Isherwood

Zelenka screws the individual dialogues onto a simple plot but forgets that film is not theatre that can be convinced. In the world of moving pictures, the situations into which he sends his characters seem implausible and overly contrived. The (sub)genre notion of tragicomedy is fulfilled in none of them because the boiled hair, sexual voyeurism, and the romantic storyline itself lack a final point. The whole becomes just a boring, overly poser-like and wannabe farce, which when it finally ended after two hours, left on my tongue another of the many curses addressed to Czech cinema.

I understand Helgeland. I understand why he struggled for seven long years to make sure that his directorial debut saw the light of day in the form that he imprinted on it and that it was not a matter of the producers trembling before the ratings. Payback: Straight Up is (like L.A. Confidential) a pure reference to the spirit of the traditional noir school, whose clear rules Helgeland follows with humble reverence all whilst paying homage to it in the way he handles the entire film. A principled man craving his share of the money, a beautiful femme fatale with a (dis)pleasing profession as a luxury prostitute, men of the law strictly breaking it for their own benefit, a sold-out wife, and a crooked colleague. Helgeland handles all the attributes simply, matter-of-factly, with an occasional measure of rough humor to temper the explosion of harsh violence that is often perpetrated against women. Mel Gibson embodies arguably his darkest, but given his look, perhaps most typical protagonist, one that is a far cry from any of his previous or later film characters and one that probably won't be fully appreciated by all audiences. Payback: Straight Up is a film that gives its title its full dimension, and should give hope to similarly "afflicted" directors in that creative freedom can be satisfying years later. Although it didn’t work out financially, the film will definitely win over the fan base. Thanks, Brian!

I don't want to diminish the reality on which the film was based, but the man deserves a much more significant commemoration. I also don't consider Bauer's book to be perfect. It is only a very simple literary (therefore very readable for the ordinary consumer) story about one superhuman feat. In the parts where the writer scores points with his gripping description of the extreme situations Clemens Forell finds himself in, the screenwriter either misses the mark, or the director fails. From the plot, which is totally castrated by the most thrilling moments and those that are relatively attractive for the audience, the director wasn't able to draw more than single images, without any emotional connections. Forell wanders, experiencing moments of suspense, fear, and action, but overall, he’s stuck in a roundabout effect that points to the only possible ending. Moreover, that moment becomes (starting with the bridge crossing) the only real moment, despite its creeping kitschiness, that doesn't chill and can be believed. The Germans had to wait until Downfall to have their major film.

Edgar Wright mightily kicks Michael Bay’s ass, burying all conventions and correctness under tons of unique ideas, and leaving the diabolical Simon Pegg to mow down his enemies in an even more uncompromising manner than Bruce Willis in his prime. The film is a unique demonstration that properly referenced, honored, or parodied genre fiction can royally entertain. Unfortunately, this creates an unpleasant issue on the way to the viewer's heart, which may be ordinary ignorance of film action. It’s a simple equation: the more classic films you've seen, the more fun you'll have.

A painful moment of dying accompanied by captivating music that energizes, arranged in masterful choreography that takes your breath away. And Roy Scheider in the role of a lifetime, who seems not to be acting, but actually dying. The cinematography is magical, the editing flirts with genius, and the film shines as beautifully as only 1970s cinema can. A musical, a reflection of the times, a biography... two hours of a wasteful genre span, but which tells the entire story in an unspoiled way, to finally enter mercifully into the arms of the friendly Mrs. Death.

The film has a good idea in the exposed body of a junkie who left behind a lot of money. However, Boyle had to break the whole plot mightily over his knee twice to get to the end. Thankfully, he showed how much talent he has and very skillfully skated through both a regular psycho-thriller and a distinctive variation of Dostoevsky’s "Crime and Punishment." Admittedly, the film eventually ended up being shallowly cheap, but that made the point all the more entertaining. Genius or incompetence? I got caught up in it and had fun at the same time, so thanks, Danny!

The parody suits the zombies well. All the clichés of the genre are explored here with unprecedented intensity and the ideas (punks, background music, rain) are truly not spared. Yet no matter how good the masks are, no matter how frantic the pacing, it lacks a more perverse dimension, spiced up with a memorable scene or two. In terms of what I like in this regard, I will always prefer Jackson's Braindead.

It’s too flat as a biography of a brilliant writer and too insubstantial as a film about a novel. In the film, Capote’s creative genius is limited to a few lame mentions of his previous work, and the actual creation of what is most substantial goes no further than what the viewer is able to form after reading "In Cold Blood" or watching Brooks' film of the same name. Phillip Seymour Hoffman's 100-minute homosexual creation thus becomes merely an aspirational pose that might have been provocative in the 1960s, but not today. The result is just an empty bubble, which at the time of its release got more flak than it perhaps deserved, and conversely, as a tribute to a brilliant storyteller, or rather a novel, it is about as impressive and original as a piece of marble.

It's got the divine Michael Rooker as a tragic badass, it's got a phenomenal mayor in Gregg Henry, it's got impressive references to other films (The Toxic Avenger on TV), and it just certainly doesn't have the drive that Troma veteran James Gunn could easily aspire to. For the entire ninety-one minutes, I just watched the hints of where this whole charade could have gone if the director had really pushed hard. I want a sequel where it doesn't just stop at assaulting little girls, calling shitty Republicans names, and slimy slugs at every turn.

Snyder is here to entertain! An elegant recycler of the classic sandal adventure and heroic epic wrapped in a beautifully re-styled audiovisual package that has very little to do with history itself, and the search for historical context can hardly be called viewer ignorance. The vast majority of current productions are in the same boat, so why nitpick here when it's clear from the start that the pathetic phrase will be part of every Leonidas (Gerard Butler, the most charismatic leader of the screen a few years back, scores points!) monologue, the purely macho speech of every dialogue, and that the battle will be nothing but visual gluttony of the finest quality? I enjoyed 300 for its relative originality, down to the last drop of digitally redacted blood the characters shed, and I’m certainly not worried about the future of other Hollywood productions. There have already been several similar booms, and in a few years, young angry teens will find their new cult. It is rather surprising how many people, after seeing 300, suddenly crave pure awesomeness, which has survived (and will survive) everything.