Isherwood

A stylistically polished blend of (self-)parody references to both the entire previous works of Kevin Smith and the entire retroactive decade of contemporary Hollywood. His distinctive take on pop culture (movies, music, comics) is entertaining to the extent that the viewer is willing to accept the torrent of vulgarities that most viewers seem to condemn out of hand, to be enjoyed by those who find the term "my pussy" both romantic and amusing.

At a time when the word "series" is becoming almost an annoying concept, from the depths of inconspicuousness comes a stylish blockbuster that is three levels above its contemporaries. Dexter - the absolutely divine Michael C. Hall - will wrap anyone interested in his adventures around his finger with his cynically black-humored look into the soul of a cold-blooded killer who wears a police badge around his neck. The series then radically changes its image after this brilliant maneuver into a detective story that will make the viewer taut as a string, to reveal, piece by piece, more secrets, the discovery of which not only brings no relief but also, through its subtlety, leaves the audience in a state of total consternation, from which it only wakes up when the credits of the last episode roll. After the end of the first season, I can safely say that in the current flood of series, Dexter is among the very best! There are certainly things to criticize in the subsequent seasons (the predictable crime storylines, underdeveloped characters, lapses in logic), but Dexter's reflections on life (the fantastic flirtation with religion and faith in the sixth season) are simply incredible and keep pushing the series forward. Unfortunately, the final eighth season is something that shifts the series into the science fiction genre, written by the screenwriters of a family soap opera. The development of the main character was fascinating until someone rubber-stamped the creators' approval of Dexter's lobotomy.

The ethereal fusion of image and music has an almost hypnotic effect on the viewer, but I certainly wouldn't see that progressiveness in form (Gattaca) or content (12 Monkeys). Emotionally, Code 46 is as cold as a piece of ice, which is unfortunately aided by the most important element, i.e., the completely inappropriate casting of the main characters. Their chemistry with each other is an absolutely perfect destroyer of any viewer empathy, as Robbins' detective looks too old next to the young Morton (whose boyish "look" made me not want to trust that femininity even in the moment of her exposed lap), which makes their love scenes have the same (un)sympathetic effect as the Hopkins-Kidman pairing in the snobby art film The Human Stain. It’s an unexceptional story whose soundtrack actually makes a much stronger impression.

While Smith's first film suffered from a lot of brevity and too much episodicity of the individual characters, the second time around he managed to avoid all such ills and made a brilliant film that is a perfect reflection of his love for the pop culture world around him. Dialogues about comic book superheroes (the interview with Stan Lee is brilliant), dissecting the Star Wars phenomenon, but also a lot of vulgarities, which are not self-serving but rather entertaining and hide many moral lessons, the least of which is that love is important for each of us. A cinematic jewel that mirrors the filmmaker's genius like few things do.

Directed in a clear, formally "retro-cool" style, the plot is multi-layered yet still engaging, and the acting is perfectly precise. It deftly makes 1950s America and the City of Angels into an alluring backdrop, within whose seemingly heavenly purity lies the dirtiness of a morality to which human life, let alone the law are sacred. Over the expansive 130-minute runtime, Hanson fleshes out the characters of the police officers, who surely deserved better personal histories than the boilerplate phrase about an abused child's sordid past or an exemplary son following in his father's footsteps. This is only broken by Kevin Spacey's cynical, self-righteous Jack Vincennes when, when asked why he joined the police, he replies "I don't really remember." Yet even that doesn't stop the film from captivating us with every frame, from breathing its amazing atmosphere onto audiences, but also making them wonder how the hell Kim Basinger could win an Oscar for such a role. PS: For me, the moment when Bud White breaks the chair is one of the most iconic moments of cinema.

When comparing the half-minute or so sequence of the kids' metamorphosis from the film itself to how much he showed off in his own short spin-off, this four-minute short is pretty poor. In addition, the runtime is taken up by the hysterical babysitter and awkward agent, and so while the sight of a burning baby is ultra-cool and will be sure to amuse anyone, it's pretty solid hype with maximum disappointment.

A visually overstuffed directorial debut that lacks a more distinctive narrative style and drowns its original theme in plagiarized action sequences that surprise no one. Statham is once again cool, but slowly but surely his single expression starts to become an awkward pose that becomes annoying towards the end. The film is pulled out of absolute mediocrity by a few wonderfully incorrect black-humor gems (the bird in the cage, sex by the mailbox), but why not admit it: (spoiler!) classic clips die just like the hero of the film - he tries his best, but he’s on his way underground just like everyone else.

Guy Ritchie took his camera and his old acting crew and headed to the American casinos to play at being higher level gangsters. They grab Luc Besson along the way, and they are picked up at the airport by Ray Liotta. Looking at Jason Statham they decided that his new look with long hair and beard looked cool, so they gave them the lead roles and in all seriousness made a convoluted story in which money, drugs, and guns play second fiddle. That’s because the inner demons of people on the other side of the law are a much more serious subject, which is not to say that the final work is a total fiasco, but without any black-humored trivialization, it all feels too heavy-handed and the over-complicated plot implausible. This effort certainly didn't suit the director and it didn’t work for me (along with most of the viewing public), but I have no issues watching it again thanks to its appealing form.

Visually magical and musically captivating. Although the plot is absolutely empty, thanks to Weir's skill, and his confident grip on several themes (the detective story, horror, love between women), it is an atmospherically unbelievably gripping and emotionally charged work, which proves the director's genius, which is unrivaled on the other side of the planet (for now).

Cinematically, this clip is perfect; Landis has a whole lot of talent, and few horror films can boast such an atmosphere. I just have a little problem with that song by Michael...