Othello

A nasty bit of play with the viewer on the subject of absolute wrongdoing. Indeed, the methods that the able-bodied bunch here carry out, for the sole purpose of fleecing three unfortunate kids, are so drawn-out and methodical as to amount simply to organized sadism, for which we are ignorant of any motivations save what we weave into the film ourselves. Then there is good old-fashioned racism on the one hand and inept apologetics on the other, whereas it is all only ex post since we are unable to respond to it when the wrongdoing is taking place in front of us. Östlund, in all the films I've seen from him, always presents some complicated problem, tries to illustrate all the positions that concern him, only to conclude by saying there's probably nothing that can be done about it anyway. I actually like that approach, but he's kind of an insufferable dick about it, tell me I’m wrong. Anyway, if you look around at how many weak-minded people this movie has served in confirming their own prejudices, at least we know who is to blame for the current over-cautious treatment of ethnic minorities in contemporary pop culture.

If this had been made twelve years ago, I would have taken it as an entry in a contest where Lars von Trier and Alex Garland are competing to see who is the greater cinematic edgelord. At the same time, both films have plenty of reading options, and both are at their best when you ditch the reading and approach them as feverish horror films. At the same time, though, the comparison would come out clearly in favor of Trier, whose contribution is the credible work of a sophisticated person. Garland's got the paintings, he pretty much doesn’t mess around (even if it all feels safely artificial), but I'm a little worried that, for how bizarre it seems, deep down it’s really as banal as I think it is. Plus, that's how I was able to tolerate the hideously high perspective taken by the film's narrative. It would be absolutely ideal if Men turned out to be a prequel to the fourth series of True Detective, returning to the themes and characters from the first series.

Cameron knew exactly what he was doing by cutting the original last 20 minutes or so of the film; in the Special Edition I advise everyone to turn it off right after Ed Harris settles in at the bottom and waits to die. What follows then is just a goofy pat on the head from wise alien mantises completely unworthy of everything that preceded it. And by that I mean especially the intense romance where each of the two lovers watches the other slowly die. This romantic horror thus has an unshakable place in my mind due to the fact that it activated my childhood phobia of the deep.

I was always too cool not to take issue with the second installment of the Alien Tetralogy because a) I resented the way it stripped the aliens of their eerie Gigerian mystery and b) I thought it broke from canon in that, unlike the other installments, it didn't focus on the crumbling periphery of humanity's galactic boom but instead placed us on a vast station in Earth orbit or a newly built human colony. The latter does become a crumbling periphery very quickly as a result of alien activity, but what I love about the first, third, and fourth episodes is the unspoken fact of how the human race, in its colonization of the universe, carelessly tosses aside any parts of it that are not lucrative, simply without any interest in cleaning up the mess left behind. And yet I madly enjoyed my last viewing of Aliens as probably the most spectacular military sci-fi of the analog era. The fact that everything we see here is artfully crafted, nicely old-fashioned with dirty paws is accentuated here by the Cameron’s knack or perfectly selling every single screw or bolt of the film perfectly. Not five minutes go by where he doesn't introduce us to some new gadget or weapon. The entire set, costumes, and objects are so fitting it actually makes you want to touch and feel everything. At the same time, the film has fantastic drama, able to move from quiet traumas to showy spectacles, alternating small conflicts (Newt and Ripley vs. the facehuggers) with big ones (machine guns, flamethrowers, dozens of aliens). Not least, then, is the admiration for the duality that runs through almost all of Cameron's films – a technophile director making technophobic films from a male milieu in which women naturally assert themselves. His empathy for Ripley and Newt's relationship contrasted with the Marine figures kind of suggests that Cameron is not only an excellent filmmaker, but imo quite a heartbreaker in his personal life.

It's said that "behind every great man is a woman spinning the foos men", but it's often more likely that behind every great man is a woman editing his scripts. Cameron was socially on the level of a ten-year-old boy at the time of The Terminator, which is consistent with Peter Jackson's mental age when he made his early films. But he had Fran Walsh on hand to create some sort of people out of the characters in the script. Cameron didn't have that luxury, and that's why everyone here is behaving the way an eight-year-old thinks adults behave. While this can actually be a big plus in many other films, unfortunately it doesn't fit here in this otherwise brutal, dirty urban horror, where an unstoppable absolute evil presses on through a rain-soaked anonymous big city full of strange creatures in pursuit of a hapless victim unable to rely on the basic principles of how to stay safe. Broad daylight? Don't care. Club full of people? Don't care. Police station? Don't care. It Follows before It Follows. An emotionless Schwarzenegger shot from behind in leather pants and jacket calmly slaughtering a police pigsty with automatic weapons is an absolutely iconic cyberpunk sequence.

I've never read anything by Kundera, but from what I've read of him, the hero here, in his insufferability, arrogance, and bitterness, is pretty true to how I've always imagined him. Personally, what struck me most was the motif of the aging constructivist youth who even when witnessing a critical revision of socialist values in the 60s has tied their memories of youth to the monstrous celebrations, marches, and optimistic songs about reconstruction and the new era. As for Ludvík himself, he should have remembered the nationalist saying "If you want to dance with Švorcová, don’t be surprised when the gulag comes."

So I don't understand what the position of the documentary is. Whether it sees its protagonist as a damaged victim or instead admires his straightforward individuality. It comes across as a bit comical in the end, because it seems as if the documentary makers were shocked at Björn’s isolation and squalor and started wondering whether it was his abuse by the artistic elite of the time or the death of his mother that was to blame. All the while Andrésen himself comes across as lacking the assertiveness to kick them out of his house and go read a book or something, which he would have preferred a thousand times more.

One of the most intense horror films I've ever seen, and the darkest denunciation of Hollywood since Lynch's Mulholland Drive or Inland Empire. I tried watching the film with a fever you and let me tell you, it's one big bad trip.

The screenplay is an adaptation of a 20-page short story yet seems like it crammed in a four-pound novel. Lots of unrelated scenes, an unnecessary number of supporting characters, implausible interactions and relationships, and most importantly, the whole thing is totally littered with plot holes. Scott Derrickson boasts that unlike other directors, for him a test audience is not an annoying obstacle but a creative collaborator, and this film looks it.

The worst is how terribly banal the whole thing actually is. The strongest attribute of the film, then, is the constant threat of physical violence hanging over the protagonist's idiot father, which never actually comes through (or rather, never directly hits the heroine), yet is omnipresent and all that more unpleasant.