Marigold

Football as a class struggle and a documentary like a restive leftist agitator. There is nothing worse than the proletarians from the establishment - two of them meet here and the result is very reminiscent of the barren meetings of salon revolutionaries. The smaller one babbles textbook phrase of South American Communism, while the larger one tries to show the viewer that the speaker is not an idiot, but rather almost a god. As long as Emir gives his opinions a symbolic framework of artistic expression, he speaks to me from his soul, but unfortunately, as soon as he descends to the gross demagoguery and glorification of political lunatics, his humor and vision suddenly become completely foreign to me... I therefore recommend this to crazy people who proudly wear Che's portraits, or to crazy people who prefer to think of Maradona's goals rather than sex. The world has changed.

If this film could evoke as much terror and participation as it evokes unwanted laughter and awkwardness, it would be a historical event. There is no point in rejoicing that Kohout is not entirely a blunderer in terms of the visuals, given that the characters speak and act unconceptually and misguided for 80 minutes. A terribly boring and troubled film in which there is no emotion and tension. The dedication to Hitchcock seems like a cynical burst of coffins after an infernally failed funeral.

I really enjoyed this. Stylish, but above all a parody, very much a parody. Awash with testosterone to the point that it can't be taken seriously for even a split second. It flies in all directions, sometimes toward Bond, other times toward Tarantino. I had fun, and except for a few cardboard scenes, the film is energetic and has a contagious appeal. Owen with carrots = love it. This film was made so you could turn off your brain and enjoy yourself. As stupid as MOTORHEAD hits and just as catchy. Fuck off fucking fuckers!

A comedy for connoisseurs. The first half mostly beats about empty party phrases and lessons, here and there it plays a piece of Káňa's text, and elsewhere it adds a pseudo-documentary insight into the life of the working class. As soon as the film transitions to people racing to see who grinds the piston pin faster, all of a sudden we get crackling folk humor from the theatrical template, incredibly naive zeal and ingenious scenes with a retroactive projection. Hofbauer's debut, and at the same time his final performance, shows a heroic degree of narrative naivety, attempts to capture the details of the faces and the general directing of the actors make the rigidity of the ideological body smile. Nevertheless, Plachta and Smolík do their own thing, and here and there are sparks at the mill cutter. The non-dramatic structure of Káňa's comedy celebrated by Burian, added the rigidity and forced folklore typical of contemporary film and creates a formally poor whole in terms of content, which, however, will delight experts with its contagious humor, half of which is intentional and half which is very unintentional.

A horrible digital mess, from which Guillermo de Toro's thoroughbred stamp occasionally shines, but it is immediately scattered by cheap chatter and truly ugly tricks. It is no longer worth showing Wesley Snipes's demented face, but thankfully the reputation of idiocy is traditionally saved by the divine Ron Perlman. I also don't understand what Cat is doing amongst the vampires and why he doesn't transform even once. Ehm. The most watchable film from the trilogy, but still very below average...

An incredibly well-filmed mob movie, in which all the poetry of crime stems from negative vibrations, and the storyline of the rise of the rank-and-file to being the big boss draws energy from moral relativism. It seems like everything is allowed in today's world, so why not make a hero out of the defective product of a rotten society? I only regret that A Prophet did not express more temperance and ran to an epic width. Greater tightness and clearer dramaturgy would help the film out. Even so: together with Gomorrah and The Baader Meinhof Complex, this is one of the most disillusioning probes into the heart of darkness in contemporary Europe.

Alfredson sometimes causes problems for himself by showing too much from the vampire world. Those few explicit moments, however, are definitely offset by a precisely constructed romance, in which the coldness of the Nordic winter alternates with fervent childish naivety and vampire brutality with loving tenderness. This is all without theatricality, chiseled idiots with sexy waves and braying girls in puberty. The Swedish filmmaker conceived vampirism as part of the sociological problem of alienation and the latent brutality of adolescents, and his film captivates with both brilliantly economical expression and great actors. As a long-time fan of vampire films, I rank Let the Right One In among the best genre works in recent years – it is a fairytale, but in a sense a horribly authentic fairytale.

I did not find any exorbitant political incorrectness in Elite Squad. The film provides no instant solutions to a sad situation, nothing gives hope, and if it does provide something, then it is a rather appalling picture of decaying justice and its humiliated servants. Personally, I was quite convinced by invectives toward left-wing intellectuals from good families, and I was able to identify with Captain Nascimento's views, although the depicted effects of the Crusades on justice evoke appalling feelings. What I really like about the film and find healthily provocative is the fact that the operation in the slums is initiated by the Pope's visit. This strange virtual detachment of civilization from the devastated world of slums and the effort to seek in it a kind of nobility of poverty contrasts well with the aspect of the glued and formatted "black" brains from BOPE. We can argue about where the truth is, but the fact remains that Padilha does not offer any. And if it is on the side of brutality of the men of the law, from my point of view, it does so because a) I am able to identify with it, b) even if I did not identify with it, it is still an aspect I want to know about. BTW, the film is technically brilliant.

First off, let's look at the academic heroes using the method of association. Indiana Jones: whip and swing. Robert Langdon: words and fat. Ben Gates: boredom and a goat's lip. Secondly, the same breathless melancholy, which receives the second star for the patriotic fun with the president and the stylish bastard Ed Harris. You don’t often hear this much bloated gossip; even Rolko Emmerich would envy it.

A bitter tale about a paranoid dad who kills a couple of ugly Arabs and Albanians on a trip to Paris, so that his princess’s luck doesn't run out and she doesn't end up on the gerontophile stick of a wicked rich man. From a rather illogical and sometimes sentimental spectacle, Morel and Neeson create an incredible adrenaline rush full of brilliant action and rough one-liners. I haven't seen such perfectly edited and frantic action for a long time, and they use almost exclusively very economical choreographies. One then forgets that the story doesn't really make sense at all and is only there as decoration.