Matty

Until modern times, the Tramp belonged to viewers. Unlike Buster Keaton, he avoided longer-term commitments whenever possible. He flirted with girls, even cautiously kissed them at an unguarded moment, but he was not inclined toward family life, at least not outwardly. Several of his slapstick films characteristically ended with his lonely walk away from the camera, towards the next adventure, independent of the one just experienced. But Modern Times, Chaplin’s farewell to the Tramp and the Tramp’s farewell to viewers, ends with a shot of a couple contentedly walking together. The Tramp is leaving, but finally he is not alone; we don’t have to worry about his future. However, Modern Times was not only a farewell to the Tramp, but also to silent cinema and the genre of pure slapstick (because, among other things, of the lack of financial success – critics and viewers were becoming accustomed to films that were much richer in sound). Chaplin imaginatively uses sound effects for the first time to amplify either the dramatic (gunfire) or comedic effect (“feeding” the machine). He also lets the Tramp sing a few notes of French-Italian gibberish. In that scene and others, the protagonist is reminiscent of a malfunctioning machine, as he seeks different employment after being thrown out of the factory where he had served a clear purpose. Chaplin’s satirical portrait of predatory capitalist society turning man into a cog in a giant machine (I would guess that particularly this level of Chaplin’s work was inspired by Jacques Tati) resonated with the economic crisis of the time and, unlike other comedies, didn’t let viewers escape into a nicer world. Though unemployment, poverty, hunger and social unrest are framed in a humorous way, they are nevertheless visibly present. Thanks to the elevation of the mechanisation of human existence to the main subject of the film, Chaplain could exploit one of the main features of slapstick, whose gags often consist in people behaving like inanimate objects. At the same time, a weakness of Modern Times is that it is too closely related to previous films. Because of the alternation of the various occupations that Chaplin tries in his slapstick shorts, the plot breaks down into separate episodes, though these are directed with admirable economy. The film thus lacks dramatic cohesion and emotional impact. I will definitely return to Modern Times, not for a strong story, but for the gags with cocaine and the tightening of screws, and for Paulette Goddard’s irresistible gamine. 80%

A long reverberation of The Separation. The plot structure of The Past, with its too cautiously revealed story of intertwined relationships, cannot hide the fact that Farhadi primarily intended to incessantly surprise the viewer. Because of that, the characters are forced into taking escalating actions whose melodramatic nature rather hinders the perception of the film as a subdued psychological drama. The result is an unconvincing expression of the well-known axiom “you can’t escape the past” (in the most apt metaphor of the film, unfortunately used immediately at the beginning, the raindrops on the car’s windshield are the past, obstructing the view and the way forward). It is not only unconvincing, but also feeds off of the suffering of the characters, particularly Marie (the pleasantly informal Bérénice Bejo), whose life is caught between two men. However, everyone else around her is also unhappy as they fiercely try to restore the broken ties between them, while viewers try to find their bearings in the matter of who is actually whose real father/mother/daughter/son or step-parent/child. If I want to be moved by the stories of unhappy people, I can just as well watch a full-blooded melodrama that doesn’t pretend to be important and goes straight to the emotional marrow. 70%

Water is wet, the sky is blue, women have secrets, men are under pressure and the concept of good is relative. Who would be upset with that? Certainly not nature. The impressiveness of Nichols’s retelling of the adventures of Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer paradoxically lies in how little Mud differs from those classic works. At its (easily accessible) core, it is a simple, guilelessly straightforward story with characters who have a lot of time to talk. However, modern cinema teaches us to see such old-fashioned user-friendliness as some sort of betrayal. But this film is magical because it doesn’t try to betray us. Imagine a story from the ranks of those that fathers will tell to their sons as the greatest boy’s adventure of their childhood. The child’s perspective is not maintained too consistently, some of the young protagonists’ dialogue couldn’t be heard, and it isn’t confronted with an adult perspective as in Stand by Me. It all the more wants us to return to childhood in our thinking, to the time of becoming intensely aware of the opposite sex, the world of adults, the laws of nature…. Only then can we see the mythological quality of such an outwardly simple narrative, adapted to today particularly by removing the didactic subtext and relativisation of positive role models. Ellis and Neckbone go on the same journey as so many boys before them, except their bond with nature is stronger thanks to the setting. They aren’t apathetic like urban youths; they sensitively perceive what is going on around them, just as the camera takes in a running spider here, birds in flight there. The fact that it is sometimes wise to focus attention on the details becomes apparent in during the episode with snakes. Ellis and Neckbone only seemingly didn’t experience anything major. In fact, the encounter with the impenetrable guy who spouts Indian wisdom turns their view of the world upside down. Nichols doles out hints of the fundamental change that will happen in their lives by very carefully raising the stakes. Perhaps too carefully and subtly. If the narrative were not rhythmised with musical interludes, it wouldn’t be a hypnotically slow spectacle, but just tiresome. Nichols doesn’t make this film a coming-of-age story or employ a different clearly defined theme at all costs. He leaves it open to multiple possible interpretations, which prevents Mud from slipping into banality. We can take the dialogue both literally and allegorically (a lot of trash washes up from the river, the boat was launched). The atypical names of the characters (Juniper, King, May Pearl) also have mythological resonance. Of no less importance, the dual meaning corresponds to the parallel development of the children’s and adults’ versions of the same story. Perhaps childishly simple, but told in an adult way. 75%

SPOILERS AHEAD. I wouldn’t want to be in the shoes of those who go to the cinema for the new blockbuster starring Johnny Depp and then wind up watching a wordy low-key sci-fi flick in which their favourite actor is more heard than scene (and turns in a significantly less convincing voice performance than Scarlett Johansson in Her). To be very lenient, I will describe Transcendence as a mainstream variation on early Cronenberg films that also thematise the media as an extension of the human senses. However, this film isn’t clear on the position from which it wants to approach the intertwining of the virtual and real spaces, whether to reject it (because it turns people into robots) or celebrate it (because it aids the fulfilment of a romantic relationship).  ___ During the exposition, the originator of the idea of an all-encompassing artificial intelligence is presented as a generally likable scientist and respected colleague who is loved by his wife and admired by the lay public. Basically an acceptable protagonist. Except that when his ideas start to come to fruition, he stops acting “right” and the film starts to show him in a less than favourable light – among other things, by using sinister music like that found in noir films (just one indication of the work’s inveterate lack of humour). Should we thus start rooting for the technophobic opposition? However, that opposition is represented by people who are rightfully branded as terrorists. The only connecting link between these two extreme positions, the rationally thinking character played by Paul Bettany, joins the terrorists in the second third of the film for reasons that are not entirely clear. The most space is given to Rebecca Hall, who, however, lets herself be ruled by her emotions and spends most of the time just dumbly carrying out here husband’s orders. She starts to make decisions for herself only when pressured by other characters. Nolan’s mascots Freeman and Murphy then appear in and disappear from the narrative and their willingness to cooperate with anyone at any time is no less than surprising. Because of that, viewers who respect elementary moral laws don’t have anyone they can trust or root for, or anyone to guide them through the story (and at the end of the film, the same viewers may ask why the people who murdered many other people at the beginning have gone unpunished). ___ Perhaps it is possible to make someone or something other than a multidimensional character with clearly defined goals the driving force of the drama (Transcendence doesn’t have such a character), and the film plays with this alternative (interest in the protagonists is dampened by the fact that, thanks to the prologue, we already have a good idea of how the whole thing is going to turn out, who will die and who will survive), but Pfister does not offer a functional solution. ___ The underdevelopment of the drama corresponds to the screenplay’s contempt for logic and more sophisticated plot construction. Even if we accept a world in which there is such a thing as the internet personified, the degree of further denial required of us exceeds the tolerable limit. Why did the terrorists and the FBI let a potentially very dangerous project grow undisturbed for two years? Why is such a terribly gratuitous situation (which happens out of the blue solely for the purpose of pushing the story forward) used to introduce a new motif (treatment)? Why does Caster need rainwater to disseminate it, when he can use the internet, which is already in widespread use around the world? ___ If that’s not enough for you, you can add genre incoherence (the sci-fi and melodramatic storylines stumble over each other), visual unimaginativeness and a run-of-the-mill soundtrack to the amorality, illogic and contrivance of the screenplay. Wally should go back to cinematography before it’s too late. 40%

“He just believes stuff that people tell him.” Not only does Nebraska not simplify matters of life and death and serve them up in sentimental wrapping like The Descendants, it is essentially the antithesis of Payne’s previous film. Without attractive actors, warm colours and inappropriate optimism. Just like Woody. Nebraska is an intimate, melancholic two-generation road movie. Though it’s not entirely bleak or humourless, it is pervaded by a feeling of nostalgia for real values and sincere interpersonal relationships. The question is whether the father and son are compensating for their failures on most other fronts (relationships with women, careers) by seeking lost common ground (which is represented by, for example, their inability to understand each other’s jokes). David would like to be his father’s equal, but there is nothing there to live up to. Unless, like his father, he wants to accept the bar as his natural habitat and a bottle of whiskey as his best friend. Both men are innately unambitious, which eventually provokes at least David to step off the path of the perpetual loser, perhaps under the influence of his discovery that he is the bearer of a certain family legacy. The film’s unhurried pace and stark form are perfectly in accordance with the story’s non-action-oriented characters and with the setting, in which time has stopped (the film does not seem contemporary, which is partly due to the unfashionable furnishings of the residences and the simple clothes of the characters). Payne lets shots resonate and never employs sharp cuts, instead using slow dissolves and static compositions, which are often humorous in how many objects and how little movement they contain (the brothers watching television). Inspired by the directors of classic westerns (particularly Mann), he uses high-contrast widescreen black-and-white cinematography to capture both poetic (panoramas of the landscape) and naturalistic (suturing of a head wound) images. As a result, he succeeds in presenting a multi-layered portrait of a particular time and place. After all, Payne himself is from the American Midwest, thanks to which his depiction of the character’s nature is not one-sidedly caustic and mocking, but rather also takes economic factors into account, though – truthfully – not to a sufficient extent that would give us an opportunity to take the side of any of the supporting characters. The film somewhat contradictorily demands compassion for a pair of average Americans while taking an ironic view of the behaviour of many other average Americans with the causticity inherent in Payne’s early films. Why should Woody and David be heroes who managed to take control over their own lives despite the predestination determined by their environment? Well, just maybe because they are played by two actors who simply believe in them, from the humorously bitter beginning to the bitterly humorous climax. 90%

Just as Three Days of the Condor and The Parallax View were responses to Watergate, the second Captain America can be seen as a Hollywood interpretation of the events surrounding WikiLeaks and the NSA. What Steve Rogers has in common with the protagonists of those films by Pollack and Pakula is that he doesn’t know what’s going on around him or who he can trust, thanks to which the filmmakers can further develop the “fish out of water” motif without copying The Avengers (where the new age was the main source of Rogers’s confusion). Besides the inwardly focused disillusionment of those 1970s thrillers, recalled through the iconography of Washington, the casting of Redford and the music, this new Marvel flick contains a bit of the Cold War conservatism of movies – such Rambo (especially the first and third instalments) and Rocky (which The Winter Soldier recalls at least with the filming of the opening run) – that championed direct physical action over data analysis. Again, just as in the first, intentionally old-fashioned Captain America, the traditionalist protagonist takes on references to films with a different value base than that on which contemporary society stands. However, those values are not so clear. Only the final third of the film is unambiguous. With regard to the protagonist’s application of straightforward military logic, the restoration of calm does not involve diplomatic negotiation, but large-scale action that becomes less clear the more the characters go at each other (raw firefights in the streets in the style of Heat thus replace fights in which the action is created solely by editing, music and sound rather than by movement). The spy games with a touch of paranoia after the originator of the “contagion” has been revealed – with the use of black-and-white framing similar to that used today by the Russian media to justify the annexation of Crimea – can come across as hypocrisy in a film that outwardly express unease about a cynical system while actually defending its ideology. However, this reading is at least partially called into doubt by the closing repudiation of some of the old structures. At the stylistic level, I enjoyed the smooth (perhaps even too smooth) transition from brisk political thriller to conservative superhero adventure and I take it as evidence of the effort to not rely solely on the guaranteed teenage target group, but to also appeal to new viewers. And the film appeals to female viewers more imaginatively than other comic-book adaptations. Not even one of the three female characters has an identity derived from a male character (though there is a romantic subplot, there is no time to develop it), there is no sexualisation of the female body and all of the heroines are as comparably independent and courageous as their male counterparts. In summary, I don’t think that The Winter Soldier (whose titular character, incidentally, wouldn’t even have to be in the film and doesn’t have much of an impact on the plot) was such a safe bet as it may have seemed and or could have afforded to be. 85%

A virtual romance that to a certain extent adheres to the formula of its more traditional genre kin (boy meets girl, boy loses girl...), but because of the physical absence of a female partner and other vacant places in the space of the picture, it gives off a strange feeling of loneliness throughout its runtime. Joaquin Phoenix has to perform most of the boldly long shots on his own. In fact, he does the acting of two, as there is no visible reaction to his action. That which is essential happens either within the protagonist or off screen – in the soundtrack, which Theo also controls to a significant extent. For example, he chooses the (melancholic) soundtrack for his own life, by means of which the film not only thematises the manipulation of others’ lives (Sam becomes the new director of Theo’s existence), but also acknowledges his manipulative practices and thus deliberately diminishes their effectiveness. ___ The sluggish narrative pace and the emotional restraint at the level of formalistic techniques correspond to the strongly subjectivised (in terms of both image and sound) narrative. In various ways, the film itself is as shy as Theo, who also seems cut off from the outside world due his being situated in otherwise empty shots. Instead of the aforementioned absent partner, there is an interactive mise-en-scene that illustrates the protagonist’s mood and comments on the situations in which he finds himself. But the shyness shared by Theo and the film as a whole does not fit well with the film’s occasional lapses into vulgarity (erotic chatting, Samantha’s anal humour). However, we can perceive the overstepping of the boundaries of tastefulness as a means of pointing out the acceptance with which we allow virtual worlds to penetrate our intimate space (with similar acceptance, Theo tells the computer about his relationship with his mother). ___ With slight generalisation, it could be said that the desire to change something while not giving up one’s comfort is a paradox inherent not only in Theodore, who is afraid to step into the unknown and permanently cut off (real) contact with his former girlfriend, but also in the whole world today. Everything is outwardly perfect and cosy (which is aided in the film by the soothing pastel colours). We live in a state of comfort that was definitely never the standard before, but at the same time, we are often lonely, isolated and rarely truly happy, because we are always in search of the most convenient solutions (because the software that we buy will logically oblige us in everything). Surface perfection conceals inner emptiness. Substitutes for real people, real feelings and real actions simplify life to such an extent that we lose contact with it. Others express emotions for us by means of letters composed without the necessity of touching the keyboard (let alone using a “manual” writing implement). ___ However, Jonze is not a sceptic who would resolutely reject modern technology. He doesn’t completely condemn the possibility of a contactless relationship – for example, Theo’s dialogue with Amy seems just as unforced as his conversations with Sam – but only points out the drawbacks of choosing to live without touch. Whether that involves the visual absence of a partner in our memories or the loss of the “aura” of a beloved and still certainly original object. Fortunately, there are no appropriate alternatives to certain pleasant realities, even in a world of perfect replacements and substitutes. For now… 80%

Saint Laurent is presented to us a brilliant designer, as a man struggling with manic depression, as a drug addict and as an extraordinarily sensitive lover. However, the screenplay doesn’t manage to approach him as an ordinary human being whose actions would be taken together to form a convincing psychological profile. Unfortunately, the extreme aspects of the human psyche are more attractive to viewers. The narrative structure sadly exhibits the same instability as Saint Laurent. The film jumps from one episode to the next while making no attempt to develop key motifs or to find a theme that would be determinative for Saint Laurent’s life. The characters lack motivation; the story lacks conflict and purpose. Like its one-dimensional protagonist, a walking pile of character traits, the film offers no mystery that would raise questions or uncertainty. Saint Laurent’s film life does not go beyond the boundaries of his private space toward a socio-political context and Saint Laurent himself is defined solely through his relationship to the other characters. The narrative changes him into a passive victim of external circumstances who is constantly wounded by others. As faithfully as the images simulate a certain era and particular setting, they lack stronger interconnectedness and any kind of depth. Among other things, the scenes of fashion shows, which attempt to give an inappropriate impression of something noble, fulfil a similar role as the outfits on display. They appear, are pleasing to the eye, and then disappear. Lespert only shows, but doesn’t tell. For the whole hundred minutes. Everything begins and ends on the surface. I hope that Bertrand Bonello, whose biopic about YSL should have its premiere in October, will try to not only show the famous designer, but also understand him. 50%

“I don’t have any heroes.” Jarmusch chose a similar direction as he did with Dead Man – back to the roots of the genre, back to the starting point. Before the time when vampires became sexy, massively popular killers. Instead of a raging bloodbath, Jarmusch offers up a hypnotically minimalistic hipster love story that – because of the lack of a narrative structure – works better as an essay on the value of immortality in a world of ephemeral experiences, things and people than as a drama with a plot that progressively develops. Unlike the human zombies that surround them, Adam and Eve are conscious of historical contexts. Disregarding fashion trends, they pick and choose what appeals to them from human history, evaluate the new in the context of the old, and understand time as being cyclical rather than a linear march toward increasingly better technology (the circle as a symbol of eternity appears in the mise-en-scene from the beginning). However, this approach is not a choice for them, but a necessity. Their lives also go in circles, as they no longer have anywhere to go, so they simply keep moving, discovering what is already known to them. Jarmusch does the same as a director. He does not enrich his poetics with new elements, as he merely makes use of what his fans already know and like. He uses the perspectives of the immortal outsiders (Adam and Eve do not belong anywhere in terms of time or space) to examine the present in such a way that is close to him. The important thing is to give vent to the imagination, to ceaselessly find the old in the new and the new in the old. The narrative indicates several times that the conventions of civilisation do not allow Adam and Eve to give expression to their nature (the appetising sight of fresh blood in the hospital and later on the plane). It’s not difficult to find a parallel with sexual minorities. These are all stimulating ideas and Jarmusch definitely does not straightforwardly present them to us through a pair of superbly written characters, as if they are superior to everything else. It was nice to ponder the attempts at imaginative reinterpretation of the genre, stylistic inventiveness (only the intoxicating hypnotic sequences will remain in the viewer’s memory) and brilliant work with the visual aspect (as in so many other vampire films, the production design was inspired by 19th-century art), but I didn’t see much that was new in any of it. 70%

A comedy of loose morals. We can see French Cancan, another of Renoir’s examples of how true mastery sometimes consists in simplicity that is difficult to capture and analyse (using every shot in its full depth and breadth), as an autobiographical confession of an aging sinner who used his position of influence to seduce significantly younger beauties. This playful, sometimes Ophüls-esque, exaggerated, colourful swarm of numerous characters, none of whom are condemned for their actions, is seen as the second part of Renoir’s “artistic trilogy” (after The Golden Coach and before Elena and Her Men). What the three films have in common is a spectacular celebration of the art of living and living through art. French Cancan is connected by these features particularly to Singin' in the Rain, another musical about a musical that, however, lacks authentic life even though it is funnier, more dynamic and technically better. This ability to build a world that is obviously artificial and yet alive at every moment is what makes Renoir’s unobtrusive creative signature exceptional. 80%