German viewers must possess a titanic sense of self-distance to endure so many films that explore all possible ways of killing Nazis, who, after all, were mainly Germans. Now, Guy Ritchie has taken them on in a style somewhat reminiscent of Quentin Tarantino’s “Inglourious Basterds.” It’s juicy, without taboos, and witty, though in the director’s characteristic style. I’ve written about Ritchie many times and feared that “Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare” would be chopped up with explanations, title cards, and convoluted flashbacks, like the wasted “The Gentlemen.” Yet, it’s not that bad. Guy Ritchie heeded my pleas and slowed down. Prime Video didn’t crash from the overload. Ritchie is still crazy, but at least he uses film typography moderately. Generally, the action moves forward at the speed of a British destroyer off the coast of Africa, yet the viewer can keep up.

I mention Africa because a large part of the film’s action takes place on this continent, specifically in Ivory Coast. Some scenes are set on Fernando Po, now part of Equatorial Guinea, some on the Atlantic Ocean, and some in London. The action jumps across various locations almost like in a James Bond movie. It’s no coincidence that one of the characters is named Ian Fleming. However, he is much more old-fashioned and polite than Agent 007, which is intentional because the author of the James Bond books had to gather experiences somewhere, and World War II was not a world of exclusive casinos where shady financiers played baccarat without getting their hands dirty with murder. Besides, he was young. To balance this inexperience, Fleming is accompanied by a crew straight out of “Inglourious Basterds.” He is part of the brain of the operation, but the dirty work belongs to Henry Cavill and the rest of the crazies, who kill Nazis en masse and even cut out their hearts. They don’t scalp them, though, because that’s already patented by Tarantino. This is an undeniable advantage of the production – the colorful characters. The antagonist is also a character from a Tarantino film, although in that one, Til Schweiger played a Nazi killer named Hugo. Here he plays a perverted Nazi, but this time not a soldier. Let’s say a businessman, a speculator, and a dark being devoid of any positive morality. Among all these Nazis heading to the Nazi heaven en masse, he stands out quite interestingly. The fox has his den where terrible things happen.

Guy Ritchie has undoubtedly slowed down, which, at least for me, made “Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare” watchable. He referred to Tarantino’s “Inglourious Basterds,” which I don’t see as a flaw because it’s merely a reference, not a copy. Ritchie retained his unique style, only making it more mature. It remains light, yet simultaneously more coherent, perceptually clearer. The extended shots and greater trust in the lines spoken by the actors, without adding retrospective, explanatory descriptions, immediately paid off. Henry Cavill got the space to truly suggest to the viewers that he would be an excellent choice for the new James Bond series. This probably won’t happen, but one can always imagine what potential crossovers of Agent 007’s adventures might look like. However, one can still have the same reservations about the operatic, slapstick, and simultaneously solemn music that shouts at viewers at the most unexpected moments. It’s as energetic as if performed by an orchestra of hypnotized musicians who drank 1,000 cups of coffee. For Ritchie, the camera also behaves more politely. It doesn’t change angles, doesn’t show the image upside down, doesn’t make sudden turns. At times, it’s even too static, regardless of whether the director is Guy Ritchie or some other lesser director. Ritchie will always be associated with crazy editing and narrative tricks, not necessarily justified by the content, and with music that is a hallmark of his films, just like those directed by Woody Allen.

“Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare” cost 60 million dollars. So far, it hasn’t even earned half of that. I don’t think it’s possible. The bubble filled too much with the promise that this would be a production that could be called a prequel to the James Bond series. It cannot. It’s too lacking in good taste, and its lightness is too juvenile, although I admit it brings joy at times. Ritchie stands in a split between comedy and war exploitation. A Bond film shouldn’t be so indecisive. Even the Nazi killing scenes lacked that Tarantino sharpness. There was too much comedy in them. Ritchie could have taken a risk and gone further or not winked so much at “Inglourious Basterds.” Such great potential of Til Schweiger was wasted by one prematurely fired bullet. The final suspense dissipated with the arrival of the British destroyer and then the prison. Two hours of the screening turned out to be too short a time for the story to develop, although it had a chance when the real action began. A 5/10 will be a sufficient rating to appreciate the director’s efforts and the excellent duo of Henry Cavill and Alan Ritchson, but also to note that Ritchie again plagiarized himself, as if afraid to go further in his work, into uncharted oceans.

I have to admit, the screening of the third movie about Wade Wilson was one of the strangest experiences of my life. I’m not even sure if it was… a movie, and certainly not a good one. However, I had a lot of fun for most of it, like a kid. From the halfway point, I started to get a bit tired because how long can you sit through a two-hour SNL sketch that’s a grand farewell to the 20th Century Fox studio? There’s a lot of love here for the world, characters, and comics. Plus, there’s full awareness of what they want to do – make a production that will instantly take over Tik-Tok and Instagram with quotes and scenes. In my mind’s eye, I can already see those videos like: “All Cameos from Deadpool & Wolverine,” “Funniest Quotes from Deadpool & Wolverine,” or just simple cut-scenes. It doesn’t matter that the plot is flimsy and barely held together. It’s as if Kevin Feige and company made the following decision: “You didn’t like the multiverse after Endgame? You don’t like the new superheroes? You wanted a festival of returns, cameos, and fan service? You’ll get it. And we guarantee you’ve never seen anything like this.” They’ll break the bank, no doubt about it.

The best comparison I can make is this – Deadpool & Wolverine is like a superhero version of the Polish movie Job, or the last brain cell. The plot and its development don’t matter at all. The film about the wisecracking mercenary is some… new subgenre of “deliberately bad cinema.” Not B-movies. Something else entirely. There’s a lot of Mel Brooks here, youth comedies in the gross-out style, and even more pop culture awareness. Everything is done totally deliberately, and the abandonment of a sensible script and consistent action building aims to cram in as many jokes, quotes, funny meta-comments, and above all, cameos as possible. Marvel flexes its muscles and laughs at itself. The closest comparison is the She-Hulk series. And yes, although (like here with Deadpool) not all the jokes hit for me, I have to admit that my face was smiling for a really long time. Well. At least it smiled for the first hour. Then I got a bit tired because the number of surprises can make your head spin. From the appearance of a certain trio in the Void, I started to get a bit tired because they started hitting hard with clunky, overly talkative exposition from a cabaret again. And the army of certain duplicated characters was nothing more than a wink to me. And probably unnecessary, even in terms of fan interaction. Interestingly, Deadpool laughs at this too. In previous parts, the whole world behaved as if it were real, and individual things really happened, with Deadpool being the only one breaking the fourth wall. Here, everyone breaks the wall between the viewer and the characters, pointing out moments we should laugh at. Sometimes it’s intrusive, later tiring, but in the planned convention… it works. I’ve never seen anything like it.

It’s amazing that there are moments of true acting brilliance in Deadpool & Wolverine. And I won’t surprise anyone by saying that Hugh Jackman had his adamantium claws in all of them. I know Reynolds is Deadpool, but Hugh Jackman was born to be Wolverine. What a feeling for the character! Even in something so frivolous. As a certain loud-mouthed mercenary would say – keep going until you’re 90, Mr. Australian. The monologue scene in the car is probably… the best acting moment for Wolverine. And I remind you, this character got such a great movie as Logan. It’s just a shame that Hugh Jackman gave us the only flesh-and-blood character in the entire film. Well, maybe next to Cassandra Nova, the twin sister of Charles Xavier. A very cool character, who is a bit wasted on such a frivolous film, because the potential for a complex, serious villain is enormous. But there’s no point in complaining, because that’s the convention of Deadpool & Wolverine. The rest of the characters serve to provide fan joy, make us laugh, become the lever for the actions of the two main characters. It’s their film. I had some hopes for the return of Dafne Keen playing X-23, but there’s no point in expecting any emotional depth and depth in these returns. And if you expect that, you won’t be disappointed. Visually, Deadpool & Wolverine stands out above the Marvel average of the last three years. The effects never hit you in the eye, but this production wasn’t aimed at flashy CGI and rendering of artificial worlds. The most important are the big winks, the impressive fight scenes, of which there are really many. Everything is conventional, intentional. Music? Here, big plus for the creators, because it’s perfectly matched to the rhythm of the spectacle we get.

Deadpool & Wolverine is not a serious film. If I had to objectively assess it in terms of structure and script, I would have to say that it’s just a very poor production. But that’s not why it was made. It’s… deliberately bad cinema, which gives up being anything more than a fan attraction from Disneyland. It turns the MCU upside down, making me know even less about how it’s built and how it works. And I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. The creators understood this too, giving viewers what they wanted – pure fun. At least a few of the guest appearances (especially THAT one) will make their jaws drop. I don’t know if Marvel Jesus will save Marvel, but there hasn’t been such shameless fun for geeks. I guarantee it.

History is an element of spectacle that can be freely used and shaped. However, compared to the director of Braveheart, Ridley Scott seems much more aware. In many scenes, he shows that there is no single, unalterable version of history, and that film, as an art form, uses history as one of the “materials” on which to experiment. As with all epics, Gladiator contains many historical inaccuracies, but in the case of this film, it is entirely intentional.

The film directly references The Fall of the Roman Empire (dir. Anthony Mann, USA 1964). We have the same historical period and a similar plot setup. General Maximus, after a victorious battle against the Germans, wants to retire, return to his family, and become a humble farmer. However, Marcus Aurelius has different plans for him. Appreciating his bravery, he wants Maximus to become the next emperor instead of his own son, Commodus. Marcus Aurelius wishes to restore the republic in Rome and believes that only Maximus, uncorrupted by politics, can achieve this. When Marcus Aurelius shares his plans with his son, the enraged Commodus kills him and declares himself the new Caesar. He orders the execution of Maximus and his family. The wounded general is captured and later sold to a gladiator trainer. From this point on, he must fight in the arena, seeking only one thing – to avenge the death of his loved ones.

Historically, Marcus Aurelius did not die at the hands of his son and had no plans to deprive him of power. This dramatic decision might be apt in terms of storytelling, but why was it transferred almost identically from a film made forty years ago? Certainly not due to ignorance of the filmmakers. Scott demonstrates in his film that historical facts are subordinate to the cinematic narrative.

Gladiator not only directly references classic cinema but also the most stereotypical depictions of antiquity. In one scene, Commodus tells his nephew Lucius the story (now a legend) of Cleopatra, mentioning the well-known episode of her suicide, involving a snake biting her in the heart. Shortly after, when he wants to warn his sister Lucilla against conspiring against him, he uses the example of Claudius, betrayed by those closest to him. Rome is depicted primarily through its famous symbol: the Colosseum. Apart from palace scenes and brief moments in the senate, we don’t see many other places in this ancient capital.

The subordinate role of history in the entire spectacle is evident from the fictional character of the protagonist, a simple soldier and farmer who, due to his virtues, is chosen by the philosopher-emperor Marcus Aurelius as his successor. Although Maximus does not ascend the throne, he saves Rome from collapse by killing Commodus during a fight in the Colosseum. Historical sources mention the young Caesar’s fondness for gladiatorial combats, but he did not die in the arena, let alone at the hands of one of his former generals. The best example of the filmmakers’ functional approach to facts is the brilliant scene of the re-enactment of the Second Battle of Carthage in the Colosseum. Maximus, along with other gladiators belonging to Proximo, plays the role of the barbarian horde commander Hannibal, who once clashed with the Romans. In reality, the barbarians lost this battle, but thanks to Maximus’s leadership skills, his team wins. Their lives depended on not adhering strictly to historical accuracy! This scene vividly illustrates that history can be shaped, that it is changeable over time and susceptible to manipulation. Ridley Scott’s film proves that if a movie is well-made, it can validate and justify any dramatic plot device. Truth is not important; the spectacle is. And this is partly what the film is about.

Gladiator, in its grand spectacle formula, is as classic as Braveheart. Maximus, like William Wallace, stands for values such as freedom, justice, and courage, driven by the desire for revenge for the death of his beloved leader and woman. Maximus is a monumental character without a single flaw. His enemy, on the other hand, is the opposite of the brave leader. Not only is he physically inferior, but he also has a harelip (reminiscent of socialist realist depictions of enemies of the regime!). We don’t even have to guess his character traits; the filmmakers state them outright. In a conversation with his father, Commodus delivers this speech: You sent me a letter once, listing four virtues: wisdom, justice, fortitude, and temperance. I knew I had none of these virtues. But I have other virtues. Among these, he lists ambition, resourcefulness, courage (not on the battlefield, for there are many kinds of courage), and devotion to family. Ambition and resourcefulness might be positive traits, but in Commodus’s case, ambition is almost pathological, and resourcefulness manifests as murdering anyone who opposes his rule. His devotion to family involves patricide and incestuous desires towards his own sister. When asked why Commodus cannot be the next emperor, Marcus Aurelius responds: He has no moral virtues. Maximus, on the other hand, embodies the first set of virtues.

The film’s structure and message are also anachronistic. It contains all the well-known motifs: betrayal, conspiracies, brave fights for freedom and dignity; questions about humanity, honor, and sacrifice. But the film was meant to be like this; Ridley Scott created a nostalgic vision of a world long gone. Gladiator is primarily a film about dying. Both the hero and what he represents are dying.

This is evident from the very first shot: a close-up of a hand brushing through ripe wheat. In the background, children’s laughter is heard. The image is surreal due to the slow motion. This unusual shot appears several times throughout the film. Right after it, we see the worried face of a man in armor – Maximus, preparing for the decisive battle with the Germans. The meaning of the first shot is quickly explained by the general himself when he addresses his soldiers with these words: If you suddenly find yourself alone on a sunlit field surrounded by wheat, don’t be afraid, for you are in Elysium, and you’re already dead. From the very beginning of the film, it is implied that the main character is destined to die. The general tells his men to imagine the place they want to be, and they will surely get there. Maximus longs to be back in Spain with his family, farming. He is a religious man, as evidenced by his frequent prayers accompanied by figurines of a woman and child – his family. He believes in what he prays for and what he says.

The hand shot reappears when he is sentenced to death. He asks his friend Quintus to take care of his family, to which Quintus replies, “You will meet them after death.” After these words, we see the road to Maximus’s home, then the woman and boy (the hero’s family), and again the hand shot. It is shown from a different perspective than before, suggesting that Maximus is closer to his goal. Each of these shots is maintained in a cool, blue palette. At this moment, the tragic fates of the general and his family merge.

When Maximus escapes the Praetorians who were ordered to kill him, he immediately sets off on a journey home. During the fight, he was severely injured and finds himself in a state between life and death. This manifests as him hearing the very real cries for help from his murdered wife. Despite his exhaustion, he continues his journey at a gallop, but unfortunately, he arrives too late—his family has been burned alive and crucified. The hero faints, and people gather around his body. The next scene is composed of quickly succeeding shots. The first is a sped-up view of the setting sun, followed by a surreal image of Maximus’ head hovering a few centimeters above the ground. The next is a view of a wall with a gate, again in blue tones. Then a hand with grain (realistic colors and a child’s laughter in the background), followed by a hand barely touching the ground. Again, Maximus’ head (now realistic, showing he is lying on a cart), suddenly opening his eyes. The face of a Black man saying, Do not die. The next few shots are a mixture of dreamlike visions and real ones, including an image of his family in blue hues. Maximus is in the grip of death, drifting away from reality, but this is not yet the end. He is pulled back from eternity, as heroes do not depart this way. He must first prove his greatness. However, the image of his waiting family reminds him of the inevitable.

In the scene of the hero’s death, there is a similar mixture of shots. Maximus is again in a state between life and death. Severely wounded after winning the fight with Commodus, he reaches out his hand, and in the next shot, we see a blue-tinted view of a gate being opened by a bloodied hand. Behind the gate is the road to his Spanish home. Two voices call him back to the world of the living: Quintus and Lucilla. They call him only to deliver his final grand speech about the realization of the dream that is the Republic. He also asks for his men to be freed. His last words are directed to Lucilla: Lucius is safe, as he was threatened by Caesar. Does Maximus truly reach Elysium? Through his eyes, we enter the realm of death, which is a surreal version of the hero’s home. We see what the hero sees; he is the most important here. Not ancient Rome, not the Colosseum, not the plots and splendor of palaces, but the man himself. However, not a flesh-and-blood character, but a certain figure. A hero. This is a film about the death of someone who became a hero, but also about the death of heroism understood in this way (both in the real world and the film world). Maximus, after his death, ends up where he wanted to; it is his world.

What sets Gladiator apart from other super-giants is the significant privileging of battle scenes. It is a film about a soldier who truly knows his craft and a tale of death as a spectacle. In classic super-giants, battle scenes are merely interludes between the “social” actions of the heroes. They mainly consisted of plots, romances, betrayals, feasts. This is when we got to know the main characters and their motivations better. The clash of individual attitudes and worldviews formed the main plot of these films. In Gladiator, the proportions are reversed. The battle has become the most exposed element of the film. Maximus will prove his virtues, praised by Marcus Aurelius, on the battlefield. The film begins with a beautifully constructed battle scene and ends with a duel with the main antagonist. However, to reach this point, our hero must first prove himself as a gladiator. In this case, the battle scenes are “interrupted” by other, less important actions of the characters. Of course, we find a plot, betrayal, and even romance here, but they are shown very briefly. Moreover, the plot will fail, and the only method to overcome tyranny will be direct combat.

There are few scenes in this film showing the fates of other characters. We only briefly visit the senate and Commodus’ palace. The film’s life revolves around the arena. In the extended version of the film, we learn a bit more about the planned plot against Caesar. We see that Lucilla is one of its main instigators. In the original, theatrical version, these scenes are absent, which slightly disrupted the narrative flow, but at the same time made the film more coherent in its vision, focused on the main character.

Festival of death is a good summary of the entire work, where death is reduced to entertainment. The more spectacular the death, the greater the honor for the killer. Whoever controls the crowd also controls all of Rome. Commodus wants to win the people’s favor by organizing games (banned by his father) to gain total power by rejecting the senate. Maximus wants to win the people to avenge his family’s murderer. The will of the people is paramount. After the “barbarians” win the reenactment of the Battle of Carthage, the emperor wants to personally meet the gladiator who contributed to this victory. When Maximus reveals his identity, Commodus wants to kill him immediately, but the entire Colosseum shouts “spare him.” Caesar has no choice and gives a thumbs-up to please the crowd. This is the first of his wrong decisions. The citizens of Rome will support the general, who somewhat inadvertently gains their applause. Every decision regarding Maximus will bring only defeat to Caesar.

Why did I say that Maximus inadvertently gains recognition? Remember, he is a true knight without blemish; the filmmakers could not create him as a character who uses his combat skills just to be liked. Proximo, the owner of the gladiator school, instructs Maximus that to win over the crowd, he must turn killing into a spectacle, make it more spectacular. Being a “common butcher” is good in the provinces, but not in Rome, where Maximus wants to go, as it is the only chance to meet Commodus. Maximus kills because he must, doing it methodically and effectively, but the crowd demands more. As mentioned, he does not lower himself to the level of someone who will do anything to become popular. The hero’s mere agreement to Proximo’s proposal to kill more spectacularly is enough for Proximo to take his best gladiator to Rome. And the first test in the Colosseum will be the battle of Carthage, in which—just to survive—Maximus and his team must perform miracles of valor.

There is no need to “sell oneself” for the spectacle anymore; mere victory is a huge surprise. Next, our hero faces the best gladiator in history (and several tigers), set up to fight by Caesar himself with one goal: to kill Maximus. He wins the duel and spares his opponent’s life, despite Commodus’ thumbs-down signal to kill. The crowd will start chanting “Maximus the Merciful,” marking another defeat for the young Caesar. Maximus wins over the crowd, remaining morally pure. Seeing no other way to kill his former general, Commodus decides on a final step: he challenges him to a duel. In this way, he would not only get rid of an enemy but also gain fame as the one who defeated the greatest gladiator. To ensure victory, he wounds our hero beforehand so he cannot fight properly. Despite this trick, it is Commodus who dies in the arena, covered in disgrace. Thanks to Maximus, the sun will rise again over the Republic (the last shot of the film is the sun’s rays breaking through—as Commodus took power, clouds were gathering over Rome). However, it will rise only for the city’s inhabitants, who will live better from now on. The hero has died, and since the people have taken power, another will not appear. His dream is to return home (even posthumously) and engage in cattle farming. From a warrior, he wants to become a landowner. This is how Maximus describes his home: It stands in the hills above Trujillo. A simple place. Pink stones warmed by the sun. A garden at the kitchen that smells of herbs in the day, jasmine at night. An enormous poplar stands at the gate. I also have figs, apple, and pear trees. The land is as black as my wife’s hair. Grapes on the south side, olives on the north. Wild ponies nearby. Maximus says nothing about servants, but in one scene, we see people working in his field. It is a self-sufficient home, comfortably arranged without ostentation, a home the owner can be proud of.

This description is close to the ideal of a property proposed by Leone Battista Alberti in the fifteenth century. The property of an independent townsman, still connected to the land, which is the best guarantee of capital. A home where clear rules and a patriarchal value system prevail. Perhaps only the love for a woman is more romantic here than in the Italian humanist’s view.

The filmmakers embrace this ideal. Not the life of a warrior and great deeds, but a peaceful existence somewhere remote. This is the lesson intended for the viewer, for whom this ballet of death was prepared. The viewer in front of the screen is placed in the same situation as the audience in the Colosseum. They want to watch a bloody battle, hear about great and magnificent deeds, yet they also wish to remain mere observers. The games are a celebration. But we have an advantage over the ancient guests of the Colosseum. After watching the entire film, we will know that heroes no longer exist; they appear only briefly to entertain us, and the most important thing is also the simplest. You don’t need to be a great leader to be happy; all you need is a good home. Heroes do not exist in the real world, just as they do not exist in the film world. They have been replaced by more complex individuals and more human problems. This film is meant to be like a ritual: to cleanse and set the world on the right path. It praises values that are products of bourgeois society. By projecting them onto antiquity, at the cost of obvious anachronism, it gains the favor of contemporary mass audiences. Such well-constructed characters are no longer seen in the cinema. Unless in parody or pastiche (or possibly in a comic book adaptation). Modern heroes are often ordinary people with their own weaknesses, often clumsy or even ridiculous. You won’t find classic tough guys even in Tarantino’s work. A flawless knight can only be seen in an old-fashioned epic.

Maximus captivated the Roman crowds, and Ridley Scott captivated moviegoers, turning on-screen death, shown brutally as never before, into entertainment for millions. The formula kill as spectacularly as possible that governed the Colosseum also applies in the movie theater, and no one can deny it to Gladiator.

Written by Sebastian Pyka

“Good morning, may we ask you one question? How would you react to a visit from an extraterrestrial civilization?” – inquire the aliens in Warm Greetings from Earth (Srdecný pozdrav ze zemekoule). 

Alien A and Alien B arrive on Earth to study the local civilization. The visitors take on human form and contact Dr. Jánský, chosen as an average representative of humanity (the scientist also works at the Institute for Communication with Extraterrestrial Civilizations). The visitors’ presence further disrupts Jánský’s already fragile peace of mind, as the aliens, like unruly children, cause chaos wherever they go: they cause a gas explosion in the doctor’s apartment, wreck a store, dismantle a neighbor’s car, disrupt construction workers, harass passersby, and disturb a scientific symposium by posing as distinguished scholars. A and B attempt manual labor and indulge in erotic pleasures with Earth women. When they want to return home, their superiors inform them that Earth is facing a catastrophe.

Warm Greetings from Earth is one of the last films by Oldřich Lipský, the Czech master of comedy and author of Man from the First Century (1962), Gentlemen, I Killed Einstein (1970), and The Mysterious Castle in the Carpathians (1981). Lipský wrote the screenplay with Slovak comedians Milan Lasica and Július Satinský, who played the roles of Aliens A and B. The idea for the story of the alien visit to Earth came from Vladimír Jiránek, a set designer, cartoonist, and animator best known as the co-creator of the popular series Neighbors about the inept handymen Pat and Mat. For Greetings, Jiránek also created animated drawings that served as reports submitted by the aliens to their superiors. These animations were accompanied by comments such as “Humanity’s greatest achievements are: the lighter, soft-boiled eggs, pop music, and public transportation.”

One cannot miss the subtle satire in Greetings on both human foibles and Czechoslovak socialism. The humor arises from the collision of the aliens’ childlike naivety with the civilizational and systemic absurdities of everyday life in the 1980s – and anyone who lived through those times or is familiar with recent history needs no convincing about the absurdity of existence in the Eastern Bloc. As Stanisław Tym aptly wrote in his play Dear Mr. Ionesco: “You ask, Mr. Ionesco, what is the People’s Republic of Poland? I walk into a store, I say to the saleswoman: ‘I’d like a comb, please.’ And she says nothing, remains silent. I say it again: ‘I’d like a comb, please.’ Still nothing. The third time – the same. Would you, Mr. Ionesco, have imagined hiring a deaf saleswoman in a store? Perhaps you might, but she wasn’t deaf at all, and that you wouldn’t have imagined, Mr. Ionesco.”

Life in the Eastern Bloc was a goldmine for satirists, as evidenced by the work of Stanisław Bareja. However, it seems that the creators of Greetings did not fully exploit this potential. The biggest problem with the film is its loose, improvised form: the plot is thin and quickly disintegrates into a series of more or less successful sketches of almost cabaret origin (no surprise, considering Lasica and Satinský’s artistic background). The impression of incoherence is heightened by the variety of humor types (situational, political, slapstick, etc.) that generally do not harmonize. This is particularly evident in the second half of the film, where the creators – likely running out of ideas for developing the story – begin to flounder. But perhaps this was the very nature of life in the socialist bloc: arbitrary, chaotic, and amusing only up to a point.

It’s good to occasionally remember events that seem insignificant to the average person, like the swimming of the English Channel on August 6, 1926, accomplished by Trudy Ederle. One feels joy and hope that 100 years ago there were people like her, bravely challenging the idiotic order of the world. Unfortunately, there’s also sadness that it’s not 500, but only 100 years. It could have been at least 300 if not for cultural legacies. The film “Young Woman and the Sea” by Joachim Rønning, starring Daisy Ridley, shows in a sensational and dramatically engaging way how difficult it was for a woman to even be allowed by the male world to jump into the water – not to mention competing in races or breaking records that undermined male strength.

Swimming the Channel was thus a summary or, more importantly, a sign, a message to the whole world that changes cannot be stopped, only senselessly delayed. So why fight them? Out of mindlessness? Out of an overwhelming fear of having to leave defeated, like Trudy’s coach, who did everything to prevent her from winning?

Her father planned for her to marry an unattractive man who could only say the word “peanut” in English. Her mother talked about gutting chickens, and her friends at the pool mocked her for stoking the furnace instead of racing with them. Scarlet fever took much of her hearing. She was forbidden from entering the water. She didn’t even finish school, but she had dreams of competitive swimming. She won several medals at the 1924 Paris Olympics. She lived almost 100 years, despite having a serious accident that cost her much of her athletic ability and the rest of her hearing. However, she found her calling in training deaf children, using her swimming and life experience, knowing that no one helped her because of her hearing impairment. Such was Trudy Ederle, and her biography testifies only to the fact that she was truly a great person, while others wanted to see her as just an ordinary woman because they intuitively knew that her personality went far beyond their dreams, not to mention their characters and real physical capabilities.

I once wrote that I’m less impressed by movies (such as “Dunkirk“) that can’t surprise me because I already know the story they tell. I still hold that opinion. In the case of “Young Woman and the Sea,” which is an adaptation of Glenn Stout’s book, there couldn’t be any twist, as you can read on Wikipedia in 5 minutes that Trudy’s next attempt to swim the Channel was ultimately successful. From the beginning, it was clear how the film would end. The trick, however, is how the director led me as a viewer to that obvious conclusion and what else he managed to tell me during the plot before the heroine, with a laurel wreath on her head, stood on the English shore. He reminded me of a piece of our European cultural history that we have forgotten too quickly, for example, when harshly criticizing the Middle Eastern world from today’s perspective for deprecating the role of women. In our own backyard, things weren’t any better, and that was not very long ago. It still isn’t good, but Western liberal populism cleverly hides the prevailing backwardness, for example, in access to work, specialized medical procedures, or general societal position.

That’s why films like “Young Woman and the Sea” are made, so that no one forgets what the West, along with America, was like for hundreds of years compared to, for example, Slavic countries, and not in the 20th century, but many centuries earlier, when our bourgeoisie and nobility enjoyed such social and religious freedoms that those by the Loire, Tagus, and Thames could only dream of.

However, as always in films with an ideological and pro-social message, and undoubtedly “Young Woman and the Sea” is such a production, the pathos is bothersome, which the creators cannot avoid when telling about the great deeds of American citizens. So, whenever it became more sensational and Trudy successfully fought against the cold water, jellyfish, and her own disobedient body, there had to be loud and dramatic music in the background, distracting from the emotions arising from the scene of the heroine’s struggle for victory. If the lofty form and content were toned down, it would be calmer, perhaps more documentary-like, but the audience would notice more emotions in the heroine, whom Daisy Ridley tried to portray with all her acting might. I didn’t expect such good acting from her, especially after the latest Star Wars episodes. In short, there’s no need to show the fight for great victories with colorful fireworks in the sky, which the camera keeps showing. And I’m not even criticizing the huge parade in New York in Trudy’s honor but the entire pathos before that scene when Trudy was in the water, and everyone around her cheered, shouted, and then cried.

Nevertheless, the film is engaging with its way of building tension, narrative, and aesthetics. The early 20th-century world in the USA is meticulously depicted locally. The story received brisk editing, ensuring even the more difficult documentary scenes last as long as necessary to conclude the thread, tell everything important, even if more narratively complicated, and end it without over-talking or dragging, which is so tiring in many films considered more artistic. The number of words spoken by actors doesn’t always indicate wisdom but a lack of control by the director over the script’s content.

“Young Woman and the Sea” possesses not so much artistic value as popular-cultural and entertainment value. It is a good film in terms of the fun of participating in this wonderful adventure that cinema offers our imagination. A bit tiring due to unnecessary solemnity. What’s most important, however, is that it tackles a topic that can be discussed intensely and for a long time after the screening, and also analyze reality from this angle – can a woman do it. That’s how a film should work, that even after it ends, it stays in your head and provokes thought. A solid 6.5/10.

Examples include Roman Polanski’s Chinatown and Robert Altman’s The Long Goodbye. In Inherent Vice Anderson follows the path trodden by his older colleagues—the masters of cinema—yet at a certain point, he veers in a completely different direction, revising not only cinematic inspirations but also the American Dream and the history of the United States.

The Big Sleep

The reference to the classic 1946 crime film directed by Howard Hawks is not coincidental. It seems that Inherent Vice owes the most to this film starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. Both Thomas Pynchon’s novel and Anderson’s screenplay similarly treat the main plot, which involves a detective’s investigation into a missing person. In both stories, the mentioned investigation stops mattering at a certain point due to the incomprehensible and ungraspable intrigue, which gradually expands into other subplots and characters. This is especially difficult for the protagonist of Inherent Vice, Larry “Doc” Sportello, who remains under the influence of drugs the entire time.

We meet Doc as he’s taking a nap—he is abruptly (or is he?) woken up from his sleep by his ex-girlfriend, Shasta. Doc and Shasta broke up some time ago, but he still can’t get over the loss; he loves her and hopes they will get back together. She tells him about her troubles and asks for his help in finding her new lover, real estate mogul Michael Z. Wolfmann. There’s no point in delving into the exact description of the situation she’s in—suffice to say, the case involves the wealthiest residents of Los Angeles, neo-Nazis, politicians, a former musician turned secret agent, an international heroin smuggling gang, and even an association of tax-evading dentists. Driven probably by the hope of rekindling his romance, Doc decides to help his beloved and begins the investigation.

Imagined Reality

Of course, it cannot be said with full certainty that everything in Inherent Vice is just his hallucination or dream. On the other hand, the director consistently narrates from Doc’s perspective, showing reality through his drug-altered point of view. Anderson avoids establishing shots, preventing the viewer from precisely orienting themselves within the film’s terrain and story. We see the protagonist wandering through the fog, changing costumes, and getting lost in testimonies. Interestingly, in the end, he manages to solve the case and bring the investigation to a close. This might seem improbable, given his state and the complexity of the intrigue. What’s more, he regains Shasta’s love and escapes with her into the unknown.

But how do new characters enter Doc’s life? As mentioned, Shasta wakes him from his sleep—which in itself might raise the question of whether the dream really ended and if the woman isn’t just a figment of his imagination. A bit later, we meet Detective Bigfoot—a tough guy who hates hippies and their antics. Before appearing in the film, Doc sees him on TV—in an absurd commercial where Bigfoot is dressed as a hippie. The next characters—Coy Harlingen, Wolfmann, Adrian Prussia—Doc first sees in photos (in a family album, newspaper, and police files) before meeting them in reality. The last shot shows Doc and Shasta together in a car, framed so that the car seems completely still. We don’t see passing scenery, only two motionless figures making plans for the future.

In this context, one particular moment in Inherent Vice stands out—the one where Doc receives a photo of a newborn baby born to a heroin-addicted mother. This is the only time the protagonist visibly reacts to anything—and even now, he does so with unnatural exaggeration.

Morality, Capitalism, and Paranoia

As established, Doc is a supporter and user of psychoactive substances. The Los Angeles police officers and other law enforcers don’t have much respect for him, which is constantly highlighted through verbal jabs and physical attacks. However, it turns out that he has a surprisingly strong moral backbone. He doesn’t care about money, and during his investigation, he helps several people purely out of ethical motives. He isn’t a saint; his methods can be judged differently—but he has his principles and sticks to them. In this context, the film is a rather biting critique of corruption, predatory capitalism, and power. Bigfoot, who initially seems like an incorruptible cop, ends up urging Doc to join him in stealing packages of heroin. FBI agents turn out to be incompetents. Penny, a lawyer who criticizes Doc, comes to him for a joint. Everyone around, in their own way, contributes to the operation of a powerful criminal organization—The Golden Fang.

However, there are several Golden Fangs. Firstly, it’s an association of dentists who wanted to evade paying high taxes. It’s also the name of a boat and a criminal group involved in drug smuggling. The paranoid atmosphere of the late 1960s and early 1970s affects all the characters, though their perceptions of a grand conspiracy often turn out to be exaggerated. That is, corruption, crime, and other problems exist, but the network of connections between them is much thinner and follows more convoluted paths. Interestingly, Inherent Vice fits well into the contemporary world. One of the main criminal activities in the film (and the novel) involves real estate market machinations. Thomas Pynchon’s book was published in 2009—fresh after the global crisis caused, among other things, by greedy bankers speculating with so-called derivative instruments in real estate trading. It seems capitalism never stops sinking its golden fangs into various aspects of everyday life.

What’s Up, Doc?

Thus, we look at the year 1970 from today’s perspective, and it turns out many things appear similar. Yet, the film, in the strangest, most unexpected way, expresses a longing for what was and a fear of what will be. Doc seems like a child wandering in the fog—as mentioned, Anderson portrays him like this in one of the scenes. He constantly hears comments about his immaturity and unseriousness. Viewed as a hippie, a druggie, and a loser, he turns out to be the most consistent and trustworthy person. Bigfoot, who makes several jabs at Doc, turns out to be a big child himself—when we meet his wife, she scolds him like a mother scolds a child. Respected dentist Rudy Blatnoyd is an infantile dandy playing with teenagers. Wolfmann runs from his problems and hides from the world. Penny, a prosecutor’s assistant, invites herself over to her ex-boyfriend’s place for pizza and weed. Finally, Shasta, mingling with influential players, comes to Doc for help, who seems to be the last bastion, a relic of the passing 1960s.

Moral, Capitalism, and Paranoia

Fact: Vitamin C is used in cosmetics as an ingredient in anti-aging products. When we meet Doc and his relationship with Shasta, we hear the song by CAN from 1972 in the background, with the lyrics: I’m losing, I’m losing, I’m losing my vitamin C. Could the director be suggesting Doc’s subconscious fear of the future? We meet him as a guy living in the past, and it doesn’t seem the entire story helps him move forward in any way. If we add to this the symbolic stillness during the final escape from the city, the conclusions come naturally.

Anderson, referring to film noir, deconstructs it. Unlike flagship productions of this genre, which inherently contains darkness and night in its name, Inherent Vice mostly takes place in bright, sunny daylight. The intrigue involving high-profile individuals is pushed to the background. The characters and their fears, expressed in various ways by Anderson, become paramount, as he leads the viewer by the nose, almost explicitly saying: don’t trust what you see.

The perfect candidate for a femme fatale turns out to be a lost girl. The detective meddling in other people’s affairs receives no lesson or punishment—on the contrary, he manages to help several people. Conspiracy theories are ridiculed, and so on. In one scene, when Doc enters a millionaire’s house, she asks if he likes the lighting. She adds that Jimmy Howe prepared it. James Wong Howe—one of the best Hollywood cinematographers, whose work spanned several decades. He was known as a master of light and realism, and his creative use of chiaroscuro helped shape the poetics of film noir, which Inherent Vice consciously flirts with—and betrays.

If you are looking for consolation or answers to the meaning of life in cinema, you’ve come to the wrong place. Harmony Korine is a director of audacious experiments and excesses, eagerly wallowing in American muck (“Gummo”), exploring the boundaries of cinematic nihilism (“Trash Humpers”), and reworking pop-cultural clichés into a spectacle of nonsense – which, paradoxically, makes a lot of sense (“Spring Breakers”). The golden child of American arthouse is now over fifty, but with “Aggro Dr1ft,” he proves he still has boundless rebellious energy: he adds new transgressions to his colorful biography and embarks on a wild journey through the uncharted territories of cinema.

Korine’s latest project is a grand spectacle made from nothing, a true trip where Gaspar Noé‘s drug trips may seem tame and rational in comparison. What exactly is “Aggro Dr1ft”: a film or a game, reality or a dream, a surreal story about a gangster’s conscience or a genuine broadcast from hell?

In interviews, the director says he no longer watches films because they all look the same. He is more inspired by games and new technologies, which he uses to push beyond the previously established boundaries of visual arts. “Aggro Dr1ft” was meant to be more than an ordinary film – an immersive, sensory experience. I can wholeheartedly confirm that this goal has been exceeded.

Despite many deviations from the norm, Korine retains the basic elements of a cinematic story: “Aggro Dr1ft” even has a plot, although paying special attention to it would be a waste of time – it is definitely not the most important thing here. Suffice it to say that everything revolves around a hitman, his sexy wife, a dangerous gangster, and his sexy slaves. Occasionally, winged fiery demons appear in the background. The hitman has many thoughts but ultimately reaches for a gun and kills; he cannot help himself because killing is addictive. “Aggro Dr1ft” is another installment of Korine’s story about violence – disgusting, yet in some way dangerously alluring.

From a story that sounds like the beginning of a new Patryk Vega film, Korine molds a top-notch audiovisual odyssey. The entire 80 minutes were shot with thermal imaging cameras, then special effects experts and artificial intelligence took over. The final effect is simply astounding. The screen pulses with a riot of colors, and the speakers assault with an uninterrupted series of sharp sounds. The surreal formula makes the over-the-top violence not terrifying but captivating, compelling you to watch and participate in this endless madness, like the most addictive game in the world. Korine’s sick imagination can fortunately be watched with unfeigned pleasure because the whole thing is drenched in self-aware absurdity.

If there is a film at this year’s New Horizons that puts everything on the line, tests viewers’ endurance, and tries to chart new paths for cinema, it is “Aggro Dr1ft.” Korine draws heavily from contemporary pop culture (even casting Travis Scott in one role) and creates a kind of funeral collage from its codes; the most nightmarish mix one can imagine. This does not mean that his film is bad. On the contrary: “Aggro Dr1ft” powerfully reminds us that things found in the pop-cultural junkyard can be made into a stunning audiovisual spectacle. It is a triumph of cinema in its purest form – a victory of images and sounds so electrifying that you don’t even think about what you see and hear; you simply surrender to them and flow with them into the unknown. Who knows – perhaps towards a completely new form of cinema?

Although the slogan “a new voice in cinema” appears practically every time a successful debut hits the festivals, sometimes the use of this formula is more justified. This was the case with the premiere of Rungano Nyoni‘s 2017 film, “I Am Not a Witch” – the British director of Zambian origin. We had to wait until this year for her second film, which verifies to what extent her feminist drama in the climate of magical realism signals the opening of a strong and important debut for African cinema. This year, Nyoni presented her second feature-length film, “On Becoming a Guinea Fowl,” in the Cannes section Un Certain Regard, and it has now reached Wrocław’s New Horizons, aligning perfectly with this year’s trend of African New Waves.

In her debut, Nyoni tackled the potent topic of witchcraft, or rather accusations of it in traditional East African cultures. Although the realistic aspect of potential witchcraft was strongly emphasized, the story of a girl accused by her community of being the titular witch provided a certain fantastical-magical buffer for the social theme. In “On Becoming a Guinea Fowl,” while the director remains faithful to the convention of magical realism, there are no such safety valves, entering a much more direct polemic with the social structures of her native region. This time, too, she waits quite a while before revealing what the film is about, in the first act playing heavily with a surreal starting point. And it is quite spectacular and intriguing – Shula, returning from a party at night (incidentally sharing the name with the protagonist of “I Am Not a Witch”), encounters the body of a man on the road, who turns out to be her uncle. The absurdity of finding a relative’s corpse in the middle of the night and in the middle of nowhere, the protagonist’s futuristic costume, and the grotesque dance of examination, phone calls, and annoying cousins’ meetings we see in the first sequence, effectively introduce us to the surreal, intriguing, but also threatening atmosphere of the film. Then, as with the masters of thrillers, the tension only grows.

In “On Becoming a Guinea Fowl,” not much happens in terms of classical action. Apart from the scene of finding the body, the lion’s share of the film takes place during the mourning and funeral ceremonies, which for Shula and her cousins prove to be an overwhelmingly hostile and difficult environment to navigate. The entire drama of the film unfolds in rituals, social conventions, and dialogues, gradually revealing the character of the deceased and his impact on the protagonists, as well as the consequences for each of their lives. Men are almost absent in Nyoni’s film, but the specter of their power constantly hovers over everything the women do and experience. This patriarchal deadlock and the almost absolute impossibility of breaking the vicious circle of violence and silence build the dense atmosphere of “On Becoming a Guinea Fowl,” which, despite its clear social grounding, Nyoni directs like a horror film in the vein of the brand A24. As a result, for an hour and a half, we sit on the edge of our seats, absorbing the toxic atmosphere of the Zambian wake, with all the brutality and eeriness of the local culture. The formal means employed by the British-Zambian director are chosen to emphasize the ominous nature of the situation, suggesting dark undertones.

In his recent film “Lingui,” Sub-Saharan master Mahamat-Saleh Haroun told of female trauma, concluding it with a message about the power of sisterhood, which was as uplifting as it was kitschy. In Rungano Nyoni’s film, there is no such consolation – reconciliation and catharsis occur only on a private micro-scale, while from the perspective of the entire community, understanding and comfort are just more rituals. The only way out of the cycle of violence may be the titular escape into magical thinking, folk esotericism, which envelops the world presented in “On Becoming a Guinea Fowl.” Continuing themes from her debut, Nyoni suggests that the ominous spirit world reflects a cruel reality, and at some point, it provides the only possibility of escape. A little comforting thought, but the cultural criticism that Nyoni practices in her films is not meant to console. The art that has succeeded in this case is wrapping the somber reflection in an intriguing film form, providing a compelling vehicle for the author’s message. Symbolically, she takes on the role of the titular guinea fowl, with a rough chant warning of danger on the savanna – becoming a guinea fowl equates to taking on the role of an unpleasant whistleblower, who is unlikely to expect applause.

Darren Aronofsky likes to stir controversy. Despite his extraordinary talent that allows the Brooklyn-born director to create spectacular films even on subjects deemed dull and uncinematic by others, his career still seems to balance between being part of the Hollywood elite and a desire to create art films, leaning more towards the latter. Although he tackles completely different themes each time, most of his films carry certain trademarks – they are filled with sorrow, dreamlike visions, and brutally honest messages that are often unacceptable to audiences expecting happy endings but delight fans of dark genres – from painful dramas to psychological thrillers. Aronofsky wouldn’t be Aronofsky without one more ingredient – many allusions to other works of cinema, literature, and art. Black Swan, Perfect Blue.

(Obvious spoiler alert)

The issue of similarities between Perfect Blue and Black Swan is nothing new, but discussions on this topic remain lively even after many years. I also have a problem with this because I sincerely love both films, but I am far from accusing a man I consider one of my favorite directors of plagiarism. It’s not sympathy that drives me but rather the facts that clarify this matter quite clearly. The first is Aronofsky’s acquisition of the rights to the American adaptation of Satoshi Kon’s anime (Paprika) back in 2001, and it’s hard to believe that the sole purpose of this investment was honesty towards the Japanese and an irresistible desire to place Jennifer Connelly in a bathtub (Requiem for a Dream) and recreate a dramatic scene from Perfect Blue one-to-one.

The issue is complicated by the fact that Aronofsky steadfastly denies that Nina Sayers’s character was influenced by Mima Kirigoe’s story. When asked about Black Swan, he firmly responds:

There are certain similarities between these films, but Perfect Blue was not my inspiration. I was grappling with Swan Lake because I wanted to dramatize ballet.

Aronofsky has no problem praising the works of Pyotr Tchaikovsky and Fyodor Dostoevsky, citing them as the major influences on his most famous film. However, one cannot overlook the numerous borrowings from Satoshi Kon’s animation that Black Swan contains. Many. The open question remains how to classify these references. I warned about spoilers already, but I will do it once more – I will delve into the intricate plots of both films.

Perfect Blue is an outstanding film – Black Swan is too, in my opinion, though this verdict is not as widely accepted. Both titles certainly share the genre and the way its guidelines are executed, but the most ardent anti-plagiarism critics of Aronofsky point out similarities already at the stage of comparing the plot outlines, which – when appropriately crafted – seem strikingly similar:

Perfect Blue:
Mima Kirigoe is a young J-pop star who faces the chance to take the next big step in her career. To become a movie star, she has to sacrifice a lot, gradually losing her own self in the process.

How does Black Swan fare in comparison?
Nina Sayers is a young ballerina who faces the chance to take the next big step in her career. To become a prima ballerina, she has to sacrifice a lot, gradually losing her own self in the process.

Seeing these descriptions, one might prematurely judge Aronofsky as a plagiarist – but is it certain? As mentioned, they seem strikingly similar when appropriately crafted – this involves highlighting the similarities while omitting what differentiates both films. And there’s quite a bit of that. One might argue that changing one artistic field for another is a nuance – agreed. In this regard, the central theme is the pressure exerted on a young person by entirely new life situations. This loss of self in work and constant hallucinations that emphasize the protagonist’s hesitation are the main themes of both films, and in Perfect Blue, they seem to cry out for a return to the previous stage of the career – we have mirrors that show someone different from the person looking at them; the same happens with the reflection in the subway car window.

At this point, it is worth noting that while these scenes are seemingly identical, Kon and Aronofsky use them for entirely different purposes. The young J-pop star, at the manager’s urging, decides to leave the frivolous industry that has labeled her as a sweet and delicate girl. The fact that this is who she actually was and now has to change it intensifies Mima’s desire to return to singing – the manager, however, suggests something completely different, and at his urging, the girl agrees to a sex scene in the series she’s cast in and later a nude photo session – all against her will and as if to confirm the typical Japanese I cannot disappoint their expectations.

It’s completely the opposite for Nina – an incredibly talented ballerina and perfectionist who has the chance to become a prima ballerina in a completely new production of Swan Lake. However, to do this, she must understand that perfection is not just about flawlessly executing steps and figures but about losing herself in the dance in such a way that it sweeps the audience away. Genius and madness are separated by a very thin line, but so far, the well-behaved and orderly girl that Nina still is has not been able to even come close to this threshold. If she doesn’t, her life opportunity will be lost.

Both girls are heading in completely different directions.

At this point, the plots of both films clearly diverge, continuing to use very similar means of expression – and it is precisely the atmosphere-enhancing music by Clint Mansell and the dark cinematography by Matthew Libatique that should be “blamed” for the associations with Perfect Blue. Where Darren Aronofsky tells his own story, the allusions do not end.

Is the pressure that leads to (partial) loss of reality and gives filmmakers the opportunity to showcase the creation of dreamlike visions enough evidence to accuse him of borrowing? Both films evidently draw from Carl Gustav Jung’s psychological theories, giving us a complex picture of the relationship between who a person thinks they are and how their view of themselves changes under external influences. Only this and so much more.

In the pursuit of the truth about the borrowings, it seems significant that beyond the similarity of the main characters, which could equally well be pulled from their film worlds and swapped places, the creation of their surroundings is the essence of the differences. Is the motif of stress caused by new challenges merely a pretext for Kon to tell a story about how easily a defenseless person can be manipulated by someone close to them? While the central twist in Perfect Blue is the revelation of Rumi’s role in the chaos surrounding Mima, including using a mentally disabled man as a persistent stalker, in Black Swan, the starting point is precisely breaking the bonds that have shackled Nina for years – her mother (Barbara Hershey) is thus partially an equivalent of both Rumi and the Maniac (hence the visual references) but also an additional element of pressure that ultimately triggers Nina’s madness and genius.

Ultimately, it’s hard to disagree with the arguments of both sides – Aronofsky borrowed heavily from the story created by Yoshikazu Takeuchi and filmed by Satoshi Kon. However, it is not a repeat adaptation of the manga nor a remake of the anime. As a fan of both titles, I have a problem with evaluating them. They always evoke cross-associations for me – when I watch one, I think of the other, and vice versa. These similarities only gain proper perspective when you watch both films back-to-back. Then you don’t have to rely on faulty memory and its deceptive nature. I dare say that the similarity of Black Swan to Perfect Blue is based mainly on the central theme (not that rare in cinema) and a multitude of visual references, which in themselves do not mean plagiarism – at most a tribute (especially since Aronofsky has the rights to adapt it). The problem is that after the screening, it is the image, not the story (which memory fades over time), that stays in our heads.

Whether the New Yorker genuinely intended to pay homage to Tchaikovsky and Dostoevsky, but his thoughts wandered to Perfect Blue by accident, eventually engulfing him entirely, we may never know if we don’t take his word for it – he denies the influence of Mima Kirigoe’s story. It is therefore difficult to go beyond the two most likely scenarios that could have led to the creation of Black Swan: Aronofsky either overdid the number of allusions to the cult anime in his original work – he is known for that – or he truly intended to make a remake of Satoshi Kon’s film, but during production, he let his imagination stray too far, leading to a completely new, separate creation. The final proof that the first version of events is closer to the truth seems to be the information given by Masao Maruyama – producer of the original Perfect Blue – in an interview with Dazed Magazine.

Maruyama’s words clearly indicate that he and Kon had been in discussions with Aronofsky for a long time. According to him, while Black Swan is very interesting, it shares only a few scenes and the theme of obsession and loss of identity with Perfect Blue—this is not enough to consider it an adaptation. That adaptation, supposedly, is yet to come.

Adding a somber note to the whole issue is the fact that filming for Black Swan took place six months before Satoshi Kon’s death from pancreatic cancer. I wouldn’t have minded if this inspiration had been acknowledged explicitly—the film could have become a tribute to the master, similar to how Alejandro González Iñárritu made The Revenant a living monument to Andrei Tarkovsky. If only Aronofsky didn’t persistently deny it…

Written by Damian Halik.

The teenage Gretchen from “Cuckoo”  is seemingly hard to sympathize with. She regularly shows her disdain for the world, demonstratively cutting herself off from her surroundings with the help of headphones and constantly sporting a frustrated look. However, this isn’t just a case of typical teenage angst—against her will, she has been relocated to the Bavarian Alps with her father, stepmother, and half-sister: mute, seven-year-old Alma. It’s no wonder that Gretchen—longing for her biological mother, unable to connect with her new family, and forcibly moved to foreign soil—hides her pain behind a mask of apathy. Naturally, in true horror fashion, the protagonist will soon get a chance to work through her trauma—under combat conditions, in the setting of a mysterious Alpine resort.

In one of the opening scenes of “Cuckoo,” director Tilman Singer gives a nod to fans of Kubrick’s “The Shining”: a car carrying an innocent family traverses a winding mountain road, heading towards the archetypal “haunted house.” This scene is emblematic of the entire film, which is essentially a patchwork of clichés and quotations. Singer follows the same path he took in his feature debut, the satanic horror “Luz.” There, the plot was secondary—the horror of possession was filtered through the lens of 80s European horror cinema, contained within the grainy texture of the image and the synthesizer soundtrack. It’s similar in “Cuckoo,” which—though more aesthetically polished—focuses more on creating an atmosphere than on cause-and-effect narrative logic.

The horror pedigree of the film is thus emphasized from the very first scenes. The resort staff, led by the head of the facility, Herr König, are eerily polite, unsettling screams continuously emanate from the nearby forest, and there’s a subplot involving mysterious research being conducted at a local hospital. All genre tropes are immediately identifiable. This strategy doesn’t necessarily have to be a problem, as Singer shows a clear passion and talent for staging. This is particularly evident in the scene of Gretchen’s nighttime bike ride, during which she realizes she’s being chased by a mysterious entity—the soundtrack is limited to the music coming from her headphones, so the presence of the monster is indicated only by shadows on the road.

The main problem with “Cuckoo,” however, is that the entire film quickly breaks down into a series of such (better or worse) scenes—there is a lack of a narrative glue to bind them into a cohesive whole. A sympathetic viewer might consider the aforementioned primacy of atmosphere over plot as a deliberate creative choice, but it could just as easily be seen as a disruption of directorial priorities. Similarly, the ironic quotation marks Singer uses around his film can be interpreted both as a sign of self-awareness and as a display of caution and creative cynicism. Singer eventually stops pretending that the film is about anything more than playing with genre tropes—viewers unconvinced by this convention will quickly tire of the viewing.

Theoretically, the emotional core of the film is supposed to be Gretchen’s processing of her trauma and rebuilding her relationship with her sister. Unfortunately, this entire motif feels tacked on and is only salvaged by Hunter Schafer’s performance. The actress, known from “Euphoria,” effortlessly deepens the character of Gretchen, highlighting her confusion and sensitivity hidden under a mask of teenage cynicism. Among the rest of the cast, only Dan Stevens stands out as König—with a comically exaggerated German accent, combining psychopathic mannerisms with the pose of a New Age guru. Unfortunately, the other actors (led by Jessica Henwick and Marton Csokas as Gretchen’s parents) don’t have much to do beyond blandly replicating genre stereotypes.

I admit, it feels a bit silly to criticize “Cuckoo”—I appreciate Singer’s genuine passion, but ultimately it results in very little. Among fans of cinematic “midnight madness,” the film will likely find an audience, but for other viewers, it will quickly turn into a tiresome list of quotations. “Cuckoo” is technically competent enough to be watchable—it’s just a shame that it’s even easier to forget.

Written by Jedrzej Paczkowski