Matty

Who will emerge victorious from the central duel is obvious from the fact that this film was produced by Disney, which used the subject matter for the tacky promotion of its own values and products. All narrative nuances and character attributes are subordinated to the self-glorifying tone of the film. Any information that didn’t fit into the pre-defined boxes for Walt Disney (the ever-smiling, pragmatic-to-the-bone All American man) or P.L. Travers (the strait-laced admirer of Victorian morality) was simply omitted. We thus do not learn from the film that Travers was an unorthodox bisexual devoted to Zen Buddhism and, of course, there is no mention of Disney’s chauvinism and antisemitism. ___ The desperate author’s attempt to sabotage the American premiere of what Disney turned her book into is presented as a humorous episode that not only couldn’t jeopardise the success of the film, which went on to win five Oscars, but also led to the author’s hardly believable awakening. Hancock’s variation on romantic comedies (in which sex is logically absent) gives cynical viewers no other option than to interpret the woman’s tears in the climax as an expression of helplessness over her lost battle with the media conglomerate. I find it particularly perverse when an outwardly heartwarming film for the whole family unashamedly assert that it’s fine for a powerful studio to defile someone’s creative vision for the sake of higher revenues. After all, the result was a film that is still beloved today, so why be angry? ___ Regardless of the unfair distribution of power that, contrary to society’s current mood, leads us to root for the wealthy capitalist, Saving Mr. Banks is not a film that would go awry in any way. The attempt to liven up the interior drama with flashbacks leads to the haphazard use of these jumps in time (memories are not “triggered” by events in the present) as well as to their excessive sentimentality and visual kitsch (which, unlike War Horse, is not a self-conscious reminder of how Technicolor melodramas looked). The search for parallels between real characters (Travers’s parents) and fictional characters (the book’s protagonists) is as forced and would-be revelatory as in the biographical Hitchcock and the whole storyline from the past, which comes across as needless and only slows down the narrative. ___ Emma Thompson’s performance is more stilted than her character requires and Hanks plays such an idealised and instantly lovable version of Disney that you expect animated flowers to start dancing and singing around him. The hollowness of the directing and the acting in the film, which – unlike the film Mary Poppins – can only talk about the power of imagination, culminates in one of the last scenes, in which we are alerted to the author’s miraculous character transformation by the fact that the woman is wearing a dress of warmer colours and sitting in a room flooded with light. The clouds part, the sun comes out after the rain and we can leave the cinema with the feeling that everything is just as Mr. Disney would have wished. 50%

This documentary, in which Bogdanovich, Coppola, Scorsese and Spielberg are brought together, won me over before I even saw it. However, that doesn’t mean that this entertaining portrait of the “zen anarchist” doesn’t have other qualities other than the purely cinephilic. The filmmakers largely saved the informationally poor stories from filming for the closing credits, which are immediately preceded by the only hagiographic, overtly sentimental part of the whole story, which is understandable with respect to Milius’s health after suffering a stroke. Otherwise, the bullish nature of the openly right-wing male chauvinist and self-absorbed lover of guns, surfing and samurai films is portrayed in more colours than is customary in documentaries of this kind. The individual aspects of his “larger than life” persona are commented on mostly by people who should know what they are talking about (e.g. Oliver Stone, who is definitely not indifferent to politics, speaks about Milius’s political naïveté). The exaggeration of form and content in recalling Milius’s excesses (such as Red Dawn), which among other factors may have prevented him from ever really breaking through in liberal Hollywood, makes the film similar to other profiles of filmmaking rebels that also managed to ironise the forged legend in the same breath (particularly The Kid Stays in the Picture and Easy Riders, Raging Bulls). Whether you know New Hollywood from Bonnie and Clyde to Raging Bull or you know Milius only as the director of Conan the Barbarian, you will certainly not be bored by this documentary. 75%

A drama with two storylines, an omniscient narrator and clearly defined objective and solidly cohesive dramaturgy? Dialogue handled predominantly with the shot/countershot technique? Softening of violent moments though precise editing? Not this time. Though 12 Years a Slave has been reproached for its conservative classicism, what McQueen adopts from the classic Hollywood style is especially an interest in the human body, which could also be described as an expression of his creative signature. Faithfulness to the original book even at the cost of breaking up the narrative into a number of episodes that are not firmly interconnected, and when one isn’t conditioned by another, was one of the many wise filmmaking choices that resulted in a lacerating cinematic account of the atrocities that whites perpetrated against a race that they considered to be inferior. McQueen’s mastery consists in the way he manages to avoid twisting historical facts in order for them to fit into the bigger story (like Spielberg in Amistad and Lincoln), while providing an extremely intense viewing experience. Thanks to the suppression of dramatic tension and the numerous static shots, the film seems like a series of consecutively arranged images that slowly burrow into the viewer’s memory thanks to the spiral repetition of certain situations and shot compositions. True to his background as a video artist, McQueen does not recount history or turn it into a drama, but instead lets it come alive as if it were happening right now. The protagonist’s hardships are therefore not viewed from the outside. We experience them together with Solomon, through his body, eyes and ears. Throughout the film, we know just as little as he does (for example, we never see the whole ship by which he is transported to New Orleans) and, despite the telling title of the film, we have just as few reasons to believe that he can emerge victorious from the uneven struggle for his own identity. The reduction of life to mere survival and the transformation of a person into an animal (or rather property) are highlighted by the loss of consciousness of spatial and temporal contexts, as we are not informed about the time and place of the events, with the exception of the introduction. In combination with the complete lack of moments providing relief, the abundance of unpleasant shots and images, from which the camera never turns away (the unpleasant shots are also the longest) makes 12 Years a Slave one of the most audacious films of last year. 90%

I’m getting too old for this shit. I thought that only action scenes could be “over-cut”. But that characteristic also applies to Tornatore’s tribute to the influential Italian producer. Almost every sentence is followed by a cut. At the same time, it seems that everyone who knew and liked Lombardo, and was able to come to together and hold on to a thought, was invited to reminisce about him. The memories are rather unsorted, extremely informationally poor and strongly biased. (The profligate American Robert Aldrich, with his The Last Days of Sodom and Gomorrah, is indirectly fingered as the cause of the collapse of Titanus. Conversely, the contribution of Visconti and Lombardo himself, two Italians, the former of whom recklessly spent money while the latter gave it away, is marginalised.) Besides the fact that, after a long and chaotic introduction, the documentary starts to very loosely follow a timeline, it does not adhere to any order. It is not divided into thematic segments, it does not separate Lombardo’s work from his private life or crucial moments from banal incidents. Everything thus merges into a monotonous ode of praise. A hundred minutes of repeatedly hearing about what an amazing person he was eventually became rather stupefying and much less enriching than a five-minute reading of a handful of Lombardo’s obituaries. As in some of Tornatore’s overly stylised, emotionally clamorous fictional films, quantity was thoughtlessly given preference over quality here. 55%

For an American film, Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit is an unusually disillusioning experience. Before this new Jack Ryan, I ranked Koepp and Zaillian among today’s top screenwriters and I believed Branagh to be a very competent director of intelligent films. However, their combined effort is an example of the worst kind of sloppiness in screenwriting and directing. Though the screenplay holds together in rough outlines (the circular narrative structure, the satisfactory interconnection of the relationship and work storylines, the economical use of props), the individual scenes reveal the confounding laziness of the film’s creators in figuring out how to make a particular character do a particular thing. The number of supporting constructs that they place in front of us due to poorly thought-out situations and the obtuse behaviour of the characters grows exponentially and one long, uninterrupted facepalm is the only appropriate reaction to the final twenty minutes, when everyone suddenly displays miraculous prescience and the ability to be in the right place at the right time. With the exception of the raw hotel brawl, which keeps alive the hope that this could be a decent paranoid thriller in the vein of late Hitchcock, the action scenes are muddled and mediocre. Shifting attention from the directing and screenplay to the actors is a matter of stepping out of the frying pan and into the fire, because the characters are interchangeable and played by actors who lack charisma. The dual (or even triple?) exposition only seems to indicate that this could be the hero’s origin story. As a result, the return to the past is not used for the purpose of tracking the longer-term development of the protagonist, who doesn’t actually develop (on the contrary, Pine’s facial expression at the end is one of even greater surprise than it was at the beginning), but serves primarily to amplify the pro-American emphasis of the narrative: we must defend our territory, values and – mainly – our money. Similarly, it initially seems that Ryan will be differentiated from other action heroes by his use of intellect instead of muscle (though Pine’s acting style is absolutely incompatible with such a concept), but someone else comes up with the main and, incidentally, rather dumb infiltration action and all of the shifts in the narrative are resolved through physical force and not by means of data collection and analysis. In the end, Ryan appears to be the more intelligent character, mainly thanks to the fact that he is surrounded by idiots who are unable to plan an operation that’s not based largely on chance. Nor is the ensemble given much strength by Branagh himself, whose tenacious Russian patriot with liver spots and a light bulb would be better suited to a Cold War-era Bond movie. Those Bond films, though, didn’t lack a sense of detached humour, the utter absence of which definitively kills Jack Ryan, which itself is an offence against spy thrillers and their viewers. Because of its cheapness (not in terms of budget, but in everything else), this is a film that’s suitable only as a Movie of the Week (or whatever they call it these days) on broadcast TV. 50%

“Some of this actually happened.” The exaggerated opening title well indicates the strengths and weaknesses of Russell’s American Hustle, which isn’t rooted in any particular genre. No, we will not familiarise you with the procedural details of the central swindle. Who knows what it was really like back then? And yes, like what you are about to see, Hollywood is one big game that plays fast and loose with the truth. So, we will set up a mirror and other reflective surfaces in front of ourselves and from the opening scene (preparation for the performance) we will draw attention to the performative dimension of the con artist’s “craft”. Which is to say that we will not focus on facts or provide enough of them that would create tension and expectations, but only self-reflexive wordplay that belongs entirely to the actors. Due to the sidelining of the course of the operation in favour of the relationships between the characters, who deny and rediscover their own identities, there is nothing that would hold the narrative structure together and keep the viewer in suspense. We can understand the herky-jerky rhythm of the narrative as an attempt to adapt the form to a large number of narrators with different natures and goals (and acting styles, because nearly every actor is attuned to a different genre), though I personally see it as evidence of Russell’s indiscipline as a director, which is caused by putting too much trust in the actors. Similarly, the manneristic use of certain stylistic techniques (rapid dolly shots) and gratuitous incorporation of contemporary music testify to the fact that Russel is adept at his craft and knows how to shoot a “cool” scene, but his directing is non-conceptual. The changes of identities, genres, rhythm and narrators are fun at first and give the film a certain flair. Due to the aimless directing and meaningless plot, however, the excess of images and words, which basically say the same thing again and again (and say it much more straightforwardly than, for example, Preston Sturges in the timeless The Lady Eve, becomes off-putting much sooner than, for example, in The Wolf of Wall Street, which seems to be a much shorter film thanks to its more concentrated and coherent narrative. As is becoming customary in the case of Russell, the actors save the film from being completely rejected and quickly forgotten. Bradley Cooper and Jennifer Lawrence, though entertaining, forgot to switch from the eccentric comedy mode employed in Silver Linings Playbook and the atrocious (s)exploitation of Amy Adams’s body needlessly flattens the Sydney character and detracts from her ambivalence, but at least Christian Bale hasn’t looked so bad and acted so well in a few years. 65%

As banal and ridiculous as the plot is in its frantic effort to find space for Dietrich’s performance, which serves purely as an attraction, Morocco is to an astonishing extent open to a queer reading. Marlene wears men’s clothing, kisses a woman and points out that she still hasn’t found a marriage-worthy man who can satisfy her. Of course, both the first and the second incidents are part of a cabaret performance, while we can interpret the third as simply and chastely meaning that she hasn’t had any luck with finding the right kind of guy. However, the actress’s gestures and face, and especially the titillating way in which Sternberg presents both of these aspects, make the possibility of reading against the grain irresistible. The dialogue also addresses gender differences, constantly treading the line between the two sexes and, though it is free of explicit innuendos, we can easily infer that the director was not a major supporter of the traditional family model. In connection with that, the setting in Morocco, where western female stereotypes were gaining prominence, found its justification. It seems absolutely logical when the protagonist “mannishly” salutes Cooper at the end, takes off her impractical and very feminine shoes and goes into the desert to perform more meaningful service than the life of a proper wife would require from her. The question of whether she is also renouncing her femininity by rejecting the role of decorative accessory and whether society is giving her any choice at all remains hanging in the hot Moroccan air. 75%

In addition to virtual relationships, in the introduction Stiller also cautiously raises a middle finger to corporate capitalism, which strips people of their individuality and transforms individuals into pawns who are willing to do anything to hold on to their jobs. A person’s own body – or rather mind – thus becomes his or her last refuge. The liberating power of the imagination allows one to at least dream of doing noble deeds worthy of great romantic heroes, who were long ago displaced from reality and put into epic Hollywood fairy tales. The Secret Life of Walter Mitty is not ashamed to admit that it is itself such a fairy tale whose message justifies its numerous spectacular scenes. The second half of the film is made up of a series of stirring adventure stories whose aesthetic concept is consciously inspired by magazine covers, since Walter escapes from his daily routine into photographs from prestigious magazines. Though the special-effects sequences blur the line between dream and reality to such an extent that the difference becomes irrelevant (instead of creating a certain tension), they also gently complement the characteristics of the main protagonist. Even though the romantic subplot seems superfluous on the surface and the film may seem like a self-improvement handbook for men who don’t know what to do with their lives, other people (his girlfriend, Sean O'Connell, his mother and, indirectly, even his deceased father) directly and indirectly support Walter in his solo adventures and compel him to continue in them throughout the film. In the current “contactless” era, a very welcome feature of this film is its effort to convince viewers not to live only in the virtual world and to not be afraid to realise their dreams, to not be selfish and to not stop thinking of others even in the most difficult moments (due to which the film seems more conformist than the roughly similar anarchistic action flick Wanted). Walter Mitty demonstrates that Stiller is able to suppress his eccentric comic nature in favour of a relatively serious idea. However, that seriousness is fortunately never taken so far that the film would completely step outside the realm of feel-good entertainment for the big screen and for the whole family. With the benefit of hindsight and in all seriousness, I wouldn’t hesitate to call Walter Mitty the most positive movie surprise of last year. 85%

-Thank You. -Fuck off! Breaking Good? Not entirely. Dallas Buyers Club is surprisingly not an emotionally manipulative drama about the belated awakening of a homophobe. It is rather a sober film – in terms of both form and content – that instead of glorifying Woodroof, admits that this cowboy did not deserve any exaggerated compassion even after he contracted AIDS. The effort taken to not harp on the protagonist’s suffering and to simply depict him corresponds to the objectiveness of the form (filming without additional artificial lighting, documentary-style asymmetrical shot compositions, non-evocative use of music). If the film isn’t emotionally cold,  that’s particularly due to the gaunt McConaughey, who lost approximately 20 kilos for his role as Woodroof. Even though he plays only a shadow of his heroes from other films, he never loses the sparkle in his eye. The way that he combines inordinate self-confidence, blatant impudence and admirable tenacity makes the protagonist an ideal campaigner against the (medical) establishment, which expects nothing more from its nemesis, who personifies the indomitable nature of American ambition, than the fact that he will soon die. Also fascinating especially for his physical transformation is Jared Leto, whose scenes with McConaughey are remotely reminiscent of Midnight Cowboy, another film that didn’t take itself too seriously and, on the other hand, neither revelled in its serious subject matter nor trivialised it. 75%

Leonardo DiCaprio transforms into Matthew McConaughey in this biopic, which chokes on itself. For as long and as fast as The Wolf of Wall Street talks, it ultimately says surprisingly little. Like The Great Gatsby, another attempt to explore the self-destructive potential of capitalism from last year, Wolf also entertained me more with its form than with its content. ___ Scorsese has dealt with the central theme of male frustration arising from the inability to reach the top and stay there several times (most evocatively in Raging Bull). What makes this film different is mainly its tone, degree of excess and greater emphasis on the ritual dimension of boorish behaviour. Sex, drugs and drinking have gained a common denominator in the form of dollar bills, for which anything and anyone can be bought. The film doesn’t condemn money – and there is the question of whether anyone should take it seriously in such a case today. On the contrary, it genuinely acknowledges that money can buy loads of pleasure. The ambiguous final scene with Agent Denham (is he smiling?), who together with Belfort’s first wife is the only one who acts with any sense of morals, leaves it up to us to judge whether he is happy or regretful that he didn’t take Belfort’s offer. (Denham comes across as a being from a different, human world also thanks to Kyle Chandler’s acting). Scorsese puts us in a similar “decide for yourself” position multiple times, e.g. during Belfort’s slow crawl to the Lamborghini. The scene isn’t made humorous with music or with a well-timed cut. It is rather several static shots without musical accompaniment. We are not encouraged to laugh at the protagonist; that’s only somehow expected of us. ___ At the same time, a second viewing of the etude with the Lamborghini, unforgettable thanks particularly to DiCaprio’s physical performance, which is reminiscent of Jerry Lewis and other masters of physical comedy, reinforced my suspicion that Scorsese did not have an entirely clear concept of how to shoot the individual parts of the film and then put them together. With the exception of the aforementioned scene, it more or less applies that the less cool the film is, the more seriously we should take it. The rapid dolly shots, the overhead shots, the slowed or quickened movement, the loud music (the choice of which is governed by whether we are watching the bacchanalia or, for example, another stock-market success) – these are all indicators that Belfort has the narrative fully under his control. From the prologue (white Ferrari, not red), however, Belfort shows himself to be an unreliable narrator who doesn’t tell the truth, or at least not the whole truth. Other characters and the film’s narrative itself have to repeatedly set the record straight and tell us what really happened (the S&M evening, the rampage on the airplane, the return from the Country Club). The scenes without music and Belfort’s boastful commentary, handled using the standard shot-countershot technique, are often more critical of the “hero’s” actions and give the impression that we are receiving facts in a purer form, unfiltered by Belfort’s view. But in “his” scenes, Belfort occasionally commits an offense that an impartial (and absent) film narrator avoids – he puts himself down (eleven-second coitus, self-ironic quoting of Browning’s Freaks). Is that supposed to be a surprising violation of the rules (such as the later conferment of the voice-over to other narrators, namely Saurel and Aunt Emma), or is it proof that the film does not respect any rules in its extravagant indiscipline? ___ Of course, the composition of the plot from various mad incidents is not as random as it may seem. The narrative moves ever forward thanks to the rhythmically well-thought-out introduction of new characters and revealing of new information, and thanks to the intensification of the motifs pointing out the striking contrast (played superbly by DiCaprio) between the Jordan who has ambition and a knit sweater and the Jordan who has everything. Whether The Wolf of Wall Street has a clear concept or not (it probably does, but I didn’t find it even on the second viewing), and whether or not it is sexist in its exploitation of the female body (it probably is, because Naomi uses her sex appeal as a weapon), the new Scorsese film remains an entertainingly provocative black comedy (or horror musical?) that pulsates with incredible (masculine) energy for the whole three hours and likably does not try to foist upon us any moralistic wisdom about the harmfulness of money, egoism and various forms of immoderation. 85%