Matty

A melodrama for better people in which not only lives perish, but so do career dreams, interpersonal bonds and memories. The film approaches various forms of dying (including its artistic interpretation) from the perspective of three generations and genres. First through tragicomic scenes from the life of an aging couple for whom existence is becoming hell. Then a stark, dialogue-heavy Bergman-esque character study of a forty-something man who wants to complete something valuable at least in his work, while conducting (his search for the ideal concept for the title composition reflects the transformations of the film itself). And finally a very relaxed, unpredictable millennial relationship story cut with gross-out comedy involving a lot of disgusting displays of bodily functions and whose protagonist has the most options in front of her, but is also the most thoroughly lost of the characters. The film is divided into five chapters that are so loosely connected that they could be episodes in a mini-series (from the fourth chapter onward, when the point of view is not bound to a single character, it further becomes apparent that the division into chapters is a bit of a narrative gimmick aimed at justifying the film’s dramaturgical and tonal disjointedness). Some of the characters, e.g. the mother, don’t appear again at all in the second half, or they remain trapped in stereotype templates (the young mistress). The narrative only brings forward many of the film’s themes, such as family iniquities and parenthood, without further developing them. Dying is an expansive family fresco, but it ultimately remains only an outline. Throughout the film, I could not shake off the feeling that the director hates his protagonists and does not wish anything good for them, no genuine connection, let alone redemption (which perhaps says something in the case of a film dedicated to “my family” and inspired by the departure of its creator’s parents). At the same time, the stylistic greyness would not be so striking on the small screen (for which Glasner has mostly worked in recent years). In terms of filming and working with the space, Dying practically doesn’t offer any inventive moments (with the possible exception of the death of one of the characters). Nor does it have a sufficiently polished screenplay that would make up for its visual dullness. On the other hand, after three hours of interchangeable shots and counter-shots, few of which are as concentrated and gripping as the half-hour conversation between the mother and her son, you will better understand what a slow and painful process dying actually is. 70%

A pathologically jealous foreign correspondent for Czech Radio is practically obsessed with the idea that his partner is sleeping with other men. After a year in the Middle East (during which he failed to properly learn English, let alone Arabic), he loses his mind and instead of reporting on an ongoing coup d’état, he rushes back to Prague in order to catch the woman in the act. He then simulates the rest of his reporting from the kitchen, which is interspersed with him brandishing a loaded pistol to threaten his wife, whom he nearly killed with an ashtray in the past, and her colleague, whom he mistakenly believes is her lover and whom he constantly insults because of his Arabic heritage. That’s comedy. After roughly forty minutes, he releases his hostages, the tension decreases and the rest of the narrative, so far confined to a single apartment, morphs into an aimless attempt at satire about disinformation, which the public media helps to create through the filmmakers’ lens and to which even teachers are susceptible (a bizarre subplot with Jaroslav Plesl, who walks around his equally weird mother’s apartment in horror-style scenes and cuts his own abdomen open with a scalpel in order to find an imaginary chip). I don’t have a problem with absurd plots and characters who behave like idiots (see, for example, most of the Coen brothers’ films or Four Lions, which is in a similar vein), but some consistency would be nice. In State of Emergency, the nature of the characters (and the actors’ interpretation of them) changes radically every half-hour (e.g. from a xenophobic psychopath to a tender humanitarian), as does the extent to which events are exaggerated (from completely divorced from reality to reflecting reality) and it becomes unclear as to whether we are supposed to laugh or be terrified because the characters’ lives are really in the balance. The characters’ motivations and the way they treat each other also change repeatedly, as if all of them suffer from a personality disorder. Dramaturgical hell. Because of the cut-aways to Plesl’s teacher character and to the broadcast debate, which is integrated into the main narrative in an equally awkward manner, the film has a less regular rhythm than a man with a serious heart defect. It is rather just a sequence of toothless scenes on various topics that are either pointless or have a point that makes no sense at all in relation to what came before (the management of Czech Radio is apparently okay with the fact that their employees help to spread disinformation that causes people to harm themselves or outright die). Besides the performance of Slezáček (whose head of the broadcast company is simultaneously a genius and a moron for whom a gunshot is sufficient evidence that somebody died) and Dyková, who outshines Vetchý and Haj on multiple levels, there is nothing to praise here. 25%

Take an archetypal story about selling one’s soul out of the desire for eternal youth, and wrap it up in flesh and skin for the sake of disgusting physical details, because what would be considered exploitation trash anywhere else becomes a bold, boundary-pushing work in the context of Cannes. Add (superficial) criticism of the male gaze, because that’s also trending at festivals. Then all that’s left to do is to launch a sensational advertising campaign and voilà, the most overrated film of the year appears on the scene. ___ Like Revenge, Coralie Fargeat’s first (and better) film, Substance entertained me with its brutal straightforwardness and polished visual aspect (even though it’s often merely a rip-off of Kubrick and others). It could have been an excellent short, a horror comedy updating The Picture of Dorian Gray for an era when all of us are creating our own virtual selves, which garner all of the love and attention while we rot away alone at home. Over the course of its 140-minute runtime, however, it becomes apparent that Substance is a case of overblown ambition and a single idea that is banged on about for so long and so repetitively that a bloody pulp is all that remains of it during the splatter climax (which is the least necessary and most entertaining part of the film). ___ Whereas Cronenberg, with whom Fargeat is unfairly compared, conveys the ideas of McLuhan and Baudrillard in an original way, Substance lacks substance and is just an unoriginal and shallow compilation of motifs taken from the works of directors (oddly all men) such as Frank Henenlotter, Stuart Gordon, Brian Yuzna, Brian De Palma, Peter Jackson and David Cronenberg himself. ___ I would be reluctant to describe this film as feminist because, on the one hand, of the numerous shots in which women’s buttocks, breasts and crotches are pornographically filmed without that being motivated by the perspective of any character or of the television camera (the film merely takes such hypersexualisation from the media, but without subverting it). And, on the other hand, because of the fact that here the female body and sexuality bring only disgust, pain and humiliation to the female protagonists and not give rise to any pleasant feelings (not even during the erotic scenes). For the director, the women are only soulless, suffering pieces of meat. They have no personality with which we would sympathise. ___ Substance didn’t work for me as a satire about beauty standards, because the media, cosmetics companies and social pressure play a marginal role in the narrative, which is mainly a struggle of one faded star. Show business as a whole is represented by a cartoonish sleazeball named Harvey (wink wink), who serves that same purpose in every scene. The most accurate commentary on the sexist entertainment industry and on the youth-and-beauty business is ironically provided by things occurring outside of the film, such as the fact that the Czech distributor Aerofilms is cynically promoting the film through a collaboration with a company that sells (real) rejuvenating products. So much for provocation and subversion. Substance is just a soulless festival product, Barbie for people with stronger stomachs. 65%