Matty

What feels like roughly four hours of toilet philosophising, which Cronenberg disparages in places, but through most of the film he just lets it monotonously flow forth, which is so mind-numbing that you will probably lose any desire to hear the film’s message, whatever that may be (for example, the message that we haven’t been told anything). I will have to watch it again to confirm or refute the impression that this is Cronenberg’s shallowest and least atmospheric film, but I’m going to need to psych myself up for that over the next several weeks. 50%

Over the course of a number of months, several couples have been going to the kind of therapist that everyone would want (extremely empathetic, listens well, asks pertinent questions at the right time). Just one room, a lot of emotions and words and numerous camera angles. The individual sessions are interlinked by illustrative scenes from the clients’ lives. The composition of the couples is quite diverse (straight and queer, married eleven years, together only two years, different social classes) and they deal with such varied issues that you will surely find “yours” among them: projecting of one’s own anxieties onto their partner, fading sexual attraction, alcoholism, parenting, disconnection from one’s own emotions. Based on the precise editing, thanks to which we are able to see every action and reaction and to perceive the slightest change of mood in the room, and the smooth continuity of the individual shots, it comes across as a scripted series. In reality, it is a documentary directed with tremendous sensitivity, and the participants went into it with the intention of showing the broader public how couples therapy works. Thanks also to the self-reflective conversations between the therapist and her supervisor, I think that after watching it you will actually have a relatively clear idea about that (unlike the dramatically embellished impression given by the Czech series Terapie) and you may come to a few important realisations. If you are not interested in educating yourself in the area of communication in relationships, there is still a decent chance that Couples Therapy will draw you in like a detective show in which a trio of people use questions and answers to peel back the layers and work their way down to the roots of the invisible violence that we inflict on ourselves and others every day. I’m looking forward to the third season, because it's terribly addictive and Orna Guralnik has a wonderful dog.

Shot in Serbia, this American film, two-thirds of which is set in the basement of an old house, is better than average. Despite its B-movie subject matter, it does not look cheap and offers very solid CGI with animals that do not appear to be digitally generated. Starting with the opening credits, director Alexandre Aja does not squander a single minute and constantly portions out information about the characters and the relationships between them, which later proves to be opportune (almost all of the characters and objects encountered by the female protagonist during the brisk exposition are utilised just as economically). The protagonists are not just walking hunks of meat for the alligators. We understand their motivations and cheer them on, and we comprehend where, despite all of the scars, they find in themselves the strength to grit their teeth and face danger. The overcoming of family trauma is skilfully connected with the eco-horror plot also thanks to the fact that the house where most of the events take place brings the heroine’s childhood, and thus her father’s failure, to light. Its flooding with water (thanks to which Halley can show what works best for her) and its gradual disintegration thus represents an inevitable part of “family therapy”. It is true that the story faulters during longer dialogues, the characters are far too clichéd and, given the R-rating, I would have expected more scenes in which alligators tear people to pieces, but when it reminds us in its entertaining and undemanding way that if we want to survive, we should mainly respect nature, then it works nicely. 65%

Cría cuervos y te sacarán los ojos. Raise ravens and they’ll gouge your eyes out. Slow, sad, painful and difficult for viewers to grasp, this awakening from Francoism is the peak work of Saura’s metaphorical period. And the film is so packed with metaphors that it is perhaps impossible to watch it except through them. This situation is not made any easier by the narrative point of view, whose strong subjectivisation we are only incidentally made aware of. During the film, Anna repeatedly transitions from the position of the one who tells the story to the role of the person about whom the story is told, which raises the question of whether the current reference point is the future or the present. In any case, the young protagonist finds no consolation either here or there. Set in an old house, the narrative is clearly laid out in spatial terms. The girls leave that old house at the end, when they join the ranks of other seemingly innocent little creatures lost between a repressed past and an uncertain future. Though the plot plays out in the middle of the political and social centre of Spain, specific references to the reality of the time behind the high walls of the house break through only exceptionally. On the inside, everything external is transformed into representative symbols, into multivalent fetishes (which is best elucidated by the taking out of the parents’ belongings). A determinative aspect comprises the transformations in the relationships between the characters, as the power games playing out between them threaten to escalate into games of life and death. Whoever sets the rules, it is safely – and fittingly for the period after the real and symbolic death of the father – not men. The multiplicity of layers of meaning, which present themselves to us only with repeated viewings, makes Cría cuervos a satisfying film in analytical terms, though unfortunately at the expense of viewer satisfaction. 75%

Unusual self-reflexive techniques of the Barcelona film school in the service of vampire horror. High-contrast black-and-white 16-millimetre shots from the filming of Jesús Franco’s colour Count Dracula is accompanied by disturbingly rash and inappropriate music by Carlos Santos instead of the original soundtrack. The result is a “rewrite” of the original work at the moment of its inception. The timely revealing of the utilised tricks demolishes the illusion and turns the horror movie into a dark comedy. The film is not allowed to scare us, as we see how it intends to deceive us. The context of the origin of avant-garde subversiveness adds a political dimension – Dracula here represents the seemingly indestructible, repressive Francoist regime, which, however, appealed to Spaniards in its completed, more terrifying form. Portabella thus casts doubt on two forms of power: the power of film over the viewer and the power of Franco over the Spanish people. Both the medium of film and the dictator must create illusions to draw attention away from the internal mechanisms. Vampir rejects both types of deception. Together with the director’s Catalan origins and the fact that Portabella was involved in the production of the banned Viridiana, this was one of the reasons that for a long time only a lucky few were able to see the film in Spain (and why the filmmaker was unable to personally present it at the Museum of Modern Art in New York in 1972). 70%

The nice self-ironic start in the vein of The Kid Stays in the Picture is followed only by ordinary recollections of loved ones and historians who obviously lack critical distance. On top of that, there are recollections about the creator of lousy and meaningless sexploitation films (not porn), who gained fame mainly because of his friendship with Ed Wood, a director of even worse films. In short, it’s a nicely wrapped tabloid documentary. American exploitation ends up being the last thing about which you will learn something interesting. For that purpose, I recommend watching Schlock! The Secret History of American Movies or American Grindhouse. 50%

-Thank You. -Fuck off! Breaking Good? Not entirely. Dallas Buyers Club is surprisingly not an emotionally manipulative drama about the belated awakening of a homophobe. It is rather a sober film – in terms of both form and content – that instead of glorifying Woodroof, admits that this cowboy did not deserve any exaggerated compassion even after he contracted AIDS. The effort taken to not harp on the protagonist’s suffering and to simply depict him corresponds to the objectiveness of the form (filming without additional artificial lighting, documentary-style asymmetrical shot compositions, non-evocative use of music). If the film isn’t emotionally cold,  that’s particularly due to the gaunt McConaughey, who lost approximately 20 kilos for his role as Woodroof. Even though he plays only a shadow of his heroes from other films, he never loses the sparkle in his eye. The way that he combines inordinate self-confidence, blatant impudence and admirable tenacity makes the protagonist an ideal campaigner against the (medical) establishment, which expects nothing more from its nemesis, who personifies the indomitable nature of American ambition, than the fact that he will soon die. Also fascinating especially for his physical transformation is Jared Leto, whose scenes with McConaughey are remotely reminiscent of Midnight Cowboy, another film that didn’t take itself too seriously and, on the other hand, neither revelled in its serious subject matter nor trivialised it. 75%

Just as the “resigned” Juliette Binoche entices Jeremy Irons to commit adultery, Louis Malle's penultimate film encourages a psychoanalytical reading. On the face of it, this is a film about a banal love triangle. One woman, two men. However, the woman is seeking a replacement for her brother and the men are a father and his son. It is an inversion of the Oedipus myth from the perspective of a husband (ego) whose mistress (id) helps him to rediscover the officially confirmed bond (superego) of suppressed desires. When, fully controlled by his instincts, he asks his new acquaintance, “Who are you, really?”, he attempts to push away some of the more prominent dark force that envelopes him. After years of socially regulated existence, he rediscovers himself, is fascinated, does not understand and loses control. Their austerely furnished, monochromatic meeting place serves as a dream space. Beyond the binding institution, outside of oppressive reality. The gentle work with symbols (blood – spilled wine) does not draw attention away from the ambiguously depicted characters, the man who loses control and the femme fatale who gains control (transforming herself from an object into a personality, thus at the same time ceasing to be desirable for her lover). Simultaneously victims and villains, both superbly portrayed. The slightly rushed introduction is completely redeemed by its simplicity and the epilogue that says it all: reality caught up with him, only idealised memories remain. 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%

Rated in comparison with Gone Girl, which in book form was different in genre and form, Dark Corners is a total fiasco. Even if we overlook the name and reputation of the author (who didn’t write the screenplay this time, but only gave the director her blessing, whatever that’s supposed to mean), it’s still a disappointment. The source material had already “dramaturgically” suffered from an overabundance of narrators, which served to form a complex, fully non-nostalgic portrait of rural America in the 1980s (where amorality and violence could be seen not only as a means of escaping from poverty, but also as a metaphor for the demise of the local agrarian way of life). However, four hundred pages of text is not the same as one hundred minutes of film. Dark Corners is rushed and agitated, with no atmosphere or suspense. Though starting the film with a murder promises a detective story, at the end of which the killer will be revealed, the investigation is too predictable and tedious to arouse our curiosity or to leave space for us to get involved in the investigation ourselves. The numerous flashbacks rarely add to the detective storyline, nor do they raise or answer questions about the identity of the killer; rather, they tell us in advance what Libby will learn from the next witness she visits. In short, they are redundant. Gathering and assessing information are set aside in favour of Libby’s character transformation as she changes from a passive woman who based her “career” on the assigned label of victim into an active woman who takes actions more or less without the help of men (in the book, Lyle is even more of a burden). Charlize Theron impressively (and with restraint) portrays this transformation, but because of the constant jumps in time, we don’t spend enough time with Libby to get into her inner world as thoroughly as we do in the book, which works much more with the heroine’s cynical commentary and does it better. The alternating between empathetic character study and reserved crime thriller causes the film to fail on both genre levels. Equally lacking in concept (or out of tune with the director’s concept) is the work of Greengrass’s cinematographer, Barry Ackroyd. Though he manages to accentuate the bleakness of the plot with the right lighting and muted colours, he applies a raw documentary style (shaky handheld camera, zooming) even in scenes where a calming effect would be desirable and where making it obvious that someone is holding the camera and spontaneously reacting to the action only draws attention away from the dialogue. Similar doubts are raised by the work with colour in relation to various flashbacks. Whereas grainy black-and-white is justifiable in the memories of the murder, which are very reminiscent of a semi-amateur 1980s horror movie on an often-watched VHS tape, why are the memories of other characters and memories that are supposed to be objective filmed in black-and-white (though no longer grainy), but the flashbacks tied to the point of view of Patty and Ben are not? Whereas the director turned the often caustic and brutal novel into a restrained, slightly sentimental psychological drama, the cinematographer understood it as a variation on Capote’s groundbreaking true-crime novel In Cold Blood. Because of that, the viewer is best served by reaching for the book instead of going to the cinema. 55%