Reviews

Josh Oppenheimer's, Christine Cynn's and Anonymous's (Werner Herzog's?) "The Act of Killing" presents a „truth–telling" documentary about the killings in Indonesia in 1965-66, when more than a million reported communist workers, peasants and Chinese ethnic groups were murdered by pro-government forces (with the involvement of some western democracies) and as well, about groups of gangsters and death squads working on behalf of the Indonesian military forces; perpetrators who remained in power for more than thirty years after these events...

Nearly 50 years later, in 2012, Oppenheimer's documentary empowers and entitles these former Indonesian death-squad leaders to re-enact their mass-killings in any filmic genres they wish, including stylish Hollywood crime dramas and Indian romantic musical numbers... letting them actualize past monstrosities in the present.

So, what to say... the filmmakers, like in the wake of the 1965 military-coup in Indonesia, make the same coup (a cinematic-coup) five decades later, by installing during the time of production an indulging and accommodating relationship leading to a collaboration (and re-enactment – the act of killing) that serves as both self-promotion and self-confession to these murderers; it must have been an easy task for the show, because these men are feared to this day (in a scene, one of the assassin demonstrates how he can still extort money from some local Chinese), celebrated as heroes and still supported in many aspect by the actual government.

So, what to say... the weakness of Oppenheimer's movie is the film's alleged truth-telling; how could any form of re-enactment provide a substitute for truth? Oppenheimer's amateurish or ambiguous approach to film-making does not allow him to understand that 'truth' cease to be, and never is, the justification for a film existence.

You admire a work of art as a thing in itself, wherefore, a painting, sculpture, poem, or any other product of the creative arts, (especially those with strong imaginative or aesthetic appeal, like music and film), actually contributes or merely points to a quality of existence. Art things do not provide a substitute for it. There is not such a thing as truth-telling in cinema. Cinema is a language, and as such, Josh Oppenheimer's truth-telling can only be his-story telling.

Telling history! Why chose a half measure, why mistake the film for real life, when the filmmaker could have gone all the way. This could have been the brilliance of the film; bringing us face to face, like facing a mirror – the evil nature of mankind. The stories that "The Act of Killing" tells are unforgettable, largely unknown by the wider world, and need to be told. Nevertheless, the movie still comes away oddly pernicious and deceptive.

So, what to say... watch the film's ending. Manipulated by the directors (occupied in the search for an unreachable truth-telling), the ending scene of the movie shows the disgust an aged killer feels for himself as he throat retches and ass whistles while visiting the killing site in 2012. Was it another re-enactment? Who could tell? Oppenheimer doesn't want or doesn't dare to tell that to the audience.

What to say... watch the ending scene again, the way it is represented (as with other 'truth-telling' scenes handed out all over the movie): at night-time, a grey-haired killer gains access through the wide open entrance door of a store (once upon a time a cinema), the lights are turned on, no one there, upstairs there is the spot of the killing, the crime scene props lay there ready to be used...

The title of Kōbō Abe's 1962 enigmatic novel "Suna no onna", from which Hiroshi Teshigahara's 1964 homonymous movie was taken, is translated into English as "Woman in the dunes". However, the correct translation of the original title "砂の女, Sand Woman" brings us closer to what this cinematic masterpiece is all about; whereas "Woman in the dunes" calls to mind a too much of a personal history of one's existence, "Sand woman" points to something that is beyond "the certificates we use to make certain of one another". Life is not in need of identification cards at all. Everything is fated, nothing depends on man, for he cannot find anything to depend upon either within or outside himself, "both completely buried under particles an eighth of a millimeter wide – you can't fight it! It's hopeless!" Everything you'd have thought and brought up will be blown into the wind. Has there ever been anything man could control? "Are you shoveling sand to live or living to shovel sand?" Cinematographer Hiroshi Segawa's wondrous writing is intensely visual, is deeply sensual... A remarkable work, a movie experience you'll never forget.

Friedrich Nietzsche said: "The essential element in the black art of obscurantism is not that it wants to darken individual understanding, but that it wants to blacken our picture of the world, and darken our idea of existence." In her writings Mother Theresa speaks of God talking to her about becoming a sister of the poor: "You are I know the most incapable person, weak and sinful, but just because you are that I want to use you, For My Glory! Wilt thou refuse?". Scorsese's struggle with his cultural heritage – all its imprinted Catholicism – made him become a parody of himself; incapable and unfit to direct "Silence" (2016). This film comes with a sense of a void, it has an awful emptiness, woefully filled of sentimental Christian mysticisms. A sellout of everyone's neighbor love, a benedictus from the Catholic Church. If there was anything at all in the film, it made me discover Masahiro Shinoda's "Silence" (1971 - Original title: Chinmoku), a much more eloquent, impressive movie. The once 46 years young Scorsese came under criticism from bigoted Christians over "The Last Temptation of Christ" (1988)... what Pope Francis thinks about today's venerable Scorsese's missionary Silence I don't know, but to me it seems this Hollywood was made only "For the greater Glory of God".

how to sway the audience's opinion that this very elegant piece of 'film' is nothing but an deceptive 'movie'. It is often said that revealing too much would ruin the surprises that come. But revealing the most possible reality is precisely what makes a good movie cinematically exist – it is the movie's unique closeness to reality that reveals what the reality hides, not the other way around. Why insult the audience's intelligence? Tornatore made with "The Best Offer" (story and screenplay) a painfully trivial film, produced and -consumed again and again for passive, unthinking spectators. Perfectly forgettable assembled pieces of an roll your eyes automaton – and even Morricone's looped strain dies of prostration. There is only one scene that is worth mentioning. It is when Geoffrey Rush strikes Sylvia Hoeks's locked door and admits that he is the one that was hiding in the room.

Tarantino's 'The Hateful Eight' never reaches the same level of excitement or acuity of Quentin's earlier cinematic intelligence. Remember the startling 'Reservoir Dogs' and its 'eight' crooks played by Harvey, Tim, Chris, Steve, Lawrence, Michael, Eddie and Quentin himself? I'd say Quentin is getting worse and worse keeping making Tarantino's film. I mean, this new talkie has a glorious opening act though… only up to an awful close-up, Samuel L. Jackson's face, as if he had come out fresh from a hairdresser parlor... well, from there on, the movie is just poorly directed. Despite it's been lovingly photographed on heroic 70mm film stock – to me, it's a total lack of empathy, lack capacity for hope, fear, love, hate. Shallow emotions, why bother? He once remarked: "When people ask me if I went to film school I tell them, no, I went to films" – that was Quentin at its best. Today's lesson for Tarantino: "if you do a pastiche don't do a pastiche of your own style".

You take something unfamiliar like the fear of the unknown, tailor it to the common assumption of the audience so that you don't force them to think too hard… and you'll get an uninspired film tours the world – withal animate acclamation and trophies and prizes by the apparatus of the official state culture. In this ruinous process, and with the complicity of obtuse moviegoers who desire precisely not to see the unfamiliar, cinema can no longer exist in the way it has always reinvent itself – film after film. Cinematography was the sincere desire of reproducing the movement of the world, of men and women's language, of life. There was no cinema without love and it never had the power of parading soldiers or academic scientists or television people of today; Yôjirô Takita's "Departures" lacks any vital issues that could damage revenues and harm the film's commercial prospects, no payoff for you, you are bought – if of any interest "Okuribito" is an apt metaphor for human-to-citizen-to-consumer-to-consumed.

The subject matter of Jens Lien's "The Bothersome Man" is clear: we ought to live on as brainwashed citizens even after death. So what if the director himself abide such a Hades? Someone was singing years ago – Where do the children play? Let's admit it, "Den brysomme mannen" is a dull pettiness of banality both in its production and its directional joke – What other joke could bring a film to life? Let them eat cake! Few are the eyes able to see the horror of the current filmmaking environment, the forced subjugation and cultural extermination of the current social and economic arrangements. Who are those who make movies today? Do children play anymore? For someone who's able to love would it be possible for him to pay for love? Watch out, you are trained to life as dogs to walk.

Jean-Louis Trintignant (David) plays a fugitive on the run claiming to hold a unspeakable secret. He befriends with Marlène Jobert (Julia) and Philippe Noiret (Thomas) who are living a slightly dull life in the country. Robert Enrico's The Secret (1974) is a master peace of a film. A real film – and as an omen it reflects very well today's society; where fears and anxiety unfortunately still prevail in our lives. Leading to an increasing fatalism as events move towards a desolate conclusion, the prejudices that lie deep within yourself while watching does not let up until the very last minute… Ennio Morricone's soundtrack is incredible, one of the finest ever, tense and disarming in all the right places. An Amazing Film.

All mouths and lips are what "Meet Joe Black" is about, literally: pouting, peeling, teasing, nibbling, licking, slurping. Claire Forlani throws her lips around any moment she can find. Brad Pitt, nibbling soft pink peanut butter, sucks. Anthony Hopkins, a moist breeze, but not better. Marcia Gay Harden as Allison, brain death. Martin Brest, the director here, must have instructed his actors (sentimentally): "as you well may know your lips are the most seductive part of your body and and it is very seductive when you play with your lips and and let's make a three hour film and and whisper all through the place because you don't want to wake up the audience and and whisper it all over when you hold me sweet words like I love you". The actors when signing up for Doctor Martin Brest's lips anesthesia they must have discussed both surgical and non-surgical alternatives in lip augmentation. The director finely performed injections for who didn't want surgery… these techniques result in great improvements but were a temporary solution not good for eternity. Finally, Jeffrey Tambor as Quince is the only one worth watching.

Probably the worst Brian De Palma film, for sure a distasteful movie, it runs out of energy... watch it twice it'll begin to irritate you. The monologue/narration is bad; it tries to supply some depth to the movie but the acuteness is just not there and it ads nothing to the plot - it reveals the ending at the beginning - depressingly little intelligence here; the movie lacks in punch and does not have the credibility it seeks. Al Pacino and Penelope Ann Miller's love affair is unconvincing, there's no chemistry between the two, their emphasis is often wrong. Thought Al Pacino as Carlito Brigante is quite good, Sean Penn is brilliant as Kleinfeld. Awful script, poor dialogues, soundtrack sucks, extras/rent-a-crowds are ham/bacon bones; it hurts to see such a talented director spend his time directing with such little enthusiasm.

Throughout the years I've become less interested in Woody Allen's work and if this is his worst film I quite hope it is. I wouldn't have remembered about it, if it wasn't for a phone conversation I had with a friend short after I saw the film (Vicky Cristina Barcelona was on ARTE France/Germany). The beginning of the movie is a bit bland and uninspiring, but good enough in the middle of a boring evening. So I think: – it's about time you watch a Woody Allen film again! A male narrator voice explains the events on the screen in terse sentences; as I continue to watch I become more intrigued, and halfway though I even forgive the lousy tourist ride around Barcelona (thou I never was in Barcelona, the film doesn't tell me anything I already know about the city). I remain motionless seated on the couch with my eyes open (longing for a change of scenery), in case there's more to it. And then suddenly -it- happens! Maria Elena (Penélope Cruz) holding a gun (imitating Allen's neurotic gimmicks) tries to blast away her love Juan Antonio (Javier Bardem)... what? do I hear the narrator voice again? oh, the blow of mercy – yes, the narrator's voice comes on again and announces with pathetic contrivance that Vicky (Rebecca Hall) returns home to have her grand wedding to Doug (Chris Messina)... Cristina (Scarlett Johansson) continues searching... maybe Allen just had enough and needed an easy way out to end the movie. Mr. Woody Allen, I'll go to your movies, but you'll have to seduce me.