The Coolest of the Cool

Pictured: The coolest ship in the world. Does this post really need this picture? Of course not. But I will take any excuse to picture an aircraft carrier.


The coolest human beings of all time. I am not talking about Indiana Jones or Han Solo. They are fake. They might be incredibly cool, but they are artificial constructions, much like the Most Interesting Man in the World. If they were to be considered, surely they would be the coolest of the cool. But on this list, I refer to actual human beings. Human beings who are so cool that Indiana Jones and Han Solo and the Most Interesting Man in the World would be impressed. Human beings who are so cool that our honorable mention—that’s right, he doesn’t even make the list—is:

Michael Freaking Jordan. He is the honorable mention. The winningest, best, most famous, most “I don’t give a flying hoot what you think” athlete of all time doesn’t even make the list. He is merely honorably mentioned. Because while Mike was the incredibly cool, he is not as cool as…

Harrison Ford. The guy didn’t just play Indiana Jones, Han Solo, Richard Kimble. He also saves people in his personal helicopter. It’s one thing to play the coolest characters ever. But as I mentioned, that is just a fantasy. It turns out, Harrison’s key to pulling these characters off is that he practically is Indiana Jones. As this cracked article relates:

“Twice Ford has used his helicopter to come to the rescue of real-world hikers in distress, once by saving a woman on top of an Idaho mountain and once by joining a search and rescue mission for a 13-year-old Boy Scout lost in the woods. And out of all the people on the mission, Ford was the one who found the kid. In both cases, he volunteered his helicopter and piloting services free of charge, and also made himself available to the sheriff for future emergencies, undoubtedly prompting lonely middle-aged women all over the American Northwest to suddenly take up the sport of ill-planned hiking trips.”

He also led a relief operation to Haiti and personally flies special Olympics athletes to competitions. Yeah. He’s pretty cool.

Next up is:

William the Conqueror. You know he invaded England and basically began the march of the British Empire (granted, they only really got going 600 hundred years later, but the same could be said for Romulus and Rome).

You know the date 1066, when really, nothing happened in 1066 except for his being crowned in Westminster Abbey after a successful invasion of England.

You know that he was basically a bad bad man with a penchant for conquering things. But plenty of people have conquered stuff, you say; why was William different?

Napoleon conquered because of his Napoleon complex, Hitler conquered because he was a madman, Joan of Arc did it because of the voices in her head—but William did because someone called him a bad name. According to Wikipedia, William was originally known as “William the Bastard” due to his illegitimate birth.

So he needed to get people to stop calling him that ridiculous name, and in the process take out some righteous anger on the world. So he went and conquered a country and a half, just to change his name to “William the Conqueror” which is the coolest name you can have without living in the Star Wars universe.

William changed history just to get a cool name. Imagine what would have happened if someone from the Middle East had made fun of his hair? The Middle East wouldn’t even exist anymore, that’s what would have happened.

Up next:

Every. Astronaut. Ever. I mean… come on. This doesn’t need any explanation. But let’s put it this way: fighter pilots are as cool as they come, and astronauts are the best fighter pilots, AAAAAAAAAAAND as if that weren't enough, they go into space. Cool is to astronaut like rotund is to John Adams, fast is to Usain Bolt, or explosions are to Michael Bay. They define the word. The word defines them.

Up next:

Hannibal the Conqueror and Scipio. Hannibal is well known (and he seems to strengthen the theory that having a name which ends with “the Conqueror” is probably a good way to get on this list). He basically slapped around the Roman Empire for a decade, while being outmanned, outflanked, outsupplied and outpoliticked the entire time. He crossed the Alps with 200,000 men and war elephants. War elephants. It is tricky to FLY over the Alps, and Hannibal got elephants to walk over the Alps. Not just any elephants, either—war elephants were specifically trained to go beserk and run through columns of men at high speed. Somehow, Hannibal got these ten-ton ticking time bombs across the Alps.

Then, he beat a gigantic Roman army in an epic battle. Then, he did it again. Then, he did it again, and again, and again. All this despite that fact that Carthage, his home country, was refusing to send supplies and basically doing everything in their power to take the legs out from under him. Hannibal just won, won, won. And he did it against Rome. This is the Rome that, until it crumbled from within and succumbed to the barbarian hordes, never lost to anybody. Their Empire stretched from Spain and Britain to Mesopotamia and Egypt. They. Did. Not. Lose.

Except to Hannibal, who whooped their collective arse for 15 years.

That makes him cool.

Who was Scipio? Well, we all know Rome survivied the tornado of destruction that was Hannibal. How?

Scipio beat him.

But as cool as astronauts, Harrison Ford, and guys with names ending in “the Conqueror” are, there is one undisputed coolest guy ever. There is no one is his league, and no one particularly close to his league either, his name is:

Chuck Yeager. The simplest way of explaining why Chuck Yeager is as cool as they come is this. Astronauts are the coolest people on Earth, and their hero is Chuck Yeager. If William, Hannibal and Scipio were around today, they would all give up their conquering ways, morbidly depressed by the fact that, nay, they would never achieve the epic coolness of Chuck Yeager.

I recently attended a talk given by Alan Bean. Mr. Bean is one of only twelve men in the history of the universe to walk on the face of the Moon. Twelve. He is not only an astronaut, he is the cream of the astronaut crop. And when he mentioned Chuck Yeager, his eyes sparkled like a seven-year old, as if he couldn’t contain the admiration.

Anyone whose sheer coolness can strike an astronaut speechless is the epitome of cool. Chuck Yeager is the coolest man the world has ever known, and I defy you to suggest someone cooler. Even fake people can't approach Yeager. Indiana Jones wants to be Chuck Yeager when he grows up, but knows he never will.

~Right Thumb~

“I want much more than this provincial life.”

This line does not seem to mesh with the rest of Bell’s character. In Beauty and the Beast, Bell is selfless, charitable and wise. This particular song seems to indicate that she is ambitious, ungrateful and greedy. Seen in the proper light, however, I believe this song is the key to one of the more important themes in the film, which is often overlooked.

This is, in part, due to the fact that so many truths of human existence are present here. The importance of looking past superficial appearances, the vicious tendencies of mobs and crowds, the true nature of love as sacrifice, the wide-ranging effects of evil and many other themes are present in at least some fashion, subtle or otherwise.

But why is Bell so determined to escape “this provincial life” and why does she sing this song with a smile on her face? Is not this a mixed signal at best, or sheer greed at worst? Does she not love the books in this town, cheerfully “bonjour” the various characters and dance her way back to her father, whom she enthusiastically encourages regarding his science project?

Why yes, she does all of those things. She is very happy and yet she wants more. Some would call this greedy, I would call this saintly. Allow me to explain.

Cardinal Newman outlines the difference between the “watchful” Christian and the unwatchful Christian as being one of satisfaction. The watchful Christian is unsatisfied with this world, longs for the return of Christ, and so does not place his joy in material things; therefore, he is constantly on the lookout for the coming of the Lord. The unwatchful Christian, while attending Mass, going to confession and in general following the commandments, is satisfied with the things of this world. He likes them for what they are, and not for what they point him toward.

We are, of course, meant to appreciate the many good things God has given us, and Bell does. She likes her books and her horse and so on. But we are not supposed to be satisfied with them. The things of this world are imperfect and impermanent, and even as we thank God for them we should be begging Him to return, that we might participate in His goodness as fully as we were always supposed to do. Power, fame, money, stature—these things do not last.

Now observe what Bell does. She appreciates her life—but she is not satisfied with it. She turns down the greatest life a woman in her “world” (this provincial town) could possibly have. The stature of marriage to Gaston, the money this would avail her, the envy of all, the power of becoming a veritable village queen—all of this is unimportant to Bell. Instead, by the end of the film, she has a life much greater than this. The Beast’s castle is not simply a bigger palace over which to rule. It is, in a sense, the afterlife. And in this afterlife, because she died to self in the material world, and sacrificed herself in the most loving of ways, she has gained… everything. Much as Jesus promised us would happen if we were able to die to self.

Now hold on there, Mr. Crazy Theorist, you might be saying to yourself. What is this “afterlife”, “death to self” and other such nonsense of which you speak? She doesn’t die!

Actually… she does. Being a fan of the film, it is easy to overlook Bell’s act of love toward her father. She promises to stay with the beast forever in order that her father might go free. Forever. Knowing the end of the film, this seems, shall we say, less than horrifying. But just imagine what happens if the beast never softens, if love never enters his life, and if she is just stuck there.

Forever.

She basically died. She would never see her father, her town, her fellow human beings again. She would have lived out her days cold, alone and forlorn, subject to the vicissitudes and temperaments of a monster. She would have gone from village queen to lifelong prisoner in a matter of hours, and she would have done it all because she valued her father more than herself, and she valued the next life more than the trappings of “this provincial life.”

Then, of course, having died to herself, she goes about converting the Beast who also dies to self (but in a much more literal fashion) before they are united in the “Heaven” of the film’s finale. Note that the Beast also had to choose which was more important to him—having Bell in his castle forever, or giving Bell up because she needed to see her father. He, also, could have had his material dream—but let it go. Bell and the Beast forsook this world, and only in doing so were they able to live happily ever after in the next world.

This, to me, is the most enduring theme of Beauty and the Beast. As we view it from this angle, it becomes apparent that when we chase after money, or power, or fame in our lives, we are marrying Gaston. The most powerful man or woman in the world is still just the Gaston of a slightly bigger “provincial life.” Bell gave up all of this and even her basic freedom because she wanted more than that out of life. If only we would be so ambitious.

~Right Thumb~

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...

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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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