Marigold

A fascinating puzzle of motifs and influences that transform the train space into an allegorical and connotation-charged space – from the black-and-white fatefulness of a noir film, to the classic "whodunit" detective story, to the existential grotesqueness of Trier's Europa. Dalle excellently juggles moods, sly philosophical dialogues, in which there is a spark between appearance and reality, between religiosity and greed; he jumps to grotesque elements, through playful changes of perspective the camera induces completely opposing feelings, and Illusions become an exciting and cinematic language-stuffed spectacle of a ridiculously tragic human existence in illusions and disillusionments. Unfortunately, its steam runs out over time, the "Hitchcock", "Lynch" and "Nordic" styles get old, and this train arrives in Berlin on the self-purpose idle of ever more shallow jokes. Its true corrosivity fades out (partially replaced by ugly CGI exteriors) and there is "only" a quirky black comedy whose creator wanted to show perhaps too generous a flourish.

An attempt at a melodramatic gangster film that completely misses the mark – psychology, dialogue and directing, which, instead of rhythmization, is a vexing retardation. If I take away the fact that the whole thing makes no sense at all, and the film is more of a hanger for clichés (which is also beating itself up), I have to appreciate the magnificent Farrell – when he's circling the screen in a suit with a gun in his hand, there's a Bond elegance to it... And Thewlis character is constantly on a trip, so one forgives him the illogical babbling (as far as I know, the other characters do not take drugs). Otherwise, it's a pretty simple-minded patchwork of a guy trying to look like Ritchie kissed by the ghost of de Palma. **1/2 (you know why I’m rounding up)

Slavoj wields a powerful tool called psychoanalysis, and through this tool he is able to open dark and unsymbolized spaces behind the image and reveal that the whole of cinema is actually one big shock wave from the toilet bowl... which, by the way, is the greatest compliment that the Slovak enfant terrible and the most dangerous philosopher of the West can give it. An extraordinarily entertaining, stimulating and atmospheric documentary that describes the basic Slovenian ailments (eclecticism, the popularity of pitching an idea and its chatting, as well as the occasional excessive speculation), but otherwise one cannot break away from it... that is assuming that names like Lacan or Freud inspire something other than resistance within you.

Klusák and Remunda can be much more persuasive than the notorious manipulator Moore, but unfortunately they, too, sometimes succumb to bias and lose the warm perspective from which all those involved emerge as desperate demagogues, morons and comedians... Except, of course, Magor - he's right, as always. Great material for criticizing ideology - that empty piece of land is literally soaked with it, whether it's the military police babbling on it or the forest elves of Greedpeace frolicking on it. And Magor's sociological evaluation of the Czech nation... it should be sculpted.

Another provincial attempt at a complex psychological family drama that at times looks quite worldly, but this impression is confined to a fairly well thought out surface again. It continues to amaze me how many narrative means Hřebejk and Jarchovský are capable of using to produce stories that are so barren, sterile and genderless in terms of any urgency and opinion. Am I to think that Innocence isn't entirely embarrassing, that the actors are good and that modern storytelling means are used here? The more the creative helplessness, blandness and lack of captivating rhythm stand out. For God's sake, when is there going to be anything that's been able to compete with at least a mediocre Scandinavian drama about pathological phenomena in society?

Season 1: Episodes Sidetracked and One Step Behind are spectacular. Here, the detective story genre is a kind of glue of a psychological drama about an internally decomposing detective, broken personal ties between police officers and the social ills of contemporary Sweden. One can easily talk about parallels with Larsson's infinitely overrated Millennium, the framework, the atmosphere and the similar approach. Philip Martin's direction brilliantly incorporates elements of Nordic dramas, depersonalized placement the characters in the landscape, jumps to moody lyrical shots, and the frequent positioning of the viewer behind glass, into isolation from the character. A cold yet thoughtful work that gives this series a completely unique atmosphere. Brannagh is breathtaking and easily plays all the different positions of sadness and waste that Wallander goes through. The middle part, Firewall, is a little out of concept, more classic, the plot is exaggerated, escalated into a slightly barren conspiracy thriller with elements of a forgettable melodrama about femme fatale. Certainly not the path Wallander should take. Overall: the series is 100% stylishly compatible with my taste. An existential crime thriller for those who like the North. Season 2: I see no weak spots here, I just have to highlight how Wallander is going against cheap political correctness, whether in The Faceless Killers (topic of immigration and racism) or in the absolutely fabulous episode The Man Who Smiled (exploitative compassion for third world countries). Wallander's psychic schism deepens to the point of complete dislocation from the world - Fifth Woman is an elegant closing of the dramatic arc and a kind of partial catharsis of the depression-torn "Job of Ystad". This needs another season - next to Sherlock, the best detective series I've ever seen.

A cultured speech therapy drama about the power of the voice and the imaginary status of a king. A wonderfully blissful play of static semi-details, mannerist textures and refined interiors, against which the chaotic wallpaper of Dr. Logue proudly stands out, who understands that the king is king above all when his subjects believe him. And in the 1930s, they can trust his voice above all. It's all a typical Rocky template about an outsider who climbed to the top, even though no one believed in him. Even with its sensitively stylizing representation of history, it is the equivalent of the excellent drama Frost/Nixon. An acting concert, from Colin Firth's stressed-out creation to Helen Bonham Carter's light-legged ballet. Maybe over-modified, but I like it... more than a handsome, gelled Fincher mop of hair.

A very thrilling civilian thriller with an ending that irons out all moral dilemmas and doubts to the detriment of the whole. Russell Crowe is beginning to find himself in the roles of overweight intellectual gladiators. And he's definitely doing better than the dashing outlaws. Overall, a pleasant surprise that will not disappoint fans of "escape" movies. If it wasn't for that excessive schematic ending, I'd give it a clean four stars, so I'm pointing out that on star is a little less than full.

Although Black Swan appears to be made from the same dough as The Wrestler, it is only half true. Yes, it fits quite well superficially - the concept is actually similar, intimate body camera, ruthless details, long tracking shots, scenes of mutilation in the name of foolish desire (again, it is a desire expressed by roaring crowds). But it cannot be overlooked that in one important respect, Black Swan is antithetical to The Wrestler. While The Wrestler was a film where the inside of the hero remained hidden and it was a documentary record of gradual doom, in Black Swan everything is outward, the pain is written into horror expressive scenes, the heroine's psychoses are "Freudian" amplified and accentuated by various dreamlike chimeras. Everything inside happens on the outside at the same time, and the viewer is trapped in the snares of an unreliable storyteller. Where reality ends and Nina's fantastical projection begins is sometimes difficult to decipher. Some of the scenes are suspiciously conventional (you can see it well in all the horror jump scares and phantoms) and I couldn't shake the impression that for the mutating surface, Aronofsky missed what was not visible in The Wrestler, yet was physically felt - an intimate plane of pain "out of desire" leading to the final grand gesture of self-destruction. Black Swan is essentially ancient during the ending, but it didn't affect me nearly as much as Randy's last “ram-jam". Everything is in place here (a famous camera, a devastating Natalie and a magnificent musical accompaniment), yet ecstasy did not come. I think Aronofsky was able to go deeper in the past without theatrical props.

An almost brilliant adaptation of the novel, plus a wonderful update of a slightly hackneyed series. Poirot brought ethically ad absurdum, from "whodunit" detective novels to an astringent and at first unbearably intense drama about justice. If it weren't for a few hideous digital mashes, it would be a masterful structure undershot by Suchet's dark side of power and a rather unconventional instance of God, who this time will triumph over the power of the detective's rationality. Never before has Poirot been so vulnerable to what he investigates - and he has never been so consistently helpless and defeated. Philip Martin did a brilliant job and for me he made the most special and distinguished Poirot, which, personally completely got me with its rawness, darkness and breaking of the solid framework of the traditional detective story.