Matty

I emphatically recommend that this film not be seen by people suffering from ophidiophobia (because there are a lot of snakes in it, including an incredibly big one) or by video-game designer Dan Vávra (because he might not be able to handle such a politically correct version of medieval England with black and Chinese people and strong female characters). Other gamers, however, might be satisfied with the film, as the hyperkinetic (in other words, terribly chaotic) and almost entirely CGI action scenes, especially the last one, look like an in-game video cut out of an action movie. King Arthur is generally reminiscent of a number of pop-culture products: a music video for an English folk song, a kung-fu movie, a bad 1980s fantasy flick, a good fantasy flick from the aughts, a Monty Python sketch (“This is a table. You sit at it.”), and so on. Due to the many sources of inspiration, the unfocused narrative (even when that lack of focus is not justified by the narrating character’s poor memory), and the constant flitting between ridiculing Arthurian legends and their ultracool, self-absorbed and humourless modernisation for today’s nerds, the film is a terrible, eclectic mess. It doesn’t help much that Guy Ritchie attempted to give it some sort of order by approaching the film as another one of his London gangster flicks. Though the story is not set in the present, but in an alternate Middle Ages with wizards, giant rats and a sword that performs as a weapon of mass destruction, it is otherwise a tediously manneristic variation on something that’s been seen before. We have here a group of nobodies speaking cockney English who act first and think later, whose plan to outwit their opponents goes fatally wrong, a fidgety narrative with a timeline that’s all over the map, a psychopathic villain who does very nasty things to his victims (which, however, will please fans of Reservoir Dogs), and a chase scene filmed partly with GoPro cameras. Ritchie was able to use all of these things more effectively in his previous films, which also managed to get by with a pathos-ridden origin story based on the protagonist frequently having nightmares and fainting. Whereas Tarantino is maturing, Ritchie refuses to grow up, making the same movie again and again, and despite occasional flashes of refreshing creative invention, it mostly feels rather forced in this case. 50%

The problem with Fifty Shades Darker is not that it doesn’t know when to end, but that it never properly starts. An essential tenet of screenwriting is that without conflict, there is no drama. Niall Leonard is apparently unaware of this. The popular statement that “nothing happens in it” applies to such an extent to few other films. Any attempt at suspense or plot twists thus comes across as unintentional comedy because of its lack of substance. Both of the protagonists do basically the same things that they did in the first instalment, though one would think that this time it is a voluntary decision on Ana’s part (she didn't know before that sex doesn’t have to be painful), which is only half true (when, for example, she tells her partner what to do to her). Grey continues to act like a faithless, possessive emotional manipulator who again lays out the rules of the game and doesn’t give much choice to his ingenuous partner, who likes to be bought a big bouquet of roses, a set of Apple products and luxury lingerie. As a result, moments that should seem romantic are actually rather creepy, because we don’t see any sincere feelings behind them. It’s also quite difficult to sympathise with the female protagonist, who has Ben Wa balls inserted into her vagina and only then asks what they are for. The adjective “vanilla” applies less to the central couple’s relationship than to the film as a whole, in which the unfortunate lack of knowing winks at the viewer prevents it from being an expression of self-reflection or an act of subversion (which, I'm afraid, should not have been a scene like something out of Magic Mike). Though the narrative of the first instalment was marked by a similar ponderousness, I found it generally thought-provoking on a deeper level of meaning. The second film is just a sequence of pretty but completely hollow shots that barely hold together (on the other hand, it’s possible that I’m just too annoyed by the film to give it any further thought). It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a similarly arrogant wager on the certainty that the target audience, longing to see a bit of harmless “kinky fuckery”, will come to the cinema anyway. 30%

Two-star trash with one five-star action scene. For an action/spy movie that is supposed to be action-packed and overflowing with information while constantly arousing our curiosity, Atomic Blonde is unusually lame. The fault lies in the film’s uneven rhythm, which is due to the large number of slowed-down scenes that do nothing to advance or enhance the plot, as the characters carry on shallow dialogue about truth, lies and politics, and shots in which Charlize Theron poses in a hotel room lit with blue and red neon (fans of Refn’s films will get their money’s worth). The female protagonist resembles a nicely dressed mannequin or robot that carries out issued instructions (and in the end, it doesn’t really matter who issues them) and occasionally restores her strength in an ice-water bath or with the aid of a shot of vodka (her version of “Martini, shaken, not stirred” is therefore “Stolichnaya on the rocks”). OK, so she’s a cold-as-ice killing machine, but couldn’t that have been conveyed more subtly? The few indications of her humanity and that she has any individuality at all ring hollow (her relationship with Delphine, the slain lover whose photo she burns at the beginning, probably just so the director could kick of the film with Bowie’s “Putting out the Fire”). The narrative is also slowed down by the unnecessary framing with an interrogation in London, visually reminiscent of the interrogation scene from Basic Instinct (there is no crossing of legs, however), which does not build any suspense, arouse curiosity or raise new questions. Toby Jones and John Goodman merely represent the viewers who are slower to understand and sometimes need a break and a summary of what we’ve heard so far. Furthermore, despite the retrospective narrative in the Berlin scenes, the film does not adhere to Lorraine’s perspective. We are also rather senselessly informed of Percival’s activities, so we know his true intentions before the other characters do and the film thus no longer manages to surprise us in this respect. The film’s best action scene is paradoxically the most stylistically restrained one, which doesn’t try to be cool by using slow motion or ’80s songs that work always and everywhere. Only during a several-minute, multi-level brawl on a staircase does the film finally become, at least for a moment, the uncompromising, brutal, badass action flick that the trailer promised. The quality of the stunts, choreography, camerawork and use of the mise-en-scéne (when things go south, even an electric stove comes in handy) makes Atomic Blonde an above-average bit of filmmaking. It is so much above-average that you probably won’t give much thought to the rawer, less stylised approach to the action (compared to the rest of the film) or the meagre contribution of a given sequence to the narrative. David Leitch thus has some great material if he ever needs to convince anyone that he knows how to direct an excellent action scene, but the whole narrative structure around it is so worn-out, dumb, sloppily put together and unbalanced that I would recommend showing up at the cinema about half an hour before the end of the movie. 50%

All the Money in the World is an inspiringly problematic film. It starts out like Le Dolce Vita and ends like Citizen Kane, but I can’t compare anything that happens in between with anything else. Though it contains a number of scenes that are reminiscent of a procedural thriller with detailed mapping of a certain working process as a classic dramatic structure that should draw viewers in and keep them in suspense with well-though-out dosing of information, the film is rather unsatisfying due to its muddled (especially with the constant jumping between various places, times and characters in the first half) and, at the same, very straightforward narrative, disjointed rhythm and cyclical yet somewhat monotonous structure with repetitive situations. ___ Paul's abduction is mainly a pretence for creating situations in which something that you normally wouldn’t buy with money (trust, attention, maternal love) is monetised, and for discussions about greed and a person’s worth. The tone and urgency of these scenes, which usually attempt to dialectically take into account the perspectives of both parties, change as the stakes rise and the probability of the son returning to his mother decreases. The theme of capitalism’s impact on interpersonal relationships is developed throughout the film, conceived here on a purely transactional level (it pays to invest in someone, but not in someone else). It isn’t so much about the relationships themselves or the development of the characters, most of whom (with the exception of the mother) are merely caricatures. At the same time, however, it’s not true that it isn’t about them at all, which would have paradoxically benefitted the film. ___ All the Money in the World is a dramatically strangely unbalanced work that with its structure draws our attention more to its creators’ arguments than to the characters and their suffering. I’m not sure if that was the intention, but I enjoyed the film as a cynical, non-moralising disputation on the power of money. 65%

My Son is unintentionally funny trash with dubious morals masquerading as a psychological drama. Characters on the verge of a nervous breakdown are shown only through crying, screaming or wanting to kill someone. When you need some sort of information, use brutal violence. When you want to get a loved one (or two) back, kill a few people. Any instalment of the Taken series is more entertaining and more honest. The second star was added for the one (final) scene in which Mélanie Laurent is not hysterical and for Canet maniacally screaming “’I’m going to bake your leg!” 35%

Without the participation of personalities such as Spielberg, del Toro and Streep (who reads the commentary), this look at the Second World War through the eyes of five famous Hollywood directors would easily fit in with the dozens of other war documentaries for military enthusiasts that some television channels put on their broadcast schedules with iron regularity. Bouzereau chose the most ordinary form of exposition – talking heads, archival footage, excerpts from scripted films, more talking heads, animated maps, and so on. Therefore, the content rather than the form is worthy of attention. Paradoxically, the series would have benefited if the filmmakers had adhered to a more factually dense book with greater regard for context as the source material and not tried to give the project greater prestige by attaching famous names to it (the directors involved in the documentary are connected with the directors being discussed only because they feel respect for them, not because, for example, they knew them personally – therefore, I would rather understand, for example, the presence of Peter Bogdanovich, who interviewed Ford). Though the gentlemen speak nicely about their filmmaking role models, they don’t say much of value in the end and their words of almost uncritical admiration only needlessly take up space that could have been given to something more revealing. Unsurprisingly, their colleagues who experienced the war at first hand get much more to the point in the earlier interviews. A fascinating aspect is, for example, the account of the formulation of the Why We Fight concept by Frank Capra himself, whose frustration stemming from the pinnacle of German propaganda (Triumph of the Will) led him to the idea of using that same sort of propaganda, but with a different intention. Unfortunately, Five Came Back wants to tell not only the story of how documentaries with artistic ambitions were made during the war (and subsequently used by the government for propaganda purposes), but also about the war itself, so it offers a very simple retelling of the history learned in school. The same “kitchen sink” approach characterises the whole series, which tries to cover a large number of topics, thus leaving no time to discuss at least some of them in greater depth. The view of film propaganda presented here is driven mainly by the effort to interest viewers and spur their admiration for the heroism of Capra, Ford, Huston, Stevens and Wyler, rather than to prompt them to ask more complicated questions (basically, we are led to the idea that German propaganda was bad and American propaganda, often working with similar racial and national stereotypes, was good). Though, thanks mainly to the unique footage from battlefields, Five Came Back is not a failure, it is certainly a missed opportunity. 75%

American Made is a very straightforward crime comedy without any major stumbling blocks and it makes no effort to face us with any difficult moral dilemmas. It conspicuously imitates the style of Scorsese’s films (pop songs, a narrator intervening in the story and determining what we see and how we see it, attention-grabbing camerawork and editing) and cashes in on the popularity of the TV series Narcos, so it comes across as unoriginal and predictable, but thanks to the smooth (albeit slightly mechanical) narrative and Cruise’s charisma, it is entertaining from start to finish. The position of the main protagonist is unusual (for a Hollywood movie), as he lets himself be dragged along by circumstances and merely accepts outside offers and follows orders dictated to him through almost the entire film. He can demonstrate his ingenuity only in the way he carries out deliveries of certain goods, not in what he actually does. It would almost be possible to interpret him as the embodiment of American pragmatism, the ability to adapt to the given situation and make the most of it for himself, but we know too much about him (compared to the other characters, who are really only types) to perceive him in such an impersonal way, and relatively strong emphasis is placed on the family storyline (which, however, the film handles much more carelessly than The Wolf of Wall Street, for example – you will probably care as little about the protagonist’s wife and children as you did for Barry). Of the films that “comfort” us with the fact that people may be bad, but their governments are worse (War Dogs, American Hustle), this one gets bonus points in my eyes for taking the procedural side of things into greater consideration and for not pretending to be anything better. It’s simply light summer macho entertainment that does everything possible to keep the viewer from getting bored for even a second and, unlike Atomic Blonde and The Hitman’s Bodyguard, it does that very well. 70%

When the muscular men aren’t diving into the water in slow motion and the beautiful women aren’t emerging from the water in slow motion (the film never rises above the level of how male and female bodies are depicted in subverting gender stereotypes), two or more characters stand/sit on the beach and, in unimaginatively shot scenes, spend a tiresomely long time dragging out an adolescent joke about, for example, the age of Efron’s character (“Where did you come from, One Direction?”) or a sidekick’s inability to form an articulate thought when coming face to face with a person of the opposite sex. As a star vehicle for Dwayne Johnson, this two-hour celebration of virility and heroism based more on physical strength than on intellect works particularly well when it exaggerates the protagonist’s perfection to the edge of deliberate parody. Unfortunately, it does so by repeatedly using the same template, with a laziness that is characteristic of how the whole film is written (piling up supposedly humorous asides instead of developing the joke) and directed (poor timing of the bumbling action scenes). In the second half, which is mostly focused on a rather insipid crime plot (serving mainly as an excuse for The Rock to punch someone in the mouth), the film is not only short on humour (rather, it is unironically affected), but it also runs out of ideas, loses pace and doesn’t have a proper build-up. Among other things, this is due to the fact that the main star disappears from the film for quite a long time, thus taking away the only reason to suffer through this comedy targeted mainly at boys under the age 15 (and apparently written by people of the same age and gender). 40%

Eliza Hittman continues in her exploration of the awakening of teenage sexuality, with which she began in her debut, It Felt Like Love (2013), shot from the perspective of an adolescent girl. Beach Rats has a more conventional structure and, if you have seen a few festival dramas thematicising homosexuality among youths, you will in all probability figure out the direction that the narrative is going to take. Also, the characters fit too easily into boxes known from American indie dramas. The film is most effective when it speaks of male bodies and faces (in which it closely resembles the work of Claire Denis), lyrically and naturalistically shot in 16 mm by French cinematographer Hélène Louvart (see, for example, Alice Rohrwacher’s The Wonders). The film is more captivating and inspiring as a study of male bodies in motion than as another intimate coming-out drama about repressed sexual desire. 70%

The first two episodes of season three are the best procedural porn to come along in a long time. If you enjoy watching people fully immersed in their work, you will find yourself in seventh heaven during the scenes with Mike. A large part of both episodes comprises build-ups to some sort of twist/reveal. Like in Tarantino’s recent films, the result is comparably as important as the steps leading up to it and tension results from the constant postponement of what is about to happen. If the rest of the series goes in this direction, as already indicated in the previous season, where there was more actual action than tense waiting for it, I will be maximally satisfied. At the same time, however, it is possible to imagine that this slow-burn method may repel many fans of the much more action-oriented Breaking Bad.