Lima

Given the reputation that precedes this famed blaxploitation piece, I expected more. The film is based on a supposedly terrible novel, which may explain things. I was expecting more fun, more B-movie flavour, more violence, nudity and action, which came to the fore only at the end, when the film culminates in a 15-minute chase (which swallowed more money than the rest of the movie together) with two cars, a helicopter and a speedboat. Otherwise, there’s not much going on, really. Now, I’m not saying Shaft is slacking off. In one lean, macho scene, he picks up a bimbo in 10 seconds, then shoots down a helicopter with a shotgun, but otherwise… the expectations were high, but went unfulfilled.

A hollowed-out narrative with pretty pictures of a middle-aged, greying man walking through a town and flats with Art Nouveau furniture, with female counterparts offering themselves to him indiscriminately, as the filmmaker's fancy takes him. Bugger me, I thought artsy, feel good movies where my thing. Well, what gives. Long live enamel stagecoaches!

Unexpectedly good. I enjoyed the high level of unconventional humour (with a few exceptions), the absence of cheap sentiment and pathos (which the premise might tempt) and Epstein's relatively intelligent script. And I demand the Czech Lion for Bohdalová! She was excellent and completely overshadowed all the others. Another interesting thing was the post-film discussion with Epstein and Strache, which confirmed to me that the they approached the film with selflessness and humility. Jiří Strach is a very nice man and a good person, but that’s something I already knew. They also reflected on why the film had a low attendance. And here I would agree with the filmmakers that it is hard to sell a film about two old people in this day and age of a myopic and senseless cult of youth, and that respect for old age is generally at a pretty low level in our society. Michálek’s Autumn Spring had the same problem, it fizzled out in our cinemas without much of a response, while in the US, where old age is viewed quite differently, it was a success.

The famous little brother of all the big movies of old Hollywood. Few films can match this one in terms of production costs (perhaps only the flagship "sandal" films of the 1950s and 1960s, such as Wyler's Ben-Hur, Bondarchuk's epic War and Peace, or Lean's Doctor Zhivago). The director's chair was occupied by David Lean, the greatest master of expensive monster productions. Steven Spielberg referred to it as "The Miracle of Film", which I think is accurate, notwithstanding the not-so-impressive last act, which is more political. Thank God for the careful digital restoration. The widescreen screening at my favourite cinema Hvězda during LFS, with a carefully polished image, was one ecstatic experience. No film has such impressive desert scenery, the production design is unprecedented (the logistics and security of the whole event must have been unbelievable), and the beautiful music by Jarré! Peter O'Toole endowed Lawrence with stubbornness, hard-heartedness, even fanaticism, which makes the character so vital, plastic and therefore interesting. And a film without a single female character it’s not something you see every day :o)

Of course, there is a comparison with Herzog's Aguirre, the Wrath of God, both are about the same historical figure, and at about the 40th minute I was telling myself "meh! It lacks the fatefulness and weight of Herzog's masterpiece", but from the violent death of the king's governor the film takes a big turn, delivering twist after twist, betrayal after betrayal. The story builds up nicely in the second half, and authenticity connoisseurs will be pleased with the faithful production design and some strong, unadorned murder scenes. The short post-film discussion with the director was a pleasure, Saura is a very funny man, he apologised for the excessive violence in the film, but said that he was only faithfully processing the chronicles of the time. He described Herzog's film as untrue, saying that Hezgog hadn’t bother much with with realism and facts, and, as an opponent of violence in film, he confided that this is why he doesn't appreciate Tarantino, even though Tarantino himself speaks very highly of Sauro. It made the whole cinema laugh.

A compelling insight into the eventful life of a great warrior in a skirt. Sommer engagingly captures the inner emotional world of Čáslavská while avoiding boring descriptiveness. Listening to Čáslavská talk with great enthusiasm and energy is an experience in itself. And those gymnastics at the end? You can see that Věra still has it in her :o)

The Italians never had a problem shooting into their own ranks. During the previous regime, Italian political and crime thrillers were widely shown in cinemas and television, because they were said to hold up a mirror to the rotten capitalist establishment (which the TV presenter never failed to point out before each screening). Among them stood out the works of Damiano Damiani, whose Confessions of a Police Captain and this film in particular, full of murders, corruption, organized crime and mafia plots, is one of the best crafted. The fingers of both hands might not be enough to count the number of screenings on the then 2nd programme of Czechoslovak Television :o)

An Italian light version of Death Wish, but a bit more sophisticated, and Franco Nero and Charles Bronson had comparable charisma. I understand why this flick was not screened in the Czech cinemas of the time, it's not much more than light action entertainment. It lacks the craftsmanship and heaviness of Damiani's films (it didn't "hold the mirror" enough). The plot is a bit naive, but it builds up decently in the second half and culminates in an excellent ten-minute sequence where violence is not spared.

I'd love to be a screenwriter in Hollywood and write stuff like this (there were four of them in this film), it would be easier to make a living than collecting welfare. It's even dumber than the previous one, which is to be expected. The only thing I wonder about this crap is how many times Neeson and Fiennes said to each other on set, "God, what kind of crap did we get ourselves into again."

Pure visual magic and one of the most beautiful films of the 1970s. Back then, Malick did not yet suffer from an obsessive desire to recite the actors' thought processes in philosophical monologues, so he tells the story only through the camera, through images, and the result is truly magical. It was also here that I first realized how much I enjoy the acting of non-actor Sam Shepard.