JFL

Ryan Gosling is the action hero that modern masculinity needs, and this film is a magnificent culmination of the roles that he has played so far and his image. Instead of bombastic macho tough guys, here we have a guy who can handle wild physical challenges, but he also knows how to come to grips with his emotions (even if it’s only by listening to plaintive songs in his car) and can be sensitive, supportive and friendly towards others while taking himself with a sense of detached humour. And on top of that, he’s also both hot and adorable. In addition, The Fall Guy offers up a bombastic tribute to stunt work that comprises a grand culmination of the work done by the stunt and choreography group 87eleven, or rather its production division, 87North. Besides the trademark style of fight choreography, the filmmakers fortunately focused primarily on the logistically more challenging aspects of stunt work with automobiles, explosions and collisions, and every possible kind of fall, which they execute not only for the camera, but also for the narrative. All of this is done mainly with the aim of lobbying for the rectification of the nonsensical neglect of stuntpeople at the hands of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. (However, it could possibly be argued that the Academy doesn’t overlook stuntpeople because it would want to somehow draw attention away from the behind-the-scenes magic of film, but solely because most members of the Academy don’t understand the industry and the results of voting would correspond to that, as is the case with the animation category.) In light of all of that, The Fall Guy also works as a refreshingly exaggerated romantic comedy that takes the female point of view rather than the usual male perspective. Though it’s true that the film is somewhat handicapped by the uneven screenplay and exceedingly obvious utilitarianism of the individual peripeteias, which serve as an excuse for staging particular bits of choreography, this is offset by the fact that the filmmakers know how to shoot everything with maximum effectiveness and entertainment value, which is not true of the film’s spiritual ancestor, Hooper (1976), by the first stuntman-turned-director, Hal Needham.

In the field of action movies, Monkey Man is a revelation similar to what the first John Wick was in its time, but it gets essential extra points for having a lot of heart. An extremely likable aspect of Monkey Man is that this straightforward and formalistically well-worn revenge flick packed with fighting was made as its creator’s dream project, making it even more resistant to all kinds of adversity. Dev Patel, whom everyone sees as an actor who plays sensitive characters, returns here to his adolescence, when he practice taekwondo at the competitive level. Or, as the case may be, he goes even farther back in time, when he enthusiastically watched the physically captivating and  emancipatory films of Bruce Lee. In addition to that, he also makes good use of his thorough knowledge of martial-arts action films and their Western, Far Eastern and Indian milestones from the decades that followed. However, Monkey Man offers more than just enthusiastic references, which Patel acknowledges and highlights. He is able to self-sufficiently use those references as a foundation and push them further – not necessarily through any sophistication or purposeful bombastic radicalism, but through the long built-up desire to show what he has within himself. The notional boxing ring of the action genre has been dominated in recent years by the 87eleven stable, which still manages to bare its teeth with each new John Wick movie, but because its style has become the mainstream standard, it already seems noticeably hackneyed and worn-out. In this analogy, Patel and his team represent those young, aggressive and hungry outsiders whom no one believes in at the beginning, but who then capture the hearts of the whole crowd by the time the fight is over. Patel’s combination of Bollywood colourfulness, eclectic multiculturalism (in terms of aesthetics and genre, as well as the traditions of martial arts) and pervasive enthusiasm would suffice to make Monkey Man something special and give it the decision on points. But there is also the brutal choreography and, primarily, the extraordinary camerawork by Stephen Renney, newly promoted from stuntman to camera operator, which tear the established competition to pieces with their aggressiveness, rawness, uncompromising physical energy and wild dynamism.

The Hollywood blockbuster has finally developed into the form of pure camp. For many years I dreamed that a movie consisting of pure, unadulterated silliness would come along and displace the would-be sombre and fanboyishly over-clever spectacles. The New Empire is aware of its own silliness and roguishly cranks it up. So here we have phantasmagorical technobabble, exceedingly stupid human characters, superficially calculated twists and paper-rustling peripeteias, but everything fits beautifully into the overall colourfully crazy world where the boneheaded alternative hollow-earth theories become their own absurd caricature. This papier-mâché  puppet theatre then gets perfectly trampled by a full range of giant monsters. The human characters are relegated solely to the role of narrative crutches that bridge the monsters’ individual storylines, for which purpose they utter absurd nonsense. The monsters have finally have broken free from western individualism and human exclusivity. The New Empire turns the genre’s perspective back to its Japanese kaiju roots, thus making the titular titans the main characters and bearers of both the narrative and the overarching point of view. The character that guides the audience’s perspective is not one of the ant-like humans with their insignificant plans, but a mini-Kong. Of course, I remember almost nothing about the film just a day after the screening, but I know that during my ride on this roller coaster, my eyes were glued to the screen just like when I saw the goofiest kaiju movies from the delirious sixties. P.S.: My perverse dream is for Werner Herzog to deliver the special commentary on the Blu-ray release.

Just go see this film and avoid the trailers, which unfortunately are spoilers and could raise misleading expectations. Love Lies Bleeding has a neo-noir heart pumping blood to the organs of post-modern shifts that include a rural desert setting, refreshingly subtle 1980s retro stylisation (no kitsch as in Stranger Things) and a crowning gender+queer twist. Fortunately, there’s no cartilaginous connective tissue here, as everything is driving by the massive musculature of captivating physicality, vivid stylisation and a distinctive creative perspective. Rose Glass confirms that she belongs among the makers of intensely sensory films, thus expanding this hitherto male-dominated club (with Gaspar Noé, Jonas Åkerlund, Jonathan Glazer and Harmony Korine at the fore) with a fresh, unique voice that in certain respects is more down to earth while at the same time managing to incorporate a much broader range of motifs. Like the other aforementioned filmmakers, Glass works with exaggerated visual stylisation, highly distinctive characters and a modern visuality unbound by the limits of mainstream hyper-realism. She spins the symbiosis of these elements into a captivatingly physical experience for viewers. Accordingly, her work with noir is not limited to the usual formulas such as the concept of the femme fatale or the narrative structure of an investigation. She goes to the instinctual and dark essence of the genre, even diving into the dark, viscous waters of Southern Gothic. She highlights passion, obsession, the dreadful appeal of violence and the power of the manipulativeness of blood ties. She also manages to weave into the main story a number of complementary motifs, from the monstrousness of ego to the myth of the land of limitless opportunities. In doing so, however, she still tells of love and its power to crush us and everything around.

The older Miyazaki gets, the less literal and linear his work becomes, the less regard he has for classic narrative concepts and the more he makes films solely for himself without any regard for others. And thanks to that, each of his new works that we have the good fortune to see for the first time is that much more fascinating and unique. So, it is time that we stop recounting which elements and motifs that his latest film has in common with those that came before. The most beautiful thing about Miyazaki’s films has always been that rare opportunity to forget about everything that we are accustomed to in run-of-the-mill audio-visual media and to let ourselves be carried away by the creator’s unique vision. Not only does one limit the degree of amazement by relating this film to the master’s previous work, but doing so also diminishes the distinctiveness of the film itself, which requires an open mind. Let’s also acknowledge that the title, The Boy and the Heron, originated as a meaningless placeholder in the heads of international distributors, who didn’t know what to make of the original title, which didn’t fit into any established categories. Let’s thus call the film by its real name: “How Do You Live?”. The original title pays tribute to the book of the same name, which was essential for the adolescent Miyazaki and even appears in the film.  However, the filmmaker did not adapt it, rather only using its title as an allusion, as well as for a semantic framework for not only his new film, but for his overall work. Just as the concept of time fades away in the narrative and the elderly characters appear in their youthful form and the generations of a single family can come together at the same time, Miyazaki uses the question in the original title of his film to speak both to himself and to us about his own past and present. In his latest work, the filmmaker, who has devoted his entire productive life (which, in the case of the workaholic octogenarian, means to this day), uses another such narrative to give us an expressive look into the inner life of a young man buffeted by trauma, loss and apprehension about the life that lies ahead of him. In that inner self, new worlds that simultaneously exude uplifting boisterousness and the weight of inevitability are created using the basic building blocks of reality and fantasy, cemented together with emotions. Together with the titular question of how we will live in the face of an oppressive world, Miyazaki shows us through his protagonist how he himself coped with growing up in the shadow of war and the death of his beloved mother. Using the words of today’s audio-visual media, we could say that Miyazaki’s new film is the magnificent peak of his filmography (so far), as well as a meaningful prequel to it. In this film, Miyazaki presents to us the duality of beauty and terror, love and anger, and simply life and death, as he has done throughout his career so far. Each new Miyazaki film is like a half-read book left in the middle of a shelf by a missing uncle who went mad from reading countless books. Those films’ renown precedes them and evokes in us a feeling of awe at being in contact with something that will inevitably go beyond us, as well as foolish concern as to whether the films will live up to expectations. Therefore, we approach them only cautiously and sometimes, to our own detriment, we refuse to give in to them. But it is enough to break through the first wave on the horizon and let it wash away all doubts, and then just peacefully sail with an open mind aboard the narrative, which is held securely in the hands of the greatest master of cinema. And yes, again, it is a journey that overwhelms us with imagination many times, but it is also a journey from which we will always have memories of those peaceful moments when we realise that we are suddenly as calm and collected as the characters that we are watching. There is nothing more precious, more terrifying, more beautiful, more agonising, more turbulent or more comforting than each new Miyazaki film.

Zapata is a meta film about the desire and ambition to make movies in contemporary Iran. The filmmakers adore Quentin Tarantino and Guy Ritchie, as well as themselves, or rather their concept of a found-footage movie, so they bog themselves down in annoying, needlessly long selfie shots and literal references to their role models. On the other hand, it can't be denied that the film has moments of imaginative self-reflection and infectiously likable enthusiasm. A complementary work to Dark Matter, which was also screened at this year's Karlovy Vary International Film Festival.

Based on their internet videos, one might get the impression that the brothers Danny and Michael Philippou are just a couple of louts riding the wave of post-Jackass dumbfuckery and YouTuber bullshit. Their feature-length debut is thus all the more surprising, as it is a very intense genre flick with precision craftsmanship, as well as an absorbingly sensitive work that is able to thought-provokingly address a full range of the young generation’s frustration and general depressing issues without in any way coming across as being too clever for its own good or in-your-face. Talk to Me radiates fierce energy, formalistic boisterousness and devastating horror intensity that brings to mind the first Evil Dead, though Sam Raimi put his supreme talent to use solely in the interest of genre entertainment with very little reach beyond the confines of the screen. By comparison, the Philippou brothers expressively thematise motifs such as the depressing tension that comes with the pressure to fit into the group and the endless provocations and ever-present danger of making a fool of oneself under the watchful eye of social media. The backbone of the brilliantly constructed narrative consists in the coming to terms with the loss of a loved one and the associated risk of falling into the abyss of depression and blaming oneself. The film manages to present this subject with sobering empathy and a powerfully intense sense of dread.

It’s frequently obvious that this film was made as a semi-amateur enthusiast project by a group of queer people during the coronavirus pandemic, but that in no way detracts from its likability and heart turned up to eleven. It is easy to be distracted from the occasional creative cluelessness with respect to how to move on from the accumulated peripeteias in some sort of constructive way by the spectacularly unbridled enthusiasm of those involved, the iconoclastic approach to everything conformingly sacred and the clichés of superhero movies. The phenomenal confrontation between the Captain and his Nemesis in front of the hot-dog stand easily overshadows the previous highlights of the genre, with Nolan’s clash between Batman and the Joker at the fore.

This grandiose mega-project is unfortunately illustrative of all of the attributes of Chinese animation, which still stands in the shadow of Japanese anime, which it also brazenly rips off, though unfortunately only in terms of form and style, without being able to focus on the strength of competitive screenplays. Deep Sea thus delivers a blatant variation on Spirited Away, but instead of Miyazaki’s multi-layered and empathetic treatise on growing up, the Chinese filmmakers just drastically overwhelm viewers with exaggerated milking of emotions and a stunning visual aspect which, however, is purely superficial at its core. Technically, Deep Sea remains disarming and amazing, but it’s rather disappointing that it doesn’t have the same ambitiously well-developed characters.

This Swiss Thelma and Louise is a by-the-numbers Netflix production, a localised genre movie with solid craftsmanship and the promise of being atypical, but it comfortably remains in the realm of the commonplace while using variations on motifs and sequences from various cult films. So it is actually an example of “If the competition doesn’t give us a popular classic, we will produce our own knock-off in Europe, thus also fulfilling the requirements for contingent EU projects”.