Isherwood

A fascinating world of women, dominated by dense shadows of the past and directorial mastery. Gillian Flynn, of course, supplied the strong book as inspiration, but it is securely stitched in a tight shape thanks to Vallée's virtuosity. I haven't watched much this year and perhaps the times have moved on, but with this series, I spent eight hours admiring the meticulously precise work with the actors and the editing, which, with precisely placed half-second shots, disrupts the normal structure and lets the tension thicken to unsuspected dimensions. The main female trio will wrap the viewer in their arms from the first moments and keep their eyes glued to the screen. The traditionally excellent Amy Adams and the terrifying Patricia Clarkson are complemented by Eliza Scanlen, who handles the position of "spoiled bitch" with absolute ease. Yes, the plot could be cut down to two hours and it could still be a strong genre film, but stretching it over eight episodes allows for unsuspected things and that "nothing," the oppressive stillness when you're praying for it to get going, is unbearable in a pleasantly chilling way. It's too bad that the final episode doesn't pull it off on the same level, breaking the existing order and bringing everything to a hasty conclusion. It didn't overwhelm the feeling of having watched a highly intense spectacle, but in a long debate afterward, my wife drowned me out with arguments that it was a shame and actually disrespectful to the rest of us. And on this show, women rule. It gets a very sharp 9/10.

I'm not fifteen anymore, so I can’t bitch about the fact that someone can stretch a game intro to over two hours. Yes, Spielberg has his egg firmly in his hand and coddles it with the grace of a pimply nerd with a gamepad in his hand, but the exuberant visual treat sticks to your palate after just a few minutes because it can universally high-five Cline's book on the price/performance ratio. On the one hand, it wants to please everyone, but in key passages, it misses the proprieties of the mainstream, i.e., interesting characters and functional interactions. Here, the film loses out quite substantially to the (already rather futile) book, and my yawns were at times more theatrical than the actor's declamations present herein. Refined visuals and fancy special effects are a standard nowadays, but unfortunately, Ready Player One doesn't offer much more than that.

When you write something so perfectly stupid, you do it either out of incompetence or with creative intent. I give precedence to the second option because Bayona knows where his horror roots lie and thus deftly guides the camera and the special effects, and the actors declaiming like hell and notching clichés into the seat in front of you will stop entertaining you after an hour. However, the slight genre detour with the slamming of the ferry doors works in its favor, and while there are no surprises, it is at times as suspenseful and bloody as its rating will allow. The rain ropes have been passé for a while now, and I would have left 20 minutes on the cutting room floor, but the feeling of a high-octane ride where both lava bombing and sneaking around in the dark work, and which still finishes decently enough a couple of hours after leaving the movie theater, eventually washes it away.

Honest work, on many fronts. The Ondříček family line comes naturally to him because he's supported by decent actors, and the social drama fits perfectly into the cramped miner's apartment (Oskar Hes!). The mines themselves pulsate with a dark life, where darkness and minimal light prevail. Dvořák's camera perfectly corresponds with the colors and mood, which gives a hint of where everything inevitably must go. The tragedy, which leaves behind 108 lives, comes slowly and has an inappropriate effect, as if from another world. Ondříček maintains the tension by tightly controlling the pace. It's a pity that he only loosens the reins when he desires a melodramatic interlude when it's necessary to utter the last words or fall in slow motion. At the expense of the neglected wives waiting at the mine gate, I would expect more moderation in the kitsch and a more consistent approach to the smarter viewer. But even so, it's a rough masterpiece, paying homage and maintaining a silent tribute. The production process was no picnic. I know that from my (then pregnant) wife. 4 and ½.

It happens once every few years, but at Kavčí Hory they hit the jackpot and at the right moment distilled one of the most bizarre cases of the Czech liquor business. The first half goes smoothly without stumbling, and the viewer can only wonder how this duo of complete idiots mix a batch for which bartender certifications are not even awarded in the most remote corner of eastern Moravia. The director pumps it into the viewer with shots, relentlessly, all while holding a disturbing cymbal and with great actors (the hunchbacked Vaculík evokes sympathy, David Máj anger and Bambušek gives a lesson in being an asshole for years to come). When the police team enters the game, it takes a completely different direction and starts flowing in liters (emotion and tension), occasionally reaching far beyond the usual genre framework of Czech crime stories. The unfamiliar actors (the excellent Finger and charismatic Fridrich) perform brilliantly written dialogues, with no friction anywhere, and even though you know who will spend life in prison and who will play it through lawyers in the end, it won't let you breathe. Who cares about the simplification? This is high-quality stuff that I enjoyed tasting for three hours.

Nostalgia is powerful. It felt like twenty years ago and at times I found myself wanting to burst into tears. But this is no kitschy glorification of something that has grown into a national monument over two decades. It's a beautifully edited montage of the familiar and the unfamiliar, balanced on all fronts of the barricade, and with an incredibly light-footed rhythm, it puts even historical injustices in the same context as hockey rematches. Few films will offer such a full-blooded cinematic experience this year.

A non-Hollywood gem through and through, dominated by stewed emotions and a contact camera. Natalie Portman is in a different league, but I feel like this story of a fresh widow deserves a stronger framing, perhaps in a film where she's not the lead, but rather a prominent supporting character. Larraín pulls it off extremely artistically, but the stranglehold on the audience's empathy gets annoying in the second half.

Johnson delivers on the premise for which he was hired at Disney, bombarding the saga from all sides, letting the rich history and modern hi-tech gadgetry take charge. It establishes its order right from the start in a monstrous action sequence, turning away from Abrams' dissolute geekiness to let the protagonists rather rant for nearly two hours, and tugs the threads of fatality to the edge of tolerability. Then, when the characters are sufficiently in control (Rey is more mysterious and Ben even more emotionally volatile), an action orgy breaks out that still makes it worth going to the movie theater to see big Hollywood blockbusters. This production treatment is far beyond what many other franchises can only dream of. It's no longer the primal feast for the eye that it was last time, but Johnson and Yedlin are more visually modest in order to then plant visual highlights exactly when their story, and especially their characters, demand it. Silent destruction and red salt are the cosmic symphonies of the image last brought to us by Interstellar. The only thing missing to complete perfection is the original 3-hour runtime. I really felt at times that there were a few moments that slipped through my fingers unnecessarily. Regardless, by the time the closing credits rolled I felt real physical exhaustion. An emotional experience like a festival indie soc-drama. PS: In the days ahead, nothing will be more entertaining than reading the words of conservatives over the age of 30 barking about the new generation of heroes and pining for the good old days.

An unnecessary illustration for the best reporting series of this year. Not reading honest stories from work every week that you don't want to do, I would probably damn this documentary completely. It is a picture book that adds nothing because Apolena Rychlíková is not capable behind the camera. It is careless editing that does not take into account that Saša Uhlová is a writing goddess, but her monotone voice kills you halfway through. The few excerpts from family life won't save it because they don't show anything (and sometimes too much the other way around). Unlike in written texts, we learn the absolute minimum about people who do laundry every day, work with meat or sort waste.

Vaughn pulls one action finesse after another out of his sleeve (it's nice to see neat contact fights in a big blockbuster, and I don't care that it's actually being constricted by a nifty VFX camera and a clever editor), but if he and Goldman went over the line too much last time, here they are incomprehensibly tame. The rushing of relationships at the expense of building a more meaningful story is terribly futile on all fronts. There’s a bunch of kitsch and sentimentality but without a drop of audacity, subversion, or any will to go more toward boldness. This makes the surprising self-sacrifice seem almost out of place and leaves the empathy barometer at rest. It's a hundred and forty minutes long, with enough plots for three films, but not a single one hits the mark. It’s really all quite boring. I want to conclude a trilogy that will rage for two hours on all fronts, then world peace and contentment will reign.