DaViD´82

Not even imaginative work with the scene and unsurprisingly, Gillian that is fully immersed in her role (whose greatest contribution is the simple fact that the character of Blanche with all the hysteria, talkativeness, and affectation of Mississippi's elongated accent can very easily turn into unbearably annoying, but that never happens to Gillian, not even for a moment) cannot outshine a completely out of place length, and Ben Foster, who is not entirely bad, but rather than being an equally good actor as Anderson, he looks as his sparring partner who cannot keep up with the pace of the performance.

Distinguished, giving even to the attentive viewer nothing for free, cold, purely British, with an incredibly crafted world of (counter) espionage, where weapons are not used, but only (dis) information are used... Yes, even if you don't know it in advance, you will soon recognize that it is an adaptation of one of le Carré's books. This time it is an adaptation of the third part of the series with George Smiley (he is here purely in the "cameo" role) and it is the discovery of le Carré for film screens in the adaptation, which foreshadowed the style of all successful adaptations of his works up till today. If I wanted to be extremely critical I would only complain about the non-use of German in the passages from East Germany and, for this type of movie, the inappropriate literality in the final passage while driving.

Although this is not the arrival of the Savior, but is a small salvation of dying (sub) genre. And that means something, right? And especially if you nostalgically remember the nineties, when an action movie for cinemas was not synonymous with the overflowing CGI animation about rescuing of the world by (meta) guys in T-shirts, but it was a guy's movie with unexcited ugly guys in dirty undershirts, with a gun in their hands and a stinky armpits, which were more about local survival/revenge/threat. And that's exactly the character Max Payne is ... Um, John Wick, who has no superpowers (even though his 100 + 1 headshot can be considered powers), but the ultimate motivation "you Russian bastards, you killed my puppy that my dying wife gave to me and they prevented me from mourning, so now I have to blow your brains out of your heads", which you won't beat, even if you call Mr. Chekhov from the grave to write the characters. It is simply a straightforward B-rate playful action movie of the old-fashioned type that does not suffer from a shaky camera and knows nothing about crazy editing or CGI shit. And thank God it does not take itself seriously (except for the moving introduction).

The Leftovers are similar to the French Les Revenants. It is also about the consequences of the mysterious phenomenon that affected ordinary people and about losing it and coping with it; whether the characters were influenced directly or indirectly. It is also heavy, intimate, psycho(logical), inconsolably melancholic and very depressing, about people who are fucked up in one way or another, but do not live a life, but rather simply exist without the prospect of a better future. And everyone has a legitimate reason for this (and we gradually find out all about it). It's entirely about living characters that you will give a damn about. If you expect or perhaps demand a replacement for Lost (and it is true that on paper the combination of Lindelof and the “two percent of the population" being missing may raise these expectations) in other words a series that is in the box of mysterious sci-fi, which deals with "how and why", I would rather recommend you to watch FlashForward because you will not find out and it was not even the intention of the creators. In any case, the creators made full use of the original idea and they managed to create the impression that "if two random percent of the world's population inexplicably vanished overnight, three years later this will be the plight of ordinary people in small town USA". Everyone will seek an answer, whether in the church, in different cults that are rapidly emerging, in nihilism, in drugs, conspiracies or in pretending that "nothing had happened". The credibility of science fiction (if you insist on calling this science fiction) is in seemingly insignificant details, in matters not explicitly stated, but incorporated in such a way that create a functioning society. And in this respect, The Leftovers is unrivaled; whether you take the movie as science fiction, satire on the American dream or perhaps an allegory of the world after 9/11, The Leftovers are convincing. And it’s unrivaled in other respect too… In emotional experience; you won’t find another so non-superficial (perhaps nowhere else than in HBO's production would the brave step not to make episode nine the pilot not have been approved; it makes perfect sense, because it's much more impressive and overwhelming) emotion-drainer anywhere. Season two and three then unexpectedly and nicely change the style, even the genre to some extent and the overall focus. It is indisputable that these seasons are a lot tighter, much more is happening (and it makes sense), this pure "cinema" at the peak of serial production, it draws on your emotions like nothing you’ve ever encountered and so I can’t fault it one bit. But personally, I somehow liked more the first season about ordinary people from the middle of nowhere rather than the other two about people (seemingly and from their point of view) in the center of all "existential" events. In any case, all the seasons are magnificent and so unique that you will not find anything like it. The finale scene is simply excellent and aptly follows the essence of the whole series in terms of "the necessity of any kind of answer, even a cheap religious (or not) explanation, within us, versus the impossibility of answers and eternal uncertainty". | S1: 5/5 | S2: 4/5 | S3: 4/5

It could be watchable (the plot is sturdy enough, progress uncompromising and it looks great) if only you could listen to it. Which, I dare say, you can’t. A series where the characters do not speak, but all their communication on principle consists of shouting from the top of their lungs. A series where, from the top of their lungs, the characters bellow abuse, full of pathos. A series where, by bellowing abuse full of pathos from top of their lungs, the characters on principle cry out things that are already patently obvious on the basis of past events. In practice, it’s like this: character A shouts for five minutes about how and why he or she feels like they do (a fact which viewers already know from what they have seen so far) only for character B to pick up on it seamlessly and start a shouting match of touching grief for another five minutes. And even though they both scream away for ten minutes straight they just don’t say anything at all! And on top of all this they all behave like brainless asses, which wouldn’t be a problem if it didn’t take itself so deadly seriously... Is anybody still surprised that I was totally on the side of the silent titans and wished they would feast on every single character in the slowest possible way, so that each one of the soppy cry-babies would have to endure at least a remotely similarly devastating torture as the one they subjected me to?

A hospital at the turn of the twentieth century in an original series where its biggest strength is also its biggest weakness (well, more like just a weakness) because when Soderbergh took all of the clichés from series set in a medical environment and very consistently, bleakly, uncompromisingly and almost cynically turned them inside out, the moment of surprise is lost because whatever motive or storyline comes up, if you turn it one hundred and eighty degrees against what you would usually expect, and you know exactly what’s going to happen. In any case, this criticism fades in the light of everything else; the production design and the accent on disturbing period details to start with (definitely nothing for a nostalgic romantic “those were the times") and to finish with the acting performance (I wonder if Thackery was inspired by W.S. Halsted). Looking at this purely in terms of filmmaking, this is at the very head of the (not only) series pack. If nothing else, I should mention the operations. Soderbergh presents this crude butchery so realistically, with no embellishments, intensively and originally (the rhythm of the shots!), for my life, I can’t remember when I had to turn my eyes away so often due to feeling squeamish; and it’s not just to do with the explicitness of the shots, but also thanks to the fact that it’s all presented so strictly pragmatically that it’s far more effective than if they were operating with emotional blackmail alone. And a special thanks traditionally belongs to Martinez whose seemingly inappropriate and out of place background music does a whole lot for the series.

It suffers from exactly the same problems as Arrow's earlier episodes (before it became a well-deserved TV comic book leader), but here they're less detrimental. Because where, at first (and in a way to this day), Arrow’s super serious, fateful and dark style clashed with the typical “teenage telenovela bravado" approach of the CW Television Network, The Flash takes a much lighter, classic superhero stylization (it is, in a way, only a slavish variation on the first Raimi Spiderman), which can better withstand the traditional CW ills. Gustin is also quite likable despite the handicap of having facial expressions identical to those of Tereza Kostková. So if Arrow feels like a (mostly successful) effort by CW for a serious approach without superpowers, which DC chooses for its film projects, The Flash has profiled itself in the style in which Marvel pushes its film projects. And (so far) it's not detrimental at all, and in the better moments/episodes it even works in exactly the way it wants to; that is, as a consciously naïve, relaxed comic book of the most classic superhero style in television garb. It just needs more variety in the way the individual episodes are created and, above all, more excellent episodes in the style of the eighth "Flash vs. Arrow".

The mid-life-crisis of a depressed taxi driver. Just imagine: eighteen years of marriage that continues more out of habit than lasting love, a daily routine at work full of assholes in the backseat, kids at that age when they hate you purely on principle, your boss is a haughty idiot who takes his bullshit out on you. And there’s you and your simple nature on the lower rung of the middle-class social ladder surrounded by dubious "pals". No special education, no special ambitions, no special talents worth mentioning. Well, no wonder that when the opportunity arises to become a “slut for everything" for a local gang with a shiny car, you jump right in. Not so much for the cash, but purely for the excitement, to disrupt the relentless routine and maintain sanity. The thing is that after the initial intoxication with new-found "freedom", the voice of common sense cries out "that it would be a good idea to shift into reverse and back out" and you realize that you are in deep shit. Absolutely and utterly... The BBC and other their genre movies combined with a considerable emphasis on social drama and character study of the protagonist. And again it worked and again the main character excels in it (this time David Morrissey). It's not as psycho(logical) as Good Cop, which is another movie of the type mentioned above (although in the end it is something completely different) and maybe in certain parts of the three episodes it might want to step harder on the gas, but “just goddamn good" is nevertheless still goddamn good.

When an author adapts his own (so complex) work for the silver screen, it rarely bodes well because there is too much personal involvement. This doesn’t apply to Flynn, who wasn’t afraid of cutting up and changing her "mirror holding, not-so-much-crime-thriller, satirical, cynical bestseller about relationships" to suit the needs of another medium. So she got rid of everything not directly related to the central storyline. Due to this there is drastically less about those two (and so the main snag with the original book, that these two are puppets who behave according to the momentary needs of the story and that they aren’t living characters, becomes much more apparent) and more about the investigation storyline and the influence of the media on public opinion. And so the movie did include Nick’s unfulfilled ambitions as a writer and Amy’s magazine quizzes in everyday practice. Even the diary entries are edited to the bare minimum; it’s simply whittled down to a stump. And as much as this approach didn’t work in the book, the better it works on the movie screen; especially Fincher’s so apt, coolly depersonalized concept which is taken a level higher by the disquieting hypnotic background music from the Reznor/Ross duo. In any case, the most important parts of the book remained. The evolution of the Nick/Amy relationship is cleverly written, like the best horoscopes. I mean in a way that any couple in a long term relationship can recognize themselves in some respect (I’m talking about the first half here). And in this situation you might take it personally, because this creates the impression that "this could happen to you too". If it isn’t happening already...

Maybe this didn’t have to be so romantic and airy, but then it would have lost that special aura that makes the length of the movie more than bearable. In any case, I couldn’t shake off the feeling that these are two separate movies (one about Yaeger and the other about seven space pioneers - and both excellent!) that don’t really fit together, forcibly combined.