Marigold

Documentary filmmaker Sergei Loznitsa brought his cruel study of the Russian nature, My Joy, in which, through slow camera movements, we delve ever deeper into social marasmus and thieving morality. The habits of the documentary filmmaker cannot be denied, the creator unequivocally prefers description over action, exploring the expressive faces of Russian villagers and looking for traces of what the protagonist of the film, the van driver Georgij, is experiencing firsthand in the narrative of other characters. The remarkable scary story, in which disgust is mixed with irony, sometimes arouses a smile, but its thorn inevitably leads to a tragic gesture of waste and despair. Although the skeptical film places high demands on the viewer at its creeping pace, it nevertheless repays us with a plastic and depressing mosaic of the present.

The deserted Arctic island is the scene of a small psychological war between two meteorologists, at the beginning of which there is a fairly banal fear of reacting to the tragic news from the mainland. Pavel Kostomarov's poetic camera frames the rift with shots of indifferent Nordic nature, which intensify the misunderstanding and passing of both actors. The lyrical component contrasts with explosive twists in the behavior of characters unable to communicate in an escalated life situation. Popogrebskij's film was definitely one of the best experiences of this year's festival with its picturesqueness, morbidity and psychological sophistication. [IFF KV 2010]

A simple ode to European cinema, shot at a sleepy pace and over-sweetened to be unbearable by the stupid Maria de Medeiros. A fictional documentary without any ideas and no truly apt joke. But the amateurishly stupid mess that convenes a kind of post-commercial "European cinematic guerrilla" – judging by the qualities of Sojcher's film – is no more intelligent and mature than the Hollywood herd. Gross! [IFF KV 2010]

The story of a poor Peruvian family who, in search of a secure life, sends their mother to Spain for a year and a half for work, was excellent and sensitively done. The filmmakers managed to fit into the local color of a Hispanic family with the camera and give the viewer an insight into the intimate details of ordinary Peruvian poverty. I almost wanted to state the good work of the Swedish crew, when it was heard from the director during the discussion that the documentary filmmakers had significantly arranged the vast majority of the key twists on their own. In addition, we read in the daily press that the poor Peruvian family received very solid sums for each filming day. Unfortunately, there's not a word about it in the movie itself. The documentary later even won in its section at the festival, which I consider to be quite the mockery.

The golden bear-wreathed ascent to the rugged mountains, in which the closed boy Yusuf experiences his childhood, hypnotizes through its slowness, poetic compositions and the beautifully rich, quiet emotions of the characters. Semih Kaplanoğlu slowly recites his lyrical poem about silent love and painful timidity, Baris Özbiçer's camera creates beautiful images, and Honey ticks off its time at a completely different pace than is customary in today's cinema. Bittersweet numbness in beautiful cinematic poetry and another of the highlights of this year's Karlovy Vary festival. [IFF KV 2010]

I was particularly drawn to the co-production drama The Albanian by the fact that its plot reminds me of Kusturic's epic Time of the Gypsies. Here, too, the hero pursues the sight of money for a wedding in the West, in order to lose the illusion, and himself, in the corrupt underworld. The only, but fundamental problem with The Albanian is that the main character is a psychological mockery and amoral brute, whose motives the director excuses with cheap kitsch about love and virgin nature. The intention to return Albania to the map of Europe declared by the director before the screening was thus done in a truly curious way. The Albanians look like a bunch of mammoths who, in the vision of their own happiness, do not avoid murder and human trafficking. That probably wasn't the intention... [IFF KV 2010]

He is 21 years old and has written and made and played in a film about love. The initial smirks about what such a young man might know about film and serious topics turn into a complete fascination. Heartbeats is a sparkling affair, whether with its pop art visuals or well-listened-to dialogues. The generational testimony of contemporary forms of love runs in a modern rhythm, makes irony out of itself and works with thoughtful and catchy language of colors and musical motifs. A challenging yet extremely open film that, unlike pseudo-shocking testimony about modern debauchery, goes all the way to the bone. Without any controversy and youthful efforts to stir things up. For a man who's from a different generation, the film affected me admirably.

The best, most cynical, and most polished Coen brothers’ film since The Man Who Wasn't There. It’s a wonderfully unexciting film about an underdog whom God loved dearly and therefore visited upon him much adversity... A Jewish anecdote with an absolutely bestial ending.

The sentiment of Falconer's memories and the sudden flare-up on the threshold of complete and devastating solitude is bearable, even suggestive within the limits of possibilities. Ford's picture needs less fashion design and more poetics. Paradoxically, for all the visual arrangement and modification, Ford somewhat misses in front of the camera what Firth's hero has to give – impulsiveness, perspective, and unpretentious tragedy. It's as if a real person is dealing with an ironed mannequin, and the power of the story has meanwhile faded into rigidity.

A filmmaking failure of gargantuan proportions. A film in which categories of characters, time and space (so precisely built and well-functioning in the first film) fatally collapse, and only a shapeless and unconventional mix of shots that often lack any logic and rational intent remains. The work of destruction is completed by eerily monotonous music, a bad camera and editing of the battle sequences, the pitiful non-acting of Nikita's beloved Nadežda, and an absolutely desperate absence of opinion and any message. Michalkov can talk about what he wanted to accomplish with this film (good, god, the metaphysics of war), but the fact remains that he has only achieved the absolute negation of his once generalistic and disciplined style. The paradox can't be worse – the more shots a film has, the more its cluelessness and emptiness stand out. I guarantee that I waited for the longer version.