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knives wrote: A Cottage on Dartmoor
I didn't think that Asquith had this in him. This is so much more stylish and cinematic then his enjoyable if rather text based sound films I have to wonder where else this keen Asquith pops up. Seeing Libel, a Preminger light court room drama, so soon after this really paints a more compelling image of him then the more readily available features in isolation suggest though. It is not clear what caused him to mellow out or even if this film is a one off stylistically speaking. The use of lighting, editing, and even in one early instance title cards to convey the story is so much flashier then what I've come to expect. I think even in one of the montages of insanity that become increasingly common there's a flash of red that I have to learn how they accomplished that. One of the most interesting techniques though is also probably the most basic. Starting in the theater sequence, but reoccurring afterwards Joe is left to the outer rim of the frame often cut off and hidden. Even when he takes full force as the supposed center of the frame Rodwell's camera has him standing too low and off to the side as if the filmmaker's can't directly look at him any more. He's a hidden shadow of a man.

Yeah, I was blown away by this too, I think it's maybe the best British silent I've seen. It's a movie that could have fallen totally flat, but the stylishness with which its executed gives the whole theme of genuine mercy, forgiveness, and improvement, where it's not prison that changes the man (at all) but humanity reasserting itself- and humanity on the part of the lead couple- far more strength than reading the script would have gotten across. Rather than a simple morality tale, the decency shown is sort of anti noir in a visually proto noir world, and I think the juxtaposition gives the movie a real charge.

As a small aside I hate that they were talking about going to a talkie all throughout the film, but it is clear they go to see silent movies instead with an orchestra in the pit and everything.

I was wondering about that- presumably the pit would have been there regardless of the screening if it was a theater set up for both silents and talkies? Maybe they performed some sort of overture, or it didn't have a soundtrack throughout? It's not like there's a possibility of a translation confusion or anything.

It's been awhile since I've posted in here (it seems like summer vacation would be the best time to do a bunch of watching and writing for this list, it never seems to work that way for me). Here is a write-up for another of my all-time favorites.

Daisies (Věra Chytilová, 1966)

One of the most exuberant and thrilling films ever made, Daisies is above all a love song to cinematic technique.

It is one of the classics of feminist cinema, but is completely unconcerned with issues like the “representation of women.” Rather, it prefigures the 1980s and 1990s feminist project to critique and break down all identity concepts. And here is where the film will also be interesting to those who are more interested in aesthetics than politics: Daisies accomplishes this breakdown of identity concepts through its form. Its focus is on montage, optical effects, music, and even frame tinting while completely discarding old standbys like plot and character. There are no characters as such in the film at all: certainly not the sad, pathetic men the two Maries ride roughshod over (who are completely interchangeable), nor do any of the handful of other supporting characters have any sort of psychological depth. This extends to the two Maries, who are constantly engaged in performance but have no stable identity whatsoever.

The Maries themselves are constantly swapping personas, like when they take turns being the demure dinner date or the obnoxious relative who joins the couple. We never find out who they “are” or what their relationship to each other is. They tell one of their dates that they are sisters, but they are constantly lying to them about everything else. Are they sisters, cousins, friends, lovers? Who knows. Their identities seem to only be accessible to each other, something we learn during the scene in which they bathe together in milk (and what a symbolically loaded image!). Marie 1 asks “who tells you that you exist?” and Marie 2 replies “You do.” This kind of reciprocity makes sense as the pair are inaccessible to everyone else. The film goes even further in its deconstruction of identity, however: there is the scene where they dismember each other and the film frame itself with scissors, as if they want to extend the film’s editing to within the digenesis!

The “feast” towards the end of the film remains one of the most exhilarating moments in all of cinema. The Eclipse liner notes describe it as an “orgy,” although it is equally a kind of ballet. When the film switches to full color during a dizzying montage of the food, we hear a sexual breath hitch which does indeed suggest we are to read the Maries’ spectacle of consumption as the satisfaction of all kinds of appetites, sexual and gastronomic. But once again the focus is on the “spectacle” itself as it is registered through film form: the music starts, suggesting the movement of the Maries is a kind of performance connected to this soundtrack. Chytilová is intensely interested in the relationship between sound and image, like when the ticking of a clock seems to control the tint of the frame.

The film is also interesting in relation to Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, a film to which it shares a great deal of similarities (and which is alas not eligible for this list, although lots of other greats Hawks are). I’m sure this has been written about somewhere because it makes perfect sense: both are about two women, a blonde and a brunette, who embrace conspicuous consumption and utilize their sexuality to manipulate the patriarchal order. There is even the repeated shot of the Maries going up and down the stairs—later in the film, it takes on a woozy, drug-like quality—which reminds me of the use of stairs in the “Little Rock” and “Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend” dance numbers in Blondes. There is a key difference, though: whereas Blondes is ultimately about working within the system, Daisies is about blowing it up.

There’s a lot more to say about the film, too, especially in relation to pre-1968 Czech history and its formal rejection of socialist realism (there is the great scene where they seem to plop themselves into a socialist realism film: they come across the idyllic peasant worker—whose corn they have stolen—and the workers riding on bikes). But ultimately it is just so much fun that all its intellectual concerns feel like so much icing on the cake (if you will).

Little Lise
I am so glad the film is nothing like its poster which communicates a very different and much more salacious intending sort of film. Instead Gremillon works out a fairly unique prison drama that beyond some obvious debt to Victor Hugo feels unlike any other version of this sort of narrative. Since this is my fifth film by him I hope I can be indulged a little bit of work out the director. Anyway, what makes Gremillon so unique to me o far is how even when like here tackling a relatively familiar poetic realist subject he never engages in the proto-noir tactics Carne, Renoir and the like did. Instead the films seem to emphasize the grays instead of the blacks visually (which I guess puts him with Epstein though for many reasons I would normally not connect the two). Even in pitch scenes like the introduction of his daughter the slivers of light are the most memorable things with the shadows background noise. Naturally this attitude seems to extend to his narrative voice as well. A lot of the basic problems at the climax are very similar to Le jour se leve and where they are changed in a description would seem to make for a darker film. The hero's nemesis is a much more threatening and grotesque character for much of the film. The daughter likewise is showcased as an example of how terrible temptation and a poor start can be, but that also provides the Gremillon twist as she isn't some anxious prostitute or some other figure the audience could bemoan as tied to her fate, but one her is aware of where it leaves her and the shame that sets in, yet also comfortable enough to live casually so as to prevent it from consuming her. She lives it seems a fairly mundane life outside of the shadows which force her hand on occasion. With her or her father there's no existentialist horror ready to eat at the mind forcing death. In that way the film, and Gremillon, is practically a throwback to romance or early realist writers in how he allows plain humans to dress up as good or evil not due to any innate qualities of such, but because the situation demands it. The one bit of modernity he lets into his storytelling is that even when not giving a happy ending Gremillon allows it to be a comforting one in which the characters have their final say outside the typical binary of marriage or death.

I'm am curious about the Jewish pawn store owner they go to. Perhaps its just being raised on Hollywood films, but it was shocking to see that explicit a showing in such an early sound film. His presentation is rather antisemitic with hunched back and money based occupation (with attached frugality), but his role in the film is much more complicated. He's a fairly neutral presence neither good nor bad as a person but Andre's hatred of his is built as the sign of just how bad news he is for Lise. The fact that Gremillon also allows him to be active rather than the emasculated effete that non-sexual depictions of the time usually also come with only makes this all the more a unique presentation. It's rather shocking to see antisemitism being used in a pre-war European film as a characterization of villainy. I think the only other place I've seen that is Citizen Kane. It's also This definitely served as an additional surprise.

Blue is the Warmest Colour
The most immediate and shocking thing about this film is how ugly it is with flat lighting and boxy framing. The look is very reminiscent of the misunderstanding of comic book styling that Barberella show cases making me pine for We Are the Best!'s Diabolik understanding of how to adapt comic book visuals of a mundane story. This makes the action sequences a bit laborious and perhaps could explain the extreme emotional distance the film presented, but since I do think this was a good movie I want to get into what I liked about it before talking about that disconnect. The two lead performances are amazing. Despite having a shockingly small amount of screentime (she doesn't speak and hardly appears in the first hour for example) Lea Seydoux runs away with the film in a perfect matching of Adele's emotional investment of the film. She's intimidating and enigmatic in a fashion that should make the audience equal parts obsessed and scared providing a unique tension all her own. She's also fudged her looks in a way I didn't expect at all. Seydoux definitely holds as a pretty classical beauty, but here its almost as if she's trying to look like Mathieu Amalric. I'd almost think that would be a detriment to the emotional complexity I was talking about before, but if anything the grunginess she adopts helps her take over the film. It's almost as if she's the real star (which given subsequent careers may be the case). As the film evolves this perception changes in a real masterful way where she becomes boring and almost a burden. That falling out of love due to familiarity is the film's most effective narrative knot and that's almost entirely due to Seydoux's physical transformation. In a certain why the dissatisfaction we feel as Adele reminds me of Mulholland Dr.

While it seems she hasn't captured fully her Roman Holiday moment Adele Exarchopoulos also does do a very good if too coquettish job. She's nice and naive in a way that entrapped me into her POV though oddly it also left me completely alien to her emotions. So for example when she cries early in the film I appreciated fully why, but despite Kechiche clearly wanting a complete emotional immersion as Adele that never came about. I don't know if this is a weakness in the film or me, but in any case I can't say this film fully lived up to it positive reputation because of how I stayed such a mechanical observer despite Kechiche's clear wishes. She's much more effective later in the film perhaps in part because she becomes a more active participant in the film, but also because Exarchopoulos seems more comfortable portraying resignation over enthusiasm. She and the film become great in this last hour to such an extent I wish that was the film though I understand why that cannot be in this case. Maybe if it was a longer ten hour film all of the emotional beats could be satisfactorily fleshed out. It's also clear he has a lot of talent even if crippled here and I would like to see more of his films (his previous Black Venus in particular seems interesting) so hopefully next time around works out better for me especially if it's three hours of people eating dinner (that scene near the end of the film is easily the film's best and the one truly great sequence).

Also as a funny side note which has nothing to do with the quality of the film I didn't expect it to be so explicit so I put it on the big television in my living room which faces my kitchen window which points directly to me neighbor's window. When the long sex scene halfway-ish through came on I just had to sit there nervously waiting for a safe spot to pause while I figured out a way to cover up the window. So that was a bit funny. Also, and again this has little to do with the film's quality, I appreciated the realism of the teaching scenes. I'm working Headstart right now and the aloof talking over the kids is so accurate that I couldn't help but laugh in recognition. Just for reasons of familiarity that's where a lot of my talk of emotional disconnect becomes moot.

knives wrote:While it seems she hasn't captured fully her Roman Holiday moment Adele Exarchopoulos also does do a very good if too coquettish job. She's nice and naive in a way that entrapped me into her POV though oddly it also left me completely alien to her emotions. So for example when she cries early in the film I appreciated fully why, but despite Kechiche clearly wanting a complete emotional immersion as Adele that never came about. I don't know if this is a weakness in the film or me, but in any case I can't say this film fully lived up to it positive reputation because of how I stayed such a mechanical observer despite Kechiche's clear wishes.

When I watched Blue I was definitely "complete immersed" to the point that it was a physically overwhelming experience (I still haven't rewatched the film since its original theatrical release because I haven't felt up to putting myself through that again). On the other hand, I actually agree with your statement that the viewer remains somewhat alien to the emotions of the characters themselves. For me, the film created this paradoxical effect where I felt so tapped into the film as an emotional experience (or "affective experience," which better captures the physicality of this connection), while at the same time feeling a kind of distance from the individual characters. So I couldn't always "relate" to why they were doing what they were doing- in fact, I spent much of the last half of the film mentally screaming "why are you doing that!?" at Adele. But even though I felt mentally separate from the characters, I was still bolted into the emotional intensity of the film itself. This is where I think the mise-en-scene's intense focus on tactility and use of extreme close-ups became really important. So I actually think your description of being a "mechanical observer" is really apt: I felt like a machine plugged into the film and forced to experience the emotions of the story even when I was distanced from the characters. I'm not sure this is entirely a good thing; I tend to prefer films that create a bit of critical distance. But it was certainly a powerful experience.

That's a much better expansion than I was able to say. I really respect what the film accomplishes even though I'm not sure if its necessary contradictions result in the most satisfying experience.

I like how Brooks' first three features are all in some way about how movies can ruin your life: In Real Life, people's lives are destroyed for the purposes of making An Important Film. In Modern Romance, the protagonist uses his impotent filmmaking methods in his personal life to similar results, as he's also alternatively blinded by the cliches of paranoid thriller and romantic comedy. And in Lost in America...well, seeing Easy Rider is bad enough.

Excellent point!! I've never thought of that and i've spent an inordinate amount of time with these movies..

Sunset BLVD
This makes me feel like a true jackass. I had the most detestable view of the film aside from a few bits here and there from a college era viewing. With this reviewing all of those problems are gone or at least significantly reduced by way of self awareness. In particular the subplot with the script girl feels much more organic and necessary to the whole while also taking up much less space. The film is surprisingly speedy pushing forward in a way that that feels like twenty minutes not two hours. It's not all good of course. William Holden still seems like an annoyance whose only act of kindness to the audience is getting shot for instance. Trading that one bad performance attached to a poorly written character for DeMille's scene though is fair. The film is so good at this moment because it realizes it works best as a strange horror inversion and not some witty, dialogue based (ironically I supposed) satire. Norma as weak and desperate covered up with a prima donna's mask is such an effective image for such a great movie that it does want one to yank out Holden from the film o that only Norma's psychosis can be on display. The cut away from Norma just as the scene, hell the whole film, reaches a sort of emotional apex fusing theme and tone it cuts to Holden making googoo eyes. It's good for the story, but detracts from the film and serves as a healthy reminder of why I prefer Fuentes' Aura or Whatever Happened to Baby Jane despite this having higher highs than both. How good DeMille's scene is almost cheats the movie out of success since the rest while good feels cheap by comparison.

Rio Bravo
This is one of the first films I watched as I was getting into the medium and for whatever reason I hated it to such an extent I don't think I ever even watched it all the way through. Looking at it again almost a decade later makes that mystery all the more curious as while a lot of flaws stand tall now there's nothing here egregiously bad besides the whoopee cushion score. The film is overall pretty good though I vastly prefer Hawks' two later variations more (I mean Mitchum beats Martin everyday is a simple fact). The strongest sticking point is the bloat of comedy and sex that the film features. The barebones of the plot can and have been made into some pretty great stuff, but Hawks fills the movie with a useless plot from Angie Dickinson and some unnecessary comedy from a Mexican hotel owner. This sort of nonsense could fit well with someone like Ford (and the dissonance with the plots is reminiscent of The Searchers which I feel handles them better), but under Hawks ' direction it is uncomfortable and awkward especially since he reverts to a more classical style in such scenes when the rest of the film is done in an arty silent throwback fashion. I guess I should sum this up as despite being significantly better than I remember I'll be sticking to Rio Lobo and El Dorado for the future.

Manoel on the Island of Wonders
I suppose this is the grandfather of Mysteries of Lisbon and what would grow up as Night Across the Street. That sense of evolution for the author attached to a fairy tale story of growth alone makes this a pretty great experience, but added to that this sense this is also the proto-plasma some of the best children's shows of the '90s like Eerie, Indiana escaped from just give this an incredible nostalgic power I can't resist. The film, for the most part, constructs simple tales about the fear not necessarily of growing old, but the losses that are a necessary companion to time. On one hand this leaves me giddy with joy over the sense of awe from those childhood shows returning. On the other he film is incredibly successful at building a sense of melancholy over its themes so that by the final episode that awe has shifted toward a worry over the death of self that has already occurred called the past. Ruiz himself sums it up best in the elephant when he calls it a fear that the fun in the now that may never return.

The Goddess
It's amazing that this film was made so late as it is so evocative of films made over a decade earlier the idea that it comes from the '30s is insane. There is this simplicity over the whole picture that typically would be used to make this already melodramatic story explosive with emotion, but Wu instead underplays everything which allows for a more psychological feel to the whole picture. At first the story and lead performance brings to mind thoughts of Borzage and Griffith, but I think the film has more in common with Sjostrom in how it utilizes melodrama to develop a character piece rather then (strictly speaking) a narrative. The story flows where you'd expect it to go after the first five minutes and even gets in a few speeches on society, but almost deliberately seems to avoid making any big scene out of the events. Even the one scene that arguably could be such a scene removes all of the main characters out of it. This is a smart and amazing movie with probably the best performance of this sort of character I've seen.

That makes it all the more disappointing that one single element practically sinks the ship and ensures that it is impossible for me to fully love it. That kid is just one of the worst actors ever. I don't think I've seen a child performance in a silent anywhere near as bad as this. The film has the other actors smartly underplay the emotions, but the actor's still emote and give a sense of personality. With this kid though you could replace him with a cute plank of wood and probably be better off. Still, he's a rather small part of the film despite his importance to the plot and there's enough to enjoy to work around him.

The Man Who Left His Will on Film
This is such a frustrating film that I know I'm going to be at risk of coming off as incoherent in explaining why, but so many things go wrong here that I'm not entirely sure where to start on this, albeit beautiful, failure of a film. The only thing that comes close to any sort of engagement or amusement is when they watch the will the first time and start criticizing it in a fashion that could easily apply to Oshima himself at this point in his career. The act of self reflection is quite fun even if it isn't done terribly well and seems intended to deflect his critics. Some of the discussion of the nature of film and politics in a vacuum is quite interesting as well though Oshima seems too unfocused to pursue it to any sort of finish. Probably the most toxic element in any engagement to the film is how redundant this is. For a man who really could deliver a new persona to each film with chameleon exactness this just feels tired and overly well worn. The weird thing about these redundant facets though is that here Oshima comes across as very sincere and serious in how he is presenting the characters, their actions, their philosophy, and the visual world they inhabit while in these earlier and far superior films he massacres them with a strong feeling of satire and disgust. Who could take these characters seriously after Night and Fog in Japan revealed not just them, but their whole philosophy as self obsessed bunk? The film's already retrograde in a way only the '70s could deliver ideas on machismo and sexuality were turned to dust in Pleasures of the Flesh. Hell, even the inept identity games here were handled in a more satisfying manner with a more compelling thematic purpose in Death by Hanging. All that's left is an unfunny joke taken too seriously. I'm sure this question of the validity of film as a tool of political expression was very near and dear to Oshima's heart and perhaps that is why he made such a futzy failure, but one can be sincere and make good art even if it seems Oshima couldn't in this instant. Since this is Oshima there's a beauty to the pacing here that prevents the film from being a painful experience despite the film itself being rather poor, but I can't extend my compliments any further.

Manoel and the Island of Marvels
I suppose this is the grandfather of Mysteries of Lisbon and what would grow up as Night Across the Street. That sense of evolution for the author attached to a fairy tale story of growth alone makes this a pretty great experience, but added to that this sense this is also the proto-plasma some of the best children's shows of the '90s like Eerie, Indiana escaped from just give this an incredible nostalgic power I can't resist. The film, for the most part, constructs simple tales about the fear not necessarily of growing old, but the losses that are a necessary companion to time. On one hand this leaves me giddy with joy over the sense of awe from those childhood shows returning. On the other he film is incredibly successful at building a sense of melancholy over its themes so that by the final episode that awe has shifted toward a worry over the death of self that has already occurred called the past. Ruiz himself sums it up best in the elephant when he calls it a fear that the fun in the now that may never return.

domino harvey wrote:

OUT OF THE PAST
Jacques Tourneur 1947

“What is Film Noir?” has jumpstarted many long-winded arguments and essays you’d never want to read, but so much time has been spent on a question with a simple answer: Out of the Past. Whenever I teach my genre studies class on Noir, I don’t even bother to start working towards a definition until we’ve all seen Out of the Past first. The film is an encyclopedic blueprint of one of Hollywood’s most iconic and influential genres, a genre that is scarcely represented by this collective list (but my two favorite examples, this and Whirlpool, are eligible). “Why is Out of the Past a great film?” is asking the same question as “Why is Film Noir a great genre?” And the answer is, I think, not summed up by glib examinations of aesthetics (“Look, shadows. Look, they filmed on the actual street,” &c) but rather at the tone and heart of the picture and all great noir pictures, that sinking feeling in your gut when you know you’re on the wrong side of success, victory, and a happy ending. Never forget James Ellroy’s perfect two word summation of the entirety of the genre (in what is the only other definition that can compete with this film): “You’re fucked.”

And boy is Robert Mitchum fucked in Out of the Past. Not just when he falls for Jane Greer’s icy, reference-quality femme fatale, but from the moment he agrees to take the sketchy sleuthing detail Kirk Douglas throws his way. Nothing is ever simple in noir, and the more mundane the gumshoe’s charge appears, the more sinister its purpose. The great tragedy of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar is the same thing that makes it so relatable and relevant hundreds of years later, the compounding of understandable mistakes, and great noirs borrow freely from this tradition. Every move here is the wrong one, and there are seemingly no right ones available. Options are limited when your field of reference is obscured. “All I can see is the frame,” as Mitchum says late in the picture, and even when he’s two steps ahead of Douglas and crew in the last act, he still can’t outrun his old mistakes or the trust he foolishly imparts on Greer and Douglas, even after all evidence to the contrary is exhibited. Even doing the right thing, performing his civic duty in the end, becomes a suicidal act. There is no hope for Mitchum, as there is no hope for all the shell-shocked GIs returning to an American existence they no longer recognize. The abstract strangeness of the familiar, the recontextualizing of a man’s darkest fears, the gnawing knowledge that life is the proverbial poker hand: every table has a sucker, and if you look around and can’t spot him, you’re it.

And all this would be well and good if cinema existed only to contextualize society, but Out of the Past benefits from all the myriad charms the studio system could afford. Sure, it’s smartly paced and acted, and the film is beautiful to look at, but above all else, this film is working off a terrifically witty script, filled with some of the greatest lines of dialogue ever written. Who can think of Jane Greer’s character here without remembering Robert Mitchum’s response to being told no one can be all bad? “No, but she comes closest.” I must confess I think little of Jacques Tourneur as a director outside of this film, but there is no arguing with the results he achieves with all the working parts here. Admittedly, while it’s a stunning exemplar of the genre, no one film can really contain the entirety of something as complex and multifarious as the Film Noir movement. But Out of the Past comes closest.

As noted, the dialogue in this film is a stand out. Overall, I found the film smart, entertaining and well made. Kirk Douglas plays a fine slime-ball, Jane Greer is a weapons-grade siren, and Mitchum carries the picture in archetypal prime form (I imagine this is the Mitchum that Hampton Fancher had in mind while penning Blade Runner).

My one complaint about the film is the ending:

Spoiler

why does the protagonist always have to die in these pictures?

Well, the Production Code did require that you explicitly show that crime doesn't pay.

P.S. We are now exactly halfway through the duration of this project. Plan your lives accordingly.

No idea where to ask this, as there is no thread on the director, but why does William Wyler not have a greater reputation? He seems to get very little mention compared to esteemed contemporaries like Hitchcock, Hawks, Huston, Lang, Wilder et al. Watched Roman Holiday today (not eligible, I know) and was then flicking around on IMDb. Virtually all of his features post 1935 have a score of 7.0 and many 7.5+, yet I know rather little about most of them. Considering the apparent strength and consistency of his oeuvre, he doesn't seem that fashionable as a filmmaker. I've watched very little of his work, but is he considered too safe or is he indeed overlooked and ripe for reassessment?

Edit: typo

I usually see Wyler bandied about as the quintessential anti-auteur: someone capabale of strong, handsome pictures on a consistent basis, but with very little idiosyncratic personality connecting his films. He embodies the old Hollywood ideal of a prestige director who disappears into his projects.

With all due respect, you only have to watch his films to see that that is untrue. Long takes, deep focus, staging in depth, restrained yet deeply-felt emotions: these are just a few traits present in nearly all of his films. He's probably not widely discussed in auteurist terms because he's not flashy, didn't write his own material, and his most popular pictures (Ben-Hur and Funny Girl) are least characteristic of his style.

Werewolf by Night wrote:With all due respect, you only have to watch his films to see that that is untrue. Long takes, deep focus, staging in depth, restrained yet deeply-felt emotions: these are just a few traits present in nearly all of his films. He's probably not widely discussed in auteurist terms because he's not flashy, didn't write his own material, and his most popular pictures (Ben-Hur and Funny Girl) are least characteristic of his style.

I'd agree with this. I suppose that you could argue that Wyler is more identifiable by those aforementioned aesthetic preferences than for any specific thematic tics, though -- and the latter is a big part of how many people identify and canonize "auteurs," so it's not surprising that Wyler would be considered more of a hired hand-type director. Then again, one of the biggest things I hear said about him is how exacting he was, how many takes he demanded, so it's not like the guy was some apathetic hack churning out studio product and etc.

He produced most of his own major films, though, so even considering him a "hired hand" is inaccurate. He definitely had a style. It was maybe a highly refined version of the classical Hollywood style, but I think it's just as consistent and coherent, if not more so, than that of Howard Hawks' or Raoul Walsh's strains of the same.

Werewolf by Night wrote:He produced most of his own major films, though, so even considering him a "hired hand" is inaccurate. He definitely had a style. It was maybe a highly refined version of the classical Hollywood style, but I think it's just as consistent and coherent, if not more so, than that of Howard Hawks' or Raoul Walsh's strains of the same.

Oh, I absolutely agree. Maybe that wasn't the best term to use, but there is a kind of neglect of Wyler among many -- which actually may just be for no better reason than that someone like Welles or Hawks happened to earn more of the critical consensus on who the Greats are, over the years. A lot of these things are pure accidents of time and circumstance, et al.

I think Wyler's thematic consistency is being underrated here. Even in some of his least personal work there are a few thematic consistencies particularly in his treatment of his leads which can easily be connected to his background. His characters are almost always oppressed and always repressed. There's also a strong tendency particularly in his war films to have the leads get caught up in a romantic idea or event which could lead to happiness, but ultimately choosing to forego that in favor of responsibilities. I'm sure someone who has made a more dedicated effort examining these films could list more thematic similarities.

Black Swan

This is a film I adore despite its relative weaknesses. The dichotomy between Nina and Lily is rather uninspired, relying on steretotypical ideals of femininity and sexuality. However, there is a great appreciation of the medium of dance, Aronofsky gives little asides to Nina's warm up/flexing as well as to the rehearsal process. It's a world he wanted to present as a whole picture, with much of the dance-oriented events centered around training.

I've read criticisms of the forced sexual advances of Thomas and how the film presents sexual assault as acceptable when it produces great art. I think this criticism misses the mark though in the same way criticisms of Whiplash do by arguing that that film condones the abusive behavior displayed. I do see Nina's passivity to Thomas's advances as her fear of upsetting the person giving her a job and not, as some may see it, her reluctantance to embrace sexuality. But her empowerment at the end is more a result of something she had within herself than something she gained from Thomas' direction. After all, Aronofsky spends little time showing him actually directing her and more time on him groping or hitting on her. If anything the relationship with Thomas, the wild girl antics with Lily, are the manifestations of a dark world Nina overcomes by the end. She asserts her dominance over Thomas with a kiss and ends her Lily side violently. The partying and drug use were mere catalysts which force her to confront something she'd been sheltered from, then reject it. By the end Nina isn't forced to become another person and embrace her dark tendencies, but instead overcome the people stifling her throughout the film. And yet, the film makes clear that had she not been forced to overcome these hurdles she never would have achieved the perfection she does. It's a complex statement on how much an artist suffers and how that suffering can lead to transcendental artistic bliss. I'm not sure it will place on my list, likely not given the competition. Still, I was glad to revisit this.

The Manchurian Candidate

A film just as relevant now as it was upon release, its most visceral moments stand out above the weaknesses of the individual parts. I'm thinking mostly of the scenes surrounding Sinatra, which feel to me like padding against the much more intriguing Harvey story. Frankenheimer shows an energy in the proceedings that still feels fresh and Harvey pulls off a magnificent turn as the brainwashed vet forced into violence. I think the paltry state of contemporary U.S. poltical thrillers adds to this film's effectiveness and makes me appreciate what it accomplishes all the more - I can't imagine a mainstream film today ending on such a controversial event and making Harvey's character into an anti-hero.

The ending in particular is why it clicked with me at such a young age. It's a great culmination of the era that spawned it, punctuating it's events in violence. Its become my go-to whenever asked what I think of as a great film ending. It stands out since, upon my first viewing, I hadn't encountered anything with such a brutal finale from the time period (I was in my teens then and the concept of watching a 60s black-and-white film didn't appeal to me as much as it does now). I suppose it was really this that kickstarted my interest in older Hollywood films, after this made me realize how blind I was to the offerings of the silver screen.

It's quite fortunate it got a release before Kennedy's death as that event would have buried it and ensured it never became such a poignant document of Cold War paranoia.

Murdoch wrote:I think the paltry state of contemporary U.S. poltical thrillers adds to this film's effectiveness and makes me appreciate what it accomplishes all the more .

I think a lot of this is down to how most of the films of late which attempted this kind of thing did so in conjunction with the Iraq war, and for whatever reason Iraq films are box office poison

Probably the same reason Vietnam films didn't really start succeeding until the late '70s.

No doubt, too, political paranoia is no longer primarily a left-wing attitude of protest. It's mainly known today as an attitude of the far-right. These days, left-wing paranoia mainly finds its outlet as part of an anti-war critique, as said above, because that critique remains exclusive to the left and hasn't been diluted by competition from other ideologies. Aside from that, left-wing paranoia these days is mostly a paranoia of the surveillance state, which gets expressed exclusively in biopics because, well, there's no point being suspicious anymore as the horrifying reality has been revealed for all to see. The real horror is not that shady things are going on ala the 70s; it's that everyone knows but no one cares enough to do anything about it.

I was thinking more of films that deal with the electoral process/governance but the Iraq War films are a good example of contemporary swings and misses on the subject of highly political events. Hollywood has been in a rather apolitical state with the rise of superhero films and their broad appeal to good and evil archetypes.

I think a large part is the lack of political engagement among Hollywood's target audience - those in their teens, twenties and thirties. The Iraq War films were the result of a very politically engaged time for the country - at least more so than the 90s - and there was a swing to reflect that in all popular media. No doubt there will be a similar reflection in Hollywood features with the rise of Trumpism.

However, it's telling that the most popular and critically lauded of the Iraq War films - the Hurt Locker - garnered a lot of praise precisely because it didn't "politicize" the War.

I think it comes down to the fact that American audiences really don't like movies about current events that take sides with a particular political viewpoint.

Man With a Movie Camera (Dziga Vertov 1929) This time with proper reel divisions and live accompaniment from the Alloy Orchestra, the film became almost unbearably massive and exciting. Rarely is ideology so visceral and vice versa. Playtime in montage (with inverted views on metropolitan modernity), utopian Godard (the founder of Vertov's self-proclaimed namesake for a reason), an exultation to collective consciousness that's not mystic mumbo jumbo but coarse, tangible philosophy. The person is the machine is the city is the cinema is the filmmaker is the camera is the spectator is the people, or something like that.

A film where a revolving door can turn into a city square, an art museum can collapse onto itself, and every edit makes me feel like cheering. I found myself constantly searching for associations, barely able to keep up. How many other films engage the imagination so completely?

It's interesting that you highlight the levels of ideology and philosophy of the film. They are certainly in it, and very visibly so, but they hit you far less over the head than in Vertov's earlier films, especially "The Eleventh Year", which -although only 55 min. long - is one of the most exhausting film experiences I've ever had, though in an entirely exciting way (you really frighten away when these cannons are directed at you, the spectator; Michael Nyman's music on the Edition Filmmuseum disc certainly increased the effect, though). By contrast, I always found The Man with a Camera far less obviously manipulative in a political way, far more playful and ecstatic about the medium it celebrates. Or perhaps it celebrates most of all (modern) life itself, and if you say "every edit makes me cheering": yes, that's exactly it, just as every turn in life has the potential to create the same effect ideally, at least in Vertov's very positive vision of it. A film that is at once life- and art-affirming, and in a way that has rarely or never been equalled by any other film later on.

Vertov's vision in this film isn't one-dimensional or too prescriptive, which might also explain that almost all the various soundtracks around - even the more conventionally 'unlistenable' ones by Pierre Henry or Werner Cee - contribute new and different aspects to this inexhaustible film. This is quite different to many other silents which were definitely marred by inappropriate soundtracks, but it's not the case with this film. The Alloy Orchestra score is among my favourites of all the choices, though in the end I always find myself coming back to the In The Nursery score -available on the horrible first BFI edition, but later on also on the rather fine German arte edition disc -, which highlights the utopian, dreamlike, and ecstatic qualities of this film better than any other score, at least for me.

I'm not giving away a secret when I say that this film is unshakeably at the top of my all-time-list. It has been there for at least ten years now, and I can't imagine anything else to come along and take its place. It's a film I can watch again and again without it losing any bit of its magic and enchantment. Even after the tenth viewing or so some scenes leave me open-mouthed about what this director was able to do, and the dancing camera at the end always brings tears of joy to my eyes... ah well...