Admirable Self-Restraint

See, I could have made use of a famous line from a corny song from Van Halen as my topic heading. But I didn't. So props to me for possessing so much self-control.

Props to me for another reason as well: here I am, in the Old Country, still bringing bloggy goodness to my faithful readers. And where is Left Thumb? I'll tell you where he is. He's on the computer. Right now. (No really, he is. He knows it, too, because he is reading this). And yet when was the last time we heard so much as a peep from Left Thumb?

January. It has been almost a half a year. Soon enough this blog will have to be renamed One Thumb Sideways. That will be dissapointing.

Since his last post, I have found myself in Europe. Doing some recon work for a secret organization, in fact. So secret, I haven't even found them yet. Think about that.

And with half of my reconaissance done, I report: The U.S. owns Europe like a sack of potatoes. (Not literally, of course. Literally, China owns both the U.S. and Europe. But that is besides the point).

What is the point? The point is that whatever adventurous, entreprenurial spirit that once existed here, that formed the Dutch East India Company, that sent millions of men (most of whom died) on voyages into the beyond to see what was there, that crossed oceans and challenged countries to duels and didn't back down from anything...

Well, that spirit is gone. There is a reason these people didn't invent the automobile. Or the plane. Or go into space. Or get to the Moon. Or invent the computer. Or the cell phone. Or, pretty much anything.

When I first arrived, the yearnings of many-a-Canadian to re-attain the lifestyle they wish they had never given up made some sense. The evenhandedness, the calmness, the prettiness... all very charming and you could see yourself lying in a hammock, reading a book by Spinoza or Sartre for the rest of your life.

And then about one week in, something funny happened. I woke up. I had fallen asleep. Not a bad thing, mind you. We need to sleep, spiritually, mentally, physically, grammatically, and so forth. But after about a week of charming prettiness, I wanted adventure and beauty and struggle--or at least something beyond the purely quiescent facade that Europe portrays. (By the way, I refrain from calling Amsterdam beautiful because it isn't. It is possibly the prettiest thing I have ever seen.)

Once upon a time these people did amazing things. Now, they seem to go out of their way not to. Americans might not be able to agree on anything, but at least we do stuff (and believe me, we do stupid things. Stupid, stupid things. But it is better to fail catastrophically one day and do something great the next than to never do anything at all). While we engaged on the greatest journey man has ever journeyed, what were Europeans doing? Yeah, I don't know either. They were probably just watching us ride missiles to the Moon. I would.

But perhaps the most amazing thing about this revelation is how easily it came. I haven't exactly spoken to every Amsterdammer. You can just tell. I am almost getting the sense that the French aren't so much unique as that they are extreme. They surrender no matter what. But other Europeans seem to have lied down in front of the rails of time, if not invaders. They don't seem too worried about being human. They set out to erase any differences among humans while people in Russia, the U.S. (and more recently, China) have been attempting to be humans. Maybe the Russians failed to get to the Moon (losers!) but at least they tried. The rest of Europe sat there like the fat white cat from SPECTRE, comfortably ensconced in a position of safety as they let real adventurers do all their work for them.

I wonder if the British are the same way. They are Europeans but they sailed the seas triumphantly, they helped win WWII, they have James Bond... Perhaps the English Channel was a sufficient buffer to keep the tendrils of European self-contentedness at bay. I suppose I'll have to go there to find out.

And I bet you Left Thumb still won't have written a post by the time I get there, either.

~Right Thumb~

Number 1: Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back (1980)

It gave us Darth Vader.

No one seems to remember this, but in the original Star Wars, Darth Vader was a glorified General Greivous. He followed Grand Moff Tarkin’s lead, seemed to be in command of little more than a Star Destroyer, and suffered an ignominious, embarrassing last act as he barely avoided destruction at the hands of a pathetic band of Rebels.

Then, in Empire, he becomes the Dark Lord of the Sith that gives women and children nightmares (he’d give men nightmares, but he killed them all). He’s smarter than the Rebels, stronger than the Rebels, and he definitely has a cooler ship than the Rebels. To top it off, he has his own theme music, which is all the more sensational for the fact that it doesn’t sound cheesy. He deserves it.

But why? Some would say that it is because he begins his choking spree early and doesn’t let up. But I say that the times in which he doesn’t kill underlings speak in stentorian voice. Anyone can kill incompetent minions—doing it from afar with the Force is a nice twist, but it’s a novelty that wouldn’t have lasted past Blade Runner, much less into the next century.

Vader kills Admiral Ozzel because Ozzel is “as clumsy as he is stupid.” He kills Captain Needa because Captain Needa somehow manages to let a ship too small for a cloaking device escape at short range. Vader never kills Admiral Piett. He points his finger at Piett and tells him not to fail again, as opposed to breaking his windpipe into twenty pieces. Then, Piett does fail again, as the Millennium Falcon makes its triumphant jump into hyperspace. Vader, again, does not kill Piett.

A mindless automaton kills everyone who doesn’t succeed. The most feared man in the galaxy lets Piett live because Vader needs smart, able men like Piett, and Vader can tell the difference between smart, able men and not-so-smart, not-so-able men. Vader is terrifying not because his evil nature overwhelms you but because his evil nature doesn’t overwhelm him. His emotional need for results does not overcome his intellect. Much as Lucipher is unencumbered by emotion yet hates us all as perfectly as a being can hate, Vader is a thinking, discerning, careful villain.

The Shot.

The other half to Vader’s ascension into villain legend was the fact that he now looked like a villain. A strange comment when Vader’s actual physical appearance changed little, if at all. But twenty degrees on a camera, a few decibels and a lighting change can vault your career one way or the other, and Irvin Kershner was the best thing to happen to Vader since James Earl Jones overcame his stuttering problem. The most recognizable difference between the original Star Wars and Empire is in the cinematography. Vader was the biggest beneficiary.

In the original Star Wars, Vader was usually seen in sterile medium shots, talking to another officer or excogitating about Obi-Wan in a well-lit corridor with a banal background. In Empire, we see him prowling the bridge of his ship, with all the officers in CIC-wells, literally below him. We see him storming through Hoth, assured of his own invincibility, a vortex of blackness and death cast against the shockingly white snow and the uniforms of his accompanying troopers.

And then we get The Shot.

A smart person once remarked of main characters: “You can’t kill them, but you can hurt them.” After spending some time literally torturing the main characters, Vader comes as close to killing Han Solo as you can—right in front of Han’s recently confessed lover. There are alternating tones of dark orange and blue, as hot and cold fight a duel to the death for the camera space. And it is dark, and the music begins, and the machines start moving and growling, and the hissing vapor clears just enough for us to catch a glimpse of Vader’s face, rising ever so slightly in a nightmarish close-up that would still be haunting my REM cycles if it weren’t so gorgeous. That shot made Vader. Vader made the movie.

“I know.”

Of course, part of what makes all of that work is the fact that the good guys are getting the living crap beat out of them, and we care quite a bit about the good guys. It seems so simple to make heroic characters likeable, but if it were, there would be more good movies. The history of cinema is littered with failed projects and broken down attempts that evince how difficult it is. The Matrix died a quick death when the novelty wore off and no one could remember why they were supposed to give a crap. One subpar performance was enough to fatally compromise the third Godfather.

But Han Solo? We care about him. Not because he asks for it, but because he doesn’t. He refuses to be somebody else, even when the movie is screaming for him to do so. He could have said anything, but he said the only thing Han Solo would say. Take this out of context and it all seems sillier and more absurd than the Batman and Robin. But you can’t take it out of context. The movie does not let you. Empire doesn’t ask for you to suspend your disbelief. It asks for you to believe.

Han Solo and Boba Fett.

Jesus once said that if you aren’t for Him, you are against Him, and vice versa. It makes sense when you consider that at its root, evil is nothingness. Hell is an absence, not a something. If you are doing nothing, you are doing more to subvert the Divine Will than anyone. You are either helping, hurting, or hurting in the worst way.

So much of our culture today is obsessed with exactly the opposite idea. We have come to believe that it is almost impossible to help or hurt. Rational Choice Theory tells us voting is pointless. Giving to a charity might help with taxes, but ending world hunger takes international organizations, not individual contributions. It makes our decisions defensible. They won’t do much anyway. So we witness a culture replete with examples of anti-heroes, guys in the grey area, character studies where good or evil seem impossible to truly attain…

Empire takes the opposite approach. In this galaxy, you are either a good guy or a bad guy. Some don’t wear an insignia or a rank badge, but they still picked their side. Han Solo is a mercenary. He worked for Jabba the Hutt. Boba Fett is a mercenary. He worked for Jabba the Hutt. But Han Solo is a hero, and Boba Fett is most certainly a villain. A very, very, very, cool villain, but a villain all the same.

It isn’t enough to say that you don’t want to get involved in the universe of Empire. You can’t stand on the sidelines. When Lando Calrissian attempted to do that—“I’ve done all I can. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more but I’ve got my own problems!”—did anyone mistake him for a Shades of Grey administrator who has his own neck and the safety of his city to worry about? Of course not. Because he was doing nothing, and that was almost worse than Fett. Some might say that these considerations only become relevant in crises, and that Empire involves the greatest crisis of all—massive warfare between good and evil. The fact of the matter is that the world is a crisis, and has been for millennia.

Han and Boba are the antithesis of each other (except in how cool they are. There, they are just very, very, very cool. Very cool). They are the coolest guys in their camp (did I mention how cool they are?), they always have tricks up their sleeve, and neither would mind staying out of the whole Empire/Rebellion thing. But neither can and they pick their side. Some would decry this as facile or puerile or indulgent. I call it true. We all know Han Solo, we all know Boba Fett. They might not be indigenous to Corellia or wear Mandalorian Armor in real life, but they still pick their sides. Each decision we make aligns us with one of them.


“Nobody wins.”

Empire is famous for being one of those rare movies where the bad guys win. I have never understood this. Do any of the Imperial officers look very happy in their last scenes? Does Vader seem particularly satisfied? The truth is that nobody wins. The Empire destroys the Rebels’ base on Hoth but fails to inflict massive losses due to clumsiness and stupidity. Luke finds Yoda but fails to complete his training due to not keeping his mind on where he was and what he was doing(!). Han, Leia, Chewie and C-3PO escape Star Destroyers and TIE Fighters to find themselves in the belly of a Space Slug. They escape that only to find more Star Destroyers. They hide effectively in the garbage only to be trailed by Boba Fett. They find succor on Cloud City only to find succor fleeting. Vader traps Luke in a trap so well sprung that he has his son in the perfect position—only his son decides to jump off a cliff.

No one wins in Empire. No one gets to rest. Because Vader never rests, neither can Luke or Leia or Han. Because evil never rests, neither can we. I swear on my two Boba Fett T-shirts, Empire Strikes Back more closely mirrors reality than most documentaries.

The Duel.

Roger Ebert (who has a great quote regarding Empire that will be relayed shortly) does not quite fully appreciate the duel that is the climax of the film. From a guy who I do not always agree with but I always understand (and really, that’s all you can ask of a critic) this is the rare moment where I do not understand what on earth he is talking about.

This duel is simply outstanding. Vader using one hand. Luke showing he isn’t a pushover. The cold blue, the menacing red, reflected in the lighting and in the lightsabers. The escalating stages. The astonishing scene where Vader simply throws everything and the kitchen sink at Luke as his theme song blares, and the power of Vader’s evil is so clearly evinced. Luke surviving by a catwalk that probably shouldn’t be there, but was. Vader simply letting loose, as his rage and fury control him until Luke’s hand comes off. And then, of course: “No, I am your father.”

Vader as Luke’s father parallels a million myths and religions—not the least of which is the notion of Original Sin—but philosophy is for later. Now, let’s just mention that James Earl Jones thought this was a misprint in the script, or that Vader was lying, or that… something. All of the sudden the universe matters. Before, it was good guys and bad guys and you wanted the good guys to win. Now it was clear that a whole lot more than that was and is going on. Luke rushed headlong into his duel with Vader much as we rush headlong into the film—expecting cops and robbers. Then he gets his arm chopped off because he had no idea what he was doing.

How many times have we all done the exact same thing, only to find out that our parents/teachers/elder siblings/Obi-Wan-figure really did know that of which they spoke? How betrayed and stupid and self-loathing do we feel when we realize the magnitude of our mistake? “Oh, so that’s why we weren’t supposed to eat the damn apple…”

Luke fought valiantly but he simply wasn’t ready, and it cost him more than just an arm. Most of us don’t suffer such physically dramatic consequences in real life, but they are no less real.


Claustrophobic Cloud City.

The special effects in Star Wars receive profuse and prolific laudation, and justly so. But there is an undercurrent of dismissal in most of the praise, as if to imply that the effects are great and that is all there is. But the effects are not mere window-dressing. One of the great injustices of the Special Edition Abominations that receives less attention than most is the “sprucing up” of Cloud City.

Part of the irony in the original Empire was that this city in the clouds seemed claustrophobic. There was little but white-washed corridors, few windows, and seemingly nowhere to go except into deeper, darker, more mechanized rooms where bad things happen.

In the “Special” Edition, Cloud City is open, vibrant, and altogether inviting. This defeats the point. Originally, Cloud City mirrored the movie—this was a fantastic city in a fantastic universe that should have been idyllic, but there were hints that beneath it all laid a rotten core where heroes went to die (or at least be frozen). Now, it’s just… another place. But the original knew what it was doing, anyway.

“Asteroids do not concern me, Admiral. I want that ship!”

George Lucas has never been known for snappy dialogue. Or any other kind of dialogue, for that matter. But whoever wrote the script for The Empire Strikes Back (it was Leigh Brackett and Lawrence Kasdan) got quite a bit of help from the underlying themes that make this film so powerful. On any other screen, with any other character, in any other situation, such a line would be a throwaway at best, an embarrassing declaration at worst. But in this situation, it speaks to underlying philosophy of Star Wars: individuals matter.

As we see later in the movie, the asteroid field completely destroys at least one Imperial-Class Star Destroyer (in another of the film’s superb moments: immediately after this shot they cut to Vader speaking with a group of ship captains by hologram. One throws up his arms and disappears. Vader doesn’t even flinch), and probably severely damages many more. Yet Vader finds this stark reality less important than finding one measly ship.

The amazing thing is that he doesn’t even want the ship. He doesn’t even want the ship’s occupants. He wants to use them to find someone else. In other words, Vader puts his entire fleet at risk to capture not his intended target but his intended target’s friends. Such is the gravity of the situation, in his view.

As will be proven in the third movie but is already obvious in Empire, Vader is not miscalculating. Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, Leia, Vader, the Emperor—these individuals are more important than whole fleets. In just about every mythology, you have specific individuals who determine the fates of empires. Somewhere along the way, we decided this was silly. Why? We turned our fates over to social forces and faceless masses. We dragged down leaders and replaced them with abstractions that inspire no one. I have some ideas as to why we did this, but I suppose this is not the forum. Regardless, it was, is and will forever be an idiotic move on our part. Vader doesn’t make the same mistake. Just thought I’d point that out.

All of the Qualities.

Empire seems to capture all of the great qualities of my favorite films. It celebrates the meaningfulness of the individual, the uncomfortable reality of right and wrong, the difficulty there is in finding that reality, visual splendor, iconic characters—it is all there.

The Empire Strikes Back has the same impact on me now that it did when I was seven years old, and back then I had never heard of a long take, 70mm film, or the auteur theory. Some might say it is merely nostalgic weakness that leads one to choose as a favorite a film which you were watching and enjoying when you were in single digits. Even outside of the fact that I was watching and enjoying 2001: A Space Odyssey at that time (thanks for that, Dad), the point is that it says something that this movie doesn’t require the jaded cynicism of old age. Men are just failed children, and I think Empire emphasizes the wonder and awe which the universe provides, while avoiding the temptation to say it is all easy. And it is a wonderful universe. And it isn’t easy.

“Watching these movies, we're in a receptive state like that of a child--our eyes and ears are open, we're paying attention, and we are amazed.”

Ebert said that, and he’s right. Do I need to watch Taxi Driver or Five Easy Pieces to be reminded how base the world can be? Umm, I don’t think so. But do I need to be reminded of why life is kind of important, and why the universe is worth living in? I think I do, and I think all of these movies do that. That’s why they’re my “favorites”, and I’ll watch them until I die.

Or become a Star Child.


~Right Thumb~

Number 1.5: What Didn't Make The Cut

A Quick List Of Some Notable Movies That Did Not Make The Top Eleven

Apocalypse Now: This has some of the most startling scenes ever put to celluloid, and you'd be hard pressed to find a weakness. The depressing nature of the story doesn't bother me, either. I think Vertigo's tenuous grasp on the eleventh spot is more challenged by Apocalypse Now than any other movie.

The Princess Bride: Consider it an honorable mention.

The Seventh Seal: You can only handle so much Ingmar.

Citizen Kane: Ironically enough, another Orson Welles movie actually came closer...

Touch of Evil: One of the best shots of all time opens this classic noir, and the tale of skullduggery, moral crises and Charlton Heston's absurd attempt at being Mexican make it an incredibly entertaining work of art. But Charlton Heston as a Mexican really cannot be allowed on this list.

Wall-E: I do love this movie, but 2001+Blade Runner give me my sci-fi fix, so...

A.I. Artificial Intelligence: Another very difficult movie to set aside. Again, though, 2001 is so overpoweringly, mindbogglingly, flabergastingly good that if forced to leave out a sci-fi film, it is less painful. And then when I need another sci-fi film, I have Blade Runner, which would be the greatest sci-fi film ever if it weren't for that nasty ol' bully.

It's a Wonderful Life: It isn't Christmas year-round, unfortunately.

Chinatown: Heh. Yeah, right.

Tokyo Story: Great, great film. Probably one of the best ever made. But I could see getting bored if I watched it too many times. Same goes for Rashomon.

Yojimbo: I very badly wanted this on the list. But alas, there was simply no room for a second Western with 19th century Jedi.

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly: Another great film, and another marathon, but I don't like Westerns enough to give them a real spot. They get a half a spot from No Country. Once Upon A Time in the West, The Searchers, Rio Bravo and Red River were left off for the same reason.

Shane: I didn't want to put any outrageously overrated, outmoded, silly, boring, hackneyed movies on my list, so I left this one off. It was a tough call.

Schindler's List: Another marathon epic of high repute, but this isn't the kind of movie I think of as a "favorite". Sort of like the Passion of the Christ, it is "important" but I don't necessarily want to watch it fifty times. (Although, if I live to be seventy, I will have watched the Passion fifty times, because I watch it every Good Friday...)

Double Indemnity, Out of the Past, In A Lonely Place and a host of other spectacular noirs: I love them. But I can't have all of them, so I took the best two (did you notice how Chinatown wasn't one of them?)

Ben-Hur, Spartacus, and other classic Hollywood epics: I have just never been that impressed by these. Sorry.

Every Kubrick film that isn't on the list: Simply no room. I could put Dr. Strangelove, Paths of Glory, the Shining and The Killing on the list without any compunction. And A Clockwork Orange was highly interesting if difficult to endure. But I mean, you run out of spots, even for Stanley...

The Piano: If this were a list of the worst films ever conceived, I suppose it would have been a shoo-in...

The Sting: Marvelous movie. But it isn't exactly unique, and most of the films on this list are, to my eye. (Of course, if you have a list only harboring "unique" films, then you are completely missing out on the putative "non-unique" genus, which seems to defeat the whole point, but I digress...)

Pulp Fiction: Couldn't put Tarantino on here.

Aguirre, Wrath of God: Another great, but if I put this on, I would have had to put Apocalypse Now first, even though Aguirre came first. Another stunning opening shot, though.

8½: Fellini is awesome, but a movie about a movie seems like a cop out on a favorite movie list.

Night of the Hunter: Was an honorable mention. Then I realized I needed to keep this thing from growing completely out of control… (Of course I failed anyway, but…)

On the Waterfront: I really have no excuse for this one…

Field of Dreams: Oh how I wanted to get this one on. Just couldn’t find room…

This is Spinal Tap: If nothing else, the list is at least inspired by Nigel’s amp.

Into Great Silence: Monk smut.

The Insider, Master and Commander: Wouldn’t have minded having the best actor of a generation on here twice, but how to choose between those two?

Casablanca: Great love story, great Bogey, great lines, but nothing visually virtuosic about it.

Miller’s Crossing, Fargo, Blood Simple, A Serious Man: Awesome Coen feats, all. But none are as good as No Country, and that’s that.

Raiders of the Lost Ark: I couldn’t have Harrison Ford in every movie on my list...

A Man for All Seasons: This is another killer. I suppose if I had to invent a reason why it isn’t on the list, I’d say that as inspiring and amazing as it is, I don’t exactly enjoy seeing Thomas More get his head cut off. (And yeah, some wiseacre could respond that you actually don’t see him get his head cut off…)

Le Voyage dans le Lune: This is absolutely one of my favorite movies. If it were more than nine minutes long, it would have been #1. You’re the man, Georges.

Up Next: If You Don't Know By Now...

~Right Thumb~

Number 2: 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)

The shape of things to come.

Among its approximately 18,904,867 layers of subtlety and brilliance is 2001’s dramatic use of shapes. There are straight edges and there are curved surfaces. There are rectangles and spheres. There are parallel lines in Euclidean space, and the curving parallels of the cinematic equivalent of non-Euclidean space—the wide-angle lens. And since it is The Greatest Movie Ever Made, it all means something.

It is no surprise that in Kubrick’s magnum opus, humanity has lost itself. Yet 2001 shows not what we might become but rather the constant struggle. There is an ebb and a flow, and 2001 shows the ebb of human creativity, and more importantly, human activity. Machines have become the thinkers and doers. They are safer, more reliable, more comfortable, less prone to “human error.” And they are all very round. The space station, the Moon vessel, the Discovery, HAL’s eye, the pods—all share in common a lack of edges. There are no sharp cuts. There is no right and wrong. It’s all just a slippery slope of gray and banality.

On the other hand, the Monolith has nothing but edges. It refuses to provide comfort. One must decide when one looks upon it. It brings the cutting edge, and with it, responsibility. It brings progress, and with it, hardship. It brings knowledge, and with it, sorrow.

As Dave Bowman needs to overcome the computer HAL, what does he have to do? He has to somehow transfer from his round pod into the Discovery through means of a not-round door.

In the final sequence, as Dave lives a lifetime before our eyes, we see numerous lines—on the ground, in the walls, etc. At first, they are all shot in wide-angle, bending and curving and providing no edges or breaks. Then the monolith shows up, and in a violent, wrenching shift of perspective, the wide-angle is gone. Every line in the room is straight, every edge is sharp, and Dave Bowman’s mind is ready to take a giant leap for mankind.

Watch 2001 sometime, just looking for the use of shapes, and what is shaped like what. You will not be disappointed.

42.

2001 is 42 years old. This seems important, as the funniest sci-fi story of all time and the greatest converge into a weird synergy for a year. Just thought I’d point that out.

42.

2001 is forty-two years old. It is almost as old as the Super Bowl. It is older than Disney World. It is almost as old as our President. And it looks gorgeous. Only one shot in the entire film appears dated: one of the satellites in the early exposition shots. The rest not only have aged well, they have improved relatively as the quality of special effects everywhere else continues to plummet. While movies like The Matrix, Independence Day, Titanic (this list could go on forever, I’ll just stop it there) were forgotten mere moments after they became famous, 2001 looks as stunning as it did yesterday and the day before that. 2001 would have survived even had its effects aged poorly, because the movie does not rely on its effects in the same grotesque manner that many of today’s “science-fiction” films do. But the fact that its effects have aged so well is a stunning testament to the ability of visionary directors to achieve a lasting product that won’t simply make $700 million dollars and then be forgotten.

And there is more to that than mere technological innovation. If the effects serve the film, you tend to take them as part of a whole and your mind fills in what it needs to fill in. If the movie serves the effects, the effects are all you notice. The moment that they aren’t the hippest, newest, most garish technology around, they stick out like Sophia Coppola in the Godfather Part III.

Food.

One of the reasons 2001 is impossible to explain succinctly (I gave up trying a long time ago) is because it deals with everything. Everything important to mankind is treated in some way. God, nature, exploration, murder, identity, and of course, man’s physical needs—more specifically, food. The apes are dying for lack of it and kill to defend it. The men at Clavius eat sandwiches on their way to observe the excavated monolith. Frank and Dave are constantly eating. Dave is even eating in the bedroom Beyond the Infinite. Even more fundamentally, we require oxygen. The men on the Moon require spacesuits to observe the Monolith. The astronauts in hibernation need it even in their suppressed state. Frank certainly needs it when his supply is cut by HAL. Dave needs it when he forgets his helmet and must innovate in order to outwit HAL.

The Star Child, on the other hand, doesn’t. After all, Man does not live by bread alone.

The Narrative. My God, the Narrative.

Man falls, is sent prophets, and finally, a Redeemer. I could be talking about the Bible. I could be talking about 2001.

For a movie with about 73 spoken words (I exaggerate, but not by much), it weaves a narrative that can be understood both in the personal, literal, individual sense and in the cosmic, metaphorical, human sense. The fact that it so adeptly meshes the two should not be a surprise. Each of us lives a life every bit as important as Dave Bowman’s. We just forget somewhere between waking up and the first cup of coffee.

Up Next: What Missed The Cut And Why

~Right Thumb~

Number 3: The Right Stuff (1983)

Who’s The Best Pilot You Ever Saw?

“Who was the best pilot I ever saw? Who was the best pilot I ever saw? Well, I’ll tell you, I seen a lot of them. Most of them are pictures on a wall, back at some place… that doesn’t even exist anymore. Some of them are… right here in this room, and some of them, are still out there somewhere, doing what they all do, going up each day, in a hurtling piece of machinery, putting their hides out on the line, hanging it out over the edge, pushing that envelope and hauling it in.

“But there was one pilot I once saw, who I think truly did have… the right—Aww, who was the best pilot I ever saw? You’re looking at him!”

Gordon Cooper, the last of the original Mercury Seven to fly, is portrayed much like I think most of the astronauts probably behaved—as a cocky, arrogant, egotistical son of a bitch. Yet to get into a rocket with a bomb underneath it waiting to push you out into space takes some kind of soul, and I think Cooper probably had that as well, along with the other astronauts. In one of the last scenes of the movie, reporters ask Cooper who was the greatest pilot he had ever seen. Cooper comes within a fraction of giving the answer before remembering his public image, stopping, smiling and giving the expected, narcissistic response. It is moments like these—which never let up—that make The Right Stuff more than just a movie about our journey into space. Any movie about that journey has a ludicrously unfair advantage on a list of my favorite movies, but The Right Stuff would have made it anyway. Enemas, bathroom trips on the launch pad, sperm tests, horses, pictures on a wall, humming, more horseback riding, John Glenn and LBJ—the moments never end.

True Story.

The movie tells the truth. It is nearly impossible to believe, but it all happened. Chuck Yeager did break his ribs by falling off a horse right before he broke the sound barrier. He did hide it from his superiors, who would in fact have pulled him from the mission had he not. “Slick” Goodlin did turn down the opportunity because they would not pay him $150,000. Yeager did need a sawn-off broom handle to close the hatch of the Bell X1. It compresses a few things as necessary, but few actual details were altered. And the movie is three hours long. That’s a whole lot of truth.

“That is a spacecraft, sir. We do not refer to it as a ‘capsule’. Spacecraft.”

Those who believe the astronauts simply rode machines into space or, metaphorically, rode the NASA program to the Moon in a passenger role, need to get a lobotomy and start over. As with all great history, the effort and sweat and tears of millions was needed to make something happen, but individuals decided what would happen. John Kennedy set the stage, Frank Borman saved the space program, Neil Armstrong kept himself from pulling “abort”, and if it weren’t for the Mercury Astronauts, a generation of kids would have grown up bored by the notion of “capsules” being sent into space. The guys at Grumman worked too long each day for too many years. Lunar-orbit rendezvous had to be dreamt up by someone. And someone had to pony up the cajones to be the first American spacewalker. The Right Stuff hails the power of the individual, and does so in a realistic, awe-inspiring manner. Any movie capable of this is worth watching, again and again and again.

Up Next: The Greatest Movie Of All Time

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Number 4: Barry Lyndon (1974)

(Editor’s Note: I get a bit combative on this one. Be prepared. Too few people appreciate Barry Lyndon, and for the worst reasons imaginable. This irks me. Ergo, I respond with ire.)

Most films lie 24 times a second.

Barry Lyndon paints 24 portraits. I really have no idea what else to say about this movie (well, we all know that isn’t true). Watching it is like walking through the Louvre, the Metropolitan, and the Sistine Chapel at the same time. Every frame is perfectly composed; each blade of grass seems obsequious to Stanley’s will. It is as if the universe said to him: “You have 300 days. Make me look good.”

Any film that uses cameras developed by NASA is going to have my approval, but to belittle it by claiming that a mere technical innovation allowed Barry Lyndon to flourish would be criminal. Charles Dickens it is not quite, but never has a movie been able to overcome a “weakness” like Barry Lyndon. The story is still very good. I do not think the beauty would matter if it weren’t. I think the story was meant to be slightly less captivating than The Sound and the Fury. It is almost as if Kubrick is asking us how we can care about dialogue and plot points and philosophizing when we have this to look at.

Mind Only Matters

Cold. I am told Barry Lyndon is cold. Unfeeling. Unfeeling!? Are you kidding me? How can you watch this movie and not be transfixed? Have you no intellect?

There is an absurd idea that has crept into modern culture, which more or less states that your heart should be telling you what to do. This has given us lots of sappy, emotionalist nonsense (and it gave us emo; if you are inclined to consider agreeing with this insanity of modern times, remember that it forced emo upon us) and led to a lot of bad policies and dumb decisions and recessions. Making decisions with our hearts is why we tear down a tree full of life of all kinds so that we can build a little dog house for our “adorable” puppy. Making decisions with out hearts got us into Iraq and it made Slumdog Millionaire an Oscar winner. I’m not sure which of those two things is more insultingly irrational.

The point here is not merely to pontificate, though I do love doing so. The point is that when you watch Barry Lyndon, your mind should be ordering your emotions into ecstasy. So the main character failed to grab your heart—who gives a rabbit’s foot?! Your head should be telling you that this is one of the most beautiful things man ever created. If you want to legitimately argue (I’ll split my infinitives when I want to split them, thank you very much) about the merits of Barry Lyndon, I’ll listen. You’re probably wrong, but I’ll listen. If you argue based on some nebulous, “emotional” impact, all I can say is that Slumdog Millionaire is thirteen dollars on Amazon. Enjoy.

Up Next: You Can't Screw This Pooch

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Number 5: L.A. Confidential (1997)

The Spacester

Kevin Spacey either was born to play this role, or he is a ridiculously talented actor. I am told the latter cannot be true (I am never told why, but I am told) so he must have been born to play this role. His cocky indifference and smooth coolness seem so natural that I would be shocked to meet him and discover he is neither of those things, even though I am fairly certain he is neither of those things.

While every character in L.A. Confidential is well-written and superbly acted, Jack Vincennes is the Han Solo of film noir. He doesn’t remember why he became a cop, he doesn’t do a very good job of it, but there’s something about him…

Too Sordid, Not Sordid Enough

If the Maltese Falcon is not the best film noir ever made, L.A. Confidential probably is. Chinatown can suck it. (Films noir might not have to be constantly pitch black, but it does benefit, from, you know, a bit of “noir” now and then, which Chinatown fails to provide.)

Some people don’t like L.A. Confidential just because it has a happy ending. I would first argue that any movie ending with fifty-odd more people dead than when it began is not meeting a very stringent requirement for “happy”. Secondly, I would argue that this garbage about every movie needing to be moody and lugubrious and macabre from beginning to end is nonsense. Schindler’s Freaking List is sometimes denigrated for being too hopeful. Film critics must comprise an utterly depraved, depressed bunch, which can’t imagine meaning or realism in any narrative that doesn’t involve rape and drugs and evil winning the day (not that L.A. Confidential doesn’t involve rape and drugs and evil.)

And I am sure a large contingent of non-critics believe that L.A. Confidential is an acid trip for the reprobate, full of nothing but licentiousness and vice from beginning to end. G.K. Chesterton had a line about the Catholic Church being derided by some as too liberal and others as too conservative. I don’t remember the line, but it was a good one. I’m sure it would apply analogously here, as well. If I could remember. Dangit.

The Click of a Shotgun

I find gunfights to be tedious. They get absurd very quickly, they seem staged at the best of times and hackneyed almost all of the time. It takes talent to make a good gunfight. Curtis Hanson directed L.A. Confidential. Based on his filmography, I would never have guessed he had talent but for this movie, and these gunfights. When the click of a shotgun echoes from underneath the floorboards, I think my head exploded. The movie had already convinced me. I was already sold. The majestic shots of light filtering in through bullet holes, complete with Tyndall’s effect everywhere (Tyndall has to be one of my favorite names ever, if only for the effect which is named after him) had already won me over, and yet the moments continue.

At some point in The Godfather, viewers watching for the first time have to wonder: how many more timeless quotes are coming? But they never really stop. L.A. Confidential is just like that, but with shots and sounds instead of lines.

Though the lines are pretty good, too.

Up Next: If I Told You What The Movie Was, The Movie Would Approve

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Number 6: The Godfather, Part II (1974)

“You have two stories here, and neither one works without the other.”

Although George Lucas disappeared in 1984 to be replaced by an evil alien with an abnormally large chin whose sole purpose is to spit on the memories of beloved franchises, once upon a time the guy could write, direct (sort of) and at the very least speak intelligently. That was his quote to start. He was referencing the #6 movie on this list, the Godfather, Part II.

I don’t think I need to explain why I love the Godfather (this seems to be one of those movies where you get it or you don’t), but explaining why I like the second one more than the first might be worthwhile. It starts with the two stories—Eisensteinian dialectical composition taken to the absolute extreme. Instead of two separate shots that create a new meaning, or two intercutting scenes that create a new idea (although Francis Ford Coppola does also adore such cross-cutting), The Godfather Part II gives us two whole movies that, juxtaposed, create a whole new meaning.

Think about it: without either story, the other makes no sense. Robert DeNiro’s admittedly spectacular Vito Corleone is a bit of a louse. Sure, he loves his family, but a lot of guys love their families. Michael Corleone is apparently a complete reprobate, beyond all redemption, slowly sinking into ever deeper circles of Hell. Put the two together, and it’s like mixing NaOH and HCl; instead of two caustic compounds you get salt. Instead of two pointless, depressing stories, you get a cautionary myth of epic proportions.

Almost everything else about The Godfather and Part II can be roughly compared: great narratives, great violence, great Italian accents, great acting, great lines, great beginnings, great endings. I’m not saying I would complain if I had to watch the original. But with Part II, you get two for the price of one.

If No Godfather, No Wall-E

This isn’t a rationale for my love of these movies, but just as an exercise, let’s look at how different cinematic history would be without The Godfather.

First off, simply, the careers of Pacino, DeNiro, Keaton, Duvall would have been completely different if they happened at all. American Graffiti would never have happened, as it was only Coppola’s suddenly golden name that allowed George Lucas and he to get funding for it. Without American Graffiti, there is no Star Wars. Without Star Wars, say good-bye before you even say hello to Harrison Ford’s career, which probably means no Indiana Jones. Also, no Industrial Light and Magic. No THX (no sound effect before movies!) More importantly, no Pixar, which Lucas would later sell to Steve Jobs before it eventually became what it is today. So no Toy Story, Monsters Inc., Wall-E, Up, etc. Apocalypse Now never happens. Blade Runner probably never happens. And, while we would have had the Wilhelm Scream (it being first recorded for 1951’s Distant Drums, and then re-used for Private Wilhelm in 1953’s The Charge at Feather River) it was only Ben Burtt’s re-discovering of it for Star Wars that made it famous, and in fact Burtt is credited with christening the scream.

And that’s off the top of my head. Needless to say, The Godfather was important.

(On the other hand, without The Godfather, we would have been spared Jake Lloyd and Hayden Christiansen. Let’s call it a wash.)

Up Next: Always hush hush.

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Number 7: No Country for Old Men (2007)

Note: The following contains massive spoilers. You have been warned.

A review I wrote a while back:

“The wages of sin is death.”

We have a problem with this phrase because it doesn’t appear visibly true. Great sinners don’t get struck by lightning. Saints too often find the world an inhospitable place. But while Paul was undoubtedly referring to death of the soul in Hell, there is still a place for the literal. Sometimes we just need a visceral reminder, and No Country for Old Men is nothing if not visceral.

Llewellyn Moss (Josh Brolin), a Vietnam veteran who can weld anything able to be welded, stumbles across a drug deal gone wrong in the desolate landscape of the proverbial West. He finds bloody bodies, lots of drugs, but no money, no “last man standing”. He tracks a line of blood to a spot a few miles away. Two trees stand on a hill. Under one is a dead man and an apple in the form of two million dollars. Llewellyn takes a bite.

Meanwhile, the indefatigable (that word was created for the Borg and Anton Chigurh) villain, Javier Bardem as Anton Chigurh, is introduced to us as he strangles a police officer with the handcuffs on his wrists. Chigurh unemotionally steps over the myriad scuff marks on the floor. He uses the cop’s car to pull over an unsuspecting driver, and Chigurh uses a cattle gun to procure the new vehicle. The cattle gun is the earliest indication of Chigurh’s Lucipher-esque opinion of humanity.

Sheriff Ed Tom Bell, played by Tommy Lee Jones, opens the film with a voiceover about old time sheriffs and guys so tough they didn’t even carry guns. Then he asks what they would have done in modern times. Soon enough, he is investigating the drug deal catastrophe and the puzzlingly vacant cash. The chase is on as Bell tracks Chigurh, and Chigurh tracks Moss.

It isn’t so much a man hunting Moss as it is guilt. Moss tries to hide from Chigurh; that doesn’t work. He tries to run, even fleeing to Mexico. That doesn’t work. Eventually he gets the bright idea to kill Chigurh. Like so many before him, Moss loses in a battle with Hell.

At one point in his slow march of carnage Chigurh stops at a gas station. For some reason, Chigurh is irked by the owner of the gas station. It might be the fact that he married into the house out back. It might be the fact that he asked Chigurh a superficial question. Whatever the reason, Chigurh eventually makes it plain that the man’s life rests on a coin flip. “Call it.” The man does, and he wins his life. But one wonders if he lost his soul.

After giving Moss the option of forking over the cash to save his wife—Chigurh won’t tell Moss he can save himself “because he can’t”—and being rebuffed, Chigurh goes through the same coin flip routine with Moss’s wife, telling her it is “the best he can do”. Perhaps the only virtuous character in the movie, she tells him the coin flip has nothing to do with it; it’s just him. Chigurh walks out of the house and wipes the blood off of his boots, but Karla Jean Moss was the only one who survived Chigurh—she refused to fight.

The aging sheriff, the only character in the movie with the right or duty to take Chigurh head on, follows after him with reticence. It isn’t the possibility of losing his life that scares Bell; it is the possibility that his life, his profession, his life’s work, is obsolete. He doesn’t know where to go or how to fight something so implacably evil that it would kill hotel desk clerks because they were inconveniences.

Chigurh is as inexorable as the devil, but even the devil needs to know where to look. A tracking device in the satchel of cash is pulling Chigurh along. The devil needs a sin to get his claws into you. Once he does, you get nightmarish, late-night visits from a guy with a silencer on a shotgun. On a shotgun. The Coen brothers (who adapted the screenplay, produced and directed) create scenes as well as anyone, and the several battles between Moss and Chigurh reek of compunction, fear, and more than anything, inevitability.

And Moss is no simpleton. He is resourceful, tough and quick-witted. He uses tent poles to hide the money, can fashion a sawed-off shotgun with ease, knows when to move onto the next hotel and dresses a bullet wound with dexterity. His braggadocio in believing he can defeat Chigurh—“What’s this guy supposed to be, the ultimate badass?”—is not entirely unfounded. But like Adam and Eve, he does not know who he is dealing with. The best description of Chigurh is in response to a question regarding how dangerous he is: “Compared to what? The, uh… bubonic plague?”

And, of course, the bubonic plague was often believed to be, and is still used as, a symbol for the devil. No Country for Old Men comes from a Cormac McCarthy novel, and it doesn’t waste words.

Along that line, the sheriff’s closing monologue is every bit as probing as the opening. In effect, the sheriff is the character we can identify with. He knows what he needs to do, to an extent, but doesn’t quite do it. Yet he knows his father would have, and his dreams haunt him.

The Coen brothers have long been obsessed with characters of seemingly preternatural evil—from the terrific “Barton Fink” to the pitiable “Raising Arizona”—but only when they took the supernatural out of their villain did they achieve something actually resembling ultimate evil. Chigurh is frightening because he isn’t riding a motorcycle or stampeding through hallways. He kills with a coin flip. And most fail to realize that the stakes are higher than one’s life.

Atheists or Saints

The Coens are one or the other. Their most recent film, A Serious Man, has been derided as an anti-religious satire. I saw the film. I actually went to the theater and watched it. I have no clue what the people deriding it as such are talking about.

Except I suppose do. If I were a fundamentalist Protestant, I would probably take it as an attack on religion. It questions certainty, simple answers and above all it questions those who refuse to question. None of that is anti-religion but it is anti-fundamentalism.

Similarly, No Country for Old Men has been cited as a movie fairly certain God can’t exist. I have also seen No Country for Old Men. I went to the theater to see it. I have watched it many times since. I have never seen a movie so convinced that God exists. Guilt, wonder, fear, implacable evil—none of these things make much sense in a universe lacking a God. I have no idea if the Coens believe in God. But their movies, contrary to popular opinion, certainly do.

Every Pixel

And just to mention it: every single pixel on the screen, at all times, matters. I have never seen a movie that is fuller than No Country for Old Men, and that includes #2 on this list.


Up Next: Quite the Sequel

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Number 8: The Maltese Falcon (1941)

“Nah, you’ve seen everything I could.”

With these words, Sam Spade put the last nail in the coffin of “Golden Age” (fool’s gold, really) detective fiction. Gone were the days of amateur detectives somehow noticing thirty-three vital clues that the police officers had missed. Gone were the days of “Inspector Pinch-Bottle to the Rescue” and “The Triple Petunia Murder Case” as Raymond Chandler mocked in his brilliant essay The Simple Art of Murder. Gone were the days of detective fiction being nothing more than logical puzzles that required massive irrational leaps to remain logical.

To briefly explain: Sam Spade, a private detective, is standing on a hill overlooking the ravine where his partner is lying dead. The place is crawling with officers, one of whom explains the situation to Spade. Finally he asks Spade if the private eye wants to examine the scene for himself. Spade’s reply rings true.

The Maltese Falcon is not the best film noir or detective story ever filmed/written. But it made the rest possible, and its place in history as both a novel and a movie, along with its snappy dialogue, classic Bogart performance and willingness to begin detective fiction’s descent into the underworld make it a joy to watch, time and again. Film noir would become Hollywood’s trump card for years. Sam Spade started it all.


Up Next: Better Than The Book

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Number 9: Seven Samurai (1954)

The Original Jedi

I don’t know what the fascination with Ninjas is. Samurai are infinitely cooler than Ninjas. If you don’t believe me, think about this: Jedi are Samurai with lightsabers. Jedi are not Ninjas with lightsabers. Why? Because Ninjas simply aren’t cool enough to get lightsabers.

In all seriousness, though, Seven Samurai did more than provide a blueprint for George Lucas’ robed, sword-wielding heroes. Star Wars simply screams Kurosawa, from the warriors to the story to the erasure cuts and beyond. Without Seven Samurai, there is no Star Wars, or at least not in its well known form. There is also no Magnificent Seven, obviously, although that isn’t quite as important.

Japanese Filmmakers

Why is it that some countries are just good at making movies? Obviously, America would have to be at the top of all reasonable lists. I suppose one could make an argument that we simply make so many freaking movies that we’re bound to make amazing films as we go along, but to that I have to say… yeah. We make so many freaking movies we are bound to make amazing films as we go along. Movies in America are practically like national defense. We seem to spend as much and make as much as the rest of the world combined.

But after America, other countries have plenty to offer, though certainly not every country. For instance, France seems to be very good at it. Sure, they had the French New Wave and that’s what everyone remembers, and you could make the argument that they haven’t been spectacular since then (has anyone?), but even if so, how’d they do that? How did Truffaut and Godard just pop up in the same country that produced Renoir (even if I find his films to be… opaque)? And how did Japan get so bloody good at it? Kurosawa and Ozu alone produced a list of films that would challenge most other countries. Seven Samurai, Yojimbo, Rashomon, Tokyo Story…

The list, needless to say, goes on. And then there is Italy, they of the neo-realism but also they of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly by the wildly underrated Sergio Leone.

And at this point, I would like to point out: Britain sucks at making movies. BBC mini-series? They literally own the territory. TV shows? I’d rather watch them than just about anything else (save for Battlestar Galactica, The West Wing and Arrested Development), but movies? Look up a list of British movies sometime. You’ll laugh. Really, you will. I’m not saying they have never made a good movie (A Man For All Seasons, Bridge on the River Kwai) but for a country that size, they get the living daylights knocked out of them by their rivals to the south, ze Fronch! (It is actually kind of funny how much better we are at movies and how much better they are at Rock n’ Roll. Look up a list of best American rock bands and you’ll laugh at that, too).

Why is it that Japan, as a country, is so fine with regards to filmmaking? I don’t know. I just thought I’d ask.

The Foreign Film Inherent Advantage/Disadvantage

When watching foreign films, I am at a disadvantage, so when appraising them, I give them a bit of an advantage. After watching Tokyo Story with a friend of mine who can actually speak Japanese (more or less) it became exceedingly obvious that many nuances of the dialogue were lost on me. Thankfully, that particular film was all the richer for my having sat next to a translator, but most of the time that does not happen. So in evaluating films with subtitles, I tend to bump them up just a bit on the Right Thumb Scale™.

With Seven Samurai, I did not have to do that. For one thing, it does what any movie worth its salt has to do, which is to tell a story with images. For another, it does it freaking well. Finally, it does it so well that the dialogue seems to come to reside in a land of necessity but not in one of importance. Watch the movie without subtitles, and you’ll still probably understand everything that is going on.

Confession To Make

I put this film on the list a few months back, before I had actually finished watching the movie. Yep. I put this movie on my favorite movies list before I had even finished watching it. The first two hours were so good, I simply assumed the next hour and a half must be as well. And for about an hour, my expectations were met.

Then it rained.

It poured.

It stormed.

In one of the most astonishing battle scenes I have ever seen put to film, it rains it pours and my goodness does it all look gorgeous. I have no idea how they convinced God to send forth heavy showers for so long (there is simply no way they did it artificially. If they did, it was an inhuman feat), but the result is an unparalleled climax to an unparalleled movie, which managed to blow up my expectations even after three hours of viewing.


Next Up: Detective Fiction Matters Again

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Number 10: Blade Runner (1982)

Just look at that picture. How can a movie with that image not be great?

Harrison Ford.

Harrison is probably my favorite actor of all time. And not just because he has two last names. He is a modern day Bogey who managed to carve out his own persona somewhere in there. What is that persona? I dunno. It is unique, thus difficult to describe relative to other known quantities. He is Indiana, he is a drag racer, he is Rick Deckard, and yet somehow these are all very much Harrison Ford.

As Rick Deckard, he is a rarity: a somewhat mediocre character. It isn’t that Rick has no talent or nothing to say, but he isn't brilliant. He is working; here he does something well, there he does something kind of stupid, then he is just plain outwitted by the superior intellect of Roy Batty.

Replicants are supposedly smarter than humans, but instead of experiencing awe, we mostly wonder how it could be otherwise—humanity, ostensibly represented by Rick Deckard, doesn’t seem so great (or so bad). Outwitting us shouldn’t be hard. But then, does Rick represent humanity? Unicorns seem to indicate otherwise.

And Harrison channels all this complexity with the dry, wiseacre act of a tough-guy hawkshaw, ready to get beat up at a moment’s notice. Could anyone else have played this role?

It Seems Real.

What must have seemed marvelously futuristic in 1982 seems eerily realistic today. The dark, rainy, cramped sets contrasted with dark, rainy, empty sets seem anything but futuristic. We wonder how a society could be unable to move its elbows while broken down, empty apartment buildings persist, but isn’t that our experience far too often? Luxurious pyramids of the rich overlook dank locales which, it seems, were abandoned by most of humanity as it went “off-world”.

There are flying cars, of course. But outside of that poetic license, Blade Runner could very well be… today. Our climate hasn’t quite reached such drastic levels of decay (and we still appear to have sunny days, though in Pittsburgh, that is always questionable), but the dueling diseases of abandonment and overcrowding, so seemingly contradictory yet so coexistent, are as evident in our society as they are in Blade Runner.

Edward James Olmos

The movies gets points just for casting him, and double points for putting him into such a felicitous role.

Up Next: Seven is Nine

(Note, I am going to starting putting these out bi-weekly [Sunday and Wednesday], as it has to occurred to me that a) they are all written, so why go slowly and b) otherwise I'll be publishing them from Amsterdam.)

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Number 11: Vertigo (1958)

Masterpiece.

Back in the day, “masterpiece” did not actually refer to a particularly awe-inspiring work of art. It was simply the work which was required to elevate you to the level of master in your trade. You could have barrels that were masterpieces as easily as paintings or sculptures. Obviously, you had to make something that demonstrated your worthiness for promotion, and so masterpieces were often quite something. But the notion that everything a master made was a masterpiece is nonsense. Maybe they were, in the now colloquial sense of the word, maybe not. But you need a piece to deem you a master, and that is your master-piece.

Why do I mention this? Because I can’t stand Alfred Hitchcock. I almost didn’t put this movie on here because I was worried that if I watched it too many times, I would start hating it. But no, Vertigo is too good for that. Still, I am most decidedly unimpressed by Hitchcock. Rear Window? Bah. North by Northwest? Wake me up when that marathon ends. Psycho? Okay, whatever. The Birds? Good, but not the second coming. Suspicion? Could have been good. Wasn’t. As far as I am concerned, Hitchcock had a tenuous grasp on the title of “master” (or its cinematic equivalent: auteur), and that title is almost entirely beholden to one movie: Vertigo.

It is his masterpiece in both the colloquial and historical sense. All of Hitchcock’s stupid little quirks—painfully slow pacing, mediocre acting, unsubtle camera motion, suspense for the sake of suspense and nothing else, etc.—are either strengths of Vertigo or simply not there. For instance: Jimmy Stewart invented overacting. Seriously, I don’t think there has ever been a scene where he didn’t pull out every trick, facial expression and decibel change in his bag to evince how important that particular scene was. In Vertigo, this makes sense. He is obsessed. Psychotically so. His over the top act is a boon, not a wrecking ball aimed at our suspension of disbelief.

Hitchcock’s indulgent need to drag the simplest gimmick out over interminable periods of time (paranoia for an hour and a half in the Birds, helpless voyeurism for two hours in Rear Window, mistaken identity for two and a half hours in North by Northwest) works in Vertigo, because obsession benefits from an interminable length of time, and in fact probably requires it. The mediocre acting of the woman (women) in the movie makes sense, since she (they) are acting. And the suspense isn’t really there, per se. You are left wondering what is going on more often than you are left on the edge of your seat (though the movie does deliver in that area as well with a few superb scenes in the bell tower).

The herky-jerky camera zooms still bother me. Watch the “vertigo effect” (zooming in while tracking out) in Vertigo, and then watch it in The Lord of the Rings—that’s right, a Peter Jackson film. One of them is subtle and creepy. I’ll give you a hint: it isn’t Vertigo, where the effect looks more like a jump into Warp Drive than an anxiety disorder. But still, these minor baubles aside, Hitchcock was made for this movie. You could almost say that Alfred Hitchcock was Vertigo’s masterpiece.

Next Week: Cramped and Empty, all at the same time.

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The Eleven (give or take a few)

(Editor’s Note: Throughout this little project, I refer to “people thinking this…” or “some critics have said that...” etc. Normally, I detest such vague allusions to ethereal, semi-real “people.” But because this has taken longer to write than expected, I am no longer in the mood to find examples of what I claim. I absolutely could provide examples, and I guess you will just have to trust me on that point. Tough to do, I know, with a guy who doesn’t like the Sound of Music, but it’s either that or I fail a few classes…)


People are always asking me what my favorite movie is. When I tell them I can’t pick one, they ask me for a top five. I am unsure why they believe that after having failed to produce one, I could then produce five. Why so many people care about my favorite movie also baffles me. It does wonders for my ego but that particular abstract entity needs no foreign aid.

The essence of the question—what kind of movies do you like—is a valid query, one that I often pose to my own acquaintances. But even more important than what is why. For instance, if I divulge only that The Big Lebowksi is one of my favorite movies, you have as much evidence that I am a stoned hippie as that I enjoy film noir, neo-noir, homage to film noir, reflections on modern noir and the eclectic filmography of the Coens.

Maybe I just like bathrobes.

If I were to say that I love Manhattan, you might only think that I enjoy the complicated “modern” relationships portrayed, and in some way approve of the insecurities and uncertainties that the movie seems to suggest are inherent in a world where divorce is a necessity, commitment is passé, and so forth. In actuality, I enjoy the unabashedly esoteric humor and the utterly gorgeous depiction of New York. But you wouldn’t know that if I told you I liked Manhattan.

So in an effort to clear this up (in less than 15,000 words), I have compiled a list of my eleven favorite movies, as well as an honorable mention. Why eleven? Why not. What are the criteria? They are simple. If I were only allowed to watch a single movie for the rest of my life, which would it be? That is #1. If I were only allowed to watch two, which would the second be? That is #2, and so on.

Now, what exactly this list comprises, I am not sure. These are not the eleven movies I deem to be the “best”, although certainly many of those do find themselves on the list, and none of these movies are anything less than “great” in my not-so-humble estimation. Yet Citizen Kane and M are nowhere to be found, my lavish respect for them notwithstanding. As for favorite—I do not consider “replay value” to be a facet of favor, yet in this case some small attention must be paid to the worth of watching a movie repeatedly, since these are the only movies I am ever watching again.

So on each Sunday I will reveal the next spot in the order, with an explanation (ranging from a few paragraphs to a novella) as to why that particular film finds so much favor with me. If you don’t care about my particular cinematic pontification, you don’t have to read. But then stop asking me what my favorite films are. In all seriousness, I understand how little interest my favorite films might hold for you--so these little vignettes are supposed to be more interesting than simply why I like them. Maybe I fail, maybe I don't, but they combine what I like with what I see with what I have read and some historical context whenever I can throw it in there.

To start things off, a quickie...

Honorable Mention: Smultronstället (1957) (Wild Strawberries)

Had to Pick One

Choosing between Ingmar Bergman films is tantamount to choosing between a Ferrari, a Lamborghini and a Bugatti. One is the fastest, one is the prettiest, and one has the coolest name, but you can’t lose. This could have easily been the Seventh Seal or Fanny and Alexander. Persona is quite the film also, although it would probably not be one which I chose to watch more than five or six times. Given that I’ll be watching only these movies for the rest of my life, that is a bit of a handicap.

Regardless, every Bergman film I have seen is a masterful work. I can’t even say that about Stanley. Of course, I have seen every Kubrick film; I haven’t seen every Bergman film. What keeps Smultronstället from getting onto my main list is that as awe-inspiring as a Bergman film is, they are too profound for their own good. They rarely let you learn because they seem convinced that they need to teach. They do it well enough that Bergman is one of my favorite directors, his sometimes suffocating profundity notwithstanding.

Wild Strawberries is no exception to the rule that all Bergman films must be Biblical in their gravitas. But it has a heart that Seventh Seal would die for, characters that Persona doesn’t, and a relevance that Fanny and Alexander sometimes loses a hold on. As for all his other films… this is my list and I haven’t seen them, so too bad.


Next Week: We begin in earnest; at the top.

~Right Thumb~

I Am Considering...

...firing Left Thumb. I mean, this is a bit ridiculous.

~Right Thumb~

Best 8 of 12: As Seen from the Left

Ah, so now it is time for my side of the equation. I am sure that in the first installment of this segment you were treated to an eclectic mix of cinema—running the gamut from space romance to neo noir, or something like that. Knowing Right Thumb, you may have even been treated to a lecture on the value of postmodern non-diegetic editing. I’m sure the word “postmodern” came up at some point, anyway. If it didn’t, I’m a monkey’s uncle.

I did not view his post before selecting my films, as a disclaimer. If we are synchronized at the least, chalk it up to the synergetic motion of minds at high IQ levels.

AI: Artificial Intelligence

This one is obvious to anyone who’s seen it. It’s the closest thing to a Stanley Kubrick film in the past twelve years, and that alone is enough to guarantee its place here.

War of the Worlds

No, I am not a Spielberg fanboy. (To prove that, I need only mention that I regard Minority Report as one of the worst films of the past twelve years. This is a bone of some contention with Right Thumb.) But War of the Worlds is just so, so well done. The special effects are, quite simply, the best of the past twelve years. There might be movies that are on par in the effects department, but nothing beats this. Period.

The Insider

Every facet of this movie is executed perfectly. The acting is stupendous even for its already-stupendous actors. The writing is superb. The direction is virtually flawless. The music is beyond fantastic. Of course, any music director that acknowledges the genius of Arvo Pärt is a made-man in my book.*

All the same, I anticipate a few gripes about this. A great movie, yes, but come on, best of the past twelve years? Well, it has been a barren twelve years, firstly, but this movie stands up notwithstanding. (If that’s possible.) It is frighteningly close to a perfect film. Perhaps it doesn’t try to climb as high on the rocky mountain of philosophical and aesthetic brilliance as, say, a 2001, but where it does go it goes quickly, smoothly, without a hitch.

Into Great Silence

Quite simply the most effective monk-smut I’ve ever seen. I was perfectly incapable of thinking straight when I first viewed this film, but now that I’ve had time to reflect upon the atrocities it lays bare, I cannot but admire the audacity of the director. There’s something to be said for a documentarian that tells the whole truth. This is heroic cinematic journalism at its finest. I will never, never revisit this film, nor will I recommend it to anyone whom I do not wish to irreversibly corrupt—and indeed, I wish that I myself had never seen those first fifty minutes at all. But what’s done is done and now, with only a minor shudder, I can acknowledge (at least intellectually) the relevance of this chilling, haunting, daunting, brutal, dirty, and altogether demonic documentary.

Battlestar Galactica

You knew it would be here. You’ll probably complain. Save yourself the bother and actually watch it. (Preferably without so many preconceptions and ill-conceived prejudices that you can’t see straight while you watch it.)

Wall-E

This is really a composite entry on my list. It is a stand-in for nearly every Pixar film made in the past twelve years. My summers now feel empty if I don’t get to see a Pixar movie.

Why Wall-E? Of all the choices, Wall-E reaches the farthest. Its execution is second to none, and if it drags a little at times, we can chalk it up to the film’s cinematic self-awareness. I wouldn’t argue with someone if they take Finding Nemo, Monsters Inc. or even Up over this one. It’s kind of like picking between episodes of the previous entry. They are all so fantastic that eventually it can come down to personal choice. (Now, granted, there are about ten times as many viable Galactica episodes. This casts no aspersion on Pixar, however, and cannot be construed as such.)

The Passion of the Christ

This is one film that I am very interested to see how it ages. It could be something still watched many decades from now, or it could not. It most certainly should be. Cinematically speaking, I know of no other depiction of the death of Christ that approaches the artistry, craft and effectiveness of this film. It is both a movie and a meditation. It recognizes that a religious film is much, much more than a simple retelling—it must be as intensely personal as the events it depicts. Yes, so the director drives me nuts. Mozart would probably drive me nuts.

Children of Men

I have a confession to make. I delayed the writing of this post by about half a week. (Much to the chagrin of Right Thumb, who seems to think that prose as charming, idiosyncratic and erudite as mine can be hammered out in an hour like some paper on the commutative properties of Higgs boson particles at extreme conditions.) I am now exceedingly glad I did so. For in this interval I have watched a movie that would have been simply tragic to omit from this list. About as tragic as Peter Jackson’s King Kong.**

We have had a number of movies in the past twelve years about how terrible the future could be. All of them, however, seem to do it just for its own sake. “Hey, look at my movie, yeah, see how terrible and dark and depressing the future is? Yeah, uh-huh? Now nominate me for an Oscar, yeah? I’m so depressing!!” Children of Men does no such thing. It manages to make a world that is even more terrible than any of these others, and still have a larger point. It manages to have some of the best cinematography in recent history. It manages to make you actually think, and not just expect you to drop your jaw mindlessly and say, “Well this movie clinched it. Now I’ll be a better person because if I’m not then robots will take over the world.”

And so it was ensured a place here. Be thankful for my laziness—it might save the world someday.

> Left Thumb <


* It’s not a very long book.

** Every time I remember that Kong was actually produced, I weep uncontrollably.

Best 8 of 12

In honor of something (but certainly not the arbitrary end of the decade), we at Two Thumbs Sideways are attempting an experiment. We will independently determine which eight movies were the best of the past twelve years. Why eight? Why twelve? Because they are arbitrary and obviously so, as opposed to being arbitrary and not so obviously so (i.e. best ten of the decade lists). Why independently? We want to see the differences in what we come up with. (I just ended that sentence with two prepositions. That takes talent…) Then, after posting our separate lists and explanations, we will post together, explaining the differences and similarities. It goes without saying that Battlestar Galactica will adorn both lists, even though it isn’t a movie. This is a “best of” list. It belongs.


Battlestar Galactica

What is there left to say? 73 hours of visual euphoria.

The Insider

My man-crush on Russell Crowe notwithstanding, it is hard to deny the guy’s talent. He can play a macho gladiator, a nuanced cop, a Napoleonic-era ship captain, a neo-Nazi, and apparently, a chemist-turned whistleblower with startling skill. If he isn’t the best actor of his generation, his generation is spoiled with two transcendent actors.

Of course, Al Pacino is hardly a lightweight, and when thrown together behind Michael Mann’s direction (yeah, the same Michael Mann who almost rescued Public Enemies from the abyss of one of the most sterile scripts ever written), you get a thriller so thrilling that I would have found it outrageously compelling even without its being a true story.

Then, with about twenty seconds left in the film, it dawned on me that it is in fact the true story. If a movie can keep me interested for that long before I realize it is all (mostly) real… It deserves a place on this list.

Children of Men

When Clive Owen walks out of a restaurant, and then it blows up, the tone for the whole movie is set. Stuff just happens. It isn’t dramatized or aided by the crescendo of a John Williams score. It just happens. Later, one of the most startling and best executed long takes of all time continues this mantra by taking you through an entire battle-ridden neighborhood—without slowing down to appreciate anything that is going on. Sometimes, a movie needs to slow down. But Children of Men wants you to experience life without children. And without children, our lives would never slow down, and the dramatic crescendos would never come. It is rare for a movie to even appreciate what it is trying to do—actually executing it is rarer still.

Wall-E

Science Fiction is the world of ideas. The greatest Sci-Fi movie ever made, Stanley’s magnum opus, the wonder of wonders that is 2001: A Space Odyssey, understood this by asking all of the big questions. All of them. Wall-E understands this by asking all of the little questions. All of them.

Never, in a movie ostensibly dealing with robots and global warming, have the importance and wonder of the little things been more important or wondrous. Wall-E’s affection for all things with hinges (while ignoring a diamond ring), the gorgeous but barren landscape which exaggerates every small bit of color, the ship with everything but a soul—Wall-E appreciates the little things in life. Few movies, animated or otherwise, have ever shown a greater appreciation for these details than Wall-E.

In Bruges

I could say In Bruges is funny; it is. I could say it is haunting; it is. I could say it is touching; it is. I could say it is clever; it is. I could say it is a bit manipulative, and made for smart guys. I don’t know if it was. But if it was, they did a good job. Colin Farrell (yeah, this guy) is not exactly what I would call a character actor. But he creates a character here who is somehow both of these things: 1) an assassin, 2) believably naive. It seems absurd, but he pulls it off so well that you don’t come to the end of the movie and suddenly realize you have been fooled. I still think of him and I still think of the movie as if the footage continues to roll.

The Passion of the Christ

Before we get to the big two—the two movies, without which, the last twelve years would have been more or less lacking in sheer greatness—we must mention a film which does something pretty amazing.

Nothing can truly capture the significance, power and divinity of the crucifixion. But as Truffaut said, and as I firmly believe, cinema is “the most beautiful fraud in the world”. Movies can’t actually be real—but they can seem so real as to cause us to react in real ways. In much the same way that we more or less trick our muscles into growing larger by lifting weights, we trick our minds into growing by watching movies. And the Passion of the Christ more completely envelops you in the story of redemption than any other film has ever managed to do. From beginning to end, it seems like the world is at stake. It just so happens that the world actually was.

A.I. Artificial Intelligence

Great science fiction is hard to find. In an era that has been quite the high mark for good science fiction (Dark City, Gattaca, Minority Report, Primer, War of the Worlds, etc.) we have only seen one truly great Sci-Fi film (outside of the aforementioned animated world). This is not hard to explain—film and Sci-Fi do not necessarily mix so easily. The world of ideas and the world of images are hard to reconcile at times. When it works, it is the height of art and intellection (Blade Runner). When it doesn’t work, it is a bit painful to watch (the Fountain).

A.I. works. It isn’t quite a modern 2001, but it asks questions that are relevant to our time while still big enough to endure through time. You might call it 2001 for kids, and I don’t mean that in a bad way. A.I. deals with issues surrounding childhood that don’t disappear just because our own childhood did. We shouldn’t lose our sense of wonder and our love for our mothers—and a little robot child doesn’t. But often, we do. What the heck is going on there? A.I. wonders. It does so vividly, intensely, and, lest it scare people off, intelligently.

In an ending that annoyed some people and depressed others, I see a bit of Spielberg’s optimism shining through (though clearly not blatantly, as evinced by the fact that most people think the ending was cynical). Maybe it seems out of place for a shot of optimism in a nearly apocalyptic film, but I think it works. We should always hope. And the child-robot that remains attached to his mother also remains attached to that hope. And we gave him that. If we could instill that into a “mecha”, we must still have it in ourselves.

No Country for Old Men

The perfect movie. Such a moniker does not always imply greatness—sometimes it means the filmmakers didn’t try to do anything, so they managed to do very little… perfectly. But when the Coens construct a perfect film, it means something. The Coens never shortchange themselves on goals. Their somewhat (Read: drastically) uneven filmography is the result of always aiming for the stars and a willingness to take risks. When it all works, you get classics such as Blood Simple or Miller’s Crossing; when it doesn’t, you get refuse such as Intolerable Cruelty or Burn After Reading. Then, you have No Country for Old Men. They didn’t aim too high. All they tried to do was explore the nature of guilt, evil, courage, the passage of time, and do it all in a visually resplendent manner while keeping you on the proverbial edge of your proverbial seat.

And they did. The Coens, quite simply, fit more onto the screen than other modern filmmakers. No Country is two hours long (almost exactly) but doesn’t waste a second or a pixel of screen. So it seems like you have had many years worth of images thrown at you. And you have. Two years later, I am still marveling at it. And I think I will be many years from now. And that is why it is the Best Film of the Past Twelve Years.