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.


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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...

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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

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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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