Matty

Lauzirika and Scott did not disappoint. The Path to Redemption is one of those films about film that, after you have watched it, leaves you thinking about what more you still want to know. In addition to the basic mapping of production from the initial versions of the screenplay through the casting of the characters, making of the props (roughly seven minutes are dedicated to the flags alone!), the actual filming (giving us cause to recall, among other things, the time when pubescent girls lost their minds and inhibitions at the sight of Orlando Bloom) and the arduous editing, the filmmakers have given us a lot of outstanding material. Scott originally wanted to make a project called Tripolis, but then chose a screenplay by the same writer at the last moment. Though the story of Kingdom of Heaven is set in a period several centuries earlier, the theme that Scott felt the need to address after 9/11 – the relationship between Christianity and Islam – is similar. The fidelity to historical facts, which is essentially the leitmotif of the whole documentary (especially in terms of the portrayal of Muslims), is judged by several academics, who are not afraid to point out a number of simplifications made for the sake of greater dramatic impact. Unlike documentaries that focus primarily on what went right, one significant storyline here involves two versions of the film (with and without the boy), the shorter and, at least according to the obviously crestfallen editor, inferior version of which was released in cinemas and was mostly panned by critics and ignored by viewers, which is something that the film does not try to conceal. The result, especially unfortunate in light of the tremendous commitment of everyone involved, as we have seen over the previous two and a quarter hours, fits into the narrative of a visionary director who decided to make something more than an action historical spectacle (i.e. a political film that defines itself against the stereotypical portrayal of Muslims as barbarians) and that was not understood by the broader (especially American) public. If Kingdom of Heaven left you feeling underwhelmed at the time of its release, you will want to give it a second chance after watching The Path to Redemption.

As I wasn’t very engaged by what The Huntsman: Winter’s War had to offer, I found myself in the cinema wondering who this borderline campy hybrid of Frozen and Game of Thrones was actually made for. For younger viewers, The Huntsman does not offer any age-appropriate characters that they can identify with; for older ones, there’s a lot of adolescent dwarf humour and few multi-dimensional characters whose decisions are motivated by anything other than the demands of the genre (approximately none). Like the previous instalment, to which The Huntsman is both a prequel and a sequel (as well as a spin-off), the film tries to appeal mainly to female viewers. It tries to convince us of its feminist essence not only through the numerical superiority of female characters, but also through at least one forced declaration of female independence. However, actions do not always correspond to words and the women’s independence is mostly illusory. It is natural to form a couple. Women without a partner are at the very least emotionally unstable and one of them compensates for the impossibility of self-realisation through raising a child by raising her own personal army of Hitler Youth, with whose assistance she then proceeds to conquer the surrounding kingdoms (because she can). Just as the plot is a patchwork of clichés from adventure and fantasy movies, the stereotypes of vain, unreadable and bitter people with no sense of humour are recycled in the portrayal of the female characters (especially in contrast to Erik and the two dwarves, who ceaselessly joke around). Not even the concept of the Nietzschean superwoman who ruthlessly eliminates every man who crosses her path is applied here with the same consistency as last time (or as in practically any given pre-Code film with Barbara Stanwyck). It is not surprising that the film’s director, as a visual-effects specialist, is as fascinated with the superficial as the self-centred Ravenna is. I am surprised, however, that the effects are often not very good (in particular, the large kingdom units look like something from an above-average video game). In general, Winter’s War comes across as a derivative of a successful film made out of obligation and without much dedication; Colleen Atwood’s spectacular costumes (of which we are made thoroughly aware through various overhead shots and close-ups) are truly convincing. If Snow White had shown up, Winter’s War, which at best works as a bad comedy, might have been able to better justify its existence. 50%

In terms of style, Carol is perhaps Todd Haynes’s "straightest" film. Far From Heaven was rather more a meta-commentary on Douglas Sirk’s melodramas than a pure, absorbing and universal love story. In my opinion, Carol is a mature work by a director with a sense of humility toward both the story the and actresses depicting who doesn’t need to prove anything to himself or the audience (yes, I’m looking at you, Alejandro). With its purifying simplicity, behind which you feel the long consideration put into every shot, it reminded me of Lean’s Brief Encounter. In Carol, we also begin with one of the last scenes (which we see from a completely different perspective at the end), the points of view of the two lovers are also taken into equal consideration and their love is of the forbidden, socially unacceptable kind. However, the protagonists have to hide their emotions even more cautiously than the lovers in Lean’s film. Their relationship is perceived as obscene not only morally, but also legally, which enriches the narrative with the elements of a crime story. Therese and Carol must limit their interactions to fleeting touches, timid glances into each other’s eyes and outwardly innocent conversation. Their position in the shot, the settings in which they find themselves, the objects that complement them (or prevent us from seeing them better) often reveal more to us. This is probably why many find the film academically cold and detached. I would rather choose the words “subtle” and “restrained” – the film is not built on grand emotions and contrived plot twists, but on the small gestures and glances through which Carol and Therese communicate with each other, for lack of any other vocabulary, to the point where they can no longer return to their previous identities and no longer pretend to be someone else. Thanks to what is felt but not expressed, the film does not lack a dramatic or erotic tension, which would be unattainable with greater explicitness. In the search for relationship balance, Haynes meaningfully combines several minor motifs (the car ride, a symbol of the protagonists’ enclosed microcosm and their unfulfilled desire for freedom, security and gaining power over perspective and representation through photography) and supporting characters, not one of which ultimately gives Carol and Therese an excuse to verbalise their feelings. Like The Duke of Burgundy, Carol is not only about a lesbian relationship. Probably everyone who has ever been in love has experienced the same uncertainty about how to express feelings for which they don’t have words. 85%

The success story of a bunch of slackers from Jersey who didn’t know what to do with their lives...so they made a movie about it, with a minimal budget and equally little previous experience. Their raw black-and-white comedy was then seen by one important person at its first public screening, which easily could have been its last, thanks to which important people found out about Clerks, and Kevin Smith and his buddies were soon on their way to Sundance. Despite the occasional repetition of information by different people (sometimes for comedic effect), this is an informationally dense film about a film, familiarising the viewer not with the movie’s production and the reception it received, but also the environment in which Smith grew up and his first attempts at comedy. You will learn why certain scenes that had been filmed couldn’t be used, what the original ending looked like (it was much more tragic in the mould of Do the Right Thing), how Smith supported the actors’ improvisation, and how he associated Harvey Weinstein’s laugh with Robert De Niro in Cape Fear. Unlike other stories of miraculous success, Snowball Effect does not conceal the fact that sometimes coincidence is decisive. Even in the early 1990s, the golden age of American independent film, you needed more than just a camera, a little money and some talent. But at least for Smith’s fans, at whom Snowball Effect is primarily targeted (starting with the opening montage of enthusiastic responses from people for whom Clerks is an affair of the heart), it could be just as inspiring as Smith’s first viewing of Slacker was for him in the 1990s.

Forever Ealing is a promisingly “cast” documentary (Daniel Day-Lewis reads the commentary, while Martin Scorsese, John Landis and Philip Kemp share their opinions or reminiscences), but it tries to cram nearly a century of the famous studio’s history into a mere 50 minutes. It jumps from film to film as veteran actors pull stories from filming out of their sleeves and well-known directors describe their favourite scenes. Many films are left out entirely and others are covered with a single sentence, so the documentary cannot be recommended even for getting a basic idea of Ealing’s portfolio (but at least it is made clear that not only comedies were made there). Don’t expect deeper insight, a broader context or an attempt to enliven the dry narration with more imaginative editing or a less proper concept. The studio behind such charmingly cynical films that reveal the essence of English distinctiveness, such as Kind Hearts and Coronets and The Ladykillers deserves a less staid tribute.

It would certainly be stimulating to discuss the (viral) marketing of 10 Cloverfield Lane, the 1980s pop-culture references and design (John Hughes), Michelle’s position among other self-sufficient female characters of recent times, the reflection on society’s rising demand for an authoritative leader, or the subversion of the star system by casting John Goodman in a slightly different “dad” role, but for me, this is primarily a textbook thriller that makes maximum use of the information provided within its confined world. Practically every element to which our attention is directed by a longer, close-up or point-of-view shot can be described as compositionally motivated, even though it may at first seem that its purpose is only to amuse us (the infantile shower curtain with a duck motif). Furthermore, in the case of objects that return to the action at greater temporal distance, we are first verbally notified before their involvement in the plot that they have not been forgotten, so that their subsequent use does not feel like a deus ex machina (the bottle of alcohol that Michelle takes from the table when leaving the apartment at the beginning, later mentioned by Howard, and whose star moment comes just before the end). At the same time, the significance of the props is not constant and, for example, the girls’ magazines first notify us that Howard has apparently lost his daughter and are later transformed into part of a staged performance (to reinforce the illusion that Michelle is like Howard’s daughter) and finally into a source of important information that is needed for survival. Every piece of the puzzle is justified sooner or later and it is thus appropriate that even putting the puzzle together turns from being a pastime for the characters into a disturbing clue for the viewer when Emmett ambiguously points out that a few pieces are still missing. And indeed – at the given moment we don’t yet know the whole truth, as will soon become apparent, which makes for a brief, undramatic interlude during which the source of the threat is seemingly lurking just outside. The word-guessing game has a similarly unsettling subtext, using the limiting of the narrative point of view to Michelle – we thus do not know what Howard really knows and, like his two “adopted offspring”, we can’t determine if he’s still playing or maliciously telling them the truth. The seemingly time-killing scene in which Emmett and Michelle talk about their missed chances in life is then absolutely crucial to the film’s meaning, and 10 Cloverfield Lane owes it a lot for the emotionally very powerful and yet – like the whole concept on which the plot is based (three people in a bunker, at least one of whom has a dark secret) – refreshingly simple ending that makes one quickly forget about the unnecessarily spectacular (and, given the tidy confinement of the world in which we had previously found ourselves, disturbing) climax. 85%

With its cast of well-known actors and relatively comprehensible core story of forbidden love, The Lobster is Lanthimos’s most accessible film. At the same time, however, it is as comparably sharp in its satire, visually distinctive and unclassifiable in terms of genre as his earlier work, which was intended exclusively for the festival circuit. ___ The use of static shots, faded cold colours and passages from classical compositions played by string quartets adds disturbing undertones to the absurdist plot and prepares us for displays of instinctive aggression, which are shocking despite the fact that we don’t directly see most of them. The scenes of death and dying are filmed with the same cold detachment as the dialogue spoken by the actors without a hint of any emotion (which makes it even funnier). As a result, The Lobster is also strange in that it doesn’t draw attention to its strangeness. The transformation of people into animals seems as natural as the regular hunts for loners. ___ However, every protest has its own rules, which in the end can be just as restrictive as those against which we originally defined ourselves, as seen in the second half of the film. The ideology of the couple is replaced by an ideology of extreme individualism. Those who fail in their search for a partner are paradoxically punished by not being allowed to find one. As in A Clockwork Orange, the greatest evil here consists in the impossibility of free choice. Those who lose the possibility to make their own decisions also lose their individuality. This is precisely the aim of all repressive systems, including the one that Lanthimos invented for his film. ___ By taking the opportunistic logic of interpersonal interaction to extremes, Lanthimos exposes the mechanisms through which not only relationships, but essentially society as a whole function, at least outwardly. According to his bleak vision, people are condemned to an absence of freedom resulting from the unrelenting fear of what others think of them. At least the short-term solution to unsatisfying romantic cohabitation is to invent one’s own way of communicating that is not guided by the dominant ideology and is not based on rules that are social constructs (even though we perceive them as something natural). ___ Like in Dogtooth and Alps, the hermetically sealed microcosm of humanity serves Lanthimos as an experimental laboratory in which thought-provoking things happen, but which do not hold together well enough from the storytelling perspective. This was surely partly intentional. The use of various alienating devices (the omniscient narrator, the counterpoint of music and image) constantly pulls us out of the narrative and prevents us from simply enjoying the film. However, this can eventually lead to disinterest in the characters and what they are going through. ___ The considerations that The Lobster inspires keep us more engaged than the story that it tells. In my opinion, the recent Anomalisa is proof that it is possible to make an entertaining, relatively accessible and emotionally engaging film that also keeps an appropriate distance from its characters and thus works more with ideas than with emotions. Its protagonist is also punished for his solitariness, just in a less visible way than The Lobster’s David. 80%

Sarah Polley’s family history in a performative documentary (we learn about the director’s past through her eyes and together with her) that does not play by the established rules. For approximately eighty minutes, home-video footage of the past is rectified by newly filmed talking heads. These two versions of the same story of love, family, birth and death are complemented by a third version composed of a text read by a man named Michael Polley. It seems as if the filmmaker created this third version in order to have some sort of control over the history of her own conception. However, it becomes apparent in the last third of the film that her degree of control has been greater the whole time than it outwardly appeared. The revelation of the extent of the accuracy of what we have seen so far puts us partly in the position of Polley herself, who has also long believed that things are a little different. This not only reinforces the performative dimension of the work, but also the self-justification of a film that has so far offered been more or less only a fragmented family melodrama, which is beneficial to the members of the large Polley family (the only enhancement being the scenes from the present, shot on 8 mm film to show how, as soon as it is lived, the present becomes part of the immutable past). A full range of thought-provoking questions arise before us, relating either to the desire to grasp one’s personal past by rewriting it with the understanding that we live in stories (as we realise only after the fact) or whether and how we should talk about intimate matters. Despite its ambitious attempt to include as many versions of the story as possible, the documentary answers relatively few of these questions, yet the result is an inspiring essay on the necessity of giving a clearer form to often vague memories, to make them more comprehensible and to better understand ourselves through them. 75%

Film as a history lesson, film as a good deed, film as an apology (in the narrower sense of Spielberg’s apology to African-Americans offended by certain scenes in The Color Purple and in the broader sense of the white man’s apology to oppressed blacks). In any case, Amistad is a film that seeks mainly to convey historical events smoothly rather than to present the facts with the maximum fidelity to actual historical events or with an attempt to unsettle viewers (and thus compel them to think more seriously). The very animalistic and, unusually for Spielberg, bloody prologue is the only slightly unpleasant sequence in the film, which is otherwise too easy to watch given its subject matter. The following minutes are filled with explaining and “humanising” the suggestive, intentionally incomprehensible opening minutes. The foreign is slowly pushed to the level of the familiar, while language and cultural barriers are removed. The right of slaves to commit a similar act is not the only issue addressed (due to the one-sidedly outraged perspective, all arguments are made in their favour). At the same time, parallels are sought between the slaves’ culture and Christianity, which Africans must understand in order to be at least partially accepted by a different society, as if this was the first (and thus necessary) step toward the later integration and emancipation of the black population. As much as Spielberg tries to respect the point of view of the Africans and to “de-objectify” them by at least (superficially) taking their cultural history into account, much more space is given to people who speak English fluently, whose goal seems to be to civilise the savages and rid them of their fear of the unknown. Perhaps even by misusing (an alternative interpretation of) the story of all stories, i.e. the story of the Bible. The question of who is entitled to write the story of humanity is one of the many that this ambitiously expansive film poses. The problem with Amistad is that it would like to suggestively depict the story of a group of slaves, to reveal slavery for viewers untouched by history (just as Schindler’s List revealed the Holocaust for them), to defend the importance of Christianity and democracy (i.e. the two ideologies that made slavery possible) and to humanistically point out the equality of all human beings. The film’s ideological goals are rather more mutually exclusive than intertwined and complementary, which doesn’t change the fact that the film works superbly on a basic, emotional level thanks to Spielberg’s storytelling skill and feel for visual shorthand. Though we could have additional criticisms about the film’s extreme literalness, the many famous actors who draw attention away from the plot or the inappropriate comedic interludes on the theme of the clash of two different cultures, which would have been more suitable for a buddy movie, none of this diminishes the emotional power of some of the film’s excellent scenes, such as Hopkins’s Oscar-winning speech before the Supreme Court. 75%

“I is here representing all of them that's been overlooked - Will Smith. Idris Elbow. And, of course, that amazing black bloke from Star Wars...Darth Vader.” We don’t have to like it and we may consider it to be the height of Hollywood hypocrisy, but the times demand a politicised Oscars ceremony. On the other hand, the willingness to talk openly about the problems of contemporary American society (rather than the world as a whole, as was the case last year) has mainly drawn attention away from the inability to address those problems beyond writing a touching song about them (Lady Gaga) or making a high-quality film about them. Though it fit into the overall concept of “Hollywood and liberals for each other” (the words of Adam McKay, a supporter of the far-left Bernie Sanders, aimed at the Democratic candidate, Hillary Clinton, added variety), Joe Biden’s unacceptable performance can be considered the most promising step toward the effective combining of the world of art with the world of politics. Rich white people hurled admonishments from the stage, but pretty much only in the context of friendly banter and pre-arranged bits, and they mainly took home almost all of the hardware. For me, the compromising nature of the evening is best characterised by the speech given by the Academy’s president, who expressed remorse for the lack of diversity in the decisions made by the current member of the Academy, but of course failed to promise any specific changes for the future. In any case, Chris Rock handled his hosting duties with honour, and his jabs were at least aimed in a specific direction thanks to the #OscarsSoWhite movement and were mostly thematically coherent (as opposed to Ricky Gervais’s equal-opportunity insults at the Golden Globes). Louis C.K. highlighted the issue of class differences in line with the content of his stand-up routines, and Ali G hinted at the tone that the whole event should have had (cheeky and to the point, but with a lot of humour). With the exception of the traditional in-memoriam segment, there were no pace-killing collages, the songs served only for variety rather than being performed out of an obligation to introduce everyone (since not everyone was introduced) and the only thing that slowed the evening’s relatively brisk pace was the clips of the nominated films, which were needless for the people who had seen the films and too brief to tell anything to the people who hadn't. With respect to the aspects that were (obviously) prepared in advance, I found the show satisfying. I’m not rating the quality of the Academy’s voting or the accompanying commentary and simultaneous translation of the live broadcast on ČT 2.