Matty

Like that of Oldřich Lipský’s comparably “different” Happy End, the initial premise of Who Wants to Kill Jessie? is amazing. However, its elaboration in the form of a feature-length film is lame. The lengthy exposition provides sufficient space to think about what this nonsense with a machine for materialising dreams is actually about. The rest of the story comprises a somewhat chaotic hunt for and then somewhat drastic elimination of the dreams. It’s not very stimulating, even at eighty minutes. The funnier side of the matter consists in the acting and the probable source of inspiration for Macourek, Vorlíček and Saudek – American comic books were unavailable to them, but Joe Shuster, creator of Superman, liked to use the motif of (S&M) whipping in his “side project” for adults. Could the film’s creators have chosen a better, and better looking, actress for the role of Jessie than Dana Medřická, the embodiment  of the dullness of communist ideology? And a more diabolical comic-book villain could have been found. (Judging by appearance, Jiří Sovák with anti-gravity gloves and a mad-scientist haircut comes to mind, but by his nature, he is a generally likable character who just wants to escape from the stultifying socialist routine.) Deliverance from the greyness of everyday life fittingly (and provocatively) comes in the form of materialisation of the American Dream. ___ The adjective “unique” belongs to the film’s technical level at the place and time of its creation. It was filmed in CinemaScope format and in black-and-white to make the effects feasible, which doesn’t hurt anything; on the contrary, black-and-white distinguishes Who Wants to Kill Jessie? from the colourful comic-book movies from overseas (where a remake was even supposed to be made, but then came the events of 1968). There could have been more jokes based on the enrichment of the two-dimensional world with a third dimension, but I still had the impression that I was watching a film that was destined to be made a few decades later. In short, Vorlíček was ahead of his time, so he can be forgiven for this film’s weak storytelling. 80%

A better four, five and four stars. The confrontational asking of questions that we probably don’t want to know the answers to, but we can hardly pretend that they don’t concern us. Each of the three stories is based on a dilemma that humanity has not had to deal with YET, and each also addresses the degree to which we are still able to maintain our healthy judgment when we come face to face with the “black mirror”. On the surface, there is no reason for media content to be subject to different moral criteria than lived reality. But the media, especially television, is based on the presentation of distant worlds that do not concern us and that we will probably never encounter (sometimes unfortunately, sometimes fortunately). A dose of raw reality, images that not only touch us directly, but are in part created because of us (if only because we couldn’t say “no”), a harsh, unfortunately brief look into the world behind the mirror, into a world that is nevertheless harmless. At its climactic moment, the second story also draws attention to the post-modern disparagement of all values. As soon as there is any hint of something serious, it must immediately be turned into part of a game whose rules are broadly accepted. The absorption of the oppositional voice into the uniform flow of television thus makes real and lasting change impossible. It’s all just for fun and anyone who doesn’t take it that way doesn’t understand how the game is supposed to be played. Though it’s still above average, I rate the third episode as the weakest due to its intimate scale (thanks to which, however, it has a chance to burrow deeper into the viewer’s mind) and the experience-recording technology’s similarity to the device in Strange Days, where it was a means of more far-reaching social change. 90%

An immortal romantic musical from an era when classic musicals were on life support. Thanks to the epic directing and richness of the colours, Beauty and the Beast is a spectacle that is capable of thrilling viewers of both genders and all age categories (the musical, romantic and horror scenes are directed with the same degree of professionalism and seriousness as in high-quality live-action films of those same genres). It is as invaluable for explaining the concept of “love” to children as The Lion King is for explaining the cycle of life (and why members of one’s family are sometimes the biggest beasts). At the same time, the comprehensible story with a clear concept can serve as an impetus for a more or less serious debate on gender stereotypes (boys as animals whom only a woman, a fragile beauty, can lead to a civilised life). Beauty and the Beast is one of those later Disney movies than can with a straight face be compared to the studio’s peak works. 85%

On the glittering surface, Soderbergh adores the strippers, while on the inside he laughs at their transference of existential experience into beautiful bodies and powerful experiences. Probably. He doesn’t lead us to a single, unambiguous reading of Magic Mike, so it’s not a problem to see it as being akin to Flashdance (and other dance-themed ‘80s hits), given its story about a poor, not very bright guy who whose handsome face and simulation of sexual movements brought him wealth, fame and drugs. In various imaginative ways, however, the film makes it clear that this is not a typical rise-to-stardom story. The appealing striptease performances, pumped up with loud music and lighting effects, contrast with the simplest possible dialogue scenes devoid of music and camera tricks (long shots, a static camera, a lively and occasionally funny mise-en-scéne). The dialogue, which is more important in terms of its content than as means of expression for the characters, was either superbly written and acted or at least partially improvised. The hesitations, pauses, slips of the tongue, shy glances and bashful gestures transport us back from the flawless world of pumped-up penises and fake police uniforms to awkwardly natural reality. Thanks to his previous experience, Channing Tatum clearly knew best how to depict a man whose exhibitionism gives him a false sense of control, but those whom he thinks are under his control (Alex Pettyfer) or whose uncontrollability leads him to confront his own “emptiness” (Cody Horn) are no less authentic. In the most straightforward sense of the word, the star of the evening is Matthew McConaughey, the personification of the word “macho”, who was finally offered a role requiring nothing more than what he has built his entire acting career on – tough-guy talk and an ostentatious exhibition of his abdominal muscles. Bare male bodies appear frequently in the film, in lengthy shots and – with one exception – without liberating cuts to the face of someone who finds such behaviour inappropriate. I would venture to guess that these scenes will seem unnecessary especially to the men in the audience, which may have been a marketing tactic (the ideal film for a girls’ night out), as well as the director’s attack on the male gaze, on the unwritten rule that calls for much more frequently exposing the bodies of women, whose nudity is conversely presented here without any sensationalism. The constant duplicity and endless uncertainty of whose side Soderbergh is on do not in any way disturb the film’s cohesiveness (which is rather disrupted by a few needless camera exhibitions with an image with qualities other than those of sunny California) and create a peculiar tension behind a story that is seemingly so simple and smooth that it could easily slip by less attentive viewers. The excitement that the film provides is not only sensual (regardless of your preferences), but also cinephilic. 80%

The main motto of Spider-Man, “With great power comes great responsibility”, was stretched out over the entire film. Fulfilling this concept brings greater satisfaction to both the protagonist and the viewer than a battle between a spider and a lizard on the streets of New York. The new Spider-Man is for the most part a (well-directed) high school comedy about the troubles of growing up, in which a spider bite serves primarily as an accelerator of hormonal development. The attempt to combine the school and superhero aspects comes across as half-baked (the scene of intoxication after the first date with Gwen is excellent, for example) not because of the believably shy Garfield, but because of the matter-of-factness with which the other characters – e.g. the dream girl and the school bully – accept him in his new role. As in other recent comic-book adaptations, The Amazing Spider-Man is most entertaining in the moments when the traditional hero concept is called into question in various ways. It goes even farther in this regard than those other films, as the nerdy protagonist plays with the bad guys rather than terrifying them (like Batman), and until the moment of his awakening, he plays solely for fun, with a similar light-heartedness as if he were playing a video game (probably Mirror’s Edge). The needlessly drawn-out final third replaces the model of the irresponsible boy with that of a man who takes responsibility, which surprisingly is weighed down with pathos as could be expected, though we can wonder how seriously Webb intended some of the scenes with subversive potential (e.g. the eggs). Thanks to the connection between Peter, seeking a surrogate father figure, to the other male characters (his uncle, Gwen’s father and, at first, Dr. Connors), the transformation is unabridged and psychologically comprehensible, with the only digression from it being the “sunny” shot before the credits, which at most is understandable from the commercial perspective. Like its protagonist, The Amazing Spider-Man is somewhat inconsistent and slightly comic-bookish, and a bit (more) of a romantic comedy, but – like the protagonist – it is likable in that it doesn’t show off too much, has a sense of humour and doesn’t make an epic tragedy out of the fact that one crackpot scientist decided to give backward humanity a bit of an upgrade. 70%

Bad Girls is an elegantly filmed, subtly erotic thriller whose suspense is derived not from actions, for which the ground is only prepared through much of the film, but from the unspoken thoughts and unexpressed emotions between the characters. They are given a voice by the camerawork and setting – carefully chosen colours and placement of characters, who either ignore each other or exchange glances filled various meanings, though rarely pure emotion. Of course, instead of circling each other for ninety minutes like two cats ready to pounce at any moment, the ladies could just talk through what’s bothering them in a single dialogue scene. But then we wouldn’t be able to savour the rising tension, the excellent study of the human need for control (over property as well as over people), or the director’s use of film as an intellectual weight room. Some of the shots confidently balance on the edge of visual navel-gazing, but the actresses are beautiful and the atmosphere of gradual decadent decay is captivating. Thanks to Bad Girls, it seems that I will finally start to discover the Chabrol rejected after The Cousins. 80%

It’s truly hard not to compare the two Maries in Daisies to Hana and Hana (characters from a comic strip published in the Czech magazine Reflex in the days when I wasn’t ashamed to read it), two other naïve adolescent girls who in overheard phrases guilelessly comment on the strangeness of the world and (inadvertently) their own weirdness. Their monstrous vanity leaves adults indifferent. Criticism is thus not directed only at the ranks of nihilistic youth. Nor are the working people (the man in the garden, the workers leaving the factory) spared, as they are just as indifferent to what’s happening around them as the two Maries are. Here and there, though especially in the opening scene, this film by Chytilová, Kučera and Krumbachová resembles a comic book set in motion and also having a fragmented structure. The repeated attempts to cut them out and paste them on the wall corresponds to the “paperiness” of the protagonists. An interesting way to ensure that one leaves something behind. Like the pages of a comic book, the flat shots lead us not deeply into the picture, but to the surface, and the people whom the director is primarily criticising with her film are also superficial. At the same time, the excess of formalistic devices used in the film is not a means of gratuitously testing how much the viewer can bear (which was the impression I got from Fruit of Paradise). The abrupt change of colour filters corresponds to the absent-mindedness of the girls, who have a short attention span (their mantra could be “I’m bored already”). The film’s dramaturgy stands out with the same impudence as the visual aspect. Instead of a linearly constructed drama, we watch a discontinuous sequence of episodes. A similar structure characterised the anarchic slapstick of the silent film era, to which some of the Maries’ gestures directly refer. Whereas in those early slapstick movies a man was usually the one who brought ruin, in Daisies the men are those who get ruined, whether directly (the cheating of adulterers), symbolically (the cutting of phallic objects) or symptomatically (rebellion against the rules as rebellion against the patriarchy). The protagonists’ consideration of why they exist, how they exist and whether they are bothered by not existing differently (“it doesn’t matter!”) is brushed off as being irrelevant by the sincere final dedication, from which flows amusingly stubborn, youthful anger at the world of the old geezers who think they hold all of the power. Without orgies with apocalyptic reach, without absolute negation, this provocative, visually captivating exaggeration of their/our individual transgressions would not be complete. 80%

Really not a movie that you would have for breakfast and digest by dinner time. I got the impression that Sokurov was trying to cram as many of the ideas from Goethe’s masterpiece as possible into two hours, highlighting “his” themes (death, corporeality, the passage of time), while giving the actors enough space. There is no silence or empty space for contemplation. Wherever the protagonist goes, someone accompanies him, something is happening around him. This is even more apparent after the devil (characteristically a moneylender by trade) becomes his guide, deliberately causing chaos. Even the visually enchanting walk taken by Faust and Margarete is disrupted at least by the voices of other characters. The density of sounds, images and ideas evokes in the viewer and in Faust the same desire, a longing for peace and quiet. Like the questions that are raised, the direction of the narrative is determined by his search. Given the corruption of the world, there is only one way to recognise good, if it exists – through evil. It is necessary to begin with that, with the shallow, disgusting and malodorous. With the ubiquitous. The diversion from the path of science and faith to dangerous doubts is “materialised” by replacing the spiritually oriented father with a man who reeks of death. The bodies of Faust and the father and of Faust and the devil almost merge in some shots through close physical contact – constant and not always welcome physical contact with others, constant pushing and rubbing, creates an impressive contrast to the purity of the relationship between the doctor and Margarete, when the touches are tender and desirable. The predominant naturalism in the depiction of filthy reality gives rise to magical-realistic scenes that are bizarre in the manner of Lynch (a vagina, homunculus) and combine the worlds of the known and the unknowable. The world of male rationality and the world of a mysterious woman, between which lost souls are guided by the genderless devil. The use of the space’s geometry and the frequent descents and ascents comprise the main and least ostentatious indicator of transitions between dreams and reality. Optical deformations of the picture play a similar role on the visual level, raising the suspicion that the projectionist has incorrectly loaded the film in the projector (or that it is a mirror reflection). The turning of attention to the medium itself can be understood as the director challenging us to accept the deformed rules of the world created and controlled by him, which serves primarily for verbal philosophical disputation. This of course does not mean that there are not images that defy any kind of verbal description (in the landscape of medium shots “radiating” a close-up of Margarete’s face). It is not possible to capture Goethe’s Faust in brief; Sokurov’s Faust is similarly ungraspable and, for anyone who has yet to be sufficiently educated by life, equally incomprehensible. 80%

Slow and lifeless. Just like the protagonist, who looks back on the recent past even though it is obvious that his problems lies far deeper in the past. Gabin, on whose shoulders too much of the film rests, plays the existentialist wretch with every part of his body, but the presentation of the story didn’t give me a feel for the tragic nature of the situation in which he found himself (not measured by the number of gunmen). Unfortunately, too many decades have passed for me to consider at least the use of flashbacks to be imaginative. 65%

The brief, adoring summary of Glenn’s career as a pilot, astronaut and politician, with remarkable documentary footage (much of which was amusingly used in The Right Stuff), smoothly transitions into a long, nauseatingly lofty advertisement for NASA and American-style heroism. That’s great if you want to more precisely know the background of what (i.e. straight-up propaganda) Kaufman's film reveals. Otherwise, it’s hardly watchable, especially for non-space enthusiasts.