Magical Mystery Tour (1967, The Beatles)

This year the indie rock band Big Thief made certain heads explode with the radical act of issuing two studio albums in a single calendar year; in the same circles, the Baltimore duo Beach House caused a similar disturbance not that long ago. But for their part, the band that essentially defined the parameters and artistic expectations of a rock band never stepped off the hamster wheel. In the least prolific full year of their existence as a recording unit, 1966, they managed to put together the seminal Revolver plus a single with two additional songs, mount a world tour and set themselves to the task of a total redefining of image. The following year, it was only six months after they soundtracked the Summer of Love and recontextualized the entire notion of the rock LP with Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band that they unleashed the ambitious, unpredictable multimedia project Magical Mystery Tour — a TV special and EP that would ultimately be transferred to the United States as a full-length album and, some years later, a popular theatrical feature on the midnight movie circuit. That it proved to be the Beatles’ first significant artistic flop (the film, at least, not so much the music) is almost incidental when you consider the sheer quantity of work into which they poured themselves from 1962 to ’70, and when you remember how rare it was that something they committed themselves to failed to “come off.”

Of course, the story is also somewhat more complicated than that linear version of events. We’ll have to wait another decade or so to get the full context that only foremost Beatles scholar Mark Lewisohn can likely provide, but from what we do know, it seems that Magical Mystery Tour was viewed as a sort of make-or-break project for the band, the moment in which they would harness their status as the most celebrated pop musicians in the world to fully conceive and execute a unique concoction of pictures, music and story all on their own without the unwavering showbiz smarts of manager Brian Epstein guiding them. (Epstein had died very young in the late summer of ’67, though there have been some rumors down through the years that his control over the band’s career had dwindled almost to nothing.) It was a mass exposure to the band’s unfiltered instincts; it carries with it a hint of desperation, if only to prove that the band still had more to discover.

Already in the period just after Sgt. Pepper, the Beatles’ recording sessions had suddenly taken on an unfocused, ramshackle quality — by the time that milestone album was actually released, they were booking Abbey Road and spending time noodling on half-hearted material like “You Know My Name (Look Up the Number),” “All Together Now” and a host of unlabeled jams. The cliché about “no worlds left to conquer” inevitably springs to mind, as though there was a collective hangover from the wildly ambitious scale and success of Pepper. Brian’s death only reinforced the point that the Beatles were adrift; the Magical Mystery Tour project was initiated before he died, but really took shape in the months afterward with Paul McCartney spearheading, the concept and execution boiling over with evidence of a concerted attempt at harnessing the same degree of passion and excitement that had carried them through their last album. Hindsight makes it easy to see that they arguably just needed more time to recharge, but again, they were mostly following the career pattern Epstein had set for them: you don’t rest, you don’t celebrate, you immediately look around for the next idea.

Magical Mystery Tour, the film (and because it did eventually play in theaters in various parts of the world, we are calling it a film here, making it the Beatles’ third after A Hard Day’s Night and Help!), follows a vague narrative of the Beatles (who don’t seem to be playing themselves, exactly, but also aren’t really “acting” — they seem to just exist here among a horde of tourists) and others converging on a bus for a daylong excursion that promises breathtaking magic and lifechanging experiences. McCartney based the concept on tours he remembered taking with his family as a child; they tended to be very loftily promoted but finally mundane, like a picnic lunch a few miles outside the city limits, so the central joke of the film is that all the pretentious language and wild exaggeration about what a transgressive experience the Magical Mystery Tour is going to be turns out to be a lot of noise about nothing much — essentially, everyone is taken to a field for a foot race and later to a few different theaters, a tent, a strip show and a dance hall. And at one point, the landscape changes slightly.

One reason audiences, particularly in America, never seem to have picked up on the tour intentionally being a bust is that the humor is just that deadpan. (Malcolm McDowell’s narration in the fine documentary The Compleat Beatles concisely explicates the conventional wisdom: “The idea was to travel the English countryside in a bus filled with friends, actors and circus freaks and to film whatever happened. Unfortunately, nothing did.”) But the more pertinent reason is that the film constantly distracts us with psychedelic overtures; even though the Beatles seem largely to be mocking rather than upholding the pop-surrealist conventions of the day (like the Monkees’ film Head, in its best moments Tour is closer to actual avant garde filmmaking than to the TV-grade weirdness fashionable as of 1967; in contrast to Head, those moments are very rare), it’s much too easy to take the film as an earnest attempt at incoherent Free Love gibberish. If the picture is intended as a parody of the flower power years — which is certainly how the music, drenched in acerbic humor and vague menace, plays out today, with none of the wide-eyed juvenilia of “All You Need Is Love” present — then it seems to run at cross purposes with the story’s extremely British sensibility as a piece of comic understatement.

It’s toward the latter mode that the film initially leans; its opening scenes are quite enjoyably humorous and strange and set up a number of inspired comic notions, which are unfortunately discarded within about ten minutes. There’s an enthusiastic portrayal of Ringo buying up the ticket to the Tour itself from a flamboyantly disguised John Lennon, who also contributes uncharacteristically fired-up voiceover narration, and then an introduction to Ringo and his “aunt” Jessie (a callback to the earlier Beatles films: the introduction of a fictitious Beatle Relative), played with rather heroic aplomb by mostly unknown actress Jessie Robins. As in A Hard Day’s Night, Ringo demonstrates some serious acting chops here — his performances of impatient banter with his aunt are both amusing and eerily believable, so much so that it’s extremely disappointing the film doesn’t really go anywhere with this narrative setup, though Ringo’s affably charming throughout the picture, including in a sequence when he drives the bus through a foot race. Jessie is a more distinctive character by far, and it’s perhaps a window into the Beatles’ collective psyche that they give her a more complex inner life than they conceive for themselves (perhaps also relevant: that the four of them serve essentially as anonymous citizens in this tale) — she fantasizes about a romantic life with the hilariously sinister Mr. Bloodvessel soundtracked by Muzak renditions of old Beatles classics, and figures in the film’s most genuinely inspired scene, an actively bizarre Lynchian nightmare, the set in particular a rather remarkably weird concoction, that has John Lennon the maitre d’ shoveling spaghetti onto her table while she cries at length about her dead husband.

The other Beatles get even less story material than Ringo; Paul flirts with the bus line’s hostess (Miranda Forbes), briefly appears in military garb and has very few lines, George’s most significant onscreen moment is his song “Blue Jay Way,” and the best element of John’s work on camera here is when he goofs off with the little girl Nichola and you get to see what appears to be a bit of natural, tender behavior on his part. (McCartney, recording the film’s commentary track 45 years later, is audibly moved by this moment.) The four bandmates also show up in a couple of deeply misguided, antiseptic slapstick scenes as a quartet of magicians who seem to be operating the bus’s destiny, though again, the joke that they’re not actually accomplishing anything gets muddled by the poor staging. Magical Mystery Tour might be made more frustrating by the number of good ideas it fails to properly follow up on; you’d almost prefer it to be actually incompetent through and through.

It doesn’t help that the Beatles’ first two films were the work of a renegade artist of the cinema, Richard Lester, who placed his distinct and distinguished stamp on two features that were nevertheless very different from each other. Magical Mystery Tour, directed by the band themselves (with an assist, mostly technical, from Bernard Knowles), looks and feels like the work of amateurs, and its dime store version of Lester’s quick-witted abstraction and innovation (replete with the presence of good luck charm Victor Spinetti as a nonsense-spouting drill sergeant) doesn’t impress. You already know you’re in trouble after five or six minutes when the malaise of uneventful travel sets in and the film fails to conjure up any actual reason to set up its clip of Paul in Nice, France dancing along to “The Fool on the Hill”; subsequent scenes like the race and other pointless diversions are almost invariably overlong. In A Hard Day’s Night the song sequences were organic to the story, in Help! they felt like a supplemental treat, but here you’re desperate for them to appear just to break the monotony; even the Bonzo Dog Band parading around with stripper Jan Carson on “Death Cab for Cutie” is a welcome diversion. “I Am the Walrus” is the best of the lot, an ingenious and resourceful piece of visual excitement, though “Your Mother Should Know” is an engaging bit of old Hollywood hokum, while “The Fool on the Hill” and “Blue Jay Way” get some points for atmosphere and the instrumental “Flying” at least has the cinematic bona fides of utilizing discarded footage from Kubrick’s 2001.

That this aired on the BBC on Boxing Day (in black & white, which could only have made things worse in terms of the critical and popular reception) almost feels like an act of defiant trolling, which might make this fun and subversive if it weren’t all so labored. It does enjoy a reputation among some connoisseurs of kitsch, trash and sleaze, but El Topo it ain’t; it doesn’t get the excuse of being a piece of outsider art, being made by a prestigious world famous group with infinite resources at their disposal. Of course it’s a treat for fans and all Beatle people should see it and will at least enjoy some of it — it’s fun to play “Where’s Waldo” with Neil Aspinall and Mal Evans — but it feels very home movie-caliber and it’s really one of the rare moments the band’s sense of quality control failed them, which tends to be the case any time a musician attempts to “direct” a movie (see: Neil Young). It’s all a bit humiliating in light of the following year’s animated classic Yellow Submarine, an immersive and beautiful interpretation of the Beatles’ work that makes far more of it in cinematic terms than they could themselves, and which they quite short-sightedly considered a throwaway project until they actually saw it. But Tour is crucial for the post-Brian, pre-Apple moment in time it captures; if Submarine brought us the larger-than-life mythology of the Beatles, this film brings us the mere mortals, who were capable of shooting and missing and even completely fucking up artistically… at least, once in a very great while.

Early Summer (1951, Yasujiro Ozu)

!!! A+ FILM !!!

It took multiple nights for me to make it through Early Summer, not at all a boring film and hardly a long one (just over two hours), first because it has been a very troubling and stressful few days, secondly because I was so overwhelmed by its beauty and gravity that I found it helpful to stop and savor and contemplate what it was giving me. Moreover, I felt that I wanted to delay my departure from its world for as long as possible. I’m in a lucky position because, with the exception of Tokyo Story which I saw some time before the others, I have experienced the key phases of Yasujiro Ozu’s storied career up to this point in something like a chronological fashion. It has been thrilling to watch the gentle comedies of his silent and early sound period (I Was Born, But…; The Only Son) give way to somewhat more melancholic dramas of interpersonal relationships such as Record of a Tenement Gentleman and A Story of Floating Weeds. Coming to the stirring Late Spring, to this film and to the deservedly celebrated Tokyo Story, there is the sensation of a world opening up, to Ozu becoming so fluent in the language of his modest, familial stories that they suddenly seem to capture, with the illusion of the incidental, a remarkably clear-eyed and direct appreciation of day-to-day life in all its natural rhythms and earth-shaking feeling, utterly free of artificial sentiment.

The picture revolves around the sprawling, three-generation Mamiya household, where the independent-minded secretary Noriko lives with her parents, brother and sister-in-law, and two nephews. At 28, she is regarded by the rest of her family as overdue for marriage, a situation pointed out by an aged uncle who comes to visit. These disparate characters and their friends and neighbors — all of them distinctive and vivid — all become intimate with us, helped along by a serious of performances that are frankly as good as film acting gets. Every movement, every vocalization, every subtle turn of head or eye is the full embodiment of something that seems instinctive enough to be totally free of any kind of pretense, but also considered enough that each moment — no matter how seemingly small — tells us something important. Few directors can filter reality so gorgeously as Ozu; William Wyler and Frank Borzage are two that come to mind, and Ozu was passionate about how studio-era Hollywood influenced his output (he references Katharine Hepburn in the dialogue here, and his most famous film is a remake of Leo McCarey’s Make Way for Tomorrow), but like those filmmakers, his job was made vastly more painless by his dependable crew of performers whose work is irreducibly miraculous.

Despite the formidable presences of Chieko Higashiyama (whose portrayal of Shige is so perfectly sustained and believable), Ichirō Sugai, Haruko Sugimura and others, clearly the heart and soul here is the same as that of Late Spring and Tokyo Story: Setsuko Hara, whose legend in some quarters has approached a ridiculous kind of immaculate worship, as though she were some invulnerable doll to be encased in memory for eternity after her retirement (which coincided with Ozu’s death in 1963), which ignores the toughness, sophistication and particularly the variance within her signature performances for Ozu’s films. Here she permits bursts of clear emotion and impulsiveness that would be unthinkable from her character in Late Spring, and displays a philosophical maturity even beyond the world-weariness she would exhibit in Tokyo Story. She also presents a striking contrast to Kenji Mizoguchi’s 1936 portrait of a young female professional in his Osaka Elegy via Isuzu Yamada’s exquisite performance as a beleaguered telephone operator in that film: we are given no evidence that she is nearly as troubled by the cheerfully solitary nature of her personal life as her family, and in fact she openly celebrates her singlehood with her stylish pal Aya (Chikage Awashima), both of whom mock the staid normies in their friend group for all their romantic devotions and strict family schedules.

Early Summer is not the story of Noriko’s will being worn down by outside pressures, but nor is it entirely the story of a woman making a decisive movement that is fully her own — for all its understated yearnings, it does not have the tragic undertones of Late Spring, wherein kindness precludes personal self-interest to the detriment of overall happiness, and Tokyo Story, in which the march of time dooms seemingly everyone to ultimate loneliness. However, it also doesn’t fully escape the sense of the crush of time, the inherent despair in the inevitability of change, and of course the lingering death and fear of the war that hangs devastatingly over it. But in truth it is simply an honest, unsparing but by no means hopeless portrait of life simply moving in the only direction it can. Its people are not broadly right or wrong, their “motives” (if that’s even the right word) anything so simplistic; you can object to the way Noriko’s parents try to gently push her in certain directions without condemning them or the norms they propagate. There’s no doubt that, like all of Ozu’s major works, this is very specifically a film about a time and place — postwar Japan — but even more than in his other films of this period, it seems that the basic, heartfelt interpersonal dramas it explores could not possibly feel more universal or ring more with the truth of the complexity of familial love.

Ozu’s cinema is often almost indistinguishable from human memory — he films a day at the beach between Noriko and her sister-in-law with the casual, unforced beauty such a moment might take on as experienced or witnessed in real life, captures goofing-off conversations between friends that feel so intimate they could be home movies, and adeptly moves his camera (an abnormal technique in his case) to satiate our gentle curiosity while pulling back just when a lesser director might threaten to violate the integrity of his characters, might tell us more than we need to know or remove the mystery that reveals more than any explicit information could. Watching it is like replaying a series of longed-for moments in which one recalls feeling understood, perhaps by those who are no longer intimates but whose kindnesses hang over us in perpetuity. Early Summer is deeply invested in the languid, comfortable pacing of real life, but it’s also reserved completely for moments of enormous, soulful importance: what could be a smaller narrative than a lot of whispers about who a certain lady is going to marry? But conversely, what could be bigger or more shattering? That is the essence of melodrama as an art form; Ozu and Douglas Sirk have more in common than may be immediately obvious. Even if their methodology could scarcely be more different, Ozu is no shyer about the unspeakable poignance of his story than Sirk or Nicholas Ray might be, which you can sense any time Senji Itō’s score wells up from a seemingly insignificant moment, knowing that you as an observer will catch up quickly.

I’m left in awe, basically; I’m left wondering, how do you create something like this? How do you capture a moment as palpably lived-in as a family cheerfully, awkwardly shaping themselves up for the portrait shown above, when the line between performance and reality almost seems nonexistent? Because you don’t fully lose the consciousness that it is created; it doesn’t have the unfiltered, showy intensity of a Cassavetes film, for example, or (of course) a piece of cinema verité. Ozu shows his hand with the things he withholds, like certain characters who remain offscreen but are incessantly discussed, the willingness to incorporate a tangent of a man watching nostalgically as a train cruises by without explicitly calling out its meaning or purpose, or more pointedly, the fact that we are never given any real clue of how the relationship between Noriko and her ultimate betrothed will play out — their last conversation something as mundane as a discussion of a train schedule — because with the disbanding of the household, Ozu’s story, for better or worse, is finished. There is also the easy, naturalistic humor that’s brought in (much of it involving the child characters) which would never have a place in a film that was more self-consciously obsessed over “realism.” There is an appropriate, impeccable balance here between complexity and structure, and much of it is born of the sheer act of taking human emotions seriously and following their track. More abstract concerns are absent because within these lives are held the largest concerns of all. Even when the past, the larger world and the sadness in it are addressed, it is always with a depth of feeling that no more explicitly political film could likely ever muster, because the connections it fosters are more elemental than that. Everything and nothing happens within these two hours, just a pure immersion in people and a cautious optimism about their destiny, which is something that could only be carried to us so elegantly by cinema.

The Docks of New York (1928, Josef von Sternberg)

!!! A+ FILM !!!

When I was first trying to learn about silent cinema — largely without access to the films in question — I found many descriptions of The Docks of New York, none of which really articulated or attempted to explain its actual story. All spoke of lyricism, intoxication, as though the film were some sort of pure abstraction, not “about” anything. Upon finally encountering it many years later, I made two discoveries: one is that the film actually weaves a tale that is extremely, quite deceptively simple and straightforward, one that could be summarized in a cutting sentence: a hard-living dock worker comes ashore for a night, rescues a suicidal woman from drowning, then manipulates her into an overnight sham marriage he has no intention of maintaining. Secondarily, no one describes Docks in those terms because laying out its plot doesn’t even begin to give an indication of its poetry. It would be like labeling the aesthetically comparable L’Atalante as the story of a bickering honeymoon couple.

Josef von Sternberg’s finest, most ravishing and heartbreaking silent film is the peak of the ethereal, wrenching beauty and despair exhibited in his other contemporary works for Paramount, Underworld and The Last Command; all three are devastating, but this one is made more so by its lack of distance from day-to-day life. Unlike the gangsters, czarists and Hollywood filmmakers populating those narratives, its blue collar workers and bar denizens could be almost any of us, and Von Sternberg is humane enough to magnify the matters of our own hearts until they overwhelm the screen, and lend weight to the undeniably gorgeous images he conjures.

Inevitably, you first notice the intoxicating, almost overwhelming atmosphere wrought in the studio to evoke the world of the title. From the grimy end of the work day to the harbor itself to the unhinged, freewheeling hedonism of the dockside bar at which much of the film’s action takes place, we are completely drenched in fog and sadness. During a 12-hour period this ill-advised relationship between two nothing-to-lose characters is formed and then compromised and abandoned, with equally hopeless lives from around the waterfront cheering on every moment in a strange way, a forlorn Greek chorus that we sense has seen it all before. Hopelessness itself becomes a guard these people use to shield themselves from unfathomable misery. In its perception of suicide, fraught emotion, men being cads because they know nothing else to be, this is as sobering and palpably real as The Crowd; you could spend a lot of time dwelling on the complexity of the occupants and setting in both films — faces in the foreground and background, all pervaded with longing, and the suggestion that if the camera were to linger for a bit more time past its leads, there would be an infinite number of equally poignant stories surrounding us.

But we are here with these specific people, and it is an enriching experience even as it gazes into the void of fear, desperation, and the haunting presence of what can’t be said. In some ways it is the perfect story for silent cinema, despite seeming actively timeless, free of post-modern irony and closer to the cinema of Bergman or Ozu in its deep empathy and the sense of importance it gleans from unadorned human emotion. Its entire narrative, that of its central couple Bill Roberts and the broken Mae as well as the parallel fraying marriage between the perpetually angry engineer Andy (Mitchell Lewis) and his wife Lou (Olga Baclanova), is telegraphed in glances, pauses, avoidance. Dialogue beyond the sparse titles would offer no more explanation of these people than the actors already provide in their transcendent performances.

George Bancroft, so larger than life in Underworld, is achingly believable here; not a Wallace Beery-style brute with a heart of gold but an actually amoral force of nature who thinks no further than a few hours into the future, and until the finale seems self-interested to the exclusion of all the world and even, to an extent, his own potential contentment. Betty Compson’s characterization of Mae is deeply and extraordinarily touching largely because it has no simple thesis; a woman at the end of her rope who’s introduced with her leap into the New York harbor then is led through lust, hope, love, distress and anger by the events set into motion by Bill Roberts’ rescue, she is a three-dimenional lost soul whose plight neither Compson nor the film itself is interested in reducing to obvious metrics. Hers could be a tearjerking, shallow tragedy — briefly given a reason to live then broken and abandoned once again — but instead has the spirit and chaos of lived-in disappointment, unapologetic in its vividness and extremity. Baclanova and Lewis’ characters, too, avoid the superficial telegraphed narrative that their fraying relationship could easily imply, and so much of their success at presenting these as genuine human beings is in the painfully lifelike manner of their cold, embittered interactions.

My first time through The Docks of New York, I admitted to being frustrated by the final scenes, which seemed too much of a “happy end” copout to me along the lines of The Wind, Victor Sjostrom’s haunting narrative of a woman alone that abruptly spins into controversial patness seconds before the fadeout. Essentially, when Bill Roberts wakes up and prepares to move on with his life forever — briefly moved enough by the sad image of his “wife” reclining, temporarily at peace, to leave an extra couple of bucks on her nightstand, a perfectly gruff and meaningless gesture — he ignores every confrontation his behavior elicits, a peripheral crime of passion included, until he has a change of heart after boarding his ship and returning to work, an admittedly unlikely moment of redemtion that’s tempered somewhat by a courtroom scene that follows wherein Mae has been arrested for pilfering some clothes that Bill actually stole and gave to her. He takes the rap and goes to jail for her, and she promises to wait forever for him. It rang false to me initially, but on revisiting, I’m not entirely sure this final encounter is even particularly optimistic, with a palpable air of uncertainty to the beautiful closing pull away from her standing frozen in the courtroom, as she gets swallowed by other people and other cases. There’s no comparison to the silliness of The Wind‘s ending, which has never stopped me from considering that a great film. And everything before that moment is so flawlessly haunting it can scarcely negate the picture’s overarching tone of beguiling sorrow.

This was Josef von Sternberg’s penultimate silent film (and the last one to survive today, with The Case of Lena Smith now sadly lost); it dates from what by some measures may be the peak year of pure cinema in America, in which the Hollywood studios and their best directors had attained a singular language and artistic confidence that was producing work of phantasmagoric beauty and brilliance soon to be disrupted by the onslaught of talkies, though this judgment is inevitably based on the small percentage of pictures that have managed to remain culturally relevant today, perhaps an unreasonable sample size. Nevertheless, it is very difficult to view films like this and The Last Command as well as The Crowd, The Wind, The Man Who Laughs, The Wedding March and Chaplin’s The Circus, all from 1928, and not at least briefly lament the loss of such synthesized energy and grace among these outstanding artists.

I’m writing this on a week whose film-related discourse has been dominated by a controversy over some remarks Martin Scorsese made about the glut of serialized comic book movies, which have effectively shut out all other brands of popular and unpopular entertainment from regional multiplexes like those near me, and there has been some blowback against perceived snobbery from cinephile circles. Deep down I do fully agree with the concept that great art can come from anywhere, and that no individual or kind of individual has a right to decide what greatness means for anyone but themselves. Reliving an infinitely evocative film like The Docks of New York simultaneously makes me more and less sympathetic to the cult that surrounds something like the Marvel Cinematic Universe. On the one hand, as infuriating as I know this line of thought can be, how can anyone look at a sequence like that in which Bancroft wakes up and sneaks out of the loft, surrounded by braying seagulls and with an entire novel written in each line of his face and not be affected? In what sense is it somehow snobbish to like this presentation of a yearning, conflicted, enigmatic moment between people and to dislike any other given piece of popular entertainment that would never even attempt to articulate this kind of subtle, heartfelt mood?

Secondly, and conversely, I think of all the people who responded with hurt to Scorsese’s comments — which I hasten to add I think everyone is inflating unreasonably beyond one fairly authoritative person’s opinion, which is all it is — because of how profoundly affected they say they’ve been by those movies, and what I respond to in that line of argument is that we do badly need to connect with people through art. I think it’s a basic need, and I think that if that need isn’t being met then you almost have no choice but to turn to whatever popular entertainment is available to you to try and dredge up those feelings, to make it OK to talk about things that can’t really be talked about, even if — in Marvel films, for instance — they are weighted down with tropes and metaphors I find exasperatingly silly. What I’m getting at is, watching Von Sternberg’s film play out, I wish so desperately I could share it with you somehow, to experience it and discuss it outside of a vacuum, to talk about movies like this outside the world of cinephiles and critics who’ve seen it all, and return to just coping with and processing its ideas on an interpersonal basis rather than strictly in the context of movies as a hobby or even as an artform with the weight of historical narrative behind it. This summer I’ve found myself more and more returning to the basic joy of appreciating great films as experiences, as art, untethered from critical vernacular; and I wish like crazy I knew more people who got the same pleasure from doing that. Like the characters in this film, I feel a certain desperation to connect in this terribly lonely world, which is the same lonely one in 2019 as in 1928. In other words, if you’re still reading at this point, I’d just like to say: hello.

[Includes some material from my Letterboxd capsule of the film from 2016.]

The Killing (1956, Stanley Kubrick)

!!! A+ FILM !!!

The Killing is both a beginning and an end for Stanley Kubrick; although he made two earlier features, one barely released and one that briefly rotated on the B-grade circuit, this is the first of his films that matters in any broader sense, and the one that effectively launched his career as a director. Kubrick’s background, nearly unique among major filmmakers of his era, was in still photography; as a journalist he had work published during the 1940s in Look Magazine, before transitioning to motion picture film with a few documentary shorts. Apart from the striking, stark imagery to which he always seemed naturally drawn, there isn’t much indication in those works of just how singular an artist he would prove to be in the decades to come — but that changes with The Killing. Conversely, it is also Kubrick’s farewell to a certain kind of storytelling, seen also in his prior feature Killer’s Kiss and to a lesser extent in his shorts, marked by a pulpy grit, sleaze and chaos that would mostly be absent from the canon features with which he would later permanently make his name; because Kirk Douglas picked him up and changed his course with Paths of Glory and Spartacus, we won’t ever find out what Kubrick’s career might have looked like had he spent more time on small-scale crime thrillers like this, imbued with sleaze and desperation. But The Killing alone suggests, not to wish masterpieces like Dr. Strangelove and Eyes Wide Shut away, that it might well have given us some extraordinary cinema.

The most frequently remarked upon aspect of The Killing, which Kubrick produced with his partner James B. Harris and some financing from United Artists after essentially picking up a random paperback (Lionel White’s Clean Break) to adapt, is the tightness of its scenario. Discussed less frequently than it deserves in comparison to the likes of The Shining and A Clockwork Orange, the picture revolves around a brazen racetrack heist involving a small group of downtrodden employees and ex-convicts. Their leader is Sterling Hayden, a coolheaded schemer newly released from prison and attempting a clean break from his old life, with long-suffering girlfriend Coleen Gray clinging, secretly wounded that he’s immediately returning to crime but incapable of protesting. Although the film juggles multiple characters and timelines, Hayden’s Johnny Clay is its beating heart, the classic noir image of a calculating tough-break comeback kid who will be on easy street if he just gets this one shot, but one without a trace of the typical fear or longing. He seems to accept every event, even if it’s a shocking setback, before it even occurs, and is never caught displaying anguish or uncertainty until the final moments. His strength is both cautiousness and speed; the time to hesitate is in the broad planning of the operation, never in its execution.

All that said, when one looks closely at the mechanics of the crime documented here, they are largely unremarkable, and quite by design at that. This is not Logan Lucky or even a Dick Francis novel; getting lost in a procession of minute concerns would dilute the film’s impact. All Johnny is ultimately doing is setting up a few distractions, thereby creating hysteria, and thereby allowing for a simple holdup, the main special distinction of which is his hiring of an actual on-duty cop to inconspicuously cart the gigantic sack of money away. What we’re given to marvel at is not so much the event itself as the way Kubrick stages and then, masterfully, cuts it along with the otherwise mostly obscure editor Betty Steinberg; after a breathlessly tense, anticipatory first act, the film spends much of its blistering 85 minutes careening across the events of the day of the race, periodically skipping backward, repeating and recontextualizing moments, and breaking chronology to provide complete narratives for its various doomed participants.

All this works seamlessly, its only cop to convention being the dry House on 92nd Street voiceover (which will make some cringe, will delight others for its retro detachment) that clarifies the structure, because Kubrick is so much more interested in the people involved in the grand heist than he is in the intricacy of the scheme itself. And he focuses on those people, and those in their periphery, because what makes The Killing so fascinating and singular is, as in W.R. Burnett’s novels, the naive hopefulness central to the criminals’ faith in everything working out for them. (The forces of supposed Good are all but absent from the narrative as a controlling or contrasting ideal.) As a result of this, Kubrick and his cowriter Jim Thompson are able to make sympathetic audience vessels out of a whole troupe of scumbags and weirdos, because their wide-eyed longing for things to go right for once — and the trust they put in Johnny, in whom they believe so much they can taste it — is so familiar to everyone peering into these tiny rooms and dank corridors, especially anyone who’s ever just needed a few more days to set things right.

There’s no use debating the point that The Killing is part and parcel with a long line of heist thrillers that began long before it and persists to this day, or that it toys with a number of familiar, even clichéd genre tropes, even if far more competently and pleasingly than did Killer’s Kiss (which was basically just a programmer). Yet it’s unlikely that most 1940s noir or even gritty writers like Burnett would’ve exhibited the morbid, blackly comic interest Kubrick does in a pathetic yet oddly believable character like George Peatty, the cuckolded predecessor to the neutered, aggressive male losers played by Hayden in Dr. Strangelove and Tom Cruise in Eyes Wide Shut. Peatty’s story harks back to Fritz Lang’s noir Scarlet Street (therefore Jean Renoir’s La Chienne) and inevitably to numerous other whining psychopaths in sham marriages with women they misguidedly adore, in this case the impeccably entertaining Marie Windsor as slightly awkward glam queen Sherry, who’s stepping out with young dumb hot crook Val (Vince Edwards) and spends all the rest of her time hectoring George, who in fairness does not make it difficult and frankly seems to demand a certain degree of torture. The horrendous Stella D’Oro Breakfast Treats domestic scenes of this marriage, during which Kubrick casts us relentlessly as voyeurs to the very dregs of miserable domesticity, are as knowing and witty in their fashion as the commentary on Mr. and Mrs. Spoon’s dead bedroom in Night of the Hunter (and contrast hilariously with the stoic narration). It is these telling, distressing moments of raw humanity that make these films stand out from the standard-issue dread of film noir.

Windsor’s height kept her mostly on the sidelines in the sexist film industry of the day, relegated to B-pictures (she’d just wrapped a Roger Corman movie prior to this) because she towered over her male costars, but Kubrick utilizes this as well as her Virginia Mayo-like budget-line decadence brilliantly, underlining the discomfort and distance in the marriage by emphasizing the smallness she elicits and exploits in George. When she wrings information out of him about the supposedly top secret plans being laid out in which he is involved, she nearly botches the entire gig by spying on a meeting of the criminals, then gets her illicit boyfriend involved and, just for good measure, tries to harness George’s depressing possessiveness of her by suggesting that Johnny sexually assaulted her. On paper his all sounds like a fairly routine femme fatale role, yet Windsor’s performance is phenomenal largely because — and both Kubrick and the character Johnny openly recognize this — her motives are no different from those of the men robbing the track. She’s gotten a raw deal too, and we can only imagine what series of bizarre events led her into this enigmatic sham marriage, the only power available to her being that which she holds over the lustful, vengeful but slimy and impotent George. (One genuinely wonders if there has ever been any sexual element to their union, and is tantalized by the oddly reasonable thought that George has been kept in constant limbo, a careful distance from her body, for the entirety of their relationship.) She is not a mysterious nefarious force stymieing a sad little old man; she is half of a union of terrible misfits whose lives are too far gone to reconcile with any warm reality of love or contentment. “Before, all I thought about was the money,” George says at one point when he starts to chicken out; sensing his apprehension, Sherry cuts him off: “Well, you just keep on thinking that way.”

This bizarre cross section of locked-door everyday life, the sideshow of overheard drama, carries through in the moments we’re granted with all the rest of Johnny’s charges, hired hands and loved ones, none of whom are one-dimensional characters despite the film’s brevity and our short time with each of them. There’s Ted de Corsia as a corrupt cop up to his ears in debt, and we get the chance to see the pleading in his eyes as he staves off his crooked creditors for just two more weeks, as well as the way he tries to rationalize his participation in the robbery later on, just listening to himself talk as others look on. There’s the lovelorn despair of Johnny’s girlfriend Fay, who’s been faithful for years without him and is terrified of losing him again, and has clearly been run ragged by the one-sided relationship. There’s the philosophical chess-playing wrestler Maurice (Kola Kwariani, a friend of Kubrick’s who in real life was… a chess-playing wrestler), who greets the latest commercial boon, providing chaos as a cover for Johnny at the track, with a certain amused distance and displays an undeniable thirst for life that marks him as maybe the one figure we meet who has any hope of moving forward. There is the rifleman played by monumental oddball Timothy Carey, a slurring Battle of the Bulge vet (he claims) with a little dog in his arms when we first meet him foreshadowing the finale that will have a dog putting the kibosh on all of Johnny’s last remaining dreams.

There is the haunting-faced ill wife (Dorothy Adams) of the track bartender (Joe Sawyer) who dotes on him even from her sickbed, patiently nodding at all of his promises of future riches even as Sherry sees only opportunism and a window for belittlement at the same suggestions, the tragic flipside of the Peattys’ marriage; once again, it feels real, like something we shouldn’t be allowed to see, and the narrator moves forward totally free of amusement. Finally there is sad-eyed Jay Flippen as Marvin, whose minor gestures set the wheels into motion, but more importantly a character whose paternal feeling for Johnny passes over into what amounts to an embarrassed expression of homosexual desire in their last verbal exchange, which Johnny gently rebuffs; that is a fascinating enough scene to bulk up an entire essay, and it’s almost never mentioned in analysis of the film. These little snatches of life feel really substantial, like something beyond the mere fun of watching a strategy form then fall apart — they are a direct rebuke to the idea that this is some sort of a “puzzle movie,” moreover to the idea, yet again, that Kubrick is a cold calculator of heartless movement.

And as to Johnny himself, he is hardly positioned as a cipher around whom all these other figures revolve; rather, you can sense why he inspires such faith in others, much of it being down to Hayden’s typically surehanded performance. While his behavior is socially reprehensible in the proper sense, he operates with a kind of integrity that communicates plainly to the audience, in a covert undercurrent to Hays-imposed morals, that he deserves to succeed at this wild plot. There are odd, telling bits of warmth and politeness he exhibits throughout the film, for instance the surprisingly patient manner in which he dispatches Sherry when he discovers her spying, or his spirited, friendly interactions with a motel owner delightfully named “Joe Piano.” It is strongly implied that, however equally well-motivated those he brought into this may be, he is not just a more assured but also a better man than most of the rest of them. (Nikki the shooter spouts off a racial slur at the security guard who will soon thereafter kill him; George is a live wire who needs no further explanation; and police officer Randy is amusingly seen completely ignoring a random woman’s cries for help when it threatens to inconvenience the timetable.)

Barely a step into his career as a feature director, Kubrick is already an intimidatingly accomplished visual stylist, and this is one of the most strikingly photographed late-period film noirs. His compositions and the cinematography by Lucien Ballard, who would later lens The Wild Bunch, plays up sad faces and ominous under-lighting, as well as an absorbing use of tracking shots between rooms, especially those claustrophobic settings in which events transpire before the races. Springing forward from the mannequins in Killer’s Kiss, the most exciting part of the New York director’s only genuine New York film, Kubrick finds more seamless opportunities for outrageousness and eccentricity here to match the urban, corrupting darkness of the script: Hayden’s eerie “wacky” mask, Kwariani’s splendidly bizarre shirtless wrestling scene in the middle of the bar, and the bloodbath that occurs when Val and George have their moment of crossfire. Indeed, the tremendously well-executed irony of that scene bears elaboration: the gang returns to a centralized location only to be compromised by Val who, in a bit of a Scatman Crothers moment, is then instantly shot and killed by an unhinged George. Elisha Cook’s last scenes in the film take his pitiful character to the logical extreme; his eyes appear increasingly lost and crazy, and in the freakishness of his climactic murder of his wife (a “bad joke without a punchline,” she moans after acknowledging verbally that she wasted her entire life), he is joined by an annoying parrot, unfazed by its cage’s collapse to the floor after a dying George grabs it.

The synchronicity of it all, the cruelty of its fucked-before-you-start fatalism, could be crippling if its events weren’t such an argument against the very existence of precision. Throughout the actual execution of the heist, flawed connections between people continually wreck the best laid plans. Marvin, lonesome and rejected, is drunk before anything actually happens; Nikki’s attempt to sweet-talk his way to the right vantage point for killing the horse mistakenly leads the guard to believe he’s made a friend, which then leads him to nearly circumvent the operation just by being polite; George’s raging jealousy, and Val’s raging greed, get nearly the entire cast killed; and finally, Johnny would perhaps make it home free if not for American Airlines’ baggage policy.

The closing airport scene of The Killing is among Kubrick’s career-peak tour de force sequences; it deserves to be considered in tandem with any of the signature moments in his various masterpieces, and it is a tragicomic triumph because it lays the failure of Johnny’s last-ditch scheme to leave town with the disputed cash squarely at the hands of the absolutely mundane matter of airline rules dictating that carry-ons not exceed a certain size. Johnny, the brilliant architect of this scheme, is finally done in because his fucking suitcase is too big, and he errs at last in his first-ever moment of obvious desperation — he did not break when he realized that the meeting place with the others was botched, or when he gathered that the secrecy of his mission had been compromised, or when Joe Piano asked if he’d like to have a drink, but now, with his girl by his side, he sees no easy way out and allows the bag to be checked. There is a wonderful moment when an AA employee brightly announces that they can reach a compromise: he can refund Johnny’s tickets, his beaming ineffectiveness akin to the people trying to be nice to Bruno in Strangers on a Train when his telltale cigarette lighter falls into the grate.

And still, in this age before x-ray baggage screenings, Johnny — who already seems resigned to failure — is only ultimately doomed when a woman’s small dog runs out onto the tarmac and the driver of the cargo vehicle swerves to miss him. The suitcase falls and there is the indelible image of millions of dollars flying in the wind as Johnny and his girlfriend look on, defeated, and make their way out to try and hail a cab, only to be stuck watching as the airport police move toward him. “What’s the difference?” Johnny mutters, but because of our position we know that it made all the difference — so many are dead, and so much was at stake, and now there is nothing. Somehow Kubrick manages to make the classic Crime Doesn’t Pay ending a moment of bleak, humane beauty, the absolute sense of loss as incalculable as death itself. The fate to which Johnny is resigned is the death of the future, the death of love; every snatch of life we’ve seen in the prior hour and a half comes careening back. My own mind can never help tracking back to the bedridden wife who will never see her husband again, in a scene that increases in poignance each time one sees the film. There is a great deal of strange, perverse fun to be had in watching all this unfold, but there’s also a sickening sense of destruction. The end is baked into the beginning. Perhaps the reason The Killing resonates so much, brings us calling back as if we’ve forgotten how it all unravels, is that many of us are born with a sense that all of our fondest desires will invariably meet such a fate. Perhaps we need to see it happen to others. Kubrick’s later films would prove at times more optimistic (Eyes Wide Shut), at times even bleaker (The Shining) about human relationships and the fragility of everything, but in many ways his first pass at expressing his philosophy seems to be his most honest and complete one of all.

Project: They Shoot Pictures top 100

[Post updated 2/9/20; Aguirre, the Wrath of God out, Once Upon a Time in America in]

“THEY SHOOT PICTURES, DON’T THEY?” TOP 100 [link to the TSPDT website]
1. Citizen Kane (1941, Orson Welles)
2. Vertigo (1958, Alfred Hitchcock)
3. 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968, Stanley Kubrick)
4. The Rules of the Game (1939, Jean Renoir)
5. Tokyo Story (1953, Yasujiro Ozu) [cap]
6. 8 1/2 (1963, Federico Fellini) [cap]
7. The Godfather (1972, Francis Ford Coppola)
8. Sunrise (1927, F.W. Murnau)
9. The Searchers (1956, John Ford)
10. Seven Samurai (1954, Akira Kurosawa)
11. Apocalypse Now (1979, Francis Ford Coppola)
12. Singin’ in the Rain (1952, Stanley Donen & Gene Kelly)
13. Bicycle Thieves (1948, Vittorio De Sica)
14. Taxi Driver (1976, Martin Scorsese)
15. Battleship Potemkin (1925, Sergei Eisenstein) [cap]
16. Breathless (1960, Jean-Luc Godard)
17. The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928, Carl Theodor Dreyer)
18. L’atalante (1934, Jean Vigo)
19. Persona (1966, Ingmar Bergman) [cap]
20. The Man with a Movie Camera (1929, Dziga Vertov) [cap]
21. Rashomon (1950, Akira Kurosawa)
22. The 400 Blows (1959, Francois Truffaut)
23. Psycho (1960, Alfred Hitchcock)
24. The Godfather, Part II (1974, Francis Ford Coppola)
25. Raging Bull (1980, Martin Scorsese)
26. Some Like It Hot (1959, Billy Wilder)
27. Andrei Rublev (1966, Andrei Tarkovsky) [cap]
28. City Lights (1931, Charles Chaplin)
29. La Dolce Vita (1960, Federico Fellini)
30. Mirror (1976, Andrei Tarkovsky) [cap]
31. Touch of Evil (1958, Orson Welles)
32. Ordet (1955, Carl Theodor Dreyer) [cap]
33. Lawrence of Arabia (1962, David Lean)
34. Au Hasard Balthazar (1966, Robert Bresson) [cap]
35. Sunset Blvd. (1950, Billy Wilder)
36. Casablanca (1942, Michael Curtiz)
37. Blade Runner (1982, Ridley Scott)
38. L’Avventura (1960, Michelangelo Antonioni) [cap]
39. Contempt (1963, Jean-Luc Godard) [cap]
40. The General (1926, Buster Keaton & Clyde Bruckman)
41. Rear Window (1954, Alfred Hitchcock)
42. In the Mood for Love (2000, Wong Kar-Wai) [cap]
43. Night of the Hunter (1955, Charles Laughton)
44. Grand Illusion (1937, Jean Renoir)
45. The Third Man (1949, Carol Reed)
46. Ugetsu (1953, Kenji Mizoguchi) [cap]
47. Playtime (1967, Jacques Tati) [cap]
48. Modern Times (1936, Charles Chaplin)
49. Dr. Strangelove (1964, Stanley Kubrick)
50. Fanny and Alexander (1982, Ingmar Bergman) [cap]
51. Stalker (1979, Andrei Tarkovsky) [cap]
52. Chinatown (1974, Roman Polanski)
53. Barry Lyndon (1975, Stanley Kubrick)
54. Mulholland Dr. (2001, David Lynch)
55. Pather Panchali (1955, Satyajit Ray) [cap]
56. The Apartment (1960, Billy Wilder)
57. Rio Bravo (1959, Howard Hawks) [cap]
58. M (1931, Fritz Lang)
59. North by Northwest (1959, Alfred Hitchcock)
60. Metropolis (1927, Fritz Lang)
61. Wild Strawberries (1957, Ingmar Bergman)
62. Children of Paradise (1945, Marcel Carne) [cap]
63. Viridiana (1961, Luis Bunuel) [cap]
64. Pierrot le Fou (1965, Jean-Luc Godard) [cap]
65. La Strada (1954, Federico Fellini) [cap]
66. Shoah (1985, Claude Lanzmann) [cap]
67. The Wild Bunch (1969, Sam Peckinpah)
68. Once Upon a Time in the West (1968, Sergio Leone)
69. The Seventh Seal (1957, Ingmar Bergman)
70. Goodfellas (1990, Martin Scorsese)
71. Amarcord (1973, Federico Fellini) [cap]
72. Pulp Fiction (1994, Quentin Tarantino)
73. The Battle of Algiers (1965, Gillo Pontecorvo) [cap]
74. The Leopard (1963, Luchino Visconti) [cap]
75. Journey to Italy (1953, Roberto Rossellini) [cap]
76. The Gold Rush (1925, Charles Chaplin)
77. The Magnificent Ambersons (1942, Orson Welles) [cap]
78. Late Spring (1949, Yasujiro Ozu) [cap]
79. Pickpocket (1959, Robert Bresson) [cap]
80. A Clockwork Orange (1971, Stanley Kubrick)
81. It’s a Wonderful Life (1946, Frank Capra)
82. Close-Up (1990, Abbas Kiarostami) [cap]
83. Jules and Jim (1962, Francois Truffaut) [cap]
84. Jeanne Dielman, 23 Quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles (1975, Chantal Akerman) [cap]
85. Blue Velvet (1986, David Lynch) [cap]
86. The Conformist (1970, Bernardo Bertolucci) [cap]
87. Nashville (1973, Robert Altman)
88. Annie Hall (1977, Woody Allen)
89. Gertrud (1964, Carl Theodor Dreyer) [cap]
90. A Man Escaped (1956, Robert Bresson) [cap]
91. The Shining (1980, Stanley Kubrick)
92. Jaws (1975, Steven Spielberg)
93. Sansho the Bailiff (1954, Kenji Mizoguchi) [cap]
94. A Woman Under the Influence (1974, John Cassavetes) [cap]
95. The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962, John Ford) [cap]
96. Greed (1924, Erich von Stroheim) [cap]
97. Sans Soleil (1983, Chris Marker) [cap]
98. Last Year at Marienbad (1961, Alain Resnais) [cap]
99. Blow-Up (1966, Michelangelo Antonioni) [cap]
100. Once Upon a Time in America (1984, Sergio Leone)


Although I toyed with the idea back when I was lightly using Tumblr during my early Oscars projects, for the first time in one of these initiatives I kept a journal with running thoughts in addition to my regular Letterboxd reviews, the reason being that I thought it would be interesting to try and critique the elements that lead to a film gaining sufficient status as among the absolute Greats to show up on the upper reaches of this list. Please note that my criticisms aren’t of the list itself. They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They? is a wonderful site and I appreciate all the work that goes into it. I started journaling a few weeks into the project and I’ve reproduced all of my entries below.

The project began January 6, 2019 with Blue Velvet and ended September 9th of the same year with Andrei Rublev. I watched and reviewed 24 films I had not previously seen and revisited eight that I had not seen in many years. I also happened to rewatch The 400 Blows and The General, both already reviewed here, during the course of these months.

All 100 films are available to rent from the usual outlets with the exceptions of:
Ordet, In the Mood for Love, La Strada, Gertrud and Sans Soleil, which stream on the Criterion Channel
Shoah, in print physically from the Criterion Collection
Nashville is available online for purchase only, but is also in print physically from the Criterion Collection

*** #1: prelude ***

They Shoot Pictures recently posted their latest revision of their aggregate 1000 Greatest Films list, which gathers data points from every imaginable critical survey, current and archival, and while I’m not yet ready to commit to the whole expanse of the list, I decided to fill in the gaps in the top 100 that I haven’t seen, or haven’t seen in 10+ years. My main reason for this is that I’m in the middle of a chronological jaunt through the major world classics of each decade and just finished the ’40s; that’s taking me about a year for each decade, and I’m enjoying it a lot, but I didn’t really want to wait that long to have an opinion on, like, The Conformist or Blue Velvet.

One fifth of the titles on this list are films I first saw very early on, before I finished high school, in a time before I’d really feel comfortable remembering myself as a cinephile, even though they also represent some of the building blocks to my becoming one; and in fact The Apartment is a borderline case, since I believe it’s the first time I watched a movie because a director I then deeply admired (Cameron Crowe) highly praised it. It’s a Wonderful Life and Casablanca both came to me in my childhood, early enough that I only hazily remember my original impressions of them, but they have hung over me as a near-constant presence ever since, as they do over American culture at large; Casablanca is as good an introduction to studio-picture and WWII iconography as any, and it continues to cause much swooning thanks to the sophisticatedly hopeless romanticism of its script and the divine lead performances by Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. It’s a Wonderful Life, on the other hand, still stands as a bizarre selection to become an annual tradition for much of the country because it is an extremely dark, often even bitter film, as much a singular treatise on the aftermath of the war experience as it is the cuddly Christmas story that I thought I saw when I was younger; it’s really a film one must be an adult to understand, but it’s still quite a gift to all of us.

My two favorite films of all time, 2001 and Vertigo, were both introduced to me through cable television as a child, both around fourth grade, though I cannot tell you that I processed 2001 at all as a sensory experience. I watched it with my mom explaining the story (or rather, the plot of the novelization) to me and recounting her somewhat unpleasant experience seeing it theatrically on original release. (She recalls that the audience in Sanford, NC laughed when the ape discovered tools.) I don’t remember having much of an opinion of it apart from being slightly afraid of HAL, but it stuck in my mind as a fascinating enough artifact that I had no trouble understanding the numerous references to it in various media, and then found my memories of it being strikingly beautiful and vague validated when I finally saw it again, on a cropped VHS tape, in high school — at a time when that very poetic vagueness became a nearly automatic source of fascination. (Simultaneously, I found and devoured Jerome Agel’s remarkable book about the film and the popular response to it.) At the time, I was touched by the open-endedness of it; now I don’t find it particularly open-ended at all except in its extremely minimalist approach to narrative, which for me was completely right and proper and, in execution, achingly beautiful. The IMAX screening of it I saw in 2018 may well remain the apex of my moviegoing life.

Vertigo was a different matter; I was thoroughly involved in the story during an afternoon showing of the film, also sitting next to my mom, but I was prepared a bit for the twists and turns in the story because I had at one point been a fairly regular viewer of reruns of Alfred Hitchcock Presents on Nick at Nite; what shocked me when I saw the film again about five years later was how much more tortured and serious it was than it seemed to me as a kid, programmed to take the story strictly at face value. Over the years, Vertigo has never wavered from a status as my favorite film by my favorite director; I don’t find it violated by its status as a totem for Hitchcock. Instead, I find its fucked-up, unapologetic core of emotional torment absolutely phantasmagoric in its intensity, and believe it touches dark corners of the human psyche that few other works of art would dare approach — far from an apology for its lead character’s manipulations and excesses, it stands as an indictment of humanity itself, love itself, and it seems at times to nearly burst with longing. Its power, in my view, is nearly frightening. For me, it also only bears faint resemblances to the rest of Hithcock’s output, which nearly without exception I appreciate for totally different reasons than I love Vertigo; the sole exceptions, I suppose, are Rebecca and perhaps Marnie.

One of the decisive influences in my early life of film watching was my sister’s vast collection of videotapes, mostly recorded from TV broadcasts of various films; her tastes ran mostly toward sci-fi and action films, but there were scattered exceptions like Once Upon a Time in the West, which was the first western I deeply appreciated for its mordant humor and quiet-loud dynamics, though she helped me a lot with getting through the slow parts; and North by Northwest. I actually had become extremely (or rather, even more) interested in Alfred Hitchcock after attending the exhibition devoted to his work at Universal Studios in Florida, and came away intrigued by his large filmography and the stories of his methodology, one of the first times I took an extremely close interest in the technical and psychological aspects of film-watching (the only previous evidence that I would be obsessive about movies when I grew up was that I went through all of my parents’ VHS tapes watching the opening credits of each one to see how their title sequences were structured; this, incidentally, was another reason the Sergio Leone film resonated with me). With commercial interruptions and a cropped print, I don’t think I was as seduced by Northwest as I’d later become, but I was thrilled to actually see it and was richly entertained, as how could you not be? Later, however, North by Northwest would come to represent in my view the most delirious and infallible variety of entertainment — a mindless rollercoaster of excess and fun that isn’t genuinely mindless or excessive at all. During my plunderings, I also ran across Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner and, to my surprise, quite detested it, finding its story boring and its characters empty and meaningless, despite my youth. I spent much of my early adulthood assuming I’d just been too young for it, only to find when I finally watched it again (in “final cut” form) in 2013 that I still hated it, and nearly for the same reasons — its totally superficial interpretation of “film noir” has only aesthetic appeal and is appallingly inert as a narrative. If it’s not the worst film out of these hundred, it’s very close.

The late ’90s and the Master’s 100th birthday brought a flood of Hitchcock retrospectives on various networks, which meant I finally got to see the two (at the time) most hotly discussed titles in his oeuvre. (Vertigo was still, at this stage less than two decades after it was completely out of circulation for years, more a cinephile’s treasure than a universally beloved classic; its ascendancy to infallibility since then has been as remarkable as that of Apocalypse Now.) I was still young enough that my dad really didn’t want me to watch Psycho, and also young enough to care what he thought and feel I had to hide it when I did anyway. But I was absolutely floored by it immediately, and by Rear Window; it might have been at this stage that Hitchcock’s films became not so much a subject of intrigue as of actual passion. Shortly thereafter I got Truffaut and Spoto’s books and was pretty well entrenched. Both films play extremely well across all manner of generational lines to this day; it is little wonder that they take permanent residence on lists like this.

And I think it’s around this point, 1998-99, that I become an avid and dedicated viewer of movies discovering my own taste instead of piggybacking on that of my parents and siblings. In the fall of ’99, my dad decided that he wasn’t paying enough money to watch television and installed “digital cable,” a then-novel new invention that gave us access to an unholy number of pay channels running uncut movies. Once I realized the scope of what was now available to me, I attempted to initiate a routine of watching a film every evening — I rarely stuck to it very strictly, with calls to my girlfriend and various other distractions still out there, but found it pleasantly easy to fall fully into the morass, and it was during this period and the time just before and afterward that I first saw an enormous number of eventual favorites, and approximately ten films on the TSPDT list.

Touch of Evil was probably my first film noir; initially seen in its restructured “director’s cut” version assembled with the help of Jonathan Rosenbaum, it confused me in its sheer delirium and I don’t think I fully grasped the plot for years, not until I’d seen it maybe half a dozen times, but from the first I was captivated by its beginning and end, and I remember thinking about it a lot after I saw it, and remembering it with more intense fondness than I felt for it just after it ended. (Curiously, it wasn’t my first time with a Welles picture; that was Macbeth, seen in class earlier the same school year.) Next and perhaps even formative for me was Dr. Strangelove, which I’d wanted to see since I was a little kid and which did the biggest number on my sense of humor since I first discovered Help! in the early ’90s. Seeing that and A Clockwork Orange, also long a subject of curiosity, and revisiting 2001 in close chronological proximity really made me something of an auteurist for the first time, an experience I think an overwhelming number of cinephiles have early on with Kubrick. Like Hitchcock, though, Kubrick would grow up along with me in a way that other early points of interest whose entire filmographies I sought out like Cameron Crowe and (cringe) Kevin Smith would not. Though I’m aware that Kubrick attracts a heavy bro contingent that doesn’t really care that much about movies, only about a very received kind of pseudo-badassery (and I hasten to note that I do not look nearly as fondly on Clockwork today as I do the rest of his major works, except as a piece of graphic art), I find that to this day I am still discovering new elements, new nooks and crannies, in his relatively tiny body of work.

Another filmmaker who probably belongs in the category of “auteurs I once deeply treasured that have not grown along with me,” painfully, is Woody Allen, although I continue to admire and sometimes adore his films in an aethstic sense and occasionally in a narrative one — and I am fascinated enough with his career, and influenced and possessed enough by his films, that I am unlikely ever not to be some variety of a fan — but these days, it seems clearer and clearer to me that he isn’t a particularly mature artist, and that what I once took as Austen-like satire of the wealthy classes (in New York especially) was more straightfaced and tone-deaf than I wanted to believe in my teens and twenties, when I all but unreservedly worshiped the man. I think it’s also relevant that Allen’s writing, as would later be the case with the Coen brothers, tends to really congratulate his audience for “getting it,” and not being like those Other People; I always knew this, but once upon a time I felt flattered and honored to be one of the elite smart ones who really understood, failing to realize the emptiness of this one-sided relationship. It’s easy to get taken in by all of the pseudo-intellectualism, and also easy to miss the virtues of his work — including his onetime deftness with comedy — if you get seduced by the big charade, as was once a rite of passage for first-year college students, or genuine wannabes like myself.

Completely discarding the extremely thorny matter of his private life, I remain deeply conflicted about Allen, thanks largely to the fact that nearly every time I do revisit one of his better films, I find myself blown away once again by how a guy who seems like such an utter dunce can be blessed, at least occasionally, with such infallible artistic instincts. Annie Hall is a masterpiece, a romantic comedy for cynics that isn’t really cynical, a love story that’s really about longing for impossible things, a powerful and direct act of communication and common ground from a ridiculously privileged soul with whom we have virtually nothing in common, and a genuinely innovative, creatively restless and even exciting film, the sort of movie that genuinely feels like a reinvention of the form. (Manhattan, not on the list, is an even more extraordinary piece of work — and a far more socially problematic one.) It also reminds you of a key point about Allen’s recent history: that is, the reason people have a harder time reconciling themselves with his films today than they do with Roman Polanski’s, or for that matter with something like Michael Jackson’s music, is that Allen was so dedicated to making us feel as if he was talking straightforwardly to us from the heart in films like Annie Hall. It was so much of the appeal of a film like this that he seemed to break the fourth wall and strip away every bit of narrative distance in order to relate to us on a personal level. I think that was a facade, a kind of act of manipulation, and that the real Allen is represented by the much more sheltered and inert characterizations seen in work like Interiors or Husbands and Wives, or by the outright criminal sociopaths of Match Point and Crimes and Misdemeanors; there’s a telling lack of detail in the interpretations of working class characters, for instance, in The Purple Rose of Cairo. As Molly Haskell has argued, this does not render the films invalid as works to be appreciated and examined, it only changes their context. But I think it’s worth noting that hardly any other film on this list I consider great would require the kind of mental gymnastics I find myself almost involuntarily doing to defend my love of Annie Hall, including several by directors who as people probably aren’t much more upstanding than Allen. This is the price he pays for associating himself and his own persona so completely with his work, while also remaining almost psychotically guarded; I’m sure he would readily agree with me that you learn far more about Bergman from a Bergman film, or Dreyer from a Dreyer film, than you do about Allen from a film in which he literally stars as a version of himself.

A rite of passage in which I did not participate was “the Tarantino phase.” I despised Pulp Fiction, which I was quite eager to see given the fanfare around it, from the very first time I sat through it. I’m a little softer on the man now and I even like a couple of his films (Jackie Brown and Inglourious Basterds) but his sensibility is pretty far from mine overall, and Pulp Fiction to me as a kid constituted every tryhard guidance counselor trying to “relate” to me with buzzwords and appropriation of empty style, and as an adult still carries that same sense of desperation, and is painfully over-written and unfunny to boot. It’s a bunch of kids play-acting, basically, and I’m quite befuddled by its cultural cachet; and to be honest, I probably dislike it even more than Blade Runner… although as with that film I do get one bit of aesthetic pleasure: in this case, it is ingeniously structured and edited.

It was also around this time that I finally saw Jaws, a legendary title whose sequels I’d oddly been exposed to before seeing the film itself; I remember attempting it at some point as a child and either being circumvented by my mom for fear it would scare me or by myself out of boredom by all the time spent with characters standing around talking. It remains bizarre that Jaws is the film credited with inaugurating “blockbuster” Hollywood; for one thing, Airport and The Towering Inferno both predate it and the gulf between their quality and success is much wider. Plus Jaws is clearly so much more intelligent and engrossing than any of its progeny, as I found when I did finally see it and was thoroughly riveted. To this day, it’s a film that I almost involuntarily must see through to the end if I encounter it while flipping through channels in a hotel or something. Too artful and subtle to be worth blaming for the sorry state of mainstream cinema in the last few decades, it is ridiculously compelling through and through, and a genuinely great piece of popular entertainment… whose popularity and cultural largeness is almost wholly irrelevant to the actual experience of watching it.

I’m not sure when I realized I wasn’t a fan of “genre” films, something that leaves me alienated with a lot of the sort of people I enjoy hanging out with. I think probably in the summer of 1997, hanging out with my sister’s tapes, I started to get the uncomfortable feeling that my received wisdom about science fiction (of which everyone else in my family was/is extremely fond) wasn’t holding together, though it was years before I said it out loud, and gleaned quickly from trying to read Tolkien that I had no interest in even the best, most thoroughly well-conceived fantasy. Horror, I believe, may have taken a bit longer because it wasn’t something that was present at all in my household growing up. “Scary movies” were basically taboo as far as Dad was concerned because he was too nervous often even for just straight thrillers. Maybe this lack of identification is why, when I did begin to watch occasional horror films, I found the bulk of them almost painfully stupid and ineffective. The key exceptions, like George Romero’s earlier films, aren’t on this list, but one important one is — however, The Shining always struck me less as scary than, as Pauline Kael said, a florescent-lit, mystery-free curiosity that felt like an extremely strange dream more than it felt like an outright bad one. I didn’t pick up on its covert commentary about abuse for a number of years, probably because I was rather sheltered. But the first time I watched The Shining with my mother, who was totally inexperienced with this kind of movie, for whatever reason it suddenly seemed terrifying. I think the best thing you can say about it, besides that it’s a heap of melodramatic and visually audacious fun, is that no other film in the history of cinema, at least none that I’m aware of, looks anything like it. (Last Year at Marienbad is in the neighborhood, I reckon.)

Up to this point, nearly every movie I’d ever seen was American or British. I had no prejudice against subtitles or foreign cinema at all; on the contrary, once I had Leonard Maltin’s book and was reading about movies on a semi-regular basis, I had immense curiosity about world cinema, but there was no convenient access to it in my suburban universe (no driver’s license yet, either) back then the way there is now. Perhaps because of their influence on Hitchcock, I was most intrigued by the UFA-era German pictures, and the two I managed to see on cable, both of which are here, didn’t disappoint. Metropolis is an ideal first experience with silent cinema (though it technically wasn’t mine; I had seen some of the comedy shorts and with things like The Mark of Zorro from years earlier) for its bold iconography and vivid, simple storytelling (some would say sophomoric, but I disagree, simply because the film’s execution is too perverse for that). I was riveted by its otherworldly sets and special effects, unlike anything I’d seen, and by the strange beauty of its mystical perception of the future, which felt huge even on a tiny screen. Even before Metropolis I saw M, which had always intrigued me; not a horror movie at all, but this was something that did terrify me — the way that its dramatic story of a child murderer wandering the streets of Weimar Berlin was a transmission from such a different world but still, in so many ways, felt new and untouched. I was also deeply moved by Lang’s treatment of the killer, played by Peter Lorre, for the way in which he fully condemned his crimes without treating him as an inhuman monster — that felt bold, and progressive, to me; and as uncomfortable as it inevitably will make many viewers, it still is, along with its emphatic messaging against capital punishment.

One of the major cinematic influences on my life during this period was my high school French teacher, who as part of our education showed us a number of films that positively enchanted me. She introduced us to Claude Berri, Jean Cocteau, and most significantly for our purposes, to Francois Truffaut. I knew who Truffaut was through Close Encounters, Fahrenheit 451 and his obvious connection to Alfred Hitchcock, which intrigued me since my impression was that he was so different a director to my all-time hero. She showed us The 400 Blows, Truffaut’s debut and an autobiographical narrative of his years as an abused young delinquent, a perfect film for adolescence, a perfect film for a dark classroom that feels absolutely end-of-the-world hopeless at that age, and I felt that Truffaut was talking directly to me about the pain of being a teenager (Jean-Pierre Leaud also closely resembled my by-then-estranged onetime best friend, and I was also more affected by his scenes of cavorting around with his pal Patrick Auffay than I liked to admit) — and in my twenties I would end up laughing at this viewpoint despite my gratitude for the experience, because what I had gone through then seemed so trivial compared to Antoine Doinel’s plight. Now that I have cycled back around to believing that I really was dangerously depressed and had no outlet to deal with it during those years, I believe stuff like seeing The 400 Blows at 15 or 16 made a huge difference in my life. (I also thought Paris looked like heaven, even in its seamier elements, and wished I could hope to see it. It never ever occurred to me that getting on a plane and going somewhere was something I might actually do someday.) And as far as films that grow up with you — well, there’s no moment in life on this planet when a film like this doesn’t fit.

I remember no learning curve with title cards or subtitles (or, for that matter, with black and white, which was still all over the place on TV reruns and such when I was young and had never disturbed me) and I think I am sometimes unfairly critical of others who do struggle with it because I didn’t find it a handicap, nor did my classmates at school who were in foreign language courses or other classes in which we watched movies. I confess I still do not understand why every discussion of older films must travel through this route, as it is the most boring subject matter imaginable, and should be the same for anyone with a more than casual interest in film. I suppose it can be an adjustment to fall in with an unfamiliar vernacular, but that should be an encouragement to persist, not to close oneself off from the immense pleasures of these often still luminous artifacts. Plus silent films are their own art form, at times superior to sound cinema, and come on — if you don’t think black & white movies generally look better than the typically ugly, pallid representation of color in most mainstream films, you’re probably a cop.

Moving forward… I became a major fan of Cameron Crowe for a while after Almost Famous (seeing his two incredibly lame Tom Cruise movies essentially talked me out of viewing him as an auteur, and I never caught up with anything he made after Vanilla Sky) and, somewhat ashamedly, first heard of Billy Wilder as a result of Crowe’s book of interviews with him, although the titles of many of his movies were familiar. The Apartment was Crowe’s all-time favorite film — he had the nerve to blame it for Jerry Maguire — and being faithful to his interests and addicted to the way that his movies and those of his mentor James L. Brooks and semi-protege Wes Anderson made me feel, I acquired a pan & scan VHS copy of The Apartment and fell hard and fast in love, and I think that was one of the turning points for me. At the time, I still had ambitions of going to film school; simply writing about films hadn’t occurred to me, but for now, Wilder’s film was a huge stepping stone in my exploration further and further into the past, and further and further into the idea of movies not just as vessels of fascination but as something that could have as emotional an effect on me as a piece of music.

All of the above, with the exception of Blade Runner and Pulp Fiction, basically formed my original tastes and have, save perhaps A Clockwork Orange, remained deeply important to me with the passing of years. Once I was an actual adult with the attendant freedoms thereby implied, I had my own cable subscription, and it all neatly coincided with the peak of the DVD era when virtually every major film gradually became available in what was then unbeatable quality, invariably in its correct aspect ratio and well-presented, often with high-quality supplemental material. I’m appreciative of the way streaming has made all this physically simpler yet, but I think the years when studios fell over themselves to issue most of their back catalogs on DVD will remain the most exciting time ever to be a budding cinephile, and it’s nice that libraries are now able to keep that moment alive.

The other great turning point in my cinematic life related to Hitchcock again, and to a specific film, The 39 Steps, but I’ve told that story before and that particular film isn’t here, so moving forward…

My teenage years descended into chaos and I didn’t make it to college, but after settling in to something like an adult life in Wilmington, my independence itself fulfilling a modest dream, my then-girlfriend and I eventually sprang for cable, and Turner Classic Movies was my habitat for the next couple of years. I attempted to move back toward the old regime of seeing a film every night, and once again the attempt at this kind of a structure — which was totally beholden to the whims of programmers, and I quickly recognized that only TCM was regularly showing much that I cared about — led me to a lot of films that would become favorites, and to my filling in a lot of gaps among the world cinema classics. I could bore you for hours with specific memories I have from this period related to the movies on this list: discovering Chaplin’s City Lights after a dreadful, demoralizing day at work and being blindsided by how ageless his comedy was, then by how unforced and heartfelt the pathos in the same film felt. (I’d seen clips and knew the Tramp’s iconography well but that was it.) That picture and Dreyer’s stunning, almost frighteningly vivid and alien The Passion of Joan of Arc were the transcendent titles that made me a lifelong aficionado of silent cinema, even though most silent classics can’t quite stand up to those two, which is why they are masterpieces. The sheer forcefulness of emotion in Dreyer’s work was something that struck me almost to the point of speechlessness; I knew it was remarkable, but hardly knew what to do with it, and today I think Dreyer is the filmmaker whose work most consistently disrupts and confronts me on an guttural level. Even going back to a relatively innocuous title like the silent comedy The Parson’s Widow and all the way up to another passionately spiritual film, Day of Wrath, the beauty and generosity of his work throttles me.

In December 2004 I finally saw the movie of all movies, Citizen Kane, and have spent my life since then quietly stewing at everyone who claims it’s overrated; looking at the film, it’s difficult to imagine what a person who dislikes it wants from entertainment or art. Even though I knew many of the iconic scenes via parodies from The Simpsons, everything in this then-63 year old film felt impeccably fresh and new and full of imagination to me — a savvy, sharp examination of society, media and complex humanity. Plus it’s just so much fun; I was over the moon about it, and felt that every bit of the exorbitant praise it had been given since before I’d been born was fully deserved. I was retroactively annoyed with a family discussion I remembered from when it topped the 1997 AFI list, when it had been alleged by a sibling and parent, who’d dutifully rented it during that news cycle, that its innovations were no longer impressive in light of, like, Star Wars… which, well, whatever, I guess that was just a preview of how impossible it would eventually become for me to discuss pop culture in mixed company! As for the notion that the film is all aesthetics, propagated so frequently by the likes of Roger Ebert, I can’t disagree more; if you can level that accusation at Kane, a film I think of immense emotional power, you can just as easily lay it at The Third Man, whose mise en scene courtesy of Carol Reed (despite rumors, Welles had nothing to do with except in front of the camera) is equally electrifying. But I find both films to be cathartic, moving experiences.

I dove further into auteurism: Billy Wilder, represented here by the ghostly and slyly cynical Sunset Blvd., a film I adored and still adore despite its nastiness, which also was something of a revelation in light of the way that we think of classic Hollywood’s attitude toward itself; Roman Polanski, whose Chinatown was one of the few New Hollywood touchstones whose power was immediately apparent to me and still stands as an uncommonly well-judged creation, updating the film noir aesthetic with a seamier, more direct narrative that is actually devastating; Ingmar Bergman, who I instantly connected with on discovery of his heart-on-sleeve romanticism and sense of beauty and wonder despite his often bleak worldview. Even the legendarily drab The Seventh Seal played less to me as a meditation on misery and death than as a celebration of life. Confronted with all of my favorite Bergman films, I always found myself looking out my window afterward with longing and utter appreciation.

And lastly, I finally filled in my most glaring Kubrick gap (only Killer’s Kiss and Fear and Desire among his features, neither of them significant, would remain unseen for a while longer) with Barry Lyndon, which I saw on the same day I had an important job interview after trying to catch it on TV for months. I made a huge deal of it, setting my VCR timer (was it really so long ago?) and sitting down with it in the middle of the night, lights down and everything, and making sure to dedicate myself wholly to the experience. I was hypnotized for the duration. It’s another film that attracts criticism I don’t understand — too long and boring, too stuffy and formal, too flat and unemotional, all beautiful pictures and no substance — as indicated by how many times I find myself overcome with each viewing, and by how sharp its dry wit is; I consider it the paramount example of sweeping, powerful, intelligent storytelling on film — and of course, yes, it looks absolutely heavenly. It was the first time in years that I wanted to immediately watch a film again after it was over. For a while afterward I named it as my favorite Kubrick or even, if memory serves, my favorite film. It’s certainly never far from either distinction, and frankly I don’t think I’ve discovered anything since then that shook me quite as much, though a number of pictures have come close.

Something I notice is that, among the films out of these hundred that I saw before 2004, only a couple stand out as movies I actively disliked, then or now; that starts to change drastically once I’m in my twenties, and I guess once I feel like I have a right to some sort of prejudice. I wonder if it’s a character flaw within me that I stopped being able to embrace almost everything, and I certainly can say that I watched the movies that didn’t work for me with a completely open mind — not only that but with an active desire to enjoy and appreciate them. With all that in mind, I finally got around to several movies that were a “no” for me and, as of my last revisit, remain a “no” if sometimes a softer one. So no, as much as it damns me to some sort of cinephile prison to say it, I don’t like Martin Scorsese. I was shocked, stunned even, to find myself curiously unmoved by both Taxi Driver and Raging Bull, which I saw in rapid succession in the mid-2000s; I thought the former was coated with silly half-assed ironies and desperate, empty machismo; even though, yeah, it’s critical of Travis Bickle as a character and the seamy world he inhabits, I wasn’t taken at all with the notion of spending a couple of hours steeped in that world to be instructed about how awful it was. And at least that film had Bernard Herrmann’s ingeniously eerie score; all Raging Bull has going for it for me is that it’s technically impressive, studying a specific character whose arc of abuse and despair I simply don’t find the least bit interesting — and I find both films totally hate-filled and deeply unpleasant, and dealing with their shouting showboatiness is the opposite of a good time to me. I disliked both all the more when I rewatched them as a slightly more seasoned moviegoer; I completely understand what Scorsese is doing, I just find it obvious and dull in theory, protracted and excruciating in practice, and that unfortunately has held for all of his culturally important films I’ve seen (none more than Casino, which is outright contemptible) save Goodfellas to an extent.

I was actually quite tortured by how I responded to my first two Scorsese pictures. (First three, really; I think I’ve seen all of The Last Waltz in bits and pieces over the years, mostly around this time, but consistently became so exasperated with it that I shut it off.) For that matter, I had a similar experience with Fellini: I loved the first film of his I watched, I Vitelloni, and experienced diminishing returns with each one thereafter, including this list’s La Strada. I just thought I was missing something and worried quite a bit about it rather than concluding that I just didn’t like them and had reasonably good reasons for same. But the film that broke this tendency, the one that finally caused me to question the idea that the wisdom of film historians I still maintain are smarter than me was going to hold fast and true, to the letter, all across the annals of cinematic history, was Blow-Up.

Michelangelo Antonioni’s arthouse classic, one of the defining films of the European cinema of the 1960s, so infuriated me that I pretty much changed my outlook on “received wisdom”; today I think received wisdom — at least from those who are passionate and knowledgeable — has its place, but I think this was a crucial life lesson for me. At any rate, apart from the fascinating and exuberant scenes of the Yardbirds playing, I think Blow-Up confirmed every fear I’d ever had about the potential emptiness of the once-edgy art film as a form; what made it more forcefully irksome for me was that it briefly masqueraded as a thriller, during the intriguing scenes wherein David Hemmings, as the well-to-do promiscuous Mod photographer, stumbles upon a murder mystery and a conspiracy in the background of his unrelated photo session. Antonioni’s entire point is that the listless ennui of Hemmings’ character’s lifestyle leads naturally into a scenario in which this brief snap out of his boredom is abruptly met with distraction and apathy and ends up being dropped altogether by character and film both, which leads us into a finale of tennis-playing mimes and an awkward fade into nothingness that at the time left me grouchy for days. It seemed like the sort of stuff my friends taking creative writing courses in college would come up with; at this writing, I have not yet revisited the film but I will be interested to see if an increased knowledge of the period and its concerns, as well as knowledge of much more irritating (and iconic!) youth culture films of the ’60s like Easy Rider, will affect my perception.

After Blow-Up, I started leaning a bit too far in the other direction, making much of how cool and individual I was for seeking out these important cinematic classics and not liking them, though still being equally open about those I did love. So I made no bones about my disdain for Jules and Jim, despite being a massive fan of its director, or of The Godfather, which I did try very hard to appreciate — but pretending its lazily macho, crime-fetishizing narrative was transcendent wasn’t something I could pull off without gritting my teeth, and when I saw it again some years later I still found it soapy and meaninglessly violent, its key virtue being Gordon Willis’ breathtaking cinematography. (Marlon Brando’s marble-mouthed performance does less than nothing for me.) Obviously it has merit, and it should be seen for continued cultural relevance alone, but furthering or validating its place in the canon is beyond me.

One of the great white hopes of revisiting the most widely beloved and praised of canon films is that eventually, it will all make sense to you. That very notion was one of the original centerpieces of this blog; in my experience, the difference between my early adult self and myself now is that I’m slightly better at expressing why I don’t care for some of these movies, not so much that my views of said movies has changed greatly. There are exceptions, however, among these hundred films; of those that predate this project, my greatest turnaround is probably on the two signature 1930s films of cinema’s great humanist Jean Renoir. With the exception of The River, which I always loved, it seems that I wasn’t quite ready for Renoir’s sensibility as a younger man — both The Rules of the Game and Grand Illusion, the latter especially, sang out to me much more when I saw them in my thirties than they did on my obligatory (but excited) first encounters with them. Perhaps controversially, I do not consider either one a masterpiece, but like many of Renoir’s other beautiful films of the period, tough as often as warm, they seem to come from a purer, more principled cinematic world, one more curious and empathetic toward people, good bad and ugly, than the moralist tide of classic Hollywood and all that persisted in its wake. (In the case of Rules, I used to have a problem whereby I seized upon certain elements of a film I liked — in this case, the very first moments — and was dejected when the rest of the picture didn’t have the same flavor. Kane spoiled me, probably. I had this same issue with Night of the Hunter and its clash of unnerving terror with schlock.)

The happiest instances I can name are probably Seven Samurai — a film I admired but thought was much too long and repetitive until I saw it projected on a modest private setup in my future wife’s apartment, then was totally wrapped up and enraptured in it; it’s an extraordinarily universal piece of communication, so little wonder it enjoys cachet with the heaviest of scholars as well as the most lightweight of film bros — and The Magnificent Ambersons, which I went out of my way to tape (inconveniencing and pissing off an ex in the process!) off TCM when it aired a couple of months after I first saw Citizen Kane and was in the heat of Welles-mania. At the time, it seemed too compromised to me, its early moments of wild, ambitious epic storytelling falling apart as things wore on, but when I revisited in the last few years I discovered that I probably just wasn’t mature enough to pick up on the film’s soulful despair. Finally, maybe this doesn’t count, but in the midst of my binging every Billy Wilder movie I could manage to sync up with on cable, I of course at last saw Some Like It Hot, and I actually really loved it, but my friends, you have not seen the movie until you see it while ridiculously high on edibles, at which point the entire thing becomes debilitatingly funny.

It was probably inevitable that I’d eventually get sick of waiting around for TCM’s schedule to align with my own; I waited about a year and a half to try and catch my #1 most wanted-on-the-watchlist title, this list’s own Bicycle Thieves, to no avail, so in early 2006 I bit the bullet and signed up for Netflix, which by then had been offering their DVD by mail service for about seven years. And Vittorio De Sica’s Bicycle Thieves — a few months ahead of its canonical rebranding under that title after a half-century of The Bicycle Thief — was indeed the first film I received in the mail from them. I had a friend at the time, a film major with a real sense of scope and history whose tastes diverged sharply with mine, who had told me that this was a perfect film, a monument of unfiltered heartbreak. Of course I also knew its reputation. But I felt let down when I actually saw it, finding it actually so broad and direct in its tragic messaging that it came across as obvious and maudlin. My friend was bitterly disappointed with this response, and implied that my reception of it (as well as, incidentally, The Umbrellas of Cherbourg) painted me as a heartless intellectual who only craved Hitchcockian thrillers and visual pyrotechnics and couldn’t appreciate simple human connections. In fact it spelled the beginning of the end of our relationship; perhaps I should not have offered my unfiltered response. (I’d previously made this error with someone else with Harold and Maude, and I know how miffed I get with people over 2001 and such, so maybe the message is: don’t fuck with your friend’s favorite movie. At least not in front of them.)

But I was also kind of hurt by the implication, and assumed that I was missing something. (My second viewing of the picture a decade later didn’t help, though I’d learned by then of a more generalized distaste for Italian neorealism, with some exceptions; it’s more of a resistance to the fusion of style with social messaging than it is with any particular deficiency of the films themselves.) I couldn’t possibly be a smug disregarder of regular people’s nuanced problems, right? I felt I could point to a million contradictions, but then remembered how many of my favorites (like Kane, for instance) were routinely accused of being inhumane exercises in pure technique. It didn’t help when one of my half-dozen subsequent Netflix titles was Jean-Luc Godard’s pioneering Nouvelle Vague world-alterer and scrappy crime narrative burlesque Breathless, a movie my friend and I did agree on but one that could scarcely help my case in this regard when I fell absolutely in love with it since it’s so commonly viewed as an act of criticism rather than a piece of storytelling craft. And finally sitting down with Chaplin’s Modern Times, I loved a lot of it but found parts of it unbearable in what I then felt to be easy sentimentality. (I no longer feel as strongly about this.) Then there was Lawrence of Arabia, one of those films it seems everyone loves — but that I could find no feasible way into except as scenery porn. I still can’t, though I wonder if seeing it theatrically someday might change my opinion at least a little. Was I really just a hardline unreachable cynic, already set in my ways? Was my ambition of delving into the canon going to prove totally pointless?

While Fanny and Alexander would prove another point of contention (and one that I have somewhat warmed to since my first encounter), Bergman provided a less discouraging answer with Wild Strawberries, a film about a professor gaining a new lease on life on the eve of its end that I happened to see at the nadir of a yearslong depression, coinciding nearly exactly with a career change that wasn’t making me as happy as it should have, and that managed to lift me out of my despair at least momentarily. Bergman always does, which is interesting since his films are so overcome with death and sadness; there is comfort, though, in their thirst for life, and in the feeling that a great artist like Bergman hurt and bled just like you, the viewer. My reaction to Singin’ in the Rain was similar, and in the most unlikely manner, on top of the fact that it was unexpectedly so modern and uproarious in its comedy. (Its sense of humor boasts Simpsons-level degrees of irony and pop satire.) It was long one of the missing pieces in my knowledge of the classics that I dreaded most, thinking then that it wasn’t possible a Hollywood musical could ever work magic on me (something else I’ve completely turned around on), but as a result of my almost comically extreme loneliness at the time I saw it, the warmth of the three-way friendship at the center of the film throttled me in its sincerity — I wanted so badly to have that kind of connection, and was so grateful to at least witness it even in so artificial a setting as a Hollywood movie. So it wasn’t that I was unreachable, I was just only reachable by films that deigned to try and speak to me from the heart, sometimes almost incidentally, rather than out of concern.

Once I had access to basically every significant DVD release via Netflix, I set about seeing everything on the American Film Institute’s then-canonized top 100 that I hadn’t already; there are a lot of films on that list that I admire but that don’t mean a whole lot to me personally — Goodfellas, The Wild Bunch and the second Godfather are all impressive but I just don’t like those kinds of stories or characters much — plus one that I had to see twice to truly comprehend (The Searchers, an introspective and beautiful but disturbing summation of midcentury American culture) and a couple that I have seen twice and still don’t feel totally confident about: Apocalypse Now and Nashville always seem deeply flawed to me when they’re playing in front of me, but in retrospect I can’t seem to get them off my mind. Both are on a lengthy list of necessary future revisits. Maybe not surprisingly, it was Chaplin’s The Gold Rush that I had the easiest time with, both because I’m simple-minded and because Chaplin’s methodology of communication with the largest possible audience is so ageless and universal.

It was also thanks to Netflix that I started to earn some sort of rudimentary knowledge of varying national cinemas. I responded quickly to Soviet propaganda via Battleship Potemkin thanks to its sheer visual fieriness; it has not been diluted in its effectiveness by its generations of presence as a film school staple. Tarkovsky’s Stalker was a less visceral experience, one I still don’t rate highly because of what I view as its endlessly meandering philosophical mumbo jumbo (not a popular opinion, to say the least!) but a film that was so incredibly striking and memorable in aesthetic terms that it didn’t entirely leave my mind for years despite my not liking it much. I associate that film, Herzog’s eerie German touchstone Aguirre, the Wrath of God and Klimov’s Come and See (not on this list) with a certain exceptionally unmoored and uncertain time in my life. I wish I liked them more as films, but their more general mood certainly haunted me and continues to do so. It certainly put the relatively lackluster Hollywood pictures I was slogging through at the same time into perspective. (One of the few highlights of that excursion, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, is here — but I like it less than most people, and indeed less than most John Ford films!)

I took somewhat longer to comprehend Japan’s cinematic legacy, not least because I began the journey with Kurosawa, who ended up being a director I loved but one whose work I am less keen on than I am on that of the other masters Mizoguchi and Ozu, whose smaller-scale and more emotionally raw stories would be more to my taste. That said, formally I couldn’t find fault with the immortal, culture-changing Rashomon and found it gorgeous and exciting — though the Kurosawa films I’d later count among my favorites would be those that were not period pieces. Another country with a sizable presence both on this list and on my investigations of that time was Italy, and I’m afraid that — aside from the works of Roberto Rossellini — I have still not found a director from that country to whom I’ve fully warmed. Fellini’s La Dolce Vita left me totally cold (but will be reevaluated here), I had issues with La Strada as mentioned, and 8 1/2 seemed both engagingly otherworldly and impenetrable in its self-indulgence. One last world cinema classic I like less than I should, but I have hopes it will change: The Battle of Algiers — which is extremely impressive in a technical and ideological sense but which I find too far afield of a comprehensible approach to humanity, though why the same exact thing doesn’t bug me in Eisenstein’s pictures is a matter I’ve yet to unpack.

Over the next several years, the films of the 1920s and ’30s would become my most consistent area of interest and passion. I suspect one of the events that spurred this was my first viewing of Sunrise, which gradually became my favorite of all silent movies — its heartfelt and imaginatively presented portrayal of a marriage that was fractured then rebuilt caught me at precisely the right time in the same way that Singin’ in the Rain had, and I’ve been grateful ever since for the way it stirred me and validated my own feelings about love. The General was a delight of a different kind, my formal introduction to Buster Keaton, who as a performer I’d probably rate even above Chaplin even if his features aren’t quite as consistent, and even just given the scattered silents among these hundred films, it becomes difficult to argue with the concept that the era before sound was the most exciting for film as a singular, fully developed art form that has no analogue anywhere else — not in literature, in theater, in music.

At this point, there’s a lapse of several years before my encountering of the last third of these 100 films. For the first few years I had this blog my focus was writing out my impressions of movies I already knew fairly well, something I sort of regret now, and I self-corrected by switching over to a different format — shorter reviews, stronger focus on exploration — a few years in. And for whatever reason, once I picked back up with the decade-by-decade canon project, with the Sight & Sound top ten lists — I found myself making discoveries that I responded to immediately, nearly without fail. Probably this has something to do with my being much more experienced and mature by the time I turned 30, and therefore more equipped to handle what these hoary old art films were bound to throw at me. Plus, with the Sight & Sound list in particular but also the silent, ’30s and ’40s canons, these are heavy hitters, movies that haven’t so much stood the test of time as defined, stretched and commanded the progression of film history. It was scarcely surprising that I would love the haunting chamber piece Persona given how I already felt about Bergman, or The Man with a Movie Camera considering my affection for untethered avant garde shorts of the same period. But it’s intriguing to me that this block of films was, in sum total, not at all hit-and-miss for me; the only ones I didn’t fall pretty hard for were L’Avventura and Children of Paradise, and I still admired both. Greed, Tokyo Story, In the Mood for Love, Ugetsu, Pather Panchali, Late Spring, and the enchanting L’Atalante, which nearly instantly became an all-time favorite — these could just as easily have been building blocks of my love for cinema as any of the major pictures noted above, and they come from a much more diverse and challenging range of nations, periods and filmmakers.

And when discovering movies like this, my prevailing emotion is always almost sheer joy at how fucking much movies can show us, lives they can lead us to, images they can bring us, what they can teach us about everything: art, the world, everyday life, storytelling. Whatever you think of lists or “critical consensus,” how could I not want to ensure that I wasn’t missing any great experience heretofore unknown to me? It was in this spirit that I began finally seeing the last 24 movies on this list that I still had yet to run across, and revisiting those about which my opinions had been formed in my early to mid-twenties and never revised.

*** #2 ***

In contrast to my optimism at the end of the introduction, what I’m finding so far is that the movies that drifted to the top of this list that aren’t already well-loved favorites often tend to have a particular sensibility that I don’t particularly gel with — that goes for those I saw long ago and am revisiting, and for those I’m seeing for the first time. I’m almost wondering now if I am experiencing some sort of an unconscious bias against arthouse or world cinema. Conversely, though, is it possible that nearly two decades of being aware of these movies without seeing them has managed to catch up with me — to give me expectations that would be impossible to meet?

So far I have seen the following as part of this project:
– Blue Velvet
– Sans Soleil
– Viridiana
– Rio Bravo

I feel like a philistine when I tell you that Rio Bravo is the only one I felt strongly positive about, and even with that in mind I doubt I would ever think of it as one of the hundred best films ever made. In the other three cases, I don’t think I lack understanding of what the movies are doing or driving at, but none of the three totally work for me; I enjoyed Blue Velvet and admired Viridiana but had huge reservations about both of them, and in both situations I’m sure they are things that were 100% intended by their directors, with whom I’m quite broadly familiar, which is where I hit a wall: basically it’s where I come to the end of what I can really say as a lover of film or as a critic (if I am one), because finally it comes down to highly personal and often inexplicable reasons for liking or not liking what a director is doing. Sans Soleil — a “filmed essay” about… stuff… by Chris Marker — is just a style of cinematic communication that I find boring and pretentious; I know people who find life-changing value in it, but I feel much more clueless about that response than I do about anyone loving the Lynch or Bunuel films.

… and I’ve revisited these that I had seen once, long ago:
– Aguirre, the Wrath of God
– La Strada
– Blow-Up

These are very “film 101” titles; they tend to be movies that a dedicated student of film sees relatively early in their exploration, and in my case that was true of two of them, but I had polar-opposite responses to them at the time. I was all too ready to accept the things I didn’t like about La Strada — a mournful, morbid document of a pure-hearted woman having endless violence visited upon her by the burly dipshit in her life — as being evidence that I was the problem; I was honest about my lack of enthusiasm, but was quite ready to blame myself rather than the film. Toward Blowup I was outwardly hostile, and refused to consider any possible depth within the symbolism and messaging; I strongly suspect this is because I find the story itself rather clumsy now as then, and moreover because Antonioni is toying with a series of tropes — those of the classical thriller film — that are near and dear to my heart and in fact prompted my deeper interest in film in the first place.

In 2019, my positions have reversed. I’m much more accepting now of what Blowup is attempting to say, though I maintain it lacks a coherent point of view and that its basic examination of nihilism in the guise of existentialism (there’s no point to caring about anything because there is no real value to be placed on actions so you may as well not exist) is trite, which isn’t changed by the fact that Antonioni looks at it with some skepticism. My overall perception now is more that Blowup‘s iconic status and its handful of sublime moments somewhat compensate for its shortcomings, though nevertheless it bears no relationship in my opinion to a much stronger film that might have been made for the same material, because it lacks the emotional follow-through to make it; it’s a pet peeve of mine when someone convinces themselves that deliberately saying nothing, or giving up on all conviction, is itself a statement. So when this film gets totally wrapped up in belaboring the point that none of what it has shown us really matters, it just ends up feeling very simplistic and trite to me; and somehow, that’s even more the case if the actual point is that Antonioni is questioning the society that would lead to such a psychological construct, because what a boring way to go about that. So I don’t like the film. But in 2005, it made me so furious that I never even got as far as attempting to decipher it.

Meanwhile, while I would easily consider La Strada a better film, it invites a lot more hostility now, partially because having seen a lot more Italian cinema since I first encountered it, I’ve found myself unable to take Federico Fellini very seriously as a filmmaker. Like a lot of the neorealist classics that heavily influenced him (some even consider his I Vitelloni, which I do quite like, a neorealist piece), his breakthrough work is an admirably mounted production whose emotions are almost unbearably simple-minded and obvious. The “misery porn” accusation carries some weight in the context of a film whose entire premise is left on the shoulders of its impoverished heroine who’s forced into total dependence on an irredeemable rapist. When tragedy inevitably strikes, we’re left with the image of said rapist and abuser crying to the heavens, but I simply can’t see any motivation for us to feel anything but pleasure at his misery because so little work has been done to render him a complex character. It’s an example of how the arthouse classic sometimes suffers the same moral and emotional incoherence as the Hollywood blockbuster: what has Anthony Quinn’s character done to earn our sympathy? Nothing, except that the cinematography, the carefully maintained mood and mournful atmosphere has determined that we should feel a certain specific way in this specific moment. It’s a dramatic shortcut, and it’s insulting.

I originally saw Aguirre quite a few years after these others, by which time I was relatively seasoned, though I wasn’t really emotionally prepared for the unnerving, sunlit clarity of its visual style nor for its haphazard, deliberately interminable structure — which means to force an audience to withstand the heat, misery and mounting insanity of its scenario. Its audacity just tried my patience at the time, but it’s one of a few scattered films that stayed in the back of my mind and my dreams for years after I saw it; when I did revisit it a bit ago, I found that even keeping in mind I had originally disliked it, it couldn’t live up to the distorted view I’d had of it in my memory. The symbolism is rich, the audacity is arresting, but the screenplay and performances are not nearly as compelling as the intoxicating nightmare world Herzog places around them. Still, there is no question it is a deeply interesting and unique film, and a more fascinating one than either of the aforementioned. (By way of illustration, so much of Blowup has forced its way into the visual lexicon of the ’60s, and of art film in general, that it now almost seems like the embodiment of various clichés. But Aguirre remains so indelible — it neither looks nor feels like any other movie.)

So all this unconscious correction leaves us with the question of whether my reactions to Blue Velvet and Viridiana will become more nuanced with time; but I suspect that I have now reached a point at which I am more familiar and comfortable with myself and my opinions, and that my impulse to doubt my criticisms mostly comes from a place of awareness at the extremely celebrated status these movies enjoy with my fellow cinephiles. It’s always risky to venture any sort of a dissent in the face of a classic, as one doesn’t want to be the oaf contributing an Amazon review of, say, Citizen Kane with the utterly useless dismissal “I didn’t see what all the fuss was about” or similar.

… Lastly, these were revisits of films I’ve seen multiple times and liked/loved, but was now viewing for the first time in many years:
– Breathless

Thus far in the project, Breathless is the only long-awaited revisit to a beloved film I’ve had time for, though Night of the Hunter and, ironically, Lynch’s Mulholland Drive are forthcoming. Breathless connects with me completely, in all the ways that Blowup explicitly doesn’t: while it deeply enjoys the air of hipster glory it’s able to glean from Belmondo, it also feels intense pleasure at breaking him down and humiliating him, and there’s never any sense that Godard is favoring his version of reality over those of Jean Seberg as his long-suffering American girlfriend, who’s independent enough that she’s never really stuck playing his victim. Breathless doesn’t generally have the reptutation of being a richly emotive film experience, but for me it is (just like Citizen Kane). While Godard again makes his own presence known through his unorthodox, manic editing techniques and his camera’s general unstoppable vitality, the film never has the quality of detachment that the other movies described above seem to intentionally employ, and I wonder if this isn’t the key reason it so excites me. Godard’s films are often treated as acts of criticism, and in the sense that Breathless more or less helps me define the shortcomings of these other films typically cited as masterworks, perhaps it still makes the most sense in that light.

As this project continues, I will be intrigued to find out whether the pattern of my emotional distance from arthouse classics grows, or if there are throttling pleasures to await me. I would obviously be disappointed if Rio Bravo remains my only treasured discovery from this project — but hey, a treasured discovery is a treasured discovery.

*** #3 ***

Several months into this project, it has at least brought me to a film that I found not merely successful and satisfying but enrapturing. On inevitable revisits down the road, I feel I may come to consider Sansho the Bailiff a masterpiece. It was less than surprising in the sense that it’s the work of a favorite director, Kenji Mizoguchi, whereas so far the list has mostly left me stuck with dubious entities like Cassavetes, Visconti and Fellini. Visconti’s The Leopard outpaced any other film on the list (apart from Lawrence of Arabia) for sheer boredom.

A revisit to David Lynch’s Mulholland Dr. confirmed that it is the most refined, assured version of the surreal vision of the world he exercised on the enjoyable but flawed Blue Velvet and the TV series Twin Peaks, sharing with both an adherence to an subversion of the tropes of various pulp genres, from film noir to the daytime soap opera. For me, Mulholland is wonderful both because of its complete instability as a piece of narrative and because, like the pilot of Twin Peaks, it captures moments of human grief without apologizing for them, which I believe is Lynch’s most significant accomplishment as a storyteller. The movie is also wonderfully seamy and fun, though, and after being neutral about Lynch for a while I was overjoyed to find it fully held up for me.

My experience with the unwatched items on this list overall has continued to be disappointing; and as usual, I find myself questioning what “kind” of viewer and lover of cinema I really am. I obviously don’t fit with the film-bro culture of blockbusters and Scorsese movies (the Empire reader, in shorthand); but it also seems as if I have little patience for many arthouse staples. The latest round of titles — my exposure aided immeasurably by the new Criterion Channel streaming service — were, on average, just “fine” to me. I don’t have any serious objects to Amarcord, Jeanne Dielman or A Man Escaped; I admire what all of them are up to and I don’t have any problems understanding their essences or following how people might come to celebrate them deeply. But they don’t ring out to me in an explosive enough way for me to even begin to think of them as among the best films of all time.

Am I simply too picky a viewer? I don’t believe so; I’d say it’s more likely that I’m too American a viewer — films from my own country, “masterpieces” included, don’t have this much difficulty reaching me. I also don’t think I’m letting myself be disappointed by the pedestal these movies are on. One commonality with Robert Bresson’s Escaped and Chantal Akerman’s Dielman is that they are fascinating to think about, but less revelatory to actually watch. There are elements to admire in real-time in both of them: Bresson amps up suspense from confinement with few dramatic tools at his disposal, working as he does from a dry firsthand account of a prison escape in wartime; and the thesis of Akerman’s film is delivered by an extraordinarily nuanced performance from Delphine Seyrig, who tracks a painful change in gestures and expressions by a matter of degrees. But I don’t connect to these films even as I can’t fault them; there is soul to them, but it does not communicate with me.

The sob-inducing, heartfelt Sansho is my cinema, on the other hand; I guess I like directors like Mizoguchi and Bergman who have no qualms about living inside rich, hypersensitive emotions. Films that deliberately withhold that, much like people who withhold that, aren’t my speed. Fellini’s Amarcord is somewhere in between; I like his nostalgic but tempered glimpse at the past, but I also find his memorializing of it to be somewhat indulgent and cliched. Certainly Fellini is someone who withholds nothing, but I think some degree of ironic distance is handy — Hitchcock and Kubrick being my favorite directors, both men who were interested in people but also in irony, which causes many to resent them, but which I think sets them apart without making their works less emotional. (I’m well aware some audiences consider the idea of Hitchcock and Kubrick being more emotive directors than Akerman and Bresson to be blasphemous and incomprehensible; but yes, I find their characters to resemble real people more than those in most narrative films on this list.)

I could be persuaded out of my views on Visconti’s The Leopard, but it will never be the sort of movie I’m going to have much to say about; it’s a very long, pretty historical epic documenting societal and personal transitions that are very heavily talked out but still mostly theoretical. It’s gloriously empty and did absolutely nothing for me, but its rapturous reception in many quarters speaks for itself. (I have a history of being left a bit at sea by even the Visconti films I liked a lot more, La Terra Trema and Osessione; I used to joke I had a bias against Italian cinema but it may not be a joke.)

I have no room for such kindness in the case of John Cassavetes’ A Woman Under the Influence, a nightmarishly bad film that gains all of its decades of credence from wrongheaded theories about acting and cinema that so badly limit the possibilites of either art form that I believe to promote or encourage them is to actively seek out the death of art. Woman centers around an intolerably hammy performance by Gena Rowlands as a person badly in need of a grip that’s been inexplicably praised as “realistic,” because the same people who think Marlon Brando is a Great Actor think that “realism” equates to wild gesticulations and unpredictable freakouts. The film is just three straight hours of this, meant to be harrowing but just as often as unwittingly funny as a Lifetime movie; in practice, it’s infinitely more infuriating because of how much Cassavetes believes he is “revealing” in the act of refusing to make a single significant creative decision about a story that isn’t interesting enough to be told in the first place. I’m still mad. Cassavetes was a clown, and by and large, his cult hates real cinema.

*** #4 ***

For a while it seemed like this project was going to prove something of a bust for me, aligning too much with the exact breed of arthouse film that doesn’t do a lot for me. Jules and Jim, while not as awful as I thought when I was younger, still seemed shallow, aggressively adolescent and not worthy of Truffaut, despite a smattering of cinematic imagination. Among new-to-me films there was a run of pictures that, in the most boring position possible, I found compelling but liked only mildly or partially: Kiarostami’s Close-Up is a fascinating and witty narrative experiment but also feels surprisingly insubstantial next to its reputation; Bertolucci’s The Conformist is bold, inventive and distinctive in many ways but I felt unable to find much connection between its premise and its aesthetic pyrotechnics, with a story that seemed less ambiguous than just aimlessly vague; and Godard’s Pierrot le Fou, while clearly a film whose imagination and restlessness would have sung out louder than the heavens to me if I’d seen it a decade and a half earlier, gave me too much of a cotton-candy sick feeling at its excessive length, with its playfulness after a time registering as indulgence. And to my rather extreme shock, I found a Dreyer movie (well, a second one; I also cared little for Vampyr) that largely disagreed with me. There’s much to appreciate in Gertrud but its stilted acting and plodding pace work against its clearly intended emotional crescendos. I was less surprised to be unmoved once again by Robert Bresson, whose Pickpocket elicited nearly the same response in me as A Man Escaped, except this time with the real-time intrigue replaced by a complete dissonance erupting between myself and the cold-eyed protagonist. I just wasn’t capable of caring about him.

But then, toward the end of this run, I was confronted with a series of experiences that were transcendent in one way or another. I had long been curious to see Claude Lanzmann’s eight-hour Holocaust documentary Shoah but was put off many times by the sheer investment of time and emotional energy I knew it would require. And truth be told, I spread my encounter with it out over four nights, but every moment of it was riveting, somehow especially in the moments when Lanzmann’s interviews with victims, witnesses and participants seem to stumble over matters of practicality: when he has to use a hidden camera with a closed-circuit TV outside to film his chats with various Nazis, or when language barriers and his various translators cause delays and confusion in communication. It’s a film whose entire weight gives a different message than any of its individual parts, an accumulation of despair and memory that can paralyze you in its awfulness but feels completely valuable and necessary to capture. The results are strangely poetic, and thanks to the immediacy of the color cinematography and the almost mundane formatting of many of the discussions there is perhaps no greater examination of the banality of the evil, and our startling closeness to this moment in history.

Much more fun, though no less accurate a vision of evil in its fashion, was Night of the Hunter — a film I actually saw way back when I was first starting to acquaint myself with classic movies, around 2005, at which point I found it often striking but also so campy I couldn’t quite suss out its mood. Frankly I don’t know what film I was seeing back then, though I’ve had a few conversations with film buffs who still have a similar reaction to the movie, finding it a little too weird. For me, however, the tone, palpable menace and fable-like beauty of Charles Laughton’s only directorial effort is now stirring. Not only is it filled with more indelibly dreamlike images than almost any Hollywood film not directed by Orson Welles — in fact its existence in the time, if the waning days, of the studio system is quite miraculous — it weaves an elemental story of good and evil so convincingly it makes a child of you again, something achieved by only the rarest of storytellers. By approaching his thriller from the eyes and souls of children, Laughton ensures its elegiac permanence, like a rich, full-bodied memory that never leaves you. I expected for the film to improve greatly in my estimation on revisit, but was delighted when it immediately joined an informal list of my all-time favorite films.

Getting the feeling of being transported and inspired by a film, having my perceptions and notions of the medium challenged, is the impetus behind projects like that. And despite the fact that I’ve been aware on some level of what Resnais’ Last Year at Marienbad was for years, upon actually seeing it I found myself returning to that giddy feeling of being floored by something larger, smarter, more thought-provoking than can easily be summarized. Once again I return to the essence of film as embodying a waking dream: here, the memory of a memory, or perhaps the memory of a lie, with a man pursuing a woman within a gorgeous, cavernous estate that seems to exist outside of any normal sense of time and finding their history, their current being, their future in question — there is no clarity or narrative simplicity, no tying of the bow to make the film’s mysteries explicit, only a sense of lyricism and vague terror washing over you. It is the sort of powerful experience that no other medium can replicate; and the idea of trying to understand it, to transfer its immutable truths to our own rational world, is beyond obscene. To see Marienbad is to be lifted into a singular, irreducible vision; it’s one of the most unique pieces of art of the last century, and while I’m stating nothing about it that isn’t obvious, it’s the sort of film that seems to render other films facile and irrelevant, and I would wish I had not waited so long to see it except that in a strange way, I wonder if the earlier versions of myself already described above in this piece would have been quite so captivated. Perhaps I found Marienbad at just the right time. Perhaps the right time for movies like Close-Up is still forthcoming.

After Marienbad, I found myself focusing a lot on the feeling of being immersed. There is some chance it is a change in my own attitude that prompted this; whatever the case, in my wanderings through this list I struck upon three consecutive movies that felt, even in the context of the smallish TV in my living room, like they demanded and overtook the space I was occupying. Jacques Tati’s Playtime is, like Marienbad, going to require many further viewings for me to fully wrap my head around it, but its intricacy and the tangible spaciousness and detail of its elevated, futuristic reality are another example of the sort of filmed expression that makes so many commercialized ideas about what the medium is generally “for” feel terribly limited. After watching the film, it felt to me as if I had actually been to another place and spent time there, and even weeks later, I still remember nearly every moment vividly, even though it hurled images and ideas and gags at me more quickly than I could feasibly handle. Having seen Jour de Fete last year, I was surprised to find Playtime somewhat less humorous, yet no less of a balletic pleasure — and its aesthetics almost couldn’t be more up my particular alley, even though the film is really a reaction against the kind of heavily industrialized environments it documents and parodies.

As noted before, Godard’s Breathless was a formative experience for me and as an older viewer I see even more in it; Pierrot le Fou was a disappointment I felt I would have gotten more out of when I was younger. It seems that Contempt, another major work I’ve been meaning to get around to for decades, hit me at just the correct moment. It bears some similarities to Pierrot in that it documents a fraying relationship in harrowing detail and employs a meta-narrative on the nature of the artform while promoting the brash communication style of Hollywood genre films, here with the help of Fritz Lang who’s present as an actor portraying a version of himself. Where Contempt succeeded most for me was in its exceptionally vivid sense of place: the temptations and languid atmospheres in which it occurs offer such a riveting contrast to the interpersonal pain being explored in the script, and as such it feels like a complete and real-world experience that transcends cinema while simultaneously upholding its pleasures and malleability. And Godard is more perceptive about this relationship than it initially appears, with its dramatic dropoff perfectly laid out in a manner that we can clearly see even as his hotheaded protagonist cannot.

Fellini’s La Dolce Vita, which I first saw long ago and disliked quite a bit, has a similar utility. I surprised myself by rather enjoying it this time, even if I’m somewhat more suspicious of it than I am of Godard’s film, largely because Godard seems a bit more intelligently compartmentalized — he knows exactly what he’s saying (not in a didactic sense), and I’m not sure Fellini does, although that said, the more I think about this crown jewel in the man’s filmography the more I think I may slide on into full-on loving it the next time I see it. That’s not least because of the immersion factor: its world felt so staggeringly real and huge to me that I’ve found myself thinking of various scenes almost constantly since this second viewing. It’s about a philandering journalist who wanders from party to party in Rome among people he knows peripherally, cavorting around with the idle rich and such, while his very long-suffering fiancee sits at home waiting for him. It’s all pretty grim and the point is kind of that the constant availability of indistinct “good times” only leaves a person numb, but I always find that sort of messaging a bit insincere coming from super privileged types, even artists. It’s very easy to wag your finger at excess and excitement when it’s extremely familiar to you, just like it’s easy for a billionaire to say that money isn’t everything. A big issue I have is that I think I take the opposite message to the one intended by the film. Namely, I can’t escape how fun these parties seem and how vibrant and interesting life in the city looks, the very things Fellini is implicitly scolding; I’m not even a party person, but there’s something seductive about the idea of being in the eye of a hurricane. It’s possible that I’m just coming around to the actual point of the picture in a roundabout manner; there’s no doubt its conflicts are intentional, but there is such a strange brew of moralizing and excess in it, and it’s hard to spend so many hours with such a prick. I will be fascinated, though, to see it again; and I must say my being unable to shake it has caused me to turn around on Fellini a bit.

** #5 **

For this last entry, we’ve almost fully shed my contrarian impulses. Among the five hallowed film masterpieces I needed to see to put this project in the can, I loved all but one. Admittedly, that was a big one — Robert Bresson’s legendary donkey movie Au Hasard Balthazar, which I think was quite hurt in my estimation by not truly being a donkey movie, with the interference of too many human dramas and all of them rather banal — but it wasn’t altogether surprising, since I’ve yet to see a Bresson movie I particularly liked and don’t seem to gel (so far) with his specific manner or his philosophy on storytelling, use of actors, spirituality, etc. It does end with a nicely cathartic and beautiful moment (though it didn’t completely resonate with me because of everything prior), and that turned out to be the theme of these last several films.

Something that was surprising was that, evidently, I like Tarkovsky. One of the most cinephile-beloved of all filmmakers, the Russian master was of course responsible for Stalker, another picture I disliked that nevertheless I never was quite able to “get over” in some sense, just because it was so visually striking and its mood so singular. But my feelings about Mirror and Andrei Rublev were not nearly so complicated or nebulous, even though both films are arguably have even more sophisticated and unusual narrative structures. Rublev was how I closed the project so we’ll come to it in a moment; convinced I wouldn’t understand Tarkovsky (spoiler: some of his more ardent fans had kind of pointed me to this conclusion, I have to admit), I had carefully spaced out these two movies of his in the hopes of staving off any potentially negative experiences, which is funny because I absolutely adored both. Mirror is a similar experience to Marienbad, at least for me, though unlike that film it’s in color and must be one of the most beautiful color films ever shot. It is a treatise on memory whose entire emotional current is built on images, which comment on one another across time periods. Once again, perhaps because of the sort of acolyte Tarkovsky can tend to attract, there are a million people online trying to “crack the code” of the film, which strikes me as such a banal exercise when just watching it and allowing its strange, subdued world to wash over you is such a valuable experience, one that seems to encompass so much about the way we view ourselves, our lives, other people. And it captures the sensation of stream of consciousness as well as any films I’ve seen from the golden era of avant garde cinema, even as its ambitions seem to far outpace those shorter pieces.

I was forced to step away from this project for nearly a month, during which time I only had time for one new title, which was Carl Theodor Dreyer’s Ordet, the last major gap I had remaining in his sound-era filmography, and a fascinating slow burn of a film that already struck me as stunningly rich in its characterizations and dimensions of feeling, among a rural family whose lives are shot through with a touch of inexplicable eccentricity, well before it became an astonishingly powerful story of death and faith that is so persuasive and overwhelmingly graceful in its final moments that one’s conflict with its central and core belief in a sacred world beyond our own is made completely beside the point. There was never an expression of faith so harrowing, or so magical. I was beside myself after watching.

Somewhat less successful to me was the similar emotional climax of Roberto Rossellini’s Journey to Italy, but luckily everything else about it was so shattering that it hardly mattered. The picture stars his then-wife Ingrid Bergman and the great George Sanders, two of my favorite Hollywood-era actors who are here permitted the opportunity to display their naturalistic chops in a setting very different from the typical studio film in which they starred. One interesting thing about being aware of these films without seeing them is that it’s actually not difficult, usually, to find oneself quite surprised by the actual nature of what one finds when finally sitting down with them, even in a superficial sense. In this instance, I knew Bergman was part of the cast but had no idea Sanders was, and was riveted by the opportunity to see them as an embittered married couple with achingly depicted resentments on both sides. The film mostly sticks with Bergman, who distractedly witnesses the mystical undercurrent of her surroundings but is unable to see past her well-earned consternation over her marriage. My only argument with the film is that I think its sense of the miraculous at the finale is unearned. Nevertheless, as a portrait of alienation within a frayed, long-dead romance, it is beyond profound.

And last of all came Andrei Rublev, a film that at the outset of this project I felt I had every reason to dread: 185 minutes (in the director’s preferred version; longer variants exist), a historical epic and a biopic (of a medieval Russian painter of Orthodox icons), and from a filmmaker about whom I felt skeptical. While I needn’t have delayed the film after all — every minute is riveting, and while its ending crescendo is subtler than those of the two aforementioned, it is earned impeccably and left me on the verge of tears for the entirety of the closing montage — I’m somewhat glad I did, as it was an experience sufficiently overwhelming that it seemed a perfect place to cap off my exploration of the first hundred movies in this aggregate. What struck me about Andrei Rublev beyond the shocking realism of its settings, the audacity of its unfurling mise en scene, and the seamless blend of subtle and grand exercises in drama, was how it seemed to contain everything about life itself by virtue of using the title character, about whom little is really known, as an observer of that which we do have documentation, therefore becoming one with us, and therefore becoming almost the platonic ideal of a portrait of an artist and of art itself: the way in which we process that which is too large for us to hold. Like the work of Rublev’s shown in the closing montage, the film like all art becomes both the essence of life and a superior, more considered and communicative version of it, just aching to be seen, and aching for the kind of love that makes it the best part of our lives. Like Ordet, its final release comes with a religious subtext, but one whose power is undiminished for the non-believing viewer, which when you think about it is an extraordinary achievement.

Watching the movie I was reminded of the feeling I got when finally seeing my favorite film, Kubrick’s 2001, in 70mm (really, IMAX) last year — in my day to day life I can sympathize with my friends who don’t care for strange old subtitled films or intentionally obtuse narratives about creation and the sum total of human history. But in the moment it was unfolding, the film felt like the most important thing in the world to me, felt like the whole summary of who I am and what the world as I understand it means, and what life itself is worth, and in that moment, even if just for a second, I could not possibly sympathize with seeing it in front of you and not having it mean everything in the world to you. What was really happening was not a rupture with the rest of the human race, or whatever proportion of it doesn’t like or would never watch Andrei Rublev (or 2001); what was happening was that I was connecting, on the deepest possible level, with something larger than myself or with any conception of a limited world, and all I wanted in the entire universe was for everyone else to be able to feel the same thing I was feeling. The power of that identification is why projects like this matter to me, and why I am so glad to have this outlet. Perhaps ten years from now I will look back on this and wonder why I had some of the negative responses I explained earlier on, in the same way that my original reviews of La Dolce Vita and Night of the Hunter now seem so silly to me. In fact I hope they do. I hope that someday I find my lifeline to every one of these 100 pictures, because experiences like that I had watching Rublev are rare and wonderful, and as long as I’m breathing I want as many of those as possible, and the hell with any implication that the seeking out and enjoying of those isn’t important. Thanks for reading.


The Thin Man (1934, W.S. Van Dyke)


MGM’s beloved Dashiel Hammett adaptation The Thin Man, which kicked off a whole spate of more sanitized sequels, is a persuasive and sympathetic portrait of a good marriage because it’s so unsentimental, with no goopy assurance needed of the pair’s mutual devotion, no evidence floated that we’re “safe” in status quo normalcy because husband is the provider and wife knows her place. Nick and Nora, retired dick and heiress respectively, direct none of the jealousy, resentment or insecurity at one another that a lesser story would lazily harness for artificial conflict — in fact, the film (with Hammett’s novel adapted skillfully by Frances Goodrich and Albert Hackett, a husband and wife team) deliberately takes time out to mock such conventions. It’s something that gets harped on a lot here, but it’s such a relief compared with Hollywood’s perception of long-term relationships as some laborious process of people grudgingly accepting abuse from their spouse as the eternities pass.

And with only vague (though unmistakable, seeing how this just missed Hays) markers of their sexuality available, we get the studio-picture stand-in for same: banter — constant, adroit, still snappy and uproarious after 80+ years. The banter has its origin in Hammett, who based it on his much more fractious relationship with Lillian Hellman, but it’s mutated marvelously first by the screenwriters and then by William Powell and Myrna Loy, a couple of geniuses walking a tightrope in such a way that you know they’re showing off but somehow you can’t get annoyed at them for it, permitted by director W.S. Van Dyke (“one-take Woody”) to improvise individually and jointly, and boasting some of the best chemistry of any pair of actors ever thrown together, especially incredible in the context of peak-stable MGM. It just looks so fun (and, frankly, hot) to be them, or even just to be around them.

Though it sits differently in one’s memory because their scenes are such a joy, there’s relatively little of the iconic duo in this movie; they get a handful of scenes together (and Powell gets a decent number on his own) but those are by a longshot the best parts of the film, so much so that they overshadow a great deal of the actual plot. And the barbs fly fast and furious: it’s not just that when Nora frets over Nick’s pending, potentially dangerous departure to surreptiously work on the case of the missing inventor, one mark of the times being that chivalry of a sort prevents her from joining up when things get really hairy, and she chides him for the possibility of her being made a bereaved wife, Nick dryly responds “You wouldn’t be a widow for long,” it’s that she comes back with “You bet I wouldn’t,” a perfectly cynical expression of her deep affection and a play on his own love for her that still doesn’t faze him. They both know what they really mean to each other, so much so that it’s a matter of security and intense trust that they are able to exchange in this verbal and physical ballet together (as with Edna Best and Leslie Banks in Hitchcock’s original British version of The Man Who Knew Too Much, released the same year) — to the extent that when Nora walks in on Nick platonically comforting a much younger woman, the daughter of the disappeared man at the center of the mystery, she only playfully chides him and there is never once the suspicion that she has seen something she shouldn’t, or on his part that he has to defend himself against the awkwardness of the moment.

Van Dyke’s rapid shooting style overcomes its relative artlessness through its feeling of lively spontaneity; you even envy the guests at that terminally awkward suspect dinner party (and certainly at the much drunker and sexier Christmas fete earlier on). The film is an active assault upon all of the pleasure centers, replete with frothy mystery and an adorable dog, but with everything centering around the extraordinary characters, layabout alcoholic cum semi-competent detective and his self-assured, witty spouse, who sit on the very precipice of the Code, just enough so that ample sensuality comes through here that would be relatively sparse in the rest of the series (all of which reprise the Thin Man title even though only this entry has anything to do with a thin man), despite Powell and Loy’s consistent effectiveness as a couple.

But let’s not forget, this is actually a whodunit — and while it’s interesting and full of intriguing characterizations and performances, the mystery elements certainly take a back seat to the real story, of ex-detective Nick letting Nora talk him into trying his hand at a case post-retirement. It’s set up engrossingly with an opening ten minutes that seem like the start of an entirely different film and remains diverting at the rare points when it’s our focus, but it grows increasingly confusing and muddled in typical Hammett fashion while the big revelation is wholly anticlimactic and makes little logical sense — and this reminds us, inevitably, that said resolution isn’t truthfully why we’re here. Apart from the moments when the marriage collides with harsh reality, as when a gunman comically intrudes upon their bedroom, the intrigue could be more seamlessly integrated, apart from demonstrating how Nick knows what he’s doing only marginally more than the police. Each time we’re torn away from scenes at home with Nick and Nora, aimless or not, and have to return to matters of story business that take us away from Powell and Loy’s effortless repartee, it has a bit of the feel of a frustrated orgasm.

On the series Moonlighting, directly inspired by Hollywood films like this one, the cases the detectives solved were always used as ironic comments on the state of their relationship; perhaps the morbid back-alley muck, corpses and gangsters and all, that plays out behind the main attraction in The Thin Man is a sort of commentary as well, letting us remember how irrelevant the larger world can appear when your company is this good. Whether it’s intended this way or not — by Hammett, by Van Dyke, by the actors and screenwriters — there’s something touching about the way that the whole setup just feels like an excuse to introduce us to Mr. and Mrs. Charles, divine characterizations stuck inside a relatively ordinary paperback narrative. That doesn’t mean that we don’t just want to watch a whole movie of the two of them hanging out and pretending to get on each other’s nerves, but we acknowledge that such a thing wouldn’t have been possible in mainstream entertainment; like a lot of really bold, adventurous studio films from the first half of the ’30s, though, it all really makes you wonder what-if and why-not.

[Expanded from my Letterboxd capsule of 2017.]

La Dolce Vita (1960, Federico Fellini)


There’s little doubt by now that Fellini isn’t to my taste, but I was deeply unfair to his watershed arthouse touchstone La Dolce Vita as a young cinephile who wanted everything to be Double Indemnity, and was wrong to characterize it back then as a fatalistic montage of parties, even though critics like Dave Kehr have similarly argued that the film is a bit empty. But like Amarcord and like the Altman films it seems to have directly inspired, this is a series of episodes, all of which are beautifully photographed and performed, and several of which are riveting, not least because (in a sense that suggests L’Avventura, made the same year) the settings of Fellini’s micro-narratives, all centering Marcello Mastroianni as a horny but bored journalist in Rome, are so rapturously vivid that all of the human dramas positioned within them attain considerably more grace than they might otherwise have, like for instance a tryst with an heiress in a prostitute’s dilapidated apartment, or an unrequited sojourn with an actress that ends with an ecstatic dance in the Trevi Fountain.

Still, the most riveting scenes are models of good characterization that doesn’t necessarily infect the whole picture, which has been criticized since its release in some circles for relying on archetypes. Apart from Marcello himself, who we can believe is weary and confused and weighted down with a sense of loss thanks more to the performance than to the way the character is written, we meet the stoic, warm and seemingly wizened writer Steiner (Alain Cuny), who quietly betrays a certain malaise that turns out to have ominous consequences; Marcello’s long-suffering girlfriend (fiancee?) Emma (Yvonne Furneaux), who opens the picture in the midst of a suicide attempt that appears to be the latest of many; and most tellingly of all, Marcello’s troubled absentee father (Annibale Ninchi), whose dirty-old-man boasting and misguided hedonism appear more to us than to Marcello, whose pain about their distance renders him nothing more than a child again, as the sad eventual consequence of the empty world he inhabits.

And there are others, other grand gestures and iconic moments that justify their reputation; where I get lost a bit is in the film’s actual arc and thesis. My issue comes down to this: is there any profundity in Fellini simply straightforwardly expressing the contradictory aspects of his point of view as if just laying its shortcomings out will excuse them? I have a similar struggle, in a sense, with Lubitsch, whose Heaven Can Wait seems to acknowledge the full breadth of pain caused by his own infidelity but operates on the odd premise that simply being aware of one’s asshole tendencies makes them acceptable. Fellini also wants to have it both ways with all of his characters here — his presumptive autobiographical vessel Marcello, in advance of the same basic role in , wanders through a decadent life of longing, fucking and betraying but his misgivings about it are treated sentimentally, as if his being upset about his impulsive behavior makes him three-dimensional and sophisticated. Steiner, the friendly domesticated sophisticate he knows, talks of the beauty of fatherhood but is secretly bored and unfulfilled by his complacent lifestyle — yet the sight of his seemingly happy home obviously reverberates within Marcello when he takes Emma back after a huge blow-up in his car wherein he accuses her of smothering him. Alas, this moment of decisiveness is negated in turn by the tragic and quite monstrous end Fellini assigns to Steiner, which results in a total orgy of apathy on Marcello’s part in the final portion of the film. In place of Antonioni’s eventual tennis-playing mimes, we get an adolescent waitress Marcello saw earlier waving to him from a distance on the beach as the sun rises, suggesting innocence in a way that admittedly looks and feels intoxicating — even though this very nostalgia for a free, blissful naivete that also drives several other Fellini pictures just plays as mythical and hackneyed thematically. The simple world Marcello and Fellini seek is an impossible object to touch because it is, frankly, nonexistent; and the irony is that those frantic, desperate graspings for it are the mark of an eternal child.

Yet you can’t quite help but go with it — that innocence, that moment of unguarded kindness by the sea, has the same sharp purity of feeling as the redemptive end of Nights of Cabiria, and here too is a sign of the basic duplicity of La Dolce Vita, because not only does this ethereal, childlike ideal look stunning in Fellini’s hands, like everything you’d want out of the world, but for the most part so does the exact behavior and stultifying chaos it seems to rebuke. Of course there are moments of tedium when Marcello is carousing around with friends and attempting to climb into bed with virtually every woman he meets, regardless of outside promises and obligations; but there are also moments when you want to be right there in the midst of it all. Needless to say, the film’s and lead character’s statements about moral decay and debauchery wouldn’t be convincing if it looked like a dreadful funeral march — though I think Sofia Coppola managed to use that technique quite convincingly in Somewhere — and it’s fortunate Fellini doesn’t scold us for our voyeuristic glimpses at what is often a sexy good time, which is the tactic employed by all too many finger-wagging movies about excess and excitement to this day: they wallow in the muck and then punish the viewer for getting a thrill out of the wallowing.

But verbalizing doubts about one’s move away from old-world familial comfort, which certainly carried its own hefty collection of problems and the potential for the same variety of emotional stunting, while also glamorizing and forgiving the hard-living, promiscuous fast-lane culture — and at extravagant length, to boot — seems less insightful than simplistic, an avoidance of real insight. Though they are equally flawed films, Renoir’s Boudu Saved from Drowning and Buñuel’s Viridiana deconstructed the empty ideology of abundance in a sharper, wittier manner, which betrays the great truth of Fellini’s work in this vein: he doesn’t really want to give all this beauty up, he just wants you to know he has very mixed feelings about all of it. In the end, while I don’t question anyone’s right to feel depressed or apathetic, it seems to me that Marcello, surrounded by interesting and vibrant friends in a gorgeous city full of life, will have very little to complain about once he finally and completely breaks up with a woman he treats terribly and clearly doesn’t love. Moreover, I get the feeling that someday Marcello, whatever his future holds, will look back on this time with the same wistful yearning that’s screwing up his evenings now; he strikes me as someone who never will be satisfied with the present. Perhaps that’s the feeling the film actually means to convey: a perpetual and neverending dissatisfaction with society and self that precludes nothing much apart from quiet, endless sulking that occasionally interrupts all the indulgence. But if so, it limits us to the role of dispassionate observers, no matter how wonderful some of the things we get to look at are.

The Night of the Hunter (1955, Charles Laughton)

!!! A+ FILM !!!

It is an eerily off-kilter world unto itself: a fable of secrets, of carefully concealed memories, illustrated through both rational and otherworldly images — a redemptive, cleansing nightmare. It’s an occupation of that nightmare, with its energies startlingly centered on immersing its audience in that world of its own, one that in very real sense once belonged to and was understood by us, when we were “little things.” (We turn away at its harshest moments of violence because the film editing forces us to, which is only right.) The determination of Charles Laughton in his sole directorial effort is to shake us back to that state of being, to make frightened children of us and to suggest — with appalling starkness for the time, or for any — that every permanent wound we carry is still traceable back to the juvenile fears, founded or not, of the singing traveler following and taunting us to the ends of the earth.

Night of the Hunter is sometimes tarred with the film noir brush, and in various aesthetic and thematic interpretations of the terms, it is a fair reduction: with resourcefully angular, shadowy visuals informed by Lang, Wiene and Murnau’s films at Ufa and a story about an unthinkable evil dwelling upon a decidedly innocent family unit, not to mention its mundane focal point of a wad of money hidden in plain sight, it calls back to some of the more domestic noir titles of the 1940s, most explicitly Hitchcock’s Shadow of a Doubt, its direct descendant The Stranger directed by Orson Welles, and Max Ophuls’ tough, brutal document of motherly love and the killing machine it rises up against, The Reckless Moment. However, all of the aforementioned — and the bulk of major studio noirs in general — took place in something resembling our own world, not the upside-down funhouse mirror of Hunter. In the case of Shadow of a Doubt particularly, the intrusion of remarkable rage and dread onto the very image of picturesque, calm Americana was the entire point; the force of evil in Laughton’s film has an even more distressing target, namely childhood itself, and by extension, love. Noir seems too small a frame for this portrait of relentless emotional violence and the magic that curtails it; it seems much more like a storybook — suffused with the traditions of Southern Gothic literature — of the kind that might have once been loved and feared in equal measure, the hard lessons of paralyzing fright falling upon the smallest eyes, prepared or not.

Laughton and James Agee, who’s somewhat controversially credited with a script that certainly does reflect his social preoccupations in part through its Depression-era setting, takes its inspiration from Davis Grubb’s even darker novel of the same name which in turn was a fictionalization of the story of serial killer Harry Powers, the “Lonely Hearts” killer. Grubb transforms him into the Reverend Powell (the never-more-oppressive Robert Mitchum), a terrifyingly determined phony Man of the Cloth, whose scheme of choice is to collect and ruin widows. It is not enough for him to be a ruthless movie villain with no moral scruples and seemingly no fear or weakness, which he is; he must also be a devastatingly accurate presentation of narcissistic violence, emotional as well as physical, a figure all too many of us will be able to recognize outside the confines of a fairy tale-like narrative. His latest victim, and a genuinely tragic figure at that, is Willa Harper (Shelley Winters, meeting her end in water as so often), beleaguered wife of an executed criminal (Peter Graves) who hid the wares of a violent bank robbery somewhere on his property before being captured. Willa is hoodwinked for this reason, not helped at all by the busybody she works for who is swooning over Powell as soon as he sets foot in town, and who happens to share with Powell a low opinion of the deep needs fulfilled and happiness alloted by physical pleasures; on their wedding night, he announces that theirs will be a union before God, not one of the flesh. She is not to be taken in forever, and while she rolls over for these abusive chidings in a way that suggests she never knew anything but a life lived for other people, she soon discovers the truth of Powell’s motivations and is accordingly murdered for it.

As a result, for what remains of the picture we view everything through the eyes of her two children, who are aware of the whereabouts of the money but have taken their father’s word that it is a secret never to be revealed to anyone, and they guard it with all their might — even as six year-old Pearl threatens to break thanks to her immediate affinity for Powell, the older John steadies her and sweeps her up on a haunting journey through swamps and rivers to escape Powell after he tries to kill them for the money. It is only by landing in the arms of Mrs. Cooper (the great Lillian Gish in her finest latter-day role, which at one point pays wondrous homage to her signature moment in The Wind), a shotgun-wielding mother figure for lost children who lives along the water, that they are able to breathe even slightly; he has followed them across every sort of terrain, unstoppable and (as John points out) never sleeping — and so the climax of the film becomes the illustration of the narrative he’s always repeating in his phony Christian guise: the forces of love and hate (each word tattooed on one of his fists), both insurmountable, colliding.

As a director, Laughton exhibits the same oversized personality he always did when acting; he directs every scene and shot with the conviction and imagination of Orson Welles, and his expertise and willingness to experiment with tone and hints of dreamlike unreality place him vastly ahead of his time, and almost doomed the picture — like most of Welles’ — to be misunderstood. Night of the Hunter looks as wild and distinctive and gorgeous as any Hollywood film ever made, with many shots that absolutely throttle in their ingenious beauty — take, for instance, the horrifying final exit of Willa, a woman who surrendered herself to pain and destiny but would never have surrendered her children, in which we see her immaculately preserved in the Ohio River, her hair waving with the current. It is by equal measures fearsome and artfully delicate, neither feature disrupting the other. Later, as the boy and girl hide in a barn, they are tormented by the sound of Powell’s singing of hymns (the “beautiful” singing voice Willa’s boss kept harping on about, now bent toward menace), echoing out into oblivion through the spellbinding aural design of Stanford Houghton, and John — watchful and alert as always, even within the illusion of safety — gazes out and sees the lonely, distressing image of Powell on his horse in silhouette, laid against the horizon, plodding across our field of vision. It’s such an inspired shot it nearly hurts, like something from Powell & Pressburger, and could be neither scarier nor more ethereal, the collision of emotional distress and joy that is the great fact of cinematic thrillers and the reason that, at their best, they dive into emotional ambiguity unseen almost anywhere else in art.

Yet still, Laughton’s work stands alone, certainly with the help of the big-eyed, childlike reduction and/or magnification of the world to simple blacks and whites — the acting is all tastefully heightened, and there are flights of fancy such as a procession of animals “blessing” the children as they pass along the river — and with the morally righteous lyricism of Agee’s dialogue, which lays out its themes and its notions of good and evil (which, it should be stated here, are more furiously expressed and frank than in any sci-fi or superhero exploration of the same ideas I am aware of) with bluntness without insulting our intelligence. Even the most flowery dialogue in the film is never pretentious, only a heartfelt expression of sheer emotional intensity and depth of feeling, the same as what you might find in a Bergman film, albeit tied to less nebulous or specifically “adult” events. Indeed, it’s not unreasonable to classify this as a great children’s film despite its terror and violence, because of its rich understanding of how fear alters us and is filed away — and certainly because it does not condescend to its audience — but there’s also the danger of reducing Hunter to such a status simply because the tale it tells is so elemental, and so elegant in its directness; it is a communication, then, to the still-frightened kid in all of us, and your reviewer can testify that it still has the power to provide us with actual nightmares.

For a certain breed of audiences, Night of the Hunter changes when Lillian Gish appears; speaking for myself, as a younger man I didn’t quite know what to make of her character when I first saw the film, apart from being thrilled to revisit an actress I already loved for her much older works. Raised on cynicism, I felt it too simplistic for Mrs. Cooper to be a mere force of love and kindness through her purity of faith and unconditional attention toward the children who hovered around her. I was both too young and too old to appreciate her importance; I was like John, too skeptical to be reassured. Now it seems that her selflessness, while Laughton gently mocks it at times and never makes any implicit claim that she is a “good” woman whereas Willa was a “bad” one who exposed her kids to this disaster, is something genuine and wise far beyond the morality play clichés such a characterization may express. The essence is in her moments alone with John, when she indicates her perspicacity about the emotions of children, and for all the disciplining and prattling on about the Bible that may associate her in some sense with the organized depravity of her antithesis, Powell, it is more than evident that she observes her young charges as people, with complexity and infinite capacity to love and be loved, and she is able to connect with John merely by forging a bond with him both as moral equals and as a nurturer. She lends him a validation and self-assurance that he has never known in his life, and like a great teacher or therapist, she causes him to discover his own strength — a feature laid out in the gentle finale, wherein he returns the favor symbolically with an apple like the one they shared before and she immediately grasps what he is saying to her.

Gish’s Cooper is also utilized by Laughton as a specific rebuking of any notion that he is casting the story as a rejection of faith itself; at the point when she and Powell finally meet for their climactic clashing, he is preceded as usual by the sound of those terrifying hymns, and she finds herself moved enough to join in, as we watch her — in another of the film’s many unforgettable visuals — seated in silhouette against the night, clutching her gun, waiting. But her faith is unlike his. For one thing, she genuinely believes and not merely to serve her own ends, and it manifests in the moral grounding she places within the children for whom she serves as guardian. It is no accident that the teenage girl who inadvertently lures Powell to the de facto orphanage is never shamed or punished for it, is only empathized with and understood and held; nor is it an accident that, in contrast to a community now abruptly out for Powell’s blood when he is caught (the same people, of course, who helped install him in the Harpers’ lives in the first place), all John wants to do by then is stop living out this spectacle, to save his mortal enemy from the lynch mob. It seems that a number of audiences took this conclusion as unsatisfying; after all, there is no grand moment of revenge or righteous victory, only a breakdown on John’s part when he simply doesn’t want to see another man sent away to rot or die, to witness more grief and loss in a life that’s rapidly accumulated so much of them. By denying us any other sort of catharsis, Laughton and the authors resolve the frightened stirring of our souls only with the recognition of a light that beams afterward, the same one suggested in the film’s abstract first moments of guardian angel Gish telling stories. That light needn’t be God or religion, even if those can benefit — or distort — it; rather, it is the light of being loved, cared for and understood, and the expansive beauty of this film’s emphasis upon this is what makes it more than noir, more than a thriller, and something like an act of brutally hard-won love itself.

The Best Films of the 2010s: first draft

This excludes films from 2019, partially because I haven’t seen any yet but also on principle.

I am still in the process of rewatching everything I rated highly from this decade; but I wanted to preserve this rough draft of my list, which is based largely on memory and emotion — although I have seen roughly half of these at least twice. The ranking does not fit precisely with my current individual ratings of the films, but this too will be corrected as I continue to move through and revise the list. For all those caveats, I’m quite confident that all fifty (actually, fifty-one) of these movies are exceptional; and the top two, in particular, are quite unlikely to move from their spots. Neither is currently distinquished as an “A+” in my Movie Guide, but since my last complete experiences of them, they have grown a lot in my estimation. I think of Margaret almost every day, which I believe is the undeniable mark of some sort of a masterpiece (which means that American Honey, which is also on my mind almost constantly since I saw it, will very likely move up); and moreover, my experience of absolute cathartic unleashing of tears at its conclusion is one of my fondest recollections of the last ten years of film-watching. Ditto the “Big Country” sequence in 20th Century Women, the last seconds of Melancholia (which I did get to see theatrically, unlike many of these), the entirety of We Are the Best!. And although it’s currently not on the list — it faded a lot for me by the time I returned to it, but it’s overdue for another chance — I’ll never forget the smile I was completely unable to wipe off my face for the duration of Midnight in Paris back in 2011.

I don’t have as much specific commentary as I’d like for this, because one of the great facts of our fragmented time is that “movements” have less meaning than individual works. Artistically speaking, I think cinema is in wonderful shape despite the insurmountable obstacles constantly being laid against it, something I think I’m in an unusually solid vantage point to witness since I live in what amounts to a movie desert; there are only four screens within a twenty-mile radius of my home, and even moving further out, the multiplexes are frequently totally overtaken by commercial big studio pictures. Those have their place, a few are even praised below, but what gripes me is the absence of choice — and it’s here that streaming video has been a major blessing, not only thanks to big companies like Netflix and Amazon (who, for all their evils as corporate entities, do seem to make a major effort to provide access to more esoteric and arthouse titles, though for all I know it’s for financial reasons — low cost, low commitment), but through major blessings like the brand new Criterion Channel, which is making it so easy to access a wealth of cinematic history for next to no money and effort. And please don’t forget your local library, which is still happy to fill the gaps or to serve you freely if you have no access to these services.

For the record, I’m not much more of a blanket fan of “arthouse” film than I am of Hollywood bullshit; at this point in my life I’ve learned that there’s really no rhyme or reason to where, how and for whom inspiration hits. What I do know is that there is a major risk involved in selling our souls to consensus, to business, to homogeneity, and if I have a message I want to impart in any small way, it’s that: encourage the continued fragmentation of the culture in whatever way you can, and collect friends around the fragments of your choice. Someone told me a few months ago, when I was temporarily upset about the shutdown of Filmstruck, that movie culture wasn’t worth worrying about because we have “bigger fish to fry.” Well, undoubtedly, but it’s an important human skill to care about more than one thing at once, and frankly, a world in which that movie culture ceases to exist — even, yeah, the parts of it that breed idiocy and bile — is not one I have much interest in living in.

This list won’t necessarily resemble all that closely the more carefully considered one I intend to post in about a year, so don’t be surprised if that one has material in the upper reaches that isn’t even considered here. What I can promise is that this is a list of fifty films that I’m most confident I will continue to love far down the line, and any case in which my memories have wavered a bit — no matter how high my original estimation was — has been omitted.

Two films in the top five, including #1, were actually produced in prior decades. I believe this is a coincidence. Some readers may disagree.

1. Margaret (2011, Kenneth Lonergan)
2. The Master (2012, Paul Thomas Anderson)
3. The Act of Killing (2012, Joshua Oppenheimer)
4. 20th Century Women (2016, Mike Mills)
5. The Other Side of the Wind (2018, Orson Welles)
6. Melancholia (2011, Lars von Trier)
7. We Are the Best! (2013, Lukas Moodysson)
8. A Separation (2011, Asghar Farhadi)
9. Phantom Thread (2017, Paul Thomas Anderson)
10. Computer Chess (2013, Andrew Bujalski)
11. Frances Ha (2012, Noah Baumbach)
12. Roma (2018, Alfonso Cuarón)
13. Somewhere (2010, Sofia Coppola)
14. Greenberg (2010, Noah Baumbach)
15. The Social Network (2010, David Fincher)
16. Nebraska (2013, Alexander Payne)
17. The Turin Horse (2011, Bela Tarr)
18. Moonlight (2016, Barry Jenkins)
19. Moonrise Kingdom (2012, Wes Anderson)
20. Boyhood (2014, Richard Linklater)
21. The Favourite (2018, Yorgos Lanthimos)
22. American Honey (2016, Andrea Arnold)
23. The Look of Silence (2014, Joshua Oppenheimer)
24. Marwencol (2010, Jeff Malmberg)
25. Dark Horse (2012, Todd Solondz)
26. Exit Through the Gift Shop (2010, Banksy)
27. Carol (2015, Todd Haynes)
28. 45 Years (2015, Andrew Haigh)
29. The Lobster (2015, Yorgos Lanthimos)
30. Wiener-Dog (2016, Todd Solondz)
31. The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014, Wes Anderson)
32. Another Earth (2011, Mike Cahill)
33. Calvary (2014, John Michael McDonagh)
34. Inherent Vice (2014, Paul Thomas Anderson)
35. Anomalisa (2015, Charlie Kaufman & Duke Johnson)
36. Winter’s Bone (2010, Debra Granik)
37. Blue Is the Warmest Color (2013, Abdellatif Kechiche)
38. The Diary of a Teenage Girl (2015, Marielle Heller)
39. This Is Not a Film (2011, Jafar Panahi)
40. The Meyerowitz Stories (2017, Noah Baumbach)
41. Faces Places (2017, Agnes Varda)
42. Nightcrawler (2014, Dan Gilroy)
43. BlacKkKlansman (2018, Spike Lee)
44. Certain Women (2016, Kelly Reichardt)
45. Toy Story 3 (2010, Lee Unkrich)
46. Weekend (2011, Andrew Haigh)
47. Coco (2017, Lee Unkrich)
48. Hanna (2011, Joe Wright)
49. I, Tonya (2017, Craig Gillespie)
50. The Bling Ring (2013, Sofia Coppola)
BONUS #51 FOR NO REASON: A Most Wanted Man (2014, Anton Corbijn)

And now, a complete list of every new film I saw this decade in case you wonder if I missed something.

Extremely good films I had time to revisit and still love but didn’t make the list (alphabetical):
Arbitrage (2012, Nicholas Jarecki)
Argo (2012, Ben Affleck)
The Babadook (2014, Jennifer Kent)
Behind the Candelabra (2014, Steven Soderbergh)
Berberian Sound Studio (2012, Peter Strickland)
Blue Jasmine (2013, Woody Allen)
Brooklyn (2015, John Crowley)
The Descendants (2011, Alexander Payne)
The Edge of Seventeen (2016, Kelly Fremon Craig)
Ex Machina (2015, Alex Garland)
Footnote (2011, Joseph Cedar)
Frankenweenie (2012, Tim Burton)
Hail, Caesar! (2016, Joel & Ethan Coen)
House of Pleasures (2011, Bertrand Bonello)
Mistress America (2015, Noah Baumbach)
Monsters University (2013, Dan Scanlon)
Nymphomaniac: Volume I (2013, Lars von Trier)
Nymphomaniac: Volume II (2013, Lars von Trier)
The Post (2017, Steven Spielberg)
Shaun the Sheep Movie (2015, Mark Burton & Richard Starzack)
The Spectacular Now (2013, James Ponsoldt)
Virunga (2014, Orlando von Einsiedel)
While We’re Young (2014, Noah Baumbach)
You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger (2010, Woody Allen)

Films I loved but haven’t gone back and revisited yet (alphabetical):
All Is Lost (2013, J.C. Chandor)
American Hustle (2013, David O. Russell)
Beasts of the Southern Wild (2012, Benh Zeitlin)
The Beguiled (2017, Sofia Coppola)
The Big Short (2015, Adam McKay)
The Big Sick (2017, Michael Showalter)
Can You Ever Forgive Me? (2018, Marielle Heller)
Captain Phillips (2013, Paul Greengrass)
Christine (2016, Antonio Campas)
Citizenfour (2014, Laura Poitras)
Clouds of Sils Maria (2014, Olivier Assayas)
Finding Dory (2016, Andrew Stanton)
Get Out (2017, Jordan Peele)
Gone Girl (2014, David Fincher)
Good Time (2017, Ben & Josh Safdie)
Gravity (2013, Alfonso Cuarón)
Green Room (2015, Jeremy Saulnier)
The Handmaiden (2016, Park Chan-wook)
I Am Not Your Negro (2016, Raoul Peck)
Isle of Dogs (2018, Wes Anderson)
Lady Bird (2017, Greta Gerwig)
Manchester by the Sea (2016, Kenneth Lonergan)
Midnight in Paris (2011, Woody Allen)
mother! (2017, Darren Aronofsky)
Much Ado About Nothing (2012, Joss Whedon)
Nocturama (2016, Bertrand Bonello)
127 Hours (2010, Danny Boyle)
Rabbit Hole (2010, John Cameron Mitchell)
Sightseers (2012, Ben Wheatley)
Spotlight (2015, Tom McCarthy)
Take This Waltz (2011, Sarah Polley)
Taxi (2015, Jafar Panahi)
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011, Tomas Alfredson)
Zootopia (2016, Byron Howard & Rich Moore)

Noble efforts and decent nights out (alphabetical):
Ain’t Them Bodies Saints (2013, David Lowery)
Alps (2011, Yorgos Lanthimos)
The American (2010, Anton Corbijn)
Annihilation (2018, Alex Garland)
Another Year (2010, Mike Leigh)
Attack the Block (2011, Joe Cornish)
Baby Driver (2017, Edgar Wright)
Barbara (2012, Christian Petzold)
Beatriz at Dinner (2017, Miguel Arteta)
Before Midnight (2013, Richard Linklater)
Beginners (2010, Mike Mills) {I badly need to rewatch this one.}
Beyond the Hills (2012, Cristian Mungiu)
Beyond the Lights (2014, Gina Prince-Bythewood)
Birdman (2014, Alejandro González Iñárritu)
Blackfish (2013, Gabriela Cowperthwaite)
Black Swan (2010, Darren Aronofsky)
Blancanieves (2012, Pablo Berger)
Brave (2012, Mark Andrews & Brenda Chapman)
Bridesmaids (2011, Paul Feig)
Bridge of Spies (2015, Steven Spielberg)
Call Me by Your Name (2017, Luca Guadagnino)
Carlos (2010, Olivier Assayas)
Child’s Pose (2013, Calin Peter Netzer)
Cloud Atlas (2012, Lana Wachowski / Lilly Wachowski / Tom Tykwer)
Colossal (2016, Nacho Vigalondo)
Contagion (2011, Steven Soderbergh)
Dallas Buyers Club (2013, Jean-Marc Vallée)
Damsels in Distress (2011, Whit Stillman)
The Deep Blue Sea (2011, Terence Davies)
The Double (2013, Richard Ayoade)
The Duke of Burgundy (2014, Peter Strickland)
Dunkirk (2017, Christopher Nolan)
Eight Days a Week: The Touring Years (2016, Ron Howard)
Eighth Grade (2018, Bo Burnham)
Enough Said (2013, Nicole Holofcener)
Ex Libris (2017, Frederick Wiseman)
Fences (2016, Denzel Washington)
The Fits (2015, Anna Rose Holmer)
Flight (2012, Robert Zemeckis)
The Florida Project (2017, Sean Baker)
Four Lions (2010, Chris Morris)
Foxcatcher (2014, Bennett Miller)
The Ghost Writer (2010, Roman Polanski)
Girlhood (2014, Celine Sciamma)
A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night (2014, Ana Lily Amirpour)
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (2011, David Fincher)
Gloria (2013, Sebastián Lelio)
Guardians of the Galaxy (2014, James Gunn)
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 1 (2010, David Yates)
A Hijacking (2014, Tobias Lindholm)
Hugo (2011, Martin Scorsese)
The Hunger Games (2012, Gary Ross)
Ida (2013, Pawel Pawlikowski)
If Beale Street Could Talk (2018, Barry Jenkins)
The Illusionist (2010, Sylvain Chomet)
Incredibles 2 (2018, Brad Bird)
Inside Job (2010, Charles Ferguson)
Inside Llewyn Davis (2013, Joel & Ethan Coen)
Inside Out (2015, Pete Docter)
Into the Abyss (2011, Werner Herzog)
I Wish (2011, Hirokazu Koreeda)
The Kid with a Bike (2011, Jean-Pierre & Luc Dardenne)
The Killing of a Sacred Deer (2017, Yorgos Lanthimos)
Killing Them Softly (2012, Andrew Dominik)
The King (2017, Eugene Jarecki)
The King’s Speech (2010, Tom Hooper)
La La Land (2016, Damien Chazelle)
Leave No Trace (2018, Debra Granik)
Leviathan (2012, Lucien Castaing-Taylor & Verena Paravel)
Like Someone in Love (2012, Abbas Kiarostami)
Lincoln (2012, Steven Spielberg)
Logan Lucky (2017, Steven Soderbergh)
Love & Friendship (2016, Whit Stillman)
Love & Mercy (2014, Bill Pohland)
Magic in the Moonlight (2014, Woody Allen)
Magic Mike XXL (2015, Gregory Jacobs)
Margin Call (2011, J.C. Chandor)
Martha Marcy May Marlene (2011, Sean Durkin)
Meek’s Cutoff (2010, Kelly Reichardt)
Museum Hours (2012, Jem Cohen)
Mysteries of Lisbon (2010, Raúl Ruiz)
Once Upon a Time in Anatolia (2011, Nuri Bilge Ceylan)
The One I Love (2014, Charlie McDowell)
One More Time with Feeling (2016, Andrew Dominik)
Oslo, August 31st (2011, Joachim Trier)
The Past (2013, Asghar Farhadi)
The Perks of Being a Wallflower (2012, Stephen Chbosky)
Philomena (2013, Stephen Frears)
Phoenix (2014, Christian Petzold)
Pina (2011, Wim Wenders)
Prisoners (2013, Denis Villeneuve)
A Quiet Place (2018, John Krasinski)
Restrepo (2010, Sebastian Junger & Tim Hetherington)
Rush (2013, Ron Howard)
Scott Pilgrim vs. the World (2010, Edgar Wright)
Selma (2014, Ava DuVernay)
Silver Linings Playbook (2012, David O. Russell)
The Skin I Live In (2011, Pedro Almodóvar)
Skyfall (2012, Sam Mendes)
Spring Breakers (2012, Harmony Korine)
Spy (2015, Paul Feig)
Stations of the Cross (2014, Dietrich Brüggemann)
Stories We Tell (2012, Sarah Polley)
Strange Powers: Stephin Merritt and the Magnetic Fields (2010, Kerthy Fix & Gail O’Hara)
Stranger by the Lake (2013, Alain Guiraudie)
Submarine (2010, Richard Ayoade)
Super 8 (2011, J.J. Abrams)
Tabloid (2011, Errol Morris)
Tabu (2012, Miguel Gomes)
The Tale of the Princess Kaguya (2013, Isao Takahata)
The Theory of Everything (2014, James Marsh)
Timbuktu (2014, Abderrahmane Sissako)
To Rome with Love (2012, Woody Allen)
A Touch of Sin (2013, Zhangke Jia)
True Grit (2010, Joel & Ethan Coen)
12 Years a Slave (2013, Steve McQueen)
Two Days, One Night (2014, Jean-Pierre & Luc Dardenne)
We Need to Talk About Kevin (2011, Lynne Ramsay)
What We Do in the Shadows (2014, Jemaine Clement & Taika Waititi)
Whiplash (2014, Damien Chazelle)
Wild Tales (2014, Damián Szifrón)
The World’s End (2013, Edgar Wright)

Whatevers, nonentities, and things I’m too young/old to understand (alphabetical):
Amour (2012, Michael Haneke)
Anna Karenina (2012, Joe Wright)
Arrival (2016, Denis Villeneuve)
The Autobiography of Nicolae Ceausescu (2010, Andrei Ujica)
The Avengers (2012, Joss Whedon)
Bastards (2013, Claire Denis)
Big Eyes (2015, Tim Burton)
Blue Ruin (2013, Jeremy Saulnier)
The Cabin in the Woods (2012, Drew Goddard)
Cave of Forgotten Dreams (2010, Werner Herzog)
Certified Copy (2010, Abbas Kiarostami)
Chi-Raq (2015, Spike Lee)
A Dangerous Method (2011, David Cronenberg)
Darkest Hour (2017, Joe Wright)
The Day He Arrives (2011, Hong Sang-soo)
Django Unchained (2012, Quentin Tarantino)
The End of the Tour (2015, James Ponsoldt)
Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close (2011, Stephen Daldry)
Faust (2011, Alexander Sokurov)
The Fighter (2010, David O. Russell)
The Force Awakens (2015, J.J. Abrams)
Goodbye to Language (2014, Jean-Luc Godard)
Green Book (2018, Peter Farrelly)
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2 (2011, David Yates)
Hell or High Water (2016, David Mackenzie)
The Help (2011, Tate Taylor)
Holy Motors (2012, Leos Carax)
In a World… (2013, Lake Bell)
Incendies (2010, Denis Villeneuve)
The Interrupters (2011, Steve James)
Interstellar (2014, Christopher Nolan)
In the Fog (2012, Sergey Loznitsa)
The Intouchables (2011, Olivier Nakache & Eric Toledano)
It Follows (2014, David Robert Mitchell)
It’s Such a Beautiful Day (2012, Don Hertzfeldt)
Jealousy (2013, Philippe Garrel)
The Kids Are All Right (2010, Lisa Cholodenko)
Leviathan (2014, Andrey Zvyagintsev)
Life of Pi (2012, Ang Lee)
Like Father, Like Son (2013, Hirokazu Koreeda)
Lion (2016, Garth Davis)
Lore (2012, Cate Shortland)
The Lost City of Z (2016, James Grey)
Mad Max: Fury Road (2015, George Miller)
Magic Mike (2012, Steven Soderbergh)
The Martian (2015, Ridley Scott)
Moana (2016, John Musker & Ron Clements)
Mommy (2014, Xavier Dolan)
A Most Violent Year (2014, J.C. Chandor)
Mr. Turner (2014, Mike Leigh)
Murder on the Orient Express (2017, Kenneth Branagh)
My Joy (2010, Sergei Loznitsa)
Neighboring Sounds (2012, Kleber Mendonça Filho)
Never Let Me Go (2010, Mark Romanek)
The Nice Guys (2016, Shane Black)
Norte, the End of History (2013, Lav Diaz)
Nostalgia for the Light (2010, Patricio Guzmán)
Only Lovers Left Alive (2013, Jim Jarmusch)
Paterson (2016, Jim Jarmusch)
Poetry (2010, Lee Chang-dong)
Rango (2011, Gore Verbinski)
R.E.M. by MTV (2014, Alex Young)
Snowpiercer (2013, Joon-ho Bong)
The Strange Color of Your Body’s Tears (2013, Hélène Cattet & Bruno Forzani)
The Strange Little Cat (2013, Ramon Zurcher)
Take Shelter (2011, Jeff Nichols)
They’ll Love Me When I’m Dead (2018, Morgan Neville)
Under the Skin (2013, Jonathan Glazer)
Upstream Color (2013, Shane Carruth)
Warrior (2011, Gavin O’Connor)
The Wolf of Wall Street (2013, Martin Scorsese)
Wuthering Heights (2011, Andrea Arnold)
Young Adult (2011, Jason Reitman)
Zama (2017, Lucrecia Martel)
Zero Dark Thirty (2012, Kathryn Bigelow)

Hot garbage (alphabetical):
The Artist (2011, Michel Hazanavicius)
Bernie (2011, Richard Linklater)
Biutiful (2010, Alejandro Gonzрlez Iñárritu)
Blue Valentine (2010, Derek Cianfrance)
Bohemian Rhapsody (2018, Bryan Singer)
Camille Claudel 1915 (2013, Bruno Dumont)
Carnage (2011, Roman Polanski)
Cold War (2018, Pawel Pawlikowski)
The Comedy (2012, Rick Alverson)
Compliance (2012, Craig Zobel)
The Conjuring (2013, James Wan)
Cosmopolis (2012, David Cronenberg)
The Danish Girl (2015, Tom Hooper)
The Dark Knight Rises (2012, Christopher Nolan)
Deadpool (2016, Tim Miller)
Drive (2011, Nicholas Winding Refn)
Exhibition (2013, Joanna Hogg)
A Ghost Story (2017, David Lowery)
The Grandmaster (2013, Wong Kar Wai)
The Guest (2014, Adam Wingard)
Her (2013, Spike Jonze)
How to Train Your Dragon (2010, Chris Sanders & Dean DeBlois)
The Hunt (2012, Thomas Vinterberg)
The Imitation Game (2014, Morten Tyldum)
Inception (2010, Christopher Nolan)
The Iron Lady (2011, Phyllida Lloyd)
Irrational Man (2015, Woody Allen)
Kaboom (2010, Gregg Araki)
Killer Joe (2011, William Friedkin)
Le Havre (2011, Aki Kaurismäki)
Le Quattro Volte (2010, Michelangelo Frammartino)
Les Misérables (2012, Tom Hooper)
Life of Riley (2014, Alain Resnais)
Looper (2012, Rian Johnson)
Lucy (2014, Luc Besson)
Mud (2012, Jeff Nichols)
Only God Forgives (2013, Nicholas Winding Refn)
Paradise: Love (2012, Ulrich Seidl)
Personal Shopper (2016, Olivier Assayas)
Post Tenebras Lux (2012, Carlos Reygadas)
The Revenant (2015, Alejandro González Iñárritu)
Room (2015, Lenny Abrahamson)
The Shape of Water (2017, Guillermo del Toro)
Shutter Island (2010, Martin Scorsese)
Sicario (2015, Denis Villeneuve)
Side Effects (2013, Steven Soderbergh)
Still Alice (2014, Richard Glatzer & Wash Westmoreland)
The Strange Case of Angelica (2010, Manoel de Oliveira)
Stray Dogs (2013, Tsai Ming-liang)
Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri (2017, Martin McDonagh)
To the Wonder (2012, Terrence Malick)
The Tree of Life (2011, Terrence Malick)
Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives (2010, Apichatpong Weerasethakul)
The Witch (2015, Robert Eggers)
You Were Never Really Here (2017, Lynne Ramsay)

…and finally, major titles I want to see and haven’t yet:
Abacus: Small Enough to Jail (2016, Steve James)
Animal Kingdom (2010, David Michod)
The Arbor (2010, Clio Barnard)
The Blackcoat’s Daughter (2015, Oz Perkins)
The Breadwinner (2017, Nora Twomey)
Burning (2018, Lee Chang-dong)
Cafe Society (2016, Woody Allen)
Cameraperson (2016, Kirsten Johnson)
The Disaster Artist (2017, James Franco)
Elena (2011, Andrey Zvyagintsev)
A Field in England (2013, Ben Wheatley)
Fire at Sea (2016, Gianfranco Rosi)
First Man (2018, Damien Chazelle)
First Reformed (2017, Paul Schrader)
Force Majeure (2014, Ruben Ostlund)
Game Night (2018, John Francis Daley & Jonathan M. Goldstein)
Goodbye First Love (2011, Mia Hansen-Love)
Graduation (2016, Cristian Mungiu)
The Great Beauty (2013, Paolo Sorrentino)
Happy as Lazzaro (2018, Alice Rohrwacher)
Heart of a Dog (2015, Laurie Anderson)
Hereditary (2018, Ari Aster)
High-Rise (2015, Ben Wheatley)
Hunt for the Wilderpeople (2016, Taika Waititi)
The Immigrant (2013, James Gray)
In Jackson Heights (2015, Frederick Wiseman)
Ingrid Goes West (2017, Matt Spicer)
It Comes at Night (2017, Trey Edward Shults)
Jackie (2016, Pablo Larrain)
Jauja (2014, Lisandro Alonso)
Jiro Dreams of Sushi (2011, David Gelb)
The Lego Movie (2014, Phil Lord & Chris Miller)
Knight of Cups (2015, Terrence Malick)
Krisha (2015, Trey Edward Shultz)
Locke (2013, Steven Knight)
Madeline’s Madeline (2018, Josephine Decker)
Michael (2011, Markus Schleinzer)
Mildred Pierce (2011, Todd Haynes)
Mudbound (2017, Dee Rees)
The Muppets (2011, James Bobin)
Mustang (2015, Deniz Gamze Eguven)
My Golden Days (2015, Arnaud Desplechin)
Night Moves (2013, Kelly Reichardt)
99 Homes (2014, Ramin Bahrani)
Nocturnal Animals (2016, Tom Ford)
O.J.: Made in America (2016, Ezra Edelman)
Paddington (2014, Paul King)
Paddington 2 (2017, Paul King)
A Pigeon Sat on a Branch Reflecting on Existence (2014, Roy Anderson)
Private Life (2018, Tamara Jenkins)
Raw (2016, Julia Ducournau)
The Rider (2017, Chloe Zhao)
The Salesman (2016, Asghar Farhadi)
Shoplifters (2018, Hirokazu Koreeda)
Short Term 12 (2013, Destin Cretton)
Song of the Sea (2014, Tomm Moore)
Son of Saul (2015, Laszlo Nemes)
Sorry to Bother You (2018, Boots Riley)
Split (2016, M. Night Shyamalan)
Starlet (2012, Sean Baker)
Stoker (2013, Park Chan-wook)
Support the Girls (2018, Andrew Bujalski)
Tangerine (2015, Sean Baker)
10 Cloverfield Lane (2016, Dan Trachtenberg)
Things to Come (2016, Mia Hansen-Love)
Thoroughbreds (2017, Cory Finley)
Toni Erdmann (2016, Maren Ade)
The Town (2010, Ben Affleck)
The Unknown Girl (2016, Jean-Pierre & Luc Dardenne)
Unsane (2018, Steven Soderbergh)
Wadjda (2012, Haifaa Al-Mansour)
The Walk (2015, Robert Zemeckis)
Western (2017, Valeska Grisebach)
When Marnie Was There (2014, Hiromasa Yonebayashi)
Winter Sleep (2014, Nuri Bilge Ceylan)
The Wonders (2014, Alice Rohrwacher)
Wonderstruck (2017, Todd Haynes)
Wormwood (2017, Errol Morris)
Young & Beautiful [Jeune et jolie] (2013, Francois Ozon)

Gaslight (1940, Thorold Dickinson / 1944, George Cukor)

RECOMMENDED [1940 version] / HIGHLY RECOMMENDED [1944 version]

By virtue of its entrance into the popular psychological lexicon alone, George Cukor’s superb Gaslight is now one of the most famous films of the 1940s; thanks to its genesis — from stage play to British film to Hollywood remake — it can also be viewed, like The Maltese Falcon, as a crash course on how a text travels from its origins to a definitive, in this case quite freewheeling, interpretation. Of course, some may disagree with the premise that the MGM picture Gaslight is intrinsically an improvement upon Thorold Dickinson’s scrappier 1940 thriller and in turn on Patrick Hamilton’s play, just as some will understandably claim that John Huston’s Falcon is a sanitized dilution of rougher-edged material, but I don’t believe it can be feasibly argued that the changes Cukor and his three credited screenwriters make to Hamilton’s work do not reflect considerable ingenuity and thoughtfulness, and in the paragraphs to follow I’ll do my best to make my case.

Hamilton was a celebrated novelist most famous for his 1941 book Hangover Square, which became a film noir at Fox four years later, but his largest cinematic legacy comes from two plays he wrote, 1929’s Rope, based on the Leopold and Loeb murder case and eventually destined to become one of Alfred Hitchcock’s most provocative thrillers, and Gas Light, first produced in 1938. The broad conceit in every version of the story, and the source of the popularity of the term “gaslight” as a shorthand for a certain variety of abuse (especially spousal abuse), is that of a husband attempting to drive his wife insane, or at least to convince her that she is, essentially by confusing her, causing events and then denying them, and unleashing a barrage of verbal accusations and belittling remarks. The specific methodology and motivation varies in each version, though a commonality in all of them is the act of making objects disappear and accusing her of having been responsible; and the main criminal act being covered up, rummaging through the floor above the couple’s home for coveted jewelry, which causes mysterious sounds and leads to the lights visibly dimming, which is taken by the wife as the key symbol of her impending madness.

Conveniently for our purposes, the key characters’ names in these three versions vary, with one exception: the character of the wife is named Bella in both the play and the 1940 film. Otherwise, she becomes Paula in 1944; and the three husbands all have different identities, which is only appropriate given how duplicitous they all turn out to be, hiding their histories and secret families — he is Jack in the play, Paul in 1940, Gregory in 1944. On the whole, it’s in the characterizations of these three cruel men that the three versions most significantly differ. Paul is perhaps the nastiest of the lot in his manner, if not in his sinister motives, the most vicious sociopath and coldest abuser; but Gregory is the most fearsome villain, and the most frighteningly easy to view as person who could exist, quite outside the confines of chilly movie-London and these ornate haunted-house sets.

That said, Dickinson’s film is more conventionally “scary” than the American variant, enhanced perhaps by the relative confinement and no-nonsense brevity foisted upon it by the limitations and modesty of the British film industry. It makes resourceful use of cinematographer Bernard Knowles, who shot most of the later thrillers Alfred Hitchcock made in the UK, and does relatively little to “open up” the play, relying on the sense of claustrophobia as one of its main sources of emotional terror. And Dickinson, not much of a “name” apart from this film, is a much wilder and less restrained visual stylist than Cukor, which extends even to the graphically impressive opening titles, and certainly to a wavering, unmoored camera obsessed more with defining the limits of physical space than the relationships of people.

From the first moment, Dickinson pulls no punches, to an extent that probably wouldn’t even be possible four years later at MGM: we open by seeing the strangulation of the elderly Alice Barlow and gazing over the horrific aftermath, strewn with mangled furniture, during a desperate search for the all-important jewelry. Yet the most violent moment of this first film is in one of the arguments between the stoic psychopath and the fallen, suppressed Bella, when during a completely banal exchange about a dog, he yells to the woman he’s deliberately driving out of her mind: “Sometimes I wonder if you even want to be like other people.” In this narrative, his sadism — delivered chillingly well by Anton Walbrook, a dead ringer for an emotionless robot not just appropriating its interpretation of human behavior but mocking it mercilessly — has a tangible root, that long-ago murder he’s trying to hide, and this rationalization (along with the all-knowing detective who uncovers it all) is somewhat disappointing since putting it aside, this is an extremely persuasive portrait of a master manipulator and the abusive home he creates by manipulating everything in his power to persuade Bella that she is losing herself.

The film has a terse and harsh quality about it, not unusual for UK titles of this era (think Ealing Studios), delivering a feeling of creeping terror and tension more than once, but it’s hard not to look at its traditional mystery element as being a bit of a copout, when in moments (also taken from the play) like the night out at a charity concert that ends in tears after Paul makes a scene over a missing watch or the thinly veiled contempt when he says things like “what a very lovely person!”, it’s indicated that it could be a harrowing thriller about a very different kind of violence. You could argue that the use of a somewhat conventional dime-novel plot as impetus for exploring the nature of marital violence is common to every version of the story, and of course that it has a rich history; what else, after all, is du Maurier’s (and Hitchcock’s) Rebecca? But this is specifically what makes Gregory more dangerous than Paul. Both Paul and Jack toy with their wives’ senses of groundedness and sanity as a matter of practicality to cover up their own crimes; they bring their new(est) brides into this creepy old house in the town square in order to see to unfinished business, a botched robbery they never completed — their spouses’ states of mind are purely incidental, and their future purpose to them is still essentially unclear. So the “gaslighting,” so to speak, serves as a relatively simple masking device for these men’s greed. Its purpose in Cukor’s film is more sinister, which makes it a more successful film.

This, perversely, is thanks to what some may consider the MGM Gaslight‘s most significant narrative flaw — that is, its relatively lengthy buildup. The influence of Rebecca is particularly obvious here, with a long and florid and even mildly romantic introduction used as pretense to what’s set to become an eerie, oppressively dark psychological thriller. In his plays, Hamilton favored cutting, streamlined narratives, which MGM — to say the least — did not. The relatively long establishing of mood in the lengthier film’s first half hour is extremely important in how we end up viewing the story that follows. It’s also significant that we only have a vague sense, at the outset, of what has happened at the old house in the first place: we see no murder, no rooting around for valuables, we only see Ingrid Bergman as Paula being tearfully led away, and herein lies one of two major strokes of inspiration on the part of writers John Van Druten, Walter Reisch and John L. Balderston: Paula, unlike Bella, is directly connected with the scene-setting murder that her husband turns out to have committed, which in this case was the killing of her opera-singing aunt, who raised her.

This puts everything in the air, and compensates for any sense in which the jewel-thievery story may distract from the emotional essence: the marriage at the center of the story was always a front for a master manipulator, right down to the coy manner in which Gregory, in the throes of a whirlwind romance, convinces Paula to move back to the old house in London that she inherited after the murder. We will not deny here the Hollywood tendency to bulldoze over stories and source material, and the legendary story of MGM trying to buy up and destroy the negative and all prints of the 1940 film is certainly a solid and infuriating example of same, but what Cukor’s film does is flesh out Hamilton’s idea and make it truly sing; whatever the lavishness of the production and Cukor’s much less showy and wild visual decisionmaking — and his penchant for overstuffed, fussy production design — does to the mood of the film, its performances and script are unquestionably a more sophisticated and complete approach to a brilliant narrative construction.

The other key decision made here by the screenwriters is that we are always in Paula’s place, our identification with her fully secure and powerful. Dickinson’s film left no doubt of what was being done to wife Bella from the beginning; almost without exception, we actually saw things like Paul intentionally misplacing the controversial brooch that was supposed to be in his wife’s purse, or removing and altering things and then denying it, which left no doubt as to his villainy but also distanced us in some ways from the heroine. By being much more intensely in Paula’s seat, by seeing her invariably as the protagonist and allowing some ambiguity about her husband’s moral character, despite this denying us a bit of Hitchcockian suspense (he would call this “confirming a suspicion” in the manner of a whodunit rather than amping up suspense as in a straight thriller, because we’re being given less information), we are made to completely understand Paula’s own fears and self-torture. In a wonderful bit of irony, that violation of Hitchcock’s “rules” gives us something much more like a Hitchcock picture, centering as it does on his oft-favored theme of “the woman alone.” The film is more thoroughly subjective (less stagebound, in other words); less information is explicitly imparted through dialogue, and we often question ourselves as much as Paula — thanks in part to the elaborate, foggy, shadowy sets that make the night scenes genuinely spooky and unnerving. The more languid pace additionally provides more time for the film’s hidden subject matter of a husband’s manipulation and violence to all but take over in some scenes; one wonders how much disturbing familiarity and discomfort these exchanges of dialogue have caused in audience members, many of whom would undoubtedly have found them all too recognizable, over the years.

It is helpful as well that these more complex characterizations receive what are clearly better performances, even though Walbrook was excellent as Paul in Dickinson’s film. Charles Boyer isn’t much slimier than Walbrook — whose abuse, if anything, was more direct and spiteful — but because he’s more handsome and has a good bit of charm, the central relationship is more believable despite the stark age difference baked into the setup. We so fondly remember the French-accented Boyer as the chronic charmer of Love Affair and Cluny Brown and such, and this persona seamlessly takes a turn toward disquieting menace when it is recast as a killer’s methodology for placing others under his control; neatly, this gets much more at the crux of the abuse issue than does Walbrook’s unabashedly snarling and mean-spirited Paul.

As for Ingrid Bergman, she might initially seem to just be doing a fairly pedestrian if highly emotive imitation of Joan Fontaine in Rebecca, but at the climax, when Gregory is tied to a chair and still trying to top from the bottom, she earns her Oscar and delivers a searing moment of revenge that provides catharsis denied Diana Wynard and the audience watching her. This brings the film back into the realm of Hamilton’s play, wherein Bella similarly turns the “insanity” dictum back against her husband. The retired detective of the first film is replaced by Joseph Cotten as an inquisitive Scotland Yard assistant, his character fleshed out considerably (and made to be far less annoying, frankly) even if still strictly utilitarian. Among the unusually distinctive supporting cast, teenage Angela Lansbury is delightful as fun-loving, bratty housemaid Nancy, who provides the perfect bit of comic flavoring while serving as just as much of an alienating force in her own way as Mrs. Danvers. (Watch the way Cukor’s camera focuses squarely on the pain Paula feels as her husband flirts with Nancy in front of her.) May Whitty is initially strong as a nosy neighbor, who Paula initially runs into in a train car, though she ends up being wasted in service of a weak punchline in the final shot, probably the biggest annoyance in the entire film.

Yes, on the whole, weak closing moments and all, the 1940 film is nastier, brasher, more direct. But the subtler, beautified feeling of slowly permeating madness in the remake of Gaslight still works better as a narrative construction and certainly as an emotional experience. The play and 1940 film are prescient and forceful with fascinating elements, but there’s little doubt in my mind that MGM in 1944 is the reason that “gaslighting” is now a popular phrase we all understand, and not in any small way because the film’s leading man employs the technique in so much more destructive and personal a fashion, and all while outwardly appearing to be the most patient and sensitive and well-controlled sort of decent good-hearted soul, so kind to scoop up a troubled young woman and trying so hard to be patient as she works through long-ago traumas. Still, I suggest you see both versions — made nice and easy by Warner’s release of the two together — and find out what specific kind of emotional warfare and mistreatment gives you a more satisfying night at the movies!