JFL

This seriously imbecilic zero budget pop-up book of 1980s trash genres does not abound with originality, but it will appeal to appropriately tuned-in viewers with its dawdling, amateur ethos and shameless plagiarism. On the one hand, it may seem that combining plot motifs, characters and elements from Star Wars, Barbarella, Aliens, barbarian fantasies and post-apocalyptic action flicks could not strike anyone as being a reasonable thing to do. But the infantile logic unhindered by adult genre boundaries and rational causality is one of the advantages of Robot Holocaust. Another advantage is the evidently enthusiastic and punk style of filming. Rather than a professional production, the movie is reminiscent of amateurish projects of enthusiastic children who got their hands on a video camera and wanted to make their own variations of popular films. No shooting was done in studios, but – quite possibly without a permit – in New York in parks, construction sites, old factories and docks, and at the crumbling Smallpox Hospital building on Roosevelt Island. The acting ensemble brings to mind a group of friends with zero acting experience and even less talent for action scenes, which is thoroughly manifested in the local film’s spasmodically edited and horribly clumsy shootouts and fight scenes. As a definitive statement of the movie’s qualities, let us mention the voiceover, which, similarly as in other atrocities in the mould of America 3000, the distributors apparently added to the film in order to give this senseless work at least a semblance of coherence and narrative. In conclusion, let’s add that, from some bizarre interplay of coincidences, this film does not lie somewhere in the realm of the forgotten, but actually belongs to the library of one of the leading Hollywood studios, MGM.

Whereas in Li’l Quinquin Dumont took the genre of police procedurals to task and subjected it to a deconstruction of baseness and dementedness, this time he took aim at delicate midcult costume dramas. This is connected with the deviation from realism that is associated with Dumont and was rejected and misunderstood by most viewers. While police series play on realism and Dumont’s absolutism laid the foundation of his previous project’s subversiveness, there is no realism to be found anywhere in Slack Bay, as the genre does not work with it at all. The film’s subversiveness thus derives from a caricature that emphasises certain features of the target on which Dumont sets his sights. Though Slack Bay is descended from a line of French costume dramas, it has a perfect reference point in the British television hit Downton Abbey, a moving melodrama about empathetic members of the upper class and the servants who love their lordship above all else that wallows in its sumptuous high-mindedness, while allowing viewers to dream dreams about love bridging social chasms and to experience an emotionally extortionate drama in which criminal motives intrude on the idyll. Dumont flawlessly follows these outlines, but he boldly and vulgarly disparages the aforementioned caricature. The upper crust is thus composed of degenerates, retards, psychopaths and inbreds, while the servants merely live off of them, literally. It’s not so hot with love either, since even the most likable character from the ranks of the nobs still has a deformed core. Dumont even recalls miraculous plot twists and moving exteriors that essentially belong to Downton Abbey. An excellent aspect of his variation on Downton is the casting of the cream of grimacing acting greats led by the marvellously and hysterically hen-like Juliette Binoche (those who find her performance inadequate have never seen Elizabeth McGovern’s unbearably obtrusive facial expression in Downton) and setting against them Dumont’s typically asocial non-actors with their bizarre ticks and unique faces. Fans of Dumont as the masterful great of festival films will be very disillusioned with Slack Bay, because instead of a weighty epic, they will get an iconoclastically sophisticated farce that inclines more toward the splendidly demented faecal-humour of the creative duo Christian Clavier and Jean-Marie Poir than toward the laurels won at Cannes. Could it be that with advancing age, Dumont would follow the career trajectory of Takeshi Kitano, who one day also recognised that he’d had enough of the foolishness on the red carpet and began purposefully attacking his audience with absurd freaks of the coarsest grain? If so, keep it up!

An often implemented concept receives a superb treatment, wherein all of Waititi’s merits are put to use – playful imagination based on reality but unhindered by realism, immeasurable fondness for total outsiders and the asocial, brilliant comedic timing, pleasure in the local New Zealand motifs, particularly those from the world of the lowest social classes, and a perfect feel for the use of non-actors. In combination with the popular humoristic novel, it is no wonder that the result became the most successful New Zealand film of all time in terms of viewership. Like, for example, Stephen Chow in Hong Kong long ago, Waititi manages to render gags of the lowest register with peculiarity and sophistication. This is not idle, thoughtless humour, but rather perfectly crafted entertainment built on precision timing and flawless mastery of the filmmaker’s art. Charlie Chaplin and Harold Lloyd knew that everyone could fall to the ground, but only a master can do it perfectly for the camera. No matter that some viewers are unable to understand that.

Tower is a brilliant evocation of the situation during the mass shooting on the fateful day in Austin when America lost its innocence, shown from various points of view of the victims and bystanders, who, in the words of one of the witnesses, were sorted into heroes and cowards. It is a chilling depiction of incomprehensibility and chaos that transcends the bounds of society and civilisation, to which every person responds differently yet identically in a certain overarching irrationality. In this respect, it makes sense that the film approaches the shooter as an anonymous and unseen entity. All the more catastrophic for the whole documentary then is the nonconceptual shift in the climax, in which there is suddenly talk of forgiveness and Charles Whitman’s actions are related to violence in the media and Columbine, though not a word is spoken about the man who pulled the trigger.

Bone Tomahawk is broadly discussed and written about as a horror movie in a western setting or, conversely, a western that turns into a horror movie at the climax. This is a one-dimensional view, however, as S. Craig Zahler created an inventive revisionist western in his exceptionally polished debut. The new concept in his interpretation does not mean dirt, nihilism and rejection of heroism, which deconstructionist films like Unforgiven fall back on by default. Zahler brings forth a much more inventive, well-developed and original grasp of the iconic genre. The masterfully written film re-establishes the western for today’s cynical and enlightened times in that it conceives its iconic attributes with a sophisticated perspective, while concurrently updating its basic narrative formulas and ethos. Therefore, the Indians here are not savages, but rather in the figure of a professor they become a biting personification of the wrongs committed by white men, which goes beyond the cowboys not only in being familiar with nature and its wonders, but also with the breadth of knowledge, wit and intelligence. Similarly, the protagonist’s wife can be sarcastic, rational and intelligent, while adhering to the role of object and trophy. Heroism inevitably becomes synonymous with limitations, ignorance and stubbornness. The film’s most essential roles are played by troglodytes as anonymous monsters who defy rationality, returning danger, mystery and, mainly, an element of the strange to life on the edge of civilisation. Those are the ideal erratic, bestial savages like the Indians in the tales of the Wild West, before their traditional depiction took on the foul taste of genocide. As a result, Bone Tomahawk can place in the main female character’s mouth a memorable and eloquent line that provides scathing commentary on the machismo of the film’s men and, at the same time, serves as a heroic celebration of their tenacity and determination.

The comparison of film and a rollercoaster perfectly suits Marvel blockbusters. The standardised products from the shared workshop of the Marvel Studios and Disney divisions attract viewers with a spectacular ride, which is, however, constructed in a completely mechanical way. Just as fairground machines differ from each other in their effect on one’s emotions only in their scary murals, extravagant names and number of flashing lights, Guardians of the Galaxy is absolutely identical to, for example, Big Hero 6. The narrative construction and dramaturgy, i.e. the rails conveying the audience to the individual emotional hoops and loops, are exactly the same; they differ only in their particular twists and turns. This is most striking in the conclusion, when, immediately after the spectacular climax comes an emotional twist that transforms the given film into a tear-jerker. Distinctive directors are hired for Marvel flicks solely for marketing purposes in order to help create the impression that the individual films are different, but in practical terms, their contribution has the same weight as the authorship of carnies who paint unlicensed portraits of pop-culture icons on midway rides.

This is not an amateur pseudo-achievement made in an offhand manner, but a consciously conceived and, mainly, erudite variation on ancient epics. It’s true that it makes very little sense to rank this film alongside contemporary Czech films made by the younger generation of filmmakers, but only in the sense that experimentation and informed wordplay necessarily stand apart from everything else, especially conventional narratives that pick up techniques at foreign festivals. To criticise an intentionally theatrical project by people working in modern theatre simply indicates a sheer lack of understanding and a failure to accept the concept. The merits of Antonín Šilar and Ondřej Cikán’s film lie in its consistent and informed adherence to the ancient epics, not only in their narrative composition, typical motifs and formulas, but also in their ahistorical nature and the mythical world’s relationship to contemporary reality. The film takes these attributes from Cikán’s book of the same name, which he had written after years of studying antiquity. The adaptation adds the imaginative staging of individual scenes and images, combining the techniques of modern scenography, imaginative set design and punkish low-budget aesthetics. At the same time, the contrast between the mythical story, the modern presentation and the creative filming gives rise to a whole that simultaneously deconstructs and strengthens the ancient stories.

First of all, the effort to make a film in a genre that is noticeably absent in the Czech Republic, not in the sense of a parkour film, but a teen film (not to be confused with teen comedies) is worthy of admiration. Like the German film Parkour, the makers of In Your Dreams use sport as a metaphor for a certain time in one’s life and the issues and challenges associated with it. Regardless of the fact that parkour does not have an age limit, Oukropec and co. chose a more appropriate parallel in adolescence and in the themes of unrequited feelings, emotional turmoil and defining oneself, which sets them apart from their German counterparts. Nevertheless, the dream storyline gives rise to doubts, as it seems slightly inappropriate for the female protagonist’s age and brings too much literalness and unambiguity into the film. At the same time, it is a functional device with a number of imaginative elements, but one cannot help but feel that the filmmakers used it as a screenwriting crutch, especially when, in other aspects of the film, they succeed in combining specific symbols with more general meanings (the rope motif) in a realistic storyline. In Your Dreams has several elements that evoke ambivalence and pull the film out of the realm of otherwise stylish fiction – this refers primarily to the dialogue, the formulaic plot twists (a sprained ankle) and the studio interiors. However, these are offset by even more significant elements of things left unsaid and situations that are significant in terms of meaning or important for the development of the characters. The conceptual grasp of parkour itself is also pleasantly surprising, as the filmmakers do not attempt to mimic hyper-spectacular performance videos, but rather employ a down-to-earth style to illustrate the main coming-of-age storyline without drowning it out. And as a final bonus, there are natural non-actors among the parkourers, especially the lead actress, who gives her character naturalness and, primarily, physical prowess. 7/10

“When we wanted to explain something to each other, we could say, ‘We want it to be like in this or that film,’ because I think we know films rather well,” director Jiří Sádek said of the creative collaboration behind the camera. How many times and in which stages of working on The Noonday Witch did they say, “We want it to be like in The Babadook”? Viewers who have not managed to avoid that essential horror movie of recent years will inevitably get a sense of permanent déjà vu from this film. The similarity of particular motifs, elements and formalistic techniques is so strong that it is impossible for it be a coincidence. While other young Czech filmmakers copy the formalistic techniques of foreign titles, the work of Sádek, Chlupáček and Samir borders on plagiarism. If we take that to the extreme, it can be said that while others use a familiar form to appeal primarily to viewers who are also well versed in cinema, The Noonday Witch is conversely targeted at unknowledgeable viewers, to whom it can pass itself off as an original work. At the same time, the filmmakers manage to superbly utilise local elements, which come across as lively and natural even though they draw on the standard contrast between the city and the countryside. Furthermore, the basic concept of a modern non-literal reworking of a canonical poem, built on the motifs of the unhappy aspects of motherhood, has great potential. Paradoxically, however, The Babadook is not only more refined and stylistically cohesive, but also a stronger and more faithful adaptation of Karel Jaromír Erben’s book on which The Noonday Witch is based.

The first Mockingjay is one of the most typical blockbusters in the history of Hollywood. The second most commercially successful film in the Unites States in 2014 and the fifth in the given year in worldwide box-office revenues is completely devoid of money shots, epic scenes and bombastic action sequences. Its two-hour runtime predominantly comprises dialogue scenes, as most of the film takes place in an underground bunker and all of the characters wear baggy coveralls. Here the filmmakers can afford to do what would be commercial suicide anywhere else thanks to the fact that this is a feature-length exposition for the climax, which will come in the second film. The knowledge that, thanks to its title, the film will automatically be a hit regardless of what happens in it gave rise to the film saga’s crucial episode. Instead of a seasonal spectacle, we have here a film that appeals exclusively to adolescent audiences, but instead of the formulaicness and superficiality that is associated with this target group on the part of overly clever old people and pragmatic producers, it relates a narrative from an Orwellian grey world that uncovers deceit and media manipulation, showing the heroine fumbling her way between her own interests and the intentions of others, while offering no resolution of the conflicts that have arisen.