Marigold

A captivating and very gradual flight through loneliness and lost identity. A soft camera, sensitive directing, dreamy music and Sam Rockwell, whose performance of the schizophrenic "mind-fucking" (as he called it) looks like an air ballet. Moon may not be philosophically or deeply spectacular, but with all the imperfections and indie smudges from tar, this is a film that is easy to fall in love with.

If it was just slightly more over the edge, a bit more incorrect (although, as I read the reviews here, that would probably be too much for some of the softies), it would stink like socks worn for a week. In this way, it sometimes smells like the cheap perfume of "normal" crazy comedy. Phillips excellently balanced a genre spectacle with a few really off the wall moments, which make this into quite a memorable film (particularly the singing numbers take the cake). I was not amazed by the film, but I also did not experience any peristaltic quivers or disgusting vomiting. A film for all the real men.

Fantastic shot depth and subtle metaphors in an otherwise very realistic depiction – Andrea Arnold has the attentive empathy of a woman, but this does not prevent her from hiding moral ambivalence, humiliation and betrayal under a very aesthetic package. The excellent Kate Jarvis has a harsh temperament, Fassbender proves that he is one of the most elastic actors today, and the entire strangely crippled panopticon of the characters works without any issues. The result is pure realism, but which in no way should be confused with craft routine or documentary detachment. Fish Tank is the perfect compromise between authenticity and aesthetics. The only fault I can find is that it is sometimes a little lengthy, but even that is part of Andrea Arnold's personal stamp. A stamp in which I can see a lot of the imprints of the Danish school of Lars von Trier... but Fish Tank is a unique and sophisticated author's film.

In the first series, Stig Helmer addresses a sleeping city, whilst in the second he philosophizes with a toilet bowl. There are no better parallels to what has changed at Lars von Trier's hospital. The relatively irrational separation is transformed into a regular insane asylum, and the dark forces of the devil, hell, and alternative medicine seize all of the characters. Trier exorcises reason and ordains monstrous gargantuan feeling. It is such a beautifully repulsive trip beyond the limits of normalcy that it surpasses even the already brilliant first series. However, the missing end gives it a terrible scar. Where did Mrs. Drusse go? What does the monstrous Aage bring? Dansk jävlar!!!

A personalized and surgically accurate analysis of evil in German society before the First World War. Haneke's analytical sadism, which deprives the viewer of a direct view of suffering, creates very unpleasant feelings on the body and soul. In its stylization, the deliberately cumbersome and static film is reminiscent of faded black-and-white photographs, but beneath their cold surface, it reveals a repulsive machinery of humiliation, class jealousy, perversions and injustices. Unfortunately, although The White Ribbon appealed to me intellectually (the film is brilliantly devised and completely rationally composed so that it can speak comprehensively), it missed the mark emotionally (despite the enjoyment from the director's brilliant approach, I remained only a cold observer throughout). It can therefore be assumed that the film will attract mainly fans of Haneke's depersonalized and exploratory view of the dark side of the human soul. For others, it can be either an enticing intellectual plaything, or deadly boredom.

Amazing. An industrial and creaking expedition to the Umakart swamp, where sheer resignation and hopelessness are cooked up. Everyone runs away on their own. Tomáš finds a mistress, Antonín decides to steal her from him. A mental cripple with a complex uses his position in the state apparatus and demonstrate that the greatest filth does not stem from the essence of ideology, but rather from the essence of man. Špaček's film has a) an excellent script, b) balanced directing, c) a magnificent sound component, d) Ondřej Malý, Martin Finger and other actors who act three levels above the average. If it was a bit shorter and more straightforward, I wouldn't be afraid of using really comforted superlatives. In any case, I will go so far as to say that Antonín is, in my view, a modern Kopfrkingl. And beating Walking Too Fast will be a lot of hard work this year.

Puppet theatre on the topic of pernicious communist power and its practices. In book form, Smyčka relied on the very solid potential of Pavel Kohout (although with great reservations, especially regarding the psychology of the characters), but in TV form it explicitly moans under the weight of Polesný’s diligent but convulsive direction. Another problem is the comparison of the young generation of actors with the old guard. It's not in any way flattering. Kavan and Válková act as a pair of grotesque youngsters in contrast to the economical and convincing acting of the Cossacks. Unfortunately, this repeats the flaw of the book, where the love plot serves explicitly as a prop. Regarding the information, it is an explicitly illustrative introduction to early Stalinism - neither exploratory nor authentic. Therefore, despite the truly excellent acting by Hanzlík, Preiss and others, it just another labor-intensive attempt at stony history.

Oh, the old fool... again, he forgets that for all the intoxicating gloss, veils and crazy shapes, the whole show sways precariously in an ocean of thought and narrative confusion. But can you be mad at him for it? You can, although The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus is levels above the botched film The Brothers Grimm. It’s him again - the whimsical, wasteful, restless child and a collage maker of the impossible... However, despite the excellent acting, his last work is one of his lesser films. However, I cannot hide the fact that this quality is still damn good compared to others.

Fantastic directing – captivating tempo, camera dynamics, exclusive music selection, mood equilibristics. Great actors and above all a current topic. Unfortunately, Il Divo requires a sufficiently informed viewer, because it fires out the names of the target with the cadence of a machine gun and the orientation in Andreotti's case is extremely distressful. It was my own fault that I didn't enjoy the film as much as I could have - I found myself not being able to keep up with the story. All that remains is to study and watch Sorentino's film again. It has enormous experience potential comparable to the phenomenal political drama Frost/Nixon.

The filmmaker's beginnings are very difficult, especially when he is shooting a horror film from a cardboard Romanian village with a plasterboard fortress, in which, in addition to the well-groomed Nazis, an ill-disguised Ian McKellen and a kind of runaway anatomical model of human muscles appear. The horror scenes are without doubt just as scary as the TV creations based on the motifs of Mr. Vašíček, the directing is indeed cruelly careless, sloppy and seldom reveals that Mann is a filmmaker with a distinctive vision. Actors in confusingly written roles have no chance to impress, and Scott Glenn literally feels like a bad joke. This is all accompanied by a hellishly archaic "casio" prelude to the TANGERINE group, and one cannot help but be upset that it wasn’t even stupider. Because this is not even a guilty pleasure, but rather just a kind of dusty swarm without a hint of atmosphere and meaning.