Marigold

Excellent satire, in which, in addition to the image of a muddy community and normalizing marasmus, the typically "Chytilová" elements, particularly the mundane nature of relationships between the opposite sexes, also prevail. The authentic elements in combination with the distinctly stylized parody (Kodet's Kodeš) seem a bit unbalanced, as if Chytilová sometimes did not consider the panel apartment reality to be telling enough and felt the need to emphasize it with comedic elements. However, from the point of view of the interpretation of nascent normalization, this is an absolutely essential film.

In the end, I liked The Wrestler more than Requiem for a Dream – it affected me more on an emotional level. Whilst Requiem for a Dream is a linear and aestheticized image of doom, the story of Ram Robinson contains several layers. Aronofsky withdrew into the background and opened up the maximum amount of space possible to Mickey Rourke's captivating acting, and to playing with genre expectations. Fortunately, the fear that The Wrestler would end up with the heroic pathos of the main character overcoming himself was not confirmed - quite the contrary. The devastation of the body, the inability to establish emotional relationships and to exist fully outside the space of a painful pretense called wrestling – all of these motifs are based on pure and unadulterated drama. I have nothing negative to say about this brilliantly and cleverly constructed film. Aronofsky is able to feign like a real wrestler, but there is no doubt that the blood and pain are real. Theater sometimes hurts more than reality. The Wrestler is another of the director's drastic portraits of the bottom of American society. For me, this is the most powerful film of the year so far.

It's unfortunate that the conversational aspect from the life of teenagers returns. I'm used to the undersized story, but I’m simply not interested in the emotional chatter of the little wizards. It’s a good thing that Yates gets the film going decently again in the second half. After the promising fifth film, it was confirmed to me again that the film version of Harry Potter is a precisely treated product, but there is no great magic – it disappeared with the departure of Oldman and the influx of hormones. Fans will be pleased, the infidels will not be offended, and the film will amuse and do no harm. Stupefy... not a chance. [65%]

The best-filmed Harry Potter since Cuarón's The Prisoner of Azkaban. Very few dead spots, the plot is built in such a way that even a complete HP illiterate will soon catch on, the return of Gary Oldman and the ever-improving Radcliffe, who at times shows something akin to charisma. David Yates has a perfect sense of atmosphere and pace of storytelling, and I'm not even sorry that the humor has disappeared. The only bad thing I can say about this series is that each film is essentially about the same thing and the end is nowhere in sight. However, if the magic is given to us with such grace, I have nothing against seeing it three more times. This doesn't change the fact that my nose still slightly wrinkles over the infinite amount of recycled raw materials (of better quality in the original). Potter is good at reading film trends, but doesn't bring anything new. [75%]

Mann continues where he left off with Miami Vice – in raw and unadorned filmmaking, in which there is sharp sound and naturalistic image of a digital camera. He once again helps himself wonderfully with music that gives the sequences a gradient and atmosphere. Unfortunately, the intention to make a 1930s version of Heat failed due to the script, and because of Christian Bale. I don't know who is to more blame, but Depp's thug is the main character, and the sleek man of the law is absolutely unable to handle any problems or ambiguities. It’s all about John Dillinger, and Michael Mann, with his foppish and gentleman-like nature, pays tribute to all of the mustachioed gangster melodramas from the past. It works great, including the ending. The motif of Dillinger as the last representative of gallant robbers, which is destroyed by an inconspicuous mafia racketeering, brings a certain depth to the film. For two and a half hours, Public Enemies kept me entertained, because Depp and Cotillard work well together, and Mann is able to dive right into the middle of the events. But there is something magical missing – in this case the poignant tension between law and crime, good and evil. Dillinger and Purvis are both far too unambiguous to form as explosive a pair as Hanna and McAuley.

An extraordinarily intelligently shot blockbuster that is brought down by a weak screenplay and ostentatious dithering outside the mainstream of traditional detective action. In my opinion, this is the second absolute biggest advantage of the film – I can think whatever I want about the handheld camera, but it is justified in the service of Michael Mann. The atmosphere cuts and nice edge with its rawness and the great musical undertone gives it a modern tempo. The screenplay, unfortunately, is inexcusable. Too little room for character profiling, a boring story structure and no twists – even the excellent Mann can't bring tension and spark to Miami Vice. But just when you think that primarily effects are expected of a film with a budget of 135 million dollars, this authentic story about two guys on the edge of the law becomes a lot of fun. Not as an action movie, but as a raw psychological drama without loops and phrases. I give it a weaker five stars.

A nuanced tale of a fighter from the underbelly, delivered in a hilariously thickened indie style in which all authenticity is subservient to a disjointed and flimsy script. Truly a failed attempt to present Hollywood clichés in an independent dramatic style. Very aggressive boredom.

Bay likes to escalate. This means that the second film is bigger, more explosive, more infantile, stupider, more lobotomized... maybe a little funnier. Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman used most of their intelligent ideas in the Star Trek prequel script, so in this Hasbro mishmash they have no choice but to dilute the really demented plot with decent gags and self-parodying one-liners. Which is nice - otherwise Revenge of the Tinsmiths would seem really unbearable to me. Even so, watching two and a half hours of destruction, confusing action and rushing concrete mixers is a solid impact on the nervous system. Especially because, compared to the first film, it's no longer ballbusting - it's hackneyed. The moment of surprise is there, so we get Emmerich's recipe "if you don't know what to do, blow up as much of the world's ropes as possible". At the end, the divine Michael Bay prepared his much-loved pathos in a raw state for me, for which I thank him and send him a tin kiss. I know that Michael Bay lovers will be drooling with happiness, but for a viewer, who, in addition to a ton of steel armor, also likes a little bit of thought put into things, this year's blockbuster is Star Trek. And that won’t change no matter what Michael Bay does.

This is a great advertisement for American car companies. I don't understand how they can be in such a slump. Hopefully, the second film will pull them out of it. Bay really is very robotic, but two and a half hours of talking scrap metal and more and less funny rip-offs was a bit too much for me.

After the brilliant Bridge to Terabithia, Csupó has completely flown off the handle. A dramaturgical mess topped with bad special effects and sterile direction that buries what little suspense that survives the wooden actors and shoddy sets. This is the distilled essence of boredom and neutered poetry.