Matty

It would be a shame if the assessment of this documentary got stuck on doubts about Ruppert’s mental health. Sure, maybe he’s a headcase, but how else could he know so much information about so many subjects? He comes across as a person adept at politics, economics, agriculture, mass media and spiritual matters (however, his monumental arrogance and faith in God don’t go well together). In short, he seems to be as clever as the hundredth monkey. Even if his other predictions didn’t pan out, he came dangerously close to the truth with the Greek revolution. With respect to the formalistic aspect, there isn’t much to say. I was bothered by the long pauses, which were probably intended to dramatise the words, which are chilling anyway. Whereas other documentaries tell you everything, this one leaves enough space for our own consideration, as much as it would be a shame to stick only to that. 80%

The feline adventurer in high boots got an opportunity to enhance his portfolio with his own feature-length film. Given his performance, there is a good chance that he will get more offers. These ninety minutes don’t abound with plot, the narrative would need bolder villains and more clearly defined objectives (the feline heist movie indicated at the beginning ultimately doesn’t materialise). However, the film smoothly moves forward and it isn’t slowed down even by the explanatory flashback, whose perceived tiresomeness is disparaged by the characters themselves. The screenwriters rather imaginatively set up the pretexts for the actions scenes, which are the film’s primary attraction (other than the tomcat’s pleading expression), though the originality lies not so much in the plot as in the multiculti intertwining of various fairy tales (Mother Goose, Humpty Dumpty, Jack and the Beanstalk). I can’t say how compatible such a fairy-tale compilation will be with the taste of a child audience, but lovers of “pure” classics devoid of jokes suitable for a censored version of American Pie will not be pleased. The offer of humour for parents is largely limited to various mild obscenities. The work with conventional adult genres is not as frequent and non-aggressive as in the first Shrek movies (other than heist movies, mainly chorizo westerns are disparaged, and the cat’s disguise is reminiscent of the costumes worn by luchadores wrestlers, though I have no idea if that was intentional), so all that’s left for the non-child viewer is to primarily enjoy how nicely the film with Garfield’s antithesis in the title role moves along. Those for whom that is not enough can think about the target audience from the perspective of gender. A seemingly boyish adventure paired a narcissistic cat with an egg-shaped something (that apparently doesn’t have eggs) and an emancipated thieving kitty, not to mention the film’s girlish content with an abundance of lovable stuffed animals and sophisticatedly choreographed dance scenes. 70%

The Ukrainian-born enfant terrible Eugene Deslaw, who collaborated with Czech avant-gardists (especially Zet Molas), added a funny commentary to Gaumont’s old slapstick, resulting in greater absurdity than even Monty Python could have come up with when they were at the top of their game.

The guys, of whom the most frequently mentioned is eighty years old, recall how in the 1960s they weren’t being bold when they showed more swinging breasts and exposed brain matter than was usual in American cinema. The cards are laid on the table from the beginning: yes, we made terrible crap, but it was fun and we were the first to do it. More than the course of filming, with a few exceptions regarding the making of particular gore scenes, the witnesses focus on the nature and (in)capabilities of their collaborators (quote: “of all the Playmates involved, she was the most wooden”). The juicy shots quickly lose their appeal and, unfortunately, none of those present is able to speak engagingly enough to add some zest to the stories from filming. The real experts couldn’t get a word in (only John Waters offers a few valuable remarks). On the one hand, this laid-back, fannish approach is likable, with the camera unabashedly entering Lewis’s home. On the other hand, you won’t learn much from it.

A pleasant setting with nice, affluent people who deal with existential issues and talk about ordinary things, behind which something more complicated is concealed. The beginning is very Rohmer-esque, and the film becomes more sorrowful from there. No frantic action is set off by the inherited property. For laymen, it is old junk; for professionals, artifacts; for the characters, tangible pieces of the past. Assayas impartially observes the “path” of this inheritance, leaving it up to us to decide what we think about the three siblings (I thought the three telephones were a mean gift, as if to ensure that Helene would contentedly stay where she was) and relying on emotions to arise depending on our own memories. If you don’t have anything to remember, that’s a problem, but I was properly touched by the ending, when even a representative of the younger generation realises what she is losing along with the old house. 80%

Goosebumps from start to finish. 95%

“It’s very easy to end up alone.” Even banalities can be touching if they’re delivered with feeling. Beginners, an Freudian interior tragicomedy, seems fresh despite not offering anything radically new in terms of form or content. The fragmentation of the cyclical narrative, depicting life experience in the post-modern age without a beginning or end, and the absence of greater drama and lesser conflict distinguish the film from more straightforward relationship dramas with a clear goal (as does the “indie” look with melancholic autumnal colours). The relationships between the characters are not conceived in a trivial manner. The only thing that’s regrettable about the film, though understandable given the autobiographical nature of the script, is the focusing of all attention on Oliver. The others – his father, his mother, his new girlfriend and his father’s lover – thus serve only as the key to understanding his personality, by himself and by us. The possibility, or rather capability of self-expression is the film’s central theme, from which Mills takes a slight, fidgety (of course, in accordance with the chosen form of the narrative) detour into politics, civic engagement and old films. After the death of his father, who for a long time could not give expression to his homosexuality, Oliver withdraws into himself instead of letting the world know that he is here, that he is lonely (because of his nature), sad (because of the past and memories) and filled with worry (because of the future). Unlike the gay men whose voices were silenced for decades, the only thing that stops him from screaming is his own inability to accept the change in his life brought about by his father’s death. He is drawn back into the world of talking (i.e. not canine) heads by – psychoanalysts, take note – a girl without a voice, disguised as a man when they first meet (or she is at first just a substitute for Oliver’s father, filling the empty space). Anna and Oliver’s outwardly simple and ordinary coming together uses a number of romantic clichés that involve breaking up and making up and, in light of the doubly irrational relationship between Oliver’s mother and father, raise questions that don’t come up in an ordinary romance. For example, the most basic question – why do two people stay together? On the relationship level, it’s obvious how personal a film Beginners is for Mills. The crucial word is “sensitivity” and the actors give it meaning. Ewan McGregor, whose restrained speech corresponds superbly to Oliver’s state of mind, for once falls under the suspicion that he is playing his part under the influence of Valium. The veteran actor Christopher Plummer, who enjoys his role as an “old queer” as much as Mélanie Laurent relishes her role as a charming protector, about whom you can know everything and she will still give the impression of being mysterious. She is thus a bit like a being from another world, outwardly unburdened by any serious concerns, but again that slightly buck-passing excuse comes up – Anna serves exclusively for the protagonist to find himself, so a more thorough depiction of her is not desirable. Beginners managed to avoid that stupidly optimistic, everything’s-going-to-be-okay, everyone-is-happy feeling and yet, despite a certain unevenness, it leaves you with a thoroughly pleasant feeling. A feeling that you don’t have to be ashamed of. 80%

The future master director hones his style with this banal story/non-story from the streets that he knows so well. It’s as if he projected part of himself into the character played by Harvey Keitel (also making his debut), a big fan of John Wayne movies and proponent of classic westerns. Neither the experimental concept of some of the scenes – particularly the sexual collage, added in solely for the purpose of attracting a distributor – or John Cassavetes’s declaration that “This film is better than Citizen Kane” can really improve the unfortunate impression that I got from the movie’s overall self-indulgence and superficiality. But like all Scorsese films, it is exquisitely paced. 70%

I like the way De Niro doesn’t rush anywhere in the narrative and takes his time with the characters and their motivations so that he can deliver even harder blows in the nicely pumped-up ending. Though he plays the somewhat hackneyed character of an always even-keeled father, he avoids preaching as a director. You can’t avoid some decisions. A Bronx Tale takes an equally ambiguous approach to some of the less appealing aspects of American history. In one of the film’s most critical scenes, the America of the 1960s is harshly confronted with the good old America of urbane Italian mobsters. This is how respect is established and polarities of opinion are put to rest. There is nothing to spoil the pleasant impression of a job well done in terms of the film’s craftsmanship, but there is also no thrilling moment, truly strong idea or unforgettable acting performance. Despite that, A Bronx Tale is an outstanding directorial debut. 80%

Producers are people too – Levinson’s adaptation of the book by Art Linson (a producer by trade) doesn’t offer anything particularly innovative. The intertwining of the story involving an unsuccessful film (don’t kill children and dogs) with Ben’s effort to make things right is imaginative except for the use of an unimaginative soundtrack, but it fails to take advantage of the analogy between the self-reverence of art and that of certain people. The film doesn’t have a proper beginning or ending; it rather goes in circles and allows the unchanging characters to behave only in the way we would expect from actors in a Hollywood comedy. The problem lies in the nature of the work, which is not exclusively comedic, as it plucks a not straightforwardly sad but somehow sadly deaf string. This is also due to De Niro’s tired performance, whose Ben doesn’t give the impression of being aggressive enough to succeed in the face of overwhelming competition. I like films set in the world of filmmaking, the biting ones showing us that not even the biggest stars lack a sense of humour. Unfortunately, however, this satire has only a set of poorly fitting dentures. 65%