Terminator 2: Judgment Day (1991)

I'm not sure how much I'll have to say about this film, but it's a legitimate classic. I have some gripes with it—the rehashed battle scene at the beginning, the gratuitous images of a playground full of children being incinerated, and of course the completely superfluous narration. But those are relatively minor quibbles, and overall I enjoyed this quite a bit.

Following that opening battle sequence, we cut straight to the familiar scene of an arrival from the future into the present. This is better, on a technical level, than it had been in the previous film, and the follow-up (also familiar—the "Give me your clothes" scene) is better on a dramatic level. It's clear that more money was spent on this film, but also that more talent was at work on it. This is good, because while both films are strong pieces of science fiction, what really carries them both is the human story. And in this case, it carries quite a bit further than it had in the predecessor.

There's a level of intensity to the film from early on, and it's masterfully sustained. This is the case in spite of already knowing some of the major surprises (such as which visitor from the future was here to help and which wasn't), and even through some literally very dry scenes in Mexico. It's beautifully shot, reasonably well written, and the special effects are really remarkable even two decades later.

But mostly, it's well acted. I knew going in that Linda Hamilton was going to be the core of the movie, and I wasn't wrong. I was even impressed with Schwarzenegger, though, and with Robert Patrick. Ed Furlong wasn't so impressive, but he didn't drag it down. Still, it's Sarah Connor that really drives the story. The scenes that focus on her are the best throughout—tense, gripping moments that both hold the movie together and keep it in your mind after the credits roll.

It was a lot of fun to watch, and I'm already ready to give it another go. It wasn't a masterpiece, I don't guess, but it was awful good.

The Terminator (1984)

There's something enjoyable about this movie that's difficult to clearly identify. For starters, it's easy to underestimate the value of a great credits sequence, which this certainly has. The screen practically pulses with the gliding outlines of bold, futuristic logo text, and the synth score is a relatively minimal flow of ominous tones. It's nothing terribly flashy, especially by today's standards, but it lends a gravity to the film that will help to carry it along.

Then too, watching this for the first time in this day & age, it's nearly impossible to consider it apart from its acclaimed sequel. Like the character of Sarah Connor herself, this is a movie borrowing much of its significance from the offspring it will produce.

It's difficult, upon any reflection, to find a lot of value in the film itself. It's severely outdated in many respects—that score, certainly, and many of the special effects—and it does lean on those elements fairly heavily. As for the plot, it is utterly predictable (other than a brief, creepy interlude when it seems that Kyle Reese might actually be John Connor, just as the blossoming romantic subplot is about to bloom). That said, the actors' commitment to their roles does keep the whole enterprise afloat. And the special effects near the end—featuring the stripped metallic body of the terminator—are spectacular. So it was, overall, fun to watch.

It's worth seeing, I hope, but as Reese points out, the future I'm expecting is only one possible destiny. And if it goes poorly, this picture will look much less rosy in retrospect.

All about Eve (1950)

I had several problems with this film, but let me start with a few of the more minor. First of all, the characters seem more like...well, more like characters than actual human beings. There is very little depth or complexity to anyone—provided one doesn't confuse flakiness with complexity, but more on that in a minute. (The one exception is Thelma Ritter, who of course has more natural charisma and substance in her lower lip than most actors have in their entire body.) It's not just that people seem stiff, although for the most part they do. It's more than there seems to be nothing unseen, nothing that isn't there to fill out a generic character type or propel the plot.

Speaking of which, back to the question of flakiness vs. complexity. I'm all for inconsistency in a character's actions, so long as it seems to come from some depth or internal contradiction. That's the essence of drama, but it's not what's happening here. When the plot needs Margo to turn on Eve, she simply does so—there is very little evidence of any internal struggle. Karen Richards follows the exact same hairpin arc when it's her turn to further the storyline, and with only slightly more sense that something's at stake. The men, of course, are just so many set pieces, serving the same purpose that women tend to serve in a more traditionally misogynistic film—they exist to prove something about the characters of the opposite sex, or about gender relations at large, rather than to be identifiable personalities in their own right.

Not that the film is any less misogynistic for it, of course. Two of the three female leads are flakes, and the other—Eve herself—is a cardboard cutout. We're never given much of a clue as to her motivation, probably because even the filmmakers didn't think it would be very interesting. She's an ambitious ingenue, who will step on anyone in order to get up a rung. That's all the treatment she gets, but surely even she could have been much more intriguing. Her most captivating moment is indeed when she flashes her vicious side in the one-on-one with Karen, but why couldn't we at least have more of that? She plods through most of them film so robotically that it seems she has no drive at all.

Which brings me to yet another issue. The film is, of course, 'about' gender issues. In show business specifically, but in society in general. But at least as interesting a subject, especially given the question of Eve's motivation, would have been the issue of class. Which is thoroughly—systematically, even—avoided. Even as Addison DeWitt compares himself to Eve while simultaneously claiming to 'own' her, we're never given to ask why—why would one such person end up with all the power, while the other ends up trapped even in her own success? It's a bit to do with gender, yes, but as he himself lays out the case, it's obvious: the real issue is that her name is Gertrude Slojinski, while his is Addison DeWitt. She has had to fight and scrape her way up, while he has simply waited for her at the top. Eve's greatest sin isn't being a woman. It's being a climber.

And finally, if I can return to more minor complaints, the film is just so dry. Some films do well with a lot of dialogue, but this isn't one. Primarily because it isn't dialogue, so much as exposition and real-time analysis by the characters themselves. It could have been 45 minutes shorter, and an awful lot tighter, if they had just shut the hell up once in a while and let things happen.

In spite of these complaints, it's not a terrible film. There are moments of good acting, especially from George Sanders and the aforementioned Thelma Ritter. And there is a worthwhile, interesting story hidden in there somewhere, even if it's obscured by a lot of talking about it and looking in the wrong direction most of the time. This is one film that I'd love to see redone, especially with an eye to more tension and suspense.

The 400 Blows (1959)

This film is like a smoldering fire, that never flares very high, but steadily, inevitably consumes its protagonist. Jean-Pierre Léaud does an amazing job in the lead role, setting the temperature of the entire film with his stoicism and reserve. He is in virtually every frame, which is a bit ironic since so much of what happens depends on everyone but him. The result is a claustrophobic sense of powerlessness. The audience is never given a way (or a reason) to identify with Antoine's parents or teachers; the world is simply there, at every turn cruel to varying degrees, but without any definitive reason why.

The whole of the film is masterfully designed and executed. Its boundaries are narrowly drawn, and within them it seems entirely complete. Truffaut's work is solid, plain, and immersive. Léaud's performance is well supported by those around him, especially his friend René, who is really the agent of Antoine's downfall, but without any malice or false intent. The contrast between the two is a subtle but illuminating study in what it takes to get ahead in the world.

Really, fire is the wrong metaphor for this film. Antoine isn't so much consumed as he is trapped. The movie's events unfold like a game of chess, and try though he might, he can't avoid that end. Still he never seems desperate, or for the most part even unhappy. The one exception—and certainly the most powerful moment in the movie—is his ride to the Observation Center (which parallels the marvelous opening-credits sequence). Léaud is in full control here, as we see the weight of misfortune settle heavily onto Antoine's shoulders. Still, he's soon back to his stoic self. In the end, though he has no clear path to a better life, as he stands on that seashore he does seem to have a glimmer of hope in his eyes. Here, as throughout the movie, one can't help but feel it with him.

The Red Shoes (1948)

What a revelation this film was. I generally try not to know much about a movie before I see it, and films like this really reward that diligence. I had no expectation going in that I'd see the kind of magic that The Archers put together here. It's a great balance, really, because so much of the film is just straightforward, natural narrative. But in a few moments, and of course in the eponymous extended dance sequence, it slips very naturally into something else. I was searching for what to call it—words like 'surreal' and 'magic' don't seem to fit at all—when I ran across the perfect phrase in a British review: "quietly radical." It's not designed to shock you. It's not even designed to amaze you. It's just that the filmmakers make full use of their medium, while keeping everything perfectly in line with the story they're trying to tell. They manage it beautifully—I was more impressed with their ability to do that than I was with the technical wizardry itself, which is exactly as it should be.

The story itself is not overly original, but it's well told. The more traditional scenes of the film were typically well crafted, of course. The narrative is absorbed in the world of the ballet. As usual with The Archers, the techniques are subtle, but effective. Much of the action takes place in long shots, for example—we often see three or four main characters on screen. Everything seems to happen in a larger context, and the story isn't dominated by the very strong personalities within it. They certainly are strong, though, and propel the story forward nicely.

I did find myself comparing it to (or maybe rather, considering it alongside) Black Swan, and it really has me wondering about this common trope of a woman's self-destructive obsession with her art. Not that there aren't similar male tropes, and not that there aren't other obsessed-female character types. But from Sunset Boulevard through this film and on to today, it seems that a woman is never allowed to be too devoted to her art. It's difficult to imagine such films with the gender roles flipped.

It isn't really a problem (internally) with this film, mind you. Vicky is a full character, not just a trope, and her development as a character is enthralling to watch. Shearer gracefully toes the line between naturalistic and romanticized acting, and it serves the story well. The same is true, by the way, of the two male leads. Anton Walbrook's Lermontov is especially charismatic. He's difficult to love, but hard not to pay attention to. (I don't mean to tie this film too much to Black Swan, but that film would have been greatly improved if Thomas Leroy had been written & performed with more of this subtle charm.)

The Red Shoes was a thrill to watch, and I'm grateful to Filmspotting for turning me on to it. And to The Archers overall—I can't wait to see more from them.

The Day of the Jackal (1973)

For a hitman thriller, there's remarkably little action in this film. The pacing seemed a bit slow as it went on, but only afterward did I realize how successful it had been at maintaining tension throughout the 2-hour–plus runtime. Through the first half or so it focuses almost entirely on our protagonist's methodical preparations for the act. Edward Fox carries us through this handily, his air of quiet nerve a prototype for characters in the genre. He turns this into a wonderfully sympathetic character. I don't want to say that I managed to forget he was a hitman, but actually it was more like I forgot what makes a hitman a hitman. So the first time Fox kills someone, I actually gasped. I saw it coming, I suppose, and yet the performance of it was very much an icy-cold shot of water in the face.

As this lone-actor story begins to blend with the detective story that's been building on the other end, things get considerably more interesting. The most intriguing performance of the film—and my favorite character overall—is Michael Lonsdale as Lebel. His dogged, intelligent determination is beautifully counterpointed by his quiet, controlled demeanor, and together with Derek Jacobi's supporting role, the investigation quickly becomes the driving force of the film. The tension becomes outright suspense, and carries the film through to its climax—which is a bit rushed and a bit incredible, but not enough to really hurt the film. Even if it had, the coda that follows is rich enough to revive it.

It's a very well crafted film—not showy, but effective, and some of the minute details were really delicious (e.g., his technique for practicing with the rifle, pictured above). It could have been a bit less dry, I suppose, but it simply isn't that kind of film. I enjoyed it as it was.

The Magnificent Seven (1960)

It is probably not fair to say, but this is certainly no Seven Samurai. There are some similarities, though. Aside from the plot, of course, there is the way both films lean heavily on their actors' charisma—and in both cases, there's plenty to lean on. That's probably, in fact, the only thing this one has on its predecessor. Yul Brynner and Steve McQueen, backed by the likes of Eli Wallach, Charles Bronson, and James Coburn? Yeah, personality's not going to be an issue.

For me, though, it wasn't quite enough to support it. The cast exuded cool, in the "not warm" sense of the word. Horst Buchholz' Kikuchiyo Chico is the greatest exception, of course. But honestly, I thought Wallach was the most impressive presence in the film. I have to admit, I wasn't excited at the prospect of watching a Brooklyn Jew play the most significant Mexican character, but I was pleasantly surprised. He didn't strain himself to find authenticity, but did create a complex, rather menacing character. He really felt like the balancing point for the film, and I was glad to see him get more screen time than I remember for his Japanese counterpart.

Review after review of this film describes it as "a lot of fun," or some more masculine equivalent of that. All of which is probably true, if icy cool is your preferred shade of manhood. (For my part, I would rather watch Kelly's Heroes.) Sorry if I spend too much time comparing it to its Japanese predecessor, but honestly, if it didn't have that connection, it would just be another Western. I'm sure I never would have seen it. Still, it's a movie that knows where it's going, and manages to get there.

The Double Life of Veronique (1991)

If this were the only one of Kieślowski's works I'd seen, I'm sure I'd be quite taken by it. He has a way of tapping into the ephemeral, transitory nature of really important questions, and that's clearly at work here. He beautifully weaves together the mysteries of identity, fate, connection with other human beings—it's a film with a lot to say, and a lot to ask.

In the course of Kieślowski's career, The Double Life of Veronique falls between The Decalogue and the Three Colors trilogy. Unfortunately, I didn't find this film to measure up to either of those series in any important way.

Thematically, Veronique shares plenty of elements with the rest of his oeuvre. That tapestry of questions stretches throughout. But if I imagine the whole thing as a conversation he's having with himself, this film seems more an off-hand remark than a substantive contribution. Take it out, and not much is lost.

Visually, Kieślowski is really never less than a master. He does produce some iconic images here, and in certain moments it's quite poignant. It is never as compelling, though, as his best work. It lacks the raw intimacy of The Decalogue, and the sumptuous immersion of Three Colors. Not that it needs to emulate those other works, any more than they emulate each other. But Veronique simply isn't on the same level. The aesthetic is inconsistent, unfocused, and just when you start to get hooked, it loses its grip.

Other aspects of the film are even less impressive. Irene Jacob is spectacular in Red, but here she hits far too many wrong notes. Granted, she isn't given enough to work with. Weronika, in particular, is a giddy girl in a woman's body, searching in every moment for someone else to lean on. The only times she seems at all in control are when she's singing, and unfortunately those moments are seriously marred by the poor lip syncing. I hate to dwell on what would otherwise be a minor technical detail, but it really is critical here.

Veronique is more interesting, but still a bit more bland than she needs to be. Part of the problem with the film in general is Kieślowski's (truly uncharacteristic) impatience in pivotal moments. When Veronique discovers the photo from Kraków, for instance, she doesn't dwell on it, she doesn't slowly fade. She simply breaks into sobs. Moments like that give the film a kind of skeletal feel, and I'd certainly like them to be fleshed out.

In a similar way, the film suffers from often far-too-direct dialogue. In all of his films, Kieślowski wants to move obliquely through his subject matter, never facing it full on, and never approaching any kind of blunt moralizing or didacticism. He's far more successful in his other work than he is here, unfortunately. The characters in Veronique keep trying to articulate the film's central themes—that sense of detachment, or of a division within oneself. The thrust of the film is to indicate that this feeling can't really be captured, and yet still they keep talking about it.

All that said, and I mean this sincerely, it's a good film. I'm tempted to view it as a starting point for a brilliant director, notwithstanding The Decalogue and the lengthy career that preceded it. If it wasn't the beginning of Kieślowski's career, still it feels like a beginning of some kind. Perhaps as I see more of his early work, I'll find this to be a significant move in a new direction. Even now, it's not hard for me to see how this led into the Three Colors trilogy. And as I said before, if this were all the Kieślowski I'd ever seen, I'd definitely want to see more.

Inglourious Basterds (2009)

I have to admit, I was ready to give up on Quentin Tarantino. I'm not a fan of capital-d Directors, by and large, because I think they tend to be self-indulgent and/or pretentious. Tarantino is certainly no exception, especially when it comes to indulgence. The last few films I've seen from him—Four Rooms, Jackie Brown, and certainly Kill Bill—have been more than I could take. I find myself watching them thinking, "Man, this guy is full of himself." Which can be a bit distracting if you're actually interested in, you know, watching the movie. So I wasn't even going to bother seeing Inglourious Basterds, but somehow I heard enough good things to end up putting it on my list. Before I sat down to watch it, though, I was prepared for it to be the last Tarantino film I ever bothered with.

I was pleasantly surprised. This film represents most of what I like about QT, and not much of what I don't. He has always had a wonderful way of drawing out a scene, pulling the suspense tight but not letting it break. The opening scene in the cabin was spectacular, and honestly that set me up to enjoy the film from the start. This particular talent is also where he can be a bit indulgent—the tediously long introduction of Eli Roth's otherwise insignificant character, for example. But for the most part, he keeps it well in check, and most of the suspense has a worthy payoff.

Tarantino's immense knowledge of film convention is another talent which can become an indulgence. He loves to make jokes that only film geeks will understand, and rarely do ten full minutes pass without an homage of some kind. Fair enough, as long as it doesn't intrude on  the film. A few times here, though, he does manage to use that level of understanding to actually improve the story. Parallel plot lines that we expect to collide actually end up merging nicely. Characters are introduced and set up as important, only to be abruptly dispensed with. You end up with very little confidence as to who will survive to see the end of the film, and that's a good thing.

So yes, I enjoyed the film. It was well acted, well directed, and quite a bit of fun to watch. I wouldn't have minded seeing it on the big screen, actually, and next time around I might just give QT another chance. We'll see.

Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story (2005)

With a movie like this, you either go along for the ride, or you don't. I did. When Steve Coogan teams up with Michael Winterbottom and Rob Brydon, I'm bound to. And while the humor with this group usually has a lot of ups & downs, I didn't ever feel bored during Tristram Shandy. Coogan plays himself playing himself quite well, and his self-deprecation is pitch-perfect.

All the meta levels of the film work quite well. It was particularly fun watching the adult Tristram Shandy introduce, and then critique, the actor playing his childhood self. I also appreciated the various transitions where people slip in and out of character, or where the crew step in and out. That was all handled really well, and made it a lot of fun. In the last half, though, as the film gets more and more tied to the off-screen stuff, it loses some of its vigor.

It was a fun film, but felt a bit slight. When it was all over, I had a lesser version of the same feeling I usually get from PoMo stuff, which is basically the resounding question "Why?" It's easier to find the purpose and meaning behind a Judd Apatow movie, I think, than behind so many of the ironically detached exercises that PostModernists love to love. Still, as I said, that reaction was muted with this movie. Mostly because I did find it so funny, and I think that is mostly down to Coogan's performance.

Days of Heaven (1978)

So, I've finally found a Malick film that I'm not wild about. There's plenty to like, and I can certainly see why a lot of people consider it a masterpiece. It's gorgeous, of course—almost every shot is a stunner—and yet that really doesn't detract from the story, which isn't always a given in auteur films. Other technical aspects of the film—the sound especially, and I don't just mean the music—are also quite impressive, and again serve the story well. So far, so good.

But then, there's the actual story. It's certainly pretty standoffish, as far as the emotion goes, but that's so obviously a conscious choice that I have to regard it as disciplined storytelling. The dryness of the telling was certainly in keeping with the film's locale, and the two feed back into each other pretty naturally. So I really didn't mind it. For the most part. I do think, though, that putting Richard Gere in this role was one of the worst casting choices I've ever seen. Especially at this age, Gere is completely incapable of a non-arrogant moment. It's not that he can't display, or even explore, other emotions—sadness, hopelessness, joy, love, envy, or playfulness, for example. It's just that in every one of those moments, his character also seems to be completely full of himself, assured of his own greatness. It doesn't serve this role well. Bill is a character with a lot of brashness, to be sure. It's his driving force, really. But he goes through several significant transformations in the course of the film, and during some of those transitional moments, his self-assuredness doesn't ring at all true. In those moments, the emotional tone of the film doesn't seem dry so much as shallow.

What bothered me much more, though, was the deep misogyny underlying the whole thing. On a second viewing, especially, I was struck by what a slight character Abby really is. If the whole film turns around her, and I think it does, that doesn't mean that she herself is actually important. Rarely does the film, or any one of its characters, ascribe her any real agency. Her fateful decision to go with The Farmer isn't even really her decision, as we're reminded several times. Bill pushes her into it, and she just goes where she's told. Neither does her relationship with The Farmer seem to have any real substance. In a way, she seems to exist simply as an object of desire for both men, and the central conflict of the film is actually just the overlapping of their desires. It's almost homoerotic, frankly. The two men are intimately connected, even though all they really share is a lover.

There's a lot to the film, and I'm certainly glad I watched it (both times). But I didn't come around to it, and I doubt I will try again.

Seven Samurai (1954)

I'm surprised at how much I enjoyed this movie. First of all, not to sound pedestrian, but I'm impressed that a Japanese movie from the '50s was able to keep my interest for 3+ hours, much less to be as fun as it was to watch. Secondly, one of the main characters (Mifune's Kikuchiyo) should have really annoyed the hell out of me, but he didn't. This is a little bit due to some great writing—he's a beautifully complex character—but even more due to Mifune's performance. Believe it or not, this is the first movie I've seen him in. He was really engaging to watch, throughout. I have to say, though, that Takashi Shimura was the actor that really brought me into the film. His charisma reminded me most of John Wayne—just this smoldering presence on screen, who won't allow you to turn away from him.

The film itself was superbly made. It really isn't difficult to spend 3 hours with these characters. The ensemble cast is well filled out, with great roles well performed. At least four of the samurai, as well as quite a few of the villagers, had compelling arcs to follow. The female characters were not so present, unfortunately. Obviously there was a tendency to that, since all of the samurai were men. Shino is a real presence in the film, but it would have been nice to hear more from other peasant women. One or two have moments where you catch a glimpse of a backstory, but they could have been given more time. Obviously I'm not arguing that the film should have been longer, but surely we could have spent less time dwelling (for instance) on the drunken samurai in town who takes their rice and then cowers in his bunk.

I did enjoy the love-story subplot with Shino and Katsushiro. Their discovery of each other was engaging, and their relationship beautifully exemplified the tension between the samurai and the farmers which underlies the entire story. That class tension was the most interesting aspect of the movie, especially as Kurosawa mostly chose to work with it in oblique angles. The final scenes—where the surviving three samurai watch the farmers joyfully going about their work, and we watch Katsushiro struggling with his choice to leave—are the most poignant of the film. (One thing I did love about that, by the way, was that Shino had already made her choice, and she didn't simply cling to him, begging him not to leave. One wonders, if he'd chosen to stay, whether she'd even have let him.)

Aesthetically, Kurosawa is of course a master. I really enjoyed his sense of composition throughout the movie. While not many of the shots are as dramatic as, say, Ran, they have a subtle beauty—and often a subtle significance—that really makes them stand well on their own. And finally, not to drag this review on, but I was really affected by the brief appearance of the flag. There is a lot going on there, touching on elements of nationalism, solidarity, and the power of symbols, which I found myself really thinking about in a new light. It certainly wasn't the most conspicuous symbol in the film (the four swords sticking out from the graves would probably take that honor), but there was a kind of magic that took place in the making and use of that flag that was more than the sum of its actions.

I enjoyed this film even more than I expected to. I responded to Ran largely in that I recognized its significance. Not to say I didn't enjoy it, but that enjoyment was perhaps outweighed by my appreciation of it. Those proportions were reversed for this film. While I did appreciate its significance (e.g., I really want to see The Magnificent Seven now), mostly I enjoyed watching it (and so I really want to see The Magnificent Seven now).

Grey Gardens (1975)

I guess I don't get it. I suffered through this movie, with hardly a moment of respite, constantly trying to see what it is that people like or respect about it, and I didn't come up with anything at all. Reading reviews online afterwards, words like "eccentric" and "unique" keep popping up. I suppose there is my first problem. I've known people like this in real life; I've been in their homes, and there's no charm to that existence. Roger Ebert, in his review, describes the film's two subjects as living "amicably" with raccoons. One can't live amicably with feral raccoons—they carry disease, and their feces are toxic. The same is true for the cat urine that apparently soaks this decaying mansion's floors and carpets (not to put too fine a point on it). Grey Gardens is simply a portrait of two intensely codependent ex-social butterflies, living out the ends of their lives in squalor. I don't know what I was supposed to feel about this, but it can't have been the level of repulsion that I did actually feel.

My second problem was at the personal level. Edith and Edie each have their charms, I suppose—Edie more so than her mother, in my opinion—but neither is nearly enough to carry a feature-length film. And the relationship between the two is just deeply dysfunctional. Not really that unusual or interesting, just thoroughly broken. The film seems to want to dwell in the irony of them pushing away from each other while at the same time clingingly desperately to their shared existence. OK, I guess, but isn't that a pretty run-of-the-mill mother-daughter struggle, even if it's taken to a bit of an extreme?

In the end I found nothing to care about in this movie. I did honestly try, for almost the entire length of it, but there was nothing there for me.

Ran (1985)

Ran is an engaging tale of human disintegration, at both the levels of the individual and of the family. The setup is perhaps a bit heavy-handed, having Hidetora kill the boar as a way to show us his power, but Kurosawa does complicate it with the old man's show of weakness by falling asleep at the circle afterwards. Saburo is drawn with similar complexity, as are a few of the other roles (Lady Sue comes to mind). But it was the more clearly drawn characters who really drew me into this film. Lady Kaede, Tango, Kurogane, even the scheming Jiro and Taro were more compelling. As an epic, what the film really needed was a driving force, and these characters provided it. In a sense, the complicated character of Hidetora spends the majority of the film simply wandering through the landscape of these clearer minds' making.

The film is masterfully made, progressing steadily from the opening scene to the closing. The former is a display of power—men on horseback atop a grass-covered mountain, in the midst of a boar hunt. The latter is a scene of desolation—a lone blind man, feeling his way back from the perilous edge of a ruined castle wall. Kurosawa paces the story continuously down this trajectory, as both Hidetora and his family fall into ruin. In truly tragic style, the end is always clear. Kyoami, the fool and the film's truth-teller, puts it best when he jokingly tells his lord to "hurry, what with hell so near and heaven so far."

The lingering question of the film is "Why?" What character trait is it that causes Hidetora's world to fall apart? Is it Hidetora's vanity, his impulsiveness? The naked ambition of his sons? The vengeance inspired by his cruelty? I think the answer is that it's all of these things, and in a greater sense, none of them. What the film shows is that his empire is a fragile, complicated structure, held together with little more than his own will and the calcification of custom. When he pulls himself out, like a linchpin, the entire assemblage disintegrates into the Chaos of the film's title.

Badlands (1973)

If nothing else, Terrence Malick is a patient filmmaker. He is content to simply spend time with his characters, letting them develop organically rather than putting them through a series of dramatic plot points which can define them clearly. This film develops at its own pace. We watch as Kit spends the morning dumping trash for the city, noticing little details about the people and places along his route and joking around with his co-worker. There's a bit more drama in Holly's narration, but it's muted simply by virtue of being narration, and of course through Spacek's deadpan intonation of it. Though there are moments of foreboding and drama, just as often there are significant moments which pass by almost undetected. The first time we see Kit's gun, for example, it's just there in his pocket as he's moving around Holly's room. This patient, hyper-realist style is an interesting choice, and it has the effect of bringing down to ground level what would otherwise be a larger-than-life story.

The ancillary effect of the style is that it lays the burden of the story directly onto those in front of the camera. It's a great choice, though—if Martin Sheen and Sissy Spacek can't carry your film, it can't be carried. They each fill out their characters wonderfully. Sheen is a charismatic presence immediately. On the page, his character is not so much quirky as deranged, but Sheen manages to lend an air of intrigue to Kit, and to weave his meandering thoughts into a mostly fluid line. For her part, Spacek develops an admittedly personality-free girl into a willful, moral presence.

I had expected this to be a much more somber film, but Malick is playful—most obviously with the music, but also with the irony in Holly's telling of the story, and with the interactions between this pair and the strangers they meet. It's an offbeat film, and an infectious one.

Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981)

Yeah, this movie's crap. I didn't really expect to like it, but I was hoping it might surprise me. It didn't. A series of over-the-top (in a not-really-good way) adventures which plod along driven primarily by stupid decisions on the part of the protagonist or one of his many nemeses, it mostly failed to elicit any reaction from me at all. The action sequences were comical, like the rest of the movie. I wasn't thrilled by them, I felt nothing for any of the characters, and any time I started to actually care about the purported goal (the ark itself), I got so distracted by the terrible dialog and hammy acting that my concern entirely evaporated. This movie was, as they say, a mile wide and an inch deep. When one of the main characters supposedly dies in the middle of the movie, I couldn't have cared less (and not just because I knew it wasn't real, and the filmmakers would use some flimsy excuse to bring her right back as soon as they felt like it). When the ark is taken away from our heroes only moments after they've recovered it, I couldn't have cared less. And again, not just because I knew that the filmmakers wouldn't even bother straining themselves in coming up with a way for Indy to steal it back. True crises require a bit of trust, and I had none for this film. True suspense requires patience, and Spielberg shows no capacity for that here.

Certainly there are people who like camp more than I do, but I completely fail to see the allure. Making compelling, interesting movies is hard, and purposefully not even trying is a cop-out. Even if you disagree on that, though, what do you get from this kind of movie? Contrary to what seems to be universal opinion, it's not very well made—either technically or narratively. And it's not witty enough to be at all ironic, so what is there to engage with? What's to like? For my part, I didn't find much.

Bicycle Thieves (1948)

Another film filled with iconic imagery, though certainly not in as stylish a way as M. Really, as I think about it, it's more full of iconic scenes, as opposed to just images. I think that's telling, because the primary quality of this film is the way it pulls you down into the story. It's shot and edited very plainly, so that the content itself does the heavy lifting. Not to say that it's a documentary style—it very much feels like a narrative, with scenes leading one into the other, tension crescendoing and falling. But it stays close to the ground, deeply connected to the immediate reality of what's happening.

The integrity of such a portrayal really draws you in. It's probably most evident when we see the picture of Rita Hayworth. It was a bit heavy-handed, of course, but still not wrong—there's a drastic contrast between the life of a Hollywood star (on- or off-screen) and the lives of these people. In a word, Hayworth seems unreal. By contrast, Antonio seems all the more real.

The most spectacular thing about the film, though, might well be Bruno. Really the entire film turns on this one character, and Enzo Staiola does a fabulous job with the role. He provides a moral and emotional anchor for the film, from the moment he appears. And of course, that gradual development is crucial to the film's final passages.

Annie Hall (1977)

I should probably start by saying that I can see what's great about this movie. Especially for its time, and for its genre, it took a lot of risks, and most of them worked out great. Allen breaks all kinds of ground, with both technical and narrative aspects—breaking the 4th wall, non-linear chronology, the novel use of split screens, etc. And truly, almost every one of those things makes this a better movie. I'm not a person who gives credit for experimentation propter se. I want it to actually work, and I want it to serve the story. Most of those techniques do both, and I appreciated Allen's diligence in that regard.

In the end, though, the movie didn't come very close to winning me over. Firstly, I was not at all attached to the two leads. (Or to any of the characters, come to think of it.) Obviously Allen's character is autobiographical to some degree, which didn't actually help. Alvy strikes me as an incredibly shallow character. Ebert describes him as someone who "lives in order to talk about living," and I think that's a great point. He's compulsively disengaged from the world, and seems to have no real drive as a character. Compulsion is a poor substitute. Annie is also not terribly interesting. Obviously Allen sets her up as a foil from the beginning, as he typically does with female characters. She exists to make Alvy seem sophisticated and wise, which she accomplishes by being a wide-eyed rube. I guess I can see what Alvy is supposed to fall in love with, but I myself certainly didn't take the fall.

Perhaps the worse problem, though, is that I didn't find the movie funny. Most of the humor comes off as simple glibness, which again, I think is a poor substitute. It was fitting with the characters, but it wasn't enough to fill out the film. There were a few moments that were genuinely funny, but I would have enjoyed them more if I'd been at all warmed up for them.

I didn't hate Annie Hall; it certainly earned all three of those stars. But it solidified my position: I won't be seeing Hannah and Her Sisters, Manhattan, or any other Woody Allen movies. Crimes and Misdemeanors is still one of my all-time favorites, and I've seen other of his films that I've enjoyed to varying degrees. But I don't think he has anything more to offer me, really. I'm not breaking any new ground, I know, in pointing out that he's cynical and mysogynistic. But he is, and his more positive qualities no longer outweigh it for me.

M (1931)

This movie took me a bit by surprise. I haven't seen a lot of films from this period, but I didn't expect to be so gripped by it. An interesting story, Lang's adept direction, and virtually all of the performances come together to create a really powerful film. Lorre, of course, is fantastic. I was so prepared for his final speech, knowing all of the buttons it was going to try and push, but it didn't matter—it is a really overwhelming performance; very effective. The other actors as well are more than pulling their weight here.

But of course what I loved most about the film was the wealth of iconic imagery, and for that matter iconic sound. For being an early talkie, Lang really made powerful use of sound. And the images are really stunning—the balloon caught in a wire, the empty dinner plate, that wonderful shot of Lorre looking back over his shoulder and finding himself marked. It got me thinking, really, about what it is that makes an image iconic. I think these images (and that whistled bit of Peer Gynt) occupy a space that often lies empty. Rather than lean on a word like interstitial, let's just say that they form a bridge—between the rational and the irrational, or between objective truth and what Herzog calls "ecstatic truth." One the one hand, of course, they succinctly convey information. The ball rolling in the woods tells us that its owner has fallen victim. We learn to hear the whistled tune as an indicator that our antagonist is in the grip of his murderous obsession. But the power of these icons is that, even as they tell us something, they just as crisply direct our emotional reaction. That image of the ball isn't just narrative; it's tragic. The strains of that song aren't just a plot device; they're chilling. I was enraptured by this film, so much so that at first I didn't trust my own judgement. But at some point you have to realize that it isn't accidental. You're in the hands of someone who knows just what he is doing.

In short, if this is what expressionist films are like—even if few are this successfully made—I obviously need to see a lot more of them.

Notorious (1946)

I was a bit underwhelmed by this movie. I didn't have a lot of expectations going in, other than knowing it was Hitchcock and so would have some real suspense. I also expected some great passion between Grant & Bergman, of course. On the first point, I wasn't disappointed. On the second, I was. I like both Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman, but there didn't seem to be much chemistry between them here. Part of it might have been inordinate amount of time & energy that Hitchcock spent flirting with the Code. It may have been shocking or amusing or otherwise interesting in 1946 to see the two leads in a 3-minute embrace with one 3-second kiss after another. But with the Code long gone, and not knowing about that aspect of the scene beforehand, it looks pretty ridiculous. They seem like a couple of high-schoolers too awkward to really lock lips. And in this context, that clumsiness really detracts from the story. Awkward, after all, is the last word that should apply to these two characters.

So for me, the movie really picked up steam once the two protagonists were torn apart. Watching Bergman go toe-to-toe with Claude Rains was a lot of fun. He's another actor I've always enjoyed, and never more so than here. Hitchcock is a master of tension, and he keeps it drawn very taut between them for long periods of time. His visual style is also very potent in the last half. I loved the shot introducing Sebastian's mother—she's terrifying before she ever says a word. I'm also a big fan of the way Hitchcock can make a single image say so much—the Unica key on Sebastian's keyring, for example, or the 1940 wine label.

All in all, I enjoyed the movie. Not the sizzling love affair everyone talks about, which left me quite cold. But the suspense, and the tension among the triangle of Alicia, Sebastian, and his mother, were very good. It hasn't made me a huge Hitchcock fan, but it hasn't hurt either.