Marigold

The second Pusher stands out for its greater passivity – Mikkelsen's Tonny was already in the flow of events and "patterns" in the first film. This becomes fatal to him in a story imbued with a certain perverted junkie "Oedipism". Mads is fascinating, locked within himself and heading for the final tragic gesture of purity amidst the filth. Tragic because it's a gesture that leads nowhere – there's no escape. In this sense, more radical and closed than the first film, which seemed to be moving away from the hopelessness a little after all.

Searching for rhythm and a signature in long contact details and (apparently) partially improvised dialogues by a pair of delinquents. In the second part, when the film abandons the buddy movie model and begins to watch Frank's desperate struggle for survival, Refn's penchant for aestheticization of brutality and morally dubious characters is born in the neon light of nightclubs and bars. While at first classical red and purple lights are not used in a fundamentally symptomatic way, the magnificent final sequence gives birth to a director who uses his protagonists as projection screens of his brutal visions. A film on the edge between amateur cinema, the residual influences of Dogma 95 and the awakening visual monster.

Trier's vertical character deviance and Coens' false inconsistency of horizontal space - and at the intersection a disturbing drama of hints and immoral humor that is as perverted as the characters themselves. An anciently statuesque story about the clash of order and disarray, justice and injustice, rationality and impulse. Perfectly cold, perfectly accurate, perfectly theatrical.

The "something" that was missing between Pupendo's harmless nostalgia and the hard disillusioned Androš... and it's going to get worse, it's coming in Identity Card. A film about responsibility, rebellion, quiet dignity and the price of freedom can make you laugh through Šabach escapades, but at the same time cut into the living with nicely profiled and believable characters. Identity Card has one flaw – the narrative framework lacks a solid story pattern, and all the weight is borne by the central boy quartet. The boys are skillful and direct, but they have no chance to carry the weight of slow storytelling without Trojan's film losing its pace. A more consistent edit would certainly not hurt the overall concept. Luckily, there's always a Dylan Point heard just in time, and Trojan edits some first-rate scene into it, so I left the movie theatre with the uplifting feeling that everything’s not fucked as long as we could laugh (and recognize that we were laughing at ourselves) without awkwardness. Identity Card is able to do it, and let it be praised all the way to a pure and undiluted four stars. Along with Walking Too Fast, Czech film of the year.

Explosive satire in the best absurdist tradition of Monty Python. Ideological anarchy as the only weapon against a senseless world that would benefit from collective psychotherapy. Morris offers borderline humor as a medium. If it were shorter and tighter, I'd be thrilled.

Jack Gold's direction is as enchanting as Richard Burton's gaze. Some scenes feel completely modern, fresh and new, and the film as a whole has an incomprehensibly chilling undertone (written in the pace of storytelling and the use of details – especially in the musical component, which was stolen in vain by Zdeněk Liška in a 30 Cases of Major Zeman TV series episode The Well). Of course, it is a long ending and very strange psychology and character interaction (the two main actors essentially never meet, and most of the characters behave somewhat theatrically – but this is part of the alienation effect), in any case, The Medusa Touch is an unforgettable look into the heart of darkness. I'm just glad I didn't see this movie as a kid, as then I'd attribute it to the innermost horrors and traumas.

A pointless collection of overstretched shots, elevator music and cheap smirks for those who laugh when Donutil says “cock" and get a hardon at the idea that Táňa might show a tit. Viewegh's book version had at least some stimulating perspective on the reader-subject, whilst Bařina's film is just cheap. Vulgar and pathetic emaciation that can easily rival The Case of Unfaithful Klara, which at least it entertained with its soft-pornography, while Novel for Men is only good for a striptease among the ubiquitous shirts of television shows.

Certainly the most significant and quite possibly one of Herz's most successful works since his creative heyday (ending with Morgiana). But at the same time, the film, which, compared to last year's Protector, looks terribly old-fashioned with its radical propensity for pathos and television with its conservative processing. It is good, however, that it opens up the painful and still sensitive subject of German expulsion and crimes against often innocent members of another nationality. What is worse is that in its vision of the world, the film remains at times awkward, clenched and pathetic, albeit with an inverted sign (the characters of Czech pigs are basically equivalent to typical film SS soldiers). Habermann's Mill is very good wherever it focuses on the civilian theme (Habermann as a man who wants to stand "outside" ideologies, which is his fatal mistake) and does not embark on the upright waves of tragedy. When it comes to it (Habermann's wife's interview with the Sturmbahnführer, the execution of Czechs, the final scenes of lynching), the film has the old familiar piece of unnaturalness and bony script equations. The dubious choice of language can also be blamed – why on earth are two Germans talking to each other in Czech post-synchronization and with a terrible attempt at a hard German accent? There are a number of unpleasant excesses, but on the other hand Herz can always compensate them with more successful moments, when I felt that this film had something to say, but he never finishes it. His greatest advantage remains quality craftsmanship, sensitive direction, stylish music and, above all, the charismatic Březina performed by Karel Roden, a character who makes Habermann's Mill surprisingly decent here and there. [55.5% :o)]

Season 1: A small, kind and addictive audience scam that looks terribly radical, but is actually just a black-humor throw-down of many accepted clichés. Dexter is not nearly as dark a figure as he would like to be - in fact, he quite obediently conforms to audience expectations and does not embark on the thin edge of ethics – inevitably, Doakes' "post-war" revenge on the Haitian criminal is much more problematic than his rampage. Who would want to judge that adorable darling (the teddy bear my girlfriend dubbed him to be)? Dexter entertained me in the first season, despite the relatively early revelation of who the ice truck killer is and what the deal is with him and the main protagonist. The weird feeling is compensated by excellent actors and perhaps even better written minor characters. And I really enjoy Dexter's family life. I'm not saying that more could not be gotten out the character of a murderous sociopath with a reputation as a great guy, but what the creators have made works and entertains.

With similarly tuned retro images, it is difficult to find a reasonable line between piety, parody and seriousness, if I paraphrase the words of one of the protagonists: Machete didn't cross the line, the line crossed Machete. This film is the most entertaining and dullest spectacle I can imagine in the genre. If I’d had it on VHS in the 1980s, I’d undoubtedly have long hair, a black mustache and a sharpened machete. And a girl with one eye. [85%]