Marigold

The once penetrating and unmistakable ironic, who was able to capture the bizarre beauty of existence and unlikely convergence without pathos, has apparently definitely become a conventional kitsch. The first ten minutes are great, then the film falls into literal and milky slush, in which there is no longer even a mention of the corrosivity of the genius Eggs and the taciturn warmth of Kitchen Stories. And Hamer deserves be slapped for the colored conclusion.

Disciplined exercises in pauses, ellipses and hidden brutality, which Kurzel pours on the confused viewer, with everything that it encompasses, after about an hour and a quarter. An extremely uncomfortable and demanding spectator experience, and a psychological thriller without the possibility of empathy. This is the only way to authentically capture the world of a Bunting-caliber psychopath.

An old-fashioned grumbling action movie with a cute sentimental undertone by an artist who is slowly leaving the beloved and misunderstood world. It is brilliant to build two and a half hours of biography about the character of a painter who tore down forms, but otherwise most of the time just grumbled angrily and sometimes hated his hard-working colleagues, and Leigh sticks to it consistently until the end. In addition, Mr. Turner's film is extremely funny and contagiously bile to the characters that Turner hates. But that doesn't mean that all the scenes are as sparkling as, for example, the circling of the camera and Turner around the gallery. The film sometimes falls a little too much into its temperament. But Timothy will make sure you never fall sleep and miss anything. His weirdo, who uses only the screen to stir up emotions, on which he pants like a horse and applies leftovers from lunch, is simply touching. I can't help but see a piece of Leigh's autobiography in it. With its emphasis on backlight and red light, the visual is beautiful, but not mannerist. The sun is a god and the light a mystery. Humph.

I would like to say that this whole genre of episodic storytelling is passé, but I can do with the fact that the similarly laborious and unreliable realization is passé. It has been written about Life in a Fishbowl that it is the best Icelandic film of all time... I don't know, I think maybe Ragnar Bragason performed an analysis of the local society in Parents more humbly and more credibly. Life in a Fishbowl is a summary of all the flaws that a similar film can have - themes used half-apathetically, characters molded as needed for the point, and the points themselves made in the midcult barren spirit. Although Baldvin Z. never is never downright boring, the sterility of his film is annoying.

An impressive withdrawn exhibition that evokes Bergman in some way, has a surprisingly humorous middle and the last third a bit laboriously drowned in talkative conflicts. A cultured, elegantly shot and very well acted (Pilou!) Film that can deal with a serious topic with surprising perspective. From my point of view, however, it is much stronger in the poignant perspective rather than in the gradation of dramatic tension between characters.

I can't count on the fingers of one hand how many times my eyebrows flew up at the scenes, where the stylization gets out of hand for the screenwriters and the director. The somewhat fluctuating tone and unintentional slipping into slightly bizarre exploitation feels like Norwegian Headhunters, but a heavy emphasis on literary language (and classical metaphors) rather feels like pre-war cinematography. But it's the sterile and icy calm visual and a captivatingly flat accompaniment by Caravaggio that anchors it solidly. Amalric is mostly successful with his derailed protagonist, but the other characters are more on the edge of figures, but with regard to the relatively mechanical storytelling principle (McGuffin, noir femme fatale), it doesn't matter much. I could find a hundred things to make fun of, but the truth is that it grabbed me and wouldn't let me go. I even liked the salon rhetoric, because it fits the stylized images of snow-capped mountains, chasms and a glass academic dissection room. A romantic thriller for lightly deranged bookworms.

A film with the IQ of a toaster and the elegance of a garbage disposal. I really wanted to like it, but I can in no way excuse such a sloppily welded approach (the directing, acting, writing), not even the fact that Chappie is a delightfully naive creature. Neill, take a break.

A conventional travel drama about the search for oneself, which Jean-Marc Vallée is able to enrich with interesting flashbacks, most of the time. They develop several themed storylines that focus on the magnetic Reese Witherspoon. Her transformation from a frightened novice who isn’t able to lift her own backpack to queen of the PCT is so impressively experienced, so much so that one also forgets balancing on the edge of kitsch, a bit of amateurish symbolism and a stretched last third. Not that Hornby's "book-like" screenplay helps with its pronounced durability and depth, but as a pleasant spiritual trip through a beautiful landscape for one evening, it's absolutely okay.

A curiosity. Almost 140 minutes of consistently pointless movement of characters and cameras in a resort after the season is over. Kinetics of ruin and boredom. Bizarre choreography, crazy behavior and a type obsessed with control and a description of the world. Everything that Lanthimos brings to perfection in the next film. This is a kind of raw "grinding" of poetics.

A pleasant and precise probe into the depths of imagination, phobias and desires of a middle-aged man which, after the "Forever Young" culmination, is shot down by a slushy and increasingly self-pitying second half with several fantastic scenes, for which I would probably need a shovel to get them out of my head. It is the brutal sincerity, given by the combination of an inner monologue and the intertwining of reality and subjective perspective, that does not ultimately work in favor of the film. Even so, I appreciate the creativity and the chance to show women what is happening in my head.