l'age d'or

L'Age d'Or
d. Luis Buñuel, 1930

I won't even pretend to have a handle on Luis Buñuel's second film, 1930's L'Age d'Or, on just one viewing (Mulholland Drive, anyone?), but it's certainly a fascinating piece of cinema. From the documentary-style opening sequences to the shocking imagery throughout, Buñuel never disappoints. J. Hoberman rightly points out in his review that L'Age d'Or is not as visceral as Buñuel's debut, Un chien andalou; instead, I think it points towards his later cinematic masterpieces in terms of subject matter and montage. It seems to me Buñuel is exploring the relationship between violence, sexual desires, and the divine in L'Age d'Or. More on this later, I suppose. Maybe I was still too hung up on Los Olvidados to think too much about this one.

all my life, castro street, mr. hayashi

All My Life
d. Bruce Baillie, 1966

This 3-minute single shot panning along the length of a fence, only to move upward at the end of the film, is a delicate exploration of the simple marvels of the world. Accompanied by Ella Fitzgerald's titular song, there is really nothing to dislike about this marvelous film.

Castro Street
d. Bruce Baillie, 1966

More difficult than the pure euphoria of All My Life, but in many ways just as astonishing. In its 10 minutes, Castro Street paints a more complex view of a modern city than most feature-length films do. And there's also Baillie's juxtaposition of different formal aspects; his subtle use of music, black-and-white negatives, organic sounds, etc.
Mr. Hayashi
d. Bruce Baillie, 1961

Out of the three Baillies I saw, this is the only one with dialogue. The calm voice-over is narrated by a Japanese immigrant. More socially conscious than All My Life and Castro Street--though repeated viewings of the latter may reveal a deeper statement on cities--Mr. Hayashi also contains lush black-and-white images that I suspect will stay with me for a long time.

los olvidados

Los Olvidados
d. Luis Buñuel, 1950

As trivial as it may be to say so, Los Olvidados could be the single greatest example of Luis Buñuel's genius. Buñuel's long, hard look at the slums of Mexico City filters the ideas of neorealist filmmakers like Vittorio De Sica (The Bicycle Thief, Umberto D.) through his singular point of view; the result is a heartbreaking portrayal of the disenfranchised byproducts of modern society. In its brief 80 minutes, Los Olvidados tells an incredibly vast story through a series of carefully-crafted characters. In essence, there's no solution to the problems Buñuel is portraying; even the reform facility one of the young delinquents is sent to proves to be quite useless. The power of the film comes from how immediate everything feels, the weight each and every single scene has. There are the incredibly vicious moments of the young ones beating up and robbing cripples, the brilliant dream sequence (which has to be one of the most terrifying sequences in Buñuel's ovure), and even the understated bond between Ojitos ("Small Eyes") and Metche. In many ways a perfect film, Los Olvidados is now my favorite Buñuel.

my dad is 100 years old

My Dad is 100 Years Old
d. Guy Maddin, 2005

It was six years ago that Maddin gave the world his brilliant The Heart of the World, a 7-minute film that was more challenging and enjoyable than almost everything released that year. Having never seen any of Maddin's feature-length films (for no good reason, mind you), my familiarity with the filmmaker ends there. Nevertheless, I found My Dad is 100 Years Old, Maddin's collaboration with Isabella Rossellini (who scripted and is the sole actor of this film), to be quite spectacular. In essence, Ms. Rossellini is paying tribute to her father, neo-realist filmmaker Roberto Rossellini (another director whose films I haven't encountered; I really am that ignorant). In the process, however, Maddin and Rossellini are exploring different aspects of film history--through Rossellini's impersonations of Fellini, Hitchock, Chaplin, her mother, Ingrid Bergman, among others. A gem. Maybe I'll actually watch one of Maddin's feature films now...

still life

Still Life
d. Jia Zhang-ke, 2006

Still Life, the latest film from Jia Zhang-ke, is a step in the right direction from a director whose last film, 2004's The World, suffered from the way it hammered on its central metaphor. This time around, Jia uses his formal and narrative abilities to produce a more complex and satisfying work. Working on HD video, Jia's films have a very distinct quality. What would pass for Antonioniesque if shot by another director turns into something altogether ravishing when composed by Jia. As Jonathan Rosenbaum has pointed out, he is amazingly talented when it comes to positioning actors within his frames. Still Life concerns itself with the lives of two characters--a departure from the large cast of The World--looking for their respective spouse in a soon-to-be-flooded town. Though the story seems to follow a pretty conventinal storyline (man/woman shows up, looks for his/her wife/husband, travels around for a while, then finds her/him), Jia is more interested in the way lives are lived, not the ways problems are solved. Needless to say, Still Life is a major work that would be worth watching if only for its beautiful compositions. Good job Venice Film Festival, which awarded this film its top prize earlier this year.

the host, shoot the piano player, the steel helmet

The Host
d. Bong Joon-ho, 2006

One of the most acclaimed films of the year amongst serious cinephiles (though it won't actually be released in the States this year), The Host is an unlikely success. Ostensibly a movie about a monster and its effects on South Korea, it turns out to be more of an exercise on how audiences will react to such a story. Beautifully directed, The Host effortlessly carries the viewer through its involving story. I can't remember the last time I had this much fun watching a movie, let alone one about a monster.

Shoot the Piano Player d. Francois Truffaut, 1960

Made a year before Jules and Jim (Truffaut's greatest film), Shoot the Piano Player is somewhat less serious--at least during its first hour or so--and more playful than Truffaut's other works of the time (1959's The 400 Blows and 1961's aforementioned Jules and Jim). The film tells the story of a shy and reserved piano player who gets involved in a tricky crime story through his careless brother. More than that, however, Truffaut is using this vehicle--which he adapted from a crime novel--to craft a carefully observed character study. Clearly the pioneer of other noir deconstructions (The Long Goodbye, Chinatown, or even Bonnie and Clyde, which Truffaut was at one point set to direct), Shoot the Piano Player has its cake and eats it too--it manages to be gritty noir while at the same time revealing the deep insecurities behind typical crime-movie leads. If for nothing else (though there clearly is a lot more), the movie is a masterpiece for Raoul Coutard's cinematography and Georges Deleure's score. Oh, and the last act is to die for.

The Steel Helmet
d. Samuel Fuller, 1951

Two years before tackling the New York crime scene with Pickup on South Street (arguably his biggest success), Samuel Fuller made a more savage and gritty film, 1951's Korean war movie The Steel Helmet. It seems senseless to try to explain in words why this movie is so great, as it's more a film to be experienced than one to be analyed. Suffice it to say, Fuller's take on the subject of war is like none I've ever seen before, and like none we're likely to ever see in American movie theatres. His film isn't about heroism, but about a group of men that, for better or worse (probably the latter), are fighting a war that they neither care about nor fully understand. 55 years after its original release, it remains a relevant and poignant account of the madness of war.

offside

Offside
d. Jafar Panahi, 2006

This is the first film by Jafar Panahi that I've seen (I came close to watching Crimson Gold a while back, but didn't, for whatever reason), but based solely on how great Offside, it's safe to say he's one of the great directors currently working. I found this film to be more accesible than that of Abbas Kiarostami--who wrote Panahi's last film--if not as formally rigorous. Regardless, this is essentially a flawless film. It briefly catalogues what it is like to be a woman in Iran that wants to go to a football match, which they are not allowed to do. The reason, as explained by the officers in the film, is because they may hear the men cursing. Offside isn't as angry as a film like this has a right to; instead, Panahi chooses to take a more humanistic approach: he presents the clear injustice of the situation, and layer by layer he peels away the inexplicable reasons a society ends up like this. Even the aforementioned officers in the film, who might very well be the "villains" in a Hollywood film tackling the topic of injustice, get their point of view across. Panahi is clearly a very intelligent filmmaker, and also one that can make a thoroughly enjoyable, not to mention brilliant, film out of a fantastic concept. I only wish more films were this subtle and engrossing.

wavelength

Wavelength
d. Michael Snow, 1967

One of the two Snows I've seen, 1967's Wavelength does represent a kind of landmark in the history of experimental film. Ostensibly about the journey between a shot overlooking an entire loft to a close-up of a photograph pasted on the wall opposite the camera, the film has a lot to do with the way we perceive not only the cinema, but also reality. A formalist extravaganza, Wavelength is an experience like no other. In its 45 minutes, Snow manages to do what took Kubrick millions of dollars to put together the next year--when 2001 was released. An amazing movie.

regular lovers

Regular Lovers
d. Philippe Garrel, 2005

This is one film that I'd been waiting to see since hearing about it many months ago. Whenever this happens, it's very difficult for the actual film to live up to my own weird expectations. In this case, watching Regular Lovers was more amazing an experience than I was prepared for. Miles away from Bertolucci's take on May '68, The Dreamers, Garrel's film represents something much more exquisite than a mere period piece, it's a captivating and intimidating monument on its own right. The film would be worth watching for just its beautiful photography; its black and white images as crisp and vibrant as anything by Godard or Warhol (two directors whose influenced is heavily felt in the movie). I could go on and on about Garrel's compositions, his masterful editing, the modulated performances (led by Garrel's own son, Louis, as the poet Francois), and I probably will, at a later date. As of now, let's just say I really love this film.

marie antoinette

Marie Antoinette
d. Sofia Coppola, 2006

As good as I was expecting it to be, Marie Antoinette, Sofia Coppola's latest feature, does a good job in updating the historical drama, a genre that has not produced many good films in recent years. With the possible exception of The New World (2005) and Far From Heaven (2002), I can't think of another recent period piece that's as well observed; you'd have to go back to Kubrick's Barry Lyndon (1975) to find such meticulous filmmaking. Coppola's film revolves around the life of the Austrian teenager sent to France when she was just fifteen as a diplomatic way to help divisions between the two nations. What follows is not a tedious history lesson, but a lush narrative filtered through the eyes of a teenager. Set to the tune of "I Want Candy," we sit there watching Dundst shop and dress up, and the film's photography (shot by Lance Acord) is as good as we're likely to see this year. I hate to say it, but sometimes it takes a rich girl from one of Hollywood's most prominent families to remind us just how much fun the movies can be.

i walked with a zombie

I Walked With a Zombie
d. Jacques Tourneur, 1943

Miles away from the gore fests associated with horror films, Jacques Tourneur's somber I Walked With a Zombie instead establishes its eerie ambience through expressive compositions and rhythmic editing. The film tells the story of a Canadian nurse asked to help an ailing woman in St. Sebastian. Upon arriving, she finds that the woman's husband doesn't want to let her in on the details of her sickness. As it turns out, the woman is indeed the living dead, she's alive enough to walk around but dead in the sense that she doesn't know what goes on around her. Tourneur then throws in mysterious voodoo rituals and a strange love triangle that make this movie truly memorable.

gerry

Gerry
d. Gus Van Sant, 2002

Rewatched about an hour of Gerry today. I have seen it three times before, and I thoroughly enjoyed it, but I always felt like I should like it more. The hour I saw today did not really change my opinion of the film, but more than ever it feels like a film I can always revisit (if only partially). Having just finished reading Beckett's Waiting for Godot, I finally understand the comparisons, although Van Sant's biggest influences in Gerry seem to be Bela Tarr's Werckmeister Harmonies, Claire Denis' Beau Travail, and the films of John Ford. Van Sant followed this one with Elephant (2003), a good film on its own right, but one that pails in comparison to Gerry's raw beauty. Last Days (2005), the final film in his trilogy of sorts, is also not quite up to par, but I would recommend all three. I still have problems with the way Gerry ends, but in cases like this, does it really matter?

volver

Volver
d. Pedro Almodóvar, 2006

After spending the last five years or so making films centered around men, Spanish auteur Pedro Almodóvar returns to a film much more like 1999's All About My Mother, which is to say, a woman's movie. His latest film, Volver (which literally means "to return"), is a delightful melodrama and a glorious entertainment. Though not as challenging and transporting as his last work The Bad Education, Almodóvar has reached the point in his career when even by reworking his past films he can make something amazing. The film begins with Raimunda (Penelope Cruz), her daugher Paula (Yohana Cobo), and sister Soledad (Lola Dueñas) visiting their mother's grave. She apparently died along with her husband in a fire while they slept. Soon after that, however, the mother, Irene (Carmen Maura), returns. I will not reveal the details of the story; even though I was expecting some Almodóvaresque twists and surprises, I was pretty shocked by some of Volver's developments. Anywho, I am writing about this for my school paper, so I do not want to spend too much time on it here. Let me just say that this will probably be in my top five favorite films of 2006. Watch it.

la collectionneuse

La collectionneuse
d. Eric Rohmer, 1967

Though not as completely engaging as My Night at Maud's (1969) or Claire's Knee (1970), La collectionneuse is still a throughoughly enjoyable film. Most of the movie's pleasures lie in Nestor Almendors's beautiful cinematography, along with Rohmer's perfectly crafted shots. The script of La collectionneuse also seems more relaxed than in the other Rohmers I've seen, probably because the three main actors--Haydee Politoff, Patrick Bachau, and Daniel Pommereulle--worked on the dialogue with him. Overall just really great, organic material. Not a transcendental masterpiece or anything, but any movie that takes place in a seventeenth-century villa on the Riviera is okay by me. I think.

metropolitan

Metropolitan
d. Whit Stillman, 1990

I was uneasy through the first couple of sequences of Whit Stillman's Metropolitan. Bear in mind, I've just seen two Rohmer films (My Night at Maud's and Claire's Knee--loved them both), and now here I am watching an American version of the same kind of 90 minute observation of privileged and articulate people. This kind of blows over once the audience discovers the main character, Tom (Edward Clements), is as much an outsider to the New York debutante lifestyle as the rest of us. Chris Eigeman plays the kind of character I would imagine Jason in Gilmore Girls to have been in his early twenties; Clements and the rest of the cast (which includes Carolyn Farina as the terribly attractive Audrey Roget) is quite superb, as is Stillman's writing and direction. Metropolitan turns out to be a charming, funny, and sad portrayal of what it means to grow up and leave friends behind, even if most of us don't live like the characters in the film.

the pervert's guide to cinema

The Pervert's Guide to Cinema
d. Sophie Fiennes, 2006

Not the outwardly provocative film the title suggests, The Pervert's Guide to Cinema is instead a rather fascinating psychoanalytical look at a wide variety of movies, all guided by pop philosopher Slavoj Zizek. Really, this type of movie only works for people interested in the works being discussed, and considering a lot of my favorite films take up Zizek's time, I was bound to be taken by it. The film discusses films by Alfred Hitchcock, David Lynch, Andrei Tarkovsky, Lars Von Trier, Charlie Chaplin, Michael Powell, Fritz Lang, et cetera. Despite the notoriety of the films*, I can't help but feel the film isn't complete. For instance, there's not a single mention of Luis Buñuel, Jean Cocteau, Nicholas Ray, Jean-Luc Godard, Eric Rohmer. Hopefully there's a sequel.

*Complete list of films:

Alice in Wonderland

Alien

Alien Resurrection

The Birds

Blue Velvet

City Lights

The Conversation

Dead of Night

Dr. Strangelove

Dogville

Duck Soup

Dune

The Exorcist

Eyes Wide Shut

Fight Club

Frankenstein

The Great Dictator

Ivan the Terrible: Part 2

Kubanskie Kazaki

Lost Highway

The Matrix

Monkey Business

Mulholland Dr.

North By Northwest

Persona

The Piano Teacher

Pluto’s Judgment Day

Possessed

Psycho

Rear Window

The Red Shoes

Saboteur

Solaris

Stalker

Star Wars: Episode III: Revenge of the Sith

The Ten Commandments

The Testament of Dr. Mabuse

Three Colors: Blue

To Catch a Thief

Vertigo

Wild at Heart

The Wizard of Oz

claire's knee

Claire's Knee
d. Eric Rohmer, 1970

Not quite as amazing as My Night at Maud's (1969), but I guess it doesn't have to be. This time around the "hero" of the story is Jerome, a 35-year-old who spends the summer at the villa where he grew up; his old friend Aurora, a writer, is also spending the summer there. Aurora convinces him to flirt with her landlady's daughter, Laura. Jerome goes along with the experiment for a while, until he discovers Laura's step-sister Claire (whose knee gives the film its title). Anywho, the two films I've seen by Rohmer have clearly won me over, but I still don't really know what to make of them, but I guess that's not too important. Claire's Knee is pretty amazing and all, but I just have to ask: Do people really live this? Because that is just too cool.

my night at maud's

My Night at Maud's
d. Eric Rohmer, 1969

Eric Rohmer's My Night at Maud's is as close to perfect a film as I've seen in a long time; its sidelong beauty is apparent as soon as the film opens. For a film so notable for its dialogue, the first couple of sequences My Night at Maud's are filled with silence. We watch as Rohmer films Jean-Louis, his anti-hero of sorts, go to church an spot a girl that he likes, soon thereafter (while he follows her) he vows to marry her. The rest of the film plays out like a series of some of the greatest scenes in all movies. While watching the film, everything falls into place; after it was over, however, I found a lot of what went on to be much more ambiguous, only more reason to rewatch this wonderful film. Rohmer's direction here is almost invisible and completely unobstrusive; his most radical stylistic choice is the way he sometimes focuses on one character in a conversation instead of framing both of the participants. Not since I first came to Truffaut's Jules and Jim have I felt this way about a movie.

mutual appreciation

Mutual Appreciation
d. Andrew Bujalski, 2005

Taking what he started with Funny Ha Ha (2003), director Andrew Bujalski expands on his kind of low key style of filmmaking with the brilliant and thoroughly engrossing sophomore effort Mutual Appreciation. It's really hard to write about a film that so completely achieves what it tries to do. Basically, Mutual Appreciation is a collection of really great scenes connected not so much by plot or story as with an overall mood. Alan (Justin Rice) is an aspiring rock star who just moved to New York City. He hangs out with his friends, Lawrence (Bujalski) and his girlfriend Ellie (Rachel Clift), and just kind of drifts in and out of very organic--though very well written and improvised--situations. Mutual Appreciation is also the kind of movie that people either fall in love with or utterly despise. I obviously belong to the former as I dont think I've seen many American independent films that are as meticulously composed and expertly crafted as this one. Bujalski's 16mm black-and-white compositions are some of the film's best assets, as is his masterful avant-garde influenced editing. Many have compared his filmmaking to that of John Cassavetes, and not without reason. It's hard to watch certain scenes of this film without automatically recalling Shadows (1959) or even later stuff like The Killing of a Chinese Bookie (1976). With Mutual Appreciation, Bujalski emerges as the arguably the most talented director of his generation.

Note: People have also compared Bujalski's style to that of Eric Rohmer's, a director whose films I've unforgivably yet to discover. That ends today; I'm pretty sure I'll be watching My Night at Maud's (1969) later and a review will follow thereafter.

fear eats the soul

Fear Eats the Soul
d. Rainer Werner Fassbinder, 1974

Fassbinder at his best. Though that's a pointless statement since I've yet to to dislike a film of his. Fear Eats the Soul is a loose remake of Douglas Sirk's 1955 masterpiece All That Heaven Allows, though on the surface Fassbinder's style borrows little from Sirk's glossy features. Through a series of carefully composed shots--much like those he uses in The Bitter Tears, though not as overbearingly rigorous-- Fassbinder creates a complex picture of the way societal prejudice can affect the personal lives of honest people. Emmi, an older German woman, falls in love with Ali, a Moroccan that's 20 or so years younger than her. They move in, get married, and become the ridicule of their neighbors. Not even Emmi's kids understand their relationship; one of them goes so far as smashing her TV set when first hearing the news. Unafraid of melodrama and using rethorical shifts, Fassbinder creates a film that is both intimate and all-encompassing; Fear Eats the Soul should be required viewing.

the wild blue yonder

The Wild Blue Yonder
d. Werner Herzog, 2005

Werner Herzog's fascinating mockumentary The Wild Blue Yonder is the kind of film I would watch repeatedly if it ever opened in theatres. However, this wasn't as widely distributed as Herzog's other 2005 film, Grizzly Man, which I myself have not seen. The Wide Blue Yonder catalogues the fictional mission to find a new hospitable planet beyond the milky way. Narrated by a grumpy space alien (Brad Dourif), Herzog structures his film into different chapters--much like what he did in Lessons of Darkness--and cuts between Dourif's interviews and footage borrowed from NASA (thanked for its "sense of poetry" in the closing credits). Anywho, films this exciting don't come along very often; it may be the definitive sci-fi film of the decade.

the brown bunny, band of outsiders

The Brown Bunny
d. Vincent Gallo, 2003

Vincent Gallo's tone poem The Brown Bunny is easily one of the most underrated American films of the past couple of years. By this point--only two years after its commercial release--it has become synonymous with bad movies and notorious only for its final, sexually explicit scene between Gallo and Chloe Sevigny. Though these judgements keep a lot of people from looking at the film seriously, it's hard to not be blown away by its sidelong beauty once you actually give it a chance. Filled with tender exchanges and sad glances, not to mention glorious shots of the road (with songs like Jackson C. Frank's "Milk and Honey" playing), The Brown Bunny is as honest and human a film as I've seen in a long time.

Band of Outsiders
d. Jean-Luc Godard, 1964

Still my favorite Godard movie, a third viewing of Band of Outsiders really highlights some of the sadness in the film. Though not as wholly misogynist as some of Godard's other films of the time--particularly 1966's Masculine Feminine--there does seem to be a kind of underlying lack of respect for Anna Karina's character here. As far as the love triangle in the film goes, her character isn't similar to Jeanne Moreau's Catherine in Jules and Jim (a film Godard seems to be borrowing from). Other than that, this is an amazing movie all around. Raoul Coutard's cinematography here is vastly different than the more polished look of Godard's previous film, Contempt. Michel Legrand's uplifting and unspeakably cool musical score stands amongst his best and it even recalls some of his work with Jaques Demy. Godard's direction, free-form screenplay, and narration are the icing on the cake in this magnificent slice of 60's cinema.

last year at marienbad

Last Year at Marienbad
d. Alain Resnais, 1961

Though more a film that I admire than one I actively enjoy, Alain Resnais' Last Year at Marienbad is clearly a masterful work. If for no better reason, everyone should watch this film for its astounding beauty; Resnais' camera glides through the corridors and gardens of a large hotel, where his story takes place, and his black-and-white photography is some of the best I've seen. Delphine Seyrig (who, 14 years later, would play the title role in Chantal Akerman's Jeanne Dielman) stars as A, a woman who must deal with the constant bickering of X (Giorgio Albertazzi), a stranger trying to convince her that they met last year. The film's dialogue and compositions serve as a way for Resnais to explore his recurring themes: memory, time, what it means to be human. I've seen Marienbad twice now, and I'm no closer to deciphering its many mysteries (if they can even be deciphered, that is) than when I first came to it. Yet, I feel as though it's a film that I can always come back to, just to remind myself of cinema's possibilities. Plus, did I mention how beautiful it is to look at?

the lady from shanghai

The Lady from Shanghai
d. Orson Welles, 1947

The Lady from Shanghai may not be Orson Welles' best movie (that, to me, would be F for Fake [1976]), but it's just further proof that the man was just so good at making movies. Parts of the film didn't make sense to me on a first viewing, and sometimes the plot seems almost incidental, but Welles' compositions are at their most playful here. Needless to say, Welles and Rita Hayworth are both incredible here, and the supporting cast (which includes Everett Sloane as Hayworth's husband) is almost as impressive. Hayworth gets first billing here, but it's most certainly Welles' film. Not only did he write, direct, produce, and act in it, but he narrates the story to us; sometimes the way the character of Michael O'Hara speaks sounds more like Orson himself than just another character in one of movies.

kicking and screaming

Kicking and Screaming
d. Noah Baumbach, 1995

Noah Baumbach's wonderful first feature, Kicking and Screaming, holds a distinct place amoungs other independent films from the 90s. It does share certain qualities with movies like Richard Linklater's Slacker and Before Sunrise, but Baumbach seems to be shooting at something completely different. His film centers around the lives of a couple of 20-somethings who can't seem to figure what to do after graduation. One of them, Otis (Charles Jacott), won't leave for graduate school in Milwaukee because of the one hour time difference. Grover (Josh Hamilton) spends his time in a sort of paralysis after his girlfriend Jane (Olivia d'Abo) leaves for Prague. Max (Chris Eigeman, aka Jason Stiles of Gilmore Girls) plays a philosophy major who passes the time doing crosswords and talking about living.

What Baumbach manages to craft out of his conversational passages is a poignant and charming account of the nostalgia of leaving school; the kind of sad reminisces of things one would have complained about as they were happening. Though Baumbach's writing is likely to get the most credit here (or in his most recent film, The Squid and the Whale, for that matter), he is quite a good director. His long tracking shots -- particularly impressive in a scene with Grover and his dad (played by Elliot Gould) -- and fluid camera movement recalls directors like Robert Altman, Woody Allen (who is probably more of an influence on Baumbach's writing), and even Truffaut. In short, this is a vastly underrated film that is not to be missed.

P.S. Is it bad that I kind of feel the same as the the characters in Kicking and Screaming? I'm 16 (as of tomorrow) and junior year of high school just started, so probably.

the spirit of the beehive

The Spirit of the Beehive
d. Victor Erice, 1973

I've never seen a film quite like The Spirit of the Beehive. It is so strikingly original yet instinctive all the way through that it's easy to call it one of the greatest Spanish films ever made. The film takes place in a rural Spanish town in the 1940s, right after the Spanish Civil War; we meet a young family, the father is a beekeeper, the mother writes longing letters to old relatives, and, just as the film is beginning, the two young daughters, Ana and Isabel, are attending a screening of James Whales' Frankenstein. After the movie, the younger girl, Ana, asks Isabel to explain the actions of the monster and of the people that killed him thereafter; Isabel explains that the monster is, in fact, not dead, but is a spirit that can not be killed. She claims to have already seen it, and eventually takes Ana to an abandoned barn with a well where she claims the spirit lives. For the rest of The Spirit of the Beehive, the vaguest hints at plot revolve around Ana's attempts to find the spirit.

This movie, however, is more interested at quietly observing this rather odd family structure. The Spirit of the Beehive is so achingly beautiful that I prefer to keep its images in my head rather than try to senselessly describe them. Luis Cuadrado, who shot the film, was apparently going blind while working on the film, which just makes his astonishing work here (both in lighting and use of the rural landscape) all the more notable. The musical score by Luis de Pablo is heartbreaking without having to underline anything in the movie, much like the spare music in Bela Tarr's Werckmeister Harmonies. Then there are the beautifully crafted compositions and poetic dialogue of Victor Erice, a mysterious and iconic director who has only made two other films seen this one. In the end, The Spirit of the Beehive is a lot things: a gorgeous portrayal of life in rural Spain, a love letter to the innocence of childhood and the questions it poses, and also a testament to the effect movies can have on us; few films have filled me with more joy.

contempt

Contempt
d. Jean-Luc Godard, 1963

One of Jean-Luc Godard's best works, 1963's gorgeous 'Scope epic Contempt, is also one of the best films about film ever made (another would be Fellini's 8 1/2, released the same year), though at times it seems more like a cross between an Antonioni study and a standard Godard self-reflexiveness. Contempt stars the beautiful Brigitte Bardot (who's never looked better) and the unforgettable Michel Piccoli; he's a screenwriter recently hired to adapted Homer's The Odyssey for a new Fritz Lang film (he plays himself here), she's the loving wife whose contempt for him provides most of the thematic groundwork in the movie. The film is basically divided into three parts: in the first part, we see Piccoli visiting a producer played by Jack Palance and Fritz Lang at a studio in Rome; in the second, and probably the most astonishing, we get a 33 minute scene which takes place entirely in Piccoli's and Bardot's apartment. This scene, which is the closest thing to an Antonioni scene outside of his own ouvre, portrays the relationship between the two characters as a rocky landscape on the verge of distruction. The final part of the film, and the most beautiful in terms of photography, takes place at Palance's villa where they are shooting Lang's film. The story comes full circle there and the shock ending is quite something. All in all, this is amongst the best films of the French New Wave.

badlands

Badlands
d. Terrence Malick, 1973

Terrence Malick's best movie, and one of the key works of the 70s, follows in the same tradition as films like Bonnie and Clyde and more recently Wild at Heart and Natural Born Killers. But what separates Badlands from these other violent road movies is Malick's conviction and eye for beauty. He was 30 when he directed, wrote, and produced this film, and has gone on to make only three other (Days of Heaven in 78, The Thin Red Line in 98, and The New World in 05) since. Badlands follows Kit (Martin Sheen) and Holly (Sissy Spacek) as they make their away across South Dakota to the Badlands of Montana; while killing a few people on the way. Their relationship begins rather innocently, she's a 15 year old who lives with her dad, who moved the family to South Dakota after his wife's death; he's a 25 year old rebel who picks up trash for a living. Both are alienated in one way or another (Holly by her friends at her school, Kit by the adult world), so they find companion, albeit a foolish one, in one another. In a sudden act of violence, Kit kills Holly's father after announcing that he's taking her with him. And then, in one of the most powerful scenes in the film, proceeds to burn down the house while leaving a record with a false confession (We have decided to kill ourselves, the same way I did her dad") playing for the police to find. Kit and Holly then go on to spend some uneventful days driving through the country, bookmarked by several other killings, while the police is continuously on their trail. That Badlands ends with Kit and Holly finally surrendering isn't giving much away; the movie, like the time Kit and Holly spent together, is all about the journey and not the destination.

a scanner darkly

A Scanner Darkly
d. Richard Linklater, 2006

With a little more than half of 2006 gone, Richard Linklater's A Scanner Darkly is easily one of - if not the - best films of the year. Using the same animation technique as in his 2001 masterpiece Waking Life, Linklater and his animators craft a wonderfully obstuse meditation on the drug culture. As a complete turnaround from his last serious project, Before Sunset, this film represents a more free-form type of narrative resembling something like Naked Lunch way more than Dazed and Confused or Before Sunrise. At the centre of the film is Keanu Reeves' character, Bob Arctor, an undercover agent who is supposed to spy on potential drug users. The action takes place "7 years from now" according to a title card, a time when 20% of the population is addicted to a drug called Substance D. "You are either on it or you haven't tried it," exclaims Robert Downey Jr.'s character when talking to a drug addled Rory Cochrane (who played the playful Slater in Linklater's Dazed and Confused, the complete opposite of his paranoid addict here). A Scanner Darkly comes down to a series of sequences following the set of drug users (of which Arctor is one), and the Phillip K. Dick narrative seems to organically grow out of these scenes. By the end, I was completely blown away by both the visuals of the film (it's a thrill to see on the big screen, so don't wait for video) and it's uncompromising take on the world of drugs. Without a doubt, no film out there right now is as astonishing as this one.

brick

Brick
d. Rian Johnson, 2005

Rian Johnson's successful stab at neo-noir Brick follows an anti-social teenager (wonderfully acted by Joseph-Gordon Lewitt) as he tries to uncover the mystery surrounding his ex-girlfriend's whereabouts. Johnson recreates the gritty world of noir through his distant mise en scene and his intricate screenplay (complete with nicknames like "The Pin"). On a first viewing I mostly responded to the film as a formalist exercise made by someone who obviously respects and cherishes the tradition of film noirs; but there are moments of sincere raw emotion that lead me to believe subsequent viewings will reveal a more poignant statement. As it stands, Brick is a visually stunning study of high school ennui inside of a noir world; that alonge may make it the American film of the year.

the marriage of maria braun

The Marriage of Maria Braun
d. Rainer Werner Fassbinder, 1979

By now I'm pretty convinced that virtually no director has had a better run of consistently great films than Rainer Werner Fassbinder had during the 1970s; including The Bitter Tears of Petra Von Kant in '72, Fear Eats the Soul in '74, In a Year of 13 Moons in '78, and The Marriage of Maria Braun in '79. The latter, one of Fassbinder's most exquisite masterpieces, concerns the life and times of Maria Braun, a strong and independent woman who sets out to make a life for herself after her husband, Hermann Braun, is sent to war. She remains faithful to him despite the fact they were married for just 2 days and only met weeks before that. Maria receives (incorrect) news that he was killed, and he comes home to find his wife with another man. She smashes a bottle over his head and kills the man, only to have Hermann take the blame for it. He's in prison for the great bulk of the movie, and Maria promises to wait for him and that they'll have a new life together. Through of a series of consequences which one may describe as Maria selling herself, she manages to land a lucrative position in a textile company. She changes throughout the film, and her naive love for Hermann also suffers the consequences. Then comes the final audacious scene; Fassbinder understands that he's too far into the narrative to insult the audience with a conventional ending. Both him and the audience understand that, for Maria Braun, there'll be no resolution without death.

monsieur verdoux

Monsieur Verdoux
d. Charles Chaplin, 1947

I haven't seen enough of Chaplin's films to call this his best work (although I do prefer it to The Gold Rush [1925] and City Lights [1931]), but it's certainly brilliant. Chaplin wrote, directed, produced, scored, and starred in Monsieur Verdoux, one of his last films. Verdoux is a formally astonishing black comedy about a cynical man who provides for his family by killing women and taking their money. But this isn't one of those movies where we see some monster committing crimes and at the end we are supposed to learn some moral lesson about proper conduct; Chaplin's much too ambitious for that nonsense. Here he is using the pathos of his silent films to make us, though not necessarily identify with Verdoux, understand why these things happen. Verdoux is a man who worked for over 30 years as a bank clerk only to be fired after the depression. From that point on, he supported his invalid wife and young son by dealing in the aforementioned practices. That Chaplin manages to insert his signature brand of comedy into these situations is commendable; but more astonishing is the way he intellectually grips and ultimately moves the viewer with the experience. From the beginning we know that this story has already occurred (the first shot of the is of Verdoux's gravestone), and the last sequence deals with his trial and execution. Chaplin saved his most brilliant masterstroke for this scene, he gives us a character who has committed several murders, awaits his destiny, but also understands the way the world works, "One murder makes a villain; millions, a hero. Numbers sanctify, my good fellow!" he tells a reporter who comes to him looking for a feature with a moral. This is what movies are all about; Monsieur Verdoux blew me away.

orpheus

Orpheus
d. Jean Cocteau, 1949

Jean Cocteau's 1949 masterpiece Orpheus is one of the most magical of all films. It manages to transport the original Greek myth into modern times seamlessly through Cocteau's own brand of storytelling, his signature special effects (The Blood of Poet), and his inimitable poetic dialogue ("Mirrors are doors through which death comes and goes. Look at yourself in the mirror and you'll see death do its work."). Orpheus is the story of a poet by the same name, who becomes distracted by visions of greatness - in the guise of a "talking car" - and must descend into the underworld once Death takes away his wife. There, a court decides to allow Eurydice to return with the condition that Orpheus is not allowed to look at her. Surely enough, Orpheus can not resist, and his wife goes back to the underworld. And though there's a happy ending to the story for Orpheus and Eurydice, Cocteau still fashions a rather melancholic view on death. The story of Orpheus unfolds here as it did in the original myth, but Cocteau inserts little plot details to enhance his film. The most notable of these is the tangled love web that includes Death, Orpheus, Eurydice, and Death's chauffeur. Cocteau is certainly one of the greatest of all filmmakers, and Orpheus is arguably his best film. A must see.

red desert

Red Desert
d. Michelangelo Antonioni, 1964

Red Desert is Michelangelo Antonioni's intoxicating color feature that's not really about anything. It stars Monica Vitti as more or less a similar character to the ones she played in Antonioni's previous works L'Avventura and L'Eclisse, but here she's got a somewhat less subtle existential crisis. She'd been in a car accident and never really psychologically recovered from it, and the movie follows her through a series of situations of growing discontent. The beautiful color photography (certainly one of the most expressive use of Technicolor ever) evokes a palpable sense of discomfort, and it carries the movie a long way. At its simplest, Red Desert is a brilliantly fascinating portrayal of a disturbed woman. Not that it really matters, however, as Antonioni's intricate mise en scene and Monica Vitti are so charming.

singin' in the rain

Singin' in the Rain
d. Stanley Donen and Gene Kelly, 1952

Singin' in the Rain is easily the most famous movie musical of all time, I personally prefer something like Jacques Demy's The Young Girls of Rochefort or Roubert Mamoulian's Love Me Tonight, but I would not hesitate to call this film a masterpiece. Singin' in the Rain is the kind of movie that eludes criticism, it so effortlessly and brilliantly succeeds as a fun musical that it seems pointless to call it what it is, "perfect." When the AFI published its outrageous list of the 100 greatest American films (no The Night of the Hunter or In a Lonely Place but Forrest Gump makes the cut), Singin' in the Rain placed 10th and it was one of the few films on the list that actually deserved a spot. The film is a life-affirming celebration of movies as well as a comic portrayal of the transition period between silent and sound film that occurred in the late 1920s. Singin' in the Rain contains what is perhaps the most famous scene in film: Gene Kelly singing in the rain. Everything else in the film is just as great, and almost 55 years after the film was made, I think it's safe to say that it will never date.

gentlemen prefer blondes

Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
d. Howard Hawks, 1953

One of Howard Hawks' greatest films may also be Marilyn Monroe's best movie, 1953's Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Though not one of Hawks' best known works (that title would go to Bringing Up Baby or The Big Sleep), it's certainly one that has worked its way into the American consciousness. Whether it be through Madonna's "Material Girl" video, which pays tribute to a scene in the film, or because it features Monroe in her quintessential role as gold-digging lounge singer, the film is certainly one of the key films of the 1950s. Shot in glorious Technicolor by Harry J. Wild, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes is probably the best example of Hollywood glamour in the 50s, and the musicals number here are never less than amazing. Jane Russell and Marilyn Monroe play two young women on their way to Paris, where Monroe plans to marry a rich man played by Tommy Noonan. His father, however, disapproves of his choice and hires a detective to spy on her while on the cruise. The detective falls in love with Jane Russell and other stuff happens. That Gentlemen Prefer Blondes manages to be an enormous entertainment (I would place it above Singin' in the Rain) is certainly an achievement, but that it also manages to satirize and portray the American capitalist mindset is why it'll be remembered.

citizen kane

Citizen Kane
d. Orson Welles, 1941

Orson Welles' Citizen Kane has had more written about it than virtually every other film in history, so it's kind of difficult to try to approach it in a new manner. This is my second viewing of the film, as I first came to it more than a year ago, and it was my first Welles movie. I now have to say that I personally prefer his F for Fake (1976) and I am dying to see The Magnificent Ambersons (1942) again. However, Citizen Kane is arguably the most important and accomplished of his films. For someone who discovered it more than 70 years after its original release, the film stands as one of the perfect examples of Hollywood cinema. For the most part, Citizen Kane is flawless filmmaking, both as a technical achievement and a narrative one. Welles - who co-wrote, directed, produced, and starred in this film - paints the story of tycoon Charles Foster Kane in a staggering collection of vivd scenes that have become landmarks of film history. Everything from the opening "News On the March" recounting the life of Mr. Kane to Welles' incredible use of deep focus photography. In the end, Citizen Kane, by forming a life out of a collection of memories told in flashback, becomes a sad tale about the way we all lead our lives. Needless to say, the film should be seen by everyone.

night and fog

Night and Fog
d. Alain Resnais, 1955

As far as movies about the Holocaust go, Steven Spielberg's Schindler's List and Claude Lanzmann's Shoah are perhaps the two most famous ones. I never really cared for the former and have not found the opportunity to approach the 9 1/2 hour Shoah (though I do plan to.) With that said, I think I can safely say that Alain Renais' Night and Fog holds a very important place amongst movies of the subject. Made only 10 years after the war ended, Resnais' film is perhaps the first cinematic account of what went on in concentration camps. The film plays out like a visual essay, and it's influence can be seen in the films of Chris Marker (an assistant director on this film.) It'd be pointless to talk about the images in Night and Fog, as they are not the type of things to be communicated verbally, as the deft narration often points out. Without a doubt, this is essential viewing.

double indemnity

Double Indemnity
d. Billy Wilder, 1944

Billy Wilder's Double Indemnity is the definitive film noir, period. Sure, Fritz Lang laid the foundation with M (1931) and its shadowy compositions and high angles, and Orson Welles provided what is considered the last of the classical noirs with Touch of Evil (1958), but it's this Wilder masterpiece that stands above all others. First, Wilder used black-and-white photography as expressively as anyone else before him or since (Lang and Welles included), and John Seitz's impeccable cinematography in Double Indemnity is the perfect example of this. Second, Wilder's direction is as seductive as anything's that ever been filmed, but above all it's his writing that (justifiably) gets a lot of credit. In Double Indemnity, he collaborated with novelist Raymond Chandler - whose novels inspired Hawks' The Big Sleep and Altman's The Long Goodbye - on the screenplay, and I challenge anyone to find more perfect dialogue than is on showcase here. Lines like "How could I have known that murder could sometimes smell like honeysuckle?" and "I killed him for the money and for the woman. I didn't get the money... and I didn't get the woman." summarize the mood of Double Indemnity, and most of Wilder's work for that matter. And I haven't even talked about the story yet, as if it really mattered. Well, it's about insurance salesman Walter Neff (Fred MacMurray) and housewife Phyllis Dietrichson (Barbara Stanwyck) plotting to rub off Phyllis' husband for his insurance money. As the viewer gathers in the first scene, everything went wrong, and the film recounts the fascinating relationship between Walter and Barbara. MacMurray and Stanwyck are at their finest here, and they make up one of the most captivating couples in film. Right up there with Jean Seberg and Jean-Paul Belmondo in Godard's Breathless. And that's saying a lot.

the young girls of rochefort

The Young Girls of Rochefort
d. Jacques Demy, 1967

Jacques Demy's The Young Girls of Rochefort would be my own choice for the most enjoyable of all movie musicals. Demy's film is so formally astonishing it surpasses even the best Hollywood musicals from which it gains its inspiration; don't get me wrong, I love Singin' in the Rain and Gentlemen Prefer Blondes as much as the next guy, but there's something about what Demy and Michel Legrand - who wrote and conducted the music - do here that I've seen nowhere else. The Young Girls of Rochefort even manages to be more than an exceptional musical; it tells a universal story about missed and fulfilled opportunities. Critic Jonathan Rosenbaum compares it to Playtime in its portrayal of these connections, and it's easy to spot elements of Jacques Tati through Demy's film. The cast - which includes real-life sisters Catherine Deneuve and Francoise Dorleac as the young girls and Gene Kelly as an American musician - is all around amazing, and the choreography is as creative as any ever put on screen. Cinematographer Ghislain Cloquet (who also shot Bresson's Au hasard Balthazar) takes full advantage of the town of Rochefort, with the action being mostly centered around the town square. The Young Girls of Rochefort takes place over the span of a weekend, culminating in a fair on Sunday; the rest of the film is filled with characters trying to find the person that makes them happy, and through a series of occurrences eventually come to find them. In his review of the film, Rosenbaum also points out that though the film ends in a happy mood (everyone meets the person they need), what sticks with the viewer is the sense of dissolution (the path they had to go through to reach the person), as there are many sad moments throughout the film. Rarely has the screen been a place filled with such loveliness.

playtime

Playtime
d. Jacques Tati, 1967

Jacques Tati's Playtime is definitely one of the greatest films I've seen. I'm glad I was introduced to Tati through M. Hulot's Holiday (1953) and Mon Oncle (1958) before taking on this movie, as it's certainly his most ambitious film, and - in more ways than one - his best. Much like the aforementioned works, Playtime does not rely on dialogue or narrative to be efffective. Tati crafts his films around visual occurrences, rhythms, and intricate compositions and Playtime succeeds in every one of those aspects. Tati built a tremendous set called "Tativille" for Playtime, and I was blown away by how beautiful everything was. The huge modernist buildings with glass doors and windows must have been that much more astonishing back in 1967. Monsieur Hulot, the famous character acted by Tati himself, returns in Playtime, but plays a smaller role than in Tati's previous films. Instead, Tati gives us a cast of hundreds that include American, German, and French tourists that wander through the world he's created. I would go on about the way this movie has affected me, but I think it's the kind of film that has to be absorbed with as little knowledge as possible. As one of the most breathtaking films in history, Playtime is an unparalleled experience that I presume will get better with subsequent viewings.

P.S. I can not wait for the Criterion release of Playtime.

pee-wee's big adventure

Pee-Wee's Big Adventure
d. Tim Burton, 1985

I'm tempted to call Tim Burton's first feature film, 1985's Pee-Wee's Big Adventure, his best movie to date. It contains the irreverent style he has come to be famous for; which includes the extravagant use of set designs, music, and actors. Having never seen his show, Paul Reubens's brilliant performance as Pee-Wee Herman came as a surprise to me. The film's structure has a legitimate beginning and ending, but the great bulk is mostly a hilarious succession of comic gags that call to mind such geniuses as Buster Keaton, Charlie Chaplin, and even Jacques Tati. Burton makes a key decision in the film to use the set designs not as part of the story, but just elements by which to enhance the story (something a lot of directors don't do). A perfect example of this is the house Pee-Wee lives in, the opening sequence is so elaborate that it is astonishing Burton doesn't come back to it later in the film; he's brave enough to use this fantastic set for just this one scene and move on. The rest of Pee-Wee's Big Adventure is just as good, as we follow the title character's journey to find his flamboyant bicycle.

the company

The Company
d. Robert Altman, 2003

Robert Altman's enchanting ballet movie The Company is so good it may make me want to check out some more late Altman. His newest film, A Prairie Home Companion, is likable enough, but it lacks the masterful presence of this movie. Through almost two hours, Altman gives the audience a basically plotless portrayal of a ballet company. This may seem like a waste of time for some people, but The Company quickly turns from what could have been a standard ballet movie with a storyline to something more abstract, a celebration, not only of dance, but of making movies. For anyone willing to watch a beautiful film that's about nothing but the experience of watching it, The Company will not disappoint. (And if you like the ballet sequences in the film, I suggest you check out The Red Shoes, which is a more magical/fairy tale-ish take on dance).

the 5,000 fingers of dr. t

The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T
d. Roy Rowland, 1953

Easily one of the greatest of all children's movies, The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T also happens to be the only feature film written by Dr. Seuss, and it shows. The visual spectacle that the film provides is nearly unparalleled, especially when one compares it to the films kids are watching these days (Shrek is one that automatically comes to mind). The 5,000 Fingers is the kind of film that all children should enjoy, but anyone older should be able to recognize the technical genius if not connect with the glorious entertainment the film provides. It tells the story of a young boy, Bartholomew Collins, who "has only one enemy," his piano teacher Dr. Terwilliker, a European tyrant that makes Collins work like there was no tomorrow. One of the early sequences of the film shows him falling asleep, and most of the film is composed of Collins' Freudian fantasies as he deals with Terwilliker. In the dream, he's a madman with a plan to open an institution for 500 children (each having ten fingers, hence the title), where he will make them play and treat them like slaves. Not only that, but he plans to marry Collins' mother, who alrady is under Dr. T's spell. Through a series of wonderfully imaginative scenes, Collins and his plumber friend August Zabladowski have to find a way to stop Dr. T's plan. If this sounds like a standard kid movie, trust me, it isn't. Not only are the set designs and costumes completely out of a Seuss book, but the film's musical numbers - also of Seuss' lyrics - are quite astonishing (the dungeon scene alone is worth the ticket price). In short, The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T is one of the most glorious movies ever made.

In honor of the fantastic musical numbers of The 5,000 Fingers, here are my personal favorite musicals, in chronological order:

Love Me Tonight (Rouben Mamoulian, 1932)
The Red Shoes (Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, 1948)
The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T (Roy Rowland, 1953)
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (Howard Hawks, 1953)
The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (Jacques Demy, 1964)
The Young Girls of Rochefort (Jacques Demy, 1967)

night of the living

Night of the Living Dead
d. George A. Romero, 1968

To keep it short, George A. Romero's Night of the Living Dead is the most effective horror film I have ever seen, period. I am usually not very scared by movies, and even Romero's Dawn of the Dead (which I saw a long time ago) didn't frighten me. Some people have called Night of the Living Dead a political allegory for what America was going through in 1968, but I think that only understimates what Romero is actually trying to do, which is disturb the audience in a way that had never been done before. The story is quite simple, a brother and sister are visiting a cemetery to bring flowers to their father's grave. They see a man walking in a strange way around the cemetery - which is otherwise empty - without realizing that he is, indeed, the living dead. Barbara manages to get away and ends up in a farm house nearby, while the creatures gather outside the house. Romero introduces a couple more characters, and most of the film takes place inside the farm house. Not only was this an effective way for him to reduce the budget of the film, but it places it amongst the great claustrophic films (The Exterminating Angel and The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant), even if Romero is using this field in a much different way. The use of news reports was quite brilliant, as is most of everything else in the film, except for maybe the acting, but in a case like this I hardly think it matters. It all comes down to this: if you are looking for a horror movie, you won't do much better than Night of the Living Dead.

the exterminating angel

The Exterminating Angel
d. Luis Buñuel, 1962

The Exterminating Angel, one of Buñuel's very best, is arguably the key surrealist work of the cinema in the 20th century. The intensity of its images here is only matched by 1972's The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, the theoretical oppossite of The Exterminating Angel. The film begins with several servants to a rich family unexpectedly leaving their post; as the dinner party is about to begin, many of them make up excuses ("My sister is... sick") and make their way out of the enormous home. The guests enter the dining room and proceed to eat dinner as they chat indifferently about different subjects. Dinner ends and they move to the living room, where one of the guests plays one of her own pieces on the piano. Through some strange and unpredictable circumstance, the guests can't make their way out of the dinner party. For some reason or another they feel strangely compelled to remain in that room, and then we as the audience catch up to what Buñuel is up to. Layer by layer, he deconstructs the ideals of these people. It begins with their formal apparel, which they readily take off once it gets late in the night. Then it's proper etiquette, which surely does not include sleeping in your hosts' living room. Days (weeks?) go by and the situation only gets more complicated. One of the guests is seriously ill and eventually dies, rivalries arise, food becomes sparse, and the guests resort to breaking open a wall to find water. Out of this horrible, anarchic microcosm Buñuel crafts a brilliant comedy of manners and something that resembles a behavioral experiment more than a feature film. The brilliant final sequences of the movie, in which the audience watches as the cycle threatens to repeat itself, are quite something. The Exterminating Angel is a true masterpiece by one of cinema's greatest artists.