Othello

Stand-up comedians no longer have to fake cancer to convince people they're funny. Hundreds of "terminal" situations seen hundreds of times combined with the kind of safely cautious but sort of cheeky humor that starts by poking fun at therapeutic bluntness and then reproduces it and applies it itself. To top it all off, he smuggles into your cinema advocacy of streamed performances as a full-fledged alternative to the collective experience, and he can kindly fuck right off with that. I lament Gunnari's physically present to the point of being intrusive camerawork that pretty much brings the whole thing to life, but when I see a poorly digested good french fry in a pile of vomit, I'm not going to immediately consider it something worth eating.

"Scrr... scrr... screeeech!" If they'd worked more with the inner universe of mythical creatures against a background of contemporary sets in the style of Hastrmann: The Masquerade, it could have been groundbreaking at the time in the context of all subsequent Blades and Underworlds. Sadly, all that came out of it was a rather tired tendentious merry-go-round that takes from the normal world only the worst parts. In other words, socialism without inclusivity, where any deviation from "the norm" is considered a bourgeois remnant requiring reindoctrination, which here can be provided by, among other things, a bite of the proletarian apple of knowledge – a parchment. In a world whose only sanctioned way out is to work and reproduce to the rhythm of Vondráčková and Neckář, it is logical that the object of the protagonist's love interest has two character roles – "My little carp". and "Look, if you're still mad about yesterday, then calm down". And the film doesn't shake its fist at him for either of them.

The combination of political causes and a sports movie might seem deadly from my perspective, because I tend to be cautious in the former, which prevents me from settling into the film, and I usually pretty much hate the latter. Fortunately, Olga has learned from the mistakes of both cases. It balances the themes perfectly so that you can never tell it's doing one in spite of the other. Aware of the film's limitations and the qualities of the gymnastic non-actors, she has them communicate mostly in body language (on whose shoulders one could play a board game) and, most importantly, in the repetitive sequences of exercises and practices, she constantly changes the point of view, editing, and rhythm so as to create new tension from seemingly identical situations. The frenetic atmosphere of Swiss gyms during late-night workouts, the high depth of field, and the subjective cinematography ultimately help Olga achieve the most essential thing a film about overcoming yourself could ask for. That is, a powerful physical experience through which we can connect with, or at least admire, a character who asks for no sympathy. Combining it with the events of the Maidan Uprising then works surprisingly smoothly (not to mention the somewhat paper preachiness of the protagonist's mother) and moreover results in a view I agree with, namely that if sport is supposed to be apolitical, it only serves the rich and the feeble-minded and is therefore useless.

In its apocalyptic and surreal visions, crowned with typical Russian reckless abandon (cheerful partisans fleeing from gunfire with a mocking scarecrow in the form of a life-size Hitler), the film is certainly at its strongest, and its attempt to portray the occupation as a bloody mess on wheels gives the impression of a traumatic childhood memory or a pointless nightmare. There is a flip side to this, however, which is that at times the film goes beyond anti-Germanic exploitation as it hysterically enumerates all the stereotypes of Nazi occupiers snacking on lobsters while burning down churches full of people, breeding exotic monkeys, and when they are finally caught red-handed, either cowardly blaming one another or delivering a focused monologue about the need to annihilate the Slavic race. It's clear to me that, given that co-writer Adamovich was an actual witness to similar events and the script itself was based on dozens of survivor testimonies, it's hard to ask for any kind of detachment in the treatment of such themes, but the picture of absolute evil without context that we are presented with here seems a bit over the top in those two scenes.

A gleeful copy of everything that was cool back then in the East. Gangsters, male bonding, rock soundtracks à la Tarantino, copying Western formal practices, and the sheer license to make fun of everything, no matter what the level of fun it happens to be. Some of the stuff from that era still feels fresh, some you're glad it's gone.

I don't envy Trank. After becoming one of the few filmmakers who proved incapable of letting the studio collar him, and despite getting the money for his challenging auteur project, he was forced to finally send it to the living rooms of apathetic VOD viewers who only care about the star in the lead role and tagging the film a gangster flick. Capone, on the other hand, is far closer to Sokurov's Taurus (a once prominent, strong persona irreversibly withers in mind, body, and influence while being manipulated by those around him) or Zeller's The Father (a subjective depiction of the protagonist's damaged mind). While Trank's direction isn't anything particularly distinctive, and Hardy already pushes the role imo unnecessarily beyond the point of funny grotesqueness, I think in an era of overblown egos and ambition, the reminder is quite apt that the more convinced of ourselves we are during our lives, the more pitiful a caricature of ourselves we become in the end. Plus, it teeters on the edge of sympathizing with an utter monster, which always earns points.

A prime example of the unhinged and tedious nature of the variety show comedy of normalization. Plus the slimy Czech back-patting, ugh. Some might be surprised to learn that this is a precursor to the currently popular films based on pop culture references.

An increasingly interesting in today’s terms (and, from my point of view, far dreamier) look at the New York streets of the late 60s and early 70s as a melting pot of ethnicities, subcultures, and social classes. It's the realistically unembellished depiction of the lower castes of a vibrant big city that is the most interesting element of the film. Then Jon Voight himself had such a terrifying effect on me that I watched most of it with bulging eyes and my comforter pulled up under my nose. I’ve seen puppets that looked more human than he did.

I somehow fail to understand how Schwentke managed to kick himself into such radical darkness after all those wearily unremarkable pieces of Hollywood trash. Contrary to expectations, The Captain is not an ironic satire of a broken society or a classic "undercover agent" thriller, but a relentless and at times surreal study of role acceptance and the destructive consequences of folk hierarchies. The implication that the rattling bureaucratic machinery of Nazism was still a better option than the people's courts, which could operate more efficiently but with all the more horrific results under that ideology, goes very much against the current trend of emphasizing natural human intelligence and the values of individualism in the face of unjust evil systems. At the same time, it relies on excellent compositions and high-contrast black-and-white cinematography (the darker the room, the more of the film you can see) to push the film towards the uncomfortable feeling familiar from incomprehensible horror films or nightmares. "You've all been promoted. Take your new uniforms from the dead and fall in line."

Another one of Anderson's films telling the story of complicated characters to whom he adapts his optics of perception. If you’re not already capable of developing the empathy needed for the film (even beyond your sympathies), you will absolutely not understand what he is asking you to do and will probably find the film maddeningly irritating. But fortunately for you, there are those other films.