Isherwood

The 1950s to the fullest, as well as King's proprieties, but the central four boys have no chemistry with each other, nor does Reiner's narration. This adventure has a simple plot but discourages via the narrative lapse that subjectively stretches the runtime to twice its length. This is because there are a dozen more problems the boys worry about before they start liking girls, but instead of a teenage epiphany, we get an endless camera romp without passion or drama.

A sad postcard from Syria, which comes into full view when one of the participants, in the momentary comfort of a Turkish hotel for training, utters: "Peace and tranquility, and all you have to do is cross the border." The Oscar is undoubtedly a political gesture, but the impossibility of choosing which party to support from the comfort of central Europe is clearly beyond the discernment of some. It's not tendentious or manipulative. It is rather bitter, but also not hopeless. As the saying goes: Not all heroes wear capes.

An admirable personal devotion to an iconic figure that far surpasses all those who have been allowed to step out of groped pages and onto the big screen, in the care of a mediocre (at best) executor who rides a comfortable rating and grinds the hero's blood so thoroughly that the path to a readable ending through instant depression is too obvious. The fact that a little girl in a rage blows up a military commando is fine, but the fact that a bitter road movie with a western background leaves me emotionally empty is not. But at least Fox (un)consciously checked off the "The Last of Us" adaptation.

A visual feast to go with a packed playlist and an Adidas ad so striking that it will make half of Eastern Europe squat. The aftertaste of uselessness will be quite subjective for everyone, but I accept this sadly nostalgic memory of a heroin ride, from which sobering up had to happen.

This is 0.45 caliber deception. The first third, when the young café liberals are online and outraged at anything small, casually slides into well-thought-out firing into the ranks of supporters and opponents, and then boldly moves on to the fact that, with a little effort, even a bunch of friends from The Film and TV School of the Academy of Performing Arts in Prague can get firearms today.

I like Rudiš's bookish post-punks and Ondříček's visuals that go to the free level of the Schengen Area. But this merger of Liberec's weirdos grinds like a tram on an unpolished track. The shallow catchphrases and the coldly refined romance simply don't disguise the fact that only the German officer goes under the surface, and the rest of it floats along like a hand-sewn balloon. It’s graceful, but also an eyesore.

The metaphor of the green-bearded invasion is only good for the readers who no longer realize that the real incorrectness would lie in the omission of the phoenix-bearded outlaw from the final genocide. This is because if the filmmakers were really clever, they would have gone further than Kubrick and a chubby eagle who would like to be "great again," and not kindergarten humor whose mental level fits within the range of a mobile phone screen.

Zemeckis and Burgess revel in subtle camera-special effects, but instead of a marital drama, they unwittingly chart a cheesy WWII romance where sex is the equivalent of a desert storm and a Luftwaffe precision strike family picnic. These images, painstakingly copied from Spielberg, including Williams' score, only prove that some genres are passé even for experienced storytellers. The film is subjectively four hours long.

The King is back in full force. While others pound it into you for two hours and go soft at the end, Shyamalan spends more than half the film escaping to comedic proprieties that are quite creepy knowing that three young girls are being held against their will in the basement. While McAvoy is cutely tripping on his tongue, or strictly driven by OCD (if the Academy wasn't so exclusive to certain genres, the Oscar nomination would have been there for him), somewhere in the back you begin to sense a creeping evil. The last half hour is pure phantasmagoria driven to the extreme, but so precisely handled cinematically that the dark vibe will knock a hole out from within your head. Anya Taylor-Joy will be a big star one day (hopefully outside the genre). PS: The bar scene isn't gratuitous - it's a confident and bold joke that harkens back to a time when some people and some things made us feel confident.

A sad ballad from an Australian redneck town and a maximum physical experience. Kurzel refuses any empathy and gets under your skin with the vigor of an unsharpened axe. In a long, hard, and painful way. The impossibility to find a piece of humanity in this panopticon is literally palpable, and so it burns in your throat with the same force as a mash of kangaroo guts on the couch. 4 ½.