Matty

Creating the Impossible looks like a patchwork of talking heads from the making-of documentaries about individual films (priority was given to those made by the uncritically admired Lucas, Spielberg and their friends). The only common denominator is the (self-)laudatory tone and the unwillingness to see the extensive use of CGI in a broader context. Though the documentary offers only a few lighter moments, such as Robin Williams’s story about running away from a non-existent rhinoceros, it maintains a treacherously brisk pace throughout (thus creating the impression that we have been told much more than we actually have) thanks to the music and the modest use of film clips. Instead of this, I recommend watching The Pixar Story, which is partially about the same thing and doesn’t seem so synthetic.

2001: A Space Odyssey, which this film reminded me of several times during the screening, confronted man with the great unknown. In Gravity, like in the most classic folk tales (which are usually dominated by a man, not a woman), man is confronted mainly with himself and his (limited) possibilities. This is not the only indication of the film’s classic nature. Another wager on certainty is the three-act narrative structure (three sanctuaries provided by three space stations, each of which representing a different religion) with precisely doled out story complications and exemplary use of deadlines, which contribute to the impression that the things we see are happening in real time and thus nothing is decided and certain in advance. As others have previously described in detail, Gravity is gripping not in spite of but thanks to the use of classic Hollywood narrative formulas. The intensity of the experience is aided by limiting the narrative to what Dr. Stone sees, hears, knows and experiences, as she becomes our avatar for roughly eighty minutes. Perhaps during the most intense moments, we don’t so much fear for her life, but for the perspective that we might lose if we lose her. If there is no Dr. Stone, there will be no way for us to see. What happens in the global context is irrelevant. The film does not disrupt our emotional connection to the central character by dealing with any conflicts other than her internal conflict. Bad things simply happened (her daughter’s death, the debris impact) and now it is up to her to deal with them. In any case, the powerfulness of the Rd. protagonist’s rebirth (including the foetal position and the cutting of the umbilical cord) is due not only to the highly cohesive screenplay and the detailed technical rendering, but also to Sandra Bullock’s performance. Her “howling” at the Moon will remain in my memory as one of the most moving film moments of 2013 and, also thanks to Bullock, the purgative final shot, when the ordinary definitively becomes extraordinary, was also a powerful experience for me that goes beyond film (and beyond sensory perception). In my eyes, that moment, despite its content, elevated Gravity from the level of technical wonder and unique crisis simulator (not only in space) to an encounter with something otherworldly that cannot be described with words or conveyed in images. If we leave aside the theatrical reversals, we could even call it Art. 95%

Kazan’s variation on a neorealist theme, straddling the line between realism and idealism (the unabashedly melodramatic climax) is not an iconic 1950s film only because of its socio-critical story (for whose appreciation it is good to know the infamous role played by Schulberg and Kazan in McCarthy’s anti-communist campaign). On the Waterfront most intensely recalls the time of its making through the acting performances. You don’t have to leaf through thick books on the history of cinema in order to understand the term “method acting”. It suffices to watch Brando at work in one textbook scene after another. Brando is focused, but at ease, with bullish tenacity and feminine sensitivity at the same time. That sensitivity makes Terry a remarkably ambivalent character. On the one hand, it weakens him; on the other hand, it makes him a moral authority in the eyes of men who are outwardly stronger but inwardly weaker. These two components of the protagonist’s personality never cancel each other out. Thanks to Brando, they are rather in perfect harmony. Such identification of an actor with his character has rarely been seen since. 85%

What teenage American girls really dream about… Park attacks American cinema with its own weapons. In the frame for a family melodrama, whose ideology (family above all, children as a chance to make things right) is cruelly mocked, he has set a formalistically polished, thoroughly deviant film that defies categorisation in any particular genre. Beginning with the flashforward that opens the film (and indicates the dominant narrative perspective that goes beneath the surface), we are confused and led in wrong directions by various narrative devices. We learn important information sooner or later than the characters, genre conventions are used in unexpected contexts, and an equal sign could be drawn between the villains and the protagonists. With the frequent use of continuity of the shots, seemingly random details (the sole of a foot, a spider) gradually fit into the well-thought-out structure and become important motifs serving both the obvious thematic levels of the story and those that lie beneath the surface. At the same time, the occasionally disgusting details (the bursting of a blister) indicate how India perceives reality, which is probably most clearly demonstrated by her art-class painting of the inside of a vase (instead of painting the vase itself or the flowers placed in the vase). ___ Park is well aware of how certain types of scenes are constructed in Hollywood, which is why he ironically places those formulas in the foreground (the rhythmisation of a scene using a metronome, which is present in the diegetic space of the film) or circumvents them (disregard for the axis rule in the three-part dialogue scenes, the discontinuous sequencing of shots throughout the film). Through an ironic lens, we can also see the main protagonist, who has similarly morbid interests as many of her peers, but in her case it’s not mere posturing. ___ In the mould of Shadow of a Doubt, the whole film is structured as a suspenseful – albeit very ambiguous in terms of moral categories – duel between a pair of adversaries who complement and destroy each other and whose forces are only seemingly unequal. The narrative is largely organised by means of parallelism, which is behind some of the film’s most impressive scenes (e.g. the orgasmic piano duet), motivates the changes in perspective within a single long shot (either by changing the direction of movement or through more conventional refocusing) and makes us aware of moments that are important to the plot (most of the essential revelations occur on the stairs, which are “ruled” by Charlie at the beginning and by India at the end). The peak moments of the film are the two precisely built-up and rather shocking cut scenes, of which the first places sex and death on the same level and the second uniquely compresses three time planes into one. ___ From a psychoanalytical perspective, Stoker is an extremely dense film, though it occasionally resorts to naïve literalism and works with some symbols far more conspicuously than, for example, Hitchcock, who had to be more restrained in this respect due to censorship (he could perhaps have only gotten away with Charlie’s assessment of the wine accompanied by meaningful glances at India). In the shots shared with India and Charlie, the mother is a superfluous and disruptive element, which partially corresponds to the meaning of the role played by Nicole Kidman, who – despite her stardom – is more or less an extra in the film (which is to say that her performance is a violation of expectations associated with the star system) and becomes interesting only during a symptomatic reading (a reprise of the “primal scene”, which awakens India’s sexuality). ___ In the context of American production, Stoker is a refreshingly cynical film whose cohesiveness at the level of both the lower and higher narrative units is a joy to analyse again and again (because you certainly won’t exhaust all of its possibilities in one or two viewings), though you will occasionally have to turn a blind eye to the naïveté of its screenplay. 90%

SPOILERS AHEAD. With the opening Psycho shot, Soderbergh tips his hat to Hitchcock, the father of grown-up thrillers, for whom playing with the viewer was also more important than the convincingness of the games that the characters play with each other. The camera angles are improbable, yet effective and full of meaning. They point out the deviant nature of reality as Emily perceives it (or rather how we are supposed to think she perceives it), often situated outside the centre of the shot (of course, if she is speaking for herself, i.e. not in her role, the centre belongs to her). The off-kilter shot compositions give rise to the disturbing feeling that something is missing and that, like Jon, we do not know everything. Whenever a close-up is used, it has a “higher” justification, which is revealed in the second half of the film. Furthermore, the close-ups, some of the dialogue and the music lead us in the wrong direction, creating the false impression that this is a pharmaceutical thriller with dangerous drugs as the main culprit (Ablixa ultimately turns out to be only a MacGuffin), or perhaps a mysterious film-noir (the Haitian who saw a ghost, the eerie “ringing” musical motif recalling the sleigh bells in Belle De Jour). But then comes the first twist, bringing about changes in the narrative perspective and the existing allocation of roles. Only the second viewing makes it possible to appreciate the casualness with which we are made aware of the fact that Emily is faking her mental disorder. Her first scene begins with a close-up of her lips, to which she applies lipstick before her performance. She is subsequently surrounded by mirrors throughout the first half of the film. Doubts about who is actually the culprit and who is the victim – doubts that give rise to a significant part of the film’s dramatic tension – persist even after the final shot, which serves as a symbolic closing of the circle. Instead of a linearly constructed thriller with clearly defined characters, we watch a disturbingly cyclical detective story (like a boomerang, the crime that Martin committed comes back to haunt him) with a capricious perpetrator. In addition to flawless craftsmanship, Side Effects offers warnings about the misuse of medical authority (and confidential information in general) and allusions to the financial crisis. Mainly, however, the film refers to the time of its making through the lens of a cynical society in which money and prestige have greater value than human life. Soderbergh has dealt with the business-like aspect of interpersonal relationships before, but thanks to a genre allowing more consistent (or more ruthless, if you prefer) manipulation of the characters, in Side Effects he succeeded in getting down to the marrow. 90%

Since the first part of The Hobbit trilogy was one long exposition, the second part doesn’t have to spend any time on introducing the main characters and explaining their motivations, so it is unconstrained in telling its story. The livelier and more focused (though again episodic) narrative lacks a satisfying conclusion. Instead of bringing at least some of the storylines to a close in the climax, The Desolation of Smaug ends with just another complication. ___ Smaug seems like an episode of an epic fantasy series or an RPG, but one played by someone else who definitely isn’t going to skip any cut-scenes. Like in role-playing games, we have before us a group of adventurers who gain new experience through encounters with increasingly powerful enemies and then ultimately come face-to-face with the ultimate boss (who, of course, can’t be killed in conventional combat). In retrospect, one gets the impression that the main objective of the narrative was always the confrontation with the dragon, because nothing else actually happens in the film. Though again long and never as clear as anything done by Spielberg (whose Tintin is brought to mind by the whitewater ride), the action sequences are not there solely for their own sake. Rather, they serve for developing the already known characters (Bilbo becomes a bigger hero and more dependent on the ring), for introducing (old-)new characters (Legolas, Tauriel) and for demonstrating the courage of young, uprooted and seemingly powerless peoples to stand up to a great enemy, which I believe was an important motif for Tolkien, given the era in which he wrote his books. ___ The creative rendering of Middle Earth is also like that of a video game, as CGI animation is used to a greater extent than the authentic New Zealand landscape. The bookish illustrations would have been captivating and I could have looked at them for tens of minutes, but when combined with live-action characters, the setting seems artificial. Not to mention the Orcs, which were apparently copied directly from action-adventure games like God of War (the ease with which the goblin warriors are decapitated would seem to correspond to their video-game origins). ___ The characters whom the protagonists encounter on their journey mostly serve to impart valuable information to the adventurers or provide asylum and weaponry. Take, for example, Beorn. Though he will most likely appear in The Battle of the Five Armies, he is used rather purposefully in The Desolation of Smaug. Conversely, the mayor of Esgaroth, attaining prosperity at the cost of his citizens’ freedom, comes across merely as a dubious attempt to update the narrative with allusions to the current corruption of politics. It is necessary to acknowledge that Jackson managed to justify the presence here of other characters (Azog, Radagast) on whom seemingly needless attention was focused in An Unexpected Journey. It similarly becomes apparent why we had to find out that Bilbo is good at riddles (discovery of the keyhole). ___ The motif of the lost home is weakened, as its bearers are more or less only dwarves, not Bilbo, who is newly obsessed mainly with his ring. I believe that we spent the first forty minutes of An Unexpected Journey in Hobbiton for the sake of the possibility to use the contrast between the Hobbit’s previous comfort and his current discomfort. What came to be the key motif was the egocentrism of whole peoples (elves) and individuals (Thorin) and greed personified by Smaug, which is by far the most well-written character of the entire film. ___ The Desolation of Smaug gains momentum as the linear narrative branches into two and then three storylines. Thanks to that, the final act is as dynamic as the sweeping action sequences in Nolan’s films (though Jackson cuts between individual action scenes with greater deliberation) and, at the same time, emotionally engaging because at least in Tauriel’s case, we do not know what fate awaits her (though because she is an elf, she cannot die). The proliferation of the final confrontations with evil testifies to Jackson’s concept of The Hobbit not as the adventure of a single hero, but as an “ensemble piece”. For a team-oriented action movie in which particularly the abilities of the individual characters and their contribution to the accomplishment of the mission(s) are important (see the exemplary cooperation between Bilbo and the dwarves in the climax), it is hard to criticise the film for its emotional coldness and indifference toward individual characters. At any rate, I don’t find it pleasing, as I believe that many of those involved would deserve a separate film. ___ From the perspective of satisfying storytelling, the doubly open-ended (i.e. without a beginning or an end) The Desolation of Smaug is far from being a useless film. Thanks to the logistically flawless introduction of new characters and changing settings, it holds our attention, but it doesn’t hold up as a stand-alone story. The Desolation of Smaug does a better job than the good-natured An Unexpected Journey of giving the impression that “something” sinister is in the air. At the same time, however, it doesn’t have enough material to fully tell a story and, though it looks like a lively action experience from the outside, it paradoxically spends most of its runtime just treading water. 75%

“The World isn’t in your books and maps. It’s out there.” Review of the extended version (I haven’t seen the cinematic release). Though it is presented as an adventure fantasy following in the footsteps of The Lord of the Rings, for me The Hobbit was primarily a story about the transformation of a wayfarer (or nerd) journeying through fictional worlds, who longs mainly for his books, into a real hero. In particular, Bilbo’s lack of capability for epic adventure enlivens and advances the narrative (culinary tips given to giants, escaping from the Goblins). A forgotten handkerchief brings about not only the gradual loss of all creature comforts, but also the protagonist’s transformation from someone who constantly seeks a stronger leader to guide him into a character who acts of his own volition. I believe that this transition toward independence will continue in future instalments. The long introduction in Hobbiton is not important solely for the purpose of outlining the objective of the mission and introducing the dwarves. The depiction of the comfort in which the provincial-minded “no adventure” halfling lives also serves as a contrasting background for the situations in which the protagonist later finds himself. Nostalgia for one’s lost home is a motif that is given greater depth throughout the film, not only through Bilbo, but also through the dwarves living in exile after their exodus. The Hobbit and the dwarves repeatedly overcome their physiognomic preordination, as they have to face enemies much larger than themselves again and again. The gradual intensification of the risks with which the characters are confronted occurs in parallel with a warning of future threats, resulting in The Hobbit becoming a major promise of events that have yet to come. There is no harm in postponing the undiluted spectacle, because the adventure presented to us grows in parallel with Bilbo, who is just getting his bearings in a world of real danger, so he has enough time for riddles with a schizophrenic scoundrel and, like the viewer, must have a lot explained to him. The explanatory passages turn the main storyline into a font of secondary storylines that, however, do not slow down or distract from the primary narrative, as they converge at the initial source and make it clear that their importance will be fully appreciated in the sequel. Only the length of some of the action sequences goes beyond the needs of the narrative, revealing that Jackson, like del Toro, is at heart a gadgeteer with a weakness for bizarre monsters. Furthermore, the raw visual aspect of the action scenes does not fit well with the more lyrical image of the picturesque landscape. Given the multiple screenwriters and the literary and other sources that they drew from, the result is still admirably cohesive and it’s been a long time since I enjoyed such a pure (in genre terms) and (in the good sense of the word) old-fashioned adventure. 85%

The masculine essence of the spy drama is tempered by a feminine element in Dishonored. Those who are truly weak and vulnerable (and also childish) are the men, not Marie, who is self-confidently flirtatious even in the face of death. The men mistakenly believe that they can control a sensual woman-vamp by turning her into an object – with a code name instead of her real name. Marie accepts her humiliating role and all of the belittling disguises that come with it not because of her coquettish nature, but for the opportunity to infiltrate the world of men (in some particularly bold scenes, she directly infiltrates the world of their erotic fantasies) and sabotage it from within. Accentuated by her choice of costumes, her femininity destroys men. She is peculiarly at her most vulnerable as an ordinary woman in her civilian clothes at the beginning and end of the film (and the camera exploits her vulnerability immediately in the first shot, when an immodest close-up of her legs reduces her to an erotic object).  Like Sternberg’s other female protagonists, Marie changes from a victim into a hunter whose body is her weapon. She uses it to overpower her prey, whom she invites to undress or kiss her. And also like Sternberg’s other heroines, Marie cannot succeed in a world controlled by men. Her love does not stand a chance against their war. 75%

Because I like to begin my reviews with flowery journalistic language, I can’t allow myself to characterise The Bridge as a series that will give you a chill. Not only with the coldness of the inhospitable environment, framed with chillingly perfect camerawork, but also the coldness of the interpersonal relationships. Though detailed psychological depictions do not play the lead role in the narrative, it is clear from the beginning that there will be no grand declarations of love or heart-rending embraces, which helps to highlight the fact that the one who is sick is not just the wanted killer, but also the society that produced him. In my opinion, Saga Norén is the most convincingly written and acted character with Asperger’s syndrome that I have seen so far, as she is an embodiment of that emotional impassivity. Thanks to her extraordinary scrupulousness, which sharply contrasts with the greater moral flexibility (and thus greater humanity) of the other characters, the series maintains a sense of detachment and never becomes so serious that it would start to be ridiculous (like Luther). At the same time, however, there is no exaggeration of the protagonist’s affliction or excessive effort to balance her inability to empathise against her brilliance as an investigator. Saga is fully devoted only to her work, from which she allows herself to be distracted only when she needs to satisfy some of her basic physical needs. Besides Saga, I found that the main value added of The Bridge is its attempt to present the killer’s deviant ideas in a more ambivalent package by placing them in a broader social context. At the conclusion of the series, its creators unfortunately turn away from diagnosing so-called advanced western societies toward personal traumas and very shallow motivations, which rather diminishes the plausibility of the plot (or perhaps I am merely underestimating the determination of Scandinavian sociopaths). However, I consider the expansion of the scope of the standard investigation to include what is happening in the globalised world to be a clever screenwriting move, as it leads us to assess smaller conflicts also from a macro-perspective. But the bold “from micro to macro and back” narrative structure also causes some outwardly important characters to serve solely for the purpose of drawing attention to more of the bad things happening in the world today (making of BDSM porn), after which they are removed from the scene. Just as the killer’s real motivation does not organically pervade the whole series and mainly seems to be the result of an attempt at an unexpected twist, the investigation itself develops in an oddly stumbling manner. It comes across as a series of partial revelations that are not closely interconnected, and the investigation actually starts over several times. Rather than it being overwrought, I would thus say that it has an inconsistent combination of individual motifs. The loose narrative is held together especially by the icy visual style, which affords no space for warmer colours, and the contrasting pair of investigators, of whom particularly Saga is a strong enough motivation for me to watch the second season. 80%

The bearded Mastroianni atypically appears in the role of slick con artist who appropriates not only the snacks and trust of the illiterate (and thus easily manipulated) workers, but also the entire film. As an openly leftist comedy about serious issues, The Organiser draws heavily on the legacy of neorealism, but it doesn’t allow the setting or the characters’ existential situations to become the focal point of the story. This is characteristic of Italians’ disparagement of an important struggle by means of farcical humour largely based on the characters’ interaction with inanimate objects in the mould of slapstick. A nice example of the balance achieved between social drama and slapstick is offered by one of the last scenes, when the depiction of a tragic event is disrupted by the “professor” blindly groping for his lost glasses. The subdued directing with long shots, camera movements that convey meaning and tragicomic soundtrack prevents the film from going to extremes. Even without a single clearly defined main protagonist (which is the whole proletariat), The Organiser maintains an uncommon balance throughout its two-hour runtime and, with its broad scope, tempers its conscious social criticism by making light of the differences between northern and southern Italy (for comparison, see the seriously tragic Rocco and His Brothers, which also examines the hardships of southerners in the industrial north). 80%