Isherwood

I can think of all sorts of phrases, but the one about so much work and so much stupidity is probably the most appropriate. If you type "movie mashup" on YouTube, dozens of funnier things come up. I really wanted to enjoy it more, perhaps if the plot had gone further than from the first seat to the movie theater screen. I've never seen a film being given up on after half an hour by more than a third of the audience, even at the most obscure festivals.

Even the best HLP can incarnate in an unproven artistic ambition (the camera stares at the wall for a minute and someone conducts the dialogue on the side) into a banality that can turn even a two-hour session in a comfortable Thermal seat into genocide.

Blomkamp and the aliens for the hundredth time, again in a different way. According to Mr. Scott, his dream version of a direct follow-up to Cameron is dead, but even Sigourney Weaver's faith in his talent makes me hope that this just might actually work someday, unlike "Half-Life 3." Compromise is a forbidden word for Blomkamp, so he looks for loopholes in the system to push his vision to a wider audience in a different way. Digital platforms are powerful, and while I'd prefer to see this unkempt, dirty, and technically very cleverly masked poor budget spectacle on the big screen, I'll still be glad to see it made sometime rather than never.

Blake is kissable and the seagull is straight-up Oscar-worthy, but the whole story, despite its sympathetic length, is kind of dull and features no real surprises. A couple of times I admiringly pondered the production background, where the camera games probably end and the casual special effects begin, but Serra accepts only very sloppy screenwriting assignments into his crafted workshop. [Finale = humorous self-parodic failure. I was quite sad about all the previous efforts.]

It's powerful! It doesn't necessarily have to pressure and squeeze tears from you with sentimental shots. It's an accurately painted picture of the fact that people who have an autistic person at home have a halo above their heads, but also a good dose of humanity. The purpose of the documentary is to shake things up that have been stagnating for years, whether it's a societal debate and perception, or the role of the state, which not only doesn't know how to deal with some people but often refuses to lend a helping hand. It doesn't make sense to criticize the absence of confrontation with anyone from the "other side." That will only happen if someone inexplicably kicks this ball out of bounds.

A painful high school romance, paced by a precise soundtrack, perfectly mapping the journey to suicide in ways we often downplay or (un)intentionally overlook. This makes it all the more frustrating that the attempt at an almost mysterious atmosphere is shattered by the fact that the reason why Clay doesn't listen to all 13 recordings right away, and quite pointlessly puts it off, is simply not rationally defensible in any way. This means that even the ending, which wants to let the storyline of all-encompassing hypocrisy stand out, can't fully live up to it; the à propos Dylan Minnette is an autistic actor, utterly pointlessly harassed by the show's creators; by contrast, Katherine Langford will one day be a big star. 4 ½.

Three hours of informationally exhaustive retrospective in which one famous group of five comments on one unique filmmaking period of another famous group of five. From propaganda to the sentiment that after the war, some people were allowed in Hollywood and others were not. I was devouring every word and at the same time writing out a list of what I needed to see immediately. The most enjoyable part was that Netflix put the most essential movies right at the back.

A surprise from a dimension where Czech cinema is not the essence of staged awkwardness and creative dilettantism, but rather a genre hit. However, this (un)wanted harbinger of a summer clone of the "Czech comedy of the century" paradoxically works in every conceivable way. From the precise good child casting to the adult casting that hits the shallow marital humor with the certainty of everyday life. Indeed, it has a tendency to slip into shallowness at times, and the line with the moody watermen could use some tightening up, but it's still a cut above the usual family film production. Maybe it's because it's thankfully not up to anything else.

A lobotomy of taste and a stimulant of regret. The idiocy is driven to such absurdity that there is no point in being angry at the film. Attempts at iconic moments (the dragon) come to naught, and anything pretending to be plot tightens the corkscrew in your skull. Surprisingly, the expected unplugging does not take place, and not even the dumbest zombie believes that this is the "Final" one. Milla is over forty and Avon doesn't work forever. There will be a reboot in four years.

Crichton may be a writing mastermind at evoking the hidden dangers of technological toys, but the actual result of his work behind the camera is reminiscent of his scientists' creations - a semi-functional vehicle that beckons with original tinsel, but which shuts down at the first dramatic collision. Yul Brynner walks around fiercely over eighty-eight minutes, but in hindsight, it feels more ridiculous than threatening. It took two decades for an eccentric billionaire to fish lizards out of mosquitoes in a similar vein. PS: The idea is so strong that despite the shabby treatment, I actually understand Abrams and Nolan's need to turn it into a series.