Matty

Though Nolan’s previous films were more refined in terms of narrative and intellectually more ambitious, their ostentatious structure often overshadowed emotion. Dunkirk, which stays more grounded in a number of respects, is his most functional prototype of the epic movie that Hollywood currently needs, a major film that you will want to see not only in a technically well-equipped cinema (preferably IMAX), but also repeatedly. Thanks to Nolan’s focused direction, everything in the film is subordinated to the maximum sensory experience, the intensity of which rises with each viewing, as you become better oriented in the temporal relationships between the individual storylines and can experience more while working less on solving the narratological puzzle. Dunkirk is intoxicating, dizzying and unrelenting in its intensity from start to finish. (Viewed three times in the cinema, of which IMAX twice.) 90%

If Joe Wright could tell a story as effectively as he directs, Darkest Hour would be a much less painful viewing experience. Unfortunately, the ambitious British filmmaker again proves to be a great purveyor of kitsch, for whom the main thing is that every scene looks good and is not boring at all costs, not that it has meaningful content and is somehow helpful to the narrative. Visual gimmicks such as shots from a bird’s-eye perspective, slow-motion shots and close-ups of the second hand on a clock mainly give the impression of being manifestations of an almost panicky fear of being ordinary, which I would rather expect from a debut filmmaker trying to demonstrate what he learned at film school. The rather ordinary scenes, relying solely on well-chosen composition and Oldman’s acting (very solid, but you still can’t escape thinking that you are watching a thin actor under a fat mask) are much more impressive, because the ideas in them are not concealed by effects. Besides the occasional victory of form over content, the film is hindered by its unbalanced rhythm (after the brisk first hour, the pace slows significantly before Operation Dynamo), breaking history down to key decisions of great and infallible men, the desperate lack of sound judgment (even if the scene in the underground is based on reality, that does not change the fact that it is terribly unconvincingly constructed and written – I don’t remember seeing anything so dumb even in British interwar propaganda films, where it would be more at home) and insulting leading of the viewer. Through the supporting characters (especially the frightened secretary), the film constantly tells us how we should see Churchill, what to think about him, so that we don’t start to doubt his genius. There is a whiff of believability in the scenes of Churchill with his wife, which the screenplay does not prescribe, only for her to marvel at his penetrating intellect and laugh at his bon mots. Unfortunately, the better work of the actors and makeup artists (and costume and set designers) cannot save what the screenwriter (Anthony McCarten also wrote The Theory of Everything, which suffers from similar shortcomings) and the director neglected. Darkest Hour is an empty, naïve and fake lesson in patriotism, which for two hours laboriously tries to convey the same message that Christopher Nolan was able to put across with much greater impact in the last ten minutes of Dunkirk. 45%

The first half Gerald’s Game plays out promisingly with just two well-matched actors and a dog (a similar setup as in The Mountain Between Us, which is currently in cinemas) in one room, an unpleasant situation and a few objects that could potentially resolve it. There are plenty of cuts and changes of perspective to hold our attention, the uncertainty of what is real and what is only imagined (in which the film is a more sophisticated variation on torture porn – it’s not just about physical pain, but also about holding on to one’s sanity). The presentation of the female protagonist’s train of thought is handled more elegantly than in, for example, 127 Hours with its affected flashbacks. I consider the flashbacks, which first appear after roughly fifty minutes, to be the film’s main stumbling block. The heretofore concentrated narrative, with its strictly limited number of ways to continue the game, loses traction and gets bogged down in pseudo-psychological explanations for Jessie’s difficulties with men. This is King’s favourite abusive cliché, with which he works in It, for example, and which is based on the rather questionable belief that in order for a woman to discover her inner strength, she must first suffer terribly. Cutting out the flashbacks and the very awkwardly appended emancipatory afterword could turn this into a brisk low-budget surprise that has no need to complicate a simple initial idea with lengthy explanations. At the same time, however, I understand that it is also a service to King’s fans, who will most likely appreciate this self-destructive fidelity to the source material. 65%

If I were twelve years old and saw this movie on basic cable on a Saturday night, I would be thrilled. But I’m not twelve anymore and I saw it at the cinema. Shane Black, who fundamentally influenced the form of modern buddy movies, understood that if you want to make movies like Lethal Weapon today, you can’t take either yourself or the film seriously (see the third Iron Man and The Nice Guys). There are tendencies toward self-awareness in The Hitman’s Bodyguard (though there is sometimes a very fine line between “it’s terribly stupid, you know it’s terribly stupid, and we know that you know” and simply “it's terribly stupid”), but the film handles them terribly inconsistently. Besides the almost parodic scenes (the apocalypse is unfolding behind Michael while he calmly continues his monologue) there are moments of simple exaggeration that are supposed to be touching or, in the worst case, to tell of pseudo-fictional war crimes (given the context, I found the storyline with Dukhovich to be rather tasteless). The characters suffer from the same identity crisis. They sometimes behave like people educated by genre clichés, but in a number of other respects, they just predictably follow conventions and make stupid mistakes. The narrative repeatedly loses momentum due to the unsuccessful attempt to humanise the two characters through their relationship with the dear better half and a more or less serious explanation of how they became the people they are (the flashback to Darius’s first murder, for example, is simply out of place due to its reverent tone). This constant relationship-counselling philosophising, even in moments when the protagonists are clearly short on time, is not skilfully integrated into the ongoing action and serves only to extend the runtime – the main storyline grinds to a halt so that the men can wallow in their feelings and whine a little. The pace is thus fairly uneven and the film seems to be much longer than it actually is. The level is raised significantly by the long action sequences in Amsterdam and The Hague, which have the appropriate verve and wit, even though they are horribly edited and don’t really move the narrative anywhere (well, except when the characters move from one place to another). But then comes the haphazard (in terms of special effects, the screenplay and the acting) final act, which basically negates the preceding hundred minutes (in the end, everything is resolved in a completely different way than what the story had been leading up to the whole time) and the whole film goes steeply downhill. The Hitman’s Bodyguard could have been an excellent high-concept action movie with a pair of charismatic actors (of which Jackson is the dominant force in the film) and a ’90s feel, if it didn’t so clumsily defend its overwrought B-movie nature and add importance in a way that takes all of the fun out of it. 50%

First Reformed is a return to Bresson not only by thematicising personal responsibility for the state of the world (the basic outline of the plot is essentially Diary of a Country Priest, while the ecological line is reminiscent of Bresson’s sceptical later films), but also in its rigorous minimalistic style. The academic format, almost monochromatic picture (Schrader originally wanted to shoot in black-and-white), restrained acting, repetitive editing techniques (each disturbance tells us something important or redirects our attention) and composition (transitioning from symmetrical, after the protagonist begins have doubts, to asymmetrical). Only the camera moves exceptionally. Though First Reformed is a serious and slow film of extraordinary formal rigidity, it does not come across as ponderous thanks to its thriller framework and the raising of questions that are relevant to the period (without having a critical tone along the lines of “Old Man Yells at Cloud”). Even though the film has an “old-fashioned” confessional nature, an inspiring tension arises between the diary-style voice-over and what we see. Toller is constantly waging a battle between his thoughts and that which he can express out loud in his position. While writing in his diary, he promises that he will not conceal or omit anything, but he soon rather prefers to destroy certain diary entries. The content of others (the last entries) is hidden from us for a change. As a priest, Toller has a certain social role. He serves others and as such feels responsible for the state of the world and slips into disillusionment and alcoholism because he is not able to change anything. He is roused from his passivity only by meeting a man who does not want to bring a child into the world because of environmental destruction. By presenting the dilemma between private thoughts and public actions, First Reformed differs from Taxi Driver, Schrader’s previous drama about the suffering of a man disgusted by society, from which he openly quotes at least during a drive at night. In a fascinating way, Schrader’s screenplay and Hawke's focused acting express Toller’s slow transformation, which is simultaneously a descent into darkness and an ascent into the higher realms of being (transcendence). At the beginning, he advises Michael to live for that which transcends man, but at the end he realises the inadequacy of the fact that the church deals with spiritual matters and the afterlife instead of the problems of the present. He finds inner peace only after taking a decision on how he will respond to global warming, a loss of interest in religion (his sermons are usually attended by approximately five people; the church serves rather as a souvenir shop) and the radicalisation of young people. For the first time, he does not spend the evening alone with a glass of whiskey, but in a restaurant, where he eats fish. At the same time, a conversation with Michael raises the central idea of life as a search for a balance between despair and hope. Michael at first embodies despair, Toller hope. Later, their positions become complicated. The ambiguous (or dual) ending offers both despair and hope. It shares enough for the film to be satisfactorily concluded, but not so much that you won’t spend a few days thinking about what exactly Schrader is saying in one of his best films, which can be viewed as the stylistic and thematic peak of his work to date. 90%

Saw for intellectuals. The Killing of a Sacred Deer is a cruel, disturbing and, in filmmaking terms, precise morality tale and perhaps even class satire (rich people destroy the lives of the poor and refuse to accept responsibility for it), but I found its second half to be monotonous in terms of both the characters’ suffering and style (slow dolly shots, overhead shots, close-ups of faces, unpleasant atonal music, over and over again). I understand that the mechanical nature of the structure and the acting is part of the director’s malevolent concept (forget about gradation or catharsis), but it deprives the film of dramatic tension and gives the impression that it doesn’t develop along with the characters, while also weakening the message. I didn’t get the impression that the film had anything else to say after the central dilemma had been revealed (which was possibly why Mirka Spáčilová providentially left the press screening after the scene in which Farrell forces a donut on his son). Instead, it distances itself from reality and thus diminishes the power of its message. The similarity to Kubrick or Haneke is mainly external, not in the effect that the film has on the viewer. 70%

With numerous omissions, silences and hints, You Were Never Really Here is a very distinctive revenge flick that explains some things only after the fact (when snippets of flashbacks are put into a broader context) and others not at all. (The narrative, with dynamic cuts in the middle of the action, is highly compressed partly due to the need to shorten it – the budget was slashed significantly in the course of filming.) Ramsay does not in any way romanticise her taciturn tough guy with his numerous wounds on both his body and soul. For her, Joe is a wounded animal (which is aided by the respect-inspiring Joaquin Phoenix, who delivers another full-throttle performance following his turn in The Master) whose actions are unpredictable from one moment to the next. Together with compassion, he inspires fear and you definitely don’t feel very safe during the hour and a half that you spend in his company. The violence, which comes suddenly and is framed without dark humour or ironic exaggeration, is truly painful and unpleasant here, not only because the protagonist’s weapon of choice is a hammer. As the aggression shifts from the level of mere association (bloody handkerchiefs, crushing a piece of candy between his fingers) to something very concrete and very brutal (though the director continues to work brilliantly with evocative sounds and the off-screen space, leaving a lot to the imagination), the sense of danger becomes unbearably acute. The action scenes best demonstrate how the director methodically denies us the genre pleasure of the protagonist’s cleanly done work. We see one of the key bits of action only in static black-and-white shots from a security camera, the nondiegetic music and voices emanating from the television distract us from the brutal fight, and the “grand” climax is highly unsatisfying in terms of (not) fulfilling the conventions of the action genre. So much suffering and despair line the path to redemption that every partial success brings forth bitterness and deepening frustration instead of catharsis. It is simply impossible to enjoy the film, which makes it irritating and fascinating at the same time. Lynne Ramsay has made a stylistically diverse “feel bad” genre deconstruction (like in The American and Point Blank, meanings are communicated through style rather than through the words and actions of the characters), switching abruptly between raw realism, dream sequences and hypnotic intermezzos in which Jonny Greenwood’s aggressive music becomes the focal point. After the film had ended, I wasn’t entirely sure about what happened to whom in the story, what was a bad dream and what was an even worse reality. Like at the end of Good Time, however, I knew I wasn’t going to see anything comparably deviant in the cinema. But I wouldn't be surprised if this admirable exercise in narrative brevity is simply an underdeveloped genre experiment by a director who wasn’t exactly sure what she wanted to make. Perhaps she didn’t know (and the last act was really made up as she went along), but for me, this was one of the most intense cinematic experiences of the year. 85%.

This likable, silly guilty pleasure ranks among the Blumhouse’s best (over)productions. The film proves that it’s hard to keep a straight face with a time-loop narrative, even (and perhaps especially) in the case of a slasher flick whose repetitiveness turns Happy Death Day on its head. Death is followed by a do-over and a new start, so we’re entertained by the protagonist’s (the great Jessica Rothe) endless dying instead of fearing for her (though that comes up a few times, but it’s really not the main point of the film, or rather I wouldn’t blame it for not making you fearful enough). Thanks to that, the classic “whodunit” formula plays first fiddle together with the relationships between the characters and the transformation of the protagonist from being terribly oblivious into a rather fine girl (so you can see the deep message in that – when confronted with one’s own mortality, one starts to behave sensibly). In the end, Happy Death Day is pretty much a high-school comedy in which the protagonist dies a few times on the way to finding love and self-confidence. Though the story outwardly starts from the beginning, the film holds together excellently thanks to its adherence to the classic narrative structure. Each successive variant is a response to those that came before it, we learn new information (or rather individual suspects are eliminated), the protagonist undergoes a transformation, thus giving the impression of smooth development. At the moment when the formula could become boring, a change occurs that reflects the culmination of Tree's transformation from prey to hunter. Yes, it’s a goof that doesn’t take itself seriously and quickly fades from memory, but it is definitely not a dumb movie. 70%

Without the participation of personalities such as Spielberg, del Toro and Streep (who reads the commentary), this look at the Second World War through the eyes of five famous Hollywood directors would easily fit in with the dozens of other war documentaries for military enthusiasts that some television channels put on their broadcast schedules with iron regularity. Bouzereau chose the most ordinary form of exposition – talking heads, archival footage, excerpts from scripted films, more talking heads, animated maps, and so on. Therefore, the content rather than the form is worthy of attention. Paradoxically, the series would have benefited if the filmmakers had adhered to a more factually dense book with greater regard for context as the source material and not tried to give the project greater prestige by attaching famous names to it (the directors involved in the documentary are connected with the directors being discussed only because they feel respect for them, not because, for example, they knew them personally – therefore, I would rather understand, for example, the presence of Peter Bogdanovich, who interviewed Ford). Though the gentlemen speak nicely about their filmmaking role models, they don’t say much of value in the end and their words of almost uncritical admiration only needlessly take up space that could have been given to something more revealing. Unsurprisingly, their colleagues who experienced the war at first hand get much more to the point in the earlier interviews. A fascinating aspect is, for example, the account of the formulation of the Why We Fight concept by Frank Capra himself, whose frustration stemming from the pinnacle of German propaganda (Triumph of the Will) led him to the idea of using that same sort of propaganda, but with a different intention. Unfortunately, Five Came Back wants to tell not only the story of how documentaries with artistic ambitions were made during the war (and subsequently used by the government for propaganda purposes), but also about the war itself, so it offers a very simple retelling of the history learned in school. The same “kitchen sink” approach characterises the whole series, which tries to cover a large number of topics, thus leaving no time to discuss at least some of them in greater depth. The view of film propaganda presented here is driven mainly by the effort to interest viewers and spur their admiration for the heroism of Capra, Ford, Huston, Stevens and Wyler, rather than to prompt them to ask more complicated questions (basically, we are led to the idea that German propaganda was bad and American propaganda, often working with similar racial and national stereotypes, was good). Though, thanks mainly to the unique footage from battlefields, Five Came Back is not a failure, it is certainly a missed opportunity. 75%

Good Time is a much grittier and sweatier bit of neo(n)-noir than Drive, in terms of both style and digressive narrative. Instead of a straightforward journey from point A to point B, it offers unnecessary detours and dead ends. Good Time comes close to being a pure genre movie only during the opening bank heist, after which everything goes downhill in a way that other heist movies don't prepare you for. Connie doesn’t have a plan. He improvises based on who/what gets in his way. One half-baked (and sometimes very funny due to its idiocy) decision is followed by another. The film also gives the impression that it was made “on the fly”, but it holds together thanks to good rhythmic structure (alternating between quiet scenes without music and dynamic passages) and recurring motifs (Connie is convinced that he was a dog in a previous life, which explains why he and a four-legged friend get along so well later). Furthermore, the protagonist’s efforts to save his brother from going to prison are used systematically to portray the life of the New York underclass, and this portrait of people with no money, no ambition and no hope for a better future, whose drinking and drug use are occasionally supplemented with police brutality, is thus as important as the melodramatic story of self-destructive brotherly love (which makes the film reminiscent of early-period Scorsese). Together with an edgy, highly visceral thriller (shot almost exclusively in close-ups without establishing shots), we get a social drama in neon colours and with electronic music (which, apart from arcade video games, reminded me of the first Terminator) in one surprisingly compact package. What is certain is that you will not experience a similarly unpredictable and comparably intense film in the cinema any time soon. 85%