Matty

Costa brought his mesmerising style to a state of perfection. He shot this work in a somehow very non-filmic way with refined static shot compositions, reminiscent of canvases by Rembrandt or Vermeer and close to what one would see in theatre or the fine arts. At the same time, however, it is a work that cannot be more cinematic in how, through concentrated work with light, shade and offscreen sounds, it creates atmosphere, tension and expectations and controls what we see and what remains concealed from us. Between light and darkness, futility and hope, there are also outsider characters, whose artistically enthralling sketches are a substitute for the plot. Vitalina Varela is a masterpiece. 90%

The exceptionality of La Flor consists in far more than its runtime, which is equal to a full season of an epic series (after subtracting numerous intermezzos and the forty-minute closing credits). It is a work that is unique on so many levels that dissertations could be written about it. Or you can simply enjoy how well made it is and how it can surprise viewers with something throughout its runtime and create subtle connections between individual segments, the result of which is that you do not feel as if you are watching a miniseries or anthology. ___ The prologue, in which the director introduces the structure of the entire film and sets forth the central theme of “what can still be told today and how?”, is followed by six episodes, each of which plays with the conventions of a different genre (a B-level horror movie, a melodramatic musical, a spy thriller, a film about film, a black-and-white remake of Renoir’s A Day in the Country, an experimental anthropological pseudo-documentary) and, as in a sweeping novel, frequently branches out into numerous subplots. Aside from viewers’ expectations, which of course are not fulfilled due to the fact that, for example, almost none of the episodes has an ending (thanks to which we also realise that we are primarily watching the actual storytelling process, with all of the vacillation that goes with it), and waiting itself becomes relevant during the individual episodes. For example, the third episode is based entirely on a Tarantino-esque delaying of the final confrontation between two hostile groups of secret agents. That delay, directly thematicised in individual flashbacks, does not take thirty minutes, but five and a half hours, which is done ad absurdum. ___ Thanks to the layered narrative, the polished style, the strong self-reflective dimension (which is strongest in the fourth episode, where the crew deals with how to continue further) and deviations from the established concept, watching La Flor is never dull or predictable for even a moment. It is not slow cinema requiring an extremely patient viewer, but a dense and entertaining multi-genre experiment with the possibilities of a long, jagged narrative in which more and more stories are constantly layered on top of each other (from what I saw, it is most akin to Gomes’s three-part Arabian Nights). Therefore, one of the most emotionally powerful and, in a certain aspect, purest and truest sequences is that from the fourth episode in which the female leads do not appear in any story, do not play roles, but only freely improvise in front of the camera (just like during the closing credits). ___ Despite the impression of an epic narrative freestyle work, piling up ideas originating on the fly, La Flor is a maturely crafted and inventively structured film whose individual parts organically interconnect certain stylistic techniques (e.g. refocusing between various action plans), well-developed motifs and (primarily) a quartet of astonishingly talented and photogenic actresses, whose acting art Mariano Llinás pays tribute to (and, at the same time, allows him to stand out in every nuance, as required by the various genres and acting in multiple foreign languages). As an expression of thanks for being involved in the filming, which took roughly nine years without breaks, the director gives the actresses a gift, which is the film itself – it is not a coincidence that his narrative scheme, which Llinás sketches out at the beginning, resembles a flower, la flor. ___ Whereas you merely watch other movies, you can experience an unforgettable weekend with La Flor. 90%

Though Douglas is much funnier than Nanette (and most films and series that I have seen in recent years), it similarly defies the rules of stand-up comedy in an original way and offers an ironic commentary on those rules. In addition to her comedic craft, Gadsby makes fun of anti-vaxxers, the Ninja Turtles and the patriarchy, and through an unforgettable analysis of Renaissance paintings, she also takes a shot at people who complained that Nanette was reminiscent of a lecture (Gadsby’s attitude to criticism is not the slightest bit resentful – we have plenty of specialists among male comedians for that). Her perhaps best joke, on the topic of Louis CK, perfectly punctuates her performance ___ What is most important – the inventive structure of the whole performance is broken down in great detail by the comedian during the first fifteen minutes, which gives the rest of the show a remarkable meta-dimension, because in addition to the jokes, we are amused by how they (don’t) fit into the previously presented framework (which, incidentally, is partly derived from Gadsby’s autism, which adds another level of meaning to everything). The individual segments represent various types of stand-up comedy (observational, telling jokes, presentations with pictures) and their tone differs slightly, but they are so brilliantly interwoven with numerous inside jokes (arising in the course of the performance itself) that they work flawlessly as a whole. A stand-up gem.

Just as the “resigned” Juliette Binoche entices Jeremy Irons to commit adultery, Louis Malle's penultimate film encourages a psychoanalytical reading. On the face of it, this is a film about a banal love triangle. One woman, two men. However, the woman is seeking a replacement for her brother and the men are a father and his son. It is an inversion of the Oedipus myth from the perspective of a husband (ego) whose mistress (id) helps him to rediscover the officially confirmed bond (superego) of suppressed desires. When, fully controlled by his instincts, he asks his new acquaintance, “Who are you, really?”, he attempts to push away some of the more prominent dark force that envelopes him. After years of socially regulated existence, he rediscovers himself, is fascinated, does not understand and loses control. Their austerely furnished, monochromatic meeting place serves as a dream space. Beyond the binding institution, outside of oppressive reality. The gentle work with symbols (blood – spilled wine) does not draw attention away from the ambiguously depicted characters, the man who loses control and the femme fatale who gains control (transforming herself from an object into a personality, thus at the same time ceasing to be desirable for her lover). Simultaneously victims and villains, both superbly portrayed. The slightly rushed introduction is completely redeemed by its simplicity and the epilogue that says it all: reality caught up with him, only idealised memories remain. 90%

Director Bing Liu spent twelve years filming two of his friends from the skateboarding community as they grew up and attempted to come to grips with roles for which they were not prepared. For Zack, a life test comes in the form of the birth of his son. Keire, six years younger, is forced to take on a more responsible attitude following the death of his father. In parallel with the trajectories of their lives, we see the transformation of their relationship with the filmmaker, whose own family history has an impact on the shooting process. Despite the many intoxicating intermezzos in which the protagonists indulge in skateboarding, this bumpy ride is not a film about skateboarding, but primarily about the effort to overcome economic and social constraints and to enter adulthood as a self-confident and independent person who will not be limited by his class, family relationships or race. Minding the Gap is an intimate, intelligently constructed film that retains an element of lightness despite the gravity of the topics that it addresses. 90%

Documentary phenomenon. A Danish journalist embarks on an investigation of the strange circumstances of the death of a former secretary general of the United Nations. In doing so, he encounters a devilish plan that is reminiscent of a second-rate horror movie, including secret laboratories in the African jungle, assassinations and “vaccines” with HIV. The uncovering of a vast conspiratorial network, in which the CIA, several European countries and multinational corporations are clearly involved and which may have had a major impact on the state of contemporary Africa, is framed by director Mads Brügger's attempt to give the narrative some kind of consistent form. That appears to be impossible, however, due to the large number of unreliable witnesses (of which there are many more than credible materials). In parallel with the gripping detective work that uncovers the conspiracy, we also see the journalist’s growing frustration with the fact that the truth continues to elude him and his original attempt to cope with the impossibility of separating fact from fiction by, on the one hand, continuously reflecting on what he has (not) discovered and, on the other hand, through animated sequences, which are admittedly unreliable reconstructions. If you enjoy highly complex spy thrillers with dozens of intricately connected characters in which understanding of the complex structure and links between the individual involved parties is of greater importance than clear and definitive conclusions, you will, like me, hold your breath for two hours. 90%

As Tarantino stated in an interview with Time magazine, “I thought, we don’t need a story. They're the story.” It does not matter at all that Once Upon a Time in Hollywood is less spectacular that Tarantino’s previous films (with the exception of Jackie Brown, with which it shares a slow pace, melancholic mood and greater focus on the characters). More than on perfectly timed jokes, memorable one-liners, unexpected twists and building tension in long sequences, the film relies on the characters’ emotions (or what – like Sharon Tate – they symbolise), construction of a fictional world, the period atmosphere and the actors’ charisma. At the same time, it has an inventive three-act structure that serves well both as an evocation of the late 1960s in Los Angeles and another of Tarantino’s discussions over film/real violence and cinema as a means of living multiple lives in parallel and bringing that which has perished back to life. SPOILERS FOLLOW! From great details to greatness as a whole. From a poster-boy hero to a hero who saves actual lives. From Nazisploitation to exploitation inspired by the Manson Family. A recollection of an era when American films became more artsy (The Graduate, Easy Rider) under the influence of European cinema and more violent under the influence of the Vietnam War and turmoil on the streets (Bonnie and Clyde, The Wild Bunch). Tarantino’s use of those techniques (for example, jump cuts and long, hopeless drives as in films of the French New Wave) recalls the given period not only through music, set design and costumes, but also in formal terms. Conversely, classic Hollywood is represented by two burnt-out cowboys who, like the long-serving bosses of the major studios, do not understand young “fucking hippies” and, in the narrative that is newly taking shape, are condemned to play the roles of villains, with which they have no intention of reconciling themselves. However, the end of their era is inevitable. The protagonist of the cowboy movie that Rick reads is taken out of action roughly halfway through the story due to a hip injury. Cliff is likewise injured at the end of the film. Thus, at the end of Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, it seems that we are only halfway through Cliff and Rick’s story. Their fate is already sealed and though the conclusion of the film, while rectifying one tragedy, may seem to be a happy ending, we know that the heroes do not come out of it well (the fact that Trudi Fraser/Jodie Foster reads a biography of the, for her, brilliant Walt Disney, whose racism and anti-Semitism will begin to be addressed many years later, has a similar maliciousness). In my opinion, the key to the cohesiveness of the narrative and understanding of the story lies in the blending together or, more appositely, doubling of the individual planes of this fictional world and their relationship to actual historical events that play a significant role in shaping our expectations and emotional response. We see Sharon Tate as she was depicted in period promotional videos and photographs (the fact that someone is looking at her, amplifying her unreachability, is accentuated throughout the film, though particularly during the Playboy party, when McQueen comments on her from afar). In the only scene where Sharon herself is watching, we actually watch Margot Robbie, admiring her murdered acting colleague on the screen. Cliff, peculiarly behind the movie screen (of a drive-in cinema), represents a truer version of Rick, as he endures actual blows for Rick and does the work that makes it possible for him to exist in the world of film and television (if he hadn’t repaired the television antenna, they would not be able to watch Rick’s cameo at the FBI). The heroes exist through stories in which they also play stories told about them, which – this is essential for Tarantino’s narrative concept – we do not always know whether they are true (did Cliff kill his wife or not?). Lines delivered in the context of a role have an impact on what happens in the characters’ lives (Rick as DeCoteau tells Luke Perry’s character that he will send his man to his ranch – we subsequently see Cliff coming to Spahn Ranch). The climax of breaking down the boundaries between the real and the possible is Cliff’s encounter with a trio of murderers, whose genuineness he doubts under the influence of LSD. His dog, which is basically the only one that does not play any role, but just simply is (a dog), has no doubts and will do the lion’s share of the work in eliminating the intruders. The relationship between film and reality, the actor and his role, and violence and its representation in the media has always fascinated Tarantino, at least as much as women’s feet. This time, he plays with the transitions between one and the other perhaps even more ingeniously than ever before, and even after two viewings, I still do not feel (not by a long shot) that I would be able to grasp and uncover everything that the film has to offer. 90%

A White, White Day is an exceptionally compelling festival slow burner, thanks especially to the raw lyrical involvement of the breathtaking Icelandic countryside, the natural actors and the way Pálmason works with (Scandinavian) crime-film conventions. The film has a detective-movie structure due to the fact that the protagonist applies the modus operandi learned during his police service to address his own suffering. The strive to find and apprehend perpetrators. The problem lies in the fact that no particular person committed the crime that we see in the prologue (at most, Ingimundur himself was an accomplice, if it was a suicide and not an accident). Therefore, the protagonist essentially has to create a perpetrator in order to have something to solve. In the tradition of art cinema, particularly the inner world of the depressed widower is addressed; his disconnection from his own emotions and the world around him is best illustrated by the transformation of his relationship with his eight-year-old granddaughter. He first merely teases her and then scares her with a fictitious story about a stolen liver (which is connected with the key motif of the dead coming back to life, which is “resolved” in the last scene) and finally terrifies her with his own real behaviour. Besides the fine work with motifs (for example, the constant elimination of obstacles, from bloodstains to stones on the path, recalling unaddressed trauma), I also admired the certainty with which Pálmason “builds” long shots of tens of seconds (perhaps even a few minutes) with long segments of dialogue, complex emotions and a lot of action (and possibilities when something could go wrong). A White, White Day is a simple story told in a captivating manner with a tremendous emotional impact. 90%

Forget about GoT; Barry offers the best fight scene. Furthermore, it takes place in broad daylight, so you can properly enjoy its choreography. In a surreal variation on Kill Bill, this series pushes the boundaries (of how far the protagonist can go without us completely condemning him) and goes far beyond the familiar space (similar to Donald Glover in some episodes of Atlanta) and even outside of the main storyline (no Sally, no Cousineau). In essence, however, it is another example of what Barry’s creators do best – defying the viewer’s expectations, repeatedly forcing you to ask “WTF?”. One might expect that the raw opening brawl, filmed in long layered shots with observationally impartial camerawork (while the participants occasionally disappear from the frame, which is typical of a series that maintains a dispassionate distance from its characters), would merely be a prologue to the story that follows. Instead of that, however, more and more complications accumulate in bizarre ways, and the whole thing is incredibly funny, exciting and grim (the flashback from the desert and the variation thereof at the end). This episode is the highlight of the season so far.

I understand that for viewers requiring a strong and original story, director Barry Jenkins’ serenade may be a disappointment (if the actual reason is not a combination of low emotional intelligence, latent racism and unwillingness to meet the work halfway, learn something about it in advance and try to understand its means of expression). The best melodramas, with whose conventions the film works inventively, always told primarily through music and colours (following the example of Claire Denis, Jenkins adds human faces and bodies, touches and glances, the way people communicate with each other verbally and nonverbally), were literal, very naive and narrowly focused their attention, at least outwardly, on expressing feelings within a relationship. If Beale Street Could Talk is not about overcoming conflicts and dramatic reversals. It allows us to experience (feel, perceive and touch) various situations in non-chronological order. With its composition with a regular rhythm, cyclical recurrences and overlapping scenes, it is reminiscent of a blues song or a lyrical poem. The aim is not realism, but an almost tangible evocation of a particular moment, mood and emotions, which are frequently contradictory (love, pain, sadness, laughter). However, politics also come into the film through the feelings – because we want (to see) a satisfying love story, together with the young couple we experience helplessness and disappointment from a world that repeatedly betrays them, which appeals to them only in order to remind them that because of their different skin colour, they do not have the same right as others to be blithely in love. If Beale Street Could Talk is a spellbinding film of extraordinary fragility, rare in the context of today’s film production due, among other things, to the above-standard requirements placed on the audience’s perceptiveness (which is in part because its tactile character arouses even those senses whose existence you are not aware of when watching other films). 90%