lamps

An iconic, busty feminist flick, without which the world would not have known Tarantino's Death Proof forty years later, and it might have taken a lot longer for the Hollywood's version of unbridled and sinful through and through female heroines to take hold. Russ Meyer was a visionary when he figured out that men's fetish for women's breasts would be stronger in the long run than serious critical insight into a film, and created one that is admittedly vigorously idiotic (just about every character is an exemplary asshole), but amusingly disjointed; an atmospheric spectacle with a great voice that, thanks to the brisk pace, never gets boring and oozes that period moral decadence that every die-hard cinephile must love at least a little (and if you're Tarantino, you can upgrade it to the pinnacle of cinematic entertainment these days). It's pure bollocks, really, and the story isn't worth talking about, unlike Lori Williams who would be worth all the money in the world – she alone embodies that cult status beautifully.

Say what you want about this sweet little film, but the fact remains that you won't find a catchier and better cast musical, at least not in the eighties, that the title track is great, and that just for reviving such hits as the Ronettes' “Be My Baby” or Salomon Burke's “Cry To Me”, Dirty Dancing simply deserves its place in the limelight. Where is that music today.

The story of Lamps and Brawl in Block 99 or How recognition becomes wonder. It doesn’t matter that it's a "low-brow", almost abstractly violent film in which one guy beats a whole bunch of enemies to smithereens. Brawl in Block 99 is a unique, unpredictable and brutal alternative to the bloated grindhouse genre, where the protagonist is much closer to the common man and the style imitates his development, first with austerity and minimalism, then with the use of surreal environments and detailed violence, which becomes the only possible way out; and culminating in an emotional climax that will blow you away. A superb Vaughn and a brilliant Zahler, who was born for this brawl. I have a feeling that when future generations of viewers debate cult films from the early part of this century, this unprecedented carnage will be at the top of the rankings.

The Navigator doesn't reach the quality of The General and is a much simpler slapstick where the plot unfolds for about five minutes and the rest is just a comedy show (this time on a boat), but still serves a generous portion of inventive and timeless fun. Whether the order of the day is simply running around the deck, finding a safe and comfortable berth, repairing the ship from the outside (which is one of the highlights of Buster's comedy) or fending off the attacks of natives, Keaton's acting and, especially at the end, the very creative direction (the scene where Rollo runs out of oxygen underwater and his love is held captive by cannibals on land) do not leave the viewer bored for a moment. The deux ex machina ending is a bit weak, but not enough to ruin it.

Polytechnic's artfully induced depression and sense of helplessness cannot be denied, as well as the very peculiar formal games with the environment, the camera angles and the changing subjective perspective of the three protagonists: the killer, the female victim and the male witness. Villeneuve attempts to achieve a more personal approach and a greater emotional response, but he is not very successful in the established formal scale, where the act of violence enters the scene unexpectedly early and the style focuses on bringing more dynamism to the plot by overlapping the most dramatic events, rather than connecting more closely with the victims (the most suspenseful sequences are those that use handheld shots, but unfortunately there are too few of them). And while the connection to the psyche of the killer in the opening works quite well, the female protagonist is uninteresting and the ending didn't really grab me (and the male villain is oddly off-putting). In any case, it shows Dennis' directorial talents and is definitely a good exposure to his work for his avid fans.

Raw filmmaking that fulfils its purpose to a tee – well, almost. The stylistic minimalism and emotional detachment work brilliantly until the expected conclusion, where the viewer becomes a witness of a shocking decline of the human spirit and gratuitous violence, which, due to the characters' lack of emotional response, does not resonate as much as it should. Otherwise, it’s certainly an original and stimulating piece of work, surpassing even Villeneuve's better-known Polytechnic in its interesting time construction, the believability of most of the characters and its clear vision.

The filmmaking qualities and intentions are unquestionable, but Repulsion is still far from a highly evocative experience. There is a relentless subjectivisation towards a protagonist who’s similar to the later Rosemary, but that one had an excellent Mia Farrow, interesting supporting characters and an emotionally powerful, perfectionistically escalating development. Repulsion, in contrast, has the beautiful but dull Deneuve and inventive direction, but it can't quite eclipse the insanely lengthy exposition and the routine subject matter itself. The second half, however, thanks to the unpleasant soundtrack and the enormously growing sense of mental and physical isolation caused by the aforementioned subjectivisation and sophisticated camera work in relation to the bizarre environment, is a truly powerful cinematic experience that you can't just wash out from your skin. It's a pity Polanski doesn't keep that level throughout... 70%

A very pleasant little film where it doesn't matter that the individual stories are a bit clumsily connected to each other and don't have much of a cohesive value, it's great and clever entertainment through and through that manages to fully rely on the book's subject matter and on excellent actors in all the roles (besides the traditionally great Marvan or Smolík, there’s also Palo Bielik, whose drunken performance borders on either acting or alcoholic genius). What's more, all the stories (except perhaps the downright comedic search for the child) reek of Čapek's contempt for the greed of society and the upper class, among whom an honest person would have a very hard time. Quite possibly Martin Frič's best film, his inventive direction cannot be faulted this time.

I'm a little at a loss – baseball is about as much fun for me as searching for water in the Sahara, but the reputation far preceded this film, and I was genuinely looking forward to seeing guys like Redford and Duvall. I must say that in many ways it didn't disappoint – the retro atmosphere works brilliantly (especially in the iconic beginning on the farm), the script brings deeper moral dilemmas and questions than one would expect, the final match has power even after thirty years, and Randy Newman composed the iconic soundtrack. Redford is a heartthrob and Basinger an amazing femme fatale. That said, I still had a nagging feeling that Levinson alternates stellar moments with downright routine ones much more often than would be appropriate (like the protagonist), that he sometimes stretches the film too far, that he stages some moments rather mechanically and boringly, and that he doesn't quite know what to do with Robert Duvall's character, who doesn't get a chance to express himself properly. And it's a shame, because the script works very effectively with its original motifs, always returning to them at the right moment or varying them based on Hobbs's personal development (the return of an old love during the first game crisis, the introduction of the son during the second, the repetition of the pitching scene, the cracked ball vs the cracked bat, the introduction vs the conclusion), so that even the obligatory pathos gives way to a carefully constructed catharsis in the finale. But those 130 minutes are just too much, and the middle part is filled primarily by its inability to come up with something spectacular, so I simply can't squeeze 4 stars out of it... 70%

A fairly decent story with inoffensive direction that manages to conjure up three or four interesting scenes, but that's about it. The actors couldn’t be any shabbier, and most of the dialogue are like nails on a blackboard, making the emotions seem machine-like almost to the point of ridiculousness. And the melodramatic music is nauseating from the very first scene. Communist art like The Strike is something you don’t want.