Matty

If I didn't have a weakness for Lisbeth Salander and Claire Foy (and the criminally underused Vicky Krieps), I would rate this film more harshly. I don’t mind that the filmmakers have definitively turned Lisbeth it into a comic book superheroine who treats wounds with superglue, snorts a crushed amphetamine tablet to get up, can move from place to place at lightning speed and needs less time to hack the NSA than to make coffee for an ordinary mortal (Larsson’s trilogy was already headed in this direction). The problem is how they slapdashedly modified the plot to be substantially more layered with multiple perspectives taking into account (and alternating with) the work upon which it is based and the manner of storytelling. Events are connected to each other in a terribly careless and repetitive way, based on the same pattern (someone tries to kidnap/kill someone, that person is captured/escapes and around we go again). Despite signs of psychologisation (Lisbeth’s trauma due to her sister’s betrayal), the characters behave as if they are in a run-of-the-mill action film and their foolish decisions are too frequently not fatal for them due only to fortunate coincidences and magically flawless timing. The visual style, derived from Scandinavian noir and punk as well as S&M aesthetics and merely copying Fincher and Alvarez much more than the slow revealing shots evoking unease and unpleasant feelings (such as the first one after the Bond-esque opening credits), uses fast, chaotic cutting that buries the entire atmosphere. The director is apparently most “at home” during scenes with elements of horror, which make up the only aspect that is not as painfully generic and interchangeable as the rest. I would be glad to see Claire Foy again in the role of Lisbeth Salander, but not in a film that most reminds me of the feminist answer to Crank. 55%

Women's breasts and bottoms (and not much else) are on display in approximately 40% of the scenes in Sorrentino's new film, mostly during the first fifty minutes, placing Loro in the company of The Wolf of Wall Street (there is also a lecture on the effects of a certain drug), Spring Breakers and Tinto Brass’s Caligula (decadence for the sake of decadence). Ten percent would have been enough to get the necessary point across. It’s the same with everything else in Sorrentino’s latest work. It is a film that seeks meaning, just like its protagonist, who fears aging, death and being forgotten. It presents a void of thought in an opulent package, which in and of itself bears a certain message, but you needn’t see it over and over again for two and a half hours. At the same time, Loro does not bring many motifs to fruition (one such example, which goes nowhere, is the formulation of parallels between lust and the desire for power, thus politics and exploitation of foreign bodies, starting with a prologue in which one of the characters devises his plan while looking at Berlusconi tattooed on the back of a woman he is having sex with). Paradoxically, the film could possibly benefit from being an hour longer rather than shorter (i.e. as in the case of its division into two parts, shown in Italian cinemas) and thus legitimise what comes across as self-serving and empty. No essential knowledge emerges from the final synthesis of the perspectives presented in the first and second of the three chapters of approximately equal length into which the film is divided (Berlusconi hardly appears in the first one). Even more conspicuously than Sorrentino’s previous films, Loro is reminiscent of a series of perfectly synched music videos packed with excellent ideas (the upper crust’s only real encounter with the real world happens when a garbage truck explodes in front of them) which when taken together, however, do not communicate much of anything or gel into a consistent form that would bear at least a somewhat relevant message and not merely repeat what Sorrentino was able to express more impactfully in Il divo. When in the conclusion the narrative finally focuses on the tragedy of real people, it is framed with the same unnatural pathos that characterises the rest of the film, which tells about fake people. Loro is a waste of talent on the part of the director and a waste of time for the viewer. 65%

Chained for Life is a film about making a film, a contemporary arthouse horror movie with physically disabled characters (the title refers to the exploitation film Chained for Life from 1952). In addition to “normal” actors, the filmmakers decide to cast actors with the required physical disabilities. The lead actress becomes friends with the man with a deformed face who plays her lover. However, it is not clear whether her feelings are authentic or if she is only pretending in order to make herself look like a better person. We can ask the same question about the other actors. The boundary between the story in front of the camera and the story behind the camera gradually becomes blurred, the transitions between filming and being filmed become less and less obvious. Through adroitly directed, long, fragmented shots using self-reflexive drama (with elements of horror satire), the film endeavours to truly capture the experience of disfigured artists (the director himself has a deformed face). It does not attempt to portray them in an overly positive light according to the usual narrative formula of a monster with a good heart, thanks to which the beautiful lady realises in what the true value of a person consists. All characters have physical or character defects and it is not possible to anticipate how they will behave toward each other. In this way, the film beneficially and inspirationally deconstructs certain stereotypes associated with how someone looks and reflects the extent to which our perception of people who are physically different is influenced by their established media representation. 75%

Depicting three phases of one relationship in an account of the life of contemporary cosmopolitan youth, Alguma Coisa Assim is a fresh and brisk drama that, with its non-traditional collage-like structure (combining events from three different years) and unforced work with parallels, shows how different situations are repeated in two people’s life together and, at the same time, change over time as both partners get to know each other better and have differing expectations of each other. It is a pity that the film is diminished by ornaments and techniques intended to make it special (slow motion, 360-degree camera rotation, machine-like symmetrical compositions), which draw attention away from the informal acting performances and the dialogue that equally takes into account the perspective of both the man and the woman and addresses, through individual stories, the more general problems of human sexuality (to which the professional focus of the partner involved in the research of infertility treatments is also tailored). The fact that the film was actually shot in three different time periods (2006, 2013, 2016) with the same actors portraying the characters is worthy of attention and, as in Boyhood and the Doinel tetralogy, gives it a para-documentary dimension and the transformation of the characters is thus more believable. Despite a certain unevenness, Alguma Coisa Assim is, on the whole, a narratively original work and in addressing the problems that people deal with in relationships over time, it is a relatively accurate millennial relationship film. 75%

Waru comprises eight short, ten-minute stories of eight Maori women. Each of them was filmed by a different director in one day and in one shot. All of them are connected to a story inspired by statistics on the high mortality rate of Maori children. Specifically, the film focuses on how the death and funeral of an eight-year-old boy (named Waru) affected the life of the community. Taken together, the stories comprise layered mosaics that take into consideration the view “from the inside” and “from the outside”, while capturing the socio-cultural background of the boy’s tragic death and the life of the Maori. The whole film is shot using only natural lighting, which lends an element of rawness and immediacy to the stories. Thanks to the uniform visual aspect of the individual segments, the result gives the impression of being relatively homogeneous, though the individual segments have different dynamics. The chosen format adds largely realistic, though at times needlessly intensified, drama to the urgency and facilitates our delving into the world of the characters, whom, however, we cannot get to know and understand more thoroughly due to the brief runtime. Furthermore, not all of the actors master their demanding roles, as becomes apparent particularly during the numerous emotionally tense moments. The courage to speak openly about the painful topic thus arouses more admiration than does its incomplete treatment. 65%

The new Halloween may not be as scary as the original from 1978 or as entertaining as H20, but it is still stimulating and self-aware enough to not be an unnecessary sequel. It can be seen as, for example, a morbidly humorous argument with films and (documentary) series that attempt to understand evil (e.g. with the aid of psychology). Laurie Strode knows that sometimes it is better not to ask too much – as done by other characters attempting to encourage Myers (by whom they are as similarly unhealthily fascinated as some horror fans) to express himself (which they mostly accomplish, but not in the way they would have imagined) – but instead to simply pick up a kitchen knife or shotgun. Based on more than just Laurie’s example, Green’s three-generation horror film shows how in the past forty years women have learned to more effectively protect themselves against danger and to cast off their assigned roles (in addition to costume gender swapping at a Halloween party, an inverted variation of a famous scene from the first Halloween appears). Despite that, they still have to face mistrust and the suspicion that they are deranged hysterics, in which the film is very much in step with the times. The film’s direction is above reproach and the music by the father-and-son team John and Cody Carpenter is blood-chilling. When cult films are brought back to life, this is how it should be done. 85%

When you accept from the beginning that Mike Flanagan (see also the excellent Oculus) is using a horror framework for the purpose of relating a suspenseful narrative about dealing with family traumas, finding trust (the story of a woman who no one believes repeatedly falls victim to attacks, which is very up to date), overcoming fear and the search for a home (i.e. unlike in other horror films, family history does not serve only as pretext for the scares – it is the main subject; fear comes from outside), you can then enjoy this psychologically compelling drama with its layered narrative structure and smooth (visual and audio) transitions between the past and present, facts and imaginings, as well as “old school” scares, based on the intra-shot montages and disturbing movement in different parts of the picture. Though some scenes are shot in a rather run-of-the-mill manner (shot/counter-shot dialogue scenes) and the conclusion with a loosely formed metafiction level is somewhat negatively affected by excessive ambitions and runtime (each of the episodes, usually bound to the point of view of one of the main characters, has its purpose, but many of them could easily have been shorter), The Haunting is excellent overall in terms of acting and directing, and one of the most pleasant surprises of this year among series. The sixth episode, consisting of several multi-minute shots that are complex choreographically and in terms of meaning, ranks among the best that high-quality TV has to offer with respect to craftsmanship.

I am reluctant to use the word “complex”, which for me means a film that offers numerous opposing perspectives and ambivalent impressions, which is not the case in Greengrass’s factually concise docudramatic reconstruction, in which he constructs two relatively unambiguous ideological positions (similar to Bloody Sunday), which he pits against each other so that he can offer the intended political statement in the end (threats against Lippestad only bring shades of grey into the narrative, but they are not laid out in greater detail and can also be seen as a means of supporting the argument for the power of democracy, which, regardless of the possible risks, cannot serve only those who deserve it, but everyone). ___ Good versus evil, love versus hate, a deranged individual versus a community which, thanks to mutual support and cooperation following the trauma, can get back on its feet and face evil. With his movements, cold-blooded thinking and belief in his own infallibility, Breivik is reminiscent of a machine. If we learn anything about his motives, it is from his mother’s statement, which the attorney needs because of the trial, or thanks to the fact that he has become a research subject for psychologists. In the scenes from the prison with a predominance of cold colours, he is aggressively set apart from his surroundings by his red shirt. Conversely, through flashbacks and subjective sounds, we “see into the mind” of the traumatised, insecure and vulnerable Viljar and get to know him in a number of situations with his supportive loved ones in which he gives expression to his emotions. We not only observe him, but we experience who he is. Instead of a “traitor”, a “Marxist” or a “member of the elite”, as Breivik blanketly labels his victims, we get to know an actual person and his story. As we are shown through numerous parallels in the way the two figures are depicted, Viljar is not from a certain moment most at risk from the wounds that he suffered, but rather from the possibility that he, like Breivik, is starting to become isolated from others and will stop seeing himself as a member of the broader community.___ The rhythm of the smoothly flowing narrative is masterfully set by the large number of viewpoints between which Greengrass cuts. After the dynamic beginning, which offers a broad variety of rapidly alternating viewpoints, a calming occurs and we watch only Breivik and Viljar for a moment. If the narrative jumps to another character, thanks to the prologue we are already familiar with them and we know what role they play in the web of relationships and what element of Norwegian society they represent. After this slowing down and narrowing of focus, the film also transitions from individual actions, recorded step by step almost in real time, to their more general sociological and political implications. Of course, they still serve mainly to support the arguments employed in the final trial. The whole film is a textbook example of how to apply dialectical logic in practice. It does not try to depict the reality of polarised Europe in all its complexity, but rather as a clash of two principles, which it succeeds in doing in a very factual and extremely suggestive manner. 85%

I welcome making the “I’ll take some – I’ll dish some out – I’m the winner” formula exceptional by dividing attention between the two actors in the final conflict, who also happen to be brothers (thus a bit of biblical symbolism to top it off). At the same time, I find it regrettable to not use the plot to generate greater ambivalence. Through the emphasis placed on the familial subtext and the praiseworthy teaching work, we are subtly directed to clench our fists when Brendan takes a punch, not Tommy, whose system is stolen (which, nevertheless, is not appropriate). The film does not show the desperation arising from the endless carousel of defeats and victories as in The Wrestler. Where Aranofsky's drama was critical, Warrior is pathetic. It does not dissuade from mindless violence, but rather encourages it with aggressive music. Furthermore, voluntary self-destruction has been the only option for both brothers from the beginning to preserve (or possibly improve) their existence. In the interest of its own dramatic functionality, the film does not allow any other option. Brendan fights in order to support his family, whereas Tommy fights because adrenaline gives him strength (this post-combat inability to give up fighting was captured more sensitively in The Hurt Locker), which is another reason to have more understanding for Brendan. Despite that, Tom Hardy’s performance made me feel sorry that the entire film is not focused solely on him. However, the more brilliant actor does not disguise the mechanical construction of the drama: the son does not like the father, the father gets wasted, the son pities the father and vents his frustration when he crushes his opponent in a match. This works in a beautifully simple way in films and perhaps we even long for it somewhere inside, but the emotional impact of this would-be psychological film suffers because of it. Warrior does well when, after approximately eighty minutes, it resigns itself to some sort of psychological dawdling and then only shows from different angles how two guys beat and kick each other and how others watch them. The matches are directed as uninventively as the dialogue scenes, which stultify us with endlessly alternating shots and counter-shots. The camera either remains outside of the cage and/or attempts to imitate the unprepared shooting of television cameramen, thus simulating the experience of at-home or live viewing of similar matches. Unlike Scorsese in Raging Bull, for example, O’Connor does not bring an aesthetic element into the violence, and thus does not make it an action surpassing everyday experience, thereby merely promoting the numbness of the audience and giving the impression that it is something ordinary. In short – and unfortunately – an uncritical film. 70%

I said to myself that it is extremely sad to look at a woman’s life through her relationships with the men who influenced her (to each is bound a certain topic and the narrative is structured based on those topics rather than on the chronological sequence of events), but the final chapter and emancipatory point more or less legitimise the chosen therapeutic concept. The greatest benefit of the film is Fonda herself, who assesses the men in her life (her father Henry is no exception) and her past and her current selves openly and (self)critically, without the need to conceal or sugar-coat anything (e.g. she admits that her beauty and thus sexuality aided her in her career, and she regrets that she did not have sufficient courage to resist undergoing plastic surgery). With her composure, she vindicates the narrative of self-acceptance, liberation from the belief that we can be a complete being only at the side of a loved one, which the documentary adheres to. The other interviewees and even director Susan Lacy are more benevolent toward her, which is in line with the choice of words and topics. The son raised among North Vietnamese soldiers and members of the Irish Republican Army presents his traumatising childhood as a series of humorous incidents; no one who fundamentally disagreed with Fonda’s activism was given more space (except for Richard Nixon, who is even more hated in the United States than she is). Despite Fonda’s sincerity, the tone of the film is thus somewhat sentimental. In any case, it is still far from the celebratory documentary portraits that merely uninventively summarise facts that you can find on Wikipedia. It is an intellectually thorough, inspiring film that, in a very viewer-friendly manner (the use of a large amount of archival materials contributes to its liveliness), addresses issues close to every person, not just a single extraordinarily intelligent and attractive actress, political activist and promoter of VHS aerobics. 80%