Matty

In this heist film, a trio of American professional thieves run up against certain specific features of Italian culture. The superstition of the locals, an authoritarian matron and a proper Neapolitan wedding interfere with the preparation and execution of their plan to steal jewels. The fulfilment of the conventions of heist movies is constantly and humorously delayed due to the setting, where chaos reigns. After the exposition, attention shifts away from the Americans and more space is given to the stars of Italian cinema, Nino Manfredi and Totò. In the role of a criminal who owes his reputation to ordinary people, whom he now contemptuously looks down on because he wants to become part of a more privileged class, Manfredi is the film’s most textured character due to his dilemma. The robbery scene, with its many effective gags reminiscent of animated slapstick (the exploding rat would probably get nixed these days), may be the most audience-pleasing segment, but the substance of the film lies elsewhere. As in his other films, Dino Risi tells the story of class differences and Italian national identity with irony and cynicism. That national identity may be based on prejudice, misogyny, pop songs and distrust of politicians (who are less respected than the mafia), but that does not in any way weaken the locals’ determination to defend their country’s traditions against American neo-colonialists (who symptomatically want to steal a treasure belonging to a revered saint). In Risi’s view, Naples is perhaps a somewhat backward place, but it is also a place where traditional Italy, which has not yet succumbed to industrialisation and consumerism, is still alive, though that is a double-edged sword. When people have wealth within their reach and it looks like the gold will end up in the hands of those who really need it (not the Church), they lose their resolve to take the next step because of their blind faith. They stay put and live in poverty. Behind the light crime comedy, there is thus concealed an unflattering or, at the very least, ambivalent portrait of Italian culture and society. 80%

Navalny begins unobtrusively and seems to focus attention primarily on the investigation of the Russians’ attempt to poison the film’s subject. However, it gradually becomes clear that director Daniel Roher is pursuing many more motifs and the investigative storyline serves mainly to connect them. Also, the portrait of Navalny that the film pieces together from various interviews and situations (mostly original rather than archival footage) becomes less celebratory of its subject. In addition to a loving partner, father and hero of the Russian people, who one woman waiting for his arrival describes as a symbol of freedom, we get to know a man obsessed with controlling his own media image, who sometimes chooses somewhat problematic means of fighting against evil. In the end, the film is not merely a suspenseful thriller, but also a love story, a lesson in digital image-making and – when Navalny, in the style of Sacha Baron Cohen, decides in one unforgettable scene to ingeniously troll his poisoner – a chilling black comedy. Though hopelessness prevailed in the end, I found the film to be an emotionally extraordinarily varied experience. Among other things, it prompts one to consider how authoritarian regimes branded and eliminated their opponents (or generally undesirable opinions) in the past and how they do so today, in the age of the internet, fake news and open borders. 85%

The outrage (mainly on social media) over the new Gervais special is just as predictable as his bargain-basement jokes, which he rather sloppily dashes off without making much effort to subordinate his performance to one particular theme. Furthermore, the criticism levelled at him on moral grounds has a point, as Gervais mostly does not pick on minorities, but rather on people for whom awareness and self-definition is mainly hypocritical virtue signalling (which is not to say that he does it in a funny or clever way, or that his critics don’t include people who are genuinely offended by his jokes). It is also understandably in the interest of technology companies like Netflix to get people on the internet to argue about jokes, often taken out of context, but without actually addressing any of the problems of today’s world (including transphobia). (In other words, it is naïve to think that Netflix made a concession for once and gave space to the other side instead of to the liberals; in the end, it will profit from that just as much as the third party standing aside and laughing.) It is only a pseudo-activity, an illusory struggle that we carry on primarily with ourselves, or rather for the high-mindedness of our virtual image. The really important thing that Gervais reveals with his stand-up and the wave of disapproval that he has provoked, though perhaps unintentionally, are the rules of woke capitalism, about which, for example, Žižek wrote and which in fact keeps us in a perpetual state of half-sleep instead of wakefulness.

Of course, the biggest attraction of the new Top Gun is not the supersonic fighter jets, but Tom Cruise in thrall to his own acting legacy. As is usually the case with legacy sequels, 90% of the plot is a copy/variation of the events of the first film (the opening and closing credits are practically identical). Whereas Cruise was a student in the first Top Gun, this time he’s an instructor (and stand-in father) who shows the novices how it (aerial manoeuvres and action movies) is supposed to be done. Thanks to his emphasis on the human element (repeating the line that what matters is the pilot’s skill, not the machine’s capabilities), he saves the day (and the action genre, which he is breathing new life into). Nevertheless, he remains a rebellious outsider who rides the (same) motorcycle, wears the (same) leather jacket, doesn’t respect authority and doesn’t read manuals. At the same time, however, he obediently serves the military-industrial complex, so his rebelliousness is only superficial. Because Maverick chose to go his own way (just as Cruise’s career comprises a separate universe that is not part of the dominant comic-book multiverse), he has not put down roots and remains a solitary figure (which is constantly emphasised by how he observes the other characters from afar rather than coexisting with them). Like the most recent Bond film, Top Gun: Maverick is packed with nostalgic looks back at the past, admitting one’s own vulnerability and coming to terms with the fact that our time on earth is limited (Cruise will soon be 60 years old). Seeking out and pondering the parallels between Maverick and Cruise by going through his filmography and reflecting on his image as a star was truthfully more entertaining to me than the numerous aerial scenes, which, with the exception of the last one, which takes place over a snow-covered landscape for the sake of variety, are interchangeable, with such rapid cuts that you can’t really enjoy them much anyway (it’s worth seeing the film in IMAX mainly for the sound). The same is true of the variation on the legendary volleyball scene. The game of (American) football on the beach is shot predominantly against the sun, chopped up with a lot of unnecessary cuts and absolutely asexual. I guiltily admit that watching it made me long for Scott's advertising-video aesthetic and shameless objectification of semi-nude male bodies. I would have found such stylisation more appropriate for a blockbuster heroic, action-melodrama that basically takes place completely outside of any real socio-political context, in a world that exists solely for the purpose of showing off aerial acrobatics and Tom Cruise’s smile. 75%

The original Top Gun is an insipid producer’s movie that, apart from Bruckheimer, is taken seriously today only by Tom Cruise. Even Tony Scott, in a documentary about the making of the film, spitefully admits that some of the film’s scenes (e.g. the volleyball match) were softcore porn conceived under the influence of Bruce Weber’s photographs of semi-nude young men. And we won’t find much more plot or intelligence in Top Gun than we would in a porn flick. The plot, which barely holds together, is one cheesily shot nothingburger after another, all accompanied by rock music. There is no greater conflict to keep you glued to your seat. The main draw is the aerial scenes, which couldn’t have been made without support from the aviation arm of the U.S. Navy, which in return got its most expensive and professionally produced recruitment video ever (which worked, as interest in the profession of flight instructor increased rapidly after the premiere). Handsome young actors size up each other’s egos in machines worth tens of millions of dollars, behave irresponsibly and endanger the lives of others, but instead of being punished, they are praised for their courage and creativity. Top Gun isn’t too far from that, but it’s still not one of those films that are so stupid that they are entertaining. It’s just passively, harmlessly stupid and, in a number of respects, it is essentially just a 1980s popcorn flick. 50%

CODA is a fairly faithful remake of the French comedy The Bélier Family. Director and screenwriter Siân Heder further developed the supporting characters in particular and chose deaf actors to play the roles of the deaf, so we can enjoy watching the excellent Troy Kotsur. With his relaxed performance, Kotsur greatly contributes to the authenticity of the scenes from the life of the deaf. Those scenes are in fact more authentic than Ruby’s fantastically easy transformation from a timid outsider into a capable young singer. Without the trio of non-stereotypical deaf characters, CODA would be just another banal flick about growing up and chasing the (American) dream. The central conflict between the family and singing is not enough to carry the film for two hours and it doesn’t create much tension, since we know how everything will turn out in the end. In order to maintain the comfortable atmosphere, the filmmakers don’t put any major obstacles in the way of the likable characters. On the contrary, they make everything as easy as possible for them. At school, Ruby affectionately gazes at a classmate. A few scenes later, she is chosen to sing a duet with him. Though Ruby sang only for herself before joining the choir, it sounds from the start as if she has had voice training. Other potential complications also easily disappear. Is the family being exploited in the fish trade? No worries, they’ll just start their own business from one day to the next. Ruby can't afford to pay for further education? No problem, here’s a scholarship. The pianist doesn't know the song Ruby chose? Someone will surely show up to fill in for her. The main thing is not to stress out about it. The Rossi’s, as bearers of nothing but positive qualities, don’t deserve any major troubles. Other than the fact that they work with their hands and are deaf, we learn practically nothing about them. It’s as if they live in a vacuum devoid of politics, culture and religion. The environment of deaf members of the working class serves only as a superfluous backdrop for one teenager’s inspiring story. However, it’s possible that the stylistic caution and subordination to clichés is an effective way of making the life of a community that is rarely seen in the media digestible for a broader audience. In any case, if CODA works despite its lack of directorial invention and minimal distinctiveness, then it works not as a film about the deaf (who are merely staffage in the hearing-abled protagonist’s mediocre story), but as a dramedy in which everything is calculated to elicit tears or laughter. 65%

This seven-part adaptation of the bestselling book of the same name is set in the maternity ward of a British state-run hospital. The main character is young obstetrician Adam Kay, who, due to endlessly long workweeks, is constantly sleep-deprived, overworked, prone to making mistakes and without the energy to focus on his partner or anything else. From dawn to dusk, he is occupied with caesarean sections, severed umbilical cords, inverted uteruses, severe bleeding and extracting foreign objects out of vaginas. In this respect, the series is quite graphic, as it prides itself on authenticity in what it depicts and in what the characters say (Adam occasionally turns to the camera in order to explain certain medical terms). Adam keeps his sense of detachment with cynicism, dark humour and a degree of honesty bordering on recklessness (a combination that, together with the protagonist’s breaking of the fourth wall, gives the narrative a vibe along the lines of Fleabag). Not all of his colleagues and patients appreciate his direct approach. Comedic asides are rather organically woven into the daily struggles for someone’s life, just as we learn details of the doctors’ private lives without that slowing the story’s rapid pace. The transitions between comedy and the poignant and heart-rending drama of a man broken by the system work flawlessly due to Ben Whishaw’s unforced performance in the lead role. Though Adam is dedicated to his work, the main problem is not his commitment, but the underfunding of the overburdened hospital, which is one of the series’ most essential motifs, thanks to which This is Going to Hurt stands out among the numerous works set in a similar environment (on the other hand, it's not so different from them in the way it puts doctors on a pedestal and to some degree disparages patients). The hospital’s management takes great care to ensure that the staff members do not use inappropriate language and smile broadly during the minister’s visit, but care less that they have enough sterile clothing or that they are not at constant risk of mental and physical collapse due to the shortage of people and time to rest. Using the example of a particular institution and the well-constructed dramas of multiple characters who are in the throes of becoming disillusioned, the series uncompromisingly analyses the system of dual morality, where instead of real problems and inequalities (resulting from, for example, the class or ethnicity of the doctors), the primary issue is how things appear and what their symbolic dimension is. As long as the right words are used and certain external norms, which sometimes have nothing to do with actual practice, are followed, everything is (outwardly) fine. In reality, institutions and individuals are breaking down behind this façade. It is thanks to those who carry the burden that, despite the torrent of crises, these structures have not completely collapsed yet.

Numerous documentary films and series about perpetrators of sexual violence have been made in recent years, but I have yet to see anything as balanced as We Need to Talk About Cosby (many such documentaries, like Allen vs. Farrow, are comically one-sided). In four hour-long, briskly edited and very informative episodes, W. Kamau Bell recounts, chronologically and in a broader socio-cultural context, the rise of the legendary actor, philanthropist and pop-culture icon who had a tremendous impact on the (positive) representation of African-Americans. This narrative is interspersed with the testimonies of women who describe in detail how Bill Cosby drugged and raped them (or attempted to do so). Moreso than other documentary filmmakers, Bell is aware that the two stories are closely interconnected; one would not be complete without the other. The survivors trusted Cosby, respected him for what he had done for the black community (which was one of the reasons that his crimes were long swept under the rug and that for many it was unacceptable to criticise Cosby at all). They knew him form television as a moral authority and a likable father figure. After the incident, many of them blamed not Cosby but themselves for their naïveté (essentially self-victim blaming). University professors, comedians he had influenced, a sex therapist and a pharmacologist comment primarily on issues related to their respective professions but, because they are largely African-American, they are also given space to share how Cosby had influenced their lives and their thinking about black identity. They do not question his mastery of comedy, the enduring humour of his sketches and stand-up routines, his positive influence on the representation of African-Americans in film and on television crews (when shooting I Spy, he was one of the first to have a stunt double of the same skin colour) and the popular perception of the black family (which, of course, in the 1980s faced different problems than the well-to-do family from The Cosby Show, as was reflected in the series itself). At the same time, they do not lose sight of the fact that Cosby also used his resulting power and money to perpetrate sexual assaults, bullying and intimidation. Bill Cosby is an exceptionally gifted comedian who has helped many people and ruined the lives of others. Both statements are true, one truth should not overshadow the other, and We Need to Talk About Cosby is unique in asking us to accept this ambivalence.

What do people laugh about in countries where Ebola, religious fanaticism or civil war is raging? Are there any comedians in Saudi Arabia? How much do local entertainers contribute to Nigeria’s rape culture? Larry Charles, director of Borat and The Dictator, made a four-episode series about humour in dangerous places, whether that involves the military, the environment of the American far right or a given country where you can be abducted, tortured and killed for telling the wrong kind of joke. It’s enlightening, courageous, slightly perverse (when, for example, Charles coaxes a former Liberian general into revealing what human flesh tastes like), and it encourages the consideration of comedy as a means of coping with adversity and surviving in a world full of pain, suffering and influential idiots.

From the individual to the group and from minor lies to major dilemmas, Farhadi systematically builds a portrait of a society in which a selfless act is something so rare that it must be subject to an investigation as if it were a divine revelation. The protagonist initially has a clear goal and approaches it quickly and relatively smoothly, and the pace is hectic due to the brief shots and the amount of movement in the picture and sounds outside of it. However, the events and the portrait of the main protagonist gradually become more complicated. The narrative no longer holds exclusively to Rahim’s perspective, as it gives more space to the other characters, who are perhaps no less in the right. The boundaries between truth and lies and between good and evil become indistinct; it is no longer about achieving something, but saving face. However, this formalistic and stylistic sophistication is apparent only in retrospect. While watching the film, the events that happen in it seem natural and spontaneous rather than contrived. I see in this Farhadi’s directorial and screenwriting mastery, as well as the film’s similarity to the best works of neorealism. Furthermore, the realisation that true heroism does not need acknowledgement from the outside, that what’s more more important is whether we have done the right thing rather than whether we conform to others’ ideas of what is right and get the stamp of (character) quality, easily arises from the situations and decisions depicted in the film without a hint of moralising. 80%