Not necessarily the best movies ever made, but these are twenty of my favorites, in no particular order.  Each post for the next twenty days will feature a brief discussion of one film (though one or two days will have multiple posts to make up for absences).

Post 11: Miller’s Crossing (1990 dir. Joel Coen & Ethan Coen)

Tom Reagan’s (Gabriel Byrne) unspoken, invulnerable loneliness permeates Miller’s Crossing so much that when he finally says goodbye to Leo (Albert Finney) the camera has to move in on Tom’s face, knowing words will not come but looking for some hint as to his feelings. The image provides a heartbreaking but understandable final moment. Dialogue simply would not suffice and the image of him carefully placing his hat back on his head, longingly looking back at his long-time friend walking away for the last time, places a perfect, quiet period at the end of the film. He loves his friend, is in love with Verna (Marcia Gay Harden), but simply cannot bring himself to say the words and these relationships are now so fractured he can no longer be around either of them.

Whenever asked, I always tell anyone Miller’s Crossing is my favorite of all movies. This was the third film from the Coen Brothers, after Blood Simple (1984) and Raising Arizona (1987). Their true classics were still to come, including the perfection of Fargo (1996), the anarchy of The Big Lebowski (1998), and the haunting dread of No Country for Old Men (2007). More than anything this film is a sentimental choice for me, having first seen it at the right moment, that crossroad of adolescence and awakening maturity. Buying a ticket for one film but then sneaking into this one instead (I was 15 and it was rated R after all), I first understood that while movies tell stories, they can be about so much more than what is on the surface and it deepened my love of film as an art form.

There are moments to cherish here. There is the opening, pre-credits scene dropping us into the 1930’s contemporary dialogue; Leo’s tommy-gun ballet set to the song “Danny Boy” beautifully sung by Frank Patterson; Bernie’s (John Turturro) life pleading soliloquy about dying in the woods like a dumb animal; the hilarious discussion between Tom and “Drop” Johnson (Mario Todisco); the threatening presence of The Dane (J.E. Freeman) and his speech about “up is down, black is white”; and Tom’s last, two-word question response when Bernie asks him to once again “Look into your heart.”

A couple of technical credits cannot go unmentioned. This was Barry Sonnenfeld’s final work with the Coen’s, having done the cinematography on their prior two films as well. The photographic work at Miller’s Crossing, the titular killing forest, is particularly notable, as well as the opening credits with its reverse omnipotent POV gazing up through the forest into the overcast sky. And, of course, Carter Burwell’s score. Once you’ve heard the main theme, you know it. Often reused, just as often imitated, but never equaled, the score evokes the sadness and joy of these characters’ lives and the crescendo of unspoken emotions at work in their spirits.

A good Coen Brothers film; a great film overall; my favorite film, Miller’s Crossing (1990).

Not necessarily the best movies ever made, but these are twenty of my favorites, in no particular order.  Each post for the next twenty days will feature a brief discussion of one film (though one or two days will have multiple posts to make up for absences).

Post 10: Scrooge (1951 dir. Brian Desmond Hurst)

A Christmas Carol (1843 Charles Dickens) is my favorite book, but my introduction to it came from this movie, the greatest film version of all the Christmas Carols ever made. I have been enjoying this film since I was five years old. There is magic upon the screen here, and not just in the effective, albeit dated, visuals. Yes, it’s great to see Marley show Scrooge how the other ghosts lament outside of the window; or how Alice walks through the apparition of Scrooge.

Yes, those moments work, but the real magic is Alastair Sim. It is unfair but realistic to know that any stage or screen production of this story finds success in the quality of its Ebenezer Scrooge. Sim has no equal.

I point to two moments in the film, the first being the inroduction of the Ghost of Christmas Present (Francis De Wolff). Scrooge enters the rooms, sees the Ghost, then gives an exhausted whimper and turns away, finished with it before it has even begun. That reaction, that acting, was all Sim. Sim was primarily known as a comedic actor, so he was working his full talent when he found the funny bone in Ebenezer’s body. We not only laugh, but we shrug and nod, understanding this reaction and even agreeing with it.

The second moment comes during Scrooge’s awakening, his reclamation as this film puts it. Scrooge is pursuing his housekeeper, Mrs. Dilber (Kathleen Harrison), down the stairs. He is desperate to make amends, and to quiet her down. She is screaming in fear at his transformation. He eventually calms her down enough and gives her a Christmas present, an extra coin for her hard work. She honestly does not understand. “What’s it for? To keep my mouth shut?” she asks. Scrooge, through Sim, laughs uncontrollably. He’s laughing with her and he’s laughing at himself. His reclamation trudges forward and Scrooge understands the man he was, the man he is, and the man he could be. More importantly he understands her, outside of himself, and he can laugh with joy.

There are technically more slick, sophisticated, and expensive versions of this story on film. Many of them are quite good. None compare with this version. It is a great film, to be enjoyed any time of year.

Not necessarily the best movies ever made, but these are twenty of my favorites, in no particular order.  Each post for the next twenty days will feature a brief discussion of one film (though one or two days will have multiple posts to make up for absences).

Post 9: Dead Again (1991 dir. Kenneth Branagh)

“MURDER” written in newsprint flashes across the screen, boldly opening Kenneth Branagh’s second film as director. He was coming off his brilliant success with Henry V (1989), when Scott Frank’s fun, elaborate, metaphysical script thankfully found its way into Branagh’s hands. His Shakespearean experience clearly enhances the dramatic gravitas Branagh gives to the story. There’s a lot going on here, and in another’s hands it might have come off as silly. This is not a silly film. Branagh treats it seriously. It is a bold, fearless, romantic thriller that reveals its story in broad operatic strokes.

Told not in flashbacks but in hypnotic memories, the plot concerns the murder of a woman, Margaret (Emma Thompson), in 1940’s Los Angeles then moves forward to present day (early 1990’s) weaving together the story of another woman, Grace (also Thompson), who has traumatically lost her memory. The two stories are linked and the mechanics and rules of how that link works fundamentally bring emotional weight and catharsis to its inevitable climax.

Supporting Thompson and Branagh are a host of talented actors. Andy Garcia, Robin Williams, Richard Easton, Hanna Schygulla, and Wayne Knight to name a few. It is Derek Jacobi, as Franklin Madson, who provides the personified link between the stories. His benign, innocent facade masks a paranoid, fearful motive. He preaches faith in fate, but still works to control the outcomes. “If fate works at all it works because people think that this time, it isn’t going to happen,” he tells another character right before the film’s finale, which sounds poetic, but really he’s trying to manipulate the endgame to his own satisfaction, not realizing Fate actually does have other plans.

And what a finale. Crosscutting the present-day resolution with the 1940’s and Roman (Branagh) applying the final notes to his opera just as he finds Margaret slain keeps the action, tragedy, and conclusion tumbling forward. The story is an opera itself, underscored by Patrick Doyle’s thrilling score. The opera in the film, the one about a monster, plays a part in the film’s climax, an appropriate finish to this daring story.

It is compelling and entertaining stuff. I echo what one characters states during the film, “I for one am very interested to see what happens next.” Luckily, what happens next, is worth every minute I have ever spent rewatching this movie.

Not necessarily the best movies ever made, but these are twenty of my favorites, in no particular order.  Each post for the next twenty days will feature a brief discussion of one film (though one or two days will have multiple posts to make up for absences).

Post 8: Doctor Strange (2016 dir. Scott Derrickson)

The Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU) functions best when it focuses on managing grief (I’m winking at you, WandaVision). The concept of loss within the parameters of a super-hero world inherently is compelling. The more powerful one is, the greater the capacity for epic loss.

Doctor Strange (Benedict Cumberbatch), Stephen to his few friends, loses his learned talents early in the film. I get to call him Stephen because I have a Doctor Strange tattoo (yes, I have a Doctor Strange tattoo). His self-centered, egotistical sense of arrogant invulnerability distracts him and proves to be his downfall. Through a series of desperate attempts to fix his broken hands he eventually learns the art of wizardry.

The process of his awakening to a new life coincides with his grieving the loss of his surgical abilities. He was a brilliant, talented surgeon. The story is a visual feast, particularly his journeys into the multiverse and his times in the mirror dimension. There are sights truly to behold here. Imagine if the Wachowskis and Timothy Leary had a love child and you begin to understand the scale of the imagery at work here.

But it is the subtle (yes, subtle subtext in a comic book film can happen) and complex meditation on grief which compels this viewer to love the film. One hour and twenty-three minutes into the film, there comes the great conversation. It is a masterful dialogue between Strange and the Ancient One (Tilda Swinton) and acts as an intervention of sorts. Stephen, probably for the first time in his life, accepts that the universe, in all of its vast possibilities, does not revolve around him. “It’s not about you,” she tells him and even the camera has to roll around her, astonished at his profound spiritual awakening.

The final battle with the villain is clever too, relying on Stephen’s wit and instinct rather than devolving into a fistfight. “I’ve come to bargain,” he tells the villain, Dormammu (also Cumberbatch in a duel role). Bargaining is part of the grief process too, and in this case the good Doctor does bargain not for his life, but for the lives of others.

The film’s last real image, of Stephen standing at his window in the sanctum-sanctorum, watching his shaking hands, clasping the broken watch to his wrist, visually sums up his journey. Time stopped for him when his car crashed and broke that watch. Now, trembling fingers and all, he can move on from it. He has found both the strength to accept his new role as well as the resiliency to manage his grief just as it is, and only in that way can he move forward with his life.

And he does move forward. He is still the sarcastic cynic, but with a touch less arrogance and a good deal more empathy. Great stuff and my favorite of the MCU.

Not necessarily the best movies ever made, but these are twenty of my favorites, in no particular order.  Each post for the next twenty days will feature a brief discussion of one film (though one or two days will have multiple posts to make up for absences).

Post 7: Lawrence of Arabia (1962 dir. David Lean)

I would have liked to have known David Lean, though I understand knowing him was not an easy task. There’s a moment, towards the final act of Lawrence of Arabia, when T.E. Lawrence (Peter O’Toole) orders “No prisoners!” and we believe him. We absolutely accept he means what he says, and the ensuing violence, while horrifying, works within the story.

Lawrence helps unify and lead the tribes and camps of desert cultures throughout Arabia during World War I. He begins the war as a cartogopher who carries an unhealthy obsession with the desert. Later in the war, after some success, a reporter asks Lawrence why he likes the desert so much. “Because it’s clean,” he replies. Again, we believe him.

There is an overwhelming sincerity, perhaps even deep-seeded innocence, to Lawrence and his adventures. Regardless of his character flaws, we empathize with him. Peter O’Toole’s acting here is some of the finest in film history. It is a forever performance.

Lawrence changes and evolves, transforming from a cartogropher into the military leader who orders “No prisoners!” He is an angry, selfish, arrogant, successful, compelling, romantic, complicated man. This film is epic in scale, for sure, but it is epic too in its intimacy. It is a character study primarily of one man, his passions and flaws, played out on a grand canvas of north African desert warfare.

Lawrence of Arabia, the intimate epic.

Not necessarily the best movies ever made, but these are twenty of my favorites, in no particular order.  Each post for the next twenty days will feature a brief discussion of one film (though one or two days will have multiple posts to make up for absences).

Post 6: Malice (1993 dir. Harold Becker)

This movie’s plot does not make any sense, but I simply do not care. The film works anyway. The atmosphere, music, and performances all intertwine to suggest something is going on, and that something is not good. If movies are indeed not what they about but how they are about, then this one is well about its business.

Bill Pullman always looks like the guy you could con out of his underwear. Nicole Kidman, here much earlier in her career, projects nasty motives better than she ever has. And Alec Baldwin, in a masterful performance, pulls off a great monologue wherein he basically describes himself as a deity. “I am God,” he tells the attorneys. It’s a fantastic moment.

Jerry Goldsmith’s score plays a part in the film, laying down a counter point to the actual action. And it’s action which, by the way, also includes a sub-plot (yes sub-plot) about a serial rapist stalking women at the local college where Bill Pullman’s character works. My favorite line? When asked why he looks so beat up, Pullman responds, “I just beat the shit out of a deeply disturbed serial rapist.”

Oh, and Ann Bancroft turns up too, playing Nicole Kidman’s estranged con-artist mother. George C. Scott hops on board as an old mentor to Alec Baldwin’s character. Gwyneth Paltrow appears in a small, early role as well. There’s a lot going on here. On and on the film goes, building this atmosphere of suspicion and misdirection, never really explaining itself, but it confidently keeps going. It’s a wonder to behold, entertaining, and in its own way emotionally satisfying.

Just don’t ask me to explain the plot.

Not necessarily the best movies ever made, but these are twenty of my favorites, in no particular order.  Each post for the next twenty days will feature a brief discussion of one film (though one or two days will have multiple posts to make up for absences).

Post 5: Star Trek III: The Search for Spock (1984 dir. Leonard Nimoy)

If Nicholas Meyer’s Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan (1982) was about death and loss, then Leonard Nimoy’s Star Trek III: The Search for Spock is certainly about grief and consequences. Any film that succesfully addresses the consequences of choice, both good and bad, achieves at least a small measure of praise from me (Nolan’s The Dark Knight is another superb example). And the overall effect of this particular Star Trek film is both emotionally exhausting while at the same time exhilirating and hopeful. It is not necessarily the best of the Trek films, again Meyer’s Wrath of Khan is a better overall film as is Frakes’ Star Trek: First Contact (1996), but this one is my favorite of the franchise.

When Spock’s father, Sarek (Mark Lenard), suggests the slightest possibility that his son might be saved from the Genesis planet, Kirk and crew embark on a mission to save their friend, no matter the cost. Our heroes have a sense of family and responsibility to each other that is almost palpable. Kirk (William Shatner) tries to get official permission from Starfleet Command to lead a rescue mission, but his superiors tell him “No.” Kirk’s response is characteristically decisive and meaningful, “The word is no. I am therefore going anyway.”

That simple choice, to act on faith rather than simply follow orders, leads to a myriad of consequences, all in the name of saving their beloved friend and colleague, Spock. They break the law by stealing the Starship Enterprise, engage in warfare with the Klingon Commander Kruge (Christopher Lloyd) and his crew, deliberately destroy the Enterprise, and steal Kruge’s vessel pirating it to the planet Vulcan for sanctuary and spiritual healing. Worst of all, Kirk’s own son dies, murdered by the Klingons. Watch Shatner’s heartbreaking response at the death of his son David (Merritt Butrick), a remarkably poignant moment from a sci-fi sequel.

Listen too to Bones’ (Deforest Kelley) speech to the unconscious Spock, and Kelley’s careful eye movements during his speech. There’s a complexity of emotions to his delivery of the line “I’m going to tell you something I never thought I’d ever hear myself say…” A lot of care and preparation went into this film, and you can see it on screen, especially in the acting.

There is just something to the dedication and love these characters have for one another that resonates with my inner spirit. This film captures that intimacy and reminds us of the consequences we might face for consciously choosing love and faith instead of acting from fear and doubt.

Not necessarily the best movies ever made, but these are twenty of my favorites, in no particular order.  Each post for the next twenty days will feature a brief discussion of one film (though one or two days will have multiple posts to make up for absences). 

Post 4: The Third Man (1949 dir. Carol Reed)

Of all the great parts that form Carol Reed’s classic film, two have always stood in the center of my nostalgia for it. First, allow me to point to Anton Karas’ zithar score. On paper the idea probably sounded a little bizarre to the studio, but in practice it creates the perfect sarcastic tone. The sound evokes a playful yet slightly off-center panorama of mistaken expectations, story twists, and lies. Upon hearing it, one cannot help but wonder what the hell is going on here? What indeed.

The story is at times deadly serious, as with the switched medication at the hospital’s children’s ward, and at times cynically amusing especially with its observations of the characters’ subtle actions. Watch Crabbin (Wilfrid Hyde-White) throughout the film as he steers his many lovers around a room. Or watch Anna (Alida Valli) calmly and easily maneuver around Harry Lime’s apartment, clearly suggesting she’s spent a lot of time there. No one says these things, they just suggest them by their actions. We are shown, not told, what is really going on in post-war Vienna.

The second moment from my memory is the ending. The final shot, which Reed holds for longer than anyone would dare attempt today, says everything about the preceeding hour and forty minutes. The score again plays counter to the action. It is not a traditional happy ending, but it is the absolute right ending for this story.

Yes, there is the cuckoo clock speech, the shots of the ferris wheel, and the now famous chase through the sewers. And, of course, there thankfully exists the brilliant moment when we finally see Harry Lime (Orson Welles), his wicked smirk illuminated by the apartment across the street as though he just got his hand caught in the cookie jar which ostensibly he did. These are all wonderful, and the movie is filled with such monumental moments. The unexpected never ceases with this film, but the music and the ending remain my touchstones.

The Third Man is a force of nature, a true creative juggernaut, always entertaining, always inspiring, and always a joy to behold.

Not necessarily the best movies ever made, but these are twenty of my favorites, in no particular order.  Each post for the next twenty days will feature a brief discussion of one film (though one or two days will have multiple posts to make up for absences). 

Post 3: Father of the Bride, Part II (1995 dir. Charles Shyer)

There is an inexplicable albeit miraculous chemistry between Steve Martin and Martin Short. Their combined comedic brilliance just works. The highlight of this film is watching them work together as foils for each other’s character. Steve Martin, the high-strung middle-aged father-to-be blocked against Martin Short, the tightly wound accent heavy interior designer, creates hilarious tension.

Carefully observe their physical comedy together in the scene after Steve Martin passes out from the Vastnik (v-a-t-s-n-i-k). Short carries him, drags him, even pushes him like a train (“Atcheson-Topeka”), all with no real accoplishment. But their characters have been so well established that the interplay becomes funny, despite the emergency circumstances (Martin’s wife is in labor, and so is his daughter).

The film provides the usual, comforting innocence and privilege often associated with the films of both Charles Shyer and his then wife/producer Nancy Myers. Myers would go on with her own very succesful career as a film director, continuing to work with Diane Keaton. Keaton is also comedy gold in this film. The whole cast works so well together that I welcome rumors of a Bride, Part III.

But, without a doubt, the one scene that always gets me uncontrollably laughing happens immediately before Short carries, drags, and pushes Martin’s unconscious body around the living room floor. George Banks (Martin) sits at the kitchen table, having just taken TWO of the aforementioned international, though as of yet not FDA approved, sleeping pills. He quietly states, “Please pass the rolls” and then passes out. Martin’s delivery of that very line is so perfect, so well executed, and so funny I chuckle even just now thinking about it. When a film can get an audience to laugh at a line as simple as “Please pass the rolls” then something is just plain working.

Poor George Banks. Franck’s (Short) repsonse is just as good: “He took them both! Two Vastnik is like, ‘Bye, George! See you next Thursday.'” This is a fun, warm-hearted, perfectly cast film. It is a joy to watch and one of my favorites.

Not necessarily the best movies ever made, but these are twenty of my favorites, in no particular order.  Each post for the next twenty days will feature a brief discussion of one film (though one or two days will have multiple posts to make up for absences). 

Post 2: Score: A Film Music Documentary (2016 dir. Matt Schrader)

I vividly remember the moment, as a young boy, when I realized one could listen to film scores separate from the movie. My late Grandmother fueled my love of movies. After rewatching Star Wars (1977) on HBO in the very early 1980’s she showed me her double LP of the score by John Williams. We immediately listened to it and not only was I instantly hooked on film scores but John Williams became a hero of mine.

Film scores can be subtle and unnoticeable such as some of Carter Burwell’s work with the Coen Brothers. They can be deliberately loud and romantic as with Maurice Jarre’s work with David Lean. Or they can even be a character in the film itself much like John Williams’ work on Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977), Patrick Doyle’s music for Dead Again (1991), and Jerry Goldsmith’s score for Malice (1993).

But here at long last is a documentary chronicling the history and evolution of film scores. Archival footage, interviews, and critical response all combine to make an entertaining and compelling review of music written for movies. Film truly is a collaborative art.