Marigold

A few interesting scenes and forcing yourself into deadpan poetics are not enough when the film relies on the classic pillars of Czech comedy: rednecks, pussies, vulgarisms, sweaty sex, and stars playing in "comic disguises". Add to that stupid stereotypes and the invention of a new form of dialect, which is the only thing that Krobot excels at. Nowhere in Moravia offers the misery of Czech cinema in full, but in a slightly more acceptable packaging.

A folklore ballad about fighting the elements, coexistence with nature and the awakening of a girl's body. Conservative directing style, supple lyrical shooting, typologically selected main roles and impressive design. The only thing to complain about is the instructional music and a certain form of leatherness, which certainly goes hand in hand with the genre, but at the same time can be grasped much more elegantly (e.g., the similarly tuned film Bal by Semi Kaplanoglu). [65%]

A real event. The framework of the fourteen stations is not used for its own sake - on the contrary, the story of the teenage Mary communicates with Christian symbolism civilly and argues in stratum with religious fundamentalism. Yet it does not become a dull anti-religious agitator, but rather functions as a destructive family drama that is smooth down to the last detail. Some of the scenes are reminiscent of the hard irony of Seidl (the gym), whilst others absolutely uniquely combine realism and the iconic "station". Stations of the Cross can be both an emotional KO and an extremely well-thought-out aesthetic gesture. The sophistication of the script is captivating, and if we can talk about sharpening down to the last detail, then it is in this film (the confession scene!). Dietrich Brüggemann builds on the best tradition of Austrian and German cinema, with its ability to materially penetrate the center of the pathological phenomenon and let the viewer experience its banality and destructive consequences. A film-monster, revealing the thin line between love, dedication and fanaticism.

An unbelievable imitation of Mexican art lyricism (only the camera is somewhat ok), which eventually falls into the hands of soap opera wisdoms, semipathic symbols and sticky sentiment, badly disguised as rawness. This makes it truly annoying. A classic specimen of a festival art. Not to be confused with an art film.

A brilliant genre pirouette that works inventively with the influences of noir and hints of a hardboiled detective story, connecting them with typically Asian techniques and storytelling rhythm. In many aspects, this peculiar oscillation between disjointed moods and explosive twists in the shots is reminiscent of Joon-ho Bong's phenomenal detective epic Memories of Murder. At any rate, Yinan Diao is original. The work with color, rhythm, pre-camera space and characters is uniquely focused, clear, unpretentiously hinting and masterfully plays with expectations. The fireworks point with a change in the relationship of the femme fatale is completely disarming. Laughter and tears. Definitely one of the films of the year. [90%]

Demons are lousy room painters, and owls are not what they seem. A senselessly swollen mix of police procedural, a dark Fincher thriller about the crisis of (post) postmodern society, and all the exorcist horror movies you've ever seen. Instead of a chilling treatment of the actual events, Satchie's supposedly real case appears to be a confused excerpt of a viewer who has seen far too many genre films. Derrickson's style is very cumbersome compared to the sophistication and accuracy of Sinister, and there is very little work with gradation. After a few minutes, when guys with loose make-up and creaking devil whores parade on the screen, the film moves exactly on the unpleasant edge of terror and mockery. Although in my opinion he never went too far to one side, he also certainly didn't settle on the good one either. An excessive number of aggressive and unimaginative jump scares, this time mostly dysfunctionally involved in various ways of shooting, a couple of traditionally luxurious sonic terrors that are important for storytelling, excellently cast starring roles, and proof that Doors are evil only good enough for Sumerian demons. I was expecting an (un)pleasant summer ride through a haunted castle in the style of the excellent Conjuring, and what I got was a confused patchwork of many films blinded by didactic discussions about good, evil and atonement for guilt. Were it not for the traditionally powerful Bana and especially Ramirez, who should be hired by the Vatican as a sexy Jesuit, it would be a mess. This way, its slightly above-average, but at the same time a demonstration that Derrickson doesn’t do all that well in a genre that he should be good at. Of his three horrors, Deliver Us from Evil is the weakest.

B-movie shit that deals with its stupidity with an A-cast and ambitious emotional directing (after The Grey, Liam's pensive self-beautiful beginnings are probably becoming a tradition). The more refined the screenplay wants to be, it has to find that much more of a stupid and overcomplicated solution in a situation that makes no sense. That's because the screenwriters want you to knot your brain cells a little harder through a "big mystery". Were it not for the fact that the viewer can accept Neeson dramatically gargling of toilet disinfectant, this mannerist pretense of an intelligent thriller would be hardly bearable. This way, the stench pours out in the last ten minutes. But it is worth it. [55%]

Relative brain loss / the fun is worse than part two and three. Something keeps getting moved from place to place under a flimsy pretext, takes a position, destroys everything within reach and travels further for another flimsy reason. The 165 minutes and the lobotomized story sometimes made it difficult for me to understand why, because it all seems so sparse, a bit like an advertisement for (mostly American) cars accompanied by pyrotechnic effects. At the end, the film plays to the Chinese audience, everyone hugs and the story returns roughly to where it was at the beginning of part one, and only the appearance of the actors and their casting changes a little. If you're able to spend two and three-quarters of an hour to see the capabilities of 3D IMAX detail, you're ok, but while Edwards recalled the magic of the perspective in Godzilla, this sounds like a fucking waste of time and money to me. For fans of the series, the good news is that Transformers can continue to run in an endless loop, because "we all have a boss" and even the highest boss has a higher boss. [40%]

The first two parts, which, like "Durkin" unpredictably pass between two states of consciousness (before / after the catastrophe), they are a completely phenomenal example of how the poetics of psychological art film can be combined with the attractive structure of series storytelling. Although the second half of the series is visually and impressive in terms of acting, sometimes it has a hard time withstanding the intentional short-circuiting and neurotic nature of the actions of the characters. It is saved a fair but by Durkin's way of defending clarity, but I can't shake the feeling that it was either supposed to be a radical feature film, or a longer series that would elaborate on the characters and their relationships. Despite the slight mess of the last episode and the bitterness that the captivating energy of the first hour and a half eventually vanishes into the swampy fog, I rate this distinctive interpretation of Quality TV highly. [80%]

A film whose major failures (dramaturgical non-disciplinaryness, didactics and acting / staging awkwardness of some scenes) are balanced by the thriftiness and accuracy of observation, the precise ability to capture depressing fragments of reality and the simple fact that a person is not only the result of social, but also psychological limits. Moreover, The Way Out is far from humanistic blackmail. The film is sometimes very funny, often relentless and just as often absorbent. A Czech film that finally repays its debt to modern social drama and leaves far behind tumultuous attempts such as My Dog Killer, El Paso or Flower Buds. The Way Out simply shows the way out, though (half-heartedly here and there) it lags behind the uncompromising verism of the Dardenn brothers and the lyrical realism of Bence Fliegauf. [80%]