Isherwood

At a time when classic Disney animation hardly interested even kids anymore, Spielberg's DreamWorks came up with a masterpiece that kick-started classic animation to the fame it had vainly craved since The Lion King. The sweeping theme of the life of Moses has been simplified into an almost fairy tale form, yet it remains sufficiently reverent to the overall content to be enjoyed by audiences of all ages. The voice casting is accurate, Hans Zimmer avoided his usual motifs when composing the music and once again created an original and impressive composition. The animators did their best and the last Egyptian morning or the parting of the Red Sea are truly impressive. The Prince of Egypt is shining proof that animation can be both highly intelligent and entertaining (i.e., not boring).

A variation on Frankenstein served with wit and insight, relying on classic aspects of 1980s horror B-movies, i.e., the aesthetics of smashed bodies and the crazy central musical motif (upgraded this time by Herrman's work from Psycho). There's also the added bonus of the uncompromising Jeffrey Combs, whose distinguished-looking Dr. West is absolutely divine. If it weren't for the director's occasional stuttering (most of the non-horror sequences), Re-Animator would have been absolutely perfect. The way it is, it’s just slightly less than perfect.

Asia may not be a terrible director, but her attempt to be shocking at all costs perfectly destroys the potential of the film, which was supposed to be the viewer's sympathy for the little boy. This does happen at times, but these drops of emotion are too abbreviated, much like the entire narrative. There is no interconnectedness between the line of fathers, stepfathers, and foster parents, and everything is done in a mostly simple edit. I gave up watching the content during the second half. I also think it's unfortunate about the wasted casting, given that the religious fanatic Peter Fonda or the redneck Marilyn Manson are absolutely fantastic. By contrast, Asia herself in the lead role doesn't have the chops to carry the film, certainly not in the moments when the film's dramatic arc is building. She did a better job when she was showing her bulging ass at the police station or during the dance number at the bar. As a whole, the film feels like a cheap provocation, although it is quite possible that it will appeal to some.

Even after more than twenty years, this is still a young, fresh, and innovative sci-fi film that has lost none of its appeal. However, Scott's visual vision, supported by Vangelis' music, completely overwhelms the content, which is far too simple in its nature and I certainly wouldn't call it a philosophy. I also don't see much soulful romance in Deckard's relationship with Rachael. I was much more impressed by the demonic Roy Batty whose speeches about the experience of living in fear and tears in the rain resonated with me for the rest of the film. This is a film cult for connoisseurs and for me an extraordinary experience after a two-year hiatus from it, which probably won't be as long next time.

A stylistically polished blend of (self-)parody references to both the entire previous works of Kevin Smith and the entire retroactive decade of contemporary Hollywood. His distinctive take on pop culture (movies, music, comics) is entertaining to the extent that the viewer is willing to accept the torrent of vulgarities that most viewers seem to condemn out of hand, to be enjoyed by those who find the term "my pussy" both romantic and amusing.

At a time when the word "series" is becoming almost an annoying concept, from the depths of inconspicuousness comes a stylish blockbuster that is three levels above its contemporaries. Dexter - the absolutely divine Michael C. Hall - will wrap anyone interested in his adventures around his finger with his cynically black-humored look into the soul of a cold-blooded killer who wears a police badge around his neck. The series then radically changes its image after this brilliant maneuver into a detective story that will make the viewer taut as a string, to reveal, piece by piece, more secrets, the discovery of which not only brings no relief but also, through its subtlety, leaves the audience in a state of total consternation, from which it only wakes up when the credits of the last episode roll. After the end of the first season, I can safely say that in the current flood of series, Dexter is among the very best! There are certainly things to criticize in the subsequent seasons (the predictable crime storylines, underdeveloped characters, lapses in logic), but Dexter's reflections on life (the fantastic flirtation with religion and faith in the sixth season) are simply incredible and keep pushing the series forward. Unfortunately, the final eighth season is something that shifts the series into the science fiction genre, written by the screenwriters of a family soap opera. The development of the main character was fascinating until someone rubber-stamped the creators' approval of Dexter's lobotomy.

The ethereal fusion of image and music has an almost hypnotic effect on the viewer, but I certainly wouldn't see that progressiveness in form (Gattaca) or content (12 Monkeys). Emotionally, Code 46 is as cold as a piece of ice, which is unfortunately aided by the most important element, i.e., the completely inappropriate casting of the main characters. Their chemistry with each other is an absolutely perfect destroyer of any viewer empathy, as Robbins' detective looks too old next to the young Morton (whose boyish "look" made me not want to trust that femininity even in the moment of her exposed lap), which makes their love scenes have the same (un)sympathetic effect as the Hopkins-Kidman pairing in the snobby art film The Human Stain. It’s an unexceptional story whose soundtrack actually makes a much stronger impression.

While Smith's first film suffered from a lot of brevity and too much episodicity of the individual characters, the second time around he managed to avoid all such ills and made a brilliant film that is a perfect reflection of his love for the pop culture world around him. Dialogues about comic book superheroes (the interview with Stan Lee is brilliant), dissecting the Star Wars phenomenon, but also a lot of vulgarities, which are not self-serving but rather entertaining and hide many moral lessons, the least of which is that love is important for each of us. A cinematic jewel that mirrors the filmmaker's genius like few things do.

Directed in a clear, formally "retro-cool" style, the plot is multi-layered yet still engaging, and the acting is perfectly precise. It deftly makes 1950s America and the City of Angels into an alluring backdrop, within whose seemingly heavenly purity lies the dirtiness of a morality to which human life, let alone the law are sacred. Over the expansive 130-minute runtime, Hanson fleshes out the characters of the police officers, who surely deserved better personal histories than the boilerplate phrase about an abused child's sordid past or an exemplary son following in his father's footsteps. This is only broken by Kevin Spacey's cynical, self-righteous Jack Vincennes when, when asked why he joined the police, he replies "I don't really remember." Yet even that doesn't stop the film from captivating us with every frame, from breathing its amazing atmosphere onto audiences, but also making them wonder how the hell Kim Basinger could win an Oscar for such a role. PS: For me, the moment when Bud White breaks the chair is one of the most iconic moments of cinema.

When comparing the half-minute or so sequence of the kids' metamorphosis from the film itself to how much he showed off in his own short spin-off, this four-minute short is pretty poor. In addition, the runtime is taken up by the hysterical babysitter and awkward agent, and so while the sight of a burning baby is ultra-cool and will be sure to amuse anyone, it's pretty solid hype with maximum disappointment.