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.

rashomon

Rashomon
d. Akira Kurosawa, 1950

Kurosawa's first film to make it to the U.S., Rashomon, turned out to be a more modest picture than I had expected. Having only seen 1980's Kagemusha, I was looking forward to a more lavish picture. Instead, here he gives us a rather simple story told in a more dynamic way. The audience basically gets four different testimonies of what happened one day in the woods. The only fact that all four stories have in common is that a man ends up dead in each of them (through different circumstances). In essence, Kurosawa is talking to the audience about the nature of truth and how each person's point of view distorts events. This same principle would be explored by Sidney Lumet in 1957's 12 Angry Men, and Roshomon's evidence on that film is more than evident. Hugely important, if not as formally astonishing as I would have hoped.

m

M
d. Fritz Lang, 1931

Fritz Lang's M, the best of all serial killer movies, has not dated one bit 75 years after it was first released. It marks one of the high points of film as an art form; it's an infinitely fascinating portrayal of a criminal, visually astonishing, and subtly disturbing in its suggestions about the way we as a culture handle criminals. M is about the effects a child murderer, Hans Beckert (Peter Lorre), has on a German city. At first, it's mostly the police and parents of young kids who worry about the killer. But once daily raids start happening, the criminal underground of the city has to join, which is to say they need to protect their own right to committ crimes. The film's body is mostly concerned with switching back and forth between all the different perspectives. In one scene we see the police trying to figure out how to catch the murderer, in the next we see the criminals complaining, and next we might see Beckert looking at himself in the mirror or writing a letter to the papers. Everything leading up to the final scene of M is quite brilliant, certainly an amazing achievement in sound design, cinematography, and storytelling as whole. However, it's this final scene that qualifies M as one of the greatest of all movies. For the first time in the movie, the audience gets an extended sequence, and Peter Lorre delivers one of the great monologues. It takes place once the criminals have caught him, and they plan to sentence him to death"I have no control over this, the evil thing inside of me, the fire, the voices, the torment!" Beckert says. And, indeed, the moral ambiguity and irony of this final scene is one of the high points of M, a true masterpiece of cinema, and essential viewing for anyone halfway interested in anything.

naked lunch

Naked Lunch
d. David Cronenberg, 1991

There's really not much I can say about David Cronenberg's wonderfully strange and brilliant movie Naked Lunch. Having not read the Burroughs novel myself, I can't compare it to its source; but I understand Cronenberg took elements from Burrough's other works and from his life. The result is a spellbinding film that stands as a collection of short paranoid vignettes revolving around exterminator William Lee (Peter Weller giving a brilliant performance). The special effects - including the creature pictured above - are quite astonishing, as is the photography by Peter Suschitzky, who's shot every Cronenberg movie since 1988's Dead Ringers. In its devotion to its distorted narrative, Cronenberg may have crafted in Naked Lunch the definitive movie about drugs.

the killing of a chinese bookie

The Killing of a Chinese Bookie
d. John Cassavetes, 1976

John Cassavetes' The Killing of a Chinese Bookie is a more radical deconstruction of the crime genre than even Altman's The Long Goodbye, which came out three years earlier, and it's also a lot more satisfying than Polanski's overrated Chinatown. The Killing of a Chinese Bookie stands as perhaps the biggest achievement by one of the great American directors; Cassavetes' carefully constructed character study follows gentlemen's club owner Cosmo Vitelli (a brilliant Ben Gazzara). Shortly after the film begins, Cosmo loses $23,000 playing poker, which will eventually lead to the guys he owes the money to making follow through with the title action. Through his famous use of long takes and close-ups, Cassavetes makes the film more poignantly sad than most crime movies. Cosmo isn't the same type of two-dimensional character we've seen in endless film noirs, but a more flawed and complex character trying to live his life. After going through with the killing, Cosmo finds that he's been double-crossed and the gangsters are now out to kill him. Though particularly ambiguous when it comes to key points in the story (particularly the ending and his relationship to one of the strippers), The Killing of a Chinese Bookie manages to close off both its crime story and Cosmo's character arc on pretty good terms. This is one I'll be revisiting soon enough.

Note: I saw the original, 135 minute version, not the 1978 cut which runs about 108 minutes.

les fames du bois de boulogne

Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne
d. Robert Bresson, 1945

Robert Bresson's Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne comes at an interesting point in the director's career. It was only his second film and the style we have now come to know as Bressonian was not yet fully developed. Made in 1945, it comes six years before Diary of a Country Priest, a more "Bressonian" study. Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne, however, is an interesting film on its own right. It tells of the efforts of a conniving woman, Helene (Maria Casares), to set up her ex-lover, Jean (Paul Bernard), with a prostitute. Even its premise it sounds more radical than Bresson's later efforts, and this film resembles something like David Lean's Brief Encounter more than, say, Au hasard Balthazar. Bresson, the master filmmaker, begins here.

meet me in st. louis

Meet Me in St. Louis
d. Vincente Minnelli, 1944

Not much of a musical, but still quite a wonderful movie. Meet in St. Louis tells the story of the Smith family from summer 1903 to spring 1904. Each of the four seasons - all punctuated by a title card - brings about different problems for the family, most of them comical. In its nostalgic mood, the film recalls other works like Welles' The Magnificent Ambersons (sans Technicolor). Judy Garland plays Esther, the Smiths' teenage daughter who is in love with her next door neighbor, John Truett (Tom Drake). Late in the film, Mr. Smith (Leon Ames) receives news that he has been offered a better job in New York, which would mean the family leave right after Christmas day. As is to be expected, the family complains, mostly because they've been looking forward to the St. Louis Fair of next spring. In the end, everyone gets what they want. Rose, the eldest daughter, gets married, Esther ends up with Truett, and the family stays in St. Louis. But what else would you expect from an MGM family movie from 1944?

beyond the valley of the dolls

Beyond the Valley of the Dolls
d. Russ Meyer, 1970

It seems particularly arbitrary to write a review of Russ Meyer's Beyond the Valley of the Dolls. The movie is interesting enough, but it's so out there that no review can approximate its strangeness. Beyond the Valley of the Dolls is about a female rock group (The Carrie Nations) going to L.A. to make it big. The lead singer of the band, Kelly (Dolly Read), has a rich aunt in L.A. that is winning to give her part of the fortune Kelly's mother wouldn't take. The film then continues through the usual kind of plot points that one would expect from a film about rock music. People cheat on each other, there's a lot of drug using, and a couple of fights. The melodrama that's been building for a large portion of the movie culminates in the final 20 minutes of Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, perhaps the strangest of any film. These sequences are all the more eerie when the viewer recalls the opening credits, which had them playing behind them. After these irreverent and completly insane 20 minutes (in which several people die and someone gains the ability to walk again), the movie gives us a run through of what each character learned through the experience. Leave it to Roger Ebert - who wrote the film's screenplay - to critique the film before it's even over.

blue velvet

Blue Velvet
d. David Lynch, 1986

David Lynch's Blue Velvet is arguably the greatest film of the 1980s. Though the film is completely original, perhaps the best way to describe it is as a mixture of Last Tango in Paris' frank sexuality, Rear Window's unparalleled suspense, and Buñuel's brand of cinematic surrealism. Blue Velvet's tagline is "It's a strange world," and that's also the best way to approach the film. The viewer should be prepared to see some of the strangest scenes ever staged, but more than that Blue Velvet is about coming to terms with the strange world we live in. Through his highly stylized story, Lynch explores buried and supressed emotions that lurk beneath the surface. The audience has to relate to Jeffrey Beaumont (Kyle MacLachlan), a college student who comes home after his father has a stroke while watering the lawn. On the way back from the hospital, Jeffrey finds an ear and takes it to detective Williams (George Dickerson), a neighbor of his. A couple of days later Jeffrey goes back to his house to ask about the case, but Williams obviously can not release that kind of information. Sandy (Laura Dern), William's daughter, has heard some things from her father (her room is above his study), and she tells Jeffrey some things about the case. This leads him to develop a plan to sneak into a lounge singer's (Isabella Rossellini) apartment. Jeffrey, who was hiding in Dorothy's closet, is eventually discovered and she makes him strip for him with a knife in hand. Frank Booth (Dennis Hopper) shows up, Jeffrey goes back to the closet, and he sees Dorothy submit to a more violent version of the encounter they just had. Jeffrey figures out that Frank kidnapped Dorothy's husband (who's ear he cut off) and kid, and is now holding them hostage to "make her do things for him." By the end of Blue Velvet, the mystery is solved but by then Lynch and the audience know that's not the point. The power of the film lies in the weight and depth of individual scenes and the audience's reaction to them. Rossellini's performance here is quite astonishing, as is Hopper's frightening take on Frank Booth. MacLachlan and Dern are quite adequate, but it's just that the other two roles required so much more. Angelo Badalamenti's music is never short of amazing, and the modern noir score of Blue Velvet is no different. Badalamenti even makes a cameo appearance as the piano player at Dorothy's club. Frederick Elmes - who also shot Lynch's first film Eraserhead - photographs the small town with vibrant colors. Then there's Lynch, whose direction and writing are in top form here. By any measure, Blue Velvet is an amazing achievement.

two-lane blacktop

Two-Lane Blacktop
d. Monte Hellman, 1971

Nearly 35 after its original release, Monte Hellman's Two-Lane Blactop feels starkly modern. Other films of the time - even loved ones like Easy Rider - don't feel nearly as powerful as I imagine they were upon their release. Hellman's film, which is the complete opposite of most car/road movies, tells its story with very little dialogue and a rather thin plot. At the center of the film are a cast of lonely characters and all of the actors are quite astonishing (with particularly brilliant performances by James Taylor as the Driver and Warren Oats as G.T.O). Though I'm sure it's not really important, the movie is about Taylor and Oats driving cross country (Taylor with a mechanic and a girl who tagged along pretter early on, Oats by himself), eventually G.T.O challenged the Driver to a race to Washington, D.C., and he accepts on the condition that they race for pink slips to their cars. Soon enough, the narrative gives way to the more abstract part of the film, in which G.T.O and his lies become the saddest part of the film. Hellman really had something going here, and I demand a second viewing.

who framed roger rabbit

Who Framed Roger Rabbit
d. Robert Zemeckis, 1988

I'm not exactly sure why it took me so long to get around to watching Robert Zemeckis' Who Framed Roger Rabbit. Thankfully, the film lived up to its hype. It's terribly fun to watch, the way the filmmakers blend animations with live action scenes is quite astonishing. The film, for those of you who don't know, is a detective story that draws from elements of both Raymond Chandler and from films like Chinatown. The wonderful opening sequence shows Roger Rabbit (one of the craziest characters in the history of movies) rehearsing a scene from his later cartoon. His boss thinks the reason why Roger keeps messing up during the scene has to do with problems at home. He hires a detective, played by Bob Hoskins, to spy on Jessica Rabbit so he can convince Roger that she's cheating on him. Hoskins gets the evidence and Roger goes crazy. By the next morning, Marvin Acme - the guy who was allegedly having an affair with Jessica - is dead, and Roger is the prime suspect. The film then follows an intricate plot through a series of magnificent scenes which all come together in the end. The opening scene and the extended Toontown sequence are reasons to enough to watch the film. On any level, Who Framed Roger Rabbit is an awesome movie.

a hard day's night

A Hard Day's Night
d. Richard Lester, 1964

Richard Lester's A Hard Day's Night is loved by those who have seen it, but it is terribly underrated as a film. Lester would go on to make better films, particularly 1965's comedy The Knack... and How to Get It, but this is certainly his defining movie. At the time it was made, the Beatles were already superstars but not the icons that they are today, Lester had a very small budget for the film, so he had to incorporate the techniques directors like Cassavetes, Godard, and Truffaut invented. Lester's use of grainy photography, handheld cameras, and snappy editing is far more accesible here than it was in the films by the other directors, and it foreshadowed the change in the American studio system that would come about in the late 60s and through the 70s. The film, as everyone knows, follows the Beatles through a day in their life. The script, by Alun Owen, is quite funny and Lennon, McCartney, Harrison, and Starr are amazing here. Oh yeah, and the songs are pretty good too.

repulsion

Repulsion
d. Roman Polanski, 1965

Roman Polanski's nightmare of a film, Repulsion, is perhaps his greatest achievement, it's certainly more accomplished than his overrated neo-noir Chinatown. Repulsion belongs to a small group of films outside of Buñuel's ouvre that have the courage to have the free-form structure of a dream; these films include Albert Zugsmith's Confessions of an Opium Eater, Ingmar Bergman's Persona, Robert Altman's 3 Women, David Lynch's Eraserhead and Mulholland Drive, among others. Polanski's film revolves around the beautiful Catherine Deneuve (from Jacques Demy's glorious musicals The Umbrellas of Cherbourg and The Young Girls of Rochefort) as she conjures a lot of strange fantasies when left alone in an apartment by her sister, who went on vacation with her boyfriend. The film appears to have been a huge influence on Lynch's Eraserhead, in that they both observe how a repressed character functions in the real world (Lynch's character with the parents of the girl he got pregnant, Polanski's in the workplace) but ultimately focus on the time they spend alone in their homes. Frightening, poignant, and ultimately quite disturbing, Repulsion is an unnerving piece of work.

l'avventura

L'Avventura
d. Michelangelo Antonioni, 1960

Michelangelo Antonioni's L'Avventura ("The Adventure"), arguably the most startling of modern films, has had so much written about it that it seems kind of pointless to throw out more superlatives. Nevertheless, watching L'Avventura has surely been one of the highlights of my movie-watching experience, and there are plenty reasons to try to seek out this classic. First of all, it is certainly a beautiful film. Antonioni's stark, black-and-white compositions are in top form here, and he uses plenty of exotic locations (particularly the opening island and water sequences) to contrast the detached mindset of his rich characters. Plot doesn't really play a big part in the film, to the viewer it registers more like a series of haunting portrayals of modern ennui. But briefly, the film follows some rich couples as they go on a boating trip to some island. Anna (Lea Massari) wanders off from the group and is never found again, the rest of the couples move on as if nothing ever happened. Her boyfriend, Sandro (Gabriele Ferzetti) quickly makes advances on Anna's best friend, Claudia (the beautiful Monica Vitti). That's pretty much all the story in this 145-minute film. But it's not as if it ever gets tedious, Antonioni's mastery of the form guides the fascinated viewer along effortlessly. For all its brilliance, L'Avventura still falls short of Antonioni's 1962 film L'Eclisse ("Eclipse"), which also stars Vitti as a young woman in the midst of existential crisis. For whatever reason, if you ever want to see the most artistic and beautiful portrayals of modern ennui ever put on film, rent L'Avventura and L'Eclisse.

a prairie home companion

A Prairie Home Companion
d. Robert Altman, 2006

I haven't really kept up with Altman's recent films. I worship the movies he made in the 70s and his comeback films from the early 90s, The Player and Short Cuts, but I haven't seen anything he made after that. That is, until this year's A Prairie Home Companion. Altman, who is now 81, still knows how to make a pretty good movie. The overlapping dialogue is there, the undercurrent of sadness is there, but there seems to be something missing from this film. I'm not really sure what it is, but it has something to do with the feel of his 70s movies. Of all the Altman films I have seen, none of them have a sentimental ending, but A Prairie does. It's that, along with several other missteps, that keep this film from standing alongside his better stuff. The film itself is very enjoyable, it follows the backstage antics of the last radio show of "A Prairie Home Companion." The audience gets several interesting performances by such diverse actors as Lily Tomlin (who starred in Altman's Nashville 31 years ago), Meryl Streep, Woody Harrelson, John C. Riley, Lindsay Lohan, and "Prairie Home Companion" veteran Garrison Keillor (who also scripted the movie). Now about those missteps, the whole thing with Virginia Madsen being an angel was rather superflous (was Altman thinking of Claudia Cardinale in Fellini's 8 1/2), and the Kevin Kline charatcter, though sometimes very funny, did not need to be the string holding the movie together. Still, I recommend the film, but anyone interested in Altman needs to seek out his earlier stuff (the Museum of Fine Arts is screening California Split in late July). Is this film as good as Altman's previous musical-driven movie, Nashville? Of course not, but that would be like saying "Well, Match Point isn't nearly as good as Annie Hall." It isn't, but we should be grateful to have such great directors still amongst us. And if Robert Altman never makes another movie, A Prairie Home Companion will be a fitting swan song.

three times

Three Times
d. Hou Hsiao-hsien, 2005

My only hope for watching Hou Hsiao-hsien's latest wonderful film Three Times again is that it is magically released in Houston. Either that or waiting for a DVD, but it's not remotely the same thing. At least the copy I saw of it was quite nice (import DVD quality), but this is truly a film that needs to be seen on the big screen.

Three Times is essentially three different films that revolve around the same two actors (Shu Qi and Chang Chen) in three different time periods: 1966, 1911, and 2005, in that order. The first part, subtitled "A Time for Love," tells the story of a soldier who falls in love with a girl who works at a pool hall. When he returns not to find her there, he searches all over Taiwan, and the section concludes with a lovely shot of them under an umbrella while it's raining, holding hands.

The second part ("A Time for Freedom"), the saddest of the three, takes place in 1911 and this time Shu is a concubine and Chang is a journalist. She wants to be freed (married) and he is too busy writing about his revolutionary ideals to really notice her. While the first section ends in hope, this part, which plays out like a silent film (title cards and all), ends with a shot of Shu crying, and Hou's compositions highlight her trapped environment.

"A Time for Youth," the concluding segment, takes place in modern day Taiwan and follows a bisexual rock star and her male photographer lover. The sequences in this final segment are particularly hypnotic and it may be my favorite of the three. It is in some ways also the darkest, with Shu's clingy female lover committing suicide and implying that another of Shu's lover has done so before. This last part ends the same way it begins, with the detached couple, Shu and Chang, riding in his motorcycle down a busy street. There is some symmetry between the three parts; the first ends in happiness, the second in sadness, and the final segment in utter indifference and ennui.

Three Times has a lot to say about the nature of relationships and the different barriers between people. Each of the three "times" could stand as its own great, if short, film, but the overall experience of watching the three segments is really something exceptional.

the discreet charm of the bourgeoisie, the phantom of liberty, that obscure object of desire

The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie
d. Luis Buñuel, 1972

In my opinion the greatest thing Buñuel ever made, 1972's The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie is truly a surreal masterpiece. It has all of Buñuel's signature aspects, including the matter-of-fact storytelling method, surreal images, and the assumption that the entire movie makes more sense if you think of it as a dream. It follows three rich couples as they find that they are not able to sit down for dinner. Brilliant scene after brilliant scene, Buñuel fights the bourgeois ideals that he was raised under, showing the true hypocrisy of human "progress."

The Phantom of Liberty
d. Luis Buñuel, 1974

Buñuel's most free-form film, this 1974 gem is perhaps his most audacious exercise. The basic structure of the film is that it follows one character through some strange incident where he comes across another character, which now becomes to the story's focal point, and so on until we've come so far from where we've started that all the audience can do is look back and reflect on Buñuel's formal mastery of the medium. Each of the surreal sequence is magnificent, and in each of them Buñuel is again challenging the accepted values of society.

That Obscure Object of Desire
d. Luis Buñuel, 1977

The last film Buñuel ever made, 1977's That Obscure Object of Desire, still showcases his trademark brand of filmmaking. He was almost 80 when he made it, but you wouldn't know it by watching the film, which is so full of intellectual wit and poignant satire that it could just as easily be the first film by an up and coming director. A great examination on the reasons why humans are instinctively drawn to one another, and the perils and charms of being attached to another person. The car blowing up at the beginning of the film could be seen as the summary of Buñuel's savage poetry.

in a lonely place

In a Lonely Place
d. Nicholas Ray, 1950

One of the greatest of all film-noirs, Nicholas Ray's In a Lonely Place is a very special film. It features Humphrey Bogart in easily his greatest role (yes, better than Casablanca) it's also perhaps Ray's greatest film along with Johnny Guitar. In a Lonely Place is the story of a tough screenwriter named Dix Steele (Bogart) who at the beginning of the film takes a waitress home to read a book he has to adapt for him. She leaves his house and is found dead the next day. Being the last known person to see her alive, they call him into the police station. They also call in his neighbor Laurel Gray (Gloria Grahame), who says he saw her say goodbye to the waitress and get right into his bed. It is obvious that she is partly lying, but she trusts Dix entirely and eventually they begin seeing in each other, despite the suspicion of the police officers. Throughout the whole movie more and more about Dix's violent side is revealed; he beats up a young man who comments on his driving, he almost chokes Laurel, and suddenly the trust between them is so strong. By the end of the film, in which everything is resolved, Ray gives us a final, infinitely sad, shot of the Bogart walking away. Yes, everything is resolved. But for Laurel and Dix it is much too late.

the bitter tears of petra von kant

The Bitter Tears of Petra Von Kant
d. Rainer Werner Fassbinder, 1972

My favorite Fassbinder film, The Bitter Tears of Petra Von Kant, may also be his most underrated. Amongst mainstream film critcs, 1974's Fear Eats the Soul or The Marriage of Maria Braun are the most talked about. A lot of web critics prefer 1978's masterpiece In a Year of 13 Moons, but The Bitter Tears is the one that, for me, showcases the reasons why Fassbinder is one of the great modern filmmakers. It is certainly the most rigorous example of his visual style, as it all takes place in the title character's apartment. Adapted from his own play, Fassbinder structures the film with only four major scenes, and it runs about two hours long. The first scene introduces to Petra Von Kant, a famous fashion designer who mistreats her assistant Marlene. A friend of Petra's, Sidonie, comes to visit her and she brings her model friend, Karin, along. Petra invites the aspiring model for dinner, which will be the second scene. At the end of the second part, Petra convinces Karin to move in with her and they seem like they will be very happy. But this is a Fassbinder's film, and the third part shows us how their relationship has gone sour and Karin no longer listens to Petra, she even goes as far as leaving her for her husband. The last, and best, scene of the film shows Petra's breakdown as she comes to term with her loss. We see her mother and her teenage daughter for the first time. The final heartbreaking scene is truly breathtaking. The Bitter Tears of Petra Von Kant is claustrophic family melodrama at its finest.

the dreamers

The Dreamers
d. Bernardo Bertolucci, 2003

Bernardo Bertolucci, the director of Last Tango in Paris, revisited the events of May '68 with his 2003 film The Dreamers. The first time I saw it, I was rather enchanted by it. What cinephile could resist a movie that contains so many movie references? Everything from Tod Browning's Freaks to Jean-Luc Godard's Band of Outsiders is mentioned in the film (for a purpose), and the soundtrack (Hendrix's "Hey Joe," The Doors' "The Spy," Bob Dylan's "Queen Jane Approximately" among others) is equally charming. However, subsequent viewings made me see the faults of the film, most notably the obvious romanticizing of the era, the lack of focus on Theo's (Louis Garrel) sexuality when Isabelle's (Eva Green) and Matthew's (Michael Pitt) are so thoroughly explored. Oh yeah, the film is about an American student, Matthew, who meets twins Isabella and Theo in Paris. They all love movies and they invite him to stay at their apartment for a month since their parents will be out of town. Trouble ensues. The one thing that doesn't wear off about The Dreamers is the knowledge that Bertolucci is one of the great painters of modern cinema. The scenes in the film are so delicately composed that it makes me want to forget the problems I had with the film. Nonetheless, problems there are. Oh, but what a lovely film this could have been.

P.S. Louis Garrel's father, experimental filmmaker Philippe Garrel made a film about the events of May '68 (as a response to Bertolucci's film) called The Regular Lovers. It has not screened in Houston but I hope to watch it in the near future.

y tu mama tambien

Y tu mamá también
d. Alfonso Cuarón, 2001

Alfonso Cuarón's 2001 film Y tu mamá también is a rarity amongst film dealing with teenagers: it's funny, smart, and poignantly sad. Cuarón tells his story with an incredible amount of economy, leading the audience effortlessly through a landscape of difficult subjects while keeping them interested at all times. The beautiful grainy photography is beyong extraodinary, and the way Cuarón chooses to compose his shots reminded me of Antonioni. The script, which Cuarón wrote with his brother, is wonderfully effective and fells infinitely more real than the myriad of American teen comedies released around the same time (most notably the horrendous American Pie). As far as genre conventions go, Y tu mamá también would have to be defined as a road movie, and it works great as one. On one level it's a coming-of-age story of two teenage boys at the hands of an older woman, it's also about the way youth tends to block out the issues of the outside world, and finally it's about dealing and coming to terms with death. Y tu mamá también is a magnificent film indeed.

sunrise

Sunrise
d. F.W. Murnau, 1927

In my opinion the greatest of all silent films, F.W. Murnau's Sunrise a film of great beauty. Murnau came to Hollywood to make this film from his native Germany, where he had created such works as Nosferatu and The Last Laugh. Great as those early films are, Sunrise is easily his greatest achievement and a summary of everything there is to admire about the lost art of silent film. Starting of with a rather simple story of marital discord - Man betrays his wife, plans to kill her, backs out, must redeem himself - and turns it into expressionistic poetry. In its striking montages, Murnau foreshadows the work of directors like Jean Cocteau as well a masterpieces like Charles Laughton's The Night of the Hunter (which may be the only film that approximates the wonderful feel of this movie). As beautiful as any film ever made, Sunrise (subtitled "A Song of Two Humans") is a landmark of cinema.

vertigo

Vertigo
d. Alfred Hitchcock, 1958

For the most part, it isn't very hard to write about films. During the viewing process one develops certain opinions on different aspects of the movie. But, every once in a while, there's a movie that eludes criticism. For me it's usually the films I love the most. It's more difficult for me to explain why I love, say, Jules and Jim so much than why I admire the work of John Cassavetes. The same goes for Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo, which has been my favorite movie for quite some time. Yes, I can watch it endlessly, but what about is so captivating and mysterious that it seems to tower above all other films?

I'm not exactly sure that I'm yet ready to answer that question, but this "review" will serve as a series of reasons to why I cherish this film. First, it's certainly one of the most beautiful color films ever made, and Hitchcock's visual style has never been better. Everything from the famous zoom-in as the camera is pulled back right down to the final shot is absolutely incredible. Then there's the unforgettable Bernard Herrmann music, and Vertigo's is arguable his best score.

Briefly, Vertigo is about Scottie (James Stewart), a retired detective who is hired by his old college friend Gavin (Tom Helmore) to spy on his wife, Madeleine (Kim Novak). That's pretty much all one should know before watching Vertigo for the first time, as it features some of the craziest plot twists in the history of movies.

There's a fantastic sequence in Chris Marker's essay film Sans soleil where he revisits several places Hitchcock used Vertigo, Marker talks about the film's ability to represent something he calls "impossible memory," referring to the way Madeleine knows so much about someone she should never have met. There are a lot of questions left up to the viewer at the end of Vertigo, some that are never really answered, no matter how many times you watch it (Marker has seen it 17 times according to Sans soleil).

Basically, every film lover has a movie that for them summarizes all the reasons why they love film in the first place. Without a doubt, Vertigo is that film for me. And if I can't articulate my reasons for it, then maybe it's only appropiate.

mccabe & mrs. miller, the long goodbye, california split, nashville, 3 women

With Robert Altman's recent honorary Academy Award and his new film, A Prairie Home Companion, out in theatres, I thought I'd look back on Altman's most productive decade, the 1970s. I can't think of another American director who had a better run than Altman did between 1971 and 1977. Great film after great film, and they are as follows:

McCabe & Mrs. Miller d. Robert Altman, 1971

McCabe & Mrs. Miller is my favorite Altman and also, in my opinion, the greatest western ever made. Few films are able to establish such an overwhelming sense of mood and location as this post-modern anti-western. The film is about two people, John McCabe (Warren Beatty) and Constance Miller (Julie Christie), who are not really able to communicate with the outside world. McCabe because of his own insecurities and fears, Mrs. Miller because of her opium smoking. As one of the most beautiful yet saddest films ever made, Altman's ethereal McCabe & Mrs. Miller is a melancholy poem and one of the key American films of all time.

The Long Goodbye d. Robert Altman, 1973

Altman's deonstruction of the crime genre is truly an amazing piece of cinema. Elliot Gould is exceptional as Raymond Chandler's Phillip Marlowe, and Altman takes Chandler's source material and turns it into a film that is definitely his own. At once funny, frightening, suspenseful, and elegiac, The Long Goodbye could be the definitive post-modern exercise of the decade.

California Split d. Robert Altman, 1974

The Museum of Fine Arts will be screening this film in late July, which will be a great opportunity to see Altman's 'Scope compositions on the big screen. Easily one of his best, California Split is in my opinion one of the best movies ever made about gambling. George Segal and Elliot Gould star as the gamblers who go from happy go-lucky pals to being involved in a desparate attempt to win back their money. Truly a heartbreaking (but as with all of Altman's, fun) portrayal of the utter emptiness of vices.
Nashville d. Robert Altman, 1975

One of Altman's most beloved films, Nashville takes place over the course of a weekend in the title city right before a Presidential primary. A film about a diverse group of characters go bump into one another through a series of brilliant scenes, this may be the most perfect example of Altman's signature style: overlapping dialogue, long takes, and an ironic sense of humanty (which crescendos on the final scene). Wonderful performances all around, which includes the singing a lot of these actors did for their role. In essence, Nashville is a film about America.

3 Women d. Robert Altman, 1977

If it weren't for McCabe, 3 Women would have to be my favorite Altman movie. Certainly his strangest film, it resembles something like Ingmar Bergman's Persona (an obvious influence on Altman) than the earlier movies he made. The film is about the relationship between 3 women (you don't say!) brilliantly played by Shelley Duvall (who wont Best Actress at Cannes for this film), Sissy Spacek (Badlands), and Janice Rule. 3 Women is an amazing, if indefinable, film that everyone needs to see; one of the key films of the 1970s.

before sunrise, before sunset

Before Sunrise
d. Richard Linklater, 1995

Perhaps I didn't approach Before Sunrise the way it was actually meant to be seen. I saw this and its sequel on the same day, so, for me, the confusion people must have felt at the end of back in '95 was never really there. With that said, I don't know that that really diminished my viewing experience, and Sunrise is a great film. Having seen Dazed and Confused and Waking Life prior to this, I sort of knew what to expect. I was looking forward to watching a film that depended largely on conversation and not so much on plot, I was expecting some pretty long organic takes, and I knew I would not be disappointed. But my expectations, though all were met, did not prepare me for the nuance and power of Before Sunrise. Easily one of the great romances in the history of the movies, the film catalogues the first encounter between Jesse (Ethan Hawke) and Celine (Julie Delpy), as they meet on a train to Vienna. He's the American guy touring Europe on his way to catch his plane, she's riding the train to Paris where she lives. After a spirited conversation, he convinces her to leave the train and walk around Vienna with him until he has to board his plane (at Sunrise). The film follows them around town as they talk about everything from dreams, to their past, and everything in between. The staggering amount of lovely scenes in Before Before make it worth the time even if it didn't have anything to say about the nature of human connections. By the end of the film, it becomes pretty obvious that Jesse and Celine have fallen in love. But being the optimistic young people that they are, they decide to meet in the same place 6 months later without exchanging phone numbers or any contact information. Sunrise ends with separate shots of each of them; it is shocking, because by this time we are not used to seeing them without each other.

Before Sunset
d. Richard Linklater, 2004

Like I mentioned earlier, I saw Before Sunset immediately after being blown away by Sunrise, and there was no way the sequel (made 9 years later) was going to approximate the power of the original. However, 5 minutes into the film it becomes pretty obvious that everyone involved in the film (from Hawke to Delpy to Linklater) have grown over the 9 years, and have learned how to make a better, more thoughtful and mature movie. Sunset begins in Paris, Jesse is doing a book-signing for the novel he just wrote about the night he spent with Celine in Vienna 9 years earlier. Celine, who lives in Paris, comes to the bookstore to meet him, and they spend the subsequent 80 minutes (the film plays out in real time) walking around Paris figuring out if they are still as in love as they once were. They are now more mature and have a seemingly different and more realistic perspectives on life. And if the connection is there even 9 years after they first met, both of them act as if nothing is going to happen between them again, they are much too settled in life for such a change. A synopsis of the film--2 people walk around Paris for 80 minutes--seems rather dull, but let me just say that this is one of the most exhilarating of all recent films (certainly one of the best of the decade thus far). Linklater's direction is invisible here, as Jesse and Celine stroll down the streets of Paris through long, elaborate shots with a seemingly weightless camera following them. The script, which Linklater worked on with Hawke and Delpy, is even better than Sunrise's, mostly because the characters are now more intelligent and perhaps have more experiences behind them. On the surface Before Sunset a simple love story between two individuals, but on a deeper level it becomes about everyone who's ever encountered someone they felt they had some kind of connection with. And deeper still, beyond the perils of romantic relationships, it's a surprisingly deep examination on the nature of time. Before Sunset exceeds its predecessor on level, which is saying quite a lot. Few films are this exquisitely divine.

the blood of a poet, orpheus, testament of orpheus

The Blood of a Poet
d. Jean Cocteau, 1930

Cocteau's first film, The Blood of a Poet, could be seen as the birth of the cinematic avant-garde movement. Other notable films of this period include Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dali's Un chien andalou and the work of Dziga Vertov. Cocteau's film, a 50-minute exploration of what it means to be an artist, may the most radical and beautiful of them all. As a series of striking unforgettable images, The Blood of a Poet is quite astonishing. But I prefer the more artful reading of the film, in which Cocteau (not only a filmmaker, but a poet, writer, painter, and boxing promoter) laid out the simple outline of the perils of being an artist. To my eyes and my ears The Blood of a Poet registers like a poem.

Orpheus
d. Jean Cocteau, 1949

The most linear of the three, Orpheus is to many Cocteau's best work. It takes the old Orphic myth in which a Greek musician recedes to the land of the dead to find his lover. There, Hades agreed to let her back to the world of the living on the condition that he not look at her. Cocteau's adaptation keeps the basic structure, but he brilliantly adds his own personal touch. There is a love triangle between Orpheus, his wife, and Death. It's also a beautiful portrayal of the culture of the time.

Testament of Orpheus
d. Jean Cocteau, 1960

Cocteau's final film is also the most free-form narrative of these three films, as it features Cocteau revisiting several stages of his career. Closer in its theme to The Blood of a Poet, Testament of Orpheus serves a final goodbye to one of cinema's greatest figures, and a final poignant examination on the relationship between the director and his films. The film has appearances by Cocteau's friend, Pablo Picasso, the cast of Orpheus, and French New Wave icon Jean-Pierre Leud.

pickpocket

Pickpocket
d. Robert Bresson, 1959

Pickpocket, one of Bresson's very best, may very well the definitive Bressonian film. His technique, which many have tried to imitate, is in top form here; everything from his framing, editing rhythms, meticulous sound design (which includes the sparse use of music), right down to the final heartbreaking moment of true emotion.

Michel (Martin La Salle) is a pickpocket who is caught right at the beginning of the film. The police let him go - for they have no evidence - and he goes on with his activities without the slightest hint of guilt. Being a thief for Michel is not only a way for him to survive without having to get an actual job, one look at his eyes and the audience knows that he is looking for a true human connection. Bresson makes this very clear in the last few sequences, with Michel basically asking to be caught.

Over the course of Pickpocket, Michel also falls in love with Jeanne (Marika Green), who took care of his mother before she died. Jeanne constantly tried to convince Michel to go see her, but his arrogance (or maybe his guilt) kept him from ever actually speaking to her. Though it is obvious that Michel loves Jeanne from the first time they meet, the same insecurities that drove him to being a thief keep him from being able to connect with people. It isn't until the last shot that the audience, and Michel himself, can feel that there is hope for human connection even the most detached of enviornments. Pickpocket, along with Hiroshi Teshigahara's Woman in the Dunes (which also incorporates elements of Kafka and Sartre), may be the closest thing we have to Camus on the screen.

breathless to weekend

Breathless
d. Jean-Luc Godard, 1960

Godard's first film and to many his best. Quite revolutionary and could be seen as the starting point for modern cinema. Belmondo and Seberg make up one of the best couples in the history of cinema. Fast-paced storytelling and post-modern existential crime story.

A Woman is a Woman
d. Jean-Luc Godard, 1961

Very enjoyable musical beautifully shot in 'Scope. Anna Karina's performance is reason alone to seek out this film. But if you really want to see a brilliant French musical, seek out either Jacques Demy's Umbrellas of Cherbourg and The Young Girls of Rochefort.

My Life to Live
d. Jean-Luc Godard, 1962

Once again, Karina's performance is the highlight here. My Life to Live could very well be Godard's most poetic film, the editing rhythms are quite entrancing. The scene with Karina crying after watching Dreyer's The Passion of Joan of Arc is heartbreaking.

Contempt
d. Jean-Luc Godard, 1963

One of Godard's very best. A brilliant examination on why movies are important in the first place. Godard may be going to far by saying that cinema is more important than everything else, but it's still a brilliantly constructed movie. Fritz Lang playing himself, Brigitte Bardot and Michel Piccoli playing a detached couple, and beautiful color cinematography. One of the great movies about making movies.

Band of Outsiders
d. Jean-Luc Godard, 1964

In my opinion the best thing Godard's ever done. Odile (Anna Karina), Sami Frey (Franz), and Claude Brasseur (Arthur) make up one of the great love triangles in the movies. On the surface a post-modern exercise and reworking of Hollywood B-movies, on a deeper level a beautiful life-affirming statement about the world we live in.

Alphaville
d. Jean-Luc Godard, 1965

Never really understood this one and I definitely should watch it again. From what I remember, it seemed like a pretty interesting take on the sci-fi genre. Karina, once again, was great.

Pierrot le fou
d. Jean-Luc Godard, 1965

Perhaps the most captivating couple in all of Godard's movies, Karina and Belmondo drive the movie. The movie is a series of misadventures, and I remember most of them being quite amusing. As this is one of Godard's most revered films, it certainly warrants a second viewing.

Masculine-Feminine
d. Jean-Luc Godard, 1966

Another one of my personal favorites. Chantal Goya plays a pop-star and the iconic Jean-Pierre Leud plays the intellectual young man, the epitome what I imagine someone from the 60s to be. One of Godard's most playful films, it's the best film ever made about "the kids of Marx and Coca-Cola."

Two or Three Things I Know About Her
d. Jean-Luc Godard, 1967

The first Godard film I ever saw, and I didn't particularly respond to it immediately. Upon some thinking, however, a very visual satire on the American way of living. One of Godard's most complicated films, and perhaps it wasn't the best choice for me to be introduced to him. I urgently need to re-watch it.

Weekend
d. Jean-Luc Godard, 1967

This film, which closed off Godard's New Wave period, is perhaps his most anarchistic. Weekend is closer to the late work of Buñuel (particularly The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie and The Phantom of Liberty) than to Godard's earlier stuff. There's a wonderfully long tracking shot that spans about ten minutes and chronicles a long line of traffic. As far as Godard's work goes, this rigorous shot is only matched by 1972's Tout va bien.