Girl You Know It's True (5 Stars)

This is the second musical biopic I've watched today. The film is called "Girl you know it's true", which was the title of Milli Vanilli's first single, but that's ironic. None of it was true. It was a fake group created by the German music producer Frank Farian. He recorded a song with session musicians who were talented, but not sexy enough to appear on MTV, so he needed two front men to perform. One single became a whole album. They went on tour lip-syncing to their hits. Before you say that lip-syncing is common in the music industry, this was different. Other singers lip-sync to recordings of their own voices, but Milli Vanilli lip-synced to recordings of other musicians.

Maybe Rob Pilatus and Fab Morvan could have continued the illusion if they'd remained more modest. As it was, they indulged in drug abuse (mostly cocaine) and forgot who they were. In an interview they described themselves as bigger than Elvis Presley and the Beatles. Pride comes before a fall. Their lip-syncing became apparent when the tape skipped during a concert, and their fans turned against them. They became outcasts. They went from being millionaires to practically broke. Rob was imprisoned for stealing a car, and shortly afterwards he died of a drug overdose. Fab was working as a waiter, unrecognised by his former fans.

I like the way the film is structured. It continually breaks the fourth wall. Rob and Fab are the narrators, speaking to the audience even after Rob's death. Franks also takes time to speak to the audience. He explains the truth behind the lie.

It's a tragic story. Other musical biopics like "Better Man" show how musicians start poor and soar to the heights, overcoming adversities. "Girl you know it's true" shows how two young men start poor, then rise up before falling down, lower than they were when they started out. Shed a tear for Milli Vanilli.

Better Man (5 Stars)

For me it's all about the film. My five star rating isn't meant as an endorsement of Robbie Williams' music. I was aware of his career. My daughter was a fan, and she even called our cat Robbie. I didn't like his music, and I liked the music he made with Take That even less. The only album of his that I liked was his album of cover songs, "Swing when you're winning". He did justice to the old classic songs. I remember listening to the CD a few times and thinking Wow. My daughter thought I was becoming a Robbie Williams fan. Not quite.

"Better Man" wins me over emotionally, from Robbie's humble beginnings in Stoke-On-Trent to the death of his grandmother and his reconciliation with his father. It's a beautiful film, whether you like his music or not.

Success Rate:  - 4.9

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Ballerina (5 Stars)

This is a film that's grown on me. I gave it five stars from its first viewing, but I've always added "it's not as good as the John Wick films". Now I'm not so sure. "Ballerina" is different to the John Wick films, but it's just as good, in its own way. John Wick himself was always a master assassin, from the first film onwards, but Eve Macarro is a new recruit to the Ruska Roma, who needs to be trained from the ground up. She's like "Nikita", or more like "Red Sparrow". 

"Ballerina" doesn’t so much expand the John Wick mythology as refract it; a side-step rather than a leap forward, yet one that reveals new textures within a world that had, by "John Wick Chapter 4", begun to feel almost sealed.

Set against the familiar framework established in John Wick and elaborated through "John Wick Chapter 2" and "John Wick Chapter 3", the film’s most immediate contribution is perspective. Where those entries centred on John Wick as both participant and anomaly, Ballerina shifts the focus to an initiate; someone shaped by the system from the outset rather than dragged back into it. This alone alters the tone. The mythology is no longer something glimpsed from the outside or resisted from within; it becomes an environment, almost a culture, that produces its own agents.

The Ruska Roma, previously a striking but secondary presence, moves into the foreground. What had once seemed like a stylistic flourish, ballerinas trained alongside assassins, now reads as a fully realised institution with its own internal logic. The film leans into the idea that artistry and violence are not merely juxtaposed, but intertwined. Discipline, repetition and performance become the connective tissue between dance and killing, suggesting that the mythology’s rituals are not confined to coins and markers, but embedded in the very bodies of its practitioners.

This emphasis on training and transformation adds a layer that the earlier films only hinted at. In the mainline series, assassins simply are; their skills are presented as faits accomplis. Ballerina asks how such figures are made. The answer is not comforting. The mythology expands to include systems of control that feel less like honour codes and more like indoctrination. The world of assassins, once alluring in its elegance, acquires a harder edge; its beauty is revealed as something constructed through coercion.

At the same time, the film subtly recalibrates the role of institutions like the The Continental. In the earlier films, the Continental functioned as a neutral sanctuary, a space where rules imposed order on chaos. Here, its neutrality feels more ambiguous. Seen from the perspective of someone raised within the system, it is less a refuge than a checkpoint; one node in a network that monitors, regulates and ultimately constrains. The mythology becomes less romantic, more systemic.

Crucially, "Ballerina" resists the temptation to over-escalate. After the globe-spanning, rule-bending climax of "John Wick Chapter 4", it would have been easy to introduce an even higher authority or a deeper layer of conspiracy. Instead, the film narrows its focus. The High Table remains distant, almost irrelevant; what matters are the local structures, the immediate relationships and the personal costs of participation. This contraction paradoxically enriches the mythology. By showing how the system operates on the ground, it makes the larger hierarchy feel more credible.

There is, however, a tension at the heart of this approach. By explaining how assassins are trained, by detailing the mechanisms that produce them, the film inevitably demystifies aspects of the world that were once left to the imagination. The danger, as in "John Wick Chapter 3", is that myth hardens into procedure. The more we see, the less we wonder.

Yet "Ballerina" mitigates this by shifting the emotional centre. The mythology is no longer primarily about rules; it is about identity. What does it mean to belong to this world if you never had a choice? Can its codes be internalised without being questioned? In this sense, the film doesn’t just add lore; it interrogates the cost of that lore on those who live inside it.

In the end, "Ballerina" functions as a kind of echo within the larger saga. It doesn’t reshape the mythology in the way the sequels did, nor does it attempt to conclude it. Instead, it deepens it laterally, filling in the spaces between what we already know. The result is a world that feels less like a series of elegant rules and more like a lived-in system; one that creates its own adherents, and perhaps its own victims.

It’s a quieter form of expansion, but a meaningful one. If the John Wick films built a myth, Ballerina shows how that myth is sustained; not by legends like John Wick, but by the countless figures shaped in its image.

Success Rate:  - 0.4

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John Wick 4 (5 Stars)

"John Wick Chapter 4" feels like the moment the series finally confronts the weight of its own mythology; not by expanding it further, but by testing whether it can be broken.

Across "John Wick" and "John Wick Chapter 2", the assassin world evolved from suggestion into structure; by "John Wick Chapter 3", it had hardened into something close to dogma, enforced by the High Table with near-religious authority. "Chapter 4" takes the next logical step; it treats that system not as an unchangeable fact, but as a construct that can be challenged, manipulated and, ultimately, outplayed.

What's striking is how the film reframes the mythology through ritual. The duel that forms the climax is not just a plot device; it's an ancient mechanism embedded within the rules of the High Table itself. After three films of escalation, the idea that everything can be resolved through something so formal, so archaic, almost feels like a loophole in the system. The mythology turns inward, revealing that its rigidity contains the seeds of its own undoing.

This is where John Wick changes most significantly. In earlier films, he was defined by his relationship to the rules; first as a legend outside them, then as a man bound by them, and finally as someone hunted by them. Here, he becomes a strategist within the mythology. He doesn't just fight the system; he learns how to use its language against itself. The coins, the markers, the codes of conduct; these are no longer constraints, but tools.

At the same time, "Chapter 4" subtly demystifies the High Table without ever fully exposing it. Its representatives, particularly the Marquis, suggest that power within this world is not purely ancient or divine, but also political, contingent and, crucially, vulnerable to ego. The mythology shifts from something monolithic to something inhabited by individuals who can make mistakes. That shift matters; it brings the series back from abstraction towards something human, even as it maintains its operatic scale.

Yet the film resists the temptation to over-explain. After the relative over-articulation of "John Wick Chapter 3", this instalment pares back exposition and lets ritual, geography and action carry the meaning. The journey through Osaka, Berlin and Paris suggests a world that is vast but coherent, bound by shared customs rather than explicit rules. The mythology regains some of its mystery, not by shrinking, but by becoming less verbal.

The question of whether John Wick can still be alive sits at the centre of this approach. On a literal level, the film presents his death with a degree of finality; the wounds, the exhaustion, the quiet acceptance. But the staging is deliberately ambiguous. We see a grave, but no body; we hear eulogies, but no confirmation. In a series so concerned with codes and appearances, that absence feels intentional.

More importantly, the mythology itself provides a possible answer. This is a world where identity is fluid, where names carry weight and can be shed or reclaimed. John Wick has already died once, retreating into legend before being drawn back. Within a system that runs on ritual and perception, death does not have to be purely physical; it can be symbolic, a way of exiting the game.

There is also the practical dimension. The High Table operates on recognition and enforcement; if it believes Wick is dead, its pursuit ends. In that sense, death becomes a strategic disappearance, a final exploitation of the rules he has spent four films learning to navigate. The mythology allows for that possibility because it values order over truth; what matters is not whether Wick lives, but whether the system believes he does not.

Still, the film walks a careful line. To insist too strongly on his survival would undercut the thematic resolution; Wick's arc has always been about escape, and death is the only absolute escape the series can offer without contradiction. By leaving the question open, "Chapter 4" preserves both possibilities; the man may be gone, but the legend, as always, endures.

In the end, "John Wick Chapter 4" doesn't just conclude the mythology; it reflects on it. What began as a whisper of a hidden world has become a fully realised system, then a prison, and finally something that can be transcended. Whether John Wick is alive or dead almost becomes secondary. The real question is whether he has finally stepped outside the mythology that defined him; and for the first time, the answer might be Yes.

Success Rate:  + 2.4

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New Shaolin Boxers (4 Stars)

"New Shaolin Boxers" stands out in the crowded kung fu landscape by building its identity around a specific fighting style rather than a revenge plot or nationalist theme. The story follows Zhong Jian, a well-meaning but naïve young man whose habit of helping everyone he meets repeatedly lands him in trouble; it's a simple character hook, but one that allows the film to explore growth through discipline rather than trauma.

What really defines the film is its focus on the fighting style Choy Li Fut. Unlike the tighter, more upright styles often seen in Shaw Brothers productions, Choy Li Fut is broad, circular and aggressive. The movements emphasise wide swinging strikes, long-range attacks and continuous motion; punches arc rather than snap, and the body is constantly turning, generating power through rotation. On screen, that gives the fights a sense of momentum that feels almost unruly, as if the combatants are carried forward by their own energy.

The choreography leans into these qualities. Instead of short, contained exchanges, the fights sprawl outward. Arms whirl, stances shift, and opponents are pressured from unexpected angles. There's less emphasis on elegance and more on overwhelming force. It suits Zhong Jian's personality early on; his instinct is to rush in and act, and Choy Li Fut's expansive techniques mirror that impulsiveness. As he matures, the same style begins to look more controlled, suggesting that discipline shapes not just the man but the way the art is expressed.

That connection between character and technique is where the film finds its voice. Zhong isn't learning a neutral system; he's learning how to channel something inherently chaotic. The film quietly argues that a martial art isn't just about technique, but about temperament. Choy Li Fut becomes a reflection of Zhong himself; powerful, well-intentioned, but potentially reckless without guidance.

The film's tone remains relatively light, especially compared with darker kung fu films of the era. There's humour in Zhong's misjudgements, and the narrative never sinks into cynicism. Still, the action carries weight precisely because of the style on display. Those sweeping strikes look dangerous; when they land, they feel decisive.

If there's a limitation, it's that the supporting cast doesn't leave much of an impression, and the plot sometimes feels like a loose framework for showcasing the fighting style. But in this case, that's almost the point. "New Shaolin Boxers" is less about story than about movement, rhythm, and the personality embedded in a martial tradition.

In the end, it's a film where style is character. By centring Choy Li Fut and tying it to Zhong Jian's growth, it offers something a bit different; not just a series of fights, but a study in how a way of fighting can shape, and be shaped by, the person using it.

The Trilogy of Swordsmanship (4 Stars)

"The Trilogy of Swordsmanship" is one of those rare anthology films where the structure isn't just a framing device; it's the point. Comprising three loosely connected tales of martial virtue, betrayal and mastery, the film uses its triptych format to explore what "swordsmanship" really means beyond technique. Each segment stands alone in plot, yet they echo one another in theme, creating a cumulative portrait of honour under pressure.

The connection between the three parts isn't narrative continuity so much as philosophical progression. The first story is almost classical; a young swordsman seeks mastery and learns that skill without discipline is hollow. The second complicates that idea; here, experience brings moral ambiguity, and the blade becomes a tool not of honour but survival. By the time we reach the third segment, the film turns inward; swordsmanship is no longer about defeating an opponent but about understanding oneself. Watched in sequence, the three parts feel like stages of a life, or even three possible paths diverging from the same code.

What's striking, especially for a 1972 production, is how the film handles its female characters. They aren't ornamental, nor are they simply victims orbiting male warriors. Instead, the film gives them agency in ways that subtly reshape each story. In the first segment, the woman at the centre isn't a prize to be won; she's a moral compass, forcing the protagonist to confront his own immaturity. In the second, female power becomes more direct and dangerous; a woman manipulates the social and emotional terrain with far more precision than any sword strike, exposing how fragile masculine codes of honour can be. By the third story, that power turns almost philosophical; the female presence embodies restraint and insight, contrasting with the restless violence of the male lead.

It's tempting to read this as progressive, though the film never quite escapes the conventions of its genre. The women still operate within a male-dominated world, and their influence is often indirect. Yet that indirectness is precisely where their strength lies; they don't need the sword to control its meaning. In a film obsessed with blades, they're the ones who redefine what power looks like.

Stylistically, the anthology format allows for variation without losing cohesion. Each segment has its own rhythm and visual tone, yet the direction ties them together through recurring imagery; duels framed against open landscapes, moments of stillness before violence, the ritualistic handling of the sword itself. These echoes reinforce the thematic links, making the transitions feel deliberate rather than arbitrary.

If there's a weakness, it's that the episodic nature can dilute emotional investment. Just as you begin to settle into one story, it ends. But that's also part of the design; the film isn't asking you to attach to characters so much as to ideas.

In the end, "The Trilogy of Swordsmanship" isn't about who wins or loses. It's about what remains when the fighting stops; and, crucially, who truly understands the cost. The answer, more often than not, lies with the women who never needed to draw a blade in the first place.

Saccharine (1 Star)

This is the 16th film in the Stuttgart Nights Festival.

"Saccharine" is a film that has some good ideas, but it's visually so ugly that I have to give it a rock bottom rating.

Hana is a medical student struggling to lose weight. She weighs over 80 Kg, and her dream is to get down to 65 Kg. She visits a fitness studio, but it doesn't help because she still eats too much. Then she discovers that she can lose weight if she eats the ash of a burnt person's body. In her classes she has to dissect a dead person, a fat woman, so she takes some of her bones home and burns them to ashes. It works. However much she eats, she sheds weight, and within a few weeks she's down to 45 Kg. Her personal trainer at the fitness studio tells her that it's unhealthy to lose weight so fast, so she eats as much chocolate and cake as she can, which doesn't stop the weight loss. But there's a bigger problem. Hana is being haunted by the woman that she's eating. If she holds up a spoon, she can see her standing behind her in the reflection.

As I said, the film sounds interesting, but you need to see it yourself to realise how unpleasant it is.

This was the last film that I watched in this year's Nights Festival. Overall, I was disappointed. There were no really outstanding films. Maybe next year.

Imposters (4½ Stars)

This is the 15th film in the Stuttgart Nights Festival.

Paul was a policeman in New York. After he was shot in the back and barely avoided death, he quit the police force and decided to start a new life. He moved with his wife Marie and baby son Theo to a sleepy little town.

They hold a housewarming party to meet their neighbours. They leave Theo alone for less than two minutes, and he's gone. Despite an extensive police search he can't be found. Two weeks later a simple-minded man called Orson visits them and says that he doesn't know who took Theo, but they can find him in a small cave in the woods. Against Paul's protests, Marie crawls into the cave. An hour later she brings Theo out. Paul wants to know why she was gone for so long. Marie says she's forgotten what happened in the cave, but it's obvious that she's lying. Having Theo back is all that matters, isn't it? But after a few days Paul notices that Theo's birthmark is missing from his foot, and he knows that something is wrong.

This is a supernatural mystery film. I can't say anything else without giving away spoilers. I need to watch it again.

The Vile (2 Stars)

This is the 14th film in the Stuttgart Nights Festival.

Amina lives with her husband Khaled and teenage daughter Noor in Abu Dhabi. She's happy, even though Khaled works away from home. Her idyll is shattered when Khaled comes home one day with a second wife, Zahra. He's angry that Amina doesn't accept the new wife, because it's allowed by Islam. Allowed, maybe, but he should have told Amina in advance.

Khaled goes away again for a few weeks, leaving Zahra alone with Amina and Noor. Zahra makes an effort to be friendly, but Amina totally rejects her. She does whatever she can to make Zahra feel unwelcome.

Most of the film is a twisted family drama. It only becomes clear in the last ten minutes that there's also a supernatural threat. This isn't what I'd call a twist, it's simply a new thought slapped onto the end of the film. The film is poorly written.

Nightborn (5 Stars)

This is the tenth film in the Stuttgart Nights Festival.

Jon and Saga have just got married. They move into the house in Finland where Saga grew up. There's a lot of work to be done, because the house has been empty for years.

Nine months later Saga has a child. The child isn't normal. He has a hairy back, but the doctors reassure her that it's nothing to worry about. Other things are more unusual. Within a few months the baby, that they call Kuura, is able to stand and walk. Most disturbing is that Kuura doesn't want to drink milk, he only wants blood. By the time he's six months old, Saga is feeding him raw meat. At first Saga rejects the child, but she grows to love him, and as they bond she slowly becomes feral.

"Nightborn" is the best film of the festival so far.

Veins (2 Stars)

This is the ninth film in the Stuttgart Nights Festival.

Isabelle goes to visit her parents, who live in an isolated place in the countryside. If I counted correctly, there are only three houses clustered together, although it's mentioned that they belong to a village that we never see. There's no Internet. Who needs it? Isabelle is shocked to find out that her father died three days previously. She's angry that her mother didn't tell her. Isabelle's mother is acting strangely, and she seems to be under the influence of the retired doctor who lives next door. The mystery slowly unravels.

This isn't an attractive film. There are lots of realistic medical shots, which is something I never like. The pacing is painfully slow. At the end of the film loose ends are left open. Very unsatisfying.

Mag Mag (3 Stars)

This is the eighth film in the Stuttgart Nights Festival.

We all know Japanese ghost stories, don't we? Films like "The Ring", "The Grudge" and "Dark Water". A female ghost is seeking revenge for some sort of wrong in her life. It's all pretty much the same story, but I don't complain if the film is made well. So when I heard that "Mag Mag" is a Japanese ghost story, I expected it to be the best film of the festival.

Mag Mag is a ghost who kills every man – usually high school boys – that she falls in love with. She leaves them dead on the ground with their eyes gouged out. That's the sort of concept that thrills me. Unfortunately, this film is spoilt by the frequent comedic scenes. Comedy doesn't blend well with a Japanese ghost story. And then the film has multiple twists at the end which spoil the story. I was disappointed.