Educhico

Like so many other cases, the success of what might be considered a relatively small venture in the form of A Quiet Place led to the inevitable and perhaps unjustified creation of a sequel. It turned out to be a clear profit given the low budget of the first film, but which ends up not recapitulating the novelty of the first one, but rather repeating it and taking the effect out of it.

At first, I couldn't have felt a greater smile than the one that increasingly outlined as I watched the opening scene of the film, in a wise decision to take the opportunity to see this film in its IMAX version. Because that format does the best for highlighting the capabilities that Krasinski increasingly demonstrates as a director and that offers greater impact to the represented events.

The focus on dramatic elements that we know from the first chapter, or on elements that better frame the geography of the following events; the occasional use of silence to offer a greater impact to the moments that will follow; the continuous take that allow us to maintain the attention to the various elements and guides our vision. All elements we know to make good directing, but which illustrate here the thoughtful and efficient narrative thought, in its controlled application in this genre (and specifically at the beginning of this chapter), managing to offer impact to a flashback for which we know to be zero consequences for the protagonists. At the same time it presents us narrative elements relevant to the film in hand, and brings expectations for what we will see next.

We quickly realized, however, the impact that this prologue has on the rest of the film, since what it does will never be equaled or surpassed, not even narratively. There is already a repetition of the same beats, in which the tension begin to lose its impact, as they revisit the same finite number of scenarios in which sound is applicable as a sign of imminent danger. There will always come a point where one of the protagonists will make a noise that leads to an escape, often with the appearance of a character at the key moment, where before the scenarios were framed so that the characters reach a resolution for themselves.

Even when three different situations are framed simultaneously, with different characters in different degrees of danger, one of these situations is enhanced by an foolish decision by one of the characters, not consistent with what has been shown of him so far, just to create a moment of tension.

And where in the original there is the gradual emergence of the potential of the discovered "weapon", here we already know its effects and, therefore, any attempt in its use is lost in our exact knowledge of its application. It even results in the almost exactly same revisitation of the previous movie's ending. If the element essential to the premise becomes redundant and devoid of its expected impact, what more can we expect then?

So, in the same way, there is an attempt to expand the initial idea and the underlying universe, in the illustration of the consequences of the events in a population forced to survive by whatever means necessary. We received tips from some groups of people deprived of their humanity, reduced to the routine of setting up baits so that other people can be caught in their place. Tips that never slip into the rest of the argument, where those never become a constant threat in parallel to the creatures. Instead, they are just another useless obstacle, as no character perishes or suffers permanent consequences to them.

And where in the final act we are presented with the notion of a piece of land surrounded by the substance that the creatures cannot cross, finally a stronghold where sound is a possibility without fear of reprisals, not enough time is offered to savor the calm before the storm, where we could have followed our character's settlement, knowing the eventual and inevitable fall to come, almost as an hitchcokian exercise.

Perhaps Krasinski has gained experience in his role as a director, but finds himself still in need of further experimentation and learning as a screenwriter. Where the extra hands of the first film could have cooperated again for a clearer and more focused script, as the first movie did through its only four existing characters. And if here the other family members are almost enough to maintain our emotional investment, if there is a third chapter, the formula needs to be revised, so as not to become completely devoided of the impact that we remember from the first entry into this universe.

A good attempt at showing the more personal relationship between two people knowm more as landmarks for the institution they represent, The Two Popes ends up failing in the way it intends to point out the errors underlying the emergence of the relationship in question.

There is an initial boldness in the way Meirelles exposes the festivities for the appointment of the supreme head of the Catholic Church, illustrated to the sound of ABBA's Dancing Queen, as a previously rehearsed choreography of a series of bureaucratic elements that, in the end, seem to remove much of the supposed spirituality that should guide the decisions in question, themselves later questioned by Bergoglio's own reluctance.

Unfortunately, it is nothing more than a very brief stylistic note, where even at the end is not even taken up again, which could have symmetrically exposed the attitude of the new appointed Pope. Thus, we just take from the end a typified moralizing speech in light of a common montage of documentary images.

Rather, we find the focus of the script on the strange friendship that ends up arising from such different personalities. One of the best scenes is undoubtedly when both meet at the end of the first day, when we see Bergoglio insisting on the reason that brought him there while Joseph just tries to enjoy the only moments of a rare and sincere peace, even if disturbed by his constant doubts. It demonstrates his most personal, human side, doubtful of his role as head of the Church at the time. Where we not only see the public figure and his the factual errors, but we understand them as a result of the dissonance with his own faith.

And in this way, we see him free himself in front of his "brother", ideologically distant but closer than he initially thought. His love for music is exposed in a more admiring way, where before it was only reverentialy expressed, both allowing for the first step towards approximation as opposing points of the change they see as necessary.

But apart from the interpretations of the two actors, which in this way allow the narrative to be focused on these two people, it suddenly loses when in its midpoint gives way to an elongated analepsis where we see Jorge's initial journey, which completely interrupts the gradual relationship of friendship that we see emerging between the two clerics and, moreover, takes from the impact it should have on our perception of the complex persona that Bergoglio intends to show.

Perhaps it would be preferable that the story about Jorge's past had been told as a prologue, without actually knowing who the presented character was, so that during the film these events remain present. Not only would the narrative at hand remain at a steadier pace, but when Bergoglio tells his story to Ratzinger in his own words, we would recall the opening events, now from a more personal, emotional point of view, only illustrated by Pryce's interpretation. Because we have knowledge from the start of who it is, we judge the past events in face of who he is now, rather than confronting the somewhat questionable and fateful options of Jorge's youth with his current position.

In the end, the film illustrates the divergences in convictions and spirituality between the two men, and where it genuinely manages to demonstrate the inapparent humanity of Ratzinger only through pure dialogue, the questions regarding their positions within the Catholic Church, as well as some of the moral difficulties that Bergoglio also went through, are carried out in an obvious and inefficient way, without the subtlety that the director alludes to at the beginning and that he tries to demonstrate with the two essential interpretations.

This would be the right recommendation to return to cinemas, taking advantage of the titular conflict's scale that, otherwise, wouldn't be so well experienced. And yet, I prefer to resist recommending in any way this film, since the public's appreciation is dependent on their acceptance of the rest of the wanderings through idiotic situations and characters.

Despite its long history, there was an avalanche during the 1990s of a series of American films focused on large disasters caused by internal or external natural forces. If some sought to offer some human drama (see Dante's Peak or Deep Impact), most recognised the absurdity of the proposed situations and, thus, knew how to set themselves in the right tone to tell their narratives.

Movies like Armageddon or Independence Day sought pure entertainment. Will Smith saying "Welcome to Earth" when punching an alien will be, for me, the highest sign of this understanding. In the simplicity of their narratives and the iconography of their visuals and charismatic protagonists, these films have allowed themselves to remain re-watchable and appreciable to this day, even beyond their cinematic quality.

It will be perhaps from the 2010s that this type of movies begins to explain in a serious manner the underlying logic of their stories. Perhaps partly because the public already keeps an attentive look on the absurd plot-holes, given the wide offer of such films. Even the sequel to Independence Day (twenty years after the original) is hostage to this attempt to forcibly introduce apparently more modern and complex concepts and justify every narrative choice.

It was this tendency that immediately crossed my mind, as I watched this and, thus, recognised the inconsistency underlying such an attitude. For, if the events portrayed understand the premise, at the same time they find the most chaotic entanglement of explanations to arrive at the illustrated situations.

This isn't more obvious that near the movie's end, where Godzilla is headed to Hong Kong, while the giant ape is in the centre of the earth -whose journey had already required several technological explanations to overcome the unnecessary obstacles-; Godzilla then stops his quest to open a hole directly to the centre of the earth (and, conveniently, to where Kong is located), to quickly enable the ape's return to the surface, to allow the second fight to take place.

The biggest sin is that we recognise simpler situations in which we could expose these creatures' conflict. The competition between two forces of nature for their place as the only alpha predator would be enough to justify the encounter (without needing to explain Kong's ancestry). In view of the volatility of the behaviour of these creatures, humanity itself would need to come into play in order to move away from potential extinction. Concepts referred here, but hidden behind a collection of ancestral connections between the two species and simple human villainy.

Even the second confrontation between the creatures could have taken place in Kong's land, where he would be at an advantage, instead of creating such an expensive situation to justify the encounter in Hong Kong. It would further justify the presence of this territory (instead of illustrating the battles in urban environments where people are always seen in the background but whose consequences are never seen at that scale).

Even by the end, the thing that unites both monsters, which could have been a simple robotic creation whose a.i. Gained autonomy, has mechanisms as complex as they are stupid. Mechagodzilla is generated through neuronal connections with a dead titan's skull and its energy source is remotely transferred from the centre of the earth (?!). All this is explained with such seriousness as if it were a plausible explanation.

Thus, the movie needs to create these secondary situations just to justify the ones we really want to see, waiting boringly every forty minutes for the few moments of epic battle.

And even these battles, with a new director with mere experience in horror (like with its predecessor King of the Monsters), lack the scale that someone specialised in visualising such visual effects can impregnate.

The framing of the camera, moving with the monsters themselves and too close to them, doesn't understand the scale of how they should be seen. For, instead of illustrating them from a human point of view or, on the contrary, framing them entirely in the screen, we mostly see body parts and debris in successive cuts that, after some time, are more visual noise than anything else. Even Godzilla, which in 2014 was the slow but inescapable wave of destruction, now runs as if its size was not a factor to consider.

Other than that, if there is any (minimal) effort in offering a history to the countless human characters that fill the screen, in the same way there is never time (or desire) to even meet them -beyond young Jia (Kaylee Hottle), the best and most wasted presence.

The absurdity of the character of Brian Tyree Henry is the one that brings us closer to something like the Jeff Goldblum's character in Independence Day, as an individual who tries to offer nervous credibility to the most fanciful conspiracy theories and who expresses the most enviable skills as an engineer and hacker. However, his presence is so sporadic and unnecessary in his secondary plot-line later exposed anyway, that his sincere naivety is lost through the rest of such serious characters.

Tom Holkenborg's score is a victim of this tonal dissonance, where the grandeur transposed by each musical track aggressively collides with what's seen on screen. The epic tone, where each note explodes incessantly in our ears, ends up losing its impact, when it's even used during the departure of a group of people from a ship, while Kong sits on a throne. It is a continuation of Bear McCreary's previous work, but here exhaustively applied.

Not even in the simplicity of its premise can this experience be justified. Rather, its audience has to go through a frankly boring and excessive script to witness the few moments that don't even justify going to a cinema. It's just another case of an experience that doesn't know how to go for the tone or stand out from its former counterparts. This movie even seems to deplete the opportunities of this universe, following the previous movie(s). Perhaps it's time to revisit its better inspirations and not offer time to such weak attempts at modernising them.

In a way, this "new" version of Justice League works better than the two movies that precede it, as there is no longer any real intention to try to frame it in a parallel to our reality, going more towards the mythical narratives that it presents -even more due to the presence of great alien beings whose only objective is reduced to mere planetary conquest.

But if before we could blame Joss Whedon for (almost) referencing himself in the late modifications in the version he found himself working, here we realise this was already the desire of Snyder and Chris Terrio, trying to insert humour, nonexistent in previous films, and to create scenes that recall the heroism that these characters should represent in their genesis.

The screenplay remains weak, with phrases as hilariously memorable as "Evil doesn't sleep, it waits" expressed with such seriousness that we don't understand whether to take this script more or less seriously, after Batman v Superman. In fact, the R rating seems almost offensive, since there's nothing, apart from sparse blood samples and a (very unnecessary) beheading, that illustrates the need of such an "exclusive" rating. Rather, it presents itself as the most generically appreciable and consumable film, which already in 2017 would lack greater originality. It is rather infuriating, after BvS intended to dismantle certain aspects of these heroic narratives, that this script doesn't even try to minimally deconstruct the basic narrative structure that we tend to see for over a decade.

Even any potential conflicts between the characters are quickly resolved, just to introduce the next action scene or narrative exposition. A discussion between the newly created team around the possibility of bringing Superman back to life -to which even Whedon would later try to offer some conflict, although with little success- doesn't offer the opportunity to see their members struggle since, in the end, everyone ends up agreeing and proceeding with the mission.

Even the first sequence against Steppenwolf (the same as we've already seen), where they are unable to work entirely as a team, doesn't reveal consequences, as they haven't failed in their goal of rescuing the prisoners. So, if we aren't able to invest in the difficulties of the titular team, how else should we be invested in a story that can be summarised as the effort to prevent an alien from destroying the planet? But more subtlety and care would not be expected, from who suddenly inserted a giant monster at the end of Dawn of Justice without any anticipation.

When in the end we are introduced to the concept of time travel, this concept could have been used in conjunction with the visions about the apocalyptic future that are presented to us. Seeing the heroes defeated at the end, I thought that would be the moment where this version would effectively demonstrate its difference, suddenly transposing us into the future, for it to be undone by Flash's abilities. But not even when we see a scene that points to this fateful reality in the epilogue, is it felt more than a stimulus for the sequels that will not come.

Like this aspect, Darkseid's presence also makes no difference. Again, it's just another appearance that intends to establish a background threat. And the so called fans will be satisfied with the promise of these aspects, as if small references were enough to understand the story that isn't told.

And when before (in the 2017 version) the duration was inevitably short for the number of characters that were intended to be presented, here the doubling of the movie's duration doesn't revert in almost anything to the improvement of this aspect. Batman remains the same useless character throughout the film who, in his aged version, would not even be able to get close to his empowered companions. Worse, his position here in the face of Superman's death remains drastically contrary to what he demonstrated in Batman v Superman and, thus, our perception of this character proves to be as schizophrenic as before.

Also the development of Barry Allen's character, without the pathetic dialogues incorporated by Whedon, is still anecdotal, which, in the total two hundred and forty-two minutes of duration, does not receive more development than before. His first scene where he expresses his abilities for the first time to the audience, adds nothing but to his energetic and irritating interactions.

If even in Victor Stone we can easily and happily recognise a more frank approach, even better exposing Ray Fisher's acting skills, his narrative arc is still the most basic possible, summarised in three or four sentences: Cyborg blames his father; Cyborg's father sacrifices himself; Cyborg starts to value his father, and decides to honour his memory.

If, in fact, we recognise a character in search of his humanity, where before there was only a plot device, its basic characterisation doesn't become excusable just by comparison with an even lower standard, when within the story itself we recognise potential for more. Given the creation of Cyborg through the strange device they intend to destroy, could the mistrust of the rest of the members be a real cause for concern and discussion for the whole team. His origin could even have been harnessed by the villain against the heroes themselves, a potentially traitorous element among the heroes, bringing even more tragedy to the character.

The real difference more clearly felt here is, in fact, the music. If in 2017, the Danny Elfman's score intended to bring the tone of that version of the film closer to the Avengers films, perhaps that fact was only symptomatic of what the film was already going for. Because the general tone of this script is as relieved as the other in the short interactions between the team, even without the inclusion of the embarrassed jokes.

Thus, one sees, in fact, the influence that cinematography and music of a film can have in the final result, because while the vibrant colour palette and the score composed of wind instruments (of the 2017 version) pointed to a relaxed and more classic tone, here the darker cinematography, in conjunction with the music composed by Tom Holkenborg, which includes a strong presence of female choirs and percussion, transfers us to the intended grandeur and "modernism". Despite this, at the same time, we recognise the inclusion of electric guitars at certain moments as a forced attempt to inject a cool tone to what should feel like something memorable by itself.

Even if this had been the version released in its original period, it would feel like an attempt to achieve the efforts of Marvel Studios that it so clearly is, without the characters to support the patent effort. Furthermore, if it had suffered the inevitable cuts in its runtime, there would certainly be little more differentiation between the versions, apart from the more obvious visual and musical dissimilarities. The film is still the most basic story possible, without the relationships and dynamics sufficiently developed to illustrate these as the heroes that we so easily recognise. The problems were never presented between one or the other version, but rather in the inconsistency of the author himself, who, regardless of any contributions and modifications by others, always established this as his vision throughout the different films. The one on whom -instead of the characters transported to the screen- the narrative has always centered.

Finally, Marvel finds the right format for the elongated stories on which its characters are based and that require the longest duration that the television format offers.

And yet, this mini-series prefers to be justified again by the (not even interesting) later mapping of other materials. It doesn't take the potential of its particular formalisation to the fullest, which here was even more justified and requested, as it is the television structure itself the structural element of the entire series, from the title.

Even in the transition between different sitcoms that each episode presents, we recognise the parallels with the protagonist's own mental and relational situation (with Vision). Where the optimism of what appears to be an idealised life from the 1950s in which the series begins, gives way to a more ironic and (in a way) realistic look at the relationships in question in the 2000s, as the same relationship between Wanda and Vision evolves in the turmoil that she herself created. Even the occasional television ad, appropriating the concerns of each era to equally illustrate some aspect of Wanda's memories, reveals the brilliance of the series proposal. Despite the parallel realities, mystical powers and cybernetic beings, even in the intentionally accelerated evolution of the relationship we recognise a point of realism, to which the actors themselves contribute to a large extent. Olsen and Bettany carry most of the work, in undeniable chemistry and a fun and engaging adaption to each new role.

At specific times, it's even interesting to see an almost metalinguistic exercise in the way we follow the different episodes of the series that Wanda creates. , where we start watching the backstage for the series during the episodes themselves. When the secondary actors question whether they should repeat the scene from the beginning, question the lack of children in the city, or stop their activity in the background, we gradually realise what the strange events might signify, without needing any explanation that the series, from the fourth episode, gives us.

That's how the big and frankly unnecessary flaw in the series arises. After three mysterious but exciting episodes, we go back to the beginning to establish a series of parallel events and characters that in no way contribute, in fact, to the main narrative. If we even accompany Vision discovering what's going on in the city, the series has already revealed it to us (less interestingly). This gives these scenes the sense of an obligatory addition for the establishment of future characters for subsequent films and/or series that take away the narrative interest of the current ones.

In fact, when there was a transition to "reality", to the secondary narrative, there was not a single time when my eyes wouldn't roll. Because we're so well involved in Wanda's twisted mind and inability to settle for her own grief, we are simply not interested in anything else. Because we want Wanda to undo the consequences of her own actions from the start, or simply to watch her fail tragically and, thus, only see in the end the consequences of all this parallel creation that brings more (personal) consequences than initially we have notion.

And in the seventh episode, we are already denoting an obvious way of illustrating narratively the conflict within Wanda, where other characters try to prevent her with common speeches, at the same time that Vision continues to participate in the sitcom structure. Thus, even more strange transitions and editions are revealed in a series that, at this point, lost its initially so well placed focus. Even more so when we realize that, regardless of what Wanda created, there are larger forces at play that draw much of the drama up to that point. Wanda ceases to be the vulnerable character that since its first appearance we know to be, to be (again) another piece in the limitless puzzle of this universe.

Thus, Marvel continues to miss the potential of a commitment to unveiling the tools it has by now mastered, preferring to use them superficially to attract the attention of the audience and then, just giving them more of what they already know and are ready to accept. The elongated flashback of the penultimate episode shows so obviously this, illustrating the story that we already know without experimenting with the meta-structure explored until the middle of the series. And the last episode is the typical third act of any of the twenty and three previous movies, where the clever use of television setbacks gives way to unmeasured visual effects. Still, the series beginning pulled out some of my most sincere smiles of recent times. Perhaps in a parallel universe, we could have received the definitive result of what was proposed to us.

Despite the questioning of the remaining friars, we see the greatest indecision in Christian. Never verbally explicit by himself, but demonstrated at those times he isolates in the surrounding countryside. In contact with only himself and He to whom he dedicated his life, we never need to hear his existing doubts, for they are expressed through the natural condition represented on those scenes, to the point of the torrential rain illustrating his own inner turmoil.

But if he never again speaks his state of mind before the rest of the community after his initial decision, Christian demonstrates to his brothers his position. It's not his doubts, but his actions that define him, where opposed to those moments of isolation, he always turns to those who represent his purpose.

However, to what extent is his sacrifice worth? They themselves question for whom they do it. And as such, in the letter he wrote earlier but from which the content we just hear at the end, his vision is (for)ever patent. As a souvenir of what put him, them, there. Not for themselves or (only) for their faith in God, but for their faith in others, in those who are able to recognise it and, in light of that, remember their own.

It's never fair to directly compare a movie remake, of a classic or not, if it tries to do something different from the start. And yet, the initial speech is exactly the same, but where we immediately denote a clear difference, through Sabrina's voice. Where the original's (and Hepburn's) tone intended to comically illustrate the eccentricity of the family, Ormond reads the same lines of text stripped of any character and intention.

Despite the intended update on the protagonist's path (with an elongated scene in Paris where she manages to discover and demonstrate her value as a woman and artist, beyond her fixation on David), if in the original movie, returning from Paris, Sabrina grew to recognise that it was her crush who from then on pursued her, here she feels more like an instrument to develop her male peers.

Because we end up seeing a lot of Sabrina from their gaze, even from David who, being originally just the typical womaniser, here feels more sensitive, as a scene with his bride-to-be or Sabrina's farewell at the end demonstrate. And if originally, the difference between Sabrina before and after her trip was basically a haircut, which purposefully revealed the absurdity of David's obliviousness, here her physical characterisation is so exaggeratedly different from one moment to the next that, not only doesn't seem to belong to the remaining film, as it almost excuses the younger Larrabee's initial disregard.

Linus is the biggest (and more welcome) difference, making it stand out admittedly from the original film. Leaving no doubt about the veracity of the character's intentions towards the protagonist, as in Bogart's interpretation, we are given a different characterisation, intended more human, where his isolation is not so much due to a caricatural dedication to the family business, but to a lack of real emotional connection, which finds in Sabrina the unexpected doubts that had never been exposed before.

And yet, the seemingly more realistic tone of this interpretation of the story, where even John Williams' soundtrack illustrates a greater sentimentality throughout, makes the ending even more disputable. Where the before nonexistent kiss between Linus and Sabrina, and Linus' consequent betrayal, is felt less excusable, despite the effort of Ormond's performance in the final moments.

In a way, this is a product of its time in its response to the screenplay. If, from the beginning, we expect the typical fortunate outcome, in the same way we expect the alternative destination for which the film seems to prepare us.

And even the alleged Cinderella's modern reimagination is naive. If that protagonist had a place waiting for her, here Sabrina doesn't have one, having instead complete freedom in her choices, contrary to her father.

We can imagine that, nowadays, perhaps she would make her way back to Paris unaccompanied. Where, instead of following the path her father put her in the beginning out of ignorance, she would try to discover herself, aware of her real distress.

Distress that she recognises in the most human and genuine scene in the entire film. Where we look at the protagonist's volatility in Hepburn's performance and watch the confusion of this innocent young woman. Where, in the limbo of her social position, she hoped to find a purpose in what she always wanted. To offer her love to whomever would be prepared to receive it.

That is why she "falls in love" so quickly with Linus, that in his concealed maturity looks like the (new) ideal candidate. The very weight of Bogart's entire career supporting his performance and giving him greater credibility.

And yet, she proclaims her own notion that this can't be the resolution. She affirms the apparent irrationality in her speech, but demonstrates the clearest maturity of any character.

And then, we seem to be facing the dichotomous response, tragic and happy in unequal parts, in which Sabrina leaves disappointed with the dishonest events, but able to enjoy the freedom she didn't have for so many years and that she can now enjoy as she couldn't on her previous trip.

And so, we see the complicity of the film with the most obvious outcome.

An overall uninteresting documentary about the work of the man "behind" Gaudi. Which could and should have been the title for it, maintaining a reference to the latter name, to draw attention, but not giving the same relevance as is.

Not that the title is particularly relevant to our enjoyment, but it illustrates the dissonance we go into it, as the documentary doesn't focus almost nothing on Gaudi and his work, beyond the initial known collaborations with Jujol.

If it's interesting for giving notice to the man usually lost behind Gaidu's recognition, it still isn't particularly well realised, consisting basically of several opinions of different people, pointing out his genius and process and not focusing as much in the relevance of his contrasting work within the remaining architectural and artistic work of the time.

Amidst the silence of the isolated village and the non-existent soundtrack of the film, each musical note means a moment of communion, initially intended as devotion for the stripping of the unnecessary. And yet, through one of the sisters, the possibility of a deeper devotion, of spiritual communion between two human beings, will be demonstrated through music.

The titular feast is naturally the culminating and expected moment of the entire film, where the ingredients are gradually organised to prepare the final meal. Drink in glasses, food in plates, soul in bodies. And the music appears only in key moments, recalling that same communion that neither us nor any of the characters yet witnessed, where any regret must be forgotten in order to satisfy the unexpected appetite of those who know no meaning beyond the misty village, thus fulfilling the expectation of Babette's discovered purpose.

It is Lorens, the only external element besides Babette, who initiates the transformation, referring to the tastes he himself let slip through his ignorant decisions. Every little sip outlining happiness on the general's face and thus on his soul. His words accompanied by music, to demonstrate the harmony everyone seeked. If, as a young man, he didn't look back, so as not to assume the error of his indelible choice, he later leaves with no regrets, looking at the one he'll no longer forget.

We see the change when the miracle occurs. The characters call attention to the Wedding at Cana, and we witness the water transforming into wine. This time, by the hand of one of those who would not deign to convert. If they denied their senses in detriment of what they considered necessary to the spirit, the spirit begins to truly guide their decisions.

Grace does not impose conditions, the general tells us, exposing his reflection on his whole life. Remembering the insignificance of his deeds and the meaning he now finds. And in the same way, this piece of art has the same effect that Babette intended for her clients, present and past. The suspension of the conditions that we impose ourselves because of the life we think we're owed, to reach instead a graceful state of tranquillity. In order to find ourselves through the small pleasures of life, and not beyond them.

From the beginning, we follow Mario's particular perspective. We have glimpses, small traces of the maritime horizon that surrounds the island. Territory from which there seems to be no escape for him, whose domestic walls merge with the rocky surfaces, where the culture in which he was raised inevitably frames his gaze on the infinite ocean. Neruda himself points out its meaning in the poem that he promptly creates, the indecision of the wave's movement that causes confusion in Mario. And yet, if his desire is to leave, he discovers the home he hoped to find elsewhere in his permanence on the island.

In the unlikely friendship built between the two main characters, found in their similar sensitivity, we can however see the difference between them. When the postman asks for a poem, Neruda leaves disturbed; when receiving the request for returning the poet's belongings, Mario is not bored, instead humbly recognising his limitations. And yet, Mario never shows regret in the moments he discovered with Don Pablo, in the life he lead since then. From his past, genuine learning emerges. Where before he recognised beauty only in copying the love evident in Neruda's poems and life, he later recognises the value of everything else surrounding him ever since.

Beatrice, for better or worse, is nothing more than a symbol (a metaphor, let's say!) of the discovery that the postman makes. This discovery comes from the deepest and most honest simplicity, from his genuine innocence, which stands out from Massimo's masterful performance, from his first conversation (or monologue?) with his father. We do not look at a performance, as much as the actor's total dedication and love for the exposed character.

And although the film never intends to hide its obvious political messages, they also inform us of part of the evolution that our protagonist allows himself to reach in the end. Where, in his recently discovered political position, he asserts himself as a celebrant of peace and not discord. This is how he revises himself in light of Neruda's iconicism, and yet asserts himself as his own person. Far from the poet's reference he was aiming for, which he then transposes.

In the end, we look at the island, no longer as a prison from which Mario drew sadness, but rather as the destination to which he ended up arriving. If before we felt the claustrophobia of the ravines, in the end its broad framework now shows the rediscovered beauty of what was Mario's home and, for a moment, Don Pablo's. Both eternally poets.

I watched this thinking I had already seen it, only having seen the sequel. And not remembering the second one that well, I went in with no expectations, besides a fun ride through the undeniable iconic puppetry. The truth is, this is not a very good movie. Even by the standards of the time, this seems too weird to think about for just a couple of minutes.

First of all, something that goes on for the entire movie (to which you expect some kind of payoff, possibly in the way the titular creatures are disposed off by the end) is Billy's father's "profession". However, it amounts to absolutely nothing, even when he arrives at the store conveniently at the right time for the final confrontation, although with no purpose to the scene. Maybe the point was to frame this whole story as his invention as well, with the start and end narrations, but it never seems like it beyond that.

And while Kate's reason for not liking Christmas is unexpected and, for that, entertainingly tragic, not only does its expository delivery come at a weird time, as it is completely nonsensical in this history, changing nothing about the occurring events for her character. If anything, as she even puts it, there are more reasons for her to hate the season, so, what gives?

Even weirder is the attempt at a message in the end, of our disdain for "God's gits", I guess as a poor excuse for the moral of the story, maybe aiming at the kids watching.

That is not to say there aren't good parts. There are a couple of really fun moments, specially when Billy's mother disposes of several gremlins in the most hilariously gruesome ways possible, while stating "Get out of my kitchen". Or the death of Mrs. Deagle, that ripped a big laugh out of me. And I like that Gizmo is really the character to have an arc in the story, primarily being scared of his spawn to, in the end, being the one that saves the day.

Still, beyond maybe rewatching the second one for curiosity sake, I don't think I'll be revisiting this anytime soon.

Beyond the good intentions that guide the intended message beyond the credits, it is with great disappointment that I see this sequel not use the potential that was previously presented with its inspiring protagonist. Instead, it falls into a confusion of old references, underdeveloped characters and, worse, a protagonist completely uncharacterized and distant from her original interest.

WW84 does not hide its inspiration. The movie shows without fear the original Superman subliminal reference, transposing not only a cinematography contrasting to the purposely sober one of the previous film, but also the same sense of heroism from which these characters should not escape, especially with such mythical contours. And other period references, such as Indiana Jones - largely exposed in a similar chase to The Last Crusade's - help to explain in part the feeling of adventure that, for example, Marvel doesn't have anymore, between excessive, generic or unmemorable action sequences.

Even the musical themes that Hans Zimmer provides us here refer to the same sense of excitement evident in John Williams' music, whether when revisiting Themyscira, or especially when presenting 1984 and the protagonist in her glorious persona. The experience begins with an enthusiastic return to the big screen justified from the initial scene.

And even though it starts out as an apparent imitation of Gene Hackman's Lex Luthor, we quickly realise that Maxuell Lord is actually the part of this narrative that we want to see return in each scene. In a broad interpretation by Pedro Pascal - in parts vicariously eccentric but never exaggerated, hiding the vulnerability of the antagonist's ambitious appetite - each drastic step leads him to his constant and costly decay. If Kristen Wiig's character was indicated as the main antagonist by the promotional material, Maxuell Lord is in fact the most developed and relevant of the two, and of the entire cast of characters, even beyond the protagonist herself.

Because, if Wonder Woman fully develops Diana as its emotional centre, here she moves passively to the narrative. This is obvious by the reintroduction of Steve Trevor, who with each scene detracts from the narrative's attention. When we experienced Diana as a fish out of water in the previous film, it was in the service of exposing her innocence in a world contrary to her most hopeful ideas. Here, Trevor's decontextualization serves no narrative purpose, and in the end, it even repeats and removes (therefore) the dramatic impact of the end of the previous film, as we have already experienced his fate before. And if the beginning of the friendship between Diana and Barbara demonstrates the start of a mutual respect and, at the same time, the possibility of a serene integration in this society beyond the relationship from which she never recovered, the idea is undone with the return of Steve who, serving the literal formalization of the protagonist's deep desire, cuts off her emotional evolution.

After seventy years of self-isolation, how can a literal goddess deal with the mortality of the world she inhabits? In her acceptance of the inherent violence of the human being, does her distancing mean complicity with that condition? These are questions provided with the drastic temporal distance between both movies' scenarios. When the film offers an attempt to justify so many decades spent discreetly, it does so only through several vague photographs. We don't have enough time to understand the effect of Diana's emotional exile, beyond her isolated presence in a restaurant packed with couples.

In the preceding film, Diana's relationship with Steve served as a prominent reminder of why she decided to leave the only house she knew to face unknown horrors, more than just a typical romantic interest. A relationship that grew and revealed differences and similarities between them, representing at the end of the film a symbol of what she believes to exist under the violence. And although Diana is able to say goodbye to Steve as she wasn't able before, it doesn't show how she'll grow beyond him, since we experience her accompanied by her romantic interest for most of the movie.

In this way, we also quickly understand the uselessness of Barbara Minerva's inclusion. Scorned by her peers, (supposedly) vulgar in appearance and social interaction, she is intended to be the literal opposite of the protagonist, revealing the aspiring characteristics to one another instead. Thus, the film begins a potential friendship that never develops and, worse, transforms into antagonism for no apparent reason beyond the need for a final confrontation - even if, again, the film builds its irrelevance.

And if violence is exchanged for man's insatiability in pursuing his desires, in an apparent attempt to offer each film a theme on which to build the film's narrative, the film includes the same vices for an unaccustomed audience. Even elements that make up most of the promotional material appear as visual elements with no sense of inclusion. For, if the golden suit arises only after Wonder Woman recovers the powers she lost during the movie, what's its purpose besides visual bait and nothing else?

It is tragic that the inspiration inherent to the character as she was presented initially, is here forced into a final speech, which tries to integrate its narrative theme, but never manages to be justified by the characters that make up the narrative. Although honest in its cinematic connections, this is a film that does not convey the same honesty to its protagonist, being as forgettable as the examples the movie tried to distance itself.

Tenet seems to be Nolan's justification for his own cinematic contribution. However, we recognise the loss of a necessary emotional focus at the expense of a presumed originality in the narrative structure. Which is also not thought out in the totality of the proposed experience, as if instead of constructing the narrative around the mechanical proposal, he had to build a film around an initial visual idea. In the end, it neither recalls the nostalgia of its influences nor offers really anything new apart from the initial curiosity.

The biggest flaw of the film is the lack of a clear idea of what it intends to be, with a narrative that does not revolve around the temporal utensil that the director introduces (as already happened in the previous Dunkirk), rather functioning in parallel to this and trying in points to justify its inclusion. This means that, if the used trick is apparently an integral part of the narrative told, as an objective for both sides of the barricade, its replacement by any other device would not modify in any way the story told here. In a duration of about 150 minutes, with what seems material for several episodes, we recognise the emptiness of a story that during the first hundred minutes only jumps from place to place, without any notion of characters or consequences. And, in the end, it is just a variation on stopping a mechanism that will end the world as we know it, concept to this point already as tiring as it sounds.

At first, what is presented as a spy film from its prologue, derives in its most basic form, resembling the worst examples of the famous British spy's saga on which Nolan admittedly grew up and was inspired by. Nevertheless, at the same time it tries to show a certain level of (non-existent) drama taken from a Le Carré's novel. In fact, we see in the character of Elizabeth Debicki her exact interpretation from The Night Manager; as the wife of an arms dealer, controlled through her relationship with her son and unaware of the real implications of her husband's business, in an attempt to offer an otherwise absent level of humanity.

Unfortunately, if in that mini-series we could rely on Hugh Laurie's occasionally creepy charisma, in a narrative cleverly told through the relationships between the central characters, not only is there no time here for it among so many scattered locations and events, but Brannagh's interpretation as a one-dimensional villain is simply bad. From the needless Russian nationality (with the correspondent accent), accompanied by violent and empty threats and incomprehensible motivations, his lines are the greatest sin of a character who makes us turn our eyes with his ineptitude in this story. In fact, when we hear the line "If I can't have you, no one else can" addressed to his wife, we question if we have entered the wrong room (remembering, however, the lack of films for such a mistake and immediately the sadness of knowing we are in the correct room).

As for the temporal mechanics that the director proposes this time, as at the end of Interstellar, the unnecessary justifications only remove us from the immediate appreciation, trying to understand the concept and meaning of its formalisation, instead of simply enjoying the mystery and entertainment of its visual execution. Because unlike Inception in which they served as a framework for the rest of the film's action, the explanations here serve as pieces of information about what is really a more complicated concept that it is complex. Because, what we end up seeing on screen is the same kind of time interactions and paradoxes that James Cameron used in Terminator. But, instead of a narrative affected by that device or a drama for which it is dispensable, we're presented with a manual on it, hidden behind a generic film without any memorable characters or events. In addition, the hypothesis of revisiting past events in our timeline through access to a second timeline that works independently and contrary to the first, ends up bringing together different concepts (time travel and parallel timelines) and not justifying the sudden evolution of the idea.

And if Nolan has never had the particular ingenuity to shoot action scenes, creating instead interesting scenarios to shoot, that ineptitude is clear in this movie. Apart from the sequence passed at the airport (still with an unnecessary and uninteresting real plane crashing) - even later revisited from another point of view, where we can see the temporal ingenuity and understand the action in its entirety -, no other scenes provide an equal level of enthusiasm. The third act, apparently taking full advantage of the mechanics at stake, does not allow a complete understanding of the action, with a series of similarly dressed soldiers running through a deserted environment, without notion of objectives or who to follow beyond the Protagonist (also hidden behind a mask). In the end, this even results in an empty exchange between the main character and the villain to prevent the activation of the device before the final countdown.

Even the most casual action sequences reveal a lack of inspiration from the director who does not know how to take advantage of the practical effects he cares so much for. It isn't more obvious than in a van heist, boring in its editing and execution, where each action takes too long. And then, you even hear Ludwig Göransson's musical composition trying to offer the scene the rhythm it lacks, highlighting our boredom. Also the chance of the meta-linguistic nomination of the Protagonist (literally called as such) does not serve any purpose. If his role as a mere pawn between other characters' intentions is called into question for a few seconds, in the end his "revelation" as the real protagonist brings nothing to his character, since he has always been an active participant throughout the narrative.

In the end, the real time exercise is the waste of time Nolan put us through. As immemorial as dated, the director finds himself increasingly lost in the ever increasing budget, without the genius of his early work that told a story around the mechanics of time that couldn't be told any other way. Not saving the current cinema crisis, perhaps it can retrospectively remind the author of what led him to initially devote himself to this industry without losing himself in the process.

Almost a century old by now, this is undoubtedly still an amazing piece of cinema through and through, with astounding music and an extremely dynamic filming and cinematography, that allows for a more dramatic telling of an already timeless piece of storytelling.

The glasses of the doctor, dangling when he's thrown overboard, intercuted with the worms he shall feed while down under; or the feet of one of the mutineers when he steps on the piano, and we hear a few piano notes swell, are only two of the earlier examples where the still camera allows for the occasional close-up to enhance a dramatic telling of this story in such simple terms.

But apart from the amazing vistas on the city on the third act, where the director takes advantage of the lighting and architecture of the scene to expose the almost breathtaking perspectives on the large crowds, it is indeed the Act IV that includes the most shocking and impressive scenes. Particularly, when you witness a kid being attacked and stomped on the Odessa steps, and watch the mother going against the incoming troops' shadows with the son in her arms, you can't manage to not stay with that shot engraved in your mind.

When the act ends, as the battleship fires on the theatre, and you see the consecutive shots on the lions' statues, as if waking up in face of the occurring events, you just manage to stay wowed. Even without knowing first hand all that Eisenstein achieved and invented with this film, you can still marvel in all the iconic shots that stay with you far from its end, even recognising the clear inspiration (rather, origin) for The Untouchables most famous scene, of the baby cart falling down the steps.

And even the final act, what appears an overly long chase scene antedating what you imagine to be a violent final confrontation, ends up being a satisfying end to a simple tale on a piece of History that becomes even more believable in this staging.

When I first saw the painted set of the ball room, with its incredible perspective, framed by a classic theatre's stripped proscenium arch, I marvelled in the possibility of intertwining elements of 18th century Italian opera, in which the play's story revolves around, with more modern elements. Nevertheless, this idea is never fully explored. Even if the point was to show the difference between the royal court and its composer's restrictive view of things and the outlandish personality of the titular character, being this initial set as a figure of the first, there could have been a greater use of such a strong device.

This is not to say that there aren't some interesting ideas in the staging, following this initial idea. Like the literal deconstruction of classic elements, with the pillars used loose from their context, in a reinterpretation of the classic in conjunction with the modern. Where even people and the orchestra are themselves part of the scenery, static and yet minimally changeable, like living wax figures, there to express the world that Salieri intends immutable, according to his divine plans, but which is gradually transformed with the presence of Wolfgang's music.

But the worst felony comes in the play's filming, in this case inherently relevant to its enjoyment as such. There are clear interesting moments, such as when Salieri reads Wolfgang's music pieces and the director intelligently frames the performance of those behind the first composer, as the tormenting of the rival's genius upon him. But otherwise, it is almost as the director himself didn't know how to approach the filming of the play, although so many elements seem obvious as apparent framing devices.

With such a strong element in that initial set, what could have been used to create striking filmed perspectives, enhanced by a particular camera position, instead gives way to cut frames without a clear intent. And, for example, when in the middle of a scene, Salieri is focused with a spotlight, while exposing his inner thoughts to the audience, the camera is unable to emphasise this in the remaining scene, instead choosing the simplest and most uninspired way, through close-ups on the actor.

Fortunately, this is overall more prominent in the first act, and generally saved by the lead performance that captivates you from start to finish. And so, these missteps never entirely take you from the experience.

One of the most stimulating aspects of the series is how the angels are these ever surprising beings that become more abstract with each appearance. It is indeed something that allows for the incredible art design to take advantage of the 2d animation possibilities, in order to craft something so unique that you can't even begin to imagine how it could ever translate to live action.

But these design choices become more intriguing as you understand them as a reflection of an evolving strategy. One that, at each encounter, becomes closer to what you think to be the final goal of defeating the enemy, as they explore each time a new weakness, a new challenge for our protagonists to adapt to, be it physical or emotional. As such, not only are our protagonists evolving as fighters and characters, but so is the unknown enemy, whose random nature hides a particular and surprising resolve.

Yet, what I find most interesting is that the series itself evolves along with its antagonists, almost as a reflection of their own intent. You can recognise initially a more traditional coming-of-age narrative (dictated by the specific circumstances of the story at hand), that towards the end envisions a deep meditation (even if somewhat confined by the series self-imposed duration) on the nature of being and the construction of our individual reality and interpersonal relationships.

In that transition, so does the format of the episodes transform. It changes from a tripartite structure (beginning with that always energising and never tiring intro, with a climatic midpoint generally revolving around an internal or external obstacle that the protagonists must face) to a freer and more reflective take, composed of a series of flashing images with intertwining text that almost feels like questions posed by you, the audience, to the characters. As if the purpose was to immerse you as deep as possible in their thoughts and feels, beyond the narrated bits about their past.

And so, never in this series (r)evolution does the focus deviate from its main characters. The three kids in which the weight was put into saving the known world, and never truly found the reason why they should do it. From the very first episode to the very last, they keep trying to convince themselves of a particular reasoning, that in fact never encompasses a real self-reflection on their own intent, but instead a projection of what they think others (should) expect from them.

If so many television series claim to work as an elongated movie, doesn't it ring more true than in the recurring "To be continued" in the end of each episode. It keeps you on edge as you try to perceive the full narrative, engulfed in the mystery of its ending, however keeping its original episodic structure always well balanced and ever satisfying.

Having seen this far later than I should have, it is still undeniable to this day the impressive craftsmanship behind such an undeniable milestone in the history of cinema. You inherently have the knowledge that all those were painted sets, but the care put into each and every detail in order to match consistently the filmed elements, in its perspective and lighting, offers us such a wonderful wealth that almost wouldn't be possible with more and better means.

The architecture of the academy whose perspective converges in the middle of the screen; or the exaggerated perspective on the cannon that will launch them into their destination, pointing outwards to the farther side of the screen; as well as the vast landscape of the moon, all with a clear contrast between their painted planes and elements, are able to extend the sets beyond their two dimensions, giving them the dynamism that the stationary camera couldn't and didn't need to offer.

Although made of only a floor and a wall, we are and will always be utterly sold on the depth of the places Méliès took us that, in the coloured version, only offers more connection to a stunning and timeless effort. And all this without an inch of spoken or shown dialogue. This is literally the definition of visual storytelling.

Beyond what I perceive to be the most effective way of transposing the unique aesthetic of Van Gogh's paintings to a three dimensional setting, it's indeed its brilliant use through the stop motion animation to tell such an emotional and touching story that sets this short movie apart everything else.

And it's not only in the fact that the animation itself pays such a peculiar tribute to painting, but how the movie utilises the discipline's particular notions and symbolisms to transpose the story of this man slowly losing his memory.

The way the objects are shown as blurs of paint as they become diluted to him is the most effective manner of showing his unique recessive perspective on things. But it is when his own vision on the people in his life become more and more abstract, general brush strokes without any identity for him or us to distinguish them from each other, that we completely realise the inevitability of his condition as he continuously looses grip of his reality.

He himself keeps losing his own identity, his perception of himself broader and broader, less precise, more primary in form and colour, trying to guard himself in the only activity he can still have without change. And even that... Until, in the end, he watches the last traces, the last brush strokes of his wife, his only constant throughout it all, lingering in his last barely recognisable memories, in a heartbreaking, beautiful and fulfilling ending to a tragic story.

I think this could have been summed up to the first four minutes, taking advantage of some of the more subtle visual and auditory queues that go through too quickly. For example, besides the map showing the two countries ranting over a bone, the shuffling of the deck mimicking the sound of gunshots is a brilliant idea that wouldn't need to have the cards literally flying and firing afterwards.

And so, the clapperboard, signifying the movie initial credits as well as the artificial staging behind the political conflict, cuts the short film in two, from then on consisting of a set of almost bizarre sketches that never completely see through (pun intended) the idea of joining opposing forces for survival.

From all the Alien 40th Anniversary short films, this is definitely the most interesting one, as it is just not a re-thread or recreation of the elements and atmosphere of the honoured movie. And although being very cheap looking in its execution, it compensates with its original idea.

The idea of a lonely android who sees in the alien not fear but companionship is an interesting alternative look at the original threat. In fact, when you see the android approach the facehugger as it was a small dog, you feel a sense of confusion, as you know it's supposed to be a scary being, but the protagonist and the camera treat it like a loveable one.

If there's something I would criticise, it would be the fact that the android is slowly approaching its end, only because it takes a bit from the urgency of the alien's life expectancy. Nevertheless, as the android needs it to keep it company during the remaining journey, its quest to find human life to prolong the alien's life is in itself a natural step to this short's original idea and, again, a bold and worth-it variation on the tropes the 1979 movie created.

The unnecessary initial flashing images already had me worried, as it is a lazy way of conveying a tense and scary atmosphere, even being repeated later on. But in the end, the worst is that they choose to cram all the possible references to the original without any interesting connection or sense, just because they had the means to.

And if it had sufficient material to offer the unseen context of this short film, in the great and simple idea of a pregnant woman about to give birth trying to escape the titular alien, where any scream can be fatal (A Quiet Place, anyone?), what I can't even begin to comprehend is how it doesn't even lean on that throughout its ten minutes duration. You recognise all the references, but you don't connect with anything, because they're present just for the sake of it.

From the beginning, it is suggested a deep connection from the analysed movie with ancient myths, even starting the documentary with a strange fictional representation of a nightmarish scene in a Greek temple. But beyond some generic comparisons and statements in that regard, and an obvious yet interesting parallel between Giger's work and Ancient Egypt art, this documentary doesn't really revolve much around what it initially proposes.

Besides some of the references that inspired and were brought into the film, from older movies to comics, there's not that much that this documentary adds to our knowledge of the analysed work. Starting on the writer and his influences, passing to Giger's work, and in the end to a known description of the most famous scene in the approached movie, this documentary doesn't even know where to focus its attention or how to mingle all the topics.

It is when, an hour and twenty five minutes in, it is said "I don't think we can get to the bottom of "Alien"" that we are left wondering why then did we lose our time watching this, if there was never going to be a deep dive into the suggested connections.

A combination of several half cooked ideas and some familiar ones (including visually), that in the end amounts to little more that small snippets of the preceding movies without any interesting and coherent structure or even directorial vision behind it. With the same idea of exploiting the aliens for unknown reasons (hundreds of years later and by another company other than Weyland, for some reason), it is not clear at any time what the real intent with this forth entry in the franchise was.

Not even Weaver is able to hook us, as she is present throughout the movie with no explication, only to drive the plot as needed. Why would they stick with the one character that might attract the enemy? If in the beginning, the movie seems to play around with the idea of the unreliable nature of this Ripley, as her literal alien insticts might make her the real enemy among the group, it is soon forgotten in favour of her traditional persona we know and love from the prior films.

Also, although knowing before hand about the android character, by now is already a given that every Alien movie will have a surprise robot to turn the tide in some way, and so the supposed twist comes out completely ineffective. The only difference is that this one is programmed to be good, instead of the expected corporate loyal ones we've been accustomed. "I should have known. No human being is that humane". If we nowadays often praise Whedon for his dialogues, he might still have been too young when he wrote this one.

This is one of those cases where its influences and references are recognisable throughout pop culture and even movies who try to emulate its more iconic moments, and in a sense you think you already know the original undertaking. In fact, that is not at all true, as it is indeed a sort of timeless feature, but for more than just the sum of the parts, both fun and thoughtful as I wasn't entirely expecting.

What surprised me the most is that, despite the title, the story isn't so much focused on the titular character's shenanigans, as much as it is on Cameron's growth beyond his father's oppression through his friendship with Ferris. We never get to see the parent, being the modern garage filled with pictures of his beloved cars (contrary to what we imagine to be as stripped a house on the inside as it is on the outside) sufficient proof of Cameron's empty relationship with him.

In the end, we don't even need to see the resolution, witnessing instead the certainty of Cameron's attitude as he doesn't even flinch at the idea of the confrontation with his father, in contrast to the insecurity we hear and see at the beginning.