Matty

The Hypnosis starts out as a relationship movie that subtly satirises the environment of technology start-ups and then blossoms into a wonderful cringe-fest in the mould of Toni Erdmann, when your skin crawls because of the onslaught of inappropriate interactions. Director Ernst De Geer stages awkwardness as masterfully as his compatriot Ruben Östlund. He doesn’t go to similar extremes, though only for a few moments. ___ What if we could use hypnotherapy, for example, to release our consciousness bound by social conventions and rid ourselves of the fear of losing face? Like the protagonist manages to do, having returned to the self of her childhood and whose thinking is no longer limited by routine and rules. Everything becomes a game for her. But she has ahead of her an important presentation of the mobile app that she developed with her anxious partner, who expects Vera to play the role of the professional in meetings with mentors and investors, and to pretend that she is pursuing a worthy cause and, like him, wants to save the (third) world. However, it no longer makes sense to her to be only outwardly authentic just to not step over the boundaries within which “naturalness” and “true self” are merely harmless slogans aimed at increasing the attractiveness of the product. She wants to play with an imaginary chihuahua, drink vodka with milk and dance to loud music until the morning. Her dedication to the game highlights the hypocrisy and prudishness of the other characters, who have standardised their behaviour in the interest of career growth. Their imagination has atrophied in the meantime. Therefore, the question arises as to who is actually hypnotised, who behaves as if they are not themselves, but is instead a slave to norms and expectations. ___ The Hypnosis basically updates Lars von Trier’s The Idiots, though with a lesser degree of filmmaking radicalism. It adds the motif of performative feminism, corporate virtue signalling and a modern approach to relationships and to the psyche, which we constantly attempt to optimise as if they were our work projects. Unlike von Trier and Östlund, however, De Geer doesn’t approach the characters only as the objects of a social experiment. He is also interested in their feelings, not just the masks that they wear, thanks to which The Hypnosis ultimately works best as a relationship film in which the ultimate expression of love is acceptance of one’s partner in all of their positions. Including the absolute strangest ones. Or the most authentic. 80%

On the one hand, Baby Boom is an entirely progressive comedy showing how unhelpful and unfair the corporate environment of Reagan’s America was towards a woman with children who had to make much greater sacrifices than her ignorant colleagues and incompetent partner. At the same time, it is a film whose protagonist does not fight against discrimination in the workplace, but constantly retreats from it. She leaves the company and the city, but in the end, when she is in a very favourable negotiating position, she doesn’t try to change the unjust systemic conditions (or least confront the company’s exclusively male management with them). On top of that, she discovers within herself the maternal instinct, the seeming lack of which is the main source of humour during the first half of the film, and she even falls in love with a handsome doctor. The emancipatory idea that it is possible for even a woman to “have it all” (as her boss says during dinner in the introduction) is thus served up together with a celebration of traditional female roles. In any case, Diane Keaton is great in her role as a manager who is not a walking stereotype, but rather a believable mix of incompatible qualities (neurotic and chaotic when it comes to her child, but goal-oriented and practical when it comes to business), and even in terms of the visual aspect – unlike contemporary examples of the genre – Baby Boom is not an entirely run-of-the-mill romantic comedy in which only shots and counter-shots would alternate in badly lighted interiors. 65%

A masterclass in dreadful overacting (Faye Dunaway acts as if she is possessed by the spirit of Joan Crawford, but for all of the maniacal mimicking of theatrical gestures, her performance lacks nuance, thus remaining only a grotesque sneer). Neither the filmmakers nor the actors have a sense of moderation. The emotions are turned up to eleven from the opening minutes and even the style is exalted, when the most banal verbal exchanges are carried out in urgent detail, when you expect the actors’ heads to explode and merely walking down the stairs has the seriousness and nobility of an ancient tragedy. Not only the main protagonist, conceived as a horror-movie monster, but the whole film seems to suffer from psychosis. The dramaturgy is lame in both legs. It’s mostly just a succession of totally overwrought scenes (like the frenzied destruction of the rose beds and the hysterical fit over the wire coat hangers) that would be intentional parody in the hands of someone like John Waters (who loves this film), but here they are approached with absolute seriousness, without even a hint of distance. Due to the lack of any connective tissue that would bring sense to this cascade of rage and because there is zero understanding for the characters, this film cannot be taken seriously as either a character study or as an account of child abuse. I hope this will not be taken seriously as a biopic about Joan Crawford by anyone who endures until the last scene, which clearly declares that the film (and the book on which it is based) is an act of revenge by a daughter who was disinherited by her mother (a lot of the things that happen in the film are demonstrably not only exaggerated, but simply made up in order to make Crawford come off as the most repulsive monster possible). Given everything mentioned above, however, Mommie Dearest can be enjoyed as a first-class or even one of the best examples of what Susan Sontag described as camp, i.e. a work so intensely bad and devoid of a sense of detachment, and in which everything on every level is so shamelessly excessive, that it becomes entertaining and unforgettable. And impossible to rate, because it would equally deserve either one or five stars.

The first Twister is still a perfect summer blockbuster that hasn’t aged even in the action scenes, which are impressive thanks mainly to their sound design and the well-portrayed characters. At first glance, the new Twisters appears to be only a superficial update, with younger and better-looking actors who are able to convince you that climatology is hot. The setting is the same. We again watch two teams of storm chasers rushing after tornados. The dangerous situations (and science) again serve to bring the protagonists together. This time, however, they are not separated spouses (so this isn’t a tense variation on the marriage comedy), but representatives of two very different worlds: a cultivated urban lady and loud dude from the American South. The Southern setting is crucial for the story, as socio-cultural prejudices are overcome along with the traumas. The film implies that without cooperation and without stepping out of the position of mere viewers creating exclusive content for our YouTube channels, we cannot face disasters (the climax aptly takes place partly in a cinema, the last refuge before the apocalypse). I found the plot-driving transformation of the two main characters from witnesses to participants in the action who pursue the collective interest rather than their own personal interest to be sufficiently compelling and emotionally and intellectually stimulating that I could enjoy the film, even with all of its cliches, as a pleasantly straightforward disaster movie from the Spielberg school. 75%

Watching Her Drunken Diary is sometimes like coming across an article titled “Ten Signs That You Have a Drinking Problem” among Prosecco ads in a lifestyle magazine. It’s a bit baffling when you use advertising aesthetics while pointing out in a cautionary way how alcohol ads connote luxury and such pleasure that your grey life will be inundated with saturated colours. However, this film is not pointless. ___ In the protagonist’s life, the colours gradually fade until shades of green predominate (her return to herself is unsurprisingly symbolised by red, the colour of life). As in melodramas, the development here happens not in the psychological depths, but mainly on the surface, whether that involves coloured surfaces or the protagonist’s body with her increasingly puffy face and a larger number of spots and bruises. And also as in melodramas, Míša’s fall is fatalistically reported starting with the first shot (and then a few flashforwards and an encounter with a homeless man). Otherwise, life with alcohol is realistically depicted as a spiral, when a person cannot escape the pattern of addiction and falls into the same shit again and again (and generally falls and stumbles...often like the characters in Marie Poledňáková’s comedies).___The protagonist’s predisposition to addiction is indicated by one brief flashback from her childhood with her alcoholic father. We similarly have to infer her background and what she actually does for a living (in any case, money is not a problem for her, as she moves to a large apartment in the centre of Prague). Her Drunken Diary is not really a psychological or social drama, though it does show conspicuous signals here and there that alcohol is a society-wide problem due to, among other things, the normalisation of drinking at parties, at home, after work... For me, this was mainly a love story about a woman who chose between a bottle of wine and a partner and ultimately – during the final act, when a lot of things suddenly happen all at once and everything is absurdly condensed – decides to focus on love primarily of herself. Thanks in part to limiting it to the most typical situations, I think this story may be inspiring for a lot of people in the target audience, especially in combination with the accompanying prevention campaign. 65%

Fifty Shades of Grey, but done a bit differently. Director Sam Taylor-Johnson and screenwriter Matt Greenhalgh could have used Amy Winehouse’s story to construct an emotional drama about fame, addiction, voyeurism and the excessive demands placed on how famous women are supposed to behave and look (mainly decently). Instead of that, they decided to take an absolutely dull, mediocre approach to telling a bittersweet fable about a girl unhappily in love, who wants to be a mother (which is her main desire and greatest vulnerability). Only a minimum of space is dedicated to the process of composing and recording music or to any effort to understand the deeper causes of Amy’s predisposition to addiction (no, I really don’t think it was because of a broken heart and the death of her grandmother). It’s as if the film wasn’t made for Amy and her fans. The main point of Back to Black seems to be to clear the name of the two men who opportunistically exploited the singer’s vulnerability and contributed to her tragic demise. Here they behave – at least toward the protagonist – in an exemplary manner with exaggerated concern (for comparison, watch the documentary from 2015). Even if we set aside the ethically questionable retouching of reality and laying blame on the victim and her impulsive behaviour, Back to Black remains a below average film that is unnecessary in every respect (including Marisa Abela’s performance, unfortunately). It gains depth and veracity only once, during the closing credits, which feature Nick Cave’s heartfelt performance of his ballad “Song for Amy”. 40%

Hundreds of Beavers brings to mind a hyperactive kid whose foster parents were Guy Maddin, Buster Keaton and Tex Avery, but no such analogy can capture the originality and franticness of this incredible whirlwind of wacky gags, game-like mechanisms (which at times include frustrating repetition and variation) and DIY aesthetics. Every shot is a joke. Mostly hits, with occasional misses. It’s not perfect, just like the Monty Python movies aren’t perfect, but that’s also why it may just be considered a cult classic someday. 90%

My Sweet Little Village without Menzel’s refined touch. Both when he is at home in his dingy studio apartment and when he is at work, the solitary truck driver played by Vlado Müller sticks to his routines, which long sections of the plot are dedicated to depicting. In her only film role, Pavla Kárníková portrays his unpunctual assistant, who conversely has no respect for order or authority. They can’t stand each other at first. They’re sure about that in advance. He sees her as a “whore” and a “bitch”, while for her, he is a grumpy “old man”. Through their dark past, however, they gradually find common ground and come to realise that it is possible to step out of the roles to which they have become accustomed or that society has assigned to them. In his case, it is the role of a curmudgeonly bachelor who holds others at arm’s length, whereas her role is that of a troubled “slut”. Unable to express their feelings in a healthy way, the two outsiders come together during Advent, and the undecorated tree and lonely Christmas dinner add a sense of melancholy to the raw, authentically gritty story. In the context of the collaborative works of Kachyňa and Procházka, Christmas with Elizabeth fits in with Hope, which took a similarly humane approach to depicting the relationship between a prostitute and an alcoholic, other social outcasts who in the 1950s were condemned to the roles of criminals unworthy of any understanding. 75%

Though throughout most of the film we don’t see anything other than an outwardly ordinary German family, the layered soundtrack, which mixes the chirping of birds and the murmur of a river with a constant mechanical drone, evokes an almost indefinable feeling from the first minutes, a feeling that something intimately familiar seems strange and oppressive. The resulting effect is best described by the term “unheimlich” from Freud’s psychoanalysis, i.e. uncanny. Zone of Interest is extremely disturbing in its ability to capture the abnormality of the everyday. ___ The unchanging, rigid apathy of the depicted world is underscored by predominantly static shots without artificial lighting and with great depth of field. The cameras are positioned in different corners of the house and garden like in a reality TV show. They record the movements of the actors without artistic stylisation, thus evoking an impression of the distant past. Not even the editing adheres to the principles of standard narrative cinema. The switching between cameras depends on which room a character has just entered. Everything thus seemingly takes place in the present tense. Subjectivity and creativity, or rather the possibility of averting one’s gaze and disrupting the order of things, are suppressed. The tasks that Höss carries out are mindless administrative work. Genocide is a logistical process. ___  If we wanted to locate the source of the tension that pervades the whole film, it would be the clash between what the Hösses are willing to see and what happens outside of their house and garden. Glazer’s distinct style is a form of rejection. He consistently avoids aestheticizing one of the greatest tragedies of modern history. At the same time, he succeeds in using empty space in a way that is far more powerful than direct depiction. Because we cannot see the other side, we are aware of what is happening there. Our effort to fill this gap leads to the fact that we cannot stop thinking about the ongoing violence. ___ Glazer also included night scenes shot with a special thermal camera. This involves a reconstruction of the story of a ninety-year-old Polish woman named Alexandra, whom Glazer met during his research. She became for him a symbol of resistance, a light in the darkness. Taking into account the perspective of those who actively resisted Nazism is one of the few elements that Zone of Interest shares with more conventional dramas about the Holocaust. Where other Oscar-winning dramas offer catharsis and a reassurance that humanity will ultimately prevail, Zone of Interest offers only a disturbing presentiment of things to come. We see that the concentration camp has become a museum where cleaners mechanically vacuum the dust and polish the display cases. A single glance inside the death factory peculiarly does not reveal any atrocities. Rather, it is characterised by the same emotionless routine that we saw in the Hösses’ bourgeois household. We have become accustomed to the presence of the Holocaust in our collective memory and in the media space. Zone of Interest shines a light on the mundanity, banality and elusiveness of the evil to which we contribute merely by remaining indifferent. 90%

The Goldman Case is a masterclass in how to grippingly direct (and edit!) a courtroom drama that takes place almost entirely in a single room without needless embellishments (and, furthermore, is shot in the television format that corresponds to the time when the trial was held). In terms of acting and the screenplay, The Goldman Case is equal to Anatomy of a Fall, at whose centre stands a similarly complicated character and which raises similar questions (Doesn’t the one who can tell the more convincing story and give a better performance win in court? Do words have more weight than actions in the end?). And though it involves a case from the 1970s (a left-wing Jewish activist denies murder charges), in the second plane the film delivers an almost sociological overview of French society at the time, the clash between the right and the left that plays out in the courtroom, the inability to see a person outside of the box in which we have placed them based on their political orientation or background, and the unwillingness to see that some facts can be black and white at the same time, all of which is in some ways reminiscent of today’s culture wars. 85%