DaViD´82

We could enter into a several day long debate on the topic of “How the hell could routineer of all routineers, Andrew Davis shoot something so ingeniously simple and simply ingenious?" but it would make no sense, because even Mulder and Scully would have searched in vain for the answer to the greatest mystery of the nineties. So, it’s best not to worry and just to comes to terms with the fact that this has better pace than anything else in that decade (not only) in this genre. I’d be hard pushed to root for any main protagonist more than for Richard in his gripping journey to clear his name. There’s just one mistake: the catchy theme tune is seriously underused throughout the movie, we hear it maybe just twice.

One of the fifteen best French crime films. It's a shame that among the other fourteen, it's rather cowering at the back. PS: I cannot refrain from remarking that, although I do not share the actions of Commissioner Goitreau, who is being condemned here, I fully understand them.

A condensate of ABBA, with lashings of sun-sparkling Metaxa in the form of a refreshing soda. For most people hell, for me a surprisingly bearable guilty pleasure (and shockingly unbearable choreography). Without Meryl, it would have been just half a movie, but so what. She’s here and she’s amazing. It’s just Brosnan who spoils it. As long as he’s sitting there grinning, everything is ok, but he really shouldn’t have opened that mouth of his. His singing sends chills down my spine. Chills of terror, not pleasure. I’m convinced that it’s intentionally over-kitsch ad absurdum and the filmmakers are obviously making fun of it. At least I sincerely hope so. And I’m not looking forward to the Czech dubbed version. I can hear it right now, The Winner Takes It All sung by Czech Golden Girl Vondráčková or other stars of Saturday night variety shows. P.S.: Stellan “I don’t own a T-shirt" Skarsgård’s bare chest is more than a heterosexual man is able to stand in a movie. Much more.

In the first half, I came to the conclusion that the filmmakers were making fun of superhero clichés. In the second one I found out that the jokers were only making fun of the poor spectator. Hancock is like a trio of very different films in one, only that not a single one of them is good.

“Don’t Look Now" by Daphne du Maurier is about making somebody unsure, sowing the seeds of paranoia, and a married couple in crisis in Venice. They searched in vain for some tourist-free, but still crowded back alleys that at misty dawn or dusk give you an impression that you are in a totally different city. “Don’t Look Now" by Daphne du Maurier is not about making somebody unsure, sowing the seeds of paranoia, and a married couple in crisis in Venice. Tourist-free or otherwise. Daphne du Maurier’s story is a punchy, fifty-page tale. Roeg’s adaptation is simply routine and almost two hours long. And those are fundamental mistakes. It’s not boring only thanks to Sutherland, naked Julie Christie, the ending bit and the color red.

I know that this is an amateur movie, but I’m not making any excuses for it just because of that. It possible to shoot a quality movie even as an amateur. Dead End is a perfect example. Even in its humble ten minutes, Dark Justice is worse than Schumacher’s big-nippled Batmen. It has no story, let alone any invention. And what’s worse, it’s unintentionally ridiculous. At the best moments.

Everyone is guilty. The best (mini)series come to us across the big pond from HBO studios. Everybody knows that. But this time it isn’t from the US of A, but from the Argentinian branch of HBO, which is a pleasant surprise. And they do it with such style that I wouldn’t have believed it was possible. All the positive superlatives that might occur to you are here, nothing is missing. And I thought that the psycho thriller genre about a murderer who likes playing games with the police has nothing to offer since its boom in the nineties. But I was mistaken. It’s hard to imagine something so raw, marvelously acted, every sentence full of functional essence, suspenseful (true, sometimes at the expense of ignoring logical investigation procedure, but somehow that fits here) and full of atmosphere. Plus, these are the smokiest moving pictures that I have ever seen. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the vast majority of the budget went on cigarettes. All those cartons used in each episode must have had Buenas Aires smog watch very worried. But I understand the characters. I was also sitting on the edge of my seat for most of each episode, shaking so much that even I (as a strict non-smoker) felt like lighting up. The only minus of the whole series is the noticeable drop in quality in the second half (drop in quality = what was the best thing for miles around becomes “just" a darn quality movie). The characters’ behavior becomes really rather unbelievable, police logic sometimes takes a long vacation and they don’t even smoke as much. However, the last two episodes return sure-footed to the original five-star path thanks to coherence and being highly-charged (you won’t see anything like this anywhere else).

I really wasn’t asking too much from “I’ve even got a long way to go to become a routineer". All I wanted was a disposable harmless summer nonsense movie. But Cohen couldn’t even manage that. Instead, through his approach of “sort of humor, sort of screenplay, sort of blockbuster" he spreads an epidemic. The signs start to show somewhere around the tenth minute. First just in a few individuals. Then it spread quickly to the rest of the audience. Not even kids are immune. The first sign is massive yawning, the second nodding, the third is sleeping on the escalator when leaving the movie theater and the fourth is a disservice to Hollywood. After this, nobody can be surprised that so many people are allergic to it. I believe that if they organized a mass simultaneous projection of this movie around the planet, it would get into the Guinness Book of Records. For the largest number of people sleeping at one moment. There’s only one cure for this. Indy treatment.

Morals, morals, morals... The best celluloid existential detective movie that skillfully combines the best of Dürrenmatt, Eco, Stoppard and Shakespeare. All in a wonderfully grim, snowy atmosphere in the dark Middle Ages. I simply must get my hands on the book by Unsworth. And that’s about all that need be said about this gem.

A movie of short stories drawing on a golden (and surprisingly almost unsourced) goldmine of Prague tales. A movie that's more interesting than being actually good. But all of the stories are linked by a sure-fire bet. Traditionally flawless work by the best Czech movie soundtrack composer, Zdeněk Liška.