Midsommar.

Swedish, Norwegian and Finnish tourism boards must sue Ari Aster because of this arthouse monstrosity, which connects "120 days of Sodom" by Pasolini and "Wicker Man" by the way of the "Heart of Darkness". Even if there was little reason to visit Scandinavia before--snooty people (except for Finns who are not really Scandinavians), bad weather and culture mostly represented by the neo-Nazi biker gangs--there will be even less now. At least, Pasolini's masterpiece, or so I heard--I could not watch both movies--is exculpated by his crafty wordplay between "Salo" in the De Sade's title and the fascist Republic of Salo in the final months of Nazi occupation of Italy, when all evil glossed over by the Mussolini's reign exploded in earnest. The Wicker Man reportedly adds dark English humor to the mixture of cruel and absurd, but this movie is absolutely serious.

Saying that, the movie is not bad but Aster's humorless playing on a single chord of uncanny and disturbing--made me uncomfortable more than widely advertised but modestly presented gore and cruelty. 

The dead don't die by Jim Jarmusch

Proper name of this movie should be "F**k ya all". In course of Jarmusch  director's career, his misanthropy slowly consumed all other emotions until none remained. Obviously, the cult status of Jarmusch assured participation of big stars like John Waits, Iggy Pop and Selena Gomez in totally non-expressive roles, the last just flashing her nice ass to the camera several times. There are several freely hanging plotlines: the facility for wayward children with strangely tender and literate-talking inhabitants, the return of Tilda Swinton to heavens, unless it is a belated tribute to the ending of underrated 80s cult movie "Repo Man" and other episodes, which probably mean something to the auteur but which were never adequately explained.

Late Night.

Not so much of a movie but a filmed two-person play starring inimitable Emma Thompson and its writer Mindy Kaling in a credible performance in supporting role.

They Shall Not Grow Old by Peter Jackson

      The critic of Cineaste condemned the movie because, in his "liberal intellectual" worldview, he did not demonstrate graphically enough how soldiers were hurt by the horrors of war. In fact, Peter Jackson showed and broadcast just enough horrors not to make his narrative into a caricature. Moreover, the movie did not shun a more mundane features of the trench warfare: fleas, lice and rats, which were, by recollections of the veterans much more pervasive than enemy bullets.

       The critic cannot digest a realistic reproduction of war impressions by its participants: nationalistic fervor, total demoralization of a few, especially by the end of the conflict, and conversion of the most into mindless killing mechanisms and, yes, the fact that some people enjoy killing others, even or especially if it is connected with mortal risk for themselves. Not to speak of Ernst Junger, the author of the "Rain of Steel" and a great inspiration to a modest corporal by the name of Adolf Hitler, but Otto Dix, one of the most genial and outspoken portraitists of the war brutality, depicted himself as Mars, god of war and several times returned to his machine gun nest--the deadliest of the WWI military professions, except, may be the poison gas operator--when he could escape that by the war wounds.

       Peter Jackson movie might not be overarching depiction of the Great War, nor it was intended to be--but to accuse it for polishing the contemporary reality of industrialized warfare is arrogant and insincere.

Non-Fiction

The movie reminded me 50-year old Andrzei Wajda's "Everything for sale" where characters ponder the encroachment of cinema on theater and TV on cinema (in Communist Poland) in a tragicomic situation. Of course, "Non-Fiction" is a comedy with nobody dying and everybody enjoying healthy doze of sex, which replaced alcohol of "Sideways", with which is also shares some affinities. Now the characters discuss in a nonchalant and cynical manner the fate of publishing business in the era of the internet and social networks. But behind their cynical masks there is genuine fear but also concern about the fate of high culture. The only remotely sympathetic character is the protagonist's much suffering policy wonk wife. However, sex- and fame-obsessed author of semi-autobiographical chick lit Leonard Spiegel is hardly a good spokesman for high culture even when he quotes Nietzsche and Sartre (seemingly an obligation in France where even a bisexual ditz quotes somebody to her publisher boss in bed). Movie even adds a postmodernist element in the form of the character of Juliet Binoche--washed out TV actress in the French imitations of NYPD--to text to real Juliet Binoche, the movie star. Olivier Assayas is a famed director but this is not his best scoop.

Game of Thrones. The final hour.

Disappointing final year of the Game of Thrones was slightly exculpated by the unexpected final. One even wonders whether the final, explained but poorly supported by cinematic means, killing of the Dragon Queen by her lover was the deliberate ploy by Benioff to detract the accusations of complete predictability of the narrative after Season 5. The verdict that "the first victim of the eighth season was the lighting crew" still stands.

      It so happens that people aspire to be something, which they are not. Benioff, a great producer--he would not be able to assemble and control this gigantic enterprise otherwise--wrestled creative control from Martin to achieve what? Girls power stories and shutdown of the main storylines to wrap up the story by the Season 8? But he is not alone: Schumann, the great composer aspired to be a piano virtuoso who he was not. Paganini, a virtuoso, aspired to compete with Shopin and Liszt, great artists but also great composers in their own right. Spielberg, the greatest movie entertainer since Charlie Chaplin, wants to make serious movies, which are not his cup of tea.

      The main attraction of the Game of Thrones lied in its realistic, i.e. slow tempo, victories and defeats unrelated to a moral "good vs. bad" message, beautiful dialogues and the development of characters on the background of two-and-a-half unrelated but unremitting stories: inevitable coming of the Long Winter, unstoppable march of a new, proselytizing and barbaric monotheistic religion of fire and mysterious cult of god with many faces. This was a nice parallel to the actual later years of the Roman Empire, progressing on the background of the establishment of Christianity, great migrations from Asia into Europe, possibly enabled by the climate change, and religious heterodoxy and confusion during this time.

Previous Game of Thrones reviews

Croup

Loin

Coen brothers. Ballad of Buster Scruggs.

After the series of flops--though one must admit that these are flops only for Coen brothers--they attempted a redemption. The movie is very uneven: the titular segment is such a garish collection of commonplaces of the westerns that whether it is ironic or serious is hard to understand.

By the end it gets much better. Beginning with the scabrous, enigmatic character of Liam Neeson, the movie acquires its wings lost in the first segment. John Waits' segment is plain--but many people could say of John Waits what I already said of Charlize Theron--anything deeper than their counting on screen makes their fans drool. Two last segments are wonderful.