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Metaphors for domestic violence, alcoholism, or hereditary mental illness within a family, combined with the perspective of a ten-year-old child naturally navigating through myths and fairy tales, were elements that should have allowed the creators to explore rich thematic depth, but they failed to capitalize on them. The theme of monsters within people and their gradual revelation to those who were supposed to be protected from all evil could not sustain the atmosphere, and by the ninth shot of the Land Rover driving through the picturesque countryside, it had lost its impact. Besides the diminishing internal logic, the final impression is further undermined by the ineffective Kit Harington, who was outshone even by the black furry creature that could pretend to be grandma in bed. His buddy from The Wall should have slapped him; maybe it would have jolted him into action.

In a Violent Nature the Czech way. The protagonist's emptiness, egocentrism, and lack of empathy are interestingly reflected in the form, but starting with the suicidal shooting range boss and ending with Balcar, who awkwardly conveyed fleeting feelings of superiority, the acting is unconvincing. Added to that are a few peculiar scenes raising questions. Before the Glock test on the cattle, was there supposed to be some symbolism in that shadow moving across the landscape? And what about the warm-up before the hockey game? The ads on the boards don’t exist, so were they just covering up the CCM logos because the Canadians refused to co-produce? And that Vietnamese grocery store with pasta for two bucks and cigarettes for seven in 2005? The anachronism checker seemed to be in "Forget About It" mode. The last point is a minor detail, but it reflects the film’s overall lack of thoroughness.

On the slopes, or a whodunit as it should be. A rival for Rian Johnson, who playfully pokes fun at the clichés of Agatha Christie detective stories (see the opening monologue by the director Kopernick), while simultaneously showing just how boundlessly he loves them. The distinctive Rockwell, and the overly eager constable Saoirse Ronan are standout performers, but they are overshadowed by the unexpected showman Brody, who with his predictive storyboard adds the right zing to established routines. I emphasize that watching in the original language is as essential as avoiding hasty conclusions. "It's a whodunit. You've seen one, you've seen 'em all!"

An X-traordinary Origin Story. On this farm, they don't throw pearls to swine, but to an alligator. Mia Goth as the Weirdo of Oz engaging with a scarecrow, pink seductions not just from the gutters, and the influence of Hollywood’s Golden Age on individual social development. Ti West rightly views it as a deranged Disney flick where Douglas Sirk’s melodrama meets Technicolor's flamboyance. Thus, another of his experiments with genres and styles, this time forking the doubts about content onto the doors of Howard's barn. My private tip for the trilogy’s conclusion is that MaXXXine will dream her dream in the world of Schrader’s Hardcore.

Jurassic World: Fail! Flambéed giant locusts, the exhumation of veterans tangled with the inability to effectively integrate them with the new generation, a silly script that repeatedly invokes God with a winch and saves heroes with the help of black brothers and sisters, burning giant locusts, desperate nostalgia-strumming to Williams' notes, and an action finale that evaporates from your mind as quickly as the whole film. Did I mention the giant locusts on fire? It feels like Colin Trevorrow stepped into triceratops dung, but he dove in so deep that only the soles of his shoes are sticking out.

To ensure that the old bachelor Karas isn't left unblessed, his friends must concoct some schemes. And these schemes are of such a kind that, in the end, he will indeed find himself blessed. It’s a classic First Republic comedy, brimming with more naivety than usual, and perhaps more than one might expect, but there's no reason to frown upon it—or anything at all. When Bedřich Veverka speaks, try closing your eyes. No, Oldřich Nový won’t be leaving, but you might just hear the voice of Miloš Kopecký.

Yippee ki-yay ho-ho-ho, motherfucker! When the special unit began their demolition with a sledgehammer during Bryan Adams' "Christmas Time," I was torn between envying Tommy Wirkola's arrested adolescence or criticizing it. He once again revealed his fondness for hobby store goods, especially various tools, but with the same passion, he might want to start focusing on characters. The invocation of family values often puts the brakes on things, but I understand, it's Christmas. Although David Harbour, playing the role with a Hellboy-like approach, gave it his all, I believe Bad Santa Billy Bob Thornton would still outshine him. Of course, I mean that figuratively...

The film addresses issues surrounding the integration of autistic individuals into society, anticipated conflicts with the general inspection, parental concerns about who will care for their children in the future, and, above all, people who selflessly live their lives for others. Unlike Intouchables, and borrowing a term from Faidra, the “perfumed stench of decay” is absent here, replaced by a higher degree of authenticity and a focus on societal layers that viewers can more readily relate to. Moreover, there’s the traditionally excellent Monsieur Cassel and a soundtrack that, in conjunction with the visuals, effectively evokes emotions.

Le monde est à vous. The protagonists don’t dwell on whether it’s just another day among thousands or the final one in a series. Instead, the viewer, with their vantage point from the outside, has the advantage of focusing on the causes that lead to the consequences. It’s pure urban cinema, a genre that French filmmakers have been unsuccessfully chasing in recent years. The final shot—or rather, the final sound—might leave you in suspense, but the spiral of hatred cares little about who is involved. What matters is its relentless acceleration. Le monde est à nous.

First, there's the stalking Max, caught in the threads of Hitchcockian suspense, followed by The Talented Mrs. Ripley with a slightly better calibrated moral compass. A romantic hexagon in a fractured yet meaningfully reassembled linearity, music reminiscent of Bernard Herrmann’s Basic Instinct scores, with breaths of love alternating with exhalations of cruelty. Comparable to McGuigan's remake in most aspects except for Vincent Cassel, who bulldozes Josh with charisma.

Occultism, a treacherous heart, or a motif as old as humanity itself? The criminal plot was meant to be intriguingly woven with the problematic personality of the founder of the detective genre (Melling, with his cheekbones, could easily play a vampire from an eighties horror film without needing makeup), but it somehow didn’t succeed in the candlelit gloom. Anticipation for a gothic crime film with horror elements wasn’t entirely dampened, but it seems that in terms of tightness and the ability to build atmosphere, Scott Cooper is starting to run Out of the Furnace. The final shot will leave only those uncertain who don’t know how the Guardian of Gotham manages to cope with loss and work at heights.

Retired Vašátko would be content just to indulge in chess games with Horác, but he will be called back into service one last time. A definitively definitive case. Looking at the schedule for the coming week, one might be inclined to argue, but who knows how it will turn out. Dramaturgical neglect, poorly portrayed "troublesome youth" (in their own words, a crew that has trouble because they are being pursued by prunes), a landscape plagued by sudden thaws, and a constable’s assistant who, by sheer coincidence, knows someone involved in the case. It’s clear that Vašátko is a seasoned veteran, as even before the ink on the obituary has dried, he’s already calmly preparing fish with rosemary and boiled potatoes for his friend.

"Rest in cheese, bitch!" Heidi, the aggressive little girl from the mountains fighting against the cheese dictatorship of the Fatherland. The result of this clash is a piece of exploitation cinema that aims to slice raclette with a machete but often only chops it with a Swiss Army knife. Käseführer Casper Van Dien might have sported a nice red tracksuit and entertained the crew between takes, but I'd rather play Dr. Szell and use all the aforementioned Victorinox tools to inspect his pearly whites. He is, after all, the cause of my ninety-minute humor intolerance.

Unmistakable comic book origins, a jittery camera supporting an aggressive audiovisual style, long gun barrels, and characters with a trace amount of goodness. Cassel, channeling his inner Michael Madsen, deserved much more screen time, as aside from the grenade-blessing abbot, the others were of little significance. Of course, except for the corrupted Karyo, who, after all the misdeeds, decided to do something good at the end by repainting the center line on Parisian streets. P.S.: Monica Bellucci with tendencies towards nymphomania is probably every man's dream wife. The fact that she can't hear you when you want to grab a beer from the fridge for the football on TV might start to bother you over time.

Is there any escape from the bad times when 18 and 88 are all the rage? What about 27 and 45? Energetic in the musical segments, oppressive when the human natures are laid bare. Some climb the ladder intoxicated by newfound power, others cling to it with moral principles, and those who have lost their strength let go once and for all. Respect for those who found the courage to resist, even a small resistance against the rise of evil. Perhaps it helped them that they couldn’t foresee where it was all headed, while we can now easily judge and, with the distance of an observer, ponder how we might have acted. The decision between three and four clarinets was settled by the ending, not so much by its content but by the way it was delivered.

It flows unperturbed behind a curtain of smoke and genre clichés, with Norwegian rescue teams gallantly yielding space to solo heroes, and you might realize while watching that there are disasters where it's good for you to see the light at the end of the tunnel. It’s probably unnecessary to remind you that if plastic bags weren’t handed out at checkout counters, none of this would have happened.

Collective psychosis made Todd Phillips believe that he is a great director and saviour of the comic-book film genre, so in his new movie he came up with a feeble-minded courtroom drama, a comically flat psychothriller set in a prison, a psychotically stiff musical, allusions to a dark superhero film and a clichéd cherchez la femme romance, which is perhaps supposed to elicit compassion for the chaotic incel in the lead role. Of course, none of this is good and the individual genre elements don’t help. Joaquin Phoenix is definitely a great actor, as he lost a lot of weight for the role and constantly pretends to be a martyr because, yes, in this film he is primarily a victim of the will of others. Perhaps in the years to come, the Joker films will be seen as the greatest collective dissonance of recent years. This playfully toxic phantasmagoria is a good start to getting sober!

An embargo should be imposed on the genre of “wealthy intellectuals die with dignity and thus reconcile us with the majesty of death”, but I understand that it’s nice watch and is good for garnering awards. Pedro Almodóvar, whom I respect for his ability to balance pathos with an ironic Hispanic flair, goes all in on this. The camera paints, Julianne Moore and Tilda Swinton theatrically deliver their dialogue and monologues, from which it seems that Pedro is not at home in English and his distinctive melodramatic tone is suddenly decorative and flat. Yes, euthanasia is an important topic, but I really have no idea what symbolic quotes from Joyce and Hopper are supposed to bring to it. I understand that this film is a safe space where everything seems intellectually comprehensible. However, it is cheap creative license. Not even the games with hysteria and affection are anything that would save this essay on dying from the dead calm.

Being a killer in slasher films during the COVID era is no walk in the park. You may have respiratory protection, but what about those two-meter distancing rules? It's sympathetic for its dynamism and rawness of action, as well as its grounding in the offered space, and how Kevin Williamson even plays with the COVID madness in the twist. However, the unrealistic resurrections and unnecessary logical lapses eventually put it in the quarantine of mediocrity. It’s a pity the killer didn’t don a rubber mask. Pennywise and Art the Clown from Terrifier would have had a worthy competitor.

Smart, insightful, layered and, although it doesn't seem like it at first, very entertaining once the flashbacks kick in. A deftly constructed love triangle story that offers different perspectives on different themes and playfully transcends the classic sports drama with the ease and finesse of a seasoned filmmaker. Some things may be a bit much, like the annoying sucking scene or the final cruelly long slow-motion sequences, but otherwise it's a damn catchy and original drama. Zendaya excels.