Matty

Five members of the upper crust meet in a large residence. For over three hours, they will discuss war, progress and the end of history (as the title refers to Solovyov’s philosophical treatise that inspired Puiu). They cannot be stopped by a serious illness, a coup attempt or the coming of the Antichrist. Regardless of how long their disputations last and how many steps they take, they can’t go far. They move in circles (Dante’s Inferno). Like the characters from Buñuel's The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, they are prisoners of their own intellectual worlds and ideas of an ideal society, but with little reflection of the external reality that is not only thought, but also lived. However, Puiu is more restrained than his Spanish counterpart in satirising snobs who indulge in their autotelic intellectual games while the old order collapses outside the windows. His slightly disdainful detachment from the self-centred aristocrats is shown less in the dialogue and more in how the actors react to certain lines and how, during long shots, the director inventively stages and frames the characters’ movements in the broken space, especially their interaction with the servants, who, in contrast to the main characters, are constantly busy and manage to achieve something through their actions. Malmkrog is a long, serious, intellectually rich film that is also in some way delightfully sadistic toward viewers. At the same time, however, it humorously reflects and disparages its own length, seriousness and intellectual richness so that, unlike its characters, it does not suffer from academic torpor. In fact, the opposite is true. It’s been a long time since I was drawn in by something so plotless (but also tremendously dynamic thanks to the conflict of various opinions and subworlds, as well as the direction of the actors and space). 90%

Outwardly, Dick Johnson Is Dead is an intimate portrait of the director’s father, who had begun to exhibit symptoms of Alzheimer’s, the same disease that her mother (and his wife) had suffered from. However, the touching video diary recording the relationship between two people who know what is coming comprises only one level of this unusually conceived documentary. ___ The filmmaker inserts shots of Johnson, who realises that he is losing memories and is becoming dependent on the assistance of others, into a more general contemplation of loss, forgetting and inevitability of endings, which are beyond our control and imagination. Despite that, we try to somehow come to terms with them. For director Kirsten Johnson, playful mystification is a coping mechanism. She stages various ways in which her father may die (the film opens with a beautifully morbid scene in which a loose air-conditioner falls on his head), as well as his funeral and afterlife (the deliberately fake-looking scenes with Jesus are reminiscent of the work of Baz Luhrmann). She does this so inventively that on a few occasions you will not be sure whether you are watching reality or another dramatherapy performance enabling the director to at least partially prepare for the departure of her other parent and the father to experience what he will not live to see. ___ Instead of just another film about Alzheimer’s that starts out sad and gradually becomes increasingly melancholy, Johnson created a mood-altering blend of black comedy, eschatological musical and self-reflexive family drama that is very sensitive toward social actors and contains truth somewhere between fiction and reality, between the space in front of the camera and behind it. 85%

Using home videos and candid interviews with those closest to him, director Sasha Neulinger, who as a child was sexually abused by his uncle, revives a dark chapter in his family history that others would rather forget. Cheerful moments from family celebrations, seemingly depicting a completely normal family with idyllic relationships, take on a very disturbing meaning in hindsight and become both evidentiary material and a therapeutic tool. A bold reconstruction of the crime and its impact on the psyche of the victim, who is paradoxically perceived by others as the one who disrupts their wellbeing, also shows how the medium of film can help us better understand the story of our own lives.

Costa brought his mesmerising style to a state of perfection. He shot this work in a somehow very non-filmic way with refined static shot compositions, reminiscent of canvases by Rembrandt or Vermeer and close to what one would see in theatre or the fine arts. At the same time, however, it is a work that cannot be more cinematic in how, through concentrated work with light, shade and offscreen sounds, it creates atmosphere, tension and expectations and controls what we see and what remains concealed from us. Between light and darkness, futility and hope, there are also outsider characters, whose artistically enthralling sketches are a substitute for the plot. Vitalina Varela is a masterpiece. 90%

Leviathan is a new level of cinéma verité, with a camera that goes everywhere and for which animals (dead and alive) are as equally fascinating to observe as people, giving immediacy and closeness priority over clarity and comprehensibility. We are thrown onto the boat just like the fish that have been caught and, like them, it takes a moment for us to realise what has happened and where we are. By leaving us to grope (in the dark) for an understanding of what we are actually watching, the film quite emphatically shows for the first time and not the last time, that it is indifferent to viewers' comfort. Despite that, it is at times as comparably an immersive experience as playing a video game. Here, however, we cannot influence anything, but can only be dragged further and further on by an oceangoing monster that devours weaker creatures. In its raw animalism, Leviathan goes even further than, for example, Le Sang des bêtes, in not only showing us the blood and entrails, but also bathing us in them several times. The perception of a fishing boat as a giant organism, of which anonymous sailors are integral parts (most aptly in the image of the merger of man and machine shot through glass), corresponds to the inverted chronology of the scenes, where we first see the attendant characteristics of a certain activity and only then the activity itself. Regardless of how little it may reveal about a particular activity, any given shot completes the portrait of the central sea monster. However, when removed from the whole, numerous scenes can be captivating due to their visual qualities. You do not have to engage your imagination too much to see apocalyptic paintings by Blake or Goya in some shots. It seems that extinction is already underway and is just as unstoppable as the leviathan, whose constant movement is evidence of its tirelessness and an assertion of inevitability. Despite many viewings of the BBC’s nature documentary series, it is only after this film, which uncompromisingly rips away the veil of appealing BBC aesthetics, that I can say that I have been on a fishing trip. I do not want to go again. 80%

Though giving a lively impression, the disturbingly identical marionettes, with the exception of the protagonist, enabled Kaufman to undertake his so far most thorough elaboration of his hobby in the externalisation of a person’s inner experience. This time, it is a person for whom strangers and loved ones merge into an anonymous crowd in which he has lost all interest. A telephone call with his wife and son, the latter of whom is interested only in whether his father has already bought him a gift, reveals that the indifference is mutual. However, Michael ceases to understand not only others, as he no longer even understands himself. Combined with an identity crisis, the protagonist’s existential anxiety reaches its peak when he stares blankly into the bathroom mirror, unable to control his mimic muscles. At the last moment, he is saved from losing his face by a voice from behind the door, a voice that is different from the voices of everyone else. ___ In Michael's predictable world of interchangeable people, Lisa is an anomaly, a being with her own individuality. Only she gives meaning to the phrase about the uniqueness of every person, which Michael likes to use in his lectures to help managers of major corporations increase productivity. For Kaufman, the transference of corporate strategies into interpersonal relationships is one of the symptoms of alienation in a society based on mutually beneficial transactions and the ceaseless generation of profit. People involved in the production process become mechanical marionettes with fake smiles and without their own uniqueness. However, Lisa, who is not distinguished by extraordinary beauty, intelligence or peculiar hobbies, proves that the cure for apathy is not to find someone exceptional, but is rather to appreciate that which is exceptional even in someone who is seemingly ordinary. ___ After Kaufman's previous films, which occupied the viewer with their complicated narrative structures, Anomalisa surprises with its narrative straightforwardness. At the same time, however, it is consistently disturbing due to the ambiguity of its fictional world, which is just as unstable as the protagonist’s personality. Outwardly, it works according to the same rules as we know from our own lives. In places, however, unsettling cracks appear in it. Beside the fact that everyone except Michael and Lisa look the same and speak in the same manner, at certain moments the protagonist seems to realise who he really is – a puppet. When, at the end of the film, he gazes sadly at the broken Japanese automaton that he had bought for his son in an obscure sex shop, it seems to be the only “being” that understands him at least a little in his own home. ___ The skilful oscillation between dull reality, filmed in aloof long shots with very slow camera movements, and the nightmare, which with its absurdity defies rational understanding, also passes on the existential uncertainty of the characters to the viewer, who is forced to ask the same questions as Michael. 80%

At its core, Unorthodox is a story of redemption and emancipation, but composed of unconvincing model situations and pushed forward by irritating coincidences (a chance encounter with a friendly musician in a café, a chance encounter with the friendly director of a conservatory, chance encounters of many other characters in Berlin, a city of nearly four million people...). Standing opposite the ultra-orthodox community of Hasidic Jews, who, through the lens of the series, live black-and-white lives filled with suffering and without a hint of joy (and are hypocrites indulging in alcohol and gambling), is the ultra-liberal, multicultural, lavishly colourful Berlin, where everyone immediately accepts the main heroine, a stranger with an unknown past, with open arms. She becomes a great friend of a motley crew of conservatory student practically from one day to the next. Among Berliners, there are no negative, unempathetic, selfish characters who would not lend a helping hand to the young woman. Conversely, everyone in New York is against her. There are mostly only caricatures on both sides. The protagonist is an enigmatic figure. She says of herself that she is different, but we never get a chance to find out what makes her different. We see her either during Jewish rituals and in the context of her marriage, when she cannot be herself, or in a completely new environment, where she cannot be herself yet. The conditions from which she runs away are exposed too late. The first episodes thus lack urgency. It is not clear what is at stake and what is a threat to her. Her pursuers just desperately wander around Berlin rather than seeking her step by step. The result is numerous bland scenes without tension or any considerable storytelling value. Despite the large number of randomly incorporated flashbacks, the narrative is straightforward and takes a predictable course without surprises. I can imagine this as a dense two-hour drama that would focus on this sensitive topic and be driven forward by Shira Haas’s acting skill. In its existing form, it is a drawn-out, hard-to-believe fairy tale.

Sweet, entertaining, at times touching and, unlike other dating shows, pleasantly low-key, yet at the same time banal in its presentation of the individual participants and infantilising in framing the world of people with various autism-spectrum disorders (as if the creators neglected the fact that it is spectrum and not a single form of autism – all social actors are put on the same level). Musical segues are inappropriate for a series with such a theme. Documentary filmmakers circumspectly treat sexuality as something in which autistic people do not engage and that should not be discussed in their presence (for example, a completely inappropriate question enquiring as to whether a twenty-something couple have slept with each other, though they have been living together for several years, undoubtedly with a sexual component). Excessive space is given to scenes in which parents talk about their own legally competent adult children, most of whom have no problem speaking for themselves. The presentation of “supporting characters”, i.e. individual prospective mates, a few things that they like (dinosaurs, smiles) and a few things they hate (the sound of a lawn mower, bananas), is insultingly uniform and stereotyping. Perhaps it’s due to the editing, but Jodi, an expert in the field of communication among autistic people and the only person in the series to offer a “professional” perspective, does not inspire much trust and puts forth a distorted idea of the demands that should be placed on autistic people in their relationships. She prepares her clients for dates with advice on specific steps to take in certain situations (introducing oneself, offering a seat) that may be common when two people without autism meet, but require autistic people to engage in pretence and make-believe, taking on roles that may not necessarily suit them. The foundation should be that they feel comfortable with themselves. Then they can more easily connect emotionally with a partner. Despite these misgivings, I welcome the fact that Netflix has engaged in the effort to eliminate the belief that, when autistic people do not show much emotion, they cannot love, feel love and long for someone to love.

The exceptionality of La Flor consists in far more than its runtime, which is equal to a full season of an epic series (after subtracting numerous intermezzos and the forty-minute closing credits). It is a work that is unique on so many levels that dissertations could be written about it. Or you can simply enjoy how well made it is and how it can surprise viewers with something throughout its runtime and create subtle connections between individual segments, the result of which is that you do not feel as if you are watching a miniseries or anthology. ___ The prologue, in which the director introduces the structure of the entire film and sets forth the central theme of “what can still be told today and how?”, is followed by six episodes, each of which plays with the conventions of a different genre (a B-level horror movie, a melodramatic musical, a spy thriller, a film about film, a black-and-white remake of Renoir’s A Day in the Country, an experimental anthropological pseudo-documentary) and, as in a sweeping novel, frequently branches out into numerous subplots. Aside from viewers’ expectations, which of course are not fulfilled due to the fact that, for example, almost none of the episodes has an ending (thanks to which we also realise that we are primarily watching the actual storytelling process, with all of the vacillation that goes with it), and waiting itself becomes relevant during the individual episodes. For example, the third episode is based entirely on a Tarantino-esque delaying of the final confrontation between two hostile groups of secret agents. That delay, directly thematicised in individual flashbacks, does not take thirty minutes, but five and a half hours, which is done ad absurdum. ___ Thanks to the layered narrative, the polished style, the strong self-reflective dimension (which is strongest in the fourth episode, where the crew deals with how to continue further) and deviations from the established concept, watching La Flor is never dull or predictable for even a moment. It is not slow cinema requiring an extremely patient viewer, but a dense and entertaining multi-genre experiment with the possibilities of a long, jagged narrative in which more and more stories are constantly layered on top of each other (from what I saw, it is most akin to Gomes’s three-part Arabian Nights). Therefore, one of the most emotionally powerful and, in a certain aspect, purest and truest sequences is that from the fourth episode in which the female leads do not appear in any story, do not play roles, but only freely improvise in front of the camera (just like during the closing credits). ___ Despite the impression of an epic narrative freestyle work, piling up ideas originating on the fly, La Flor is a maturely crafted and inventively structured film whose individual parts organically interconnect certain stylistic techniques (e.g. refocusing between various action plans), well-developed motifs and (primarily) a quartet of astonishingly talented and photogenic actresses, whose acting art Mariano Llinás pays tribute to (and, at the same time, allows him to stand out in every nuance, as required by the various genres and acting in multiple foreign languages). As an expression of thanks for being involved in the filming, which took roughly nine years without breaks, the director gives the actresses a gift, which is the film itself – it is not a coincidence that his narrative scheme, which Llinás sketches out at the beginning, resembles a flower, la flor. ___ Whereas you merely watch other movies, you can experience an unforgettable weekend with La Flor. 90%

A film about a journey into space, in which the characters have to overcome the greatest distance while still on Earth, where they are separated by, for example, only thick glass. Whereas Gravity with Sandra Bullock told a story of (re)birth, in Proxima Eva Green undergoes demanding prenatal preparation (represented by a number of visual metaphors) prior to flying into space. Instead of discovering new worlds, she distances herself from Earth and her daughter in several phases (first only training in a children’s game, then a trial farewell with salamanders released into a stream, then communication only from a distance). Instead of the dangers of deep space, she faces pressure from a society that is sceptical about whether, as a mother, she can handle a similar professional challenge, whether leaving her Stella behind is the responsible thing to do. Tension is not induced by life-threatening situations, but rather by the attempt to balance her role as a mother with the physically and mentally demanding training recorded step by step. The film offers no sentimentalism (Sakamoto’s music is used sparingly), but procedural matter-of-factness and inventive (and touching) use of parallels between the situations of the mother and daughter (both become accustomed to a foreign environment, get to know new people and are forced to use a language other than their mother tongue). Physical and parental autonomy go hand in hand. A feeling of independence is the basis of the catharsis during an amazing scene with a herd of wild horses, which Stella apparently sees for the first time in her life and is at last close to that which she only previously dreamed of. If we do not break away, we will not achieve our dreams. 80%