternal desire to belong, even at the cost of denying oneself. Beautiful poetry of understanding without words.

A kinetic social thriller that feels burnt out from the first shot and isn’t helped much by the lobotomized twists, or even the likable but insensitively used 80s analogue hell soundtrack from Oneohtrix Point Never. Pattinson gives the best performance of his career - but let's face it, his character is so external that he doesn't have to do all that much work.

Loznic's filmmaking feels outdated, despite the precisely directed mise-en-scène and Mutu's economical camera. Equally outdated, however, are the metaphorical background of A Gentle Creature, which is an excerpt from classical Russian literature, to which the author does not add anything urgently contemporary. His drastic Russian prison thus stands on shabby foundations. In My Joy he was much less didactic and with a much more impressive result.

A powerful experience that isn’t carried by a precisely researched, but still a bit manipulative screenplay, but above all humble directing and a fantastic performance by Diane Kruger. Thanks to her, the "silent avenger" becomes a being of flesh and bone, with whom we can sympathize until an extremely shocking decision at the end. The subject of right-wing terrorism may act as an irritant in a time of Islamist assassins, but Akin has dealt with a completely relevant subject - and he has dealt with it very well.

A film where someone alternately screams hysterically in confusing scenes and alternately philosophizes about the issues of the space game show quiz in far too clear shots. Everyone behaves so erratically that the Prometheus crew reminds of professors of logic on a trip to the land of the eight-way. After a totally WTF birth scene, I decided that Alien had just died for me. One star for Franco's compression without having to utter a bare sentence on board. That is the right decision. The only one.

I've seen a lot of poor horror movies lately that have been praised by American critics only because they were gender-progressive or originated in an exotic country and themed some form of oppression. At first glance, Get Out seems exactly like the "we have an explosive racial topic that someone has dealt with in all its explicitness" case, but from the opening scene Peele gives the impression that he is a) an excellent screenwriter who calmly turns a social metaphor into a grotesque slasher without the structure disintegrating, b) a director able to work with subliminal tension, which is guaranteed to escape the local horror experts, but certainly not an audience with a certain degree of cultivated attention to detail. The first third is a socially relevant metaphor for black masks, the middle builds tension, and the final acts offers peppery catharsis. Together, the acts make a film that is a more intelligent and serious reflection of racial identity for me than the whole of Moonlight. I was only bothered by a little superfluous ethereal music and a few places where you can see inside Get Out more than one would like. Otherwise, it’s great.

A pierced melodrama with an amputated head. For ten minutes I laughed at the idea of Ondřej Sokol and character acting, and during the rest of the unjust runtime I meditated on how in 2017 the once sensible creative duo was able to make something so weak. So: in the first 10 minutes, about five times as many things happen compared to the rest of the movie. For an hour and a half, we watch the bloodless variation of Chekhov, from which the protectorate banality feels like torturous boredom, which is only diversified by Uncle Jiří's unintentionally pedophile etudes and moments when Sokol and Geislerová tell the men and girls that they feel something for each other, and that it’s probably not because Jiří is a faithful family friend. The lack of plot of some of the family sessions is also repeated by voiceover. The virginal nature of one house with three sisters is disrupted by the invasion of Sabina Remundová, which was originally probably intended for the unrealized film The Sun, Hay, and the Protectorate. When it seems that we will only be watching ketamine family sediments with terribly plank speeches for 130 minutes, a big drama strikes, because someone will return who the characters are not waiting for, but the viewer is waiting for him, because he probably knows it's “Kodet from Cosy Dens, but younger". However, Jarchovský successfully prevents the impending drama by letting one of the characters die of typhus, which the other character tells us through a beautiful voiceover, in which the verbs end in a pleasant archaic. This distorted structure with many spots with zero plot leads to the speculation that Hřebejk is trying to direct art magic of ordinariness, like we know from Hirokazu Koreeda’s films. His directing is nevertheless totally cerebral and no, I don't consider the naive motifs and the occasionally shaky filming to be a directing concept. When it seems that the war, which subjectively lasts 30 years, is finally over and the film with it, a wandering scene reminds us that there are still dilemmas that the rest of the trilogy must resolve. Family chronicles are meant to remind us of the burden of passing time. Gardening reminds us that there is nothing worse than when, instead of film time, the viewer feels the existential weight of his ass in a cinema seat. For me, this is the new bottom for the creative duo, who once managed to film a similar genre with ease and humor. [yes, of course it's fine in terms of craftsmanship and in the first tolerable 15 minutes I give them the originally denied one star. I am, like Ondra Sokol, a "good person"]

A film about why something doesn't work, which thematizes that we actually do our best work when we pretend that we are not good at it, and during this it is so perfectly buck-passing and artificial that it resembles a parrot who just repeats what others tell him. A potentially interesting concept walled up by inconsistency. While the Year of the Devil was quite an interesting "mocumentary", the second half of Lost in Munich feels like a very lame defense of why the former doesn't make sense. And since Zelenka alternates between documentary shots with purely film footage and continuously flat music, the result of the defense is as sparse as the acted part. Meta-weaklings from the nineties. A mental ghetto of an eternal revision of a national stereotype that affirms itself with love and that is why it survives, even if someone seems to parody it. Long overdue and still boring as fuck. Let’s turn the page.

A forest esoteric version of John Wick which attempts to flourish organically, subversively erode the roots of civilization, but instead chaotically weaves using crooked legs. Hollande was only able to create, from an apparently inspiring masterpiece, an absurd deer goulash full of literality, bluntly used cinematic speech and grotesqueness, which is sometimes targeted, but infects almost the entire film, no matter what genre position it is in. Unconceptual rhythmization through a hunting calendar, Krobot's invasion, which evokes Tomáš Vorel's films, a histrionic main character where it doesn’t matter if he deliberately overplays his beliefs, because the story doesn't make much sense (which, despite all the didactics, should get an award for an artistic contribution, hello Berlin). A literal translation of the Polish title would be appropriate. This is a total dismissal of justice.