Marigold

If Gitai had taken out the artistic etudes in the introduction and at the end, it would have been one of the best war films I've ever seen. Fundamentally similar to Lebanon (a testimony about the war through a very narrow personal perspective), but from my point of view, thanks to hyperrealism, skillfully induced stereotype and economical work with the characters, the film without much artistic perspective captures the devastating "repetitiveness" of the war. Once again, Gitai's work with the Mise-en-scène must be highlighted, which, in contrast to the self-purpose of Disengagement, is perfectly functional.

Despite liposuction, Carlos is still an hour overweight. Or two hours underweight, depending on which side we look at it from. In any case, it does not work very well as a film, because it describes an overly long period of time using a spartan design and a not-so-sensitive edit. Ramíréz is awesome, but mostly the way he works with his body. It's worse with the psyche, and Assayas' work brings it closer to Edel's The Baader Meinhof Complex. Which is not a win, because against the slender and agile German athlete, this tall Venezuelan has no chance of going above average - the "television style" is taking his oxygen away.

Redhead rebellion. A schizoid ride that begins as a black comedy and ends as a pure figment of insanity - misanthropy, terror, the instinct of death. A searing counterpoint to contemporary "social" idylls, and yet a film that sees into xenophobia and social segregation surprisingly deeply. The performances of the central couple are inhuman, the direction absolutely epic. Gavras is a man with a fantasy in a completely different dimension than one would expect. I wouldn't really consider calling a film about two sociopaths terrorizing the innocent “romantic" in the truest sense of the word (a fictional space of escape from reality, not milking the viewer). Although that Rachmaninoff guy says in the introduction that this is going to be something monstrously beautiful. And it is. Top 5 of 2010.

A film that must be terribly superficial in order to maintain the illusion of some kind of intellectual revolt against bourgeois emptiness. So the intellectual here is the one who is silent, reads books, and occasionally quotes Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina (no philosophy, no Husserl). The best thing about The Hedgehog is its pleasant and laughing form, the acting and the little that the film can give in hints, not in the annoyingly affective commentary of a spoiled brat who needs to get spanked properly. That he won't get spanked is self-evident, because films similar to The Hedgehog need some kind of tragedy to maintain the illusion of fate. Fine, but don't come at me with this forced emotion. Mona Achache has talent, but The Hedgehog is a nice simulation of a wise film. She's neither prickly nor comprehensive. It's just neatly neat, full of clichés and wisdom in a nutshell.

If as much care as is given to the mise-en-scène was devoted to other elements of the narrative, this would be a brilliant film. This is an amorphous goulash with the neurotic Juliette Binoche, and while I was watching her I couldn't shake the impression that she had wasted an admirable amount of artistic resources on such a character. This is true of Gitai's entire film.

Amazing. A garage documentary about a group of disabled Congolese homeless people who dreamed of a country called Europe and conquered it with their cutting street music five years later. The authors may not be the best documentary filmmakers, but the invalid and dirty form fantastically resonates with the content. Some moments are monumental and without a doubt more impressive than all the millionaires from third world shacks. This isn't about snot-nosed sentiment - it's the story of people who had a dream and a lot of luck. I don’t think I've ever been so moved by a similar idyll as when a bunch of ragged ghetto men rejoice in a burnt CD and repeat in an enchanted way: "It's beautiful." Benda Bilili! takes one into heaven without peeling his feet from the mud of the earth. One of the experiences of the year - including added value in the form of a distressing feeling as to whether this modern dream can only have good endings.

A queer film that's not kosher in the metrosexual-advertising style of the contemporary West. In fact, it is full of sweat, raw meat and tightness. Without grand gestures, big words and excessive emotions. Zohar Strauss' eye performance is almost brilliant. Haim Tabakman made a film that is an interesting probe into the Orthodox Jewish community and an even more interesting "subsurface" drama. Only a person who can't see below the surface of Mikve can call it a "film about nothing".

Harmonic lyricism, simple symbolism and a burning drama about loss and sadness. Outstanding performances by Charlotte Gainsborough and young Morgana Davies, a wonderfully "swinging" camera, a heartfelt musical accompaniment and, despite the seeming simplicity, a film which can be thought about for a long time. This is how I imagine open and intelligent drama.

I'm saying it now: I didn't understand this film very well. Was this supposed to be a parody, or are those incredibly bearded agitations for female power and capitalism's golden days just a satirical shot in the dark? I don't know, anyway, lousy, lousy work, stuffy, boring, bedraggled and without energy. A dried-out wing. Or a thigh? Well, all we can do is nostalgically reminisce about a time when French directors knew that class schemes sucked and the main thing was fun.

An incredibly deep-seated film filth that, unlike his debut, Vinterberg managed 100% thanks to his puritanically inconvenient form. It only intensifies individual emotional undertones, which the ordinary film language would lose through stylizing. The movement of the camera and the edit in some passages reach an inhuman intensity (Michael and his wife's argument, the ingenious "getting warmer, getting warmer" passage) – not to mention the tried-and-tested acting trio of Steen-Bo Larsen-Thomsen. Vinterberg takes full advantage of what the greatest heroes have suggested: a devastating talent to pull the viewer into the filthy mud and roll him out there with the thoroughness of a hippopotamus. The family celebration is also a celebration of cinematic immediacy, the uselessness of aestheticization and power, which is released directly on set. A monstrous stack of meat of Nordic roast tenderloin.