Reviews

I'm an Éric Rohmer fan, and so I was especially disappointed by _The Green Ray_, which is hailed, by some, as his finest movie. I just can't see how that can possibly be so.

The failure of _The Green Ray_ to me is all the more mysterious because only a year later, in 1987, Rohmer concluded his series of _Comedies and Proverbs_ with a true masterpiece, _Boyfriends and Girlfriends (L'Ami de mon amie)_.

Rohmer is proud to be an off-beat film-maker, which is partly why I so appreciate him.

He is controversial: some viewers claim that in real life, people just don't talk the way (and about the things) that people talk in Rohmer's movies. Other viewers claim the exact opposite: that Rohmer is among the very few film-makers who got it right - that this is exactly how people talk and behave in real life. Decide for yourself.

Now, in _The Green Ray_, Rohmer took his radicalism in this regard even further: he refused to create a proper screenplay for this movie. Instead, he announced to his cast of characters (many of them ordinary folks, no actors) just the broad outlines of what they should be doing and talking about, and he let them do the work - work out the dialogs by themselves. Rohmer was impressed by TV documentaries (featuring TV interviews with "real people") and their sense of "realism", and was trying to recreate it in _The Green Ray_.

That's admirable courage by the director: both refusing to hire professional actors for the movie (apart from a couple of leads), and refusing to create a proper screenplay for them. Courage is one thing, but the result of such endeavor is another thing. And I'm afraid that in this bold experiment, Rohmer failed.

I believe this is precisely where the main difference between _The Green Ray_ and _Boyfriends and Girlfriends_ lies: the latter movie features a proper screenplay written by Rohmer, whereas _The Green Ray_ was only given a rough outline by Rohmer and the lead actress Marie Rivière, letting the actors improvise for most of the time.

Sorry, but I'm just not impressed by the final result. _The Green Ray_ was, to me, for most of its runtime, simply too boring and annoying to watch.

It's a delightful paradox: in _Boyfriends and Girlfriends_, you can see actors behave and talk in an unaffected manner, which is fantastically refreshing to any viewer expecting to see the artificiality of Hollywood in every movie. Yet in _Boyfriends and Girlfriends_, Rohmer manages to pull this off: the characters there, in being so unaffected, are believable. You forget that these are actors you're watching on the screen.

That is not so for me in _The Green Ray_. The entire time I was watching this movie, I felt that something was wrong - something was fishy. And then, after I finished watching the movie and read more about its background, discovering that it lacked a proper screenplay, I thought: "Yep! That's exactly it! These characters (they aren't even proper *actors*, after all) are simply lost in this movie."

Sorry, but contrary to Rohmer's original intentions, I did not, for a second, buy that these were real people I was observing in _The Green Ray_. They took great pains to appear to be behaving and talking in *unaffected* ways, but that's perhaps what was so wrong with them. They *struggled so hard* to appear unaffected, that *affectation* was the result.

(As an aside, I might mention I *hate* dubbed movies, especially movies dubbed in my native language, Slovak, because such dubbed movies are often sloppily and hastily done, but I happened to watch the Slovak-dubbed version of _Boyfriends and Girlfriends_ many years ago, and was mesmerized. It was the perfect exception from the rule. Whoever was responsible for the Slovak-dubbed version of _Boyfriends and Girlfriends_, did a great job in recreating dialogs that flowed easily rather than artificially - which is typically the case *especially* in dubbed versions of movies. The Slovak dialogs seemed as *unaffected and natural* as in the French version. Hats off!)

There are other annoying aspects of _The Green Ray_, too. The characters are just not likable at all. Who wants to watch a bunch of ladies in their 20s or perhaps even 30s, but behaving as if they were still in their early teenage years? Sorry, but given all the *real* issues faced by humans all around the world at all times (I'm typing this as the coronavirus is raging across the globe), I just can't sympathize with the main heroine of _The Green Ray_ whose main concern in life appears to be how to escape boredom in Paris during her summer vacation from her boring secretary's job. Can you say "spoiled middle-class brat"? And all of her numerous friends seemed to be of the same sort.

Oh yeah, someone like Leo Tolstoy would praise the topic of vegetarianism briefly featured in _The Green Ray_, but overall, I'm sure Tolstoy would passionately *hate* a movie like this. It showcases exactly the type of characters who Tolstoy believed were leading artificial lives and then complained about how unhappy this made them. Well, it was of their own making and preference, right?

On the other hand, what I didn't mind about _The Green Ray_ at all is the alleged lack of film-making finesse on the part of Rohmer. There are supposedly too many long shots here, the movie's low budget and minimalist, skeleton crew is self-evident, etc. So what? I'm sure Andy Warhol's movies were created with even lower budgets, yet they managed to be impressive. I say, kudos to Rohmer for going about it differently.

Finally, _The Green Ray_ would just be an outright bad movie, if it weren't for its ending. Now, the ending of _The Green Ray_ truly is masterful and moving - and I claim that this is precisely because it was *not* improvised, but predetermined by Rohmer from the very start. Can there be a better way to end a movie than to offer its brightest, finest moment at the very end, just before the closing credits start rolling? No, there cannot. Given the great ending, I'm willing to call _The Green Ray_ an "OK movie" overall (although very uneven), but definitely not the masterpiece that it is in many places purported to be.

"You get what you pay for", right? Perhaps not every single time; there may be exceptions, but that's the overwhelming tendency.

As I was suffering through the ordeal of watching _Chungking Express_ (checking the timeline every few minutes, counting down the minutes remaining, because I just couldn't wait for the movie to be over at very long last), I was reminded of the saying above.

Transferred to the world of art: you're unlikely to create a masterpiece of art if you, as the creator, put little "standard" effort in its creation. Masterpieces of art typically require *monumental* effort on the part of their creators - standard effort may not be enough, let alone *sub-par* effort. Professional movie critics - and fans of this movie, too (who include luminaries such as Quentin Tarantino) - would have us believe that _Chungking Express_ is a masterpiece, despite its having originated pretty much as an afterthought, or perhaps because the director was contractually obligated to deliver *some* movie to his production company; never mind its content or quality.

So, after I finished watching the movie, frustrated like hell (how could a movie celebrated like this turn out to be so unbearable?!), I proceeded to read about its background...

... and I experienced several "Aha!" moments. The biggest of them was: the director Wong Kar-wai apparently launched into filming this movie without even having completed its screenplay! He continued writing the screenplay on every day the movie was being made. He said, proudly, I think (paraphrasing him), "In the morning of another shooting day, I had no idea how the story would develop over the course of that day; we would just continue 'making up the story' as we went along."

Oh, my god... but it shows, let me tell you! There is zero coherence in this movie. Movie critics and fans would have us believe that this fatal flaw was, in fact, its intended virtue. First, given the chaotic origin of the movie (sincerely admitted by the director), I doubt that it was so.

But whether intended or not, the movie lacks coherence to a degree that made it unpalatable for me. And it wasn't about lack of coherence, only: I thought the characters in the movie lacked any sort of attraction (apart from their physical traits); watching these two couples, two men and two women, "fall in love" (if you can call the sort of obsessed sex craze depicted in the movie "love") was excruciatingly boring. The dialogs were trite in the extreme; "profound" like a muddy pool of rain water. How many times do we need to witness the first main male character vainly trying to reach some high-school sweetheart of his on the phone? (Never mind he did so in various East Asian languages; hats off to every polyglott!)

And, oh, if you thought that "California Dreamin'" by The Mamas and The Papas was a nice classic tune, watch out for this movie! Chances are you're gonna hate this song after you're done with _Chungking Express_. Salt, pepper or sugar may be nice additions to your meals - unless you overdo it. A classic song is always nice to hear - unless it's incessantly blaring at the audience at every opportunity the movie's chaotic action provides.

As opposed to that, I liked Faye Wong's Cantonese cover of "Dreams" by The Cranberries (one of my favorite bands... and favorite fruits, too; I happened to drink a glass of cranberry juice prior to writing this review). The recurring reggae tune, however, is nearly as exasperating as The Mamas and The Papas hit; no, not the song itself - but its overuse in the movie.

If there's something to be praised unreservedly about this movie, it's its visual style. The handheld camera work is mesmerizing, and you get a good sense of what it felt like to visit Hong Kong's Chungking Mansion, a sort of modern-day Tower of Babylon, in the early 1990s; it's safe to assume that not much has changed there since then. You also get several glimpses of "the longest escalator on planet Earth" - from Hong Kong Central to mid-levels. It was quite new when _Chungking Express_ was made.

Faye Wong is ravishing, but that's beside the point. But, oh, how unrealistic is it when such a paragon of female beauty is introduced to the audience with the offhand remark by the fast-food store owner, "Faye isn't too bad, either." Who are you kidding, guys? Would this movie have been as successful if Faye had been *truly* frumpy and unremarkable? (The Slovak film director Dusan Hanak specialized in depicting "love among ugly people"; and I mean *ugly*.) It's highly doubtful, but that is a dilemma for the entire branch of art called "moviemaking"; and in this respect, at least, _Chungking Express_, despite priding itself on how original it supposedly is, is in fact thoroughly conventional.

Agatha Christie seemed enamored of "murders in retrospect"... guess what: a murder case like that occurred in the tiny East-Central European country of Slovakia in 1976, and it's been traumatizing the Slovak society ever since.

A pretty female medical student was found murdered in 1976, with hands tied behind her back, lying in a creek not far from Slovakia's capital Bratislava. (For more, see the Plot Summary I submitted on this movie.)

The murder case is the subject matter of Robert Kirchhoff's outstanding documentary _Kauza Cervanová_. The production values are top-notch; the camera work by a master of the craft, Ján Meliš, is mesmerizing; the score by Peter Zagar suitably spooky. See Meliš's deft touch in the moving scene where an aging, ailing male witness in a wheelchair regrets that his testimony had never been properly considered by the police, saying, "I probably do not have much more time to live" -- while the camera is at the same time trained on his wife's pained, caring face.

The shocking thing about the original murder investigation is that, apparently, many statements by witnesses or the accused were obtained by questionable or even illicit means employed by the police, such as psychological pressure or threats of physical violence. There is a heart-breaking story of a young female medical student in early stages of pregnancy, forced by the police to testify against the 7 men charged with the murder, in spite of her conscience. She later renounces her earlier testimony, unable to reconcile it with her conscience ultimately, and is herself sentenced to a long prison term for false testimony; her small daughter is forced to grow up without her mother. Yet not enough attention seems to have been paid in the renewed 2000s murder trial to those facts of police bias or impropriety.

To those viewers accusing the director and screenwriter Robert Kirchhoff of bias in favor of the 7 (perhaps wrongly) accused men: yes, his sympathies for the 7 are palpable; yet both sides were allowed to speak and present strong arguments over the course of _Kauza Cervanová_. There is the memorable and impressive statement by a criminal investigator who says that perpetrators of heinous crimes are pretty frequently capable of thoroughly and sincerely (!) convincing themselves (!) of their innocence. There would then, consequently, be little value in results of lie detector tests.

For the "other side of the issue", viewers might turn to the 2004 Czech fictional movie _Bolero_ based on the Cervanová murder. It was directed by noted Czech cinematographer F. A. Brabec, and the well-known Czech screenwriter Markéta Zinnerová took the exactly opposite approach compared to Robert Kirchhoff: that the 7 men were in fact guilty as charged, and justifiably convicted. _Bolero_ met with mixed reviews.

To me, the "whodunnit" of the mystery is immaterial; _Kauza Cervanová_ is deeper than a whodunnit. It appears to me that either no one is guilty, or everyone is. (I lean towards the latter option, although the two seemingly contradictory statements might be construed as synonymous.) Where are the boundaries between personalities, the boundaries between "innocent" and "guilty" people? Aren't *separate personalities* of humans as such, illusionary? On this level -- the level of Jesus's "Let those without guilt cast the first stone" -- the distinction between the "guilty" and the "innocent" starts to blur. The question "Who is guilty?" starts to sound uncomfortable because, as Neale Walsch would say, "There is only one of us in the room."

_Kauza Cervanová_ is about how to deal with human life -- with terrible, unexpected blows that one may receive from human life when one least expects it. What do you do then? Can you absorb the blow, deflect it? Or will the blow *break* you, so that you are turned into a bodily and/or psychological ruin of a person, of your own earlier self? (Compare the 7 men when young and today.)

There are numerous memorable moments interspersed throughout _Kauza Cervanová_. Kirchhoff is phenomenal in picking the choicest quotes and soundbites from the treasure trove of his 8 years of search for material. See a priest saying that the entire human life (and all aspects and components of it) is *either* an absurdity, *or* a mystery -- there is no third option; or the simile used by a Middle-Eastern witness about the fox and speaking (or, rather, choosing not to speak) the truth.

The narration of _Kauza Cervanová_ is delightfully sketchy, yet (to me) never confusing. As an example, see Kirchhoff's decision to communicate a key statement by the former Czech(oslovak) Attorney General Motejl to the viewers only *indirectly*, despite having had Motejl available for an on-screen interview; the statement packs a heavier punch that way. An important witness is interviewed on the phone by Kirchhoff, and is so hazy and uncertain about the entire affair that no further comment by anyone is necessary. Finally, there are the brief glimpses of grotesque figures that are the present-day Slovak politicians: Attorney General Trnka, strutting away with a theatrical gesture; a smirk of relief on the face of a Slovak smalltown mayor accompanying the President of Slovakia for a photo op. You couldn't ask for better performances lampooning politicians if these were hired extras.

_Kauza Cervanová_, as all remarkable works of art, may ostensibly, on the first plane, be dealing with a specific murder case. Behind that, however, as all remarkable works of art, it says something generally applicable to human life -- about all viewers of the movie. To me, therefore, this documentary is not primarily about the 7 convicted men, nor even primarily about Slovakia or its (post-)Communist regime(s). It is a movie about human nature; it ultimately deals with the most general human issues, not a specific incident, era or country.

I dislike comedies in which the actors' performances fairly scream at you: "Hey, this is a *comedy*, you know? We're supposed to be *funny* here! So, go ahead and *laugh*, will you?"

Unfortunately, _The Gazebo_ falls into this category. I for one don't think human life as such needs embellishments in order to create a comical impression on its contemplators; if you just faithfully show life for what it is, it will, by necessity, be *funny* to look at -- besides also being *tragic*, along with a host of other attributes. An artist may wish to focus on this or that side of life, preferring one or the other point of view; while highly accomplished artists may even wish to portray two seemingly *incompatible* aspects of human life at the same time, so that a work of art is then *funny* and *tragic* at the same time, just like human life often is. *That* is supreme art. In any case, there is no need to *embellish* anything, to step away from *realism* the way the actors do it in _The Gazebo_ from the opening minute to the last.

Whenever this happens on a consistent basis in a movie -- this intentional withdrawal from reality -- it is the director who bears responsibility. And so, I disagree with George Marshall's take on _The Gazebo_. Yes, all the actors here, most noticeably the two leads, Glenn Ford and Debbie Reynolds, are supremely accomplished actors, professionals of the highest merit, and they definitely are "cute" to watch. But the result is not a good, fully enjoyable comedy. In fact, I mostly find fault with the performance of the two leads: because neither Ford, nor Reynolds lend credibility to their 2 characters, as they are simply and obviously *actors playing parts*, trying to elicit laughs from the audience. Yes, they manage to do so quite frequently even for me (such as Ford viewing the havoc in his living room "upside down" from between his own legs, pushing his hanging tie aside for a better view; Ford drawing a flashlight circle on his living-room wall around another flashlight reflection dancing there). But an amassment, or sum total, of such funny moments isn't enough for a truly satisfactory comedy for me. If you feel a disconnect from the main characters -- and I do, from the very beginning, because they are so artificial -- well, all the shenanigans won't save the movie.

I'm afraid _The Gazebo_ got off on the wrong foot from the very start: Glenn Ford, and George Marshall as the director, set the wrong tone for everything in that in the opening scenes, Ford as a supposedly stressed and neurotic TV director, is *not* credible; his neuroticism does not ring true; you're painfully aware you're observing an *actor playing his part*, one that is supposed to be "funny", because this is a "comedy". Is there a greater omission for an actor, than to fail to be *convincing* in the portrayal of the person he or she is supposed to portray? If you're not *convincing*, it doesn't matter how cute or funny or beautiful you may be otherwise -- you didn't get the actor's *main* job done.

There is an even more awful character than the two lead ones: I mean the housekeeper played by Doro Merande, who keeps hollering at everyone. On the first one or two occasions we meet her, the resulting "joke" is so-so; afterwards, each of her appearances (including the one by proxy, on the phone) only gets more awkward. Can you say "far-fetched", and "milking the same old joke"?

The movie's brightest side? Why, of course it's John McGiver in the role of a contractor putting the gazebo in its place; if anyone can be fully believed in _The Gazebo_ and portrays a genuine human being here, it's McGiver. A terrific, nuanced performance; McGiver does not need to do anything "extra" to be funny; he is who he is -- the character he plays in the movie; and that by itself is funny enough; I wish *everyone* in _The Gazebo_ was like that. I also enjoyed Carl Reiner's smart, and pretty understated, performance as the D. A. Understatedness is what Debbie Reynolds, but particularly Glenn Ford and George Marshall were missing in _The Gazebo_. Perhaps they were afraid that in being understated, they would not be "funny enough"; as it is, however, they just *try too hard* to be funny, which is at least as bad as not being "funny enough".

For another plus, the movie is visually impressive. Made in exquisite Cinemascope black & white at a time (late 1950s) when movies of this sort were expected to be produced in full colour, it was an excellent choice that suits the action of a "black comedy" perfectly. The Oscar-nominated costume design by Helen Rose deserves every praise.

This was the first movie ever to win 4 Oscar nominations for all 4 acting categories (even though not actually winning any of the Oscars), and the actors' performances are, indeed, the strongest part in _My Man Godfrey_. I for one admired Eugene Palette most -- if anyone can be obese and virile at the same time, he certainly could. Especially, Eugene Palette's character perfectly illustrates the typology of the movie that _My Man Godfrey_ is: on the surface, it's a ridiculous romp; but underneath that, there is seriousness, and a struggle with real-life problems. Despite nearly everyone in _My Man Godfrey_ behaving like lunatics, the movie is surprisingly realistic in depicting the mood and milieu of the 1930s Great Depression in the US. Mischa Auer was very good as a Russian immigrant, but to me, not quite as impressive as Palette (who ends up not only figuratively but literally "bouncing Auer off the stage"). Also, in a thoroughly ridiculous (and therefore very difficult to play) role as Palette's wife, Alice Brady gives a fantastic performance. Her voice acrobatics, the brilliance of her silly laughs, cannot be praised enough; and she indeed looks great for a lady in her 40s; yet in the midst of all that hysteria, she was always able to insert a pause so she could voice her dismay, doubts, fears, pleasure, etc. And *that* makes her character a real human being -- despite all the ridiculousness. In this, she reminded me of the Czech actress Iva Janžurová, who has likewise made a career out of her hysterical, silly laughs, combined with smartness. The two leads, William Powell and Carole Lombard, also give superb performances, especially Powell. It's a genuine accomplishment to come across as always suave and elegant in the midst of all the tomfoolery of a screwball comedy; yet this seems effortless for Powell. His delivery of the lines of dialogues seems spot-on every time; he was a true master of his voice as a crucial actor's instrument. The screenplay and dialogues in _My Man Godfrey_ are super-smart and witty, and coming fast at you (especially in Lombard's famous rapid-fire delivery); you'll be able to rewind and replay certain scenes a number of times, without getting bored. Also, the psychology of the characters, no matter how far-fetched at first superficial glance, manages to be convincing in the end; an unforgettable scene has Lombard deduce Powell's "love" for her by arguing that if he hadn't loved her, he wouldn't have bothered to put her under a cold shower! All in all, an excellent, smart, non-shallow comedy, though hardly a pinnacle in the art of cinematography.

Following right on the heels of the masterful TV adaptation of _Prisoner's Base_, which even managed to be better than Rex Stout's original novel, this episode, no. 6 in Season 1, is a let-down. You cannot say it is "bad", but compared to such foregoing jewels as _Prisoner's Base_ or _The Golden Spiders_, it is likely to disappoint. Then again, it's not the first glitch in A&E's Nero Wolfe TV series: I thought that _The Doorbell Rang_, which opened Season 1, was a real misfire, whereas _Eeny, Meeny, Murder, Mo_ is simply mediocre. It has quite a few good moments, but also quite a few bad ones.

_Eeny, Meeny, Murder, Mo_ was the very first Nero Wolfe novelette to be shown as part of A&E's series, and indeed, the short length of it (at least as eventually broadcast by A&E, its runtime is only 46 minutes) is the best thing about the episode. There are no delays here, and we get to the point instantly. We get to see a swift exposition of the murder mystery, and its equally prompt resolution by Wolfe & Archie; no time to get bored -- everything moves at break-neck speed, yet not too fast.

What seems lacking compared to the successes that were _Prisoner's Base_ and _The Golden Spiders_, is direction. Under Bill Duke's and Neill Fearnley's assured hands, I thought the actors were performing in the roles in the best possible ways. Yet I disliked Tim Hutton's direction (or lack of it) in _The Doorbell Rang_, and the same apparent flaw -- a less assured direction -- seems evident in _Eeny, Meeny, Murder, Mo_. Just too many scenes and the *manner* of the delivery of dialogues, seem off. Many lines may have been taken directly from Stout, but they are not always delivered in the optimal manner. One feels as if this director, John L'Ecuyer, was decidedly less familiar with the characters and their true distinguishing traits.

The worst thing about _Eeny, Meeny, Murder, Mo_, and where the direction most painfully went overboard, is Fritz's character. Fritz is a mere buffoon in the TV version of _Eeny, Meeny, Murder, Mo_, solely there to provide comic relief, which he fails to do -- at least to the eyes of this seasoned Wolfe fan. To the best of my recollection, Fritz is *never* a buffoon in any of the 47 original Nero Wolfe volumes; he may frequently be flustered in the books, but always manages to preserve a quiet dignity; and he most certainly is not in the books to provide "comic relief". Rex Stout does not *need* any extra comic relief in his writing because, being an accomplished master of comedy, Archie Goodwin's narration is supremely witty at most any time, no matter *what* events or characters Archie may be depicting. In resorting to the crutch of turning Fritz into a buffoon on TV, the TV makers betray a lack of confidence: they probably did not feel *their* narration of _Eeny, Meeny, Murder, Mo_ would be entertaining enough without such artificial additions. Also to the best of my recollection, Fritz *never* got drunk at any time in the course of the decades of the Nero Wolfe saga unfolding; yet in this TV episode, we see him totter about drunkenly a number of times. His dialogues with Wolfe are way off, and border on the ridiculous. Fritz and Wolfe may *argue* in Rex Stout's books, too, which may be *comical*, but it never feels *ridiculous*. I'm afraid many Nero Wolfe fans might wince repeatedly while observing the interactions between Wolfe and Archie in this TV episode. Unlike in Rex Stout's books, this is just forced, unnatural, meaning: failed comedy we get to watch in this particular episode.

On a number of occasions in this episode, I also disliked Maury Chaykin's portrayal of Wolfe. Chaykin as Wolfe is simply too mobile here. He is not only physically "not quite fat enough", but in _Eeny, Meeny, Murder, Mo_, he moves his body (including, prominently, his head) too fast, he speaks too fast, bays too much, and even eats too fast -- lacking the dignity one might associate with a gourmet like Nero Wolfe. Watching Chaykin eat reminds you of watching a common person stuffing their face in a fast-food restaurant. It is as if the break-neck speed of the TV episode -- only 46 minutes of runtime -- "infected" also Maury Chaykin, so that he feels the need to eat faster than would become a gourmet of Nero Wolfe's calibre. I have always imagined Wolfe to be eating slowly, deliberately, so that he could appreciate the full taste of all the delicacies on his plates. For the emblematic failed Nero Wolfe scene in _Eeny, Meeny, Murder, Mo_, watch Chaykin when Nero Wolfe is watching his carpets being taken away by the police. There is no dialogue in this scene, but while the proceedings strike one as realistic and believable in the book, the rendition of the same scene on TV, Wolfe's "fury" with a clenched fist, seems just too in-your-face, theatrical, stagey, histrionic.

Yet _Eeny, Meeny, Murder, Mo_ is not all a failure, but rather an amalgam of excellently played scenes with bungled ones. Maury Chaykin, Timothy Hutton and the rest of the cast are too excellent actors not to extract many delightful moments from their mutual interactions here. *Some* scenes and lines of dialogue are marvellously spot-on; in *details*, _Eeny, Meeny, Murder, Mo_ manages to be perfect here and there. Watch, for example, Chaykin's great delivery of lines such as "the most severe humiliation I have suffered in recent years"; watch Hutton's seemingly off-the-cuff remark to Wolfe about "taking your necktie off..."; or watch Smitrovich as Inspector Cramer (the most consistently superb performer throughout the A&E series) saying to Wolfe, "you're a goddamn screwball is all I know", towards the end.

This is no masterpiece. Both the direction and screenplay are too cumbersome and awkward, patently flawed; something for which Hitchcock must bear direct responsibility. You see the actors overreacting in this movie most of the time.

To Hitchcock's defence, it is sometimes stated that in his youth, he used to work in silent movies; that he liked employing some of the stylistic devices from that era even in his (much) later movies. Well, I don't think that excuse can be applied to the patently fake (meaning, exaggerated) way in which actors behave throughout _Marnie_. Characters in this movie keep overdoing their gestures, (re)actions, facial expressions and mimicry. For a good illustration, see the scene with Sean Connery on the phone in his mansion, talking to a private detective. Do people talk on the phone like that? No, they don't... it's just an actor, playing someone supposedly talking on the phone. If this was a silent movie, you could probably "read" what was said in that phone call, just by looking at Sean Connery's exaggerated facial mimicry. Throughout _Marnie_, you get uncomfortably reminded that you're watching a movie, an artificial product -- that this is not real life. Mark's sister-in-law is supposed to be coy; but she's not just "coy" in _Marnie_ -- she's *in-your-face coy*, with a vengeance. Everyone behaves in an obvious, in-your-face obvious, all too obvious way, just like you would expect this or that type of character to behave. Such emphasis on the typology of characters quickly gets tiresome to watch. Is that great movie-making? Hardly. Especially when the movie is so terribly long and slow-moving as _Marnie_ is. There is little trace left of the wit or lightness of touch so typical of Hitchcock in his finest classics. Even the great Bernhard Herrmann's music seems out-of-place for once -- too melodramatic.

Not everything is bad about _Marnie_, but overall it just fails to rise above the mediocre. The only outstanding part really is the ending; you get to admire three great actors -- Tippi Hedren, Sean Connery and Louise Latham -- pulling it off: a wildly improbable tale, a very far-fetched resolution of the movie's psychological mystery plot; and for a change, the final scenes are masterfully shot by Hitchcock. It's a very late and brief redemption after spending almost 2 hours watching mostly turgid stuff -- but at least it's there. Also, despite the weakness of material at hand, and unsatisfactory direction, both Tippi Hedren and Sean Connery showcase their acting skills throughout, so even if the movie as such is a bore, you at least get the "technical" pleasure of watching this highly accomplished pair of actors trying to make something out of it.

If you want to see Czech comedy in all its finest glory, go no further than this gem, _How to Drown Dr. Mráček_. If there ever was a "Dream Team" collected in a single movie, this is it: several of the actors featured here are considered immortal icons of Czech comedy, such as the trio of legends Vladimír Menšík, Miloš Kopecký and František Filipovský. All three are outstanding and hilarious here, although Kopecký as the boss of the water spirits outshines them all. Filipovský is more subdued, but quietly brilliant, while Menšík is in his métier as the warm-hearted, rambunctious rebel among the water spirits. Some say this movie reflects the bad era in which it originated, in that it *avoids* any explicit mention of it, instead supposedly escaping into fairy-tales; I find that this is a ridiculous claim. Yes, 1974 was politically a bad era in Czechoslovakia, with hard-line Communists having recently returned to power -- but I see no adverse effects of that state of affairs in this movie; in fact, if anything, this comedy cleverly celebrates the spirit of rebellion. Just as the ensemble starring here features many legends, the same applies to the famous duo responsible for the geyser and endless fountain of novel ideas and jokes throughout the movie: the director Václav Vorlíček and his long-time collaborator, the screenwriter Miloš Macourek. Yes, the jokes are extremely silly and the plot is absurd -- yet behind the buffoonery, there's often a serious undertone; the message throughout being, "the most important thing is to be human," and, "no one is really special, and everybody should earn their living just like everyone else" (compare the final few shots of the movie). This comedy is also distinctly Czech in that it does not shy away from integrating a few sexual jokes and innuendos into the action, and is quite ribald in certain moments, yet in such a harmless way that the movie *still* manages to remain suitable for children; that's a feat that a US director would not even attempt. There are a few brutal scenes in the movie, such as a leg cut off with a scythe, or a bus full of people falling into a river and drowning everyone... but they are conveyed with such humour that you need to laugh about the supposedly brutal sights, no matter if you're 10 or 55. The movie features a catchy theme song by yet another pair of Czech legends (of pop music: Václav Neckář and Helena Vondráčková). The camera-work is astounding; the streets of old Prague shine with beauty, while also faithfully chronicling the then contemporary period detail of the 1970s; for example, you get to visit a typical butcher's shop from those days in Czechoslovakia. Not only the city and the river are beautiful, but so are many women and girls featured in the movie, even if they are just extras walking by; I'm dead-sure none of them were there just by accident, but the director seemed intent on selecting only the most attractive extras that he could find. This was the era of miniskirts, and _How to Drown Dr. Mráček_ utilizes that fashion to the maximum degree, to the (gentleman) viewers' intense pleasure. In this respect, naturally, the most noticeable aspect of this movie is the ravishingly beautiful Libuše Šafránková, 21 at the time (and playing an 18-year-old), whom you might call the Czech Audrey Hepburn; she was only at the start of her long career in this film, and later developed into a Czech comedy legend in her own right, starring in many Czech comedy classics later on, including the Academy Award-winning _Kolya_ and a few other Oscar-nominated movies. Now, no matter how fine this comedy is -- I'm afraid it can *fully* be appreciated only by those viewers who can understand the movie's original Czech language, such as Czech and Slovak viewers. This is because one needs to be familiar with the way normal Czech language sounds, in order to appreciate the masterful, hilarious delivery of the dialogues by all these grandmasters of comedy. They don't merely *deliver* their lines; they *excel* in delivering them, often inserting hesitation syllables and strangely breaking their voices in order to increase the comical effect; yet without doing so forcefully -- it all comes quite naturally from these masters. Yes, this is *acting* in its finest: it can never, ever be conveyed on paper; the screenplay can capture only the *words* that the characters are saying; never the delivery, the gestures, facial mimicry and intonation. (Not to mention all the puns that really only work in the original Czech language and the closely related Slovak language, but are probably impossible to transfer into a western language such as English, German, or French.) A clear 10 out of 10 -- no other rating can seriously be considered here.

This is the second film by Paul Thomas Anderson I have ever seen, and it's just as atrocious as the first one: _Magnolia_ (1999). I haven't seen Anderson's most acclaimed movie so far, _There Will Be Blood_; naturally, following the repeated disaster with this particular director's creations, I'm very hesitant to even approach it; but I'll give it a try. However, there is nothing redeeming about _The Master_: it's excruciatingly boring, empty and slow-moving. If you watch this at 150% speed, you will miss nothing, and save valuable time of your life. I literally couldn't wait for this ordeal to finish. You are treated to monumental 140 minutes of nothingness. Sorry, was there *any* content at all here? I'm not averse to watching movies about quacks or psychopaths; one of my most esteemed movies of all time is Billy Bob Thornton's _Sling Blade_ -- superficially, regarding the topic, similar to this one, but whereas _Sling Blade_ is a masterpiece of epic proportions, this one is a *dud* of epic proportions. Hoffman's leading character and self-indulgent artificiality unpleasantly remind one of that other hopelessly overrated "arthouse kitsch", _Citizen Kane_; if _The Master_'s intention was to be as empty, bombastic and boring as _Citizen Kane_, it has certainly succeeded in spades. The only interesting facets here were the teachings of the "guru" himself; they contained some good insights, despite the guru himself likewise displaying psychopathic qualities. There is literally nothing to say about this film, because nothing seems to be happening in it. For 2+ hours, you get to watch a quack who behaves like a quack; and a psychopath who behaves like a psychopath; what was the point?

This movie opens intentionally kitschy; it couldn't be more boring: travelogue shots of Paris in sunny weather, in rainy weather, and so forth. The movie then proceeds to move along a different dimension: temporal, in exploring the city's glorious past, especially regarding the many celebrities of arts and letters who used to live and create there in various epochs. There again, Woody Allen comes dangerously close to kitsch -- but safely avoids slipping into that quagmire every time yet another superstar is introduced in the most typical fashion that one might expect to encounter him or her. How do you show Hemingway as "virile", and calling Paris "a movable feast", when all of this is so well-known and has been thrashed to death in countless articles and books and movies? Well, Allen relies on his unusual, "fantasy" story, bringing a new twist to everything that is overly familiar, and on fabulous performances by the entire cast, including Corey Stoll as Hemingway. Stoll's portrayal of Hemingway is so true-to-life and convincing you forget it should be kitschy due to your having known all of this about Hemingway before; Stoll's portrayal of Hemingway is the real thing, and no caricature typical of a comedy movie -- except in the sense that life itself can often be seen as a caricature or comedy. An equally superb performance is given by Kathy Bates as Gertrude Stein; or by the trio (or quintet) of impossibly bourgeois US visitors, led by fantastic Rachel McAdams as the main character's fiancée. Owen Wilson is outstanding and authentic as an imitation Woody Allen; he has Woody's intonation and nervous, confused enunciation down pat, so that in many moments, you could have sworn you're watching Woody Allen, the actor, himself. It doesn't hurt that Owen is more handsome than Allen ever was, which makes the story's romantic angle more believable. The movie offers very nice philosophic overtones, in Gil affirming, leaning on Faulkner's words, that "the past is not even past"; and realizing that everything except for the present day is illusionary. And so, the movie is not only a celebration of the physical location of Paris in various time periods -- but also a powerful affirmation of the illusionary nature of *time* itself. While at the same time being philosophic and fantasy (resembling Allen's _The Purple Rose of Cairo_ of 1985), the movie also manages to be vintage Woody Allen comedy, with many amusing situations and even a few that made me laugh out loud. Congratulations to Woody Allen on such youthful effervescence at his advanced age!

This TV series (15 installments of 30 minutes each) is an astounding triumph of film-making, made in the midst of the dark Communist era in Czechoslovakia. Perhaps it's because political reality back then was so bleak, that Czech film-makers made so many outstanding fantasy and sci-fi movies in those years.

_The Visitors_ bring a new twist: their charm lies in *combining* the present-day reality with imagined life on Earth 500 years later -- in 2484. It's a time-travel story about 4 people from 2484 visiting the typical Czechoslovak small-town of Kamenice in 1984.

For those of us who remember those years and who watch (and endlessly rewatch, because it's *that* enjoyable) the series today, _The Visitors_ possess a double-charm -- something the original audience couldn't have appreciated. You get to see the life of a typical 1980s Czech/Slovak small-town; you see how people used to live, think, and talk. As in all pseudo-Communist, ex-Soviet block societies, *theft* mentality was rampant everywhere, and is even captured in a purely entertainment series like _The Visitors_. There's a wonderful aura of *nostalgia* pervading the series: you see the grocery stores of those days, with old-fashioned cash registers (no electronics yet); you see people waiting in lines to cash in on empty beer bottles; you see people eating and drinking products popular back then.

There is something about many Czech TV series ostensibly "made for kids" that very much distinguishes them from, say, American made-for-kids series -- it's how purposefully smart they are: in a way that, in fact, makes them as enjoyable for *adults* as for kids. There's no shying away here from displaying scenes and themes that would likely have been dismissed as unthinkable by American movie/TV producers, ostensibly creating their works in a "free" society. So here's the monumental irony: it's as if the creators of _The Visitors_ were given more freedom to show whatever (unrelated to politics) they wished to show, than the "freedom" they would likely have been given by an American studio.

There's a pervasive, underlying theme of eroticism throughout _The Visitors_ -- and in relation to various age groups, too. A couple of very young kids in leading roles are "in love"; some of what they say to each other would be unthinkable in an American series, I'm afraid. And there's the main "vamp" of _The Visitors_: Dagmar Patrasová; she's downright *meant* to be the erotic attraction of _The Visitors_, and she definitely is (though not, personally, quite my style). She engages in multiple, passionate French kisses with her suitor. Czech/Slovak parents in 1984 would simply shrug that off as "a bit of adult stuff in a kids series -- why not?"

_The Visitors_ are exquisite on every level; it's as if everyone who was anything in Czech movie-making in the early 1980s, contributed in some way to _The Visitors_. Let's start with the array of legendary Czech actors, all at their best here. Possibly the chief attraction is the supremely ridiculous Josef Bláha as the boss of the expedition from the future; Bláha is so consistently funny throughout the 7.5 hours of _The Visitors_' runtime, that he made me want to roll on the floor laughing at him at least a few dozen times. It's not so much *what* Bláha says or does that's funny (although it's comical enough) -- but it's especially his masterful delivery of the pompous/silly lines that makes you want to scream with laughter. His funny manner of enunciation can probably only be fully appreciated by a Czech or Slovak viewer, because this is *not* the standard way of speaking Czech.

A similar master of funny enunciation is Evžen Jegorov, playing Adam's father. A fabulous, multi-layered (simultaneously comical/serious/poignant) performance is given by Vlastimil Brodský as "The Great Teacher". For all the awe about what the future will bring, Brodský's character unforgettably shows that it all comes down to hands-on skills and common sense eventually. Vladimír Menšík is admirable as the local police chief, and Dagmar Veškrnová (later wife of Václav Havel) as Adam's mother. An actor whose delivery is as funny as Bláha's is the legendary stand-up comedian Jiří Císler in a supporting role as the hotel manager -- whenever he says something in _The Visitors_, it's all you can do to avoid exploding with laughter. And there's a classic 5-minute cameo by the famously corpulent Helena Růžičková.

The direction by the grandmaster of Czech fantasy Jindřich Polák is flawless, and the screenplay by his long-time partner Ota Hofman is astonishing in how smart and super-funny it is; jokes abound in every installment, and you have hardly time enough to finish laughing, before another joke comes at you. _The Visitors_, although ostensibly a work of fantasy, are, in fact, perhaps an even better comedy -- one of the finest Czech comedies ever made. The soundtrack was composed by the giant of Czech electronic music, Karel Svoboda; the theme melodies (both opening and closing credits) are extremely memorable. The king of Czech animation, Jan Švankmajer, contributed many examples of his craft for _The Vistors_ -- such as the preparation of "amarouny", the only food people in 2484 ever eat. The inventive costuming is the work of Theodor Pištěk, Oscar winner with Miloš Forman's _Amadeus_.

_The Visitors_ are exciting, wise, funny, tender and poetic -- all at the same time. The final, nostalgic scene with the duo of ultra-young "Romeo and Juliet" disappearing in a woodland scenery, encapsulates it all. _The Visitors_ are for the kids, and they're for adults -- or are you saying you wouldn't enjoy "humidating" ("humidovat")? "Humidation" is a favorite activity of people in 2484; but the film-makers purposely decline to specify what that activity actually is. Yes: a fantasy/comic TV series from Communist Czechoslovakia of 1983 dared to be *that* smart.