I saw these movies over the past two weeks

Terror at the Mall: This movie made me think a lot of Nightcrawler thanks to a brave but shameless R reporter and his insistence on getting all up in people’s business as their lives’ slipped away. I would normally go on a sanctimonious tirade about his crossing of that line, except a: I don’t know where that line should be and b: I’m the voyeur who had every opportunity to turn the channel and didn’t. The movie, released by HBO Films, chronicles the attacks on a mall in Nairobi by the terrorist group known as Al Shabaab. Most of the violence was caught by security cameras, which director Dan Reed obtained and weaved into a storyline with narration and interviews with survivors. It’s terrifying to watch these innocent people scatter and hide, helpless as these misguided young men crept up and fired bullets indiscriminately at them. Men, women, and children lost their lives (71 to be exact, 3 pregnant women included and at least a dozen kids) and the killers were added to that total. The interviews mostly recount the panic, pragmatic decision making, and relief of the survivors, most of whom not only survived but also thankfully could count their loved ones (mostly children and babies) along with the rescued. There is something triumphant about these men and women uniting to save one another, especially when this common connection, as ugly as it is, causes so many to act so selflessly. But while most of interviewees walked away with something of a new appreciation for their lives and loved ones, there was one gentleman who proved to be the sad exception. He lost his wife. The shots that caused the wounds that cost her life are caught by one of the security cameras. It’s hard to watch, and maybe it shouldn’t be seen. I don’t know the answer to this, but I do know that his description of the events took my breath away. I would call it a moment of transcendence except it actually made me sink lower in my seat. Maybe transcendence is sometimes supposed to pull us closer to the dirt. This moment is crucial to a film in which we wonder how these men could act so senselessly, especially when we hear accounts of them also apologizing and acting with the kind of compassion that only people in their warped position of power can offer. The common ingredients to violence at this juncture in my life seem a: greed b: hate c: brainwashing and d: misguided ideology. I’m not sure if this is a good movie, but I’m glad I saw it.

** Note: the movie sparked a discussion between me and my better half, a discussion that started in one troubled area and ended up in a futile and arbitrary debate over whether or not we should credit a “country” with the moral accomplishments of its people. We haven’t chased our tails so furiously since we saw Do the Right Thing together back in 1999.

Total Recall (1990): I tend to reflexively trudge through life in a sarcastic haze in order to repel the perils of actual feelings. It’s a weakness, I know, but it’s all I got. Movies from Paul Verhoeven’s ten year/four-for-four winning streak (starting in 1987 and ending in 97) worked great for morons like me, both then and now. Though I’d like to think of myself as wiser and impervious to the same giggling postmodernist “soooo ridiculous it’s profound” imprudence of others, I’m right there with them laughing my way to an early death. Total Recall is silly and preposterous, though the ideas in We Can Remember It For You Wholesale occasionally break through all of the noise. Verhoeven’s skill is matched by his energy. The effects by the great Rob Bottin are the images that bind us smirking losers together. I guess this is as it should be. Total Recall is the type of glorious spectacle that I need from time to time. Sometimes I long for it on a Sunday afternoon in which I miss my Newport friends who would come by with beer and gross food to remedy or sustain the debauchery of the previous night. Here we would laugh and joke our way through our meaningless existences.

The Phenix City Story (1955): I can’t believe I’m just catching up with this now. I’ve only seen one other Phil Karlson movie (shameful) so I’m certainly not going to wax philosophical about his oeuvre. In opening his film with thirteen minutes of newsreel footage describing the forthcoming events, Karlson at least spoils the fate of one crucial character. I’m not complaining, in fact I don’t have a single complaint. This is a masterpiece, the kind of movie that should be held high when eulogizing the virtues of economic artists trudging their way through big stories with little money. The dealings are yet another stain on the American quilt. Actually, it’s similar in spirit to Terror at the Mall in that society (meaning a social order) can/will fail us from time to time, and it’s in this wicked space that bad men prosper. I don’t mind using terms like bad men when describing Rhett Tanner (as portrayed by Edward Andrews), a man willing to quantify and weigh human life against power and wealth. It’s a rather nice allegory for some of the same problems currently bubbling in our melting pot. It was also a sly commentary on the Civil Rights Movement, which was officially being born in the year this movie was made.

Pather Panchali: Elegiac, impressionistic, fleshly, attentive, unbound, and thriving with the rhythms of life. Ray’s movements and cuts contain a great deal of attuned perception to our relationship to nature. There is a scene where Harihar speaks with poise to the ancestral overseers who want to know why he and his family are suddenly uprooting for the big city. In this conversation he politely lays forth his reasoning for leaving --- he basically states that they have held him down and that he can’t even afford to pay back their debt with the wages he earns working tirelessly day in and day out ---- as the camera tracks slowly towards him. In the midst of that tiptoeing he mentions the name of a deceased loved one, pauses and the camera pauses with him only to pick up its crawl as he continues. This movie is full of similar flourishes, and the story itself, though no different from many other sad and triumphantly humanist stories about impoverished families, is full of joy amidst the struggle. These aren’t helpless rural peasants laid out for our pity; they are full of dignity and strength. I can’t say that I understand Truffaut’s reaction one bit, certainly not his rumored articulation.

Come and See: Among the many pointless hypothetical inquiries into the do’s and don’ts of telling stories would be whether or not it’s “necessary” to recreate travesties for historical fiction’s sake. Perhaps more relevant a question would be whether or not you personally should subject yourself to things of that nature. Elem Klimov’s Come and See chronicles a young boy’s horrific war experiences during the Nazi occupation of Byelorussian SSR. The movie was written by Ales Adamovich, who served as a Belorussian partisan fighter at a very young age and undoubtedly witnessed some of the horrors so assuredly recreated here. I won’t bother going into the deluge of atrocities, but I will say that much of the horror portrayed may have been better captured (and much of it is) in the young actor’s face. The pandemonium isn’t confined to set pieces; it’s in the trees, in the eyes, on the ground, and in the soundscape. The filmmaking evokes other Russian masters (though my knowledge is sadly limited to the renowned auteurs); the movie it reminded me most of was actually Sergei Parajanov’s Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors. I’m not so sure I buy the “plea for peace” notion, though it certainly would give pause to anyone wanting to immerse themselves in battle. I guess the reason I doubt this is because though some will be repulsed to the point of trauma, others will be unquestionably fuming about the pillagers marching unobstructed through a defenseless region. I guess here we might find an answer to the pointless question of whether or not to fictionalize that which is unfathomable to those of us who live what some consider a “comfortable existence.” Oh and by the way, the young actor’s name is Aleksey Kravchenko, and he supposedly went grey while filming this movie. I almost went grey watching it.    

I also caught up with: two films dealing with Frank Merrill’s six month military campaign in Burma during WWII. The films were 1945’s Objective Burma! and 1962’s Merrill’s Marauders, directed by Raoul Walsh and Sam Fuller. Different approaches here; one made in reverence and the other with many more questions. There is also the problem of racial representations in Walsh’s film, while Fuller works harder to even things out. I like both film a great deal, setting aside my 2015 issues with the 1945 movie, as I suppose you have to if you want to enjoy much of anything from that time. Not so fun fact, the U.S. military prodded the marauders until they were “victorious” and out of the 2,997 that were sent, only 130 returned. I also shamefully caught up with another great WWII thriller for the first time, this from Fritz Lang, 1944’s Ministry of Fear. I don’t have much to say other than Lang picked the wrong film to apologize for. Bob Clark’s Deathdream would make a fine chaser to Eastwood’s American Sniper. The finale is as heartbreaking as anything I’ve seen in a traditional war movie. Don Siegel plays it rough and loose with 1962’s Hell is for Heroes, a nice unsentimental look at battle life. Fritz Lang adapted J. Meade Falkner’s Moofleet to great effect. I just wish I had seen a crisper transfer so that Eastman Color would pop. Darkman is underrated Raimi. And I saw lots more but I’m losing focus here.   

here is a beautiful drawing by my friend Jackson:

 

1957: War

In light of a recent wonderful year end roundup essay from one of my favorite critics, I have been given the incentive to ditch ranking movies by year. To sum up his point; it’s pointless (for me) to attempt an objective list based on rank when different movies set out to achieve different goals and when I don’t really know how to quantify something as elusive as “importance.” This is a dangerous distinction, often the reason many puffed up entertainments (Foxcatcher) garners more serious consideration than those pesky termites. But I feel the need to at least briefly grasp those qualities that draw me to certain works, especially the ones that appear on the opposite ends of the brow chart. So what better year to start with than 1957, a year that two of my friends have argued is the year of 3:10 to Yuma, the rest be damned. I can’t say I disagree with this sentiment wholeheartedly. Scratch that, I disagree with it wholeheartedly, not that Daves film deserves anything less than adoration but that one great film ought to render a whole slew of great films rubbish in comparison. 1957 (as was much of the 50s in general) was blessed with an overabundance of great works, specifically in the war and western genre.

Paths of Glory pisses me off. I clench my teeth and curl my toes every time. I want to crawl into the screen and fix everything, but that’s part of the frustration because nothing can be fixed in a world set so firmly in its ways. It’s one of the most effective movies I’ve ever seen, so much so that my dad can’t even watch it. He gets too upset. I think it’s also a nice example of a war movie having the utmost respect for soldiers, binding together in their tight fortified hell, yet matching that passion with a deep and rampant hatred for the hierarchical entities that orchestrate the madness spacious/snug quarters. ---- Ugh! I can’t help but sounding like a kid fresh out of college, locked away in his parent’s house awaiting the real world, shocked by the horrors that have been shocking young stupid kids like me for years, except that I’m not a kid anymore. Oh well, I’ll continue on my righteous rant. ---- There is a big emphasis on juxtaposition (housing, clothing, food, custom, luxury) between soldier and officer, and after all of the cruel formalities take their course and the viewer is left feeling not only helpless but also disillusioned to the point of anger. In most films that involve a courtroom, the built in drama revolves around the law being upheld (the truth being proven) while here it’s just the opposite. The law is part of the problem and there is nothing to swoop and protect us from its mulish procedure.  And then, just as the movie goes where most viewers hope it won’t,  a young fearful girl (played by Kubrick’s wife Christiane) --- a similar victim of war’s brutality and cynicism ----  sings “The Faithful Hussar” to a group of rowdy soldiers who suddenly fall silent and/or hum along. I don’t really even know how to process this scene; I just know it gets me every time. It doesn’t offer any resolution. I have seen it three or four times and with each viewing I had to wait a few minutes before reentering the real world. The battle that these men are fighting is futile, their lives are not valued, their blood won’t solve anything, and their common sense/love for each other will only earn them a date with the firing squad. It’s as anti-war/authority/fascism as anything ever made. And for anyone tempted to count Kubrick as cold and detached, I offer this movie as evidence of his humanism, not to mention his grasp of the film language at a young age. For all of the griping (undoubtedly matched if not dwarfed by the rampant deification) about Kubrick, I think we can all agree that he had a freakish talent that may or may not hit some on a personal level.

It makes sense that the overall war sentiment was that of, shall we say, less reverence than the “flag-wavers” made during the conflict and after. Don’t get me wrong, I often prefer that era of war but it’s nice to see the tide shift a bit, though John Ford’s The Wings of Eagles --- which I always felt could have been the bastardized fourth Calvary movie ----- proves that supposed antiquated notions of war can still make for riveting entertainment, especially since much of the focus here is on the home front. And to be fair to Ford, who accomplished more in five years than I will in 65, his attitudes towards authority in general probably paved the way movies like Paths (his visual command certainly did), just look at Henry Fonda’s Owen Thursday for heaven’s sake, not to mention Paths could have easily been called They Were Expendable. Either way, the Frank “Spig” Wead biopic lost $804,000 so perhaps audiences were slightly disillusioned at this point especially considering what nabbed the top box office spot. The #1 draw of 1957 --- which also won Best Picture and ushered in a new era of “epic” filmmaking for its director whose previous films were technically more “intimate” but not as different in scope from where I’m standing ---- was The Bridge on the River Kwai. I’m not going to try and ascribe a cultural or political analysis of (Paths of Glory pretty much earned back what it cost) its success measured with its fog of war sentiments, but it raises a few questions. The movie has become (or always was?) one of those AFI/Academy obvious picks for “greatest of all time” which has undoubtedly curdled some of its myth for postmodern audiences. Me, I saw it many times when I was younger and at least three times as a young adult. I revisited it recently, not necessarily to pinch myself but because I genuinely love looking at it. I also don’t lament Lean’s post-Kwai “epic” course, and even if I did it wouldn’t do me or anyone else any good.

Kwai, like Paths and Fort Apache, finds hysteria in the ruse of military etiquette. You have a few individuals operating on a somewhat sensible --- albeit allegedly opprobrious -- level only to be gunned down by the same people they are supposed to be fighting alongside. This not-so-friendly-fire is so on point, the scenario so damned-if-you- do/don’t/what’s-it-all-for that you can wonder if we really needed to “madness” postscript to drive it all superfluously home. But again, I’m not complaining. More madness from Andrzej Wajda in his fictional account of the Warsaw Uprising’s doomed attempts at staving off Nazi forces whilst waiting for Soviet aid that deviously won’t arrive in, Kanal. We’re down til we’re underground. There is a lot of words spilled on Polish bravery, though you get the distinct impression that Wajda is also accentuating a needless cultural imprudence. I think he did a great job of assimilating rousing with exasperating, especially as they slide down into the depths of hell. There they wander around in excrement, lost, gassed, doomed. There is something to be said for their fortitude and our innate survivalist predisposition, even if their final stand is spurred on by their adopted ethnographic principles on valor. The final shot is cruel, funny, and acerbic. It perfectly encapsulates everything that came before.

Due to their staggering losses during WWII (ten percent of the population), it would make sense that the government would want to keep a watchful eye over their film industry, ensuring that this loss was worth the price. By 53, Stalin was no longer and Khrushchev’s critique of his totalitarian rule opened the door slightly for a broader sense of an individual’s value in the face of war. This gave way to intimate histrionics, where the greater good had to finally faceoff with personal loss a la Mikhail Kalatozov’s, The Cranes Are Flying. It follows a family (including a lover) torn apart by war, specifically the enlistment and death of our hero, Boris. Much of the action and conflict revolves around the home front once again with Boris’ girlfriend Veronika and her various tribulations. Though Kalatozov and his cinematographer Sergio Urusevsky shot things that boggle the mind and eye, the movie simply wouldn’t resonate without a central performance as good as Tatiana Samoilova’s. At least I can honestly say that this is what struck and stuck with me. Anthony Mann's Men in War follows a group of foot soldiers through a series of awful predicaments. It's Mann through and through and since I'm feeling extremely lazy I'll leave it at that and trust you to know what I mean.

Maybe I’ll post more on 1957 later. No promises.

1949: Top Ten

1.       Late Spring (Ozu)
2.       White Heat (Walsh)
3.       Reign of Terror (Mann) 
4.       The Third Man (Reed) 
5.       Adam’s Rib (Cukor) 
6.       Battleground (Wellman) 
7.       Kind Hearts and Coronets (Hamer) 
8.       Obsession (Dmytryk) 
9.       They Live By Night (Ray) 
10.   She Wore a Yellow Ribbon (Ford)

Honorable Mentions (Alphabetical Order):  Africa Screams (Barton),  The Big Steal (Siegel), Bitter Rice (De Santis), Border Incident (Mann), Caught (Ophuls), Colorado Territory (Walsh), Criss Cross (Siodmak), Flamingo Road (Curtiz), The Great Madcap (Bunuel), The Heiress (Wyler), House of Strangers (Mankiewicz), I Shot Jesse James (Fuller), I Was a Male War Bride (Hawks), The Inspector General (Koster), Intruder in the Dust (Clarence Brown), A Letter to Three Wives (Mankiewicz), On the Town (Kelly and Donen), The Quiet Duel (Kurosawa), The Reckless Moment (Ophuls), Sands of Iwo Jima (Dwan), The Set-Up (Wise), Le Silence de la mer (Melville), The Small Black Room (Powell and Pressburger), Stray Dog (Kurosawa), Thieves Highway (Dassin), Whirlpool (Preminger), Whiskey Galore! (Mackendrick).

Wishlist/Blindspots: Beyond the Forest, Easy Living, The Fountainhead, Impact, Festival Day, Knock on Any Door, Manon, Slaterry’s Hurricane, Twelve O’clock High, The Spider and the Fly.

2014: Top Ten

I get such pointless anxiety when I try and put these lists together. My thought process is complicated and annoying. For instance, I think you can see that my first four picks are all awards sirens, three of which reek of prestigious domestic auteur status. I genuinely feel stupid for going so steadfastly with the grain, but I can assure you I am being sincere in my adulation. I guess I’d feel equally stupid disingenuously throwing lesser known and loved films at the top if I didn’t truly love them as much.  I’ll admit that I’m the type to go into a Wes Anderson, Richard Linklater, and Paul Thomas Anderson (not to mention Jarmusch, Fincher, and Dardenne) with high expectations and said expectations don’t usually prove in detriment to my overall impression. However, I’m convinced that I’m not completely blind to the likely flaws in each of my top movies and I hope I’m not the type to “carry anyone’s water” so to speak. In a way I guess I’m relieved to find the Andersons continuing to challenge even their most steadfast champions either by burrowing further into their inimitable worlds or possibly throwing the final mound of dirt on most of what we’ve known before. Inherent Vice is many things, but the thing that stuck the most with me appears in the book’s epigraph where Pynchon writes “under the paving stones, the beach!” I didn’t really know what to write about it after seeing it as I was trying to arrange all of the information and hopefully make sense of it. I saw today that Glenn Kenny wrote a wonderful essay on said epigraph’s “end of an era” theme and how this worked its way into the movie. For me, Inherent Vice felt like a eulogy buried within a romp about the encroaching extinction of Doc’s way of life. His act of altruism towards Coy Harlingen and his family truly moved me and took it to that next level of adoration that maybe was missing from some of his previous works. Reading the book is certainly helping fill in the voids that mind couldn’t possibly process in a theater (some of the lines were damn near inaudible).

And how about Wes Anderson, whose style and vibe has been mocked and parodied ad nauseam by his fans and detractors. Here he’s created a mock world to ape that of WWII, with a similar encroaching neighbor-sellout-neighbor-malady and a similar (yet fatal) act of selflessness from a dodgy antihero. I’ve spoken to many friends around the same age (early thirties) ---- for whom Anderson’s first three features proved critical to their development  ---- about the weird fatigue that has been setting in even while not necessarily loathing his recent work. I’ve urged them to ignore this and watch The Grand Budapest Hotel as I think it’s got the cure for whatever trivial ailments we thought upset us. And similarly, I think many feel some fatigue from Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne’s Two Days, One Night. I can’t disagree that the film is schematic and predictable, and I’ll admit that it took longer than expected for me to get fully engulfed in the drama, but seeing these two masters land this with such elegance and control (thanks also, obviously, to Cotillard’s second great performance of 2014) was truly incredible.

I’m in agreement that movies are lacking a genuine representation of all walks of life. We are oversaturated with white, patriarchal, middle/upper class, heteronormative, and entitled protagonists and we need this remedied now. There were a few films to broaden our perspective, I’m hoping 2015 brings us more. They certainly aren’t remedied in Richard Linklater’s Boyhood but I’m not complaining. Linklater and company have honed in on and highlighted the moments in a family’s life (at least a 12 year span) that stuck with me, not by hopping from one milestone to the next but filling in the gaps with those crucial junctures that seem to stick in the back of our minds. Yeah, and it hit me on a personal level, mostly because I’m a new dad and I’m looking forward to some of these milestones and gap fillers, but also because I was once a child with a mom and dad and sibling and life happened. And as for the scenes that elicit what I would consider justifiable grief over either broad caricatures, odd abrupt transformations, and strained reunions I’d like to remind you that these scenes make up about fifty seconds of a film that runs about two hours and forty-six minutes. I completely understand those who don’t connect with it or even find it slight or annoying but for those who try to pin the film’s failure overall on those brief lapses in judgment I just want to remind you that it’s in your embedded nature to blow the negative aspects of life out of proportion. And I hope I don’t ruffle feathers to suggest that David Fincher’s Gone Girl, while probably not the “laying the institution of marriage to waste” masterpiece that so many proclaimed, is also not claiming that Nick and Amy represent manhood and womanhood incarnate. I dread the day in which villains cease to exist, or where writers and directors tread lightly when selecting their antagonists various sexual, gender, racial, or mental health characteristics. I can’t justifiably call out Fincher and Flynn and still be a self-respecting Leave Her to Heaven fan after all. I thought this was a sly, funny thriller with the director’s distinctive knack for pace, space, and atmosphere. I’m reading a lot of gushing about how Michael Mann is able to elevate “high concept junk” via his expressive style and atmosphere, AMEN, but I guess I’d wager that Fincher is doing the same for now. I especially loved how the movie eventually flies gleefully/preposterously off the rails. Still, I’m not impervious to the thought of Fincher and Anderson being knocked off their demigod perch.

Winter Sleep and The Tale of Princess Kaguya dapple with parenthood and marriage amongst other things. The Tale of Princess Kaguya is visually minimal but far from simple, thematically mystifying but far from impenetrable. It’s a fairy tale about a father’s mixed up but benevolent ideas about his magical daughter’s future and how his lavish notions displace her from her idyllic habitat and stifle her true dreams and passions. This leads to a heartbreaking finale, something Isao Takahata had perfected long ago. Winter Light does an accurate job in observing the disintegration of a marriage. At first it seems serene enough, to each his/her own with some minor hiccups, but then our "protagonist" goes from avoiding a fight to being the hammer that only sees nails. It doesn't hurt to have Nuri Bilge Ceylan's eye for composition nor does it hurt to have a cast this good, but the thing that maybe separates it from any other gorgeous movie is its ability to dismantle a relationship without pinning the downfall to a single cause or person. And I’m only highlighting one of the movies many themes, mainly because it hit me at the time personally. Pride is the key to his downfall.  A wiser man however would know when he's licked as Aydin is so clearly licked here. His arrogance (similar to the feeble "protagonist" of Listen Up Phillip) and smug infatuation with age and experience (constantly using it against his younger better half) have finally lost their sting. You see it in Nihal's tired eyes, like the wild horse Aydin pays to imprison with him at his Cappadocian Xanadu she yearns to be free of his reigns.

My friend Jackson described Under the Skin as a feature length Calvin Klein commercial, or something to that nature. I’ve heard similar complaints from other friends with very little company in the “it’s a masterpiece” camp. I get it, but I also think it’s fitting that a film that emphasizes the treachery of surfaces is seen as surface level trifle.  I also get my friend John’s comments about Only Lovers Left Alive being cute, though not any more or less cute than Jarmusch’s other work which he seems to like just fine. I found more to love in both, obviously, and I wrote at length about it. I’m also going to have to just admit that Land Ho! scratched me right where I needed it even as many found it slight. Early Lyn Nelson and Paul Eehoorn deserve awards, all of them now!

One more. Ava DuVernay's Selma hones in on a specific time, place, group of people, and climate for most of its entirety. Like Lincoln, it focuses specifically on the passing of a certain piece of legislation and all of the negotiation and compromise (or lack thereof) that comes with it. For a long duration of time I was convinced it was a masterpiece. I'm not saying it isn't a masterpiece, not yet, but I'll admit that there came a point somewhere after the second march on Edmund Pettis Bridge where the movie started to slide for me. I don't know how else to describe it other than to say that there are moments in movies or even a band's set where you feel it should end. Then the movie or set continues on for whatever reason and some of the air gets let out. I guess I felt that during a few scenes towards the end, maybe one too many meetings or visits to the oval office. So I’m sure it deserves a higher spot but for now I’m going to cheat and keep it as a tie with another timely film about our societal devaluing of human life. It’s an important movie and that goes a long way for me, at least right now.

Honorable mentions? I’m going to limit my list because it pains me to leave these movies off the top ten. I don’t know why or how Snowpiercer isn’t as good as any of the seven through ten picks other than to say that the ending felt a little rushed and expository for my taste. Still, I think it’s incredible and I’ll probably remedy my snub after watching it again. Likewise, I thought James Gray’s The Immigrant would land but I found myself feeling the complete opposite about the ending and rather begrudging some of what came before. Still, it’s another great Gray film that wasn’t seen by nearly enough people. He’ll have his day. I finally caught up with Shoah and it’s as great as I had anticipated. I kept scanning the land for something, maybe remains or even ghosts, but I found Lanzmann’s Last of the Unjust another wonderful companion piece that, once again, could have easily cracked this list. Biggest surprise of the year? I would say Tommy Lee Jones’ strange, disturbing, and consistently surprising The Homesman, my pick for movie with the best ending of 2014. I loved Ida and We are the Best a lot. Why lump them together, because I saw them both on Netflix Instant two nights in a row. John Wick was the best maintstream action movie I saw all year, with Edge of Tomorrow nipping at its heels. Both have lackluster endings however and some other problems peppered in. The Guest was another huge surprise as I’ve been underwhelmed by every long or short film from Adam Wingard. It’s satisfying genre work plain and simple. Life Itself moved me and Birdman (the movie that all of my Williamsburg pals seemed to prefer) is, to me, hopefully a sign of things to come from a director I haven’t frankly cared for in the past. I’m wrestling with American Sniper on a gut level, but that’s probably the intent here. Also, Locke was a great story with a great central performance (another reason to hail Hardy as one of our best living actors) but I struggled with the visual aspects of the movie. I also quite liked Ira Sachs’ Make Way For Tomorrow update Love is Strange and Jimmy P. That’s all folks!

My Top Ten of 2014:

  1.       The Grand Budapest Hotel (Wes Anderson)

  2.       Under the Skin (Jonathan Glazer)

  3.       Inherent Vice (Paul Thomas Anderson)

  4.       Boyhood (Richard Linklater)

  5.      Winter Sleep (Nuri Bilge Ceylan)

  6.      Only Lovers Left Alive (Jim Jarmusch)

  7.      Land Ho! (Aaron Katz and Martha Stephens)

  8.  The Tale of Princess Kaguya (Isao Takahata)

  9.     Gone Girl (David Fincher)

10.    Two Days, One Night (Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne) and Selma ((Ava DuVernay )

Honorable Mentions: Snowpiercer (Bong-Joon Ho), The Immigrant (Gray), Last of the Unjust (Lanzmann , , The Homesman (Jones), Ida (Pawlikowski), The Guest (Wingard), We Are the Best (Moodysson), Edge of Tomorrow (Liman), John Wick (Leitch and Stahelski), Life Itself (James), Birdman (Innuaritu) Love is Strange (Sachs).

Blindspots: Goodbye to Language, A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night, Closed Curtain, Stray Dogs, Actress, National Gallery, Stranger by the Lake, Citizenfour,  Last Days in Vietnam, Horse Money, Top Five, Beyond the Lights, Whiplash, Lucy.