The distributor promoted The Borrower as a blend of Hellraiser (1987) by Clive Barker, Re-Animator (1985) by Stuart Gordon, and Warlock (1989) by Steve Miner. Wishful thinking!

An extraterrestrial serial killer is sentenced to death, but at the last moment, the court (also extraterrestrial, of course!) opts for a far harsher punishment: the criminal is to serve a life sentence on… Earth (a primitive planet, as one of the aliens puts it), and his body is genetically modified to resemble a human form. Either the aliens’ science is flawed, or the transformation wasn’t completed properly—in any case, every few hours the criminal’s body reverts to its original form, a process that culminates in a picturesque explosion of his head. The alien must regularly rip off the heads of humans he encounters on Earth and attach them to his own body, which naturally raises the suspicions of a pair of homicide detectives: Diana Pierce and her partner, Charles Krieger.

John McNaughton rose to fame with his feature debut Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer (1986). The controversy surrounding that film led to him receiving countless scripts for cheap horror flicks, which he rejected without hesitation. “Eventually The Borrower came along, which in a way was also a bad script,” McNaughton explained, “but the concept that this monster rips people’s heads off and somehow takes over their lives struck me as a metaphor for what actors do. And that gave me something to hold onto beyond just a monster jumping out from behind a tree to scare and eat you.”

The Borrower was developed between 1987 and 1988 under the wing of Atlantic Entertainment Group, which went bankrupt shortly before filming was completed. The rights were later acquired by Cannon Films, which finally released the movie in theaters in 1991.

The Borrower sat on the shelf for three years—and could’ve stayed there even longer. The creators mixed science fiction, horror, and comedy, but the film doesn’t succeed in any of these genres: science fiction is merely an excuse for the premise, the horror elements aren’t scary, and the jokes aren’t very funny. If one really insisted, one could spot in McNaughton’s film a kind of social satire or commentary on life in a late-20th-century American metropolis plagued by rape, shootings, drug addiction, prostitution, homelessness, and more. But that’s just the background; front and center is a ridiculous story about an alien wandering the city, ripping off heads—over and over again. The filmmakers were likely aware of how shallow and repetitive this setup was, so they threw in a subplot involving a rapist, which ultimately has nothing to do with the main theme of The Borrower.

2 years ago, we had the chance to watch another part of the adventures of a certain Ant-Man, a superhero with the ability to shrink his body even down to, for example, the size of an ant. What is important, however, is that in the aforementioned work, it is a skill, and as a result, the protagonist uses it when he wants. The hero of The Incredible Shrinking Man unfortunately does not have the luxury of choice. An irrational force, from a scientific perspective, acts on him in an inexplicable way, first filling his life with existential fear and then making the greatest everyday threat from something that just yesterday could have been squashed under a shoe.

American director Jack Arnold is remembered as one of the more famous creators of science fiction cinema in the 50s and 60s. The Incredible Shrinking Man is one of his best works. Not only because the director, taking on a very intriguing but crazy idea, approached it seriously and gave the story of Scott Carey’s case an existential weight. It is also a remarkable film, or perhaps primarily so, because it was simply brilliantly made, which contributed to its longevity. Even today, no one would think of remaking a film from 1957. And I have the impression that this is not just because cinema has already given us several variations of the story of Tom Thumb, but because The Incredible Shrinking Man simply cannot be made better.

The main credit for this goes to the incredible special effects for the time. I must admit, at the beginning of the screening of The Incredible Shrinking Man, I was worried about whether the creators of the effects were able to create something realistic and universal enough that, decades after the film’s premiere, their work could be called unequivocally successful. Anticipating the development of the action and the fact that the creators would have to show various stages of the hero shrinking, I expected that the technical limitations of the 50s would evoke feelings of pity rather than admiration. I was wrong, very wrong. I quickly realized that I was dealing with one of the most distinguished examples of special effects in science fiction cinema.

Supervised by the outstanding specialist in this field, Clifford Stine, the various trick shots were perfected down to the smallest detail. The film is rich in magical techniques – we have in it double exposure, rear projection, and masking. Thanks to these tricks, it was possible to show the hero first reduced to the size of a child and then to the size of an insect. These effects were complemented by excellent work from the set designers, who created enlarged models of objects – fitting to the current size of the hero. Interestingly, the studio allegedly used these models in several other productions. The biggest challenge, however, for the effects specialists was the scene of dripping water droplets. A famous anecdote from the set says that Jack Arnold decided to use a treadmill, from which bags filled with water were dropped, using condoms.

The perfect visual setting of The Incredible Shrinking Man is one thing. The film does even better on the level of its messages. The plot, based on Richard Matheson’s book, initially triggered in me a metaphor of a man’s depressive state. It is hard not to notice the analogy connecting the hero’s gradual shrinking with a psychological disorder, resulting in the diminishment of his position in relation to others, exaggerating the smallest daily problems to unnaturally large proportions. However, in the finale, the reflection turns out to be much deeper. The hero’s smallness is meant to refer to the smallness of man in relation to the universe, and therefore, to God himself. For Him, it doesn’t matter the size of the organisms He created, as all are equally perfect elements of one mechanism. No matter how small or grotesque we may seem, God sees us.

Matheson had prepared a continuation, in which the main character’s wife cannot bear the longing and decides to shrink herself to find her beloved in the microcosm. However, this idea never came to fruition. In 1981, however, a comedic remake was made, featuring a female protagonist. The film lost the quality battle with the famous original. The 1957 film is an unattainable model of artistic courage, which before our eyes transforms into the pure magic of cinema.

While watching Sweet Girl, I couldn’t shake the feeling that instead of Jason Momoa, who plays one of the two main roles, it should have been Liam Neeson in that spot. Because this Netflix feature film is a classic, low-budget action flick of the kind that the famous actor from Ulster churns out these days by the dozen: a nearly lone hero (though often accompanied by a sidekick) fighting against a “bad force,” which is often corrupt. In Sweet Girl, the main character Ray Cooper does exactly that: he stands up against a powerful pharmaceutical corporation that he blames for the death of his wife.

Of course, that’s an oversimplification—in reality, Ray lost his wife, who had cancer, due to the actions of the BioPrime corporation, which used its influence to block a rival, much cheaper cancer treatment from hitting the market. After Amanda Cooper’s death (played in a small role by Adria Arjona, known from Andor), her husband and daughter Rachel (Isabela Merced) struggle to move on, and Ray channels his grief into plotting revenge against BioPrime. When he finally puts his plans into action, he and his daughter have to flee—not just from the powerful pharmaceutical company seeking retaliation, but also from law enforcement. Their escape takes up about half the runtime of Sweet Girl and delivers everything you’d expect from a “Liam Neeson-style” action movie, especially plenty of fight scenes where the hero usually wins, though at great physical cost.

At one point, though, Sweet Girl introduces a psychological twist that may not sit well with many viewers. Let’s just say that there’s a shift in narrative focus, which significantly undermines the story’s credibility.

The director of Sweet Girl, Brian Andrew Mendoza, is making his directorial debut here, but he knows the industry—after all, he produced other titles starring Jason Momoa, such as Braven and the series Frontier. So it’s no surprise that he chose Momoa for the lead role in his debut behind the camera. Both deliver solid performances by the standards of undemanding action cinema. Momoa makes flashy use of his muscles, fists, and booming voice, though he sometimes lacks the charisma expected from an action movie star. Mendoza’s direction is competent, though not particularly dynamic. The result is an action movie like dozens—if not hundreds—of others we’ve seen over the years. Many such films used to go straight to video or VOD, where they faded into obscurity. Sweet Girl has one big advantage, though: it’s backed by the most powerful production and streaming platform of our time, which guarantees Mendoza’s film a multi-million viewer audience.

But even Netflix can’t guarantee that it’ll be remembered for long.

Jason Momoa lends Sweet Girl his name and demigod looks, but young wolf Isabela Merced, born in 2001, holds her own against him in terms of viewer appeal. Merced is making increasingly bold strides in the film world—she’s not only strikingly beautiful but also charismatic and talented. She makes that very clear in Sweet Girl, earning high marks for her performance, which unfortunately gets undercut at times by the occasionally ridiculous script. As the movie nears its conclusion, some of the plot developments become harder and harder to believe. While Rachel Cooper’s bravery isn’t entirely unrealistic, some of the feats the screenwriters assign to her border on absurdity. That takes a toll on the authenticity of Rachel’s character, who otherwise comes across as a particularly resourceful and determined teenager.

I feel like I’m saying and writing this more and more often, but Sweet Girl is yet another average film in Netflix’s portfolio. It seems the streaming giant wants to produce exactly this kind of content—competent, unremarkable, perfect time-fillers for the undemanding viewer.

After all, it’s easier to make yet another formulaic action film than to try something groundbreaking and risk failure, right?

We have become accustomed to the fact that the authors of most sci-fi visions do not have good news for us. Our planet is facing imminent collapse, and the only viable way out of this situation, offering a chance for the survival of the human species, is escape. Not long ago, the natural direction for this escape was Mars. Now, creators more often choose increasingly exotic regions as the new home for humanity. In The Titan, it was, as expected, Titan, one of Saturn’s moons. In another sci-fi film from the Netflix platform, the chance for humanity is offered by one of Jupiter’s moons – IO.

The heroine of the film, however, has no intention of leaving Earth. Apparently, the fact of living in a polluted environment that doesn’t allow for normal life is not enough of an incentive for her to change her place of residence. This is all due to her father’s assurances, a scientist whom she trusted, and whose work she continues after his death. In theory, he assumed that life on Earth would be able to evolve again – it just needs time and patience. Faced with the decision of whether to stay on Earth or escape from it, the heroine soon meets a man who convinces her that their future is no longer tied to their mother planet.

The trailer filled me with strong skepticism about this project. I expected a sentimental story, using the simplest melodramatic tricks, leading straight into the arms of emotional cliché. In part, that’s exactly what I got. IO is a science fiction film of the type that, instead of impressing the viewer with effects, prefers to risk drawing them into experiencing a simple, sparse, sometimes even boring story. As for me, from the first minutes, I felt a connection both with the heroine and her fate. It’s very interesting that although I didn’t see anything in IO that I hadn’t already seen in post-apocalyptic cinema, the process of getting into the film was unusually painless.

Several factors contributed to this. There is something endearing about the young actress playing the main role. I had seen Margaret Qualley before in the series The Leftovers (and later in The Substance), and even then, her specific ease in acting caught my attention, which translated into an incredibly natural portrayal of the heroine’s spunk. In IO, she had a much less complicated role to play, but still, you could see in her an endearing confidence that translated into the strength of her character – a strong soul trapped in a delicate body. Also, her curiosity about the world, written on her face, fit perfectly with the story presented in IO.

The budget limitations were visible, not allowing the creators to present post-apocalyptic realities in full splendor. Paradoxically, this worked to the film’s advantage, as the subtle suggestions made through the shots were enough for me to let my imagination run wild. However, what I liked the most were the hints coming from the theme of the film. The various mythological inserts, stemming from the heroine’s fascination, added a very interesting touch to the story. It’s a shame, though, that consistency was not maintained in them – when the heroine finally realizes her dream and faces a picture in an art gallery, it would have been much better for the story if she had seen not Leda, but Io, as it would have corresponded with the title. But that’s a detail.

One observation seems key. The reason the heroine finds it so difficult to leave Earth is not just related to the desire to restore the dying natural environment. Earth is also a cultural heritage, the result of thousands of years of human activity. The admiration for art, symbolically depicted through mythological motifs, makes it clear how difficult a decision it would be to leave all this beauty behind and let it be forgotten. It’s as if changing one’s place of residence comes with the loss of part of one’s personality.

IO is surprisingly successful, though it has some weaker elements. The relatively slow, unhurried narrative, which does not hide any fireworks, may bore some viewers. However, I was able to understand the dilemmas of the characters, give myself over to their melancholy, and the longing for what they may soon lose forever.

Many film productions have been and still are being made about the extremely tense socio-racial relations in the USA, although so far documentarians have shown greater sensitivity and insight in this field. Kenya Barris, best known for his comedy series Black-ish, has been trying to outweigh the scales in favor of fiction writers for several years. You People is his project for Netflix: a comedy about an ethnic couple (Lauren London and Jonah Hill) who have to deal with the obstacles thrown in their way by their families.

The protagonists of You People are Amira, an African-American costume designer from a Muslim family, and Ezra, a broker raised in Judaism and co-creator of a cultural podcast. On the surface, they are people from other planets – ethnically, religiously and culturally, they were shaped in a completely different way, but this does not prevent them from falling in love with each other. They become close, understand each other perfectly and want to plan a life together. Kenya Barris, who together with Jonah Hill also created the screenplay for You People, seems to be asking whether their plans and the desire to create a family are not just a pipe dream, an idealistic illusion that they will never be able to realize. This is because Amira and Ezra do not live in isolation from their cultural heritage – they remain in close relations with their parents, who sabotage the relationship of the two main characters with their behavior at almost every step. Akbar (the great Eddie Murphy), an orthodox Muslim and Amira’s father, does not tolerate the future son-in-law and tries to impose his point of view on him and his family at every turn, while Shelley (the equally great Julia Louis-Dreyfus), Ezra’s mother, tries very hard to be “woke”, and her excessive enthusiasm makes her efforts an absolute caricature.

Relationships between individual characters can also be a caricature – Barris performs a real acrobatics here, trying to create a “social comedy”, and thus at the same time entertain and revise racial tensions, but fails many times in this field. Already the two opening scenes – Ezra’s conversations with his podcast partner Mo (the charismatic Sam Jay) and the visits of the same character to the synagogue – are examples of the exceptional clumsiness of You People dialogue layer. Instead of smooth conversations, we get bumpy exchanges that definitely don’t sound like something real people would say. The world presented in Barris’s film is a reality with which it is difficult to identify – both Amira and Ezra come from very wealthy families, they dress in elite boutiques and play in luxury resorts. Probably the moral that the creators wanted to convey was the statement that no money can protect against prejudice, but setting the action in a world so dripping with luxury made it extremely difficult to empathize with the characters’ situation, which is undoubtedly unenviable.

You People is an example of an extremely American-centric film – not only because the whole thing deals with racial tensions that have been tormenting the local society for many years, but also because of its rather typical exaggeration in articulating views that fit into political correctness. From the European perspective, many scenes may seem bizarre – I was especially struck by the one in which Ezra offers to help Amira, after all, his beloved, to which she reacts with sincere indignation, accusing her partner of abusing his privileged position … This type of there are much more dialogues in You People, which makes it difficult to consider Barris’s film as a sensible social commentary – from whatever ideological position one looks at it, the exaggerated reactions of each side come to the fore. An overzealously tolerant mother-in-law, a grotesquely orthodox father-in-law, lopsided comments about the “cultural enrichment” of both families – all these flawed elements make the whole film puzzle crack and wobble, and only the occasional moments of genuine closeness that occur between pair of main characters.

The main premise of Kenya Barris’ film – working through racial tensions and drawing attention to the greatest sins of American society – was certainly ambitious and fundamentally sincere, but the execution fell short of these intentions. The creators’ desire cannot be denied, but when the goal is to create an intelligent comedy accurately pointing to social ills, it is difficult to accept an uneven story in which an unconvincing dialogues mix with plot solutions straight from the most cliché romcoms (see the finale of the film). I had hoped that You People would offer us more, amuse us more, make us think more deeply, but instead it seems to teach us only that – to paraphrase Martyna Jakubowicz, Polish singer – “there is no real equality in houses made of gold”.

But we knew that long before this movie was made.

Among the many elements that set the first season of Andor apart from other Star Wars productions (and earned it the nickname “Star Wars for adults”), some of the more observant fans noticed one particularly interesting detail. In one of the season’s final scenes, the title character reads a manifesto written by a young, idealistic rebel named Karis Nemik. Its key moment, addressed to anyone doubting the point of fighting the evil Empire, was simply: “Try.” Attentive viewers picked up on what seemed to be (allegedly unintentional) a direct counterpoint to Yoda’s iconic “Do or do not – there is no try” from The Empire Strikes Back, and thus a broader shift away from the saga’s traditional philosophy. This moment sharply illustrated the change in perspective brought by Tony Gilroy’s series—from the black-and-white Jedi vs. Sith conflict to a more nuanced narrative. The second season of Andor continues down this thematic path and deepens the issues previously explored.

A year has passed since the events of the final episode, and Cassian Andor and the other characters are still trying to fight for a better life, free from the Empire’s oppressive boot. In the opening scene, Andor convinces his comrade-in-arms that even if she dies during a mission, her sacrifice won’t be in vain. That line is perhaps the only glimmer of hope in the early episodes of the season—soon after, Gilroy pits the character’s words against the brutal reality of guerrilla warfare.

A series of parallel storylines—Cassian’s mission, his friends hiding on an agricultural planet from Imperial agents, and Senator Mon Mothma’s conspiratorial maneuvering during her daughter’s wedding—are all linked by the central theme of the “side effects” of rebellion. The most prominent of these is the growing paranoia—uncertainty over whether your friend will return from a mission, or whether a longtime comrade might suddenly (figuratively or literally) shoot you in the head. Each storyline explores this motif from a different angle—Cassian’s friends anxiously await his return while hiding from Imperial troops, and he himself lands in the middle of a power struggle among a group of rebels he’s only just met. Surprisingly, the most significant thread may be that of Mon Mothma, who is forced to arrange her daughter’s marriage to the son of a shady banker to secure funding for the rebellion.

On the opposite end of the spectrum lies the storyline of Imperial officers Syril Karn and Dedra Meero. Even though their narrative in the opening episodes mostly serves to lay the groundwork for later events, it still thematically aligns with the adventures of Andor and his allies. Once again, Gilroy highlights the absurd (and therefore even more striking) side of the conflict. Imperial briefings still resemble corporate meetings, where exploitation of defenseless citizens is planned over cookies and coffee (or whatever the inhabitants of a galaxy far, far away drink). A similarly ironic tone is found in a moment when a power struggle among rebels takes the form of a Star Wars version of rock-paper-scissors.

As a fan of Lucas’s saga, I always thought the label “Star Wars for people who don’t like Star Wars” was a bit unfair to Andor. But I have to admit that at this point in the series, there’s still nothing else in the franchise that comes close in terms of writing—and I don’t mean just the thematic maturity. The series also impresses with clear “mirror” motifs that give the story rhythm and cohesion. Some connect both seasons (like the final montage sequence, which echoes episode three of the first season), while others symbolically link the various storylines (such as the motif of “forced smiles” seen in Dedra Meero, Mon Mothma, and the rebellion’s “gray eminence,” Luthen Rael).

If you were worried whether Tony Gilroy could maintain the quality of Andor’s first season, you can breathe easy. The opening episodes of the new season raise the bar even higher and whet the appetite for what’s to come. The story of the galaxy’s turbulent rebellion origins remains one of the best Star Wars productions fans have ever had the chance to experience. And if, for some reason, you don’t count yourself among Star Wars enthusiasts—I suspect you’ll still find something here for yourself.

Written by Jędrzej Paczkowski

It has been some time since the premiere of Steven Spielberg’s film, so you probably already know that the film is overloaded with references, quotes, and allusions to pop culture… it oozes with sentimentality and nostalgia… it beats with schematicity and repetitiveness… Two camps – those “for” and those “against” – take turns listing the pros and cons of Ready Player One, while simultaneously accusing each other of having the wrong approach to the production.

To begin with, I would like to apply a certain filter to this text: I will not elaborate on the negative aspects of this blatant intertextuality. On a philosophical level, it somewhat reminds me of Jean Baudrillard’s theory – the one about simulacra, or the appearances of reality, which lead nowhere, yet still exist. It seems to me that repeating what has already been repeated in hundreds of reviews before me would also lead nowhere. So, I will close this topic by stating that these allusions bothered me and there were too many of them. I understand that some people may have liked them. That’s all on this matter.

I will therefore consider Ready Player One without them. So, what do I have left? An absolutely average adventure film, not worth 140 minutes, not worth 350 million dollars (budget + promotion), not worth all this fuss. The debatable question remains whether it is worth Spielberg’s involvement. It is evident here, as clear as day, that the director is torn between his inner, teenage nerd and the serious player in the film market he has grown into. This dichotomy has been evident throughout his career, but usually in the form of “duets” of films: for every “children’s” project, there was, on average, one “adult” project. Thus, we got E.T. and shortly afterward The Color Purple, Jaws and Close Encounters, Schindler’s List and Jurassic Park, Amistad and The Lost World: Jurassic Park, A.I. and Minority Report, and so on. At first glance, Ready Player One seems like a representative of Spielberg’s fascination with youth, adventure, and imagination. In fact, however, it is a cold, calculated product aimed at profit.

Many times, my readers have rolled their eyes with pity at my belief that cinema – even mainstream cinema – doesn’t have to be just the result of a business plan, which consists of offering the viewer a two-hour ticket to another world and charging them for it. I believe that there are directors, screenwriters, and even producers who, yes, treat cinema as business, but approach business with heart, commitment, and sincerity. Examples? Here you go: Saul Zaentz (only nine films, three outstanding, all out of passion), Martin Scorsese (producing independent films, distributing forgotten masterpieces), Dede Gardner (low-budget productions tackling controversial topics), George Clooney and his partner Grant Heslov (political cinema). And Spielberg belongs to this group as well – the fact that he is a brilliant bean counter doesn’t negate his contributions to cinema. He has recently upset many cinephiles with his thoughts on film and television formats (specifically: Netflix), and then…. he released a bastard like Ready Player One. A film that simultaneously accuses and defends what Spielberg does on two fronts of his career.

Let’s take a look: the clumsy, hastily written script assumes that big corporations prey on our sensitivity, sucking our sentiment into their bank accounts, without any scruples or sacredness. It’s true, we feel this daily and partly accept it. Spielberg the producer figured out that he would spill a bag of toys for us, let us play with them, and thus make a fortune. Spielberg the director, on the other hand, took the path of least resistance and made the film quickly, not bothering with creativity, not focusing on the subject, leaving the film at the mercy or lack thereof of the army of computer geniuses who made it for him. I am absolutely convinced that Spielberg did not have full control over the production – after all, he was busy preparing for the next dozen projects as a producer and several as a director.

By the way, just five minutes before I started writing this text, I read a statement from Janusz Kamiński, who, although he spoke favorably about the film, admitted that about 40% of his vision as a cinematographer is visible on screen. I would risk saying that the film also shows about 40% Spielberg, 40% Michael Khan – his regular (outstanding) editor, and 40% Alan Silvestri – the composer, and about 20% of the actors (and here I mean literally).

I have known Spielberg’s cinema since childhood, and during my cinephile period, when analyzing films I watched (where I could go over one film a dozen times), I managed to notice certain elements in his style that determined the great strength of his works. Spielberg is, after all, an author – in this new wave sense – a director whose vision permeates the film, not a director who realizes someone else’s vision. Take a look at his films and see how he handles the camera (he doesn’t handle it himself – he tells Kamiński how it should move, and Kamiński tells the assistant – the dolly grip): he economically tells the story, using many plans, placing the point of view where the most can be seen. He follows his characters when they move and stands with them when they stand still. He uses long takes, changing focus to highlight important elements of the image that help create the story. He changes shots when something significant occurs in the action. He limits the frame, creates curtains, smudges, often limiting the frame with round objects. He films from the floor to give a child’s perspective. And so on. Thanks to this, Jaws, E.T., Saving Private Ryan, and his other films are so enjoyable to watch. Spielberg knows exactly where and why to place the camera to engage the viewer in the events unfolding on screen.

All of this exists in Ready Player One in those mentioned 40%. The film starts excellently – the camera exits the protagonist’s container apartment, showing his descent to the ground, zooming in on his neighbors. The action flows, we meet the hero. After a few minutes, we sink with him into the virtual reality and spend almost the entire film in it. In the computer-generated material, we watch images changing like in a kaleidoscope. Spielberg’s directorial style is barely visible. The scenes are bland, the camera doesn’t tell the story, it is illustrated by a frenzy of consecutive action snippets, chaotically edited and flatly arranged. Halfway through the movie, I started wondering if Michael Kahn really edited the film. The credits brought the answer – the editor shared the duties with Sara Broshar, who also collaborated with him on The Post. I assume that there wasn’t much time to finish both works, so they decided to engage the assistant for the acclaimed editor. It’s painfully visible in Ready Player One. Next – cinematography. I don’t even need to argue here. Kamiński himself admitted that it was his work only in part. The music by the brilliant Alan Silvestri echoes his earlier compositions, each of which is better than this one.

We see the main protagonist on screen for maybe twenty minutes. The rest is his avatar. I don’t know if the film had plans for a toy franchise, but I wouldn’t want to have Parzival figurines in my collection for any treasure. It’s ugly, although of course, this is my subjective opinion. A much greater sin is that it is… bland. It is not defined by any trait, we cannot feel his problems even for a moment, we do not feel the weight of the situation resting on his shoulders. The same goes for the other members of his team. I only laughed once – when we discovered the true identity of his best friend, Aech. They are all of course based on blatant stereotypes, including a teenage girl hiding her appearance from the world (because she has a spot on her face, and the beauty and figure of Olivia Cooke), a small, genius Chinese kid, etc. They are opposed by the villain in the form of a soulless corporate boss, whose literary description could be something like this: soulless corporate boss. The situation was slightly saved by Ben Mendelsohn, whose characteristic way of speaking gave the character a bit of color. I’m still waiting for a film where behind the virtual avatars are a fat teenager with glasses, an ugly, skinny girl with pimples and bulging eyes, or an adult, intellectually and mentally limited man.

The film misses the mark, reeks of stereotypes and schematism, but I saved the best for last. I don’t know if this is as obvious as it seems to me, or if some reviewers simply haven’t thought about it at all – but the message of Ready Player One is a kind of mirror image of the mood at the end of the 20th century. At that time, there was anxiety about the progressing digitization, which led to the blurring of the lines between the real and artificial worlds. The first title that comes to mind – of course, The Matrix – pointed a finger, warned against excessive trust in artificial intelligence, and called for rebellion. Ready Player One nearly pacifies virtual reality, openly and unreflectively acknowledging its presence in everyday life. In fact, it seems that it sees it as the only chance for happiness in a deteriorating world.

In the final speech, the agreement between the sides of the conflict is clearly articulated, according to which OASIS (the virtual world of Ready Player One) will be free and publicly available, except on Tuesdays and Thursdays – which is meant to encourage all its users to spend time with their loved ones. What isn’t explained is why they should do this in the real world when their life already exists almost solely in the virtual one. Such a vision is becoming increasingly real, and the only thing Ready Player One does well is helping us get used to it. By the way, I went to the film with my twelve-year-old cousin. To this day, I wonder which of us was its target audience.

Armies have long since withdrawn from Europe’s battlefields, but even in America, the echoes of World War I can still be heard. Burt (Christian Bale) once served as a doctor on the front lines in France and now runs a surgical practice in New York. His services are primarily directed at veterans who, like him, suffered deeply and received little support from the state. Burns, poorly healed limbs, gunshot wounds—these are part of Burt’s daily routine, but also his mission and calling. He lost an eye in the military, and a brace now supports his crooked body to keep him upright. Amsterdam is another complex and vivid role for the Welsh actor—physically battered, eccentric by nature, and scarred by life. For Bale, this isn’t a desperate cry for another Oscar nod, but simply his working method.

Burt’s demanding but somewhat routine life is interrupted by an unusual request passed along by Harold (the ever-composed and statuesque John David Washington): a lawyer, his closest friend, and of course, a fellow soldier. The surgeon is asked to perform an autopsy on a very influential general who died unexpectedly while returning by ship from Europe to New York. The general’s daughter suspects murder—and appears to have information that could endanger her own life. Sometimes, ignorance is bliss, and the situation feels truly tense.

The characters remain haunted by memories of war, their bodies still marked by scars. But now, in the 1930s, troubling news from Europe begins to trickle in again. For the film’s central trio—Burt, Harold, and Valerie (Margot Robbie)—bound by a friendship pact, their shared happy place is the Dutch capital, where they spent carefree months before returning to the States. Each went their own way, but fate isn’t done with them yet and will force them back into action.

David O. Russell (of The Fighter and American Hustle) once again assembled an all-star cast—add to the above Robert De Niro, Chris Rock, Anya Taylor-Joy, and Rami Malek—but it’s the script and the crime plot that elevate Amsterdam, as it climbs steadily through the ranks of American elites. One thread leads to another. The lack of police credentials is a clear obstacle for the protagonists, but connections and chance can work wonders. Russell skillfully unveils the political mechanisms, soft tools of influence, and emotional manipulation at play. It’s never really about national security or “patriotism,” but rather private interests. The former are just covers and marketing slogans; the latter are ruthless, uncompromising facts.

Amsterdam impresses with its ideological clarity. Armed conflicts are one thing, but what really calls the shots is opportunism and big business. It decides when and against whom tanks are deployed. Global corporations determine who plays the aggressor and who the victim. And of course, there’s money to be made on both sides. In the grander scheme, Russell is interested in the clash between power and the people, but he also incorporates various social disputes and misunderstandings. Racial tensions resurface, but even more pressing are the class divides—between those with resources and those without. The director takes us through gilded palaces, Burt’s shabby office, affluent suburban neighborhoods, and urban back alleys.

Heavy themes—veterans’ suffering, layered conspiracies, social unrest, and an uncertain future.The times are grim (the entire film is shot in dim tones and sepia), but Russell’s goal is to lift the audience’s spirits. Not by pointing to lights at the end of tunnels, but by affirming what one has, what one’s been through, and who one’s crossed paths with. The director seeks out what’s good and valuable in people—Burt’s determination, Harold’s loyalty, Valerie’s trust, Gil’s (Robert De Niro) nonconformity. According to Russell’s idealistic perspective, sometimes (maybe always?) these qualities are enough to preserve the proper order of things—no matter how uneven the fight.

As the saying goes, if something is made for everything, it’s good for nothing – a similar rule applies when you try to throw several concepts into one basket and end up fully realizing none of them. David O. Russell clearly wasn’t quite sure how he wanted to make Joy.

He considered making a comedy – but abandoned that idea entirely after the first part of the film. He thought about a biography, after all, the screenplay was based on the life story of Joy Mangano, but he gave up on that vision too. He created his heroine by combining elements from the biographies of several inspiring women, ultimately doing justice to none of them. At times, it seems like he was enamored with the style of his colleague Wes Anderson, but he doesn’t match him in consistency or charm.

Elements of a musical appear here and there, as does a nesting-doll-style narrative structure. Grotesque scenes go hand-in-hand with drama, and a loose approach to time and space clashes with the classical linear narration from off-screen. There are nightmares, prophetic visions, a soap opera – in short, a complete mess and a mishmash of everything that was likely meant to showcase the director’s originality and fresh concept, but ultimately proves only his indecision.

As a little girl, Joy was a volcano of ideas. She was always designing, building, and inventing, arousing jealousy in her half-sister and admiration from her ever-supportive grandmother. Yet somehow, something went wrong, and a dozen or so years later, Joy is still far from life success. She has two young children, is divorced from her husband (who still lives with her), takes care of her father, grandmother, and a mother lost in her own world, and on top of all that, she has to endure constant jabs from her spiteful sister. She does feel a sense of unfulfillment, but tries to push it to the back of her subconscious.

That is, until a random series of events awakens her inventor’s instinct once again. Joy designs something that could potentially be a lifesaver for thousands of housewives around the world: a self-wringing mop, today known to us as the Miracle Mop. The road to success is anything but smooth and easy. Joy faces dishonest contractors, a greedy family, the weak character of those closest to her, and a crisis of faith in herself. Before she can move forward, she’ll have to learn how to stop defining herself by the expectations and opinions of those around her and start speaking with her own voice.

The real Joy Mangano is now the holder of over a hundred patents and the head of Ingenious Designs, a company that supports the innovation of ordinary individuals burdened by their circumstances – just like she once was. The cinematic Joy also finds success, of course, but the inspiring value of the uplifting story of a woman who didn’t give up, took her fate into her own hands, and overcame obstacles along the way gets lost amid a flood of details, side plots, and characters of little significance.

The brightest point of the entire film is undoubtedly Jennifer Lawrence. She alone seems like a real, flesh-and-blood person in the midst of all the chaos. She’s likable, and you want to root for her. Everyone else is exaggerated to the extreme – which can sometimes be pleasant, like in the case of Virginia Madsen, and sometimes less so – like the witchy Isabella Rossellini. The characters played by Robert De Niro and Bradley Cooper, meanwhile, lack vitality and consistency.

Both the film and Jennifer Lawrence would likely have benefited if the director had held back from unrestrained experimentation and done more justice to the facts by making a truly biographical film. The plot’s flimsy pretext strips the message of all the power it undoubtedly has – or at least should have had.

Sure, it’s understandable that a filmmaker might shy away from telling yet another rags-to-riches story – after all, we’ve seen thousands of them. Still, trying too hard to be excessively original is an overcorrection in the opposite direction. One must know moderation, and to maintain it, it helps to know what one wants to convey and, artistically speaking, who one really is. In the case of Joy, David O. Russell lacked both.

Here is a film whose existence is truly hard to overlook. However, before I embarked on a journey through this degenerated world, I had some preconceptions that led me to expect something entirely different from what I received. Tarantino’s admiration for this movie and the plot description would suggest a bloody and humorous spectacle meant to entertain the viewer. Battle Royale.

Here, we move to the near future, where the world is on the brink of moral collapse. Kids in school either avoid studying, torment their peers, or, while running, stab a teacher leaving the classroom. Violence is on the rise, and in order to prepare future generations for it and give them a lesson, the “BR” project – Battle Royale – is brought to life. It involves randomly selecting one class each year and throwing them into a world of a particularly cruel game. This time, during a school trip, the kids are put to sleep and wake up in a dirty room, where soon, led by their teacher – Kitano, the military enters. The students have strange collars around their necks and learn that within three days they must kill each other. Only one person may return home, and if more than one unclaimed winner remains, the collars will explode, tearing their throats apart. The unwilling participants are shocked, but those who resist are immediately excluded from the game. The corpses of their classmates convince others that the only chance of survival is killing their friends. And so, each receives equipment, the type of which depends on luck – one might get an axe, a gun… or a pair of binoculars…

What is worth noting here is the equipment the participants receive. It is so varied that it can either be seen as a poor joke or indicate that if they joined forces and combined their skills, everyone could survive. Of course, the attempt to call for cooperation ends tragically, as a desire to rely on oneself is born. Trusting others is so fragile that the slightest suspicion and sense of danger leads to bloodshed… this corresponds with another trait of human nature – that violence brings pleasure. One of the characters is even driven by it, seeing nothing wrong in killing. There is also one boy who volunteered for the project… The people selected for the game are those who create violence, fitting perfectly into this devastated world. Of course, the “innocent” also become victims, but only on the battlefield does it become clear who these people really are. Not everyone has moral objections to murder; those who do not always know how to choose anything other than suicide.

The kids don’t want to fight, but every decision they make results in death. How can one assess the value of life when constantly under fire or having a high chance of ending up with an axe in their head? The natural defense seems to be attack. They then get drawn into the game. But what is this game supposed to teach them? Will returning as a winner make them adapted to the adult world? Will they suddenly begin to appreciate what was taken from others? The first scene, showing the previous winner, depicts a bloodied girl clutching a teddy bear and smiling demonically. One might doubt if this is truly someone who has just become worthy of life. Victory achieved in this way cannot ensure this, which is why the two main characters – Nanahara and Noriko – seek another solution than stabbing their classmates in the back or jumping into the sea.

The film, it seems, does not offer much opportunity to delve into psychology, yet the flashbacks make the fate of the chosen characters something we cannot remain indifferent to. We receive a significant amount of information about each character. Four of them stand out: Nanahara (Tatsuya Fujiwara), Noriko (Aki Maeda), Kawada (Taro Yamamoto), and Kitano. Nanahara lost his parents; he once came home to find his father hanging, with farewell words written on a roll of toilet paper for his son. The death of his father and the farewell note continually haunt the boy. During the Battle Royale game, he sets as his goal the care of Noriko. She, in turn, is a pretty, shy girl, unable to trust anyone. She fears people, as she was the subject of crude jokes from her female classmates. The situation in which they all find themselves forces her to hide under the wings of her classmate. She also gains a strange sympathy from Kitano. He, however, is a man profoundly lonely, running the game, but emotionally, it seems, he is not interested in it. The most mysterious character is Kawada. He is driven by revenge, as well as a desire to get an answer to a certain troubling question…

The power of words is also interestingly depicted. By talking, one can reach a compromise, but often, participants in the bloody game refuse to listen, panic, and resort to the argument of using weapons. Notably, the main antagonist, Masanobu (Kazuo Kiriyama), who signed up to participate in the brutal game, does not say a single word throughout. For him, everything is simple – one must kill others to survive. Nothing connects him to them, they are strangers to him. While friends kill each other out of fear, he, like a terminator, roams the island, shooting at everything that moves.

This work… moved me, above all. The individual scenes don’t flaunt varied cruelty; we get used to death in a moment, just as we do to breathing. It becomes a natural backdrop, and the emphasis shifts in a completely different direction. It is a story about trust, while also asking about the value of life. It shows that even the strongest bonds of friendship or love completely disintegrate when survival is at stake. It is said that man exists for others, yet when he wins life for someone else and, in the end, must also sacrifice his own so that a loved one can survive… it is no longer so simple. It is easy to do something for someone – but at the expense of others, not yourself. Of course, this is one side of the relationship between people, because the truth is that if everything were so pessimistic, it would make no sense. And some fight precisely for meaning, for survival, while not giving in to this game. The winners are rewarded, in a very strange way, no longer being ordinary kids. They are able to preserve their innocence in order to enter the world of adults, to which they were adapted on that island…

The film ultimately drew me in. At times, it might amuse, many scenes are exaggerated, yet it genuinely stimulates empathy and allows one to easily move into that world. The actors did well, and interestingly, none of the kids were replaced by stunt doubles. The music was accurately chosen, complementing the various moments. Also, the idea for the plot is intriguing, although with similar themes, the viewer had the chance to encounter them, for example, in adaptations of Lord of the Flies (or recently The Hunger Games for that matter). While there, it was shown how primal instincts emerge among children, how animal nature gradually develops, here, the more fundamental question seems to be not about the demons within humans, but about the value of life. How can it be saved and become truly worthy of it…