The Iceman: Ariel Vromen

Ariel Vromen's The Iceman, a fictionalized account of the real-life hit-man Richard Kuklinski who was believed to have murdered between 100-250 people over his career, is a slow-burning thriller which ebbs away into wispy smoke instead of catching fire. Vromen reduces one of the most fascinating mass murderers in American history into the most basic stereotypes: an sociopathic killer who nevertheless passionately loves his family. Whether or not Kuklinski was an authentic family man is besides the point. Vromen goes diving into the depths of Kuklinski's mind only to come back up empty-handed. Expository scenes describing childhood abuse seem too perfunctory and his single-minded devotion to his wife and daughters is treated as an explanation of his character instead of a curiosity which could have propelled more fascinating explorations into his psyche. The methods that made Kuklinski so feared in real-life, such as his use of industrial freezers to chill murder victims for months so that the cops would be unable to properly determine the time of death, are either barely glanced over or ignored. Perhaps the most intriguing period of Kuklinski's life, his prolonged use of Manhattan as a training ground for the art of murder, is entirely ignored. Kuklinski is treated from the very beginning of the film as a totally competent, coolly unflinching master of his trade. By ignoring so many key things that made Kuklinski Kuklinksi instead of just another hired gun with a family, Vromen dilutes his central character to the cusp of tedium. The film's saving grace is Michael Shannon's performance as Kuklinski. If he had been afforded a better script or a better director, then I would not have been surprised if he had received an Oscar nomination.

6/10

Repentance: Tengiz Abuladze

A smartly-trimmed mustache lies nestled in his philtrum. Thin, frameless glasses dig into the ridge of his nose. A black shirt and leather suspenders stretch over his plump frame. His lips straddle a cavern from which escape sweet lies, manic ramblings, and operatic arias. Stretched into a smile, they betray the empty promises of a hollow man. In the evening he will charm you. In the morning he will arrest you. And for reasons apparent only to himself, you will disappear.

For years Varlam Aravidze served as the mayor of a small town in Soviet Georgia. His death was marked by public mourning and a pompous funeral. But the next morning his rigid corpse seemingly materializes in the garden of his son Abel’s house. The body is quickly reburied. But again, the next morning the body appears in Abel’s garden. The exasperated police take the only option they can think of: arrest the dead body so it can be held for an inquiry. This Kafka-esque farce continues for several more days. The body is reburied and dug up again night after night. Finally the grave is covered in a massive metal cage. But still, the body returns.

One night the perpetrator is finally caught in the act. She is revealed to be a local pastry chief named Ketevan Barateli. She is swiftly brought to trial where she freely admits to exhuming Varlam’s grave but refuses to admit guilt. “As long as I live Varlam Aravidze will not rest in the ground,” she declares. And so she begins the flashback which will engross most of the rest of Tengiz Abuladze’s Repentance, a brave and powerful film that seeks nothing less than the catharsis of an entire nation in the wake of decades of Stalinist control. Originally shot in 1984, the film was shelved for several years by Soviet authorities. Premiering at the 1987 Cannes Film Festival, the film was seen by an estimated 60 million Russians and was celebrated for being one of the true masterpieces of post-glasnost Soviet filmmaking.

The journey through Ketevan’s past as she witnesses the rise of the despotic Varlam is painful and heart-breaking. At first Varlam, played by esteemed Georgian actor Avtandil Maxaradze, appears as little more than an oafish buffoon. His inauguration plays like a scene from a Charlie Chaplin film: as his speech is swallowed up by a booming brass band he is soaked by a burst water main. He receives pleas from Ketevan’s artist father Sandro to save a historic church with apparent compassion and sympathy. One night he arrives at Ketevan’s house with two assistants - who are dressed like they just came from a reception given by Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers - bearing gifts of flowers and caged birds. A swish of Varlam’s cloak materializes a playmate for Ketevan out of the aether in the form of a young Abel. Varlam and his assistants belt out jaunty opera tunes before jumping out of the window onto horses which whisk them away into the night.

That night monstrous dreams plague Sandro and his wife; dreams of dark corridors, fields of mud, and above all the smiling figure of Varlam being speed through the Georgian countryside in a blue automobile. In the morning Sandro is suddenly arrested by soldiers clothed in medieval metal armor. As Sandro is removed, one soldier clumsily plays the piano while another spirits away the paintings on his walls. The same paintings, one should mention, that Varlam was so enthusiastic about praising the night before.

Soon much of the entire town vanishes. The once charming Varlam has morphed into a gibbering madman, spewing out nonsensical rhetoric during speeches like “Four out of every three people are our enemies!” Without warning, Sandro’s church is demolished in the night. And finally, the men in metal armor come for Ketevan’s mother.

Certainly Varlam was a composite of numerous 20th century dictators, what with his Hitler mustache and Mussolini build. But it is his similarities with Joseph Stalin, Georgia’s home-grown tyrant, that warrant the most attention. After all, for all of its fame as a Soviet film, Repentance is first and foremost a Georgian work of cinema. The film is steeped in metaphors for the rise and rule of Stalin. Much like Varlam, Stalin was well-known for his chameleonic abilities to change his personality depending on the situation. As Julie Christensen writes, “Another central link between Varlam and Stalin, as the Georgians understand him, is the changing face of the evil dictator: concerned patriot, enlightened ruler, scheming maniac, and sadistic pervert. Stalin was well-known for his ability to don masks and change his identity, and [Maxaradze’s performance] centers around that motif.”

If we accept the interpretation that Varlam was a Stalin stand-in, then the film takes on a greater, richer meaning than it would if it was a simple treatise on despotism and man’s capacity for cruelty. An essential element of Georgian culture is their treatment and veneration of the dead. Continuing her astute analysis of Georgian society in Repentance, Christensen elaborates: “The past and its remains are holy...[Ketevan], a Georgian woman, denies Varlam proper treatment of a dead hero and violates his grave.” The third part of Repentance deals with Abel and his son Tornike coming to terms with Ketevan’s revelations about their patriarch. Unable to cope with the guilt, Tornike commits suicide and Abel personally steals Varlam’s body and unceremoniously throws it off the side of a cliff. These scenes involving the confrontation of a dictator’s true legacy and the decanonization of his status as a cultural hero provided catharsis for Georgian audiences in a manner other Soviet countries could not appreciate as fully.

Of course, to view Repentance as a mere metaphor would be to rob it of its simple visceral pleasures. The film is full of heart-breaking images such as Ketevan and her mother searching for Sandro’s name among messages scrawled into logs by prisoners upstream. Abuladze delights in warping the boundaries between different times, spaces, and cultures. The soundtrack will sway between austere classical music and blaring pop. In one scene a blindfolded Lady Justice stands in a prison courtyard next to a political insider merrily playing a white piano. In another Sandro and his wife lay buried up to their chins in dirty muck in the countryside. Elsewhere Varlam’s ghostly spectre peels the skin from a fish in a dark church while Abel begs for Absolution.

While the rest of the world’s socially-conscious cinema seems to be trapped by the limitations of stark realism, Abuladze dares something more. In Repentance, the sword of surrealism is wielded in the name of social commentary and Georgian justice.

9/10

The Letter: William Wyler

William Wyler's The Letter is a curious film noir set in British Malaya, of all places. Not that film noir have to be set in the United States. Indeed, who would deny Charles Vidor's Gilda (1946) a spot in the film noir canon despite its setting of Buenos Aires, Argentina? The novelty surrounding The Letter's setting is that it might as well have taken place in the Asian equivalent of "deepest, darkest Africa." Its British Malaya is as much a phantasmagorical fantasy as the Land of Oz. Dark streets hide opium dens, locals bearing perpetually toothy grins, and the promise of vices beyond the capacity of imagination. The film concerns the investigation surrounding a murder which starts off the film: Leslie Crosbie (Bette Davis), the wife of a British rubber baron, shoots and kills a manservant and claims that she did it in self-defense. Her story is accepted and the case seems almost closed until news comes of a certain letter that might prove that there was more to the murder than meets the eye. Of course, the letter may or may not really exist. But for $10,000 you can know for sure...There is little suspense surrounding the content of the letter. We suspect early on that the murder may have been a crime of passion instead of self-defense. If the subtext doesn't make that clear, then the music does (and really, does the music in classical Hollywood movies ever lie?). The true pleasure to be gained from The Letter can be found in Davis' sturdy performance and Tony Gaudio's reliably sharp (and flattering) cinematography. The Letter is a minor noir, make no mistake. Davis, who by no means delivered a sub-par performance, has been better. The story is a bit contrived and the uncomfortably omnipresent ethnic stereotypes are disconcerting. The best scene in the movie involves Leslie being forced to deliver the $10,000 to the manservant's Eurasian widow. When the widow throws the incriminating letter to the floor in front of her for Leslie to pick up, there is a moment of sheer electricity where we realize that she has forced Leslie to effectively bow in shame before her. Thank heavens Wyler had the sense not to add pointless dialogue. It would have ruined everything.

7/10

The Yearling: Clarence Brown

I made no secret about my dislike for Clarence Brown's 1944 children's film National Velvet. It made me wonder if maybe I just don't like classic children's films. But after watching Brown's The Yearling, I can say that that isn't true. The Yearling is a wonderful adaptation of the equally wonderful Pulitzer Prize-winning novel by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings about a young boy named Jody living in rural Florida in the 1870s who adopts an orphan fawn. Although originally a perfect pet (and a convenient surrogate for Jody's unrequited affections for his mother), when the deer becomes a year old it begins to destroy their crops, threatening the livelihood of the whole family. And so, the Boy must become a Man and kill his only friend. The film is highly benefited by three-man cinematography tag-team Arthur E. Arling, Charles Rosher, and Leonard Smith. Their on-location cinematography helps breathe precious life into the story. One prolonged sequence where a herd of deer are followed as they run through the countryside is particularly aching in its beauty. Gregory Peck's performance as Jody's strong yet sympathetic 'Pa' reminds us why he will forever be Hollywood's great Father. Claude Jarman, Jr.'s performance as Jody is painfully dated, but nevertheless admirable for its intensity and earnestness. The scene where he is finally forced to kill his deer is searingly devastating. He dripped so many tears and so much snot that it made me wonder whether or not he became dehydrated on set after the necessary takes. When you get right down to it, The Yearling succeeds where National Velvet fails because the story actually sees the protagonist grow. Don't let the title confuse you. There is not just one yearling in this film. After you see it, you'll wonder which one the title is referring to.

7/10

My Sister Eileen: Richard Quine

How wonderful it is to watch a musical! To witness performers at the peak of their talents and abilities sing and dance like there's no tomorrow! To visit worlds where emotions bubble over into chorus lines, ballads, and Technicolor dreamscapes! To discover a new musical is like discovering a new love, a new passion that seeps into your very bones until you can't help but cry 'Hallelujah!' Such was my experience with Richard Quine's My Sister Eileen, one of the most sublime musicals that I have seen in ages. Based on the 1940 play by Joseph A. Fields and Jerome Chodorov, My Sister Eileen tells the story of two sister from Ohio who move to New York City with dreams of becoming famous. Ruth wishes to be a writer. Eileen wants to be an actress. Ruth is chastised for being cold and emotionally frigid. Men step over each other to try and please Eileen. And yet, as the days turn to weeks, neither Eileen or Ruth can get work. Things begin to get hopeless...but then hope comes in the form of three men: Bob Baker, the Lothario editor-in-chief of Mad Hatter magazine, the shy but sincere soda jerk Frank Lippencott, and the devious newspaper reporter Chick Clark. Together they just might make it...Though My Sister Eileen lacks the massive ensembles of a Busby Berkeley flick or the show-stopping music of a Gershwin production, the film dazzles with impressive number after number: Frank and Chick's back-alley dance-off for Eileen's affections, the foursome dance in the park, the chaotic Brazilian conga line invasion, and Ruth and Eileen earnestly belting out the inspiring I'm Great. My Sister Eileen is a treasure of a film. I can't wait to watch it again!

8/10

American Hustle: David O. Russell

The comparisons between David O. Russell's American Hustle and Martin Scorsese's Goodfellas (1990) are justifiably warranted. Both are hyper-kinetic films about criminals trying to move up in the world. Both films feature energetic soundtracks and career-defining performances by its actors. But to call American Hustle a clone of Goodfellas isn't fair. Goodfellas constructs a world of rules, codes, and traditions that can make and break those who try to enter the criminal lifestyle. The world of American Hustle is one of chaos and disorder. The criminals become heroes and the authorities villains so hellbent on making reputations for themselves that they turn to entrapment. Set in 1978, the film is a loose re-telling of the FBI ABSCAM operation wherein a number of public officials were nailed for bribery and conspiracy. The film follows small-time con-artist Irving Rosenfeld (Christian Bale) and his lover Sydney Prosser (Amy Adams) as they are arrested for an embezzling scheme by undercover FBI agent Richard "Richie" DiMaso (Bradley Cooper). In exchange for clemency, they must help him catch more important criminals. The three quickly get lost in the scheme's machinations as several high-ranking politicians and the mafia become involved. Desperate for a way out, Rosenfeld and Prosser embark on one last scheme that can hopefully get them free from the ABSCAM mess before it's too late. Despite the film's very compact pace and storytelling, the film certainly feels like over 130 minutes. Perhaps this is due to the nearly unprecedented (for Russell, at least) amount of freedom with which the actors were given to explore their characters. Every scene goes on a little bit longer than it needs to, but the extra time is almost solely dedicated to theatrical fireworks. The film boasts a truly intimidating script that crackles with twists, turns, and surprise reveals. The fact that the film never loses sight of the main story is equally impressive. As indulgent as American Hustle might be, the means justify the ends. It is one helluva movie.

9/10

Vanina Vanini: Roberto Rossellini

In the world of cinema, love and politics are almost impossible to reconcile. Roberto Rossellini's Vanina Vanini is one such example. An adaption of Stendhal's novella of the same name, the film charts the tragic romance of spoiled aristocrat Vanina Vanini and revolutionary carbonaro Pietro Missirilli. Their love is challenged by Missirilli's devotion to the cause of a unified Italy and Vanina's foolishness in taking for granted the fact that he is willing to die for his cause. Frustrated with Missirilli's frequent inattention, Vanina betrays his comrades to the authorities, naively assuming that this will free him from his political obligations and send him back into her arms. When he turns himself in to stand trial with his men, Vanina is shocked, appalled, and surprised. Missirilli's refusal of a papal pardon and Vanina's entry into a nunnery at the end cement their inability to come to terms with each others' motivations. But the main storyline is not the only evidence that love and politics don't mix in the cinema. Rossellini's stout Catholicism prevented him from demonizing the anti-revolutionary clergy. The clergy are shockingly sympathetic and empathetic to Vanina's situation, even bending over backwards to provide Missirilli with a pardon. This refusal to demonize the reactionary clergy prevents the film from being a purely political tract (at least in a Marxist sense). Instead, the focus of the film is redirected towards the central romance and Vanina’s inability to understand love that doesn’t involve romance. Rossellini's European contemporaries would have ennobled Missirilli, transforming him into a revolutionary martyr who selflessly refuses romantic love in the name of the People. By rejecting these Leftist trappings, Vanina Vanini absconds from political responsibilities in favor of a more universal, melodramatic romance. Politics are politics and romance is romance and Vanina Vanini is proof that never the twain shall meet.

7/10

Woman of the Year: George Stevens

Few Hollywood couples were as beloved and cherished as Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn. The only other power couple that comes to mind that can compete with them is Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. During their careers, the couple made nine movies which have become celebrated as classics. And the first one to team the two together was George Stevens' Woman of the Year. Unfortunately, due to studio meddling Woman of the Year is only a shadow of what could have been. The film has a very cute 'opposites attract' motif wherein two vastly different journalists, the highly educated and erudite political affairs columnist Tess Harding (Hepburn) and the more casual sportswriter Sam Craig (Tracy), inexplicably fall in love, then out of love due to their seemingly irreconcilable differences, and then back together in love one last time at the end. And the film does feature several moments of warm comedy. Harding's first baseball game where Craig explains the game to her to the chagrin of his fellow sportswriter is a riot. The scene where their first night together as a married couple is crashed by diplomats and some of Craig's buddies is masterfully executed. But the film is soured by the third act wherein Harding attempts to cast off the trappings of her educated, independent life so she can become a "perfect housewife" for Craig. Originally the ending would have seen Harding and Craig on an equal footing when they reconcile. But this ending was removed and rewritten into the offensive one we have today under the supervision of Louis B. Mayer, producer Joseph L. Mankiewicz, and George Stevens while the original screenwriters were on vacation. As screenwriter Ring Lardner Jr. explained: "She had to get her comeuppance for being too strong in a man's world so they wrote a scene where she tried to fix breakfast... and gets everything wrong." I wish the footage of the original ending could be found and restored. Maybe then Woman of the Year could be the true classic that it deserves to be.

6/10

La Terra Trema: Luchino Visconti

Truth may be stranger than fiction, but it is also more tragic and heart-breaking. Luchino Visconti's La Terra Trema was a bold, ground-breaking work of docufiction that stands as a monolith for future film-makers. A Communist parable based on Giovanni Verga's I Malavoglia, the film tells the story of an impoverished family living in the small Sicilian fishing village of Aci Trezza. After years of working grueling hours for a mere pittance, 'Ntoni Valastros suggests that his family mortgage their house so they can buy a boat, fish for themselves, and bypass the heartless wholesalers who grow fat while the fishermen starve. But when a storm destroys their boat, they quickly go broke, are evicted from their house, and are forced to crawl back to the laughing, jeering wholesalers. Visconti's use of non-professional actors and an omniscient narrator grounds the film in an inescapable realism. When a group of wholesalers heartlessly humiliate the Valastros by calling their last independent catch only "fit for cats" before offering them pennies for the lot, it is impossible not to foam with fury. When 'Ntoni and his brothers are laughed at and ridiculed by the wholesalers and their fellow villagers when they swallow their pride and as for re-employment, how can one not feel enveloped in a murderous rage? By mimicking reality, Visconti jolts the audience out of the stupor of passive viewing. Our thoughts and emotions become mobilized for conflict. The Soviets may have perfected the art of cinematic political mobilization via the use of montage theory, but via docufiction Visconti has revealed an equally powerful weapon in the form of La Terra Trema. As a side note, let me say that if Antonio Arcidiacono, the man who played 'Ntoni, was indeed a non-professional actor at the time La Terra Trema was made, then the film is proof that if he had pursued a career in acting he could have become a legend.

10/10

The Man Who Came to Dinner: William Keighley

My biggest problem with William Keighley's The Man Who Came to Dinner isn't the problematic character of Sheridan Whiteside, a blusterous, self-centered radio personality who becomes confined to an Ohio household after slipping on their front porch one winter. Instead, it's the fact that the entire plot could have been resolved in one scene with one sentence. Allow me to explain. After Whiteside assumes a tyrannical control over the hapless Stanley household, the main focus of the film is on his attempts to foil the budding relationship between his assistant Maggie Cutler (Bette Davis) and local newspaperman Bert Jefferson (Richard Travis). At one point Whiteside brings in a bombshell actress named Lorraine Sheldon (Ann Sheridan) to seduce Bert. But Maggie wisely manages to get one of her friends to impersonate Lorraine's suitors over the phone and propose, thereby forcing her to leave Ohio. However, Whiteside discovers the plot and gleefully demolishes Maggie's ploy. Here's the problem: this all happens in a single room with Maggie, Lorraine, and Whiteside grouped together. Why doesn't Maggie just honestly tell Lorraine that Whiteside is manipulating her for his own selfish ends? I'll tell you why: the creators wrote themselves into a corner and had to keep the usually outspoken Maggie silent so she wouldn't break the plot in two like a dried twig. And that sums up a good portion of the film's philosophy: mad-cap absurdity for the sake of mad-cap absurdity. The antics might not be plausible, but we are so far beyond the realm of the plausible that it doesn't matter. The film is still solid fun. Whiteside is a great villain that you love to hate until he kinda sorta redeems himself. Of course, the film is definitely a product of its time. The Man Who Came to Dinner operates under the assumption that sexual assault is hilarious and that rubes deserve to be taken advantage of. Keighley's direction is also quite blasé, forcing the film to be carried by its writers and actors. But there still is enough in The Man Who Came to Dinner to warrant a recommendation.

7/10

The Miracle of Morgan’s Creek: Preston Sturges

Do you know what the biggest problem with Preston Sturges' The Miracle of Morgan's Creek is? There isn't a quiet moment in the film. Almost every line is delivered like the climax to a Shakespearean monologue. The potentially interesting plot about Trudy Kockenlocker (Betty Hutton), a small-town girl who drunkenly gets married and knocked up one night to an anonymous soldier, is ruined by the film's hyperactive, overbearing performances. Not a single line is spoken if it can't be screamed, screeched, or hollered. I can appreciate the fact that quickly-paced, exasperated performances are par for the course in screwball comedies. But whereas a superior screwball comedy like Howard Hawks' His Girl Friday (1940) flows like a tango, The Miracle of Morgan's Creek flops on the floor like an epileptic seizure. While both films feature dialogue-heavy plots centering on romantic intrigue and emotional subterfuge, His Girl Friday still had quieter moments that allowed the film (and the actors) to catch their breath and create an atmosphere. The Miracle of Morgan's Creek sand-blasts the senses from beginning to end with no instances of respite. It doesn't help that Trudy Kockenlocker is a thoroughly unlikable character. Watch how she preys on the hapless Norval Jones (Eddie Bracken), taking advantage of his trust, affection, time, and automobile all for her own selfish means. She only returns his affection when it is convenient for her, i.e. when she needs to marry somebody ASAP so she won't carry the stigma of being pregnant out of wedlock. She is ruthlessly self-centered to the point of revulsion. I've noticed that in the films of the 30s and 40s, there was an odd kind of cultural assumption that if you can pull one over on a sucker then it's your right to do so. A good example is how Sheridan Whiteside's selfish and abusive demands on the Stanleys and his personal nurse in The Man Who Came to Dinner (1942) are played off for laughs. Perhaps that was a product of the Great Depression. But in hindsight it make Trudy Kockenlocker seem like an egotistical, manipulative vamp. I don't say this often about Sturges' films, but I have no interest in revisiting The Miracle of Morgan's Creek.

5/10

I Remember Mama: George Stevens

I'm not quite sure why I love George Stevens' I Remember Mama so much. It's a calm, quiet film about a Norwegian immigrant family living in San Francisco during the 1910s told from the point of view of the adolescent Katrin Hanson. The film is pure nostalgic melodrama, charting how the family copes with life, death, and finances under the loving yet stern rule of their matriarch Marta 'Mama' Hanson. Clocking in at over 130 minutes, I Remember Mama should have collapsed under the weight of its decentralized and blatantly sentimental plot. And yet, it doesn't. If I had to take a guess as to why, it wouldn't be the most obvious answers like Stevens' meticulous direction, Nicholas Musuraca's warm cinematography that covers the screen like a wooly blanket, or Irene Dunne's career-defining performance as 'Mama.' No, my answer would be the film's simple sincerity. I was choking back tears more than once at scenes that would have made me roll my eyes in lesser films: 'Mama' sneaking into a hospital to sing her youngest daughter a lullaby after an operation, 'Mama' giving Katrin an heirloom brooch after an unfortunate misunderstanding with a neighbor, the jovial uncle drinking one last toast with 'Mama' and his ostracized common law wife on his death-bed, and 'Mama' taking a huge risk to get Katrin's writing into the hands of a respected author. The melodrama isn't forced or insisted upon. Instead, it is presented plainly and earnestly. The resulting emotional response is undeniable.

7/10

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn: Elia Kazan

Throughout his career Elia Kazan would shake the cinema to its very foundations with powerful dramas that forever changed the landscape of Hollywood acting. His preference for working with relative unknown method actors like Marlon Brando and James Dean and for examining hot-button social issues resulted in one of the most influential cinematic careers in American history. His first feature-length film A Tree Grows in Brooklyn announced his presence like a gunshot. Based on the 1943 novel of the same name by Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn examines the coming-of-age of Francie Nolan (Peggy Ann Garner), an impoverished young girl living in a Brooklyn tenement in the early 20th century. She struggles to survive along with her younger brother Neely (Ted Donaldson), her hard-working and ruthlessly pragmatic mother Katie (Dorothy McGuire), and her well-meaning, big-dreaming father Johnny (James Dunn) who constantly battles with alcoholism. The film concerns itself with the Nolan family's efforts to make good despite living in near desperate poverty. At the film's core is a concern with the practicality of dreams. Francie desires to get a good education at a nearby school despite the expenses and illegality of her enrollment. Katie initially refuses saying that she must stay at home and help her make enough money to survive. When she is asked why she doesn't keep the young Johnny (who has no interest in education) at home instead, Katie responds that it's so Francie can learn to abandon such fanciful, idealistic notions. Johnny dreams of becoming a popular singer and making enough money to help them all escape the tenements, but Katie consistently neuters those ambitions, forcing him back to merciless reality. But when a marriage, a pregnancy, and a death disrupts their lives, the Nolan family is thrust into chaos. And in the middle? Little Francie, so young and wise. I have to point out, though, that Garner's performance is the film's only sore spot. It's not a bad performance...it's just a little mature for her years. Despite the reputation Kazan would develop for coaxing naturalistic performances from his actors, Garner's performance is painfully reminiscent of classic Hollywood children's acting, i.e. wide-eyed, theatrical line deliveries and dialogue peppered with unnecessarily infantilized phrases. Hearing a young girl say "Oh, Papa" over and over again like a 30-year-old Broadway actress is quite distracting when juxtaposed with the more naturalistic performances of the older actors. But despite this, Garner remains a likeable protagonist and an agreeable host to a world now lost to the ages.

9/10

Run Lola Run: Tom Tykwer

In his review of Tom Tykwer's Run Lola Run, noted critic Jonathan Rosenbaum wrote that it was "about as entertaining as a no-brainer can be--a lot more fun, for my money, than a cornball theme-park ride like "Speed," and every bit as fast moving. But don't expect much of an aftertaste." But I disagree with my esteemed colleague. Run Lola Run is indeed a frenetic thrill-ride of visual fireworks and stylistic audacity. But here is a film that earnestly tries to explore themes of determinism, causality, and compatibilism without disappearing into a quagmire of philosophical naval-gazing. When young Lola (Franka Potente) receives a frantic phone-call from her boyfriend Manni (Moritz Bleibtreu) with a message that if he doesn't get 100,000 marks in twenty minutes he will be killed by his crime boss, she takes to the streets to try and gather the money and reach him in time before he robs a supermarket in a last ditch attempt to secure the needed funds. Lola's journey is repeated three successive times with minor details: in the first she tries to get the money from her wealthy father, in the second she robs a bank, and in the third she bets all of her money at a casino. Tykwer's point is that miniscule differences between the runs such as stumbling into a baby carriage on the way to the bank or getting attacked by a dog in her apartment complex result in radically different outcomes. Tykwer frequently gives us snapshot montages of the futures of the people Lola encounters during each run and how their lives radically change depending on how they briefly interact. One woman in particular is provided with a different future for each run: having her baby taken away by social services, winning the lottery, and experiencing a religious conversion. Run Lola Run is that most precious of treasures: a thinking person's entertainment.

8/10

Johnny Belinda: Jean Negulesco

When a young deaf-mute named Belinda McDonald (Jane Wyman) is raped and impregnated by a local brute, the close-knit community of Cape Breton Island, Canada accuses her doctor and sign-language teacher Dr. Robert Richardson (Lew Ayres) of taking advantage of her. When the man who raped Belinda tries to gain custody of her child, the young woman is thrown into a heated legal dispute against a town that resents her and considers her sub-human. Such is the story of Jean Negulesco's Johnny Belinda, a powerful drama that had the distinction of being one of the first Hollywood films for which the Motion Picture Production Code was relaxed. And yet, Johnny Belinda feels like a missed opportunity. The film deserved a director with more fire in his heart and venom in his veins. Negulesco did a competent job bringing this harrowing real-life story to the silver screen. But whereas a director like Billy Wilder or Fritz Lang would have used such a story to make a powerful statement about humanity, Negulesco embraces tepid melodrama. Too much of the film is devoted to Dr. Richardson's romance with Belinda. But to be fair to Mrs. Wyman and Mr. Ayres, their performances are exceptional. Belinda's disability forced Wyman to access a range of physical emotion and expression almost unseen since the days of silent cinema. But Negulesco's focus on their romance keeps the audience's rage towards the injustices inflicted on them by the townsfolk from reaching a frothing boil. I guess I wouldn't be so bothered by Negulesco's emphasis on melodrama if it wasn't for the fact that the film had the guts to defy the Production Code! Obviously this film got clearance because it had an important message to tell! But that message is almost sterilized by sappy romance! Still, I'm being unfair. I'm breaking one of my cardinal rules as a film critic: only judge a film for what it is instead of what it could have been. And Johnny Belinda is a good film. But it could have been something more. It could have been great.

7/10

National Velvet: Clarence Brown

Children's films are always some of the hardest to review. Children's films from the 1940's are even harder. My knee-jerk reaction to Clarence Brown's National Velvet, an adaption of the novel by the same name by Enid Bagnold about a young English girl named Velvet Brown who overcomes poverty and gender expectations to become a champion horse jockey, was that I didn't like it. The film felt painfully dated and overly saccharine. But I couldn't figure out exactly what it was that specifically bothered me about National Velvet. But then it hit me: Velvet Brown isn't a very interesting or well-written character. She is insufferably cheerful and never really experiences any self-doubts. In a regular character arc, even the most upbeat characters have moments of doubt. It's at that moment that they rise above it and become stronger. But Velvet is a straight-line of unconquerable confidence throughout the film. We only see two moments when she is momentarily crushed. The first is when she doesn't win a gelding at a town raffle. That conflict is solved when the town comes together and just gives her the horse anyway. The second is when her horse gets sick and comes close to dying. There is much weeping and wailing on Velvet's part...but it is all in vain! The horse just gets better! Velvet doesn't have any character development because her conflicts are always solved for her. You could argue that Velvet's choice to become a jockey demonstrates conflict. But I would disagree. At no point does she ever doubt that she won't become a champion jockey. The only people who have actual character arcs in the film are the people around Velvet: a local drifter named Mi Taylor whose entire arc revolves around him becoming her friend, her mother Mrs. Brown who sacrifices everything for Velvet, and her father Mr. Brown who drops his facade of sternness when Velvet becomes a champion. So National Velvet ends up being a forgettable film with a forgettable protagonist.

5/10

Nothing Sacred: William A. Wellman

There are many, many reasons to love William A. Wellman's Nothing Sacred. You can admire it from a technical level: it was the first screwball comedy filmed in color as well as the first color film to use process effects, montage, and rear screen projection. You can admire it as a well-constructed narrative: with a screenplay by Ben Hecht based on a story by James H. Street, the film constructs a fiendishly clever story full of mistaken identities, lies, inopportune romance, and ruthless newspapermen. But above all, Nothing Sacred can be enjoyed as a simple piece of Hollywood wizardry. One of the sharpest, most ruthlessly cynical screwball comedies of the 1930s, Nothing Sacred is a magnificent experience. After a disastrous piece of faulty reporting humiliates his newspaper, New York City reporter Wally Cook (Fredric March) travels to Warsaw, Vermont to interview a young woman named Hazel Flagg (Carole Lombard) who is dying of radium poisoning. His last chance to save his job, Cook desperately tries to convince Hazel to travel to New York so she can get the [media] attention that her tragic circumstances deserve. Of course, what Cook doesn't know is that Hazel was misdiagnosed by her buffoonish doctor. But Hazel has always dreamed of living the high life in New York, so she accompanies Cook back to the city playing the proper part of a tragic martyr. But when Hazel becomes the figurative and literal toast of the town, her conscience begins to eat away at her. Should she come clean with Cook? Should she keep up the charade and kill herself, thereby sparing both herself and Cook from embarrassment? But while Hazel agonizes over her options, Cook makes a terrible discovery of his own: he has fallen in love with her. Nothing Sacred seems to predate the work of the Coen Brothers. There are so many similarities (thinly veiled cynicism masked by upbeat characters, comical, strange-talking country-folk, a plot built on terrible misunderstandings) that one wonders if the film wasn't one of their primary influences. Whatever the case, Nothing Sacred is a screwball classic deserving of front page headlines.

8/10

Intruder in the Dust: Clarence Brown

If there was one adjective in my head when I first went into Clarence Brown's 1949 adaptation of William Faulkner's Intruder in the Dust, it most certainly was NOT 'quiet.' The story of an elderly black man named Lucas Beauchamp who was wrongly arrested under the charge of killing a white man in 1940s Mississippi, I was fully expecting this to be an over-dramatic racial melodrama complete with bombastic speeches on civil rights and racism. Well, the film certainly is a racial melodrama. And it does have its fair share of dramatic speeches. But this is a very, very quiet film. It's not a slow film, mind you. This is a film of tense, whispered dialogue, pregnant silences, and weighty glares. As Beauchamp enlists the aid of two local teenagers and an old woman to find the evidence that he is innocent, the surrounding community is swallowed in a veil of suspense and tension. Come midnight, there will be a lynching. Everybody knows it. The townsfolk know it, the two teenagers know it, the old woman knows it, and Beauchamp knows it. Everybody is just waiting for the right time to fulfill their roles. And in the interim...silence. Deathly silence. Suffocating silence. Brown's skillful direction creates one of the most palatable atmospheres of dread and apprehension in late 1940s American cinema. It breathes life into what could have been a very predictable melodrama. A word, too, about the aforementioned old woman. For the last part of the film she holds off a mob of lynchers for hours by sitting in the front of the jailhouse and knitting. At one point a lyncher douses the floor around her with gasoline and lights a match. Unperturbed, she sweetly asks him to move out of the sun so she can resume her knitting. This, my friends, is an act of badassery that makes Atticus Finch's legendary vigil seem flaccid in comparison.

8/10

Going My Way: Leo McCarey

Jean Renoir once said that director Leo McCarey "understood people better than any other Hollywood director." There is much truth in that. Throughout his distinguished career, McCarey proved himself to be a master of human drama. Only a director with an unparalleled eye for human behavior could elevate such films as Make Way for Tomorrow (1937) and The Awful Truth (1937) to greatness. And yet his film Going My Way, the 1944 winner of the Academy Award for Best Picture, is almost too concerned for human drama. Here is a film that is undeniably sweet yet nearly unforgivably indulgent. Clocking in at a merciless 130 minutes, the film overstays its welcome and fails to leave an impact beyond momentary melancholy. Going My Way follows young priest Father "Chuck" O'Malley (Bing Crosby) as he is assigned to a struggling New York City parish under the rule of the well-intentioned but ultimately ineffectual Father Fitzgibbon (Barry Fitzgerald). Father O'Malley helps revitalize the parish by connecting with the local youth and forming a boy's choir. There are scattered subplots throughout: O'Malley's life before he accepted the Call, a stolen turkey, a local gossip, a runaway who starts living in sin with the son of the church's mortgage-holder, Fitzgibbon's desire to see his mother living in Ireland, his semi-forced retirement, efforts to raise money for the church through a choir performance at the Metropolitan, and so on and so forth. While individually these sequences are warm and touching, they fail to congeal into a cohesive whole. There's a scene late in the film when the church accidentally burns down. It is treated as a massive narrative climax, but it does little to resonate with the audience because McCarey has spent so much time faffing about with trivial goings-on. Some might feel tempted to view Going My Way as a forerunner of the more naturalistic and measured narrative techniques that would arise in the 1950s in Europe. But McCarey's aim here is too sentimentalized, too schmaltzy. It is too clearly the product of a pleasant fiction. It doesn't help that the film's many songs (with the exception of a wonderful yet unnecessary operatic interlude) have aged like milk instead of fine wine.

6/10

Animal Crackers: Victor Heerman

Victor Heerman's Animal Crackers proves that the addition of the Marx Brothers doesn't automatically make everything better. Though the film is littered with bright spots of comedic genius, the film is weighed down with a plodding pace, an unnecessary sub-plot with a wannabe painter and his wife, and jokes that I am not sure would have worked even back in the 1930s. This is clearly a transitional film for the Marx Brothers. They hadn't quite completed the shift from vaudeville and silent comedy to the talkies. Many of Groucho's famous comedic tirades suffer from flat deliveries. It almost seems like Groucho wasn't used to the idea of performing for a camera, which records dialogue at a conversational volume, instead of booming and projecting his voice as he would on a live stage. I know that when it comes to "plots" in Marx Brothers films, the less said the better. Nobody goes to a Marx Brothers film to enjoy a narrative. But apparently Heerman didn't know that because Animal Crackers is almost nothing BUT a narrative. It concerns Groucho as a famous African explorer who returns to America only to become entrapped in a bizarre mystery involving a stolen painting. Later Marx Brothers films like Duck Soup (1933), A Night at the Opera (1935), and A Day at the Races (1937) understood that the plot is merely a means by which to provide set-ups for comedic gags and routines. But Animal Crackers suffers under the delusion that we might actually care about what happens to that missing painting. The narrative is practically more important than the Brothers! There are some rightfully beloved quips and gags in Animal Crackers, but it isn't up to snuff with their later films.

6/10

Frozen: Chris Buck, Jennifer Lee

I take no pride in writing this article. Unlike many people, I was not clamoring for Chris Buck and Jennifer Lee’s FROZEN to fail. I love Disney animated films. They were essential parts of my childhood and in my development as a film-goer. I wanted to like FROZEN. But alas, I cannot.

FROZEN is bad. It is bad, bad, bad, bad, bad. It may be the worst Disney Princess film that I’ve ever seen. It fails as a film, as a story, as a musical, and as a work of animation. Allow me to explain why.

“Based” on Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tale The Snow Queen, FROZEN follows two princesses named Anna and Elsa. Elsa has the power of cryokinesis and accidentally hurts Anna one night when they are children. Terrified of hurting Anna, she shuts herself away until her coronation as Queen at the age of 21. However, Anna accidentally goads Elsa into revealing her powers, sending her into a panic that results in her fleeing to a nearby mountain and accidentally dooming their kingdom to an eternal winter. So Anna, along with mountain man Kristoff, his reindeer Sven, and a living snowman named Olaf, set out to find Elsa, save her, and reverse the eternal winter. As you may have noticed, this isn’t the plot of The Snow Queen at all. Even producer Peter Del Vecho noted, ““Inspired by” means exactly that. There is snow and there is ice and there is a Queen, but other than that, we depart from it quite a bit.” But if we’re going to start holding Disney accountable for changing fairy tales, then we will get nowhere. What’s important is the question of whether or not FROZEN works as its own story.

In short, no, it doesn’t. There are three areas where FROZEN fails: story, scope, and atmosphere. When it comes to story, my complaints can be summarized with one simple question: why is this Anna’s story? No, really, why does this film follow Anna when Elsa is clearly the more interesting character with more interesting motivations? If Disney effectively did away with The Snow Queen’s plot, why did they have to keep the focus on the sister who isn’t burdened with powers she can’t control, responsibilities she never asked for, and a sister she is terrified of hurting? I don’t think there can be any debate that Elsa’s big musical number Let It Go where she assumes her position as Ice Queen is the best moment of the film. It’s the best song, the best sequence, and the most interesting scene from a character standpoint. I understand that Disney wanted FROZEN to be about the relationship between Anna and Elsa. But their goal is ruined by spending about 70% of the film focusing on Anna. Elsa is a supporting character in a film that was supposed to be about her!

Speaking of Let It Go, the other songs in the film are forgettable at best, terrible at worst. Remember how other Disney animated films opened with powerful, attention-grabbing numbers like Circle of Life, Arabian Nights, The Bells of Notre Dame? Well, FROZEN opens with a tired chant about ice that introduces a supporting character. Other songs like Do You Want to Build a Snowman? and Love is an Open Door are passable, but they begin and end too quickly and leave little impression. And then there’s In Summer, the worst song in the film which I talked about in this article.

So the story and songs are deficient. But the film could still work if it felt epic! As Del Vecho remarked, “There is a real feeling of Lawrence of Arabia scope and scale to this.” That, my friend, is a bald faced lie. Remember in the opening of THE LION KING we got a true sense of the scope of the Pride Lands? The hundreds of thousands of creatures who traveled countless miles to pay tribute to Simba’s birth? That scope is non-existent in FROZEN. Elsa’s kingdom seems unpopulated, the surrounding environs feel empty (even for a snowy landscape), and everything feels small. The most crowded the kingdom ever gets is during the ball at Elsa’s coronation. And even then there had to have been less than a hundred guests. It feels unfinished. I guess it must be really hard for 3-D animators to create giant crowd scenes. After all, as past interviews have proven, they had enough trouble trying to differentiate Anna and Elsa’s designs.

Finally, the film lacks atmosphere. Allow me to explain what I mean. Classic Disney films  have excelled at making simple stories feel like grand, operatic adventures. They run us through the whole gambit of emotions. Who didn’t weep at the death of Bambi’s mom or Mufasa? Who wasn’t scared shitless by Monstro’s attack, Cruella De Vil’s snowy car chase, Ursula transforming into a skyscraper-sized demon? That’s because these films managed to sell their respective atmospheres.

When Mufasa died, the music, Simba’s reaction, and the framing drove home the tragedy. In FROZEN, the parents are dispatched almost as an afterthought in a scene that actually made me burst out laughing. The only scene from FROZEN that came close to breaking my heart was when Elsa fled from the castle. And much of that came from Idina Menzel’s performance.

Scenes like Monstro’s attack were terrifying because the animators managed to build up suspense and make him seem like an actual monster. FROZEN never scared me. The scene where Elsa threw Anna and Kristoff from the North Mountain should have been terrifying. It should have been like the scene in ALADDIN where Jafar steals the Genie’s powers and uses them to destroy the palace. Remember that scene? The one where Aladdin and Abu are almost crushed by one of the towers? Remember how desperate they felt? How helpless the odds felt? In FROZEN, the aforementioned scene is performed like a semi-slapstick routine. That snow beast Elsa summoned should have been intimidating like the Tiger Head of the Cave of Wonders. But instead, it seemed like a poorly textured plastic action figure.

You know how FROZEN could have established a decent atmosphere? Well, remember in films like BEAUTY AND THE BEAST, THE SWORD AND THE STONE, and THE FOX AND THE HOUND they used really moody opening credits? Ominous, highly stylized art accompanying the credits which also occasionally filled the audience in with the film’s lore? Why couldn’t FROZEN have done that? Instead of its weak opening which seemed to shove 10 minutes worth of exposition down our throats, they could have gone the storybook route, giving us the cliff notes version of the story like in BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. The actual story would then start on Elsa’s coronation day with Anna getting up and signing her big What I Want Out Of Life number. It would have made the film seem like, y’know, a fairy tale.

5/10

Soldier of Orange: Paul Verhoeven

Why do so many directors feel the need to put sex scenes in war films? I can only think of one instance where it worked: in Lewis Milestone's All Quiet on the Western Front (1930) when the German soldiers spend the night at the French woman's house. There are two reasons why that scene worked. First, you don't actually see the sex; it's just heavily implied. The second is that it was a momentary reprieve from the horror of the Western Front, thereby injecting a moment of tenderness into an otherwise devastating film. In every other war film that I've seen with a sex scene, though, it doesn't work: Jean-Jacques Annaud's Enemy at the Gates (2001), Christian Carion's Joyeux Noël (2005), and now Paul Verhoeven's Soldier of Orange (1977). An otherwise powerful film about young men from the Netherlands being thrown into World War Two and having to decide between rebelling against or collaborating with the Nazis. Friendships are destroyed, young men are pointlessly sacrificed, and the very soul of an occupied nation is battled over. And yet, Verhoeven fills the screen with sex scenes. Why? Was the addition of sex one of Verhoeven's methods of emphasizing how his characters weren't clean-cut, square-jawed Hollywood heroes? I could understand that, but the scenes usually serve to add bizarre comedy to the proceedings. I can understand comedic relief, but this just seems misguided. But I digress. Soldier of Orange is rightfully heralded as one of the greatest Dutch films ever made. Despite my problems with the film, it is a fantastic character study and a thought-provoking exploration of Dutch cultural memory.

8/10

The Awful Truth: Leo McCarey

Here's a novel idea: make a romantic-comedy about a divorce. Sounds counter-intuitive, doesn't it? But Leo McCarey's The Awful Truth proves that it isn't just possible, but that it's a formula that could produce one of the most delectably subversive films of the 1930s. Here's the set-up: mutual suspicions of infidelity lead to the divorce of Jerry and Lucy Warriner. They then proceed to sabotage each others' love life with extreme, and absurd, prejudice. First Jerry (played by Cary Grant in the first appearance of his trademark light comedic persona that would rocket him to super-stardom) ruins her chances with a wealthy neighbor from Oklahoma. Then Lucy (Irene Dunne in a performance that seems to out-Katharine-Hepburn Katharine Hepburn) gleefully destroys Jerry's chances with a wealthy heiress by showing up at her family's home, pretending to be his uncouth sister, and performing a risqué song-and-dance number. The joke is that both Jerry and Lucy are hopelessly in love the entire time. Their romantic subterfuge is merely another form of courtship. When they finally reconcile at the end of the film, it doesn't come as a surprise, but as a merciful confirmation of what the audience has known all along. The genius of The Awful Truth is that it confirms the idea of true love while dismantling the institution of marriage...or does it? What a brave, brave film, especially in the face of the archaic Hays Code.

8/10

A Farewell to Arms: Frank Borzage

If I remember one thing from Frank Borzage's A Farewell to Arms, let it be the extended montage near the one hour mark where American serviceman Frederic Henry (Gary Cooper) deserts from the army in order to search for his wife Catherine Barkley (Helen Hayes). Part Soviet montage, part German Expressionism, its frenetic images of retreating soldiers, scorched countrysides, massive graveyards, and the aerial bombardment of innocents is pure cinema at its very finest. It truly makes me wonder if cinematographer Charles Lang has ever done finer work. Borzage's adaptation of Ernest Hemingway's classic novel about a doomed romance set against the backdrop of World War One is otherwise competent enough. My biggest problem was with Cooper's performance. I know that he was known for exuding an everyman quality, but in this film he delivers many of his lines in a wooden monotone. In an early scene where he courts Catherine, he utters the immortal line, "I love you." But he says it so robotically that it made me audibly guffaw. A Farewell to Arms is a triumph of production design. It looks beautiful but labors under performances that vary from sub-par to passable.

7/10

The Heartbreak Kid: Elaine May

[Warning: Contains explicit language]

Elaine May's The Heartbreak Kid is a repulsive film that relies on the audience identifying with a thoroughly nauseating protagonist and finding humor in his despicable actions. It's "hero" is Lenny Cantrow, a self-absorbed sporting goods salesman from New York City who marries, perhaps a bit too quickly, an unrefined woman named Lila. On their drive down to Miami Beach where they will celebrate their honeymoon, he discovers that maybe he doesn't like his new bride. And when he meets the beautiful Kelly Corcoran in Miami Beach, he instantly falls in love, divorces the heart-broken Lila, and moves to Minnesota to be with her. Lila wasn't perfect. She was needy, uncouth, and gets a full-body sunburn on their first day in Miami Beach. But her agony was not deserved. And the film has the audacity to play her torment off for laughs. The most despicable scene in the film is when he finally asks for a divorce at a nice restaurant. Lenny, being a quibbling asshole, can hardly work up the nerve the tell Lila the truth. His attempts are so ill-executed that she thinks he is telling her that he is going to die. And in that moment, he spews the line, "I want out of the marriage!" His delivery is so angry, so contemptuous that we can hear his inner thoughts calling her a fucking idiot. And isn't it all funny?! And then, when the asshole moves to Minnesota, Kelly's father is portrayed as the villain because he has the sheer nerve to not trust a man who met his daughter, divorced his newlywed wife, and moved across the country to marry her all in the span of a few days. I keep hearing people describe the father as a bigot, but the only explanation that I could find for his seemingly irrational dislike of Lenny was that he, y'know, DIVORCED HIS NEWLYWED WIFE ON THEIR HONEYMOON TO MARRY HIS DAUGHTER. And then the film cements his position as a villain by trying to make him pay Lenny to leave his daughter alone. This film is misogynistic garbage. It views women as something that can be possessed and anyone who might disagree is either a bigot (the father) or a victim who deserves it (Lila). And not just that, it plays all of this up...for laughs. I don't say this often, but fuck this movie.

0/10

A Chinese Ghost Story: Ching Siu-tung

Is it any wonder that Ching Siu-tung's A Chinese Ghost Story became a massive franchise that scored fans throughout the world? Is it any wonder that it inspired a plethora of imitators? Is it any wonder that to this day it remains one of the most beloved Hong Kong films of the 80s? A hallucinogenic blend of wuxia action, tender romance, slapstick comedy, and stomach-churning horror, A Chinese Ghost Story seems like a cross between Sam Raimi and the Shaw Brothers. The film follows a hapless but good-hearted debt collector named Ning Choi-san who runs afoul of an ancient Tree Demoness who feeds on male passersby by luring them into her domain with beautiful young ghosts that she has enslaved. One of these ghosts, the tender-hearted Nip Siu-sin, falls in love with Ning. In order to free Nip from an eternity of servitude, Ning enlists the aid of local Taoist priest slash master swordsman Yin Chik-ha to slay the Tree Demoness once and for all. The film is delightful to behold in all of its madcap incredulity. However, the last twenty minutes almost collapse in on themselves due to over-kinetic editing and plot/character developments that come and go in the blink of an eye. It might be a bit clumsy, but there is more than enough in A Chinese Ghost Story to leave audiences feeling satisfied.

8/10

Viy: Konstantin Yershov, Georgi Kropachyov

Konstantin Yershov and Georgi Kropachyov's Viy is probably more important for its historical significance as the first Soviet-era horror film released in the USSR than for its actual quality as a piece of filmmaking. Based on Nikolai Gogol's short story of the same name, it follows a seminary student who must spend three nights alone holding vigil for a recently deceased witch. Though he protects himself by creating a Holy Ring of Chalk that the witch cannot enter, each night her attempts become more ferocious. Finally, on the third night, she summons the legions of Hell to aid her in her attack. This final assault is the highlight of the film: a kaleidoscope of ghouls, demons, and monsters converge on the Holy Ring of Chalk before the witch finally summons the eponymous Viy, a terrible monster capable of breaking the spell protecting the seminary student. This sequence is further evidence that within the context of horror, the most practical and rudimentary effects are the most effective. For these effects play on a sense of the uncanny, evoking images firmly rooted within the imaginations of our ancestors. Could they have imagined computer-generated monstrosities? Certainly not. It's a shame that the Soviet horror film industry didn't take off (at least to my knowledge). Viy is evidence that with a bit more focus and investment the Soviets could have established their own brand of horror cinema comparable to those found in Europe, America, and Japan.

8/10

Underground: Emir Kusturica

If I had to summarize my experience with Emir Kusturica's Underground, it would be this: I haven't felt as emotionally exhausted and physically drained after watching a movie since Francis Ford Coppola's Apocalypse Now (1979). How good is Underground? It may very well be the best film of the 90s. It combines the mesmerizing, terrifying intensity of Werner Herzog with the frenetic energy and spontaneity of Federico Fellini. It is a creation that can only exist in the realm of cinema, borne from more than just a plot, but by the interplay and exchange of frenzied images and music. Examining a nearly 50-year swath of Yugoslav history from the start of World War II until the terrible Yugoslav Wars of the 1990s, Underground follows the evolution of an entire people through the characters of two friends, Petar "Blacky" Popara and Marko Dren. As violence engulfs their home throughout the decades, they become thieves, revolutionaries, freedom fighters, national heroes, film stars, and war profiteers. Hardly a moment goes by without some element of genius unfolding before our eyes on the screen: the Nazi invasion of Belgrade as seen through the eyes of a terrified zookeeper, a bride-kidnapping involving a theatrical performance and the on-stage assassination of her Nazi lover, the incarceration of dozens of hapless workers in an underground warehouse forced to make weapons for decades after the end of World War II under the pretense that the war was still going on, the grandiose historical "reconstruction" of one of Blacky and Marko's "greatest battles" for a state-sponsored film, and many, many more moments of sheer wizardry. Underground is a challenge and an inspiration for future generations of filmmakers.

10/10

Journey to Italy: Roberto Rossellini

Roberto Rossellini's Journey to Italy helped change the direction of Italian cinema in the 1950s by disregarding the tenets of neorealism (a genre which Rossellini himself helped create) in favor of a new breed of melodrama that would eventually inspire filmmakers like Michelangelo Antonioni. While I am generally not a fan of such consciously self-reflexive cinema, Journey to Italy, a film charting the deterioration and restoration of a strained marriage between two English tourists in Italy, Alex and Katherine Joyce (George Sanders and Ingrid Bergman), remains a bold artistic statement. While Katherine seeks inspiration and solace in the environs of Naples and Pompeii, Alex goes searching for it in a not-quite-love-affair with another woman. But just when their relationship seems like it will permanently implode, a miracle happens on the streets of Naples. Much has been written about Journey to Italy's influence on modern cinema by thinkers and scholars much more intelligent and adept than myself. All I can provide is my personal experience with the film. And in watching Journey to Italy, I found it to be warm and emotional, wise and honest.

7/10

The Girl Can't Help It: Frank Tashlin

Frank Tashlin made movies to nurture the soul. Funny, colorful, and overflowing with fantastic music, Tashlin's films are cinematic gemstones to be treasured and loved. His film The Girl Can't Help It may be his most important. Originally designed as a vehicle for blonde bombshell Jayne Mansfield, the film also doubles as a revue of some of the most important and influential rock 'n' roll musicians of the 1950's. It's musical numbers featuring superstars like Little Richard, Little Richard, Gene Vincent and His Bluecaps, The Platters, and Fats Domino are the stuff of legend. Reportedly, the film was a direct influence on the formation of the Beatles:

"On July 6, 1957, 15-year-old Paul McCartney was introduced to [John] Lennon after the latter had performed...with his skiffle group The Quarrymen. McCartney demonstrated his musical prowess to Lennon by performing "Twenty Flight Rock" in a similar manner to the way he had seen it played by Eddie Cochran in The Girl Can't Help It. This led to Lennon inviting McCartney to join the group."

But even without the music, The Girl Can't Help It is a wonderful comedy that dismantles the traditional "a star is born" narrative. It follows an alcoholic press agent named Tom Miller who is forced by a mobster named "Fats" Murdock to make his girlfriend, Jerri Jordan (Mansfield), a star. Unfortunately, Jerri has no desire to be a star. Even worse, she can't sing a note. The character of Jerri Jordan is a fascinating one: she has the looks of a Hollywood beauty, but she would rather be a home-maker. Now, the modern-day knee-jerk response to this would be that Jerri is some masculine fantasy about the perfect women, i.e. beautiful and subservient. But Jerri fiercely pursues her own agency both as a character and as a woman. One of the best scenes is near the end when Murdock comes close to beating her for suspecting that she and Miller are having an affair. She stands up and boldly declares that he will never push her around again. And from then on she practically abandons her career. So is Jerri Jordan a feminist character? Maybe not. But she certainly has more depth than many of her blonde-haired contemporaries.

8/10

The Decline of the American Empire: Denys Arcand

Denys Arcand's The Decline of the American Empire is a film that I dreaded watching for years. I tried once before well over a year ago, but I could only make it about ten minutes in before I stopped the film in disgust due to the narcissistic characters and almost colonialistic racism. But I finally decided to give the film another chance. And, lo and behold, the characters were still narcissistic and the entire production smelled of smug racial superiority (how else am I supposed to interpret an early line where one man says that he loves "Orientals" because he feels like whenever he pays one for sex they immediately use the money to feed their family?). The film follows eight intellectuals from the Department of History at the Université de Montréal as they prepare for a lavish dinner. Arcand cleverly subverts gender expectations by having the men occupy their time cooking and the women their time working out at a gym and exercising. The film charts their various discussions about relationships, society, and above all, sex. When the eight friends finally do meet for dinner, a series of revelations concerning illicit affairs throws the get-together into turmoil. Despite my problems with the film, it does have its merits. The dialogue, as offensive as I might find it, is superbly written. Instead of collapsing under the sheer weight of said dialogue, the cast rises to the occasion and delivers magnificent performances all around. But here's my central problem with the film: it celebrates misogynistic behavior. All of the friends have extravagant sex lives. In this regard, the women almost match the men with their colorful histories. But the men frame their sexual escapades as a means by which they can trick, deceive, manipulate, and control their women. They discuss the best ways to lie to their significant others about affairs, how having sex with their wives is better after they've cheated, and so on and so forth. And then there's the plethora of racist statements and anecdotes. So what am I trying to say? The Decline of the American Empire is a fine film on a technical level. But it's repulsive from a progressive standpoint.

6/10

ParaNorman: Sam Fell, Chris Butler

Sam Fell and Chris Butler's ParaNorman is a gift, plain and simple. An ode to Italian horror films and zombie movies, ParaNorman is the rare film that manages to use genre tropes as a springboard not just for the subversion of audience expectations, but to tell a thought-provoking story that presents a tired moral in a new, compelling light. Here is a children's film with blood and venom in its veins that looks upon life with both thinly veiled cynicism and incessant hope. The film follows a young boy named Norman Babcock who lives in Blithe Hollow, Massachusetts. He has a not-so-secret gift: he can see and communicate with ghosts. Of course, he is brutally ostracized by his peers and his parents for his apparently outlandish behavior. But when he is tasked with performing a yearly ritual to calm the spirit of a terrible witch executed hundreds of years ago, he accidentally unleashes a terrible curse and a horde of the living dead upon the town. To recount what happens next is to rob prospective audiences of the film's genius. Suffice it to say that the film is emotionally exhausting, insidiously clever, and above all, brutally, brutally honest. Studio Laika's stop-motion animation has never been better. In fact, ParaNorman might represent the technique's current pinnacle. I constantly forgot that I was watching a film animated by sculptors and not by computer programmers. ParaNorman is the kind of film that I wish I could have grown up with. It has some very rough ideas and concepts for a children's film...and it is all the better for it. Children need films that will challenge them. And in that regard, ParaNorman is almost unparalleled.

9/10