My Favorite Movies

Most kids had Star Wars--I had Alien. I was either four or five at the time, when I looked up from my Jurassic Park coloring book to see an ad for ALIEN on the Sci-Fi Channel. It looked like the most amazing thing I'd ever seen. I managed to remember the day it was on and begged my parents to change the channel to Sci-Fi--and after much whining they complied, but, alas, I had missed most of it and only saw the last act. No matter--that was enough to galvanize my love of all things Alien. I found out our neighbor had the trilogy on VHS, and so I innocently knocked on her door, asking to borrow it. I can still recall perfectly the nervous double take she gave, considering these were R-rated films and I was barely out of kindergarten. "Do you have your parents' permission?" I lied and said, "yes." Victory was mine! I took the boxset home and duped it in our VCR, and then proceeded to watch all three of them nearly every day for what must have been a couple of years. I cannot begin to estimate how many times I've seen the original trilogy--to paraphrase Ripley in Alien³, "You've been in my life so long, I can't remember anything else."

I credit my intense devotion to Alien and its three sequels for giving me an instant dose of cinematic "taste" at such a young age--and I can trace many of my principal interests back to the series. It is a singular achievement in the history of film, managing to combine Freudian psychosexuality, feminism, avant garde/neo-classical scoring, cynical left-wing ideology, existentialism and hard (well, the original trilogy, anyway) science fiction into something that will never be equaled. Is there any other series that challenged what franchise cinema could be on such a grand scale? While Star Wars and its ilk descended into crass, juvenile pandering and commercialism, the Alien "quadrilogy" never took the easy way out, never conformed to what people wanted. Even in the face of nervous studio executives and unadventurous American audiences, it soldiered on with grim determination to be something artistically conscious, unafraid to broach themes and ideas that ordinarily wouldn't make it past a first draft in the conservative studio machine.

It all starts with the original: 1979's Alien. The film is a miracle, one in which everything falls into place in such a ludicrously perfect fashion, as though assembled according to some divine cinematic plan--a convergence of multi-faceted brilliance ranging from Ridley Scott's impeccable visuals, the pitch-perfect cast, Jerry Goldsmith's influential score, Walter Hill and David Giler's elegant screenplay, the ingenious editing job by Terry Rawlings, and most importantly, the unforgettable conceptual designs of H.R. Giger.

Alien remains Ridely Scott's only true masterpiece (if anything, the man is more craftsman than filmmaker), and is both the best of the sci-fi genre (next to Kubrick's 2001) as well as the horror genre--a lofty accomplishment. Like 2001, it is endlessly imitated and its influence is inescapable. It shattered the cinema screen's glass ceiling in ways only its sequels (and possibly Terminator 2) managed to live up to, and impacted filmmaking in ways more subtle and meaningful than Star Wars ever did. To continue praising the film and expand on its myriad of merits would be redundant in the massive wake of literature that has been justly written about it (despite its initially mixed reception from typically short-sighted critics--even Ebert disliked the film when it was first released, yet it somehow found its way onto his list of "Great Movies" decades later). Its greatness is simply a stone cold fact. One can only hope Scott's upcoming prequel, Prometheus, reclaims similar heights.

David Lynch's masterpiece (out of several masterpieces), Mulholland Dr. is staggeringly brilliant in its execution. Volumes have already been written on the film, and a small but growing minority of film critics share my view that it is the greatest film ever made. Mulholland Dr is the art form at its most perfect--indeed, the film, in terms of story, can only exist as what it is: a film. Written as a novel, for example, it would be impossible to convey the images and dream-like plotline that Lynch brings to the screen. Mulholland Dr is, for it's first two thirds, a dream (and everyone knows dreams in written fiction are usually beyond tacky), and one of the myriad pleasures of the film is watching how Diane's dream is influenced by her wretched waking life (seen in the last third of the film): the way she lifts names for dream characters off name tags, incorporates individuals randomly glimpsed, twists events and interactions into her favor. The dream section of the film is not just a glib representation of Diane's wish-fulfillment, however; the looming tragedy of the film's climax grows stronger as the dream persists, and the audience feels growing sympathy for poor Diane, whose emotional and mental turmoil is glimpsed in symbolism that is--for once in a film!--not simply representative of cliched Freudian or Jungian archetypes. In many ways, it is Lynch's most humanistic film, and introduces the theme that would dominate Lynch's next (also brilliant) picture as well: the way Hollywood uses and destroys women. Added to all this are the usual Lynch gags, which for once showcase his sense of humor without coming across as masturbatory (Wild at Heart, ahem). Composer Angelo Badalementi's cameo appearance as a supremely picky espresso drinker easily wins top prize as the funniest moment in any Lynch film, and his score itself is among his best.

It seems the thing that throws most people off about Mulholland Dr. is its plotline. This is a result of people going in and expecting to work through it intellectually, which is not how the film should be viewed. Dreams themselves are never intellectual--they are driven by emotions and anxieties from the subconscious, and to truly grasp the film, one needs to feel their way through instead of think (the exact opposite of my "grand" life philosophy, but there are always exceptions to the rule).

The greatest sci-fi film ever made needs no introduction. It is perfection. If anything, 2001 harmed filmmaking in general, in the sense that its monolithic shadow is cast so far that, with the exception of the film just discussed (debatable) and a certain other sci-fi film discussed below (also debatable), nothing else really comes close to its scope, vision and impact. In some small way, nearly every sci-fi film released since is indebted to it in some way, with this years Moon even self-consciously recycling images and concepts.

Mis-marketed and mangled for it's US release by Miramax, who wanted teenage boys to think they were seeing another Matrix rip-off, Avalon is nothing like that overblown popcorn bore. Quite possibly the greatest piece of high art science fiction filmmaking next to 2001: A Space Odyssey and Oshii's earlier Ghost in the Shell, Avalon is Mamoru Oshii's penultimate masterpiece; a live action film that mimics the visual style of anime more approximately than any other, combined with a peerless score from the brilliant composer Kenji Kawai, and a usually literate, philosophically complex script by Kazunori Ito (Ghost in the Shell, the superb 90's Gamera trilogy). It's all trademark Oshii, however: stunning visuals, a meditative pace, meticulously composed background details, and a transcendent central theme about humanity's place in the world, and the desire to ascend to a higher plane of existence.
So immaculately concieved and directed is the film, that Oshii walks an extremely fine line between profundity and pretention, but as is usually the case, Oshii knows how to steer through such artistically complicated waters, and the film comes through a resounding success. Avalon continues the trend Oshii started in his filmmaking with the exceptional Patlabor 2, in that it is cold, layered with numerous shades of meaning, and focuses on strong, detached heroines. So thoroughly intellectualized is the entire film, that even the few action scenes have a detached, chilly quality to them - the film opens with tanks exploding, but the eruptions of flame freeze in midair, so as to deprive the audience of any real enjoyment of destruction. In the film's pre-climax battle scene featuring a giant citadel, the camera pans away from the action, and instead follows the heroine, Ash (Malgorzata Foremniak) as she slowly walks, rifle in hand, for almost a minute before resuming with the gunfire and chaos. Much of the film is composed of such brilliant shots and scenes, where an incident that takes no more than a minute or so is slowed down to last several times longer, such as Ash's visit to a hospital, as the camera tracks her in front as she walks in slow motion, accompanied by a ghostly choir on the soundtrack. The film's climax is a confrontation between Ash and a man she used to know (it is half-implied that they were lovers, but the film leaves it to interpretation), which if shown in a linear, normal fashion, would amount to no more than two minutes of screen time. Oshii, however, intercuts the scene, which takes place outside an opera house, with the opera being performed indoors - a stunning, 12 minute piece by Kenji Kawai that ranks amongst the best pieces of music ever composed for a film.
Avalon is a film that demands numerous viewings to even begin to comprehend the whole picture and the totality of it's ideas. I have seen the film almost ten times now, and there is always something new, tucked quietly away in the corners of the screen. Notice how when Ash exits the Avalon gaming headquarters, there is always the sound of a can being kicked, even though she never kicks a can. Notice how every statue seen in the film is beheaded, or has it's face smashed in. Notice how the majority of pedestrians in Ash's world are completely immobile, or how in the second scene with the bassett hound, the dog is heard, but never seen. Like all of Oshii's films, Avalon is extremely challenging, and densely packed with numerous symbols and visual cues.
It is almost impossible to believe that the film's budget was only 6 million dollars, as it is a classy production indeed. The compter generated special effects are all first rate and rival those of big budget Hollywood productions, the score is performed by the Choir of Warsaw Philharmonic and the Warsaw Philharmonic Orchestra, and the computer-enhanced cinematography is jaw dropping in it's detail and realism. The entire first 2/3rds of Avalon are almost completely desaturated of color, with the film having a greenish-sepia tint with occasional touches of color. With all this visual wizardry on display, is it is a shock when the film reaches it's brilliant twist ending and reveals it's greatest special effect: almost no special effects at all. The finale's rebuff to the glorifying of special effects is a marvelous touch - and one that sets it apart from the dunderheaded whiz-bang likes of The Matrix and other genre pictures.
Miramax's hideous handling of the film is a real tragedy. Oshii's color scheme has been ruined, as the US edition steamrolls right through the film with an overly-oppressive sepia that washes out all the subtler color usage and just makes the film look like piss. The dialogue has been ruined as well; the English subtitles are in fact dubtitles, based upon the needlessly dumbed down English language dub that completely omits one of the film's central metaphors and replaces it with meaningless technobabble, robbing the film of much of it's intended meaning both story-wise and visually. Your best bet for seeing the film as it was intended to be seen is to buy the Korean 2-disc special edition, which is actually a copy of the Japanese special edition. It contains the accurate visual representation, as well as excellent and accurate English subtitles transcribed by the famous author Neil Gaiman (!!!). The film is also available on Blu-ray disc from Bandai Japan with the same picture and subtitles, although it is very pricey.

Is there a film more fun than parody-musical extravaganza The Rocky Horror Picture Show? Here is a movie so joyously randy, knowingly witty and good-natured that it has become cinema's answer to perpetual motion--as long as society has its misfits, Rocky Horror will forever fuel their need for "dynamic tension" with its iconic characters, massive hooks, and more Curry than is present in all of India. Best of all, it's not "so bad its good"--it's so good at being bad it's brilliant, and is compulsively watchable (and its soundtrack so dangerously addictive) in ways few movies ever even dream of being.

There are lots of reasons to hate ALIEN³, I suppose--but I think there are far more reasons to love it. As one critic pointed out, it's more of a "brooding art film" than a sequel to ALIENS, which instantly makes it fanboy kryptonite. Its photography and editing are just as accomplished as the original film, it features the best performances of the entire series (Weaver is at her most powerful, Charles S. Dutton and Charles Dance keeping pace), its score is one of the most influential of the past two decades (seriously, post-ALIEN³, it is seemingly a requirement that every horror score plagiarize Elliot Goldenthal's work here), the script by Walter Hill and David Giler (who really wrote the original ALIEN, let us not forget) is very good, with excellent dialogue and realistic, hard-lived characters that harkens back to the first film, and on top of it all is the tone--so bleak and steeped in despair that it sends the average moviegoer fleeing, confused and angry. It's almost like Lars von Trier directed an ALIEN movie, and I love it.

Granted, all this refers to the Assembly Cut., though some reshot scenes are stronger (the dog burster, first and foremost). Between the two cuts, however, lies something close to a masterpiece--it's just not a very good sequel to ALIENS in any conceivable sense, which does not bother me in the slightest.

Like 2001, Mamoru Oshii's Ghost in the Shell is a film that concerns itself with human evolution. While 2001 begins at the dawn of man and climaxes at the next stage in human evolution, Ghost in the Shell begins in the transitional zone between human and post-human. The film's main character, Major Motoko Kusanagi, is a government agent/assassin whose consciousness resides in a mechanical body. Oshii's usual brand of dense storytelling is at its best here--the film packs A LOT of ideas and plot into a scant 78 minutes, but somehow feels twice that length (another Oshii trademark--and I am making a complimentary observation here, not a criticism). A first-time viewer will likely be overwhelmed by the plot's intricacy, but with repeat viewings, Ghost in the Shell reveals itself to be a transcendently profound examination of the nature of humanity, and the future of our species as a whole. Oshii conveys his ideas about human individuality and consciousness through brilliantly symbolic images (the film's most acutely affecting is a sequence in which the Major, riding on a boat, looks up into an office building and sees another woman with the same body as her) and occasional lines of dialogue ("All data is both fantasy and reality" and "Your desire to remain as you are is what ultimately limits you" are among the most memorable). Both 2001 and Ghost in the Shell end with their protagonist becoming transformed into a being of pure consciousness, free of their physical bodies, but whereas 2001 views it as a mystical transformation, Oshii frames it in coldly scientific terms--a visual representation of the evolutionary tree is demolished by gunfire, and the Major and the Puppet Master combine in a form of digital sexual reproduction (the Puppet Master arguing that one of the key facets of living organisms is reproduction leading to the variability of offspring). Oshii would expand upon many of the ideas present in this film in its sequel, but the original still remains his masterpiece for its stunning originality of thought, brilliant visuals, iconic score and innovative plot. One can only imagine how Steven Spielberg will fuck things up with his forthcoming American remake.

Perhaps the last truly great "epic", and the co-winner of the 1993 Palme d'Or (with another favorite film of mine, The Piano), it is also director Chen Kaige's only great film in a career populated with interesting experiments and disappointing failures. The best film to come out of China, it was also one of the last films to utilize Technicolor, and contains the greatest performance from actor Leslie Cheung, whose real life tragically began to mirror his character in this film, culminating in his dramatic suicide from a hotel balcony. Sweeping in ways most epics only aspire to, and featuring some of the most brutal, honest depictions of the Cultural Revolution you'll ever see, Farewell My Concubine is a fabulous end to a bygone cinematic genre. (Baz Luhrmann may have revived the musical, but despite Australia being very worthwhile, it seems even he can't return epics to their once lofty position atop the Hollywood heap in the eyes of audiences).

Whereas Mamoru Oshii's films are usually dense in both plot and ideas, Angel's Egg is almost completely devoid of plot. The director's most personal film, it is almost entirely told through surrealistic images of nature and architecture, twisted through shadow and music to convey the way religion--specifically Christianity--eventually reveals itself to be nothing more than false hope and empty promises. The title object, representing hope and innocence, is eventually destroyed by the male character symbolizing Christ, and by extension belief systems as a whole. Due to its highly subjective nature, the film is unique in that it can evoke completely different emotions in the viewer on repeat viewings--watched a certain way, the ending is heartbreakingly tragic, another way, curiously hopeful. The film was made shortly after Oshii, who had trained to become a Christian priest in his youth, lost his faith, and the crumbling religiosity depicted in the film has a personal quality to it that is unforgettable.

A masterpiece; Penelope Cruz is too amazing for words and so is this superb film.

Aside from a few instances where von Trier sacrifices plausibility in order to enrich his metaphor (really, why would Grace be so ravaged with hunger after a single day that she'd want to gnaw on a dog bone?), Dogville is brilliant. The stagey setting is initially jarring, as is von Trier's handheld digital photography, but these eventually feel natural and work well. Kidman is fantastic as Grace, and the way the film darkens it's tone considerably during the second half is haunting, to say the least.

Aliens may be the greatest action movie ever made, but as a sequel to Alien it comes up short. Oh, sure, the ravenous fanboy contingent routinely declares, with fascist indignation, that is "so much better" than its predecessor, but that's mostly because Aliens is explicitly designed to give that particular breed of film fan a boner.

As Michael Biehn states in interviews, Aliens is "every boy's fantasy"--shit blows up, and it blows up good. The guns are so huge that it borders on parody. The main characters (bar Ripley) are wisecrackin', comic book space marines. Yes, it's supposed to be a metaphor for Vietnam or something, but comparing the Vietnamese to sinister, murderous extraterrestrials seems rather disingenuous. Then we have the massive plot hole that is at the story's foundation: as revealed in Alien, the Company knew about the derelict on LV-426. So, why then are they ignorant of it after 57 years, with the last twenty of those spent setting up a colony on the planetoid? So they mysteriously forgot it was there--surely then a survey of the planetoid before colonization would have revealed a massive alien spaceship on the surface? Not to mention the derelict was emitting a warning beacon that is apparently no longer detectable, even though Dallas and co. didn't switch it off. Fanboys pile on Alien 3's opening plothole, but frankly an egg mysteriously being on the Sulaco is a lot more plausible than the nearly-suspension of disbelief-destroying mess that is this film's setup. There are a plethora of half-assed "solutions" of these, ie the derelict was damaged by seismic activity, etc, but these really just come across as bending over backwards to try any explanation that fits. Face it: Aliens is not perfect, it is not a masterpiece like the original, and it has major flaws.

But that's okay, because what Cameron gets right here is considerable. Sigourney Weaver's spectacular, iconic reprisal of Ripley is still the only role to ever get an actress nominated for an Oscar for a science fiction film (the fact she got robbed my Marlee Matlin is ludicrous), and while the marines are mostly stupid, Michael Biehn is beyond dreamy, Lance Henriksen a nice counterpoint to Ian Holm's menacing Ash from the first film, and Jenette Goldstein is authentically badass as Vasquez. James Horner's score is memorable and exciting, despite being mostly recycled cues from his earlier work and rips from classical pieces (like every other score he's ever done). The effects are astounding, the production design convincing and top-notch.

One of the biggest issues with Aliens are the aliens themselves. Gone is the sleek, sexual look the creature had in the first film, replaced instead by a disappointingly cliche insectoid motif, right up to having a hive with a queen. Fortunately though, Cameron comes through with her: the queen is beautiful--even Giger had to concede so. Too bad that her exit is a mirror image of the alien's fate in the first film (in fact, Alien 3 is the only sequel in the series that has an ending for the creature that doesn't reprise the original film's ending, involving the alien being ejected into space through an airlock/opening).

The film's biggest strength is Cameron's masterful pacing: like the first film, Aliens starts slow, but methodically ratchets up the tension and suspense until the last act, which becomes a genuine seat-gripper of relentless action and incredible set pieces. In lesser hands, a film with as many problematic elements as this would have fallen apart, but while Cameron may not be a great filmmaker, he is far and away one of the best moviemakers, and Aliens stands next to Terminator 2 and Titanic as his best work.

(While the Special Edition cut of the film provides crucial extra backstory, the added scenes severely drag down the film's pacing, and as such the original theatrical cut is still the better version.)

Too bad The Matrix ripped this movie off wholesale.

Kathy Bates, Jennifer Jason Leigh, and Judy Parfitt are all brilliant. Powerful, even though the ending stumbles a bit.

For once, the Oscars finally got something right. The best film of the 90s, and the greatest thriller ever made. Serial killer films are usually either knuckle-dragging, exploitative trash, or pretentious vehicles for a director to showcase how stylish they can be (Se7en, or for a more recent example, Jennifer Lynch's insufferable Surveillance). In the case of The Silence of the Lambs (and 1995's Copycat), director Jonathan Demme chooses to explore the genre's misogynistic undercurrents, centering itself on a strong female heroine who, uniquely, is never in danger of sexual peril. The male gaze, the dominant perspective in serial killer films, is reversed: the film is shown from Clarice's point of view, often literally, and Demme brilliantly conveys the way it feels for women to be relentlessly objectified by men. The objectification of women by men grows to become the film's dominant theme, as the motivation for the killer Buffalo Bill is objectification to the point of ownership. The film was widely criticized by the LGBT community for its alleged transphobia, but such accusations are baseless. Buffalo Bill is explicitly stated in the film to not be transsexual--instead of wanting to become a woman, he wants to consume the identity of women--the ultimate objectification, if you will. In line with the director's trademark humanism, Demme does not let Buffalo Bill's monstrousness dominate the character; past abuses and hurt surface without overstatement, and we can see the tortured soul within. The Silence of the Lambs is, of course, dominated by Hopkins and Foster, who give their greatest performances to date in the film. The scene in which the title is explained is one of the most powerfully haunting in cinema, and is completely free of set pieces or special effects--simply two actors in intercut close-up, playing their roles to perfection.

Tsukamoto's best film. A masterpiece.

Jane Campion reached her cinematic peak with The Piano, a film so beautiful and striking in its direction, writing, cinematography, score - and especially its performances - that it was sadly inevitable that she'd never top it, or even equal it, since. Nominated for eight Oscars, and winning three, as well as taking home the Palme d'Or at Cannes, it's wholeheartedly deserving of every award it's received and all the lavish praise bestowed upon it - more of which can be found here, if you haven't already gathered.
I'll begin with the central performances. Holly Hunter, despite never uttering a single word onscreen, gives one of the most intense screen performances of the past several decades. It is literally impossible for the viewer to take their eyes off of her: without speech, the character's emotions and personality are directed entirely through Hunter's body language, and it is a testament to her acting skill that Ada is distinct and unforgettable. Playing Ada's young daughter Flora, Anna Paquin avoids the mugging and insufferable wooden qualities of most child actors, accomplishing something few actors her age have ever done onscreen. There is a reason she won her Oscar for Best Supporting Actress at the age of eleven for this film. Harvey Keitel gives a shockingly un-Harvey Keitel turn as Baines, and manages to accomplish something I would never in a million years have though possible: actually being sexy. Sam Neill, while still very much being Sam Neill, manages to balance being genial, loathsome, and pathetic as Ada's arranged husband Stewart.
Supporting the actors is the cinematography by Stuart Dryburgh and Jane Campion's exquisite direction. Taking place largely within the shady, wet New Zealand rain forest, the film's color scheme is earthy and dark, but beautiful in that rugged, exotic way. The landscape is used to generate a succession of unforgettable images: Ada's piano resting on the beach, waves rolling in around it; Ada and Flora throwing pieces of wood out into the muddy path ahead of them to make their walk a bit less taxing on their large hoop skirts; the blue gloom that seems to possess the entire forest. Campion brings a dreamy, almost fairy tale-like quality to the proceedings that helps to elevate The Piano far above the dry period piece it could have been in lesser hands. A film so concerned with music should naturally have a great score, and composer Michael Nyman does not disappoint. His compositions for the title instrument stay with the viewer long after the credits roll, and it's a shame he didn't win the Oscar this film got him nominated for.

Lions Gate's Region 1 DVD release of The Piano is something contemptibly unbefitting a film of its reputation and quality. Presented on a one sided, dual layer disc in both widescreen and fullscreen formats, the picture quality is just shy of abysmal. Not only is the widescreen version of the film not anamorphically enhanced, it's also extremely grainy and the source print used is not the most stellar. The fullscreen version, in addition to being a superfluous waste of disc space, does not fare much better. The audio is presented in standard Dolby Digital 2.0, which is serviceable, but one can only imagine how much better a DD 5.1 treatment would sound. Extras, what little there are, are just as mediocre. The film's theatrical trailer, some production notes and Cast & Crew Information are all we get. Disappointing.

Flawless. Pam Grier is still too fabulous for words.

Not quite as good as Mulholland Dr., but certainly the best thing he has ever done besides. It's like a fusion of Lost Highway and Mulholland Dr., only without the annoying 90's industrial hipster aesthetic of the former. Words cannot describe how amazing Laura Dern is in this film, how stupendously awesome her performance is. Naturally, the Oscars snubbed her and INLAND EMPIRE, demonstrating what a farce they are anyway.

And I thought the digital vid photography was great. I was a little worried knowing that Lynch was abandoning film for good before seeing INLAND EMPIRE, but after viewing it, I'm happy to say Lynch's choice is completely fine.

One of the most wonderful films ever made. The only reason I would ever have children is to watch this film with them and see the delight on their faces. In the mean time, i'll content myself by trying to find a life-size Totoro plush, so I can sleep on it's belly every night.

One of the best films of the decade, Kill Bill--dubbed by some critics as a "cinematic mixtape"--is phenomenally entertaining and wholly derivative, but in the most wonderful ways. It references, borrows and pays lip service to scenes and characters from genre films of old, weaving them into an irresistible pulp tapestry that still retains its own emotional core and sense of individuality. Really though, its just a damned good time--and probably one of the "coolest" films ever made. Tarantino is in full-force with this one: the action is exciting and intense, the selected music is brilliantly used, the performances are all in on the joke while never actually being jokey, and its all infused with such beautifully poignant passion and a true love of the art of filmmaking that railing against it is simply being a bad sport.

One of the best films of the decade, Kill Bill--dubbed by some critics as a "cinematic mixtape"--is phenomenally entertaining and wholly derivative, but in the most wonderful ways. It references, borrows and pays lip service to scenes and characters from genre films of old, weaving them into an irresistible pulp tapestry that still retains its own emotional core and sense of individuality. Really though, its just a damned good time--and probably one of the "coolest" films ever made. Tarantino is in full-force with this one: the action is exciting and intense, the selected music is brilliantly used, the performances are all in on the joke while never actually being jokey, and its all infused with such beautifully poignant passion and a true love of the art of filmmaking that railing against it is simply being a bad sport.

Fantastic! Much better than the already excellent original. Another brilliant Oshii film.

Giulietta Masina is too amazing for words.

Never has a novel been more faithfully translated to screen, and then improved upon. The best straight horror film ever made has survived awful TV movie sequels and attempted Michael Bay remakes and still holds its title as a true milestone of the genre. Story-wise, its rather silly, and in the wrong hands could have been disastrous, but Roman Polanski and Mia Farrow give it their all, and their efforts are astonishing.

A dark, complex, sometimes confusing anime-styled plotline, a strong female cast, superb special effects (no, really), and an excellent score by Kô Ôtani make this probably the best Japanese special effects film ever made.

Oh, my.

I had wanted to see this film ever since it went into limited theatrical release (nowhere near where my poor a** was at the time, tragically). And finally, thanks to someone I know owning the DVD, I have!

Once again: oh, my.

What a fantastic film. I gasped in terror (complete with shoving both fists up to my mouth) a record total of four times, tying this film in "Scare-Mina-ism" with The Descent. (I've seen hundreds of horror films, and so far these two are the only ones that have actually induced terror - if only for a few seconds).

And, oh, how I laughed! And come the end, how I cried! I haven't enjoyed a film so much in such a terribly long time (living on a steady diet of art films isn't completely healthy). It was so good, I pushed aside the nagging suspicion that it lifted a bit too much from WXIII: Patlabor the Movie 3 (including the creature design). The first 20 minutes of this film are among the most brilliant in any horror film, and the 100 that follow do not disappoint.

If you haven't seen it yet, SEE IT NOW! And if you don't want to because you can't/don't like reading subtitles, than pity/SHAME on you!

Like one of Yoko Ono's early experimental albums, either you love it or hate it.

There are two camps of Alien series fans: fans of Ridley Scott's first film and fans of James Cameron's sequel, Aliens. Almost never is someone equally a fan of both. Alien fans love the series' dark atmosphere, otherworldly production design, fantastic direction, brilliantly judged editing and beautifully naturalistic acting. Aliens fans love big explosions, big guns, and bigger aliens. Needless to say, I'm in the former camp of fans. (We won't even discuss the AVP fans, because 1. those films aren't canon anyway and 2. anyone who prefers those two piles to any of the original quartet are in need of forced sterilization, to prevent their further polluting the gene pool).

Before its slow, on-going (and justly deserved) re-appraisal by critics and audiences, Alien 3 was the fanboy punching bag of the franchise. Aside from it being hideously dismembered in post by the studio, it was unremittingly bleak (boo!), devoid of cornball Cameron one-liners (hiss!) and populated by characters that read like actual human beings and not gun-toting cartoons who struck poses, chomped cigars and blowed shit up real good. Alien fans were more sympathetic. Then came Alien Resurrection, and the Alien fans and the Aliens fans agreed in unison: it was a complete mess.

And so it is: but it is a spectacularly bizarre and perverse mess, completely unlike anything else Hollywood has ever put out. It is less an extension of the original trilogy as it is a freakishly distorted funhouse mirror version of them. It's as if James Cameron's Aliens passed through one of those teleporters from The Fly and came out fused with Delicatessen, only bigger, bloodier and with a penchant for human-alien incest. Yes, it is true that the film's script is (mostly) disappointing (and if you think its bad now, you should read Joss Whedon's original drafts before Jeunet re-invisioned it all--yikes). For every great idea like Ripley's "enhanced" genetics, quasi-Sapphic relationship with Winona Ryder, and the hideous, failed clone forerunners "1-7", there are stupid stock characters and bad one-liners aplenty (Raymond Cruz is so unbearably obnoxious that it's a highlight of the film when he gets his skull crushed into a pulp).

The designs for the aliens are, alas, also a step in the wrong direction, especially seeing as how elegant the design was in Alien 3--here the titular beasts looks like exaggerated comic book versions of their former selves, but seeing as the creatures this time around are cloned genetic freaks it's at least consistent. Ditto the much reviled Newborn, which while by no means a great design, is at least functionally repulsive and works as the monstrosity it's supposed to be.

But there is much to enjoy here: Weaver is in exceptionally fine form, re-inventing Ripley 8 as a disturbed and disillusioned warrior who gradually rediscovers her humanity through Winona Ryder's android-cum-transsexual-metaphor, and while Ryder may not give the most convincing line readings, they make for a cute pairing as the two hold each other for dear life at the film's conclusion. Elsewhere, Brad Dourif is in prime scene stealing mode, making kissy faces at aliens behind glass and exiting the picture in memorably crazy fashion. Darius Khondji's cinematography is gorgeous, all amber surfaces and rich blues and blacks, and while Jean-Pierre Jeunet's weirdo black humor grates with the material on occasion, his sense of style (the fade-outs during Ripley's awakening are an exceptionally nice touch) framing and eye for memorable visuals and set pieces cannot be denied. The underwater chase sequence is one of the highlights of the series, and Ripley's absorption into the "viper pit" one of its strongest images. Best of all, Resurrection expands on the first film's nasty sexual fixations in ways the other sequels were too afraid or preoccupied to: there is a glorious scene where Ripley sensuously snuggles up to one of her alien brethren, and the ending features the strangest make-out session in cinema. Replacing Alien 3 as the fanboy punching bag, Alien Resurrection is perhaps even more divisive than it's predecessor, but it flies its freak flag proudly, and in the wake of the disastrous AVP films is a solemn reminder of when the series dared to push boundaries and confound expectations.

Sometimes dull, but always visually dazzling.

A paramount example of a sequel besting its predecessor in every way, Addams Family Values trades the tired broad strokes comedy of the original for some of the most deliciously arch camp satire Hollywood has ever put out. Paul Rudnick's script is so witty, so consistently hilarious, and so downright bitchy, that it practically transcends any kind of flaws in story or plot structure, almost heroically maintaining an awe-inspiringly consistent stream of knock out one-liners. And the performances... all are incredible, especially Joan Cusack in her career best role as the hilariously materialistic black widow nanny.

One of the better "family" films.

The baby is the most horrific thing ever commited to film.

Baz Luhrmann and his muse, Nicole Kidman, re-team for this sweeping, magnificent, absorbing piece of wonderfully shameless entertainment. Luhrmann crams every kitschy by-gone film genre he can into his sprawling three hour run-time: screwball comedy, old fashioned epic, western, war movie and, of course, epic romance. It's a massively silly mess, but its so earnest and uncynical and gosh-darn eager to please that resisting it is only denying yourself its many pleasures. Kidman and Jackman are perhaps the only approximations to glamorous old Hollywood marquee names, and both commit to their roles with a giddy pleasure that carries over to the viewer: Kidman dances through each genre stereotype required by her character flawlessly, and Jackman is a man's-man actor who was born to be sexually objectified by an auteur like Luhrmann--it's easily the sexiest male performance in decades, self-conscious bathing scenes and all. With all its influences and winking homages, Australia cements Baz Luhrmann as the crazy, flamboyant, bisexual Aussie answer to Tarantino. Believe me folks, that's a compliment.

Finally, one of the Potter films breaks through into genuine cinematic excellence. Thrilling and wonderfully sinister, this fifth entry in the franchise is the best of the eight installments. Nearly flawless, aside from a few brief moments of trite dialogue. Radcliffe is, for the first time, starting to own the role of Harry (and rather sexily, too). Imelda Staunton is the perfect Umbridge: ruthless, vile, and oh-so-wickedly pink. Grint and Watson continue to improve, and the rest of the returning cast shines as always, and newcomer Evanna Lynch is wonderful as Luna Lovegood. David Yates' direction is a great deal more sophisticated than the work of the preceding directors; most of the time, the camera focuses on the characters and less on the admittedly great sets, and his handling of the darker aspects of the story is spot on and occasionally disturbing, as in the opening dementor attack and the ruthless climactic battle, which is one of the most thrillingly intense battle sequences one has seen in blockbuster while still maintaining visual coherence.

There are small scenes in the film that have a hauntingly lovely quality to them; when Harry finds Luna in the forest, feeding thestrals, she gives a little speech about people shying away from them due to their ugly appearance, ignoring their pleasant nature - admittedly a common theme in film, but rarely executed the way it is here, in a simple, bittersweet little moment that gains further poignancy at the end of the film, as Luna wanders about Hogwarts looking for all the things people took from her as a cruel joke.

I don't really know what to make of Todd Haynes. A director with no discernable style of his own, he crafts all his films as homages to the filmmaking styles of other directors (Safe, this film), or he makes bio pics of rock stars from the 60's and 70's, and then tries recreating those eras (Superstar, Velvet Goldmine, I'm Not There). If he were just a derivative hack, it would be easy to dismiss his work, but with this film, he washes away the bad taste left in my mouth after I viewed his Velvet Goldmine.

Far From Heaven has something his previous film did not: actual characters we care about, portrayed by actors with the ability to actually get across feeling. Julianne Moore's performance here is easily one of the best - by any thespian, male or female - that has ever graced the screen. Essentially given a duel role (she must become the character of Cathy Whitaker, but she must also adopt the acting style dominant in the time period that the film tries to recreate), she pulls it all off so immaculately that her character haunts you long after the retro-syled end title cards have rolled. Dennis Haysbert is almost her equal, radiating warmth, intelligence and sincerity. When the two share screen time, their scenes together have a touching beauty - early in the film, Moore runs into Haysbert at an art show, and the two of them have a sweet discussion about one of the paintings in front of them. It's a pitch perfect scene, seemingly minor considering the charged drama to come, but its simple beauty leaves a deep impression. In comparison with the previously mentioned pair, Dennis Quaid doesn't fare as well. His performance is perfectly adequate, but it can't compete with Haysbert's, let alone even approach Moore's.

From a technical perspecive, Far From Heaven is nearly flawless: its period detail is superb, the score by Elmer Bernstein is beautiful and appropriately melodramatic, and the cinematography is lovely. Hayne's direction does well at recapturing Sirk's style, but is not quite perfect in one respect: the film stock. One would assume that, given the efforts in every other respect to recreate the look, sound, and feel of a '50s melodrama, Haynes would opt to make the film look its attempted age. It's not a major flaw, but it is mildly distracting nonetheless, especially considering the big, flowery font of the titles. This minor critique is emblematic of the entire film itself; it is near-perfect, but something just feels missing. I place the blame on the style the film emulates; it gets it near-perfect, right down to the flaws that rob the film of the immense emotional power it could have had without all the stylistic, melodramatic posturing. That isn't to say the film isn't powerful - it most certainly is, and even moved me to tears on occasion - just that it could have been even moreso.
Still, Haynes' script is a masterpiece, and enough of its brilliance shines through, and when combined with Moore's phenomenal turn, makes Far From Heaven essential viewing.

One of the most immaculately directed horror films of all time, the first BODY SNATCHERS remake is so imbued with masterful dread and paranoia that it makes even a retractable phone chord seem menacing. It works on levels most spook stories can barely even fathom; every scene has some disturbing background element, and the establishment of the invasion slowly overtaking the city's populace is cunningly interwoven from the get-go--"snitch screams" can be heard in the distance in early establishing scenes, pursued loners ominously flee in the background, and the main characters are almost constantly being watched by others in the corner of the frame.

Out of all the Body Snatchers films, this is the one that truly milks the premise for all its nightmarish implications and bleak hopelessness. It also takes the much-touted "allegory" aspect of the story and actually does something with it. On its surface, the film is a satirical stab at all things goofy, glib and new age: plant music, Erik von Daniken, and pop psychology all get a good ribbing. The film is like a chronicle of the dying aims of the flower children, their hopes for peace, love and individuality eventually being consumed and eradicated by the culture they rail against. When one views BODY SNATCHERS '78 from this angle, it becomes the boldest of the films thematically: a terrifying lament about the inevitable defeat-by-absorption of rebellion, change and progress by the overwhelming, conservative status quo.

In addition to its thematic superiority, BODY SNATCHERS '78 also boasts one of the strongest ensemble casts out there: Donald Sutherland at his peak, Veronica Cartwright at her pre-ALIEN shrieking best, Leonard Nimoy putting a dark twist to his usual "logical" approach, and Jeff Goldblum playing vintage Jeff Goldblum (before he started beefing up at the gym), while Brooke Adams makes for a sympathetic protagonist and love interest. The avant-jazz score by Danny Zeitlen is unique and effective (the best of the four films), the cinematography dark, claustrophobic and brilliant, and the sound design is one of the best in cinema--the horrifying sounds for the transformations are wonderfully unnerving, the unsettling use of ambient crowd noise is textbook-worthy, and of course there is the unforgettable pod people shriek...

The legendary ending is one of those rare examples of a classic shocker twist that actually holds up decades later, due to its uncompromised bleakness. Of the four films, its the one that dares to commit to its own horror, and while many films have tried to copy it, with cheap results, it still haunts like no other.

One of Roeg's best. Desperately in need of a soundtrack CD release.

Lars von Trier's latest plays like Antichrist's stately older sister--the same bleak nihilism and despair is at work, but here it is delivered with gorgeous romance imagery and Wagner instead of snipped lady parts and gynocidal immolation.

The film is divided into a Prelude and two parts, "Part I: Justine" and "Part II: Claire", with the prelude being a stunning succession of ultra slow-motion imagery set to Wagner's prelude from "Tristan and Isolde." It's an unforgettable bit of filmmaking. "Part I" is where problems crop up. Essentially a farcical wedding black comedy, it's severely undercut by von Trier's arch dialogue and the simple fact that, as he made perfectly clear at the Cannes press conference for this film, his sense of humor is not in any way funny. One running gag with Udo Kier refusing to look at Kirsten Dunst gets some chuckles, but the rest falls curiously flat.

But then comes "Part II", in which we watch Charlotte Gainsbourg and Kirsten Dunst give terrific, career-best performances as they become trapped and isolated in their sprawling castle estate whilst the titular planet hurtles toward the Earth. As someone who suffers from depression myself, I sympathized greatly with the film's authentic depiction of the way that depression manifests itself in irrationally fearful and reckless behavior, constantly alienating those around you and making even simple daily tasks unbearably difficult--not to mention the occasional cruelty you can spit out at people who love you. In that respect, Dunst nails her role, but the real showcase performance here comes from Gainsbourg, whose descent into anxiety and despair is heartwrenching; a scene where she desperately tries to flee the estate and starts breaking down as every method of flight fails is powerful indeed.

As with Antichrist, this is an extremely frustrating film that brings up big ideas few others would touch--here, as with the former, it's the notion that all life on Earth is evil, corrupt and predatory and deserves to be destroyed, and that there is no other life in the entire universe; when our planet is destroyed there will be no one around to mourn our passing. Melancholia deals with these themes in an oblique, indirect manner that will be familiar to von Trier fans, and while one wishes he would tear into his preoccupations a bit more (he is really the only director working whose films are sincerely nihilistic, not just fashionable posing), Melancholia is still a monument to his incredible skill as a master visualist and to the talents of his actors.

Don't let the awful trailer dissuade you: Almodovar delivers the best film of the year (so far), and more than makes up for the disappointing Broken Embraces. This is absolutely masterful filmmaking, with career best performances from Banderas and Elena Anaya, an incredible score, and the most shocking twist cinema has seen since the early 90s.

Stunning. Such a powerfully still and quiet film.

Charming, sweet, fun, and features some great songs.

The "Special Version" is great.

Hideo Nakata's masterpiece, this is probably the greatest slice of J-Horror ever filmed. Although never actually scary, it has an emotional weight to it that I have never encountered before in a 'horror' film: the finale, before the unnecessary epilogue, is perhaps the most heartbreaking, devastating scene in horror history, as the little girl Ikuko screams out for her mother in desperation. Coupled with a usually brilliant score by Kenji Kawai, Nakata's direction is flawless. Too bad it couldn't end on that devastating note, as it is capped off by a Hollywood-esque epilogue that dampens - no pun intended - the climax that came before it by explaining what should have been left for the viewer to infer.

I am not exactly a big fan of CGI, but Jurassic Park contains the only moment of any film where I was fooled by a computer generated creature, and this film is almost 15 years old! Geniunely exciting, even if the science is a bit silly (oh yes, of course fresh dino-blood carrying mosquitos just happened to become fossilized in amber in great numbers. Pfft).

Easily the greatest superhero movie ever made, Tim Burton's Batman Returns is maligned by franchise fanboys for all the reasons it is actually so successful: it's Darker and Edgier(TM), but balances it with knowing humor and surrealism, and as with all superhero tales, the villains are eminently more interesting, and here Burton brings them center stage, shoving boring old Batman himself into the shadows until he's needed.

Whereas Christopher Nolan's hideously overpraised Batman films are hilariously self-important, and try to make a story about a millionaire playboy who runs around in a rubber fetish costume fighting crime into deadly serious business, Burton instead seeks refuge in audacity, exploding the character's comic book origins to epic proportions (an army of penguins with rocket launchers!) whilst maintaining a surprisingly eloquent undertow of genuine pain and anger. This is how you adapt what is essentially a goofy children's story for an adult audience--retain the basic naivete of the premise, but infuse it with real adult emotions. The principals in Batman Returns are all horribly damaged people, their personalities fractured from extreme suffering and trauma. Here, Burton actually gives a workable psychological excuse for why these people redefine their identities in terms of animal counterparts--Michelle Pfeiffer's breakdown in her pathetic apartment is perhaps the most emotionally sophisticated scene in the director's entire filmography: heartbreaking, disturbing and cathartic all at once. Indeed, Michelle Pfeiffer's performance here is so good it makes Heath Ledger's later turn as a Batman villain look amateurish in comparison (not to mention it is still to date the only time Hollywood has allowed a female character to be a complex, tortured villain without having her either "redeemed" at the end, punished for her "sins", or won over by the love of the hero--Burton and writer Daniel Waters even lampshade and brutally subvert that last one). Ditto for Devito's Penguin, an unrepentant monster whom Burton and Devito nevertheless view with unwavering humanist empathy, his death neither a relief or payoff for the heroes, but another part of the overarching tragedy that encompasses everyone and everything in the story, and as over-extended as the finale is, Burton would not match it again 'til Sweeney Todd in terms of sheer "descent into hell" pathos.

Then there is the way all of it looks, which is absolutely gorgeous--all velvety, shiny blacks and blues, and brilliantly expressionistic production design that is even more striking when compared with the drab, arid compositions of Nolan's films. Danny Elfman delivers his finest score to date, improving on his already considerable compositions from the otherwise stolid first film with wild, inventive orchestrations and grand, operatic leitmotifs for all the characters. The entire production of Returns is so good that it practically makes up for the rest of the dismal Batman series-- it's a glittering, oft-overlooked black diamond amongst a whole bunch of dull, ludicrous franchise coal.

Hilarious, even if you sometimes feel bad for laughing.

Oshii's best film since AVALON, and a triumphant return to his brilliant style of solemn, philosophical filmmaking.

One of Ang Lee's and Sigourney Weaver's best films.

Brilliant, but misunderstood. If you are expecting some coherent action fest, DO NOT see this. The Red Spectacles very much like a David Lynch film in that it is extremely surreal, has lots of black humor, and baffles the unprepared viewer. For film buffs who love this kind of stuff, however, The Red Spectacles is sure to please. It has an army of assassin mimes (who our main hero wipes out while entirely in the nude!), bizarre slapstick, some seriously neat imagery, and another great Kenji Kawai score. Just know what you are getting into.

Unforgettable, despite the fact some of the musical numbers are ineptly filmed and lack visual energy. Björk and her songs, however, are brilliant, and the ending is the most heartbreaking, emotionally wrenching thing I've seen.

A work of genius, tour-de-force filmmaking, We Need to Talk About Kevin is a desperate howl of anguish at the horrors of motherhood, and one of the most profoundly articulate cinematic expressions of the old "Hell is other people" chestnut. If for no other reason, see it for the astoundingly good performances from Ezra Miller and the great Tilda Swinton, whose work here may be her best, and is hands down the most accomplished performance of the year.

Antonioni's most famous film may begin to run out of steam toward the end, but its opening half, set on a desolate Italian island, contains some of the most evocative passages in film. His follow-up film, the also brilliant L'Eclisse, is essentially L'Avventura in reverse--whereas that film begins with stunning visuals representing emotional disconnect, and then returns to normality to examine dissatisfied bourgeoisie moping, L'Eclisse begins with the bourgeois dissatisfaction and culminates in alienated visual grandeur. They both feature great lead turns by the sadly under-appreciated Monica Vitti (who would go on to work with Antonioni several more times, most notably in his great Red Desert), but L'Avventura comes out on top for its unforgettable images and revolutionary cinematic language.

The best film from Michelangelo Antonioni and Monica Vitti. Brilliant use of color and fabulous cinematography. Too bad the mediocre non-anamorphic DVD is out of print. Why hasn't the Criterion Collection rereleased this? They released L'Eclisse, and while that was very good, Red Desert is still the superior Antonioni film.

I don't care if there is no character development, and Keanu Reeves' can't act. It's all about the gorgeous music, sets, costumes, and those buns.

Beautiful. The first half plays out like another one of those lame 'love conquers all' movies, but thankfully, the film isn't that stupid, and goes in a rather smart direction toward the end.

Another of Oshii's more surreal offerings. Brilliant - that is, again, if you like this kind of film. Film students especially will be fascinated by it. Not to mention, it's hilarious. The part where Chiba reveals that the production manager has returned as a zombie due to his obsession with the job is priceless.

Flawless.

Fuck the stupid revisionist backlash this film has suffered over the years; The Blair Witch Project is one of the greatest horror films ever made.

But let us first examine said backlash. The Blair Witch Project has no special effects. The evil force that hunts Heather, Mike and Josh through the forest is never shown. It is merely implied through the noises it makes in the underbrush at night, and the things it leaves behind: disturbing stick figures hanging from trees, one character's bloody remains bound in a bundle of twigs. The reason the film has suffered its backlash is because, horror of horrors, it requires the viewer to have an imagination. There are no giant CGI monsters running amok here. What exactly you are afraid of is up to you. If you are someone who, say, thinks <>Resident Evil is a totally awesome, scary movie, then The Blair Witch Project is definately not for you.

The initial attack by whatever-the-hell-is-out-there on the trio's tent, causing them to flee terrified into the night, is one of the most purely terrifying things commited to film. Likewise, The Blair Witch Project contains some of the most potent imagery in all of horror cinema: those stick figures, Heather's tearful apology, and those chilling handprints inside the abandoned house. The improvised acting never comes across as phony or staged, and the exchanges between the three characters are often funny in a realistic way. The realism of the acting is not so much based on the actors' skills, but based on the fact that, to an extent, what you see in the film is REALLY WHAT THE ACTORS WENT THROUGH. Yes, they actually camped all those nights. Heather even packed a knife with her because she was not comfortable with the idea of saring a tent with two guys. When the they complain they're hungry, it's because they are; the directors reduced th amount of food the actors got each day to "promote unease". And while filming the infamous climax, Heather Dnahue became so caught up in her performance that she actually began to go into shock. The actors were not informed that the legend of the Blair Witch was made up before they began filming. They were not informed of when the directors would make noises in the woods outside at night, or when they were going to attack their tent. Combine all those elements with how incredibly real the whole thing feels as a result of all the method filmmaking, as well as the film actually giving an emotionally relevant reason for why the camera is always running ("because it's all I have left..."), and you have an incomparable faux-documentary horror masterpiece.

Not nearly as bad as you may have heard.

"You people are BASTARD people!"

BUSY BEE!!!!

The weakest of Guest's faux documentaries, but still wonderful.

Hysterical. Starts to run out of steam in the end, but it's still a hilarious good time. According to John Waters, it's the greatest film ever made. Not quite, but still pricelessly campy.

'Have you heard the word of God? It's the greatest gift of all time. You have to trust completely in God. He'll forgive you of all your sins.'

'Who forgives God?'

These lines of dialogue can best sum up what The Rapture is best at saying: if God exists, he has some serious sins of his own to atone for.
Although its low budget shows (and during the finale, does it ever), the film manages to overcome this with its fabulous performances, eerie musical score, and most of all, its ideas.

Mimi Rogers plays Sharon, a telephone operator who hates her job, has nothing in her life, and spends her evenings cruising for couples sex with her partner Vic. Eventually, this unfulfilling existance causes her to have a breakdown, and after attempting suicide, Sharon turns to fundamentalist Christianity.

The Rapture contains one of the most profound and conceptually brilliant endings in cinema history. ***SPOILERS AHEAD*** Sharon's faith in God is put to the test constantly througout the film - not her faith in his existance, of which she is always certain after her conversion, but her faith in his goodness and promises. After recieving a message from God to wait for the title event in the desert, Sharon obeys, but the rapture does not come as they were promised, and she is forced to kill her daughter, who can not physically stand to wait around any longer with no food. After sending her daughter to Heaven, Sharon despairingly turns the gun on herself - only to angrily fire shots into the sky, as she remembers that killing herself will send her straight to Hell. It's a powerful scene, and from then on until the silent end titles roll, The Rapture transforms from an interesting study of religious fanatacism, to a profound look at whether God, should he exist, deserves the love he demands from humanity. The ending, in which Sharon, standing in a kind of limbo between Heaven and Earth, refuses to tell God she loves him. Her daughter pleads with her to accept God back into her heart. After all, he did give her the gift of life. But Sharon counters that if God gave the world the "gift" of life, he also gave it the "gift" of suffering, and after all God's rules about love and caring - rules he himself does not abide by, considering his indifference to the suffering in the world - Sharon cannot say that she loves him. After her conversion to Christianity, Sharon married her loving husband and had her daughter, but both were brutally taken from her; her husband gunned down by a mentally deranged man, and her daughter killed by her own hand due to God's disregard for their survival in the desert. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Sharon's final line, 'forever...', is devastating in its implications, but also powerfully triumphant; one soul's defiance of eternity and an indifferent, patriarchal deity.

Thank goodness the film is so well-written, because it lends itself to multiple interpretations, including the one above. What is probably Tolkein's own intent is a significant disappointment: a devout Jew, Tolkin is essentially critiquing how fundamentalist Christianity views God. So basically what we have here, if we subscribe to his view, is a big, cinematic cry of "you worship God the wrong way!" It seems slightly ridiculous how Tolkin goes on a full-out character assasination of the fundamentalist Christian God, raising several valid points about the dubious righteousness of a creator who demands love and obedience from his creations at all cost, but it mystifies me how he fails to see that these damning characteristics apply to his Jewish interpretation of God as well. Thankfully, his script does not explicitly trumpet this message, and is actually very subjective - many people even see this as a "tragedy", in which Sharon's main flaw is that she can't fully accept God into her heart. Yeah, whatever.

While Tolkin's script is brilliant, his direction is rather lacking. This was his debut film as a director, and his inexperience shows in the dull, static way the events of the first half unfold. He improves as he goes along, though, and there are several powerful moments and haunting visuals in the film's second half, most notably the shot of bars falling away in prison cells as the rapture comes, while an inmate sharing a cell with Sharon begins to sing Amazing Grace.
As Sharon, Mimi Rogers is fantastic, delivering a performance so strong she carries the entire film. David Duchovny is fine (in all senses of the word; he looks hot even with a mullet). Thomas Newman's musical score is subtle, yet haunting, and despite the film's flaws (of which there are several), this remains one of the most inexplicably underrated films of the past twenty years.

One of the best horror films I have ever seen. A masterpiece.

Charlize is incredible in this.

Campy and often hilariously over-the-top.

Killer atmosphere. The film has one huge glaring flaw though: three of the stories are just... weak. 'Black Hair' and 'The Woman in the Snow' are archetypical Japanese ghost stories that have been retold over and over, and the only thing that makes them special here are the incredible sets (was a single shot of this filmed on location??!!!) and gorgeous cinematography. 'In a Cup of Tea' is just plain lame story-wise, although it does have a neat fight sequence with phantom men, but this goes on too long and gets tedious. The best story is 'Hoichi the Earless', which is flawless. The epic battle at the beginning is realized in such an original, theatrical way I was literally in awe. The sets for the ghostly palace also instilled the same effect on me, and the twist at the end is priceless, and more than a little painful to watch (Ouch!).

The X-Files: Fight the Future, though not really rising to the level of greatness some of the series' best episodes attained, is a perfectly enjoyable sci-fi blockbuster in it's own right. While lacking some of the sinister darkness of some of the first few season's episodes, the film points the way toward how the rest of the series would go: it's brighter, with more explosions, and the mythology gets extremely convoluted (or, in the case of the last two seasons, ridiculously convoluted). My only REAL gripe is the introduction of the new form of the aliens. Spooky black oil crawling through a boy's body? Creepy. Big, clawed, roaring greys? NOT creepy. Had they kept the aliens as the mute, eerie things they were in the show, the scenes with them would have been more effective. Instead, what we have here is a Hollywood-ized version of the shows spooky central antagonists - they are big, they have claws, they roar, and they attack. Talk about dumbed down.
Still, it's all smartly written, like the show (before it went completely downhill in the last two seasons), and Mulder and Scully are still wonderful characters who hold our interest. Let's hope the upcoming sequel will be at least as good as this initial cinematic outing.

Joe Dante's best film is a sweet and immensely entertaining ode to the joys of B-movies and childhood, and if the two intersected in your own life, Matinee is a must see. John Goodman is the cuddliest schlockmeister in history, and Mant! is the greatest movie never made.

Oh, Lars.

ANTICHRIST is a film with a lot of fascinating ideas rolling around in its fucked-up head, but none of them really coalesce into something satisfyingly concrete--which is probably von Trier's intention, but unfortunately lends the film an air of "if only...."
The first half is curiously dull, and one finds themselves waiting for the film to spring to life. When it finally does, it never quite manages to attain the level of despairing horror it seems to be going for until the very third act, where She drags He back to their cabin and the film's bleakness finally manages to sink into the viewer's bones. What ultimately redeems Antichrist is its brilliant cinematography, Gainsbourg's performance (although she's not nearly as flawless as some critics would lead you to believe) and, most of all, its ideas.

My interpretations (**SPOILERS**):

--Nature is evil, what with all the endless death and predation and wretchedness, so it could not have been created by God. It was created by Satan. Applying ancient gender stereotypes (even the old "women are clingy and afraid of men leaving them" gets thrown into the mix), the film posits that women are closer to nature (the "Mother" in "Mother Nature"), and therefore inherently evil. Men are just as evil, but like Willem Dafoe's smug asshole of a therapist, they don't realize it, and try to impose reason and order upon Nature, where as a talking auto-cannibalistic fox points out, "chaos reigns!" He thinks he can rationalize away his inherent murderous animalism, but in the end, nature will drag him back down with his female counterparts.

--Sex is evil. In another interview, von Trier has mentioned that he thinks sex is something that holds human beings back from truly being civilized. So, in Antichrist language: She is a woman, woman is nature, nature is barbaric, sex is nature, She wants sex constantly, sex is barbaric. He and She are divided by sex, both the physical act and gender. It is the natural catalyst for their downward spiral. Their child dies while the two are fucking, and She is too far-gone in mid-orgasm to care as she sees her son topple out the window. This is what re-ignites her self-hating madness.

--Charlotte Gainsbourg's character goes progressively more insane researching gynocide, the killing of women by men. She comes to believe that all women are just as evil as they are portrayed in the Bible and other historical texts ("A crying woman is a scheming woman..."). What's more, she fears that gynocide is the natural order of things (He: "I am nature" She: "What do you want, Mr. Nature?" He: "To hurt you as much as I can.") He dismisses this as ridiculous, but as She goes progressively more insane and violent, Nature seemingly guides him toward Her conclusion, and he eventually murders her and burns her body. Nature rewards him with food for following out with its plans. The implication being that gynocide and misogyny are part of nature, and are an inherited Darwinian trait. Which is, unfortunately, true (examine the behaviors of all animal species in existence--the VAST majority are male-dominated, even non-sentient organisms; nature favors the male on top for some reason). von Trier has sneakily, and probably facetiously, encoded a psuedo-feminist subtext here to counter the film's over-the-top misogyny: If Nature is evil and Satanic, then so is misogyny, as it is a big part of nature.

Oh, Lars, you joker!
Does Lars von Trier hate women? I honestly don't know. The constant accusations of misogyny he's accumulated in Phase II of his career (Breaking the Waves and everything since) have always struck me as missing the point. von Trier characters are not people, they are Ideas dressed up in human form. When Emily Watson, Bjork and Nicole Kidman are subjected to horrific treatment in his films, it is not because they are women, it is because their characters represent something. It's no different in his earlier films, where the male protagonists suffer equally horrible, drawn out fates (see the end of Europa). In a recent interview, von Trier stated that he thinks "women are just as bad as men," which, its prankster-ish wording aside, is more than anything a sensibly misanthropic point of view. All his films are profoundly misanthropic--few filmmakers continually show more contempt for our woeful race than von Trier, and god bless him for it.

This still doesn't excuse him from being a MAJOR asshole, though.

How does the film version of the great novel The Golden Compass hold up? Remarkably well, as long as you are a little forgiving, and know going in that the theatrical cut is a butchered slice of studio interference. It is almost comical to watch early trailers for the film, in which nearly half the scenes shown are not in the film. In fact, one can gather from the snippets shown in trailers that Chris Weitz's original cut was remarkably faithful to the novel. The only reason the film went overbudget was due to New Line hacking the film down, destroying the narrative flow, and rendering much of the film nonsensical, which then required the need for reshoots to try and make the plot work.

Originally, the film followed the book's sequence of events; one can see this in the trailers, which depict Lyra falling out of Lee Scoresby's balloon, as she does in the book, and this is what lands her in Svalbard. This entire scene was cut, which then required reshoots to somehow establish how Lyra got to Svalbard; cue a convenient Samoyed attack. Serafina Pekkala, the witch queen who aids Lyra in her quest, has several scenes cut which help to establish her character; Eva Green has stated that an entire scene was filmed and cut between her and Farder Coram on the Gyptian's boat. Her first appearance in the film is also problematic; she simply appears out of thin air. This kind of rapid introduction plagues most of the characters in the theatrical cut. Also a problem is the ridiculous pace and the editing, most likely, again, a problem caused by suits hacking up the film. Some scenes lack basic transition shots, such as the first scene among the members of the Magisterium. We suddenly jump cut to a bunch of sinister priests sitting in total darkness - we don't know where we are at first, and the transition is jarring and annoying. As if that weren't enough, their expository dialogue is awful - another flaw that the film suffers from at times.

Those instances aside, the film flows far too fast, but is still compulsively watchable. The visuals are genuinely impressive; this is certainly one of the nicest looking films to come along in quite some time. The production design is beautiful and immaculate, and the substantial bit of money that went into the film certainly shows up onscreen. Simply put, the locations and machines in the film are brilliantly realized to such a degree that the way they appear onscreen is virtually indistinguishable from the way I envisioned them as I read the novel. This perfection of design extends to the casting: Dakota Blue Richards is Lyra. Nicole Kidman is Mrs. Coulter (and the blonde hair makes sense, seeing as her daemon and wardrobe is all gold). The extensive supporting cast, including Daniel Craig as Lord Asriel (the beard works, but I like my Craig shaven, thank you), Eva Green as Serafina Pekkala, Sam Elliott as Lee Scoresby, Ian McKellen as the voice of Iorek Byrnison, and Freddie Highmore as the voice of Pantalaimon -just to name several- are all impeccably cast. Alexandre Desplat's score is suitably epic and grand (despite his overly dainty orchestrations), and he even manages to sneak that trademark undulating electronic bass of his in at a few points.

So, with all the technical aspects being spot on, the story elements have to satisfy at least on an equitable level. Unfortunately, this is not entirely the case with the theatrical cut. The story itself is a great one, but the way the present cut is edited, and the way the plot has been restructured seriously lessens one's enjoyment and interest in the proceedings. That isn't to say the film is not enjoyable and interesting; it's still entertaining for fans of the novel. In an unexpected twist, the plot restructuring actually works in one instance: the fight at Bolvangar comes before the bear fight at Svalbard in the novel, but the events are reversed here, which makes sense on a cinematic level, as the battle at Bolvangar is bigger and a more fitting conclusion. However, had the original ending not been cut (causing reshoots for a very weak new epilogue), the film's original structure could have been preserved. It's infuriating to think that what is quite possibly a great fantasy film, and a fabulous adaption of a great novel, has been hacked apart by studio suits into something that is merely just 'very good.'

The biggest issue with the film, since the first announcement of it's production, has been the excising of the religious themes to appease the lunatic Christian fringe. In the weeks leading up to the film's release, numerous reviews for the film appeared online, all of which described it as "completely sanitized." This is not quite the case: the men of the Magisterium dress like priests. They talk about heretic. Mrs. Coulter has a religious mural depicting the Kingdom of Heaven on her ceiling. The "Magisterial office", where Iorek's armor is kept, has paintings of saints and angels on it. If it looks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it must be veiled anti-religious allegory.

One thing several critics have also pointed out is that the film has seemingly replaced the theme of totalitarian religion with "authority" in general. They cite this as a fault, saying Lyra's battle against "the authority" is watered down and contrived; just a simple "follow your dreams" message. This simply shows their ignorance of the source material, as when Mrs. Coulter says the word "authority" near the end of the film, it's "The Authority", capitalized, ie God. The speech about Adam & Eve and original sin is still here, it's just not fleshed out. Weitz had not sanitized the themes of the novel; he has disguised them so that they could be explored in full in the sequels which never came.

In its extant form, the film is better than the first installment in the Lord of the Rings trilogy at least. The cinema version of the His Dark Materials trilogy had the potential for greatness, and with the series left incomplete, it is a tragic missed opportunity.

It's a tragedy this film isn't seen as the wonderful masterpiece it is. Superior to the first Babe, it is also a touching, occasionally heartbreaking, richly imaginative film, and doesn't condescend to it's audience. It also has perhaps the most haunting moment in any 'kids' film; while being pursued by a vicious pit bull, Babe stops, turns to face his attacker, and asks 'Why?' If only the characters in stupid, vapidly-violent action films would ask this simple question.

Shockingly underrated domestic horrors film in the vein of the great, unsung Dolores Claiborne. With the exception of some brief, unnecessary flashbacks and two unfortunate voiceovers bookending the film, this is a superbly written, harrowing portrait of vicious small-town narrow mindedness and personal tragedy. The characterization is incredible--leagues better than most of the stolid, stately crap that passes for Oscar-baiting drama. What's more, for a premise that is perched dangerously on the perilous cliff of Lifetime Movie of the Week melodrama, A Map of the World feels unsettlingly surreal in its gradual spiral, in the way that real-life tragedies can and do, and the reactions of the characters all make sense accordingly. Sigourney Weaver goes for broke, and instead of overacting like mad she instead turns in a strikingly singular and nuanced performance, one of the best of her career, essaying a character who is completely unlike any other "wronged woman against the system" role you've ever seen; very few actresses would dare to tackle a parent's ambiguous feelings toward their children and their life in quite the same desperate, empathetic way as she does here.

Aside from that distracting IRA subplot, wonderful!

My first Almodóvar film, and I must say it left QUITE an impression.

A fabulous ghost story, very much like The Innocents, only this gets my vote as the better film. Nicole Kidman is amazing.

Eyes Wide Shut has two things that go simultaneously for it and against it: Nicole Kidman's superb performance, and the dizzyingly brilliant orgy/masked ball scene that is the film's centerpiece. Kidman, in the precious moments of screen time Kubrick gives her, easily outshines every other member of the cast; her monologue about the naval sailor is brilliantly delivered and is one of the film's two peak points - the other being that aforementioned masked ball scene, which is among the best of Kubrick's career. It begins as genuinely creepy, with the camera slowly panning around a circle of naked women while hideously masked men stare on in silence at the ritual, which is accompanied by some of the most disturbingly bizarre music ever to accompany something onscreen. From there, the scene proceeds in cold, clinical fashion, as the camera roves around the mansion while masked men ferociously pound away into women ontop of tables and desks, while partygoers stand around watching. It's a masterful sequence, although it is somewhat tarnished by the cliche of a woman sacrificing herself to save a man in trouble. The rest of the film is well directed, of course, but becomes dull as we follow Tom Cruise's non-character as he wanders aimlessly around a fake New York and repeats every line of dialogue said to him. Alan Cumming makes an amusing cameo, but aside from that, there is little to provide genuine interest. The film's gender politics and social commentary are far from profound, and a certain piece of piano music is repeated ad nauseum until it becomes torturous, but it's all fabulously shot, looks great, and while it gets dull, it's all pulled off with undeniable skill. It's a pity Kidman is so woefully underused, and the film's two peak scenes of brilliance total only ten minutes of the runtime.

The science is mind-numbingly awful, and a lot of the film is dull (why am I supposed to care about these characters again?), but the scenes of Gojira's rampage are taken to an authentically disturbing level by Ifukube's brilliant score and the almost documentary-feel of the cinematography. A good film, no doubt, but it is still not the best of it's subgenre. That title goes to Shusuke Kaneko's Gamera 3.

It's mean and cruel and sadistic, and probably one of the prickliest films ever made in terms of justifying what you thought of it. That said, it's a lot like the Yoko Ono/Plastic Ono Band album--it provokes powerful reactions of either admiration or intense hatred, and is flawlessly made, achieving everything it sets out to do and then some.

Witty, utterly charming, and Sigourney Weaver is fabulous as always (and looks great as a blonde!).

Excellent, and much more interesting than it's preceeding film, but the constant quotation heavy dialogue becomes annoying. The ideas are fascinating, but why couldnt Oshii express his philosophy in his own words?

No, it's not just about shopping. Kirsten Dunst is excellent in the title role (despite what some others think), that controversial post-punk soundtrack fits the film perfectly, and the final twenty minutes are very authentically sad. Kudos to Sofia Coppola for not giving into the audience's morbid desire to see something grisly in the end. This film is not about that.

Shock of shocks: a Tim Burton film I absolutely loved. It's not the masterpiece many people make it out to be, but Sweeney Todd is still certainly one of the best films of 2007, and ties with Hairspray as the best musical of the past few years.

I don't like Tim Burton; let me state that upfront. I also don't like Johnny Depp. But here, Burton's direction is excellent, and the film is quite nice to look at--even if the whole damn film is Hot Topic-ready--and Johnny Depp really is superb as the title character; his singing isn't terrible, like I feared it would be, and his duet with Alan Rickman is gorgeous. His Oscar nom is deserved. Helena Bonham Carter, as always, is simply wonderful as Mrs. Lovett, and manages to steal most of the scenes she shares with Depp. Indeed, the entire cast (with the exception of the dull, blandly androgynous Jamie Campbell Bower) is fantastic, although I find it sad that Timothy Spall will be doomed to play toadies for the rest of his life.
Scattered about the film are a handful of brilliant scenes that haunt, and overall the film maintains a constant level of high-quality, but there is one thing that drags the whole film down, and keeps it from being a masterpiece: the trite, annoying romantic subplot between oh-so-pretty (I don't mean that in a nice way) Jamie Campbell Bower and Sweeney Todd's incarcerated daughter, played by Jayne Wisener. The visual style, as usual with Burton, is overwrought and glaringly CGI enhanced, but this is occasionally put to good use, as in a wonderful fantasy sequence where Mrs. Lovett imagines her future life with Todd at the beach.

Stephen Sondheim's music and lyrics are fantastic, and although there is not a catchy tune in sight, the songs are engaging and occasionally beautiful, and are ably performed by the cast. In a great plus, Burton does not tone down Sondheim's material; this is a dark, dark film indeed, and the ending is superbly haunting.

A wonderful, charming film adaptation of the musical adaptation of John Waters' original film. Surprisingly, John Travolta is very good as Edna Turnblad (though I still consider myself a Divine loyalist). Seeing Christopher Walken in Nikki Blonsky drag is worth the price of admission alone, not to mention the fabulous musical numbers and performances all around.

By all accounts, the theatrical cut is a terrible, botched mess. Having only seen the Director's Cut I cannot say for sure, but based on what I know to have been cut out, the Director's Cut is a massive jump in quality. Despite Scott's frequent and regrettable use of horrid faux-slo-mo, the ample doses of Hollywood history, and a fatiguing runtime, Scott's proper version of Kingdom of Heaven is a genuine epic that is also the director's most visually beautiful film since Legend, and while it may also be his most pretentious and overblown, it at least, for once in Scott's career, actually has something to say--what's more, for a religious epic, Scott eventually settles on a message that is surprisingly daring for the genre: whereas the typical Hollywood religious epic has unquestioning faith in, well, the faith of its crusading heroes, the agnostic Scott steps back and advocates that whilst the warring characters believe their religions hold the truth of life, the real truth is simply about being a good person and caring for the ones you love--religion doesn't need to enter into it for you to be a good person and live a just life. Considering the alarming increase in unambiguously partisan, "faith"-based propaganda being passed as mainstream entertainment these days, it's an especially sobering view indeed for a Hollywood blockbuster to espouse.

Hannibal in no way lives up to its cinematic predecessor, The Silence of the Lambs (one of the top ten greatest films ever made). It technically isn't even a very good film on its own: the plot drags and is completely lacking in suspense, many of the supporting performances outside of Hopkins, Moore and Oldman are incredibly weak, and Ridley Scott too often resorts to lame music video visual trickery.

That said, it's still an improvement on the terrible book, and Hannibal does have one thing going for it: it's f**king hilarious.

Gary Oldman's embodiment of hideously disfigured pedophile Mason Verger is one of the most amusing performances of the decade. Everything he says in that arch, whiny voice immediately becomes pure comic gold. It doesn't matter what the topic of discussion is: "poor cast-off little boys and girls who'd do anything for a candy bar", cutting his own face off and feeding it to the dogs (the scene's punchline--"It seemed like a good idea at the time..."--is absolutely priceless), or monologuing to Hannibal his evil plan to feed him to giant ravenous boars (!!!)--it's all hilarious. Hopkins latches on to this spirit, too: he turns the dial of his Vocal Mannerisms control and switches it to "extreme camp"; Hannibal, paragon of evil, spouts lines like "okey dokey" while barely suppressing a nasty chuckle. The film is saved by its unrestrained silliness, but it does have some strong serious points; Julianne Moore is game as the more hardened Clarice, and Scott does manage to pull off two brilliant sequences: the flashback scene of Mason Verger providing his doggies with some facial food (complete with incomparable punchline) and the final confrontation between Clarice and Hannibal. Its the only other scene that perfectly melds the humor and horror the film otherwise fails to balance, and is a rare reminder that Scott once used to have real talent.
Plus, it pisses all over the dreadful ending of the book. At least like Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal is another rare example of a film that bests the book.