Matty

Viaggio in Grecia. I got the same impression of superfluousness from The Godfather Part III, which at first glance was also made mainly for the purpose of reuniting old friends (real friends, not fictional). Everything essential was said before dusk and the rest belonged to reflections blurred by the spell of what was left unsaid. The third instalment abandons the concept of the previous two. The central couple is not under time pressure. They are not worried about the future, but they are haunted by the past to a greater extent than before. The dialogue is not between just the two of them, as other characters come into the picture, among whom all generations and at least three different worldviews are improbably represented. The attempt at a more complex definition of love in the 21st century (particularly the repeated allusions to modern communication technologies seem forced) disperses the attention that had previously been focused exclusively on the portrait of a single relationship over the course of time. The partners realise that the romantic situation (the hotel) was artificially created for them and they sarcastically comment on it, but they are still victims of film clichés (a previous partner is “destroyed” by alcoholism, the sexual act is interrupted by the ringing of a mobile telephone and if anyone is exposed not only in the figurative sense, it is only the woman). ___ Eric Rohmer had earlier fondly used dialogue as a crucial structural element, but he employed the mood of the surrounding environment to flesh out the characters. In Linklater’s previous two films, the space in which the dialogue took place could not be described as an extension of the characters’ inner world. Before Midnight offers a slight upgrade. It’s as if the summer-holiday mood of the chosen setting predetermined the less hurried tone of the film, and Greece, the land where tragedy was born –  together with references to Medea and Rossellini’s Journey to Italy, culminating in the famous scene with the ancient statues – indicated a shift to more serious problems. Thanks to the partners’ sense of detachment and ability to engage in self-reflection, however, the film brings to mind the pleasant ease of previous encounters, despite the greater cynicism and cruelty in the emotional exposure, and the ancient tragedy fortunately does not happen (although fateful mistakes are made and the insurmountable differences between the genders bear some of its features). ___ It is apparent from the more bitter tone that both the director and the actors wanted to put the protagonists in a certain position and face them with certain problems that would push the tone of the “Before” sequence to the brink of total relationship de(con)struction along the lines of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? With respect to that, the element of chance that was a characteristic of the previous pair of films, which serious themes crept into quite casually, was weakened. The more ordinary framing detracted from the uniqueness of Celine and Jesse’s story. Though it’s true that the dialogue, again appropriately interspersed with meaningful silences, is still extraordinarily authentic and abounds with learned truths about life, the overall narrative structure is more carefully thought out and thus devoid of any hint of spontaneity. ___ Even though I didn’t find the film entirely believable, I would take the point of most of what it had to say. To hear the dialogue in an American film transition with such ease between comical, sentimental and cynical is a minor miracle (the naturalness of these “transitions” clearly shows that Delpy is a better actor than Hawke, who is more or less always thrown into the same casual position). Before Midnight is an invaluable treasure trove of useful advice for less experienced couples and bitter truths for those who have been around the relationship block before. As in the case of Before Sunrise and Before Sunset, anyone’s assessment of Before Midnight will be strongly influenced by their personal relationship experiences. I admit that if I give Before Midnight the lowest rating of all three films, that may be because I have not yet grown up enough to fully appreciate such a mature view of interpersonal relationships. Appendix:  After some time had passed, I watched the film a second time and I have to admit that the “paradigm shift” from walking to walking away is radical enough to justify the slight change in style and the increase in the number of speaking characters. I particularly appreciate the naturalness with which we are prepared for the uncompromising solemnity at the end. It’s not merely the theme of conversations into which the fleetingness of time repeatedly creeps, but also, for example, the names of the characters (Ariadne, Achilles) referring to worlds that are ancient, vanished and yet still alive (not only in Greece). This dichotomy corresponds to the way Linklater and his two actors understand the coexistence of two beings. Despite their utterly sober view of relationship setbacks, with all their ephemerality, they do not completely renounce their romantic belief in eternal love. At least in this respect, Before Midnight is several decades ahead of most American romantic stories, which only falsely comfort us without a hint of scepticism. 80%

Donner’s original Superman was open to New Testament interpretations, so it is not surprising that Snyder didn’t hesitate to use the budget for Man of Steel to make a modern Biblical epic. The apocalyptic climax, which evokes the feeling that two ideologies have clashed and the whole world is facing destruction, is merely the inevitable spectacular culmination of an epic story that follows the successive inceptions of Kal-El, Clark Kent and Superman. The other two narrative units are deliberately “broken up” by numerous flashbacks (like the whole Watchmen film), which hold our attention by clarifying new facts and aiding character development (at least for our basic orientation in space and time, we have to keep in mind from where we have jumped back to the past). In addition to rhythmising the narrative, the flashbacks also help to exploit the storytelling potential of the supporting characters, who are not entirely overshadowed by the main protagonist thanks to comprehensible parallels (Lois cannot write the truth about Superman; Superman cannot boast about his abilities). Lois Lane, who represents an unusually strong female protagonist (not only in the comic-book adaptations), undergoes the most significant change. Though she does let herself be led by a man (or the voice of God?) in the film’s least spectacular (and, in my opinion, best) action scene, she otherwise definitely does not just dully wait around to see what will happen to her and who will rescue her, and thanks to what she knows, here presence is even a necessary condition for good to triumph over evil. Man of Steel doesn’t say much that’s new (only the concept of Krypton – which incidentally resembles the art of H.R. Giger – as an “ideal” Platonic society, which Superman, as an “American hero”, ultimately rejects in favour of American democracy, is elaborated upon to some extent), but at least it gathers together and distributes old information in an original way. Like Batman Begins and Skyfall, Man of Steel goes back the roots of a heroic myth, while at the same time attempting to confront it with reality, of course within the realm of possibility that the genre offers. Besides the pseudo-realistic indie style of the directing, this is apparent particularly in the loss of the previous films’ sense of levity. Of course, Superman is still a guy who can fly and lift a school bus, but now he has to flex all of his muscles, grit his teeth and work up a proper sweat. Thanks to the fact that the film’s air of ancient tragedy is actually believable, Cavill’s strained expression during the difficult physical performances is not unintentionally funny. Thanks to its actors, the emotions that it evokes and especially the pathos of which it is not ashamed, Man of Steel is, in my opinion, the blockbuster highlight of the year so far, as it superbly finds a balance between the silliness of Iron Man and the nerds of Star Trek with its heartfelt earnestness. 85%

The return of the prodigal son. The familiar graphical rendering of the opening credits gives us a hint as to how Singer approached this comic-book legend: with respect. His revived Superman is a labyrinth of references in which viewers who are not familiar with the previous films or the comic book will get lost, but which fans of the Man of Steel will be delighted again and again as they discover previously unexplored recesses. Singer builds on what others have said and adds in what has been omitted (how Clark learned to fly). He quotes lines, situations and even whole scenes (also from non-Superman films, of course; 2001: A Space Odyssey, Batman and The Shining came to my mind). Superman Returns is both a compilation of previously utilised motifs and a reflection on the transformations that the sub-genre of comic-book adaptations has undergone since its inception. The temporal distribution of the allusions contained in the film is extraordinarily ambitious. The Art Deco design of the interiors and the villains’ costumes refer back to the distant time before the first Superman films directed by Donner, i.e. to the time when Superman was created in comic-book form. Superman Returns works as an autonomous, narratively unified film only with major reservations. The abandonment of conventional exposition and the presentation of the characters and their objectives in the process forces us to become more actively involved, to frequently ask questions (is this the first time that Luthor finds himself in Superman’s Fortress of Solitude, or is it a reprise of the scene from the director’s cut of Superman II?) and formulate hypotheses. We get a certain intellectual gratification from gradually figuring out where we are in the Superman universe, but that is not enough for a whole film. We can marvel at the style, which is admirably pure even in the context of the plot’s unoriginality. Singer abandoned campy exaggeration (though he still has a tendency to engage in it: Luthor is still an overgrown man-child, Lois still swoons at tense moments). The shots are colourful (and their intentional non-realism is underscored by the obsessively symmetrical compositions), but they are coloured in darker hues than before. The more serious stylisation suits Luthor in particular, who in Kevin Spacey’s hedonistic portrayal is not merely an unhappy nobody, but a serious terrorist threat (and an illustration of what could happen if the wrong guy plays God). How else could it be in a post-9/11 Superman movie that exploits (rather than critically reflects) the revival of interest in real American heroes, who’s essence is personified by Kal-El? Despite its darker tone, Singer’s attempt to resuscitate the superhero myth by picking and choosing from the best of Superman is not intended to be revisionist, but liberating and comforting entertainment. If I may say so based on my own experience, you will enjoy Superman Returns more the warmer your relationship is to this man who – even after being in existence for eight decades – has yet to understand that a cape is only good for being sucked into and pulverised by an aircraft engine. I still enjoy his wonderful guilelessness. 80%

This quick and straightforward overview of the comic-book, television and film history of Superman does not make any attempt to philosophise. Instead of reflections and interpretations, it simply offers facts, fortunately neither dry nor generally known (tremendous thanks for drawing attention to the OMFG pilot of The Adventures of Superpup). The makers of Look, Up in the Sky managed to extract some real gems from the older movies and series (we can be even more glad for the subtlety of today’s product placement, when Superman doesn’t spend a whole scene eating one particular brand of breakfast cereal) and skilfully combine information from various media that have enriched the Superman myth over the course of time. The documentary loses its flair only at the end, as it goes into needlessly detailed analyses of the series Smallville and throws out a shameless plug for Singer’s Superman Returns. Despite that, it can be recommended as a summary of the most important facts about the Superman phenomenon. 80%

The last temptation of Kal-El. The Richard Donner Cut is a significant upgrade over Richard Lester’s unintentional parody. The ratio of comical and tragic is even more balanced than in the first Superman. The serious is clearly differentiated from the exaggerated. Matters of an almost existential nature (the lack of freedom endured by a saviour condemned to be responsible for the fate of humanity) are addressed in the romantic storyline. Levity is provided by the difficulties of the visitors from space, who nevertheless inspire more respect than Luthor and gradually manage to subjugate the ideological (media, government) and repressive (police, military) apparatuses. Though the president still voluntarily subordinates himself to Superman, the film no longer has shades of obtrusive patriotism (even though all of the symbols of the United States – the Washington Monument, the Statue of Liberty and a Coca-Cola advertisement – have to be restored to their original condition in at the end) – the fate of the torn protagonist is more important than the homeland. The epilogue is not devoted to collective ideals, as it involves the hero’s satisfaction. Much more than its predecessor, the reasonably long director’s cut of Superman II is an example of economical storytelling. The main storyline is in some way enriched by each of the characters, whose motivations are clear (with the exception of Eve Tessmacher, who no longer has any reason to help Luthor after the first film), the parallels are apt (Luthor is to the general as Lois is to Superman), and the film stays in each setting until it is fully exhausted (the dialogue scenes thus come across as slightly theatrical). Donner’s Superman II isn’t as rich in hidden meaning as the first one, but there is at least some psychoanalytical value in the fact that the father represents an obstacle for the son in starting a full-fledged romantic relationship. 85%

This noir-tinged Spanish crime thriller starts where many films of the same ilk finish, with a cold-blooded triple murder. The narrator of typical noir would spend the rest of the film explaining the causes of the crime through flashbacks. Santos Trinidad, however, does not go back to the past and doesn’t try to convince us that what he did was right. The protagonist with the appearance of a vagrant and disdain for modern technology (he uses a revolver instead of an automatic, mobile telephones annoy him, recording devices are a threat to him) wants only to escape justice. His main goal is not to remedy the corrupt world in which the inspector does not search for the killer, but for the one that he himself killed. Rather, his goal is merely to survive in that world. With the initial loss of credibility on the part of the police, he finds himself at the point of no return. He knows that he can no longer rise in the ranks and that he can only sink lower. The noirish fatalism is intensified by the slow uncovering of the global contexts of criminal activities, which Santos unluckily became aware of at the beginning. The scope of the conspiracy enables the filmmakers to continuously reveal (or conceal) new information, whose evaluation occupies us to the point that we find ourselves digging around in the past of the protagonist, who acts methodically without any emotion. A stark narrative form was chosen in line with the protagonist’s Melville-esque straightforwardness. Where the placement of the characters allows it, refocusing is used instead of cuts (this stylistic technique effectively captures the fact that the characters are constantly watching someone and thus logically must be in the same field of vision as the subject that they are observing). The stable, concentrated camerawork does not show us more than we need to see (thanks to which the only significant deviation from horizontal filming just before the end particularly stands out). The mood of the setting – whether a nightclub, a distant landfill or a shopping centre – is captured in concise shots, which have the added benefit of enriching the narrative. The camera doesn’t linger on the landscape to flesh-out the atmosphere. Non-diegetic music is also used sparingly, only a few times to build the tension. We could want more cohesiveness from the narrative, but I am convinced that the non-fulfilment of viewers’ expectations, when the films starts out in a particular direction and then unexpectedly deviates from it, was intentional (see, for example, the judge’s questioning, which decelerates the narrative). What I most appreciate about the captivatingly aloof No Rest for the Wicked is its bold faith in the patience of the viewer, for whom the well-thought-out distribution of information will be an adequate substitute for an emotional connection with the characters. 75%

The first chapter, which resembles some kind of fannish home video from Bryan Singer, is at least unusual. What follows it, however, is an entirely ordinary video journal from the shooting of Superman Returns (which includes only the production aspect, despite the enormous length of the documentary), conceived without the inventiveness of the video journals of Peter Jackson’s films. The technical members of the crew mostly just describe what we are seeing and how much time and resources it required. The actors praise each other and the director. The director himself is reminiscent of a boy who has found himself in an enormous toy store (or a nerd in a comic-book shop). Instead of telling the camera about his creative vision, he only marvels at the fact that he fulfilled his dream. The only thing that breathes life into Requiem for Krypton, shortly before the end, is Kevin Spacey, fully immersed in his role and yet remaining above things. If the only parts of this monster documentary that you watch are Spacey’s segment and the closing credits with bloopers, you won’t be missing out on anything important.

Based on a New Testament formula, this origin story of the Superman mythos is a monumentally uneven film. The almost black-and-white prologue promises a family saga. After a journey through space (a condensed version The Little Prince), however, we are presented with the story of a young man from a modest background (i.e. no Bruce Wayne or Tony Stark), who settles in the emblematic American countryside (shot in American, i.e. western, style) and dreams his American Dream. He sets out to find himself, i.e. undertakes his introspective journey, only after the death of his father. The inner conflict between his superhuman powers and human mentality begins when he puts on the blue leotard and, at the same time, the film veers from its journalistic setting into screwball comedy and Clark thus becomes a one-dimensional comic-book boor who we have no reason to root for (unlike the more charismatic Cary Grant, from whom Christopher Reeve took inspiration, or the more athletically gifted Harold Lloyd, whom Reeve resembles in appearance). It’s impossible to take too seriously the campy villain with terrible sartorial sense and a dim-witted flunky (“Otisburg??!!”). That is probably the reason that in the climax Superman faces not the ludicrous Luthor (charmingly played by Gene Hackman), but a much more powerful adversary. He must subdue nature. It’s as if the screenwriting team didn’t know how serious an approach they wanted to take to the comic-book legend. They placed the off-the-wall story about a guy with red boots and a queer ringlet in the context of a grand Biblical tragedy. The mythological level (crisis of faith) and the psychosocial level (crisis of masculinity) do not intersect, but rather run indifferently in parallel. The defending of the American way of life does not happen in parallel with the effort to convince us that even a scatterbrained dunce can be a superman who will convince the emancipated working girl that manliness still hasn’t completely disappeared from the world (he literally “domesticates” her). (It is fitting that words are not enough for people to regain their lost faith in a protector who watches over them. Only actions have the power of persuasion. Spectacular, breathtaking actions.) Not all of the cinematic Superman’s flaws have to do with ideology. Especially in the director’s cut, you realise that the amount of plot to be conveyed does not match the runtime. The action scenes and the scenes reminiscent of slapstick add little to the story and serve mainly for spectacle and amusement. The effects are more laughable than wonderous (when he runs, Clark looks like the Road Runner, the numerous flying scenes are spastic and lack the facility that would make us believe that this activity is easy for Superman.) However, this sincerely intended naïveté also gives Superman a certain charm that today’s comic-book adaptations lack. It contains something that is fundamentally American. For better or worse. It is my opinion that thirty years from now, few of today’s blockbusters will still be as entertaining and redolent of honestly done (non-digital) work. 85%

Adieu Philippine, an intentionally aimless New Wave predecessor of George Lucas’s American Graffiti, will probably remain the only more significant work of Jacques Rozier. The film’s delayed premiere (due to the complicated editing of a tremendous amount of material, problems with funding, additionally shot scenes and the necessity of redoing poorly recorded pieces of dialogue) caused the film to be released to cinemas after interest in young French cinema had mostly dissipated. ___ The purpose of Rozier’s playful and seemingly improvised approach to directing is not to entertain, but to play with the form itself, though the narrative is intentionally and irritatingly broken up by means of various editing methods, including jump cuts and axial cuts (the numerous instances of montage techniques compelled Christian Metz to use Rozier’s film as a case study for his syntagmatic analysis). Sound, which is just as important as movement for Rozier’s musical grasp of rhythmisation, is paradoxically the main element in the editing that makes the film whole. ___ The jazz soundtrack, laid-back and rather episodic narration, the summer-holiday atmosphere and lack of serious conflict obscure the fact that the actual theme of the film is about something that is not explicitly expressed here (with the exception of the opening credits) – the end of innocence. The slower and practically plotless second half of the film is reminiscent of a long, reluctant farewell to youth, which is underscored by the last scene, an indirect expression of desire, so that at least this farewell will always endure. Other than in the opening credits, there is no mention of the war in Algeria, yet the idea of it is constantly present in the film (powerfully in, for example, the scene with the taciturn friend who has just returned from the war). Just as every scene “smells” of American culture, this is a means of distracting the masses. Because of its seeming hollowness, the film imitates the purpose of French consumerism at that time (most conspicuously apparent in moronic TV commercials), which also drew attention away from serious events, which thus at most became topics of conversation to fill the silence between the hors d’oeuvres and the main course. ___ Like the narrative, the protagonists are not focused on a particular goal. They merely kill time by playing games. They just want to have a good time all the time in order to push out thoughts of the future. They are interested in relationships, money and how they look (which is true especially of the two girls, who essentially lack any personality and are defined exclusively through their male counterparts). Thanks to its delayed release to cinemas, Adieu Philippine can be seen as a caustic commentary on the fate of the nouvelle vague (in both the sociological and cinematographic senses) – as the story of a group of carefree young people, some of whom never developed their talent and others who sold out. However, the film also lends itself to an opposite reading. If Rozier is ridiculing anyone, it is not the young protagonists (who, unlike Godard’s characters, are not passionate cinephiles), but the Italian producer, whose following of fashion trends is nothing more than commercially motivated posturing. In opposition to him stands spontaneous youth. Perhaps unproductive, but sincere. 60%

An unconventional documentary that doesn’t focus on the already rather exhausted topic of Godard’s work as such, but exclusively on Godard’s ties to the United States. Most of the film’s space is given over to New Hollywood filmmakers (Friedkin and Schrader do most of the talking, while Hellman and Bogdanovich utter about two sentences) who attempt to describe how (specifically and generally) they were inspired by the French New Wave, why they didn’t draw from it more and what, in their opinion, comprises Godard’s contribution to cinema. The documentary’s digestibility is aided by its reasonable runtime and playful form, which imitates the style of Godard’s films.