JFL

Electra is an intense audio-visual experience. The viewer can only stare in amazement at the absolutely maniacally exacting stop-motion animation and pixilation through which Daria Kashcheeva displays devastating symbolist imagery on the screen. She creates metaphors of emotions, traumas and feelings connected to themes of gender imperatives, desperate attempts to fit into them, and with a vision of the fleeting appeal of giving up one’s own identity.

Kim Jee-woon does not conceal his fascination with the South Korean film industry in the era of the dictatorship and its trashy productions. After a spectacular paraphrase of the Manchurian Westerns made in Korea in the 1960s and ’70s, he goes behind the scenes of the making of mystery crime drama of the 1970s. Cobweb deals with the desire of a second-tier director, who is considered to be a journeyman standing in the shadow of his late mentor, to remake a recently completed project according to his own sudden flash of creativity. The narrative intersperses behind-the-scenes peripeteias with sequences from the film itself, which mimic the theatrical acting and noirishly expressive formalistic stylisation of the time. Kim’s project unavoidably evokes Tim Burton’s Ed Wood, with which it shares – in addition to disturbingly specific parallels –  a general escapist view of the film industry as a chaotic melting pot of pragmatism, naïveté and a mythicised creative vision. Unlike Burton’s classic, however, the narrative here lacks a more coherent form. Cobweb falls apart into vaguely interconnected episodes and seems so dramaturgically random that one wants to believe that this mish-mash of the overwrought, the complacent and the literal must be some sort of deliberate meta homage. Otherwise, Kim’s new film is a surprisingly haphazard load of unfulfilled promises. And it probably really will be, taking into account that this is a production from the revived Barunson, which after years of collaboration with the distribution giant CJ Entertainment went its own way in the interest of its directors’ artistic freedom. But as we know from many similar examples from history, and paradoxically from the narrative of Cobweb itself, such fond hope for unrestrained creativity may truly be just one person’s obstinate wish and does not necessarily mean that the result will be refined and functional.

Godzilla Minus One = Japanese Rambo II. Stallone’s all-American hero of his time nullified the historical wrongs of a lost war, admonished the illusory powerholders controlling a ruthless system and restored pride to veterans by enabling them to fight a winning battle for themselves, out of uniform. The Japanese just had to wait many more decades to do the same for themselves. In the hands of Yamazaki, the Japanese master of spectacular melodrama, the latest prequel/reboot/remake/whatever, simply another way to squeeze the last drop out of the brand, becomes such a crystal-clear resuscitation of classic formulas and kitschy emotions that even Top Gun: Maverick is green with envy. Whereas Tom Cruise successfully remained in the realm of functional pathos, Godzilla and its human fellow travellers spectacularly dive to the greatest depths of heavy-duty cringe. In the end, however, the supposed detached humour and derisive distance of the audience are purely illusory when you realise that you were royally entertained by this film, which by Hollywood standards is a low-budget showcase of embarrassingly exaggerated clichés and gaudy kitsch. ___ Nevertheless, the new film has a disturbing core that mirrors a basic principle of the rising conservatism in Japan and beyond, i.e. the need for an easy substitute lightning rod for negative emotions, as far removed as possible from the real pressing issues of the status quo. In Godzilla Minus One, we have a properly dehumanised and alien monster instead of the maximally humanised Godzilla/friend from the franchise’s cuddly era, which despite the would-be adult smartasses remains the franchise’s best, most entertaining and, mainly, most culturally mainstream phase. On the other hand, we can say that Godzilla shows itself to be a real timeless hero of Japan, because in the decades that it has spent at the top of Japanese pop culture, the lizard knows that hard times and wounded national pride sometimes don’t require the truth. Sometimes people deserve to be rewarded. And so, from time to time, the cute puppet has to put on some CGI armour and for a moment become the hero that the audience doesn’t deserve, but the one it needs. Because it can endure that. Because it’s not just a hero. It is a silent guardian and a watchful protector. Dark [insert Godzilla roar].

In the context of the action genre, John Wick: Chapter 4 is polished perfection. This carefully constructed gourmet treat manages to simultaneously evoke physically intense reactions and pure pleasure from the creativity and inventiveness of its choreography. The moment when Wick puts the nun-chucks around his neck brings you to the realisation that you have just witnessed perfection – it’s something like the first time you knowingly gaze at a van Gogh painting or let the music of Bach encompass you, or see The Rock raise an eyebrow. As foolish and faithless as I am, I momentarily doubted whether the filmmakers had anything else up their sleeve after that. But when the camera soars over the hero wielding a shotgun with incendiary rounds, my head exploded. This is where the wheat gets separated from the chaff. The fourth John Wick is a grandiose eruption of genius, talent and enlightenment. At the same time, its creators pay tribute to the entire previous tradition of cinematic martial arts and the greats of the genre – from Bruce Lee and Sammo Hung to Zatoichi. But by avoiding shallow imitation and fanboyish references, they set a benchmark based on their role models and predecessors that they want to surpass, though not arrogantly, but lovingly and with respect. Keanu Reeves remains a tremendous asset to the franchise, which is primarily thanks to his years of levelling up and his willingness to learn new things. Choreographers thus get an unprecedentedly malleable actor with whom they can vary the skills that he has already mastered while also setting new challenges for him. The same is true of the other renowned actors in the film. Other spectacular ensemble action movies of the past – e.g. The Expendables and The Fast and the Furious – got by with merely pitting stars against each other in the manner of wrestling exhibitions and letting them show off their iconic moves from other movies. In contrast to that, Stahelski’s team takes Hiroyuki Sanada, Donnie Yen, Scott Adkins, Marko Zaror and Shamier Anderson and transforms each of them into a delightfully distinctive character and gives them space to exploit their physical strengths, build on a classic tradition or icon and even go nuts with their acting. In addition to that, Chapter 4 makes absolutely magnificent use of the franchise’s own comic-bookishly overwrought world with its contrasting colour palette, weapons sommelier, style fetishes and surreally idealised clichés. This Downton Abbey with kung-fu and guns has roots embedded in the impassioned essences of genre flicks, ranging from the melancholic crime dramas of Jean-Pierre Melville through John Woo’s heroic bloodshed movies and the samurai dramas of Masaki Kobayashi to the postmodern cool of Cowboy Bebop. John Wick: Chapter 4 thus steers well clear of boastful, Tarantino-style eclectic exhibitionism. Like a true master of the martial arts, it humbly acknowledges its own masters, whose brilliance led it to establish a new pinnacle of the action genre.

The American interpretation of the banality of evil, where “banality” is synonymous with the everyday and the ordinary, but it is not readily apparent. Scorsese needs these three and a half hours so that he can depict, with maximum disturbing effect, the paradoxes and absurdities in the actions of people who, with the support of institutionalised racism and under the banner of their own truths and idealised values, were able to live side by side with those whom they killed. Two aspects stand in opposition to each other. On one side, there is the mythology of a nation that is being corroded by adapting to an imported lifestyle, or rather to a foreign mythos of prosperity. The tragedy of the Osage consists in the fact that they tried to adapt to a foreign mythos, but from the perspective of the white outsiders, that mythos was (and still remains) meant only for themselves and not for anyone else. On the other side, we have a stubborn self-centredness underpinned by an imagined right to prosperity in a land of unlimited opportunities, which in practice means that it can be seized by any means at the expense of others. The narrative consistently makes us aware that evil does not consist in some sort of moral gymnastics that the individual uses to justify his or her opposition to good. On the contrary, the essence of evil consists in absolute rational ignorance with respect to anything foreign, including morality. Essential support for this is provided by the instilled roles, models and ideals that one has to fulfil, because the effort to fulfil them helps one not to see anything else. Fortunately, however, there is a third side, represented not by the local authorities, but by those of the state, which in Scorsese's typically idealistic vision are completely immune to the corruption and temptations of the world around them, because they are built specifically for the purpose of fighting evil. Thanks not only to the presence of DiCaprio, Killers of the Flower Moon is a reprise of The Wolf of Wall Street, in which Scorsese portrayed the perversity of egocentrism and opportunism so spectacularly that his film became a materialisation of the dreams of numerous assholes and a representation of what they should aspire to. This time, in the acting itself (from DiCaprio's clumsiness to DeNiro’s adaptation of Donald Trump’s facial expressions) and in the purposefully slow pacing, he deliberately takes care to ensure that his view of America’s values cannot in any way be misappropriated in the furtherance of those values, though the effort is ultimately futile, because nothing external will break the convinced racists and mammonists.

In the mould of Shin’ya Tsukamoto, Takeshi Kitano also banks on the samurai myth. Unlike the oppressive vision developed by Tsukamoto in the low-budget Killing, the master of deadpan humour has come up with a flashy costume epic that he approaches as a mercilessly caustic farce. In Kitano’s interpretation, the samurai ethos is shown to be absurdly empty bullshit that just destroys lives while having no real value or foundation. Similarly, the whole Japanese system consisting in the hereditary hierarchy is portrayed by the director, screenwriter and the actor playing one of the characters as completely demented nonsense that deprives people of their individuality and binds everyone to senseless subordination to the whims of a handful of privileged maniacs. The film’s narrative literally shows that this tradition, which is still revered by many Japanese today, relied on a senseless cycle of killing for promotion, so it is no wonder that those who went through it and held onto their positions for a while were driven to absolute madness. In addition to samurai virtues and the hierarchy of the period, Kitano also makes fun of many revered figures from Japanese history. He depicts all of the characters as buffoons and whores, though only very few of them are aware that they are such. But make no mistake, Kitano presents all of the above as spectacularly spiteful fun that gives his iconoclastic epic an appropriately sharp edge.

The mass hypnosis obviously worked, but that’s not surprising, because in the usual slim pickings of genre festival programmes, viewers willingly let themselves be deluded by anything with a hint of distinctiveness or an atypical approach. With a clear head, however, the whole film’s shortcomings are readily apparent. We can hope that Late Night with the Devil started out as an ambitious project that, however, was taken out of the filmmakers hands by the producers, who told them that they had to add an explanatory introduction so that even the dullest viewers would understand what they were watching, but it unfortunately also tells them how everything will unfold. Through numerous clues, however, it becomes apparent that the creative duo behind the film are exceedingly lackadaisical in terms of screenwriting, so they slavishly incorporate everything that is literally said in the introduction into the narrative in a way that’s anything but organic. That this can actually be done right is demonstrated by Amanda Kramer’s virtually identical Give Me Pity! from a year prior, which not only manages to stick with the chosen concept of a television show, but also abounds with real inventiveness and captivating creativity despite the low-cost production. By comparison, Late Night with the Devil comes across as a desperately limp knock-off that’s unable to replicate an identical concept, let alone fulfil it, and can thus only pretend to be unique while actually being just another run-of-the-mill trash flick.

Dark Matter is a meta film about the desire and ambition to make movies in contemporary Iran. The filmmakers adore the French New Wave and thus bog themselves down in rigid black-and-white compositions, literal references to Jules and Jim and haphazard attempts at formalistic subversion. A complementary work to Zapata, which was also screened at this year's Karlovy Vary International Film Festival.

While the annotations provided by the Karlovy Vary International Film Festival dangles allusions to the greats of the format – namely Dupieux, Andersson and Lynch – in front of the eyes of viewers, the director sees himself as being unique with an iconoclastic concept on a singular wave of perception. But both of these ideas remain wishful thinking when brought face to face with a film that so successfully lulls viewers to sleep instead of being unsettling and giving them the desired jolt. Unlike the greats of somnambulist cinema, with Apichatpong Weerasethakul and Alain Resnais at the fore, and in contrast to those filmmakers referred to in the annotations, the images that Mihailescu presents to viewers remain desperately lifeless and devoid of inner tension and thus peculiarly remain only unfulfilled promises.

To say Mars Express is the French Ghost in the Shell means placing inordinate expectations on the new film, as well as needlessly placing emphasis on the parallels between the two works. Though it obviously paraphrases Ghost and other genre classics, the feature-length project from the creator of the excellent series Lastman has its own original premise, imaginative sci-fi concepts and great worldbuilding associated with them. The resulting form further relies on cool visuals and a gripping mix of action, thriller and sci-fi derived from well-spaced motifs of identity in an era when consciousness and memories are transferable to robotic bodies. As cyberpunk consciously based on the themes and visuals of previous genre milestones, Mars Express isn’t captivating as a unique work, but it is likable simply due to the fact that not many new contributions to the category are being made and definitely none that are this good.