Matty

The Good Death is a documentary portrait of an English woman who intends to undergo euthanasia. Seventy-two-year-old Janet does not want to wait until her unfortunate health condition, caused by hereditary muscular dystrophy, deteriorates to such an extent that she becomes completely legally incompetent. She would lose the ability to make her own decisions supported by clear, rational arguments. She is not afraid of death. She has accepted it just as she previously accepted her illness and the fact that life is not fair and that it is necessary to deal with it in accordance with her current options (unfortunately, the film does not elaborate on the fact that not everyone in her situation has the same options and a "good" death is a kind of privilege, but I understand that such an exploration would be a detour from the direction in which the film’s attention is focused). While Janet determinedly and resignedly approaches the day when the pentobarbital solution will end her suffering, we follow in parallel the story of her son, who suffers from the same disease and anticipates the same fate.___Despite the apparent similarities in the way both social actors are filmed, however, her son’s storyline is more hopeful, as Simon is involved in research that could lead to the discovery of treatments for the currently incurable disease. The impressive visual concept, the use of contrasts and parallels, the heroine’s poetic off-screen commentary and the unforced mise-en-scène to illuminate Janet’s previous life keep the film in the space between procedural drama and open-minded consideration of how death is “natural” (two religious commentaries on euthanasia were typically included in the film – according to one, God should decide on our existence and non-existence; according to the other, God does not want us to suffer and it is therefore acceptable if we decide to end our own lives). Despite the occasional intensification of the melodramatic level through the use of mournful music and the aestheticisation of actions connected with one’s final affairs, the film does not resort to the exploitation of human misery. It is shot with great humility and understanding both for those who have decided to leave and for those who remain. 70%

My immediate impression of this film was manifested in one of the first names to appear in the closing credits: Philip Nee Nee. Everything important happens in roughly the last fifteen minutes, which are preceded by an hour and a half of hopeless advertisements for wedding dresses, Paris, Audi, men’s shirts, vanilla ice cream, Aspen, sex toys...hollow narration for snobs. Through most of the movie, the only suffering incurred by the protagonists, who are so wealthy that they shop in boutiques where they are served champagne as they pick out clothes, is whether they will make the evening more pleasant with a butt plug, a vibrator or a whip. Instead of Dornan working out on gymnastic equipment, here we have – for lovers of camp – Dornan singing at the piano (this time, unfortunately, we don’t see a poster for a movie like The Chronicles of Riddick). Otherwise, everything between the central couple remains as it was. Anastasia has problems and doesn’t listen. Christian punishes her, which she sometimes likes and sometimes doesn’t. All disagreements in the relationship are resolved by means of expensive gifts. Despite all of that, this particular Fifty Shades is slightly more tolerable than the second instalment in the series, which was ten minutes longer and far more obstinate in its disrespect for storytelling logic and causality between scenes. Though I would not in any case call this art, I find it extraordinary that someone can write and make a film that is so empty that there is nothing in it that you could hate. But it looks good and your brain can comfortably relax. 35%

I was afraid that Flint Town would be a recruitment video heroizing the American police and celebrating their militarisation. However, the image that the series offers is more complex than that and testifies to the creators’ ambition to shoot something like a documentary version of The Wire. ___ Over the course of eight episodes, we follow an underfunded police department in a city with one of the highest crime rates in the United States. Members of the force speak openly about their fatigue, disillusionment and fear of losing their lives and jobs. Their loved ones also fear for the cops’ lives due to the growing number of attacks on police officers. Locals, who face guys with loaded rifles strolling around courtyards, from which they sometimes shoot, then complain that they often have to wait for several hours for a police patrol, because shooting was reported at three other locations at the same time. The community’s mistrust makes sense, but we see that individuals will not change much without support from those in higher positions of power. ___ The behaviour of the officers in the field occasionally borders on unjustified bullying and the documentary does not in any way makes excuses for them. At the same time, however, we understand their heightened vigilance and we know that they are poorly paid and have to work overtime. The police chief attempts to prevent the further deterioration of the already restricted conditions by all possible means, for example by selling discarded police weapons to Flint residents with valid gun licenses, which is a decision that probably best illustrates the absurdity and cyclical nature of the crime problem… The presidential election (the series began production in November 2015) is approaching, and while the “white” segment of the police force hopes for a Trump victory, which they expect to bring greater investment in the repressive apparatus, the black police officers wonder for whom Trump actually wants to make America “great again”. ___ A large part of the material was shot at night; the cameraman delights in grand details and artistic compositions with an orange night sky and figures standing alone in the landscape, ominous atmospheric music plays in the background, and we hear the heartbeat of a cop’s unborn child. At times, it is reminiscent of Michael Mann’s noir thrillers; at other times, it brings to mind an apocalyptic horror movie about a city that is just waiting for someone to set it ablaze. In some ways, Flint Town is excessively tense, but it is in any case an impressive and beneficial work that, overall, adroitly balances on the thin ice and attempts not to anger either conservative or liberals too much.

Hale County This Morning, This Evening is probably the best antithesis of last year’s Green Book. A visually captivating search for alternative ways to represent black bodies, which is to say the African-American minority. With a very loose structure, an associative montage and musical rhythm. No conflicts, no drama, no white people. Nothing that you would expect from a movie with a racial subtext. Just life the way it is lived. As RaMell Ross explained after a screening, a white American audience found the film boring because nothing happens in it, because it was just a sequence of everyday scenes. African-Americans, on the other hand, appreciated the fact that someone viewed them primarily as people, not as members of a particular ethnic group defined by skin color and burdened with numerous stereotypes. It is good to be aware of the kind of thought patterns and expectations with which we approach the narratives of members of a given culture. With its concept (unlike Green Book, it does not reinforce myths, but rather dismantles them; it does not lead to anything specific, does not assert anything definitive, and does not judge anyone), Hale County provides an excellent starting point.

The new Halloween may not be as scary as the original from 1978 or as entertaining as H20, but it is still stimulating and self-aware enough to not be an unnecessary sequel. It can be seen as, for example, a morbidly humorous argument with films and (documentary) series that attempt to understand evil (e.g. with the aid of psychology). Laurie Strode knows that sometimes it is better not to ask too much – as done by other characters attempting to encourage Myers (by whom they are as similarly unhealthily fascinated as some horror fans) to express himself (which they mostly accomplish, but not in the way they would have imagined) – but instead to simply pick up a kitchen knife or shotgun. Based on more than just Laurie’s example, Green’s three-generation horror film shows how in the past forty years women have learned to more effectively protect themselves against danger and to cast off their assigned roles (in addition to costume gender swapping at a Halloween party, an inverted variation of a famous scene from the first Halloween appears). Despite that, they still have to face mistrust and the suspicion that they are deranged hysterics, in which the film is very much in step with the times. The film’s direction is above reproach and the music by the father-and-son team John and Cody Carpenter is blood-chilling. When cult films are brought back to life, this is how it should be done. 85%

Though Isle of Dogs does not excel in terms of narrative ingenuity like The Grand Hotel Budapest or of playfulness as in Fantastic Mr. Fox, it is still such an incredibly clever film that you want to bark with joy. ___ Anderson continues to refine his style, which he barely contaminates with special techniques that are atypical of him, such as the use of a handheld camera, zoom and some asymmetrical composition here and there. The enlivening segments are most frequently in the form of a change in the style of animation (for example, the security-camera footage is hand-drawn instead of stop-motion), which relates to the motif of translating meanings between various languages and cultures (for example, some utterances in Japanese are interpreted, while the interpreter’s reactions to what she hears have an alienating effect). ___ In comparison with Anderson’s other films, this one is unexpectedly and fully intentionally ugly (or perhaps better said, “not cute”) – dogs live in a huge dump among rats, are infected with weird diseases and feed on rotting garbage. Sometimes we see close-ups of a chewed-up ear or a bit of mangy fur (and a kidney transplant), but the gloomy greyness very well suits this film that thematicises (more openly than Grand Hotel) the rise of authoritarianism, the inhumanity of humans and impending genocide (or rather its canine equivalent). It is not a film for children, who might be bothered by the slower pace and the minimum of “obvious” gags (the humour is based primarily on the ironic juxtaposition of situations/objects, both infantile and adult). ___ Anderson again presents an isolated world with specific rules, from which the protagonists try to escape using a well-thought-out plan (instead of repeatedly resorting to improvisation). For western viewers, such a peculiar world to which one can flee from the ordinariness of everyday life is not just the island where most of the story takes place, but the whole of Japan, whose iconography, history and gastronomy are tremendously beneficial to Anderson (sumo wrestlers, cherry blossoms, Kabuki theatre, the preparation of sushi, Japanese woodcuts, chanbara movies, taiko drums as the foundation of the soundtrack…). His approach to Japanese culture is not always so sensitive – the resistance against treacherous cat lovers, for example, is led by an American exchange student, who shows more courage and awareness than her Japanese schoolmates – but, at the same time, he does not turn the Land of the Rising Sun into a museum of curiosities for Japanophile fetishists. ___ Like Anderson’s other films, Isle of Dogs has a block structure with a prologue, an introduction and four chapters, each of which has a different objective and all of which are interconnected by the development of relationships between the characters. Compared to the nesting-doll nature of The Grand Budapest Hotel, the narrative is linear with the exception of a few flashbacks, which, together with an excess of explanatory monologues, disrupt the smooth flow of the narrative. Though the film does not unfold as quickly as Anderson’s previous films and can be a bit more challenging for viewers who go to the cinema to have a good time, it is still broadly accessible and easily comprehensible, and actually, yet somewhat paradoxically (with respect to theme and environment), one of Anderson’s more cautious films. 80%

I said to myself that it is extremely sad to look at a woman’s life through her relationships with the men who influenced her (to each is bound a certain topic and the narrative is structured based on those topics rather than on the chronological sequence of events), but the final chapter and emancipatory point more or less legitimise the chosen therapeutic concept. The greatest benefit of the film is Fonda herself, who assesses the men in her life (her father Henry is no exception) and her past and her current selves openly and (self)critically, without the need to conceal or sugar-coat anything (e.g. she admits that her beauty and thus sexuality aided her in her career, and she regrets that she did not have sufficient courage to resist undergoing plastic surgery). With her composure, she vindicates the narrative of self-acceptance, liberation from the belief that we can be a complete being only at the side of a loved one, which the documentary adheres to. The other interviewees and even director Susan Lacy are more benevolent toward her, which is in line with the choice of words and topics. The son raised among North Vietnamese soldiers and members of the Irish Republican Army presents his traumatising childhood as a series of humorous incidents; no one who fundamentally disagreed with Fonda’s activism was given more space (except for Richard Nixon, who is even more hated in the United States than she is). Despite Fonda’s sincerity, the tone of the film is thus somewhat sentimental. In any case, it is still far from the celebratory documentary portraits that merely uninventively summarise facts that you can find on Wikipedia. It is an intellectually thorough, inspiring film that, in a very viewer-friendly manner (the use of a large amount of archival materials contributes to its liveliness), addresses issues close to every person, not just a single extraordinarily intelligent and attractive actress, political activist and promoter of VHS aerobics. 80%

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%

Soon after Lazzaro Felice comes another film, at the end of which I had the desire to escape into the wilderness and spend the rest of my life among wolves. Although these films are fundamentally different, Leave No Trace is, for example, far more intuitive, as events simply follow one another in a time-lapse documentary without being exposed in advance (conversely, the entire first half of Lazzaro Felice is preparation for the second half), the plot flows freely and undramatically, we are not made aware of some essential information, the narrative does not come back to many of the characters and situations (for example, the only thing that we learn about the mother is that she liked the colour yellow). The protagonists have to overcome obstacles mainly in order to get to know each other and themselves better, rather than to achieve a particular objective. Upon closer viewing, it is possible to uncover in Leave No Trace, like in Lazzaro Felice, a web of motifs connected with the theme of man’s relationship to his own nature. Both pictures turn our attention (back) to nature (and to that which is generally good and unspoiled), or rather it compels us to think about man’s relationship to nature. I think these films are more successful in this regard than are “pure” nature documentaries, to which it is more difficult to connect emotionally due to the absence of a human element. In Leave No Trace, this is aided by the fact that the film does not contain a single negative character. It is purely a clash between the system (towards which Granik is not explicitly critical) and people who want (need) to live outside of it. We understand their situation, but we are not didactically guided to accept the opinion that Walden’s way of existence is the only correct way. In a similarly ambivalent manner, the film addresses the issue of freedom. Though civilisation establishes binding norms (connected here with Christmas trees, which must all look perfect) and tries to somehow categorise everyone (as Tom places shirts in drawers in a new house), but the main female protagonist is in the forests under the ceaseless patronage of her father and cannot rely on basic life security. For better or worse, they are reminiscent of a pair of seahorses, brought to mind by a girl's pendant or an orange peel reminiscent of that animal, which mates for life and whose offspring develop in the abdominal sack of the male, rather than that of the female. Giving someone freedom can be the greatest expression of love. Though the film raises the visibility of certain issues through its story, it leaves it to us to decide what is better. Will provides similar freedom in raising his daughter. He does not lead her to accept a single dogmatic worldview (he responds with a smile rather than disapprovingly to her remark that God created frogs, as she had read in a leaflet distributed by the local Christian community), but he stimulates her curiosity. Thanks to this freedom that the film gives us, the opinion at which we arrive has even greater weight. Leave No Trace thus continues to reverberate after the disarming, maximally simple penultimate scene. 85%

This damned hot summer can’t be over soon enough. But in the case of Kirill Serebrennikov’s Summer, I’d be happy for it to last longer. This is despite the fact that it basically consists of a story-less series of musical performances by obscure Russian bands and partially animated musical sequences (which, conversely, feature hits by famous Western musicians). The burgeoning love triangle has a certain dramatic weight, but due to how loose the relationships between the characters are, it cannot have very painful consequences. Nor does the apparatus of the state put any serious pressure on the artists. The bohemian rockers encounter officers only once and deal with censorship easily and with humour. Despite that, we are constantly aware of the danger faced by the free environment that the protagonists have created around themselves in a country that is not free and the tone of the narrative gradually changes from the initial summer contentment to a melancholic premonition of an impending downfall. The final scene, which sums up this fleetingness of life with the aid of two blunt titles, is unbelievably powerful and timeless. ___ Summer is a film in which, as in Russia (or, for that matter, Czechoslovakia) almost nothing happens in the early 1980s. Just repeat the official government actions and speeches, always captured here somewhere in the background on a television screen, with which the regime shapes its (self-)image and maintains the status quo. Rock music, whose lyrics are about free love, alcohol and rebellion against the system, naturally disturbs this order. While musically it mainly involves (progressive and indie) rock or New Wave, the film is a somewhat punkish affair in terms of narrative, which adheres to most of the principles according to which drama should be structured. The rhythm is set by the songs rather than by plot twists. When the film loses its breath, one of the characters, who communicates with other inhabitants of this fictional world as well as with the viewers (to whom he continually announces that what we have just seen never actually happened), helps it get a second wind. However, it is seductively easy to get carried away by the narrative thanks to the film’s tremendous spontaneous energy, catchy songs, numerous outstanding and probably labour-intensive audio-visual ideas (the film’s highlights include the covers of cult records “coming to life”) and, of no less importance, the black-and-white camera work, which shifts from character to character in long shots with a superb intra-shot montage and, together with the songs linking the individual scenes, contributes to the impression of a smooth flow of events. ___ I realise that the film borders on being too dramaturgically lax, that it does not have to so thoroughly take on the cyclical repetition of certain situations that were typical of socialism, that the characters do not undergo any fundamental development and that the end could occur at virtually any given moment (it would have made perfect sense to me if the credits ran after the film appears on the screen and immersion in the sea). I therefore understand that Summer can be an arduous experience for viewers who do not see it from the first few minutes. For me, who had goosebumps even during the opening song (and then several more times after that), it was a totally liberating experience and one of the most accurate cinematic depictions of everything that I associate with summer. I would like to experience a summer like this every year. 90%