Matty

If you want to tell about the life experience of a closeted high-school student, you should take care to ensure that half of the story does not focus on his straight friends, who are also better drawn (and played by more experienced actors). Love, Simon is a model gay romance for the white heterosexual audience (especially for all fag hags) dreaming of an ultra-tolerant world in which everyone can be themselves if they find the courage to do so. In the fictional world of the film, which is reminiscent of the social bubble in which many liberals live, homosexuality is not understood by only two dumber classmates, who are promptly admonished and do not cause any further trouble. Other manifestations of misunderstanding are not connected with who Simon is (with his identity), but with how he behaves (his character). The storyline with Martin serves as a contrived pretext for at least some sort of conflict in this fairy-tale-ishly non-confrontational and dramaturgically monotonous film. Most of the plot is based on the hard-to-accept premise that a young man shares the intimate details of his life with someone whom he does not know at all (and, despite that, with whom he is in love). More convincing is the second level of the story, which shows how, because of an unhealthy fixation on a person we mistakenly consider to be the only kindred spirit who understands us, we can lose the favour of many other people who actually care about us. Love, Simon is a welcome addition to the subgenre of high-school films for a broad audience, but in comparison with other teenage romances of recent years (Lady Bird, The Edge of Seventeen), let alone compared to more distinctive queer films (Call Me By Your Name, God’s Own Country), it is a matter of playing it safe with the rough edges ground down too far. 65%

Though Isle of Dogs does not excel in terms of narrative ingenuity like The Grand Hotel Budapest or of playfulness as in Fantastic Mr. Fox, it is still such an incredibly clever film that you want to bark with joy. ___ Anderson continues to refine his style, which he barely contaminates with special techniques that are atypical of him, such as the use of a handheld camera, zoom and some asymmetrical composition here and there. The enlivening segments are most frequently in the form of a change in the style of animation (for example, the security-camera footage is hand-drawn instead of stop-motion), which relates to the motif of translating meanings between various languages and cultures (for example, some utterances in Japanese are interpreted, while the interpreter’s reactions to what she hears have an alienating effect). ___ In comparison with Anderson’s other films, this one is unexpectedly and fully intentionally ugly (or perhaps better said, “not cute”) – dogs live in a huge dump among rats, are infected with weird diseases and feed on rotting garbage. Sometimes we see close-ups of a chewed-up ear or a bit of mangy fur (and a kidney transplant), but the gloomy greyness very well suits this film that thematicises (more openly than Grand Hotel) the rise of authoritarianism, the inhumanity of humans and impending genocide (or rather its canine equivalent). It is not a film for children, who might be bothered by the slower pace and the minimum of “obvious” gags (the humour is based primarily on the ironic juxtaposition of situations/objects, both infantile and adult). ___ Anderson again presents an isolated world with specific rules, from which the protagonists try to escape using a well-thought-out plan (instead of repeatedly resorting to improvisation). For western viewers, such a peculiar world to which one can flee from the ordinariness of everyday life is not just the island where most of the story takes place, but the whole of Japan, whose iconography, history and gastronomy are tremendously beneficial to Anderson (sumo wrestlers, cherry blossoms, Kabuki theatre, the preparation of sushi, Japanese woodcuts, chanbara movies, taiko drums as the foundation of the soundtrack…). His approach to Japanese culture is not always so sensitive – the resistance against treacherous cat lovers, for example, is led by an American exchange student, who shows more courage and awareness than her Japanese schoolmates – but, at the same time, he does not turn the Land of the Rising Sun into a museum of curiosities for Japanophile fetishists. ___ Like Anderson’s other films, Isle of Dogs has a block structure with a prologue, an introduction and four chapters, each of which has a different objective and all of which are interconnected by the development of relationships between the characters. Compared to the nesting-doll nature of The Grand Budapest Hotel, the narrative is linear with the exception of a few flashbacks, which, together with an excess of explanatory monologues, disrupt the smooth flow of the narrative. Though the film does not unfold as quickly as Anderson’s previous films and can be a bit more challenging for viewers who go to the cinema to have a good time, it is still broadly accessible and easily comprehensible, and actually, yet somewhat paradoxically (with respect to theme and environment), one of Anderson’s more cautious films. 80%

The exceptionality of La Flor consists in far more than its runtime, which is equal to a full season of an epic series (after subtracting numerous intermezzos and the forty-minute closing credits). It is a work that is unique on so many levels that dissertations could be written about it. Or you can simply enjoy how well made it is and how it can surprise viewers with something throughout its runtime and create subtle connections between individual segments, the result of which is that you do not feel as if you are watching a miniseries or anthology. ___ The prologue, in which the director introduces the structure of the entire film and sets forth the central theme of “what can still be told today and how?”, is followed by six episodes, each of which plays with the conventions of a different genre (a B-level horror movie, a melodramatic musical, a spy thriller, a film about film, a black-and-white remake of Renoir’s A Day in the Country, an experimental anthropological pseudo-documentary) and, as in a sweeping novel, frequently branches out into numerous subplots. Aside from viewers’ expectations, which of course are not fulfilled due to the fact that, for example, almost none of the episodes has an ending (thanks to which we also realise that we are primarily watching the actual storytelling process, with all of the vacillation that goes with it), and waiting itself becomes relevant during the individual episodes. For example, the third episode is based entirely on a Tarantino-esque delaying of the final confrontation between two hostile groups of secret agents. That delay, directly thematicised in individual flashbacks, does not take thirty minutes, but five and a half hours, which is done ad absurdum. ___ Thanks to the layered narrative, the polished style, the strong self-reflective dimension (which is strongest in the fourth episode, where the crew deals with how to continue further) and deviations from the established concept, watching La Flor is never dull or predictable for even a moment. It is not slow cinema requiring an extremely patient viewer, but a dense and entertaining multi-genre experiment with the possibilities of a long, jagged narrative in which more and more stories are constantly layered on top of each other (from what I saw, it is most akin to Gomes’s three-part Arabian Nights). Therefore, one of the most emotionally powerful and, in a certain aspect, purest and truest sequences is that from the fourth episode in which the female leads do not appear in any story, do not play roles, but only freely improvise in front of the camera (just like during the closing credits). ___ Despite the impression of an epic narrative freestyle work, piling up ideas originating on the fly, La Flor is a maturely crafted and inventively structured film whose individual parts organically interconnect certain stylistic techniques (e.g. refocusing between various action plans), well-developed motifs and (primarily) a quartet of astonishingly talented and photogenic actresses, whose acting art Mariano Llinás pays tribute to (and, at the same time, allows him to stand out in every nuance, as required by the various genres and acting in multiple foreign languages). As an expression of thanks for being involved in the filming, which took roughly nine years without breaks, the director gives the actresses a gift, which is the film itself – it is not a coincidence that his narrative scheme, which Llinás sketches out at the beginning, resembles a flower, la flor. ___ Whereas you merely watch other movies, you can experience an unforgettable weekend with La Flor. 90%

I enjoy musicals, I always remember the original Mary Poppins with relish, and I would listen to Emily Blunt even if she was just reading the TV guide, but this nostalgic remix is so empty that it hurts. ___ Mary herself has a scandalously marginal role in the film. The filmmakers do not work with her as a full-fledged character of the story, but merely as a symbol (so, of course her shadow has to appear on Big Ben). This is beneficial for the story in that it pushes the minute hand back at the right time. Otherwise, she would not have to be in the film at all. Eighty percent of the plot is equally useless, as it is composed of carelessly arranged educational (in the better case) songs that do not in any way advance the plot. The musical numbers mainly represent only technically more advanced, longer and more ostentatious variations of scenes from the original film – instead of dancing animated penguins, the whole zoo; instead of tap-dancing chimney sweeps, a gang of lamplighters. ___ One of the most superfluous scenes is simultaneously the only memorable one, because in it Meryl Streep, as a slightly deranged gypsy from somewhere in Eastern Europe, sings a totally nonsensical song about frogs (Shaiman’s word games are the main reason to at least play the soundtrack). Another painful example of wasted talent is Colin Firth, who plays – as the original – an evil banker who enriches himself at the expense of his clients, which, however, is not as horrible an offence as the fact that he suffocated his inner child. As if society was no longer infantile enough. ___ Mary Poppins Returns is the same kind of peg on which to hang expensive music/dance numbers as Into the Woods and Nine. The sad thing is that, thanks to the set design and music, this hopeless clunker will in all probability be nominated for enough Oscars and make enough money that Rob Marshall will be able to continue committing crimes against cinema (we can already “look forward” to his The Little Mermaid). ___ You’ll be better off watching Paddington again with your kids. 40%

SPOILERS AHEAD. I find it a bit paradoxical to blame Fallout for being so reminiscent of Rogue Nation. Isn’t a certain degree of similarity, the certainty that we more or less know what awaits us, the reason that we like movie franchises, whether it’s Bond films, Marvel movies or the Star Wars saga? Besides that, Fallout offers enough specific elements to keep it from being interchangeable with its predecessor and it continuously highlights a certain cyclical nature that Ethan Hunt encounters in his life. ___ Unlike the previous instalments, this one makes greater use of a subjective narrative (dreams, ideas) and more frequently brings up the protagonist’s past, which suddenly began to burden him (similar to Bond in Skyfall). His dilemma – whether to help one beloved person or to save millions – is manifested especially in the female characters (Julie, Ilsa, the French policewoman). The central conflict established by the first scene (including a copy of Homer’s Odyssey, in which the mission is given to Hunt) is based on a desire for harmony, accompanied by concerns that he will irreversibly disrupt it with his actions. In fact, he “only” seeks inner peace (similarly to Ilsa wanting to return home). ___ Two and a half hours of the movie are then filled with various complicated deferrals of this goal (toward which it is necessary to work through several constituent tasks), which at first seems to be within reach (trading in plutonium), but gradually becomes more distant the harder Hunt and his team try to achieve it (basically in accordance with one of the meanings of the subtitle, they fall ever deeper). Hunt unwittingly contributes to the implementation of the villain’s plan and thus to the realisation of his worst fear from the opening scene. ___ The constant uncovering of the identities of double and triple agents who plot against each other (of which we are sometimes aware and sometimes not) shows how difficult it is to recognise reality in an unstable postmodern world of simulacrums (see also the scene in which Benji guides Hunt through a 3D space according to a 2D map) and offers – above all – more and more pretexts for the spectacular action on which this franchise is based and to which the logic of everything else is subordinated. So, yeah, the villain has to leave London from the tower of the Tate Modern gallery, Hunt has to ride around the Arc de Triomphe at full speed in the wrong direction, and he has to skydive into Paris from seven kilometres up, because it looks fantastic and will boost your adrenaline level. Suspension of disbelief. Alfred Hitchcock. If you have a problem with that, you will find it excessive and improbable, any you will unfortunately not fully enjoy Fallout. ___ By giving us the dizzying feeling of straddling the boundary between life and death, Fallout is reminiscent of great grotesques like The General and Safety Last! (though Cruise bases his performances on speed and strength rather than physical acrobatics). With their rhythm, use of deadlines, inventive incorporation of Schifrin’s motif and the way everything smoothly fits together in the end, the action scenes are incredibly intoxicating, while also being sufficiently diverse in terms of vehicles, combat methods, multiple storylines running in parallel (in this regard, the final action scene is very Nolan-esque) and the extent of our awareness of what’s going on, which contributes to the fact that we often do not know with certainty whether we are seeing the fulfilment of a premeditated plan or improvisation. ___ Life supposedly flows in spirals and Fallout is structured accordingly, as it repeats situations that we saw in the first half of the film (a shootout in the London underworld is strikingly reminiscent of the handover in Berlin) or in previous instalments of the series with a slight alteration of forces, which the characters are aware of, knowingly winking at each other (and at us) and making fun of their (again) seemingly zero chance of success and survival. The episodic narrative, composed of several outstanding action sequences with their own patterns of development and breathtaking gradation, is again not only utilised, but also reflected. There is no way for anything to end except with a spectacular cliffhanger. ___ Sure, Fallout could have been shorter, less overloaded with plot twists and more focused on the action than on the characters, but in terms of the development of today's world and the Mission: Impossible franchise, I find its more pronounced melodramatic nature (which contributes significantly to the longer runtime) and greater prevalence of postmodern doubt about what is actually real to be a logical way to raise the stakes without resorting to excesses likes those put out by the creators of Fast & Furious. Of course, it can’t be ruled out that Hunt will race with tanks and submarines next time. He evidently still has the physique for that. 90%

Soon after Lazzaro Felice comes another film, at the end of which I had the desire to escape into the wilderness and spend the rest of my life among wolves. Although these films are fundamentally different, Leave No Trace is, for example, far more intuitive, as events simply follow one another in a time-lapse documentary without being exposed in advance (conversely, the entire first half of Lazzaro Felice is preparation for the second half), the plot flows freely and undramatically, we are not made aware of some essential information, the narrative does not come back to many of the characters and situations (for example, the only thing that we learn about the mother is that she liked the colour yellow). The protagonists have to overcome obstacles mainly in order to get to know each other and themselves better, rather than to achieve a particular objective. Upon closer viewing, it is possible to uncover in Leave No Trace, like in Lazzaro Felice, a web of motifs connected with the theme of man’s relationship to his own nature. Both pictures turn our attention (back) to nature (and to that which is generally good and unspoiled), or rather it compels us to think about man’s relationship to nature. I think these films are more successful in this regard than are “pure” nature documentaries, to which it is more difficult to connect emotionally due to the absence of a human element. In Leave No Trace, this is aided by the fact that the film does not contain a single negative character. It is purely a clash between the system (towards which Granik is not explicitly critical) and people who want (need) to live outside of it. We understand their situation, but we are not didactically guided to accept the opinion that Walden’s way of existence is the only correct way. In a similarly ambivalent manner, the film addresses the issue of freedom. Though civilisation establishes binding norms (connected here with Christmas trees, which must all look perfect) and tries to somehow categorise everyone (as Tom places shirts in drawers in a new house), but the main female protagonist is in the forests under the ceaseless patronage of her father and cannot rely on basic life security. For better or worse, they are reminiscent of a pair of seahorses, brought to mind by a girl's pendant or an orange peel reminiscent of that animal, which mates for life and whose offspring develop in the abdominal sack of the male, rather than that of the female. Giving someone freedom can be the greatest expression of love. Though the film raises the visibility of certain issues through its story, it leaves it to us to decide what is better. Will provides similar freedom in raising his daughter. He does not lead her to accept a single dogmatic worldview (he responds with a smile rather than disapprovingly to her remark that God created frogs, as she had read in a leaflet distributed by the local Christian community), but he stimulates her curiosity. Thanks to this freedom that the film gives us, the opinion at which we arrive has even greater weight. Leave No Trace thus continues to reverberate after the disarming, maximally simple penultimate scene. 85%

This damned hot summer can’t be over soon enough. But in the case of Kirill Serebrennikov’s Summer, I’d be happy for it to last longer. This is despite the fact that it basically consists of a story-less series of musical performances by obscure Russian bands and partially animated musical sequences (which, conversely, feature hits by famous Western musicians). The burgeoning love triangle has a certain dramatic weight, but due to how loose the relationships between the characters are, it cannot have very painful consequences. Nor does the apparatus of the state put any serious pressure on the artists. The bohemian rockers encounter officers only once and deal with censorship easily and with humour. Despite that, we are constantly aware of the danger faced by the free environment that the protagonists have created around themselves in a country that is not free and the tone of the narrative gradually changes from the initial summer contentment to a melancholic premonition of an impending downfall. The final scene, which sums up this fleetingness of life with the aid of two blunt titles, is unbelievably powerful and timeless. ___ Summer is a film in which, as in Russia (or, for that matter, Czechoslovakia) almost nothing happens in the early 1980s. Just repeat the official government actions and speeches, always captured here somewhere in the background on a television screen, with which the regime shapes its (self-)image and maintains the status quo. Rock music, whose lyrics are about free love, alcohol and rebellion against the system, naturally disturbs this order. While musically it mainly involves (progressive and indie) rock or New Wave, the film is a somewhat punkish affair in terms of narrative, which adheres to most of the principles according to which drama should be structured. The rhythm is set by the songs rather than by plot twists. When the film loses its breath, one of the characters, who communicates with other inhabitants of this fictional world as well as with the viewers (to whom he continually announces that what we have just seen never actually happened), helps it get a second wind. However, it is seductively easy to get carried away by the narrative thanks to the film’s tremendous spontaneous energy, catchy songs, numerous outstanding and probably labour-intensive audio-visual ideas (the film’s highlights include the covers of cult records “coming to life”) and, of no less importance, the black-and-white camera work, which shifts from character to character in long shots with a superb intra-shot montage and, together with the songs linking the individual scenes, contributes to the impression of a smooth flow of events. ___ I realise that the film borders on being too dramaturgically lax, that it does not have to so thoroughly take on the cyclical repetition of certain situations that were typical of socialism, that the characters do not undergo any fundamental development and that the end could occur at virtually any given moment (it would have made perfect sense to me if the credits ran after the film appears on the screen and immersion in the sea). I therefore understand that Summer can be an arduous experience for viewers who do not see it from the first few minutes. For me, who had goosebumps even during the opening song (and then several more times after that), it was a totally liberating experience and one of the most accurate cinematic depictions of everything that I associate with summer. I would like to experience a summer like this every year. 90%

In its ability to capture the importance of a certain moment in a young person's life, Eighth Grade is as comparably convincing, sincere and unsentimental as Call Me By Your Name (the monologue delivered by the character of the father also ranks among the highlights of both films). Don’t expect a teen comedy. The film is mainly a drama, sporadically sensitive in its approach to the main heroine and occasionally humorous. Many films merely talk about the need to be oneself. Eight Grade understands that need and shows how terribly difficult it is to accept oneself, to overcome the fear of being embarrassed, of not being cool enough. Age does not play such a role. Some people still experience a battle between their nature and peer pressure even after reaching adulthood. Burnham’s feel for the nuances of the life of the socially anxious internet generation and his understanding for one slightly timid girl of above-average intelligence are exceptional and I hope that he will make more empathetic portraits of young protagonists like this one (or Lady Bird, The Edge of Seventeen or The Diary of a Teenage Girl). This is a film with which I definitely want to spend more time and appreciate more how it involves the soundtrack in the storytelling and how cleverly it works with, for example, the interaction of the main protagonist and her surrounding environment (by means of subjective sound and the size and sharpness of the shots), thanks to which we perceive and experience the surrounding reality just as she does. And, without any exaggeration, Elsie Fisher should be nominated for an Oscar. 90%

“Of course it was wrong to want to change people, but what else could you possibly want to do with them?” Five episodes from the life of a narcissistic schizoid alcoholic with suicidal tendencies. With its relentless pace, large number of jump cuts, persistent inner dialogue, alteration of slow camera approaches and symmetrical compositions done with a roving hand-held camera, the first episode, mostly anchored in Melrose’s agitated mind, is reminiscent of an hour-long panic attack – “concentration like a flamethrower”, convulsions, tremors, suicidal thoughts. Melrose doesn't want to get sober and calm down, because he knows that he would fall into his damaged mind and get kicked around by traumatic childhood memories that hurt more than a burn or needle puncture and that are approximated by the outwardly light, but at its core horror-like, second episode (with his father as a dreaded monster), thus transforming the meaning of the first episode (we initially gleefully laugh at him and then we regret it). ___ Patrick is too honest with himself to be able to completely deny part of his self and pretend that nothing had happened to him (like the rest of the upper crust to which he belongs, at least based on his origin). Drugs and alcohol help to distract him from his thoughts and the voices in his head. ___ Melrose’s determination to take control over his own life, starting at the end of the first episode with the initial manifestation of years of supressed emotions, continues in the third episode, which at first is as apathetic, slow and humourless as a man kicking his addictions. The onslaught of emotions is strongest when Patrick is alone. On one hand, going out means seeing people who are just as unbearable as his father. On the other hand, the party to which he was invited primarily shows how the same disturbing patterns of upbringing are repeated in aristocratic families and the same humiliating rituals take precedence over human decency, which is something that Melrose will strive to avoid at all costs. The work culminates in one of the best-written, acted and rhythmised dialogue scenes that has ever appeared on the small screen. Melrose confides his darkest secret to a friend and expresses his desire to become part of the real world and to somehow be more beneficial now that he has more or less gotten clean. However, he worries that if he gets rid of his bitterness, resentment, sarcasm, snobbery and self-loathing, there may be nothing left. His friend suggests that he should try to fill his life with something more valuable, such as love and parenthood. ___ Again presented predominantly from Melrose’s point of view, the fourth episode shows, however, that even if you surround yourself with high-quality people, you will not necessarily begin to believe that you have any value yourself. Melrose strives to protect his kids from the family curse until he again sinks into depression and addiction. Though his son is not being abused, he finds himself in a similarly uncertain and stressful position as Patrick did at the same age. The final episode shows another cycle of Patrick’s debilitating struggle with himself and, at the same time, concludes one lifecycle, when Melrose buries his mother, who followed his father in death. His alternately growing and weakening belief that he can now keep himself upright on his own two feet is expressed by the alternation of two levels of the story, two motions (falling inward and moving forward). If he wants to succeed, he will have to give up not only drugs and alcohol, but also his dependency on his father, mother and everyone else who influenced him, and gain his independence from the idea of the kind of life he should lead and who he should be. Thanks to the precision, perspective and perceptiveness with which the series depicts his struggle marked by ups, downs and repetition, viewing all five episodes has something like a psychotherapeutic effect. Patrick Melrose is very entertaining, very dark and very powerful, making it the highlight of this year's live-action television production so far (and probably of Cumberbatch’s career).

“What's the point of a fucking window if you can’t jump out of it?” In a different mood, it is possible that I would be bothered by how much the whole thing is done for effect and that it is basically the “Quaalude scene” from The Wolf of Wall Street stretched out to an hour-long runtime, but with its darkness, nihilism and cynical humour, Melrose suited me to a tee and I can’t wait for the next episode. In addition to that, Cumberbatch is in top form, the style precisely corresponds to the protagonist’s level of sobriety and whatever is running through his head, the pace practically never lets up and the musical accompaniment comprises great songs like “Wild World” by Cat Stevens.