It's hard not to temper my liking for the film with disdain for its vast middlebrow following; not because I don't think it's "queer" enough or some such bullshit, or really for no reasons having anything to do with the actual film. The film's overwhelming praise from all quarters - those with no taste and otherwise - is somewhat of a warning sign for someone used to being in the cultural minority. Nonetheless: this is supremely well-assembled stuff (even though I've been to Alberta, and found the Calgary mountains supremely distracting from the ostensible Montana setting), anchored by great performances (particularly, as damn near everyone's noted, Heath Ledger, restoring old-fashioned crackling masculinity to the screen), great production design, taste, and a real sense of time and place. The film can't really sustain all 135 minutes, but it's surprisingly engaging for most of them (I mostly got off on the art direction, but that's just me). If it wins Best Picture, as widely predicted, it will be the first really good movie to do so in a long time - since American Beauty in '99, or even further back if you disdain that film - and the first that could plausibly crack my top 10 in a while, though sheer contrarianism precludes even the possibility. (I also didn't find it emotionally affecting, which is another problem.)

IMDB's trivia page says Adler claims to have been influenced by Altman, which wouldn't surprise me at all; the film's approach to location shooting certainly seems better planned than most ramshackle stoner comedies. There's also a fascinating bonus towards the end, as very real late 70s punk bands take to the stage of the real Roxy (co-owned by Adler), a near-documentary interjection. The rare mainstream cross-over film which takes minorities as its cultural background. The film mostly plays to my fetishes: lots of driving/freeway footage, lots of gritty location shooting, and unruffled (if dumb) amiability. And no, I was straight when I saw this.

Am I the only person who sees the brilliance of Forman's work in the biopic genre? Here - as in The People Vs. Larry Flynt  - there's a startling lack of context. The film skips around chronologically and expects viewers to simply pick up that, e.g., Andy Kaufman was huge on Transcendental Meditation even before he reached fame (even though it's not established as part of his life until he hits it big - no scene where he first hears about it, no introduction, nothing). The most common complaint about the film seems to be that it doesn't attempt any kind of insight on Kaufman's interior life - which certainly seems preferable to the rote psychologizing of the Ray/Walk The Line crowd - and merely strings together his most famous showpieces, but the way the film juggles together his work, and makes it seem less weird and hostile than it actually was, is an achievement in itself (though one Kaufman's hardcore fans may deplore). Forman uses the actual real people involved whenever possible, which helps (and also, as you regard their aged faces, distances - in the same way that purposeful dialogue anachronisms acted as distancing in Amadeus). Also, Carrey's performance is way more than a stunt - it remains his best dramatic work.

2nd viewing, still one of the best of the year. I'm mildly troubled by my own reaction, which in large part consists of grooving on the awesome '80s and '90s production design and Araki's obvious fondness for the era, and not being as troubled by the pedophilia, rape et al. as others. Of course I find it saddening and moving, but strictly in terms of how it works dramatically; apparently I'm not as appalled by their mere occurrence as your average viewer (as my viewing companions made abundantly clear), and I wonder if I should be. Certainly Araki can probably live with the fact that I wasn't shocked by it all; it seems like a kind of all-too-ordinary tragedy, given extraordinary clarity by Araki's inexplicably matured vision.

Plotless, though since classic TV sketch-comedy like "Monty Python" adopts the same method, that's not really too disorienting. As outlandish an example as any of unadulterated 60s insanity (maybe even more so than Blow-Up at times), in ways both good (the experiments with saturating the negative in different colors) and bad (it's wearying to watch this much ridiculousness in 86 solid minutes), though the satirical edge peeking out behind the would-be teachings of a steam-room maharishi places it just ever-so-slightly ahead of its time; the pomo wariness of genuine feelings or sentiments places it beyond its generation. The good bits (destroying the Coke machine, any of the Western spoof moments, Peter Tosh worrying over whether punching someone will damage his image) are only enhanced by the obvious technical care; the opening shot is a marvel of choreographing around an extended zoom-out/back-and-forth pan. It's not quite The Passenger's final shot, but it's still pretty impressive. The bad bits are equally of their time, most notably the callous use of Vietnam carnage/execution footage, inserted alongside the other stuff, presumably to make an anti-war statement, but obviously one that wasn't thought out at any level and just comes off as unthinking and exploitative. 2 Really Good Songs: "Circle Sky" and "The Porpoise Song."

How this fell through the cracks in America I don't know; certainly easy to categorize/dismiss as Tarantino's 90s Influence, Part LVII if you're not paying attention (i.e., another film about a mild-mannered type getting involved with over-the-top, self-consciously outrageous violent setpieces, all doused in the most hardened form of black comedy), but it's far more. Shot with nervous, near-Dogme handheld cameras and generally dispensing with non-diagetic music, Olsen's film minimizes its action sequences to a few spectacular (if incoherent) minutes and spends the rest of the time hanging out with its mostly likable characters, including Kim Bodnia's psychopathic brother. The film's absolute lack of morality is unexpectedly addressed in a finale almost as WTF-inducing as Miike's Dead Or Alive, lifting this one final step above and beyond Guy Ritchie.

[Written for hybridmagazine.com, posted here in advance of its February Austin opening. Just in case you were wondering why I summarized so much, or felt the need to explain who everyone was.]

I didn't care much for Esther Kahn, which I found mesmerizingly opaque at best, but this is something different altogether, an outsized entertainment that's maybe even giddier, in spots, than King Kong. In one of my most dunderheaded mistakes as a viewer, I never caught on to the idea of contrasting Tragedy (Devos) with Comedy (Amalric), simply because I didn't find Devos' part as mesmerizing as Amalric's - at least until the 3/4-way through monologue that changes everything, bringing out many of my reservations about her character I'd been afraid of voicing. Amalric's epilogue monologue is a stunner too. A film I entered tensed-up and wary of, and whose charms I succumbed to in under an hour; I'm filled with much more enthusiasm about plowing through Desplechin's back catalogue now.

Unbelievably stiff at the start (especially the downright-comical overstatement of the flashback of the Significant Words of the dying spy, just minutes after she said them the first time), but picking up speed as Donat goes on the run. The most thrilling moment, of course, is the missing finger, but the fact that the movie actually only gets better from there is kind of amazing. One of Hitch's best climaxes too; only seconds before it happened, I was sure that the movie needed at least another 20 minutes to resolve itself. The melancholy character of Mr. Memory - killed for doing his job too well - gets more sympathy from Hitchcock than most of his characters. Still, despite the considerable achievements of this and The Lady Vanishes, I'm inclined to think they're overrated in Hitchcock's pantheon - they're not in the same league as Notorious, and not really that much better than, say, the underrated Stage Fright.

The stiff grace of the British cast powers the film through its slow start (I'm particularly fond of the two cricket-mad men; the sugar cube demonstration is a great moment). The Gilliat-Launder script must be one of the most faultless Hitch ever worked with, both structurally and for sheer quotability; it would probably work even in lesser hands. Also a reminder of the sophisticated tradition of intercontinental travel that used to be for everyone and now appears to work only for summering students and journalists.

One of those Passage Of Time narratives I'm such a sucker for, a portrait of an isolated Spanish village with a small, elderly population just waiting to die. If only Alvarez had resisted the urge to showcase her subjects saying these things explicitly: "After this, there's nothing else," old men note, and so it goes on and on and on. Subtext should stay that way please. As it is, it's still fairly lovely, a languid look at a town which doesn't let Alvarez's obvious affection blunt its intellectual edge; it's decidedly unsentimental about the introduction of displaced Moroccan immigrants to the area, or the building of large windmills on a previously deserted vista. The images are still sticking in my head, while the voices are fading, thank Jesus.

Although I'm just starting to wrap my head around the fact that the Japanese made some of the weirdest, most inexplicably structured movies in the world during the 60s, there is still no fucking way this movie can justify its 150-minute length. The bus-hitting-woman scene is pretty spectacular; otherwise, I found it fairly engaging but massively unpleasant.

More undistinguished technical ramping-up for the main event, with a touch more pathos and dreaminess this time.

The first Pixar CGI exercise, a primitive 2-minute gag; the credits thanking various universities for the use of their computers tells you pretty much everything about the doubtless staggering hours of work required to accomplish even this much in 1984.

I saw a press screening before it was announced that Malick was still tinkering with the film, to the tune of about 15-20 minutes' worth of changes, so I guess it wasn't just me thinking that the pacing lagged in the latter half a bit; then again, who ever knows what Malick's actually thinking? The film's greatest achievement is in its visuals, a triumph of location shooting and production design (how the hell does he get this kind of budget?) which really makes the 1607 arrival of the British in America really seem like a new, fresh world; it's hypnotic, rapturous stuff. It gets increasingly tedious at some point or other, but the last 5 minutes seem near-transcendent, scored to the swells of Wagner as the emotional dynamics of the various relationships suddenly play out and bloom in voice-over (sort of like those final devastating title cards in Blissfully Yours); I suppose I should see it again to see if they just come out of nowhere or are actually built in to what precedes, though this will definitely not happen for a while. It should also be noted that 15-year old Q'Orianka Kilcher, who plays Pocahontas, is not only a bewitching presence, but disconcertingly hot.

Something I would never have watched on my own, this being a politically-oriented compilation/talking heads documentary and all, but it's actually quite good for what it is, covering an enormous amount of ground in two hours. Kitchell's sharp eye for archival gold (there's one moment with a punchline Garry Trudeau would've been proud to call his own: a Berkeley spokesman comes out to announce that "Protests have disrupted the academic life of this campus," only to be interrupted by overwhelming applause and cheers) overcomes his tendency to do things like cue Hendrix's "Manic Depression" as an indicator that the 60s were, like, crazy man. And it's not like the changing world of idealism and activism in the 60s isn't a compelling story, and the film reaches a commendably mature, mixed verdict: that 2 or 3 years of genuine (if poorly conceived) crusading for significant social change spiraled into solipsistic, youthful brattiness and disengagement with political/social reality, with no one noticing the change at the time.

I guess it should be noted that I was massively stoned when I saw this, and as such am not the most reliable guide to its virtues. In any case, I'm guessing I would be mildly charmed by it anyway for its mostly unsentimental portrait of a man with one overriding obsession; the film honors his quest by not bogging him down with any subplots. (Anthony Hopkins' performance would be awesome no matter what your frame of mind, the loosest and most engaging work he's done in years.) But this turned out, unexpectedly, to be perfect stoned viewing: it's a film with the genial vibes of Linklater or Crowe, almost entirely devoid of conflict or crippling obstacles and devoted instead to pleasant interpersonal encounters and achieving goals.

While the film has its longueurs, it more than makes up for it with riveting sequences like the opening, supremely disorienting trek through the desert and the man's attempt at escape, an unexpected action sequence in the middle of a film that's otherwise about entrapment and stasis. The best cinematic use of sand ever? This and Lawrence Of Arabia, I'd imagine. Existential overtones are quite clear and readable, but the fact that the film somehow works as a straight drama as well (instead of purely as symbolist fare) is quite a feat.

An exceedingly slight film, anchored pretty much solely by Pierce Brosnan's immensely amusing, image-shattering role, and his genuine odd-couple chemistry with Greg Kinnear. Otherwise, there's not much else here.

Seen, against my will, in a class, though I'll confess that it makes a fairly impeccable argument and is presented in a non-alienating style that even non-hardcore activists can stick with, in part because Helfand throws in skeptics (mostly her parents) that us reluctant types in the audience can identify with as when, e.g., a teetotaler environmentalist shows up at her parents' house and asks to camp out in their backyard (literally) while helping to decide how to re-side the house. I do, however, exceedingly dislike the fact that Helfand relies on pathos as an argumentative appeal as much as anything else, especially with her freakin' parents for crying out loud; any resistance is bound to be met with a response that starts with a reminder that she once suffered through cervical cancer as a result of corporate malfeasance, and so please listen. You can just see her mom wince a little every time; is that really necessary? Also sorry, but I'm never embracing the liberal activist lifestyle.

Christo's most troubled project (actually my favorite conceptually, at least until people started dying) is also one of the least engaging films; Christo's films are at their best in following the process of applying for permits, all of which is elided here (understandable, considering the huge amount of ground that needs to be covered, but still). But what an awesome project; too bad it didn't work out.

Christo vs. ranchers. He stares at their cowboy hats and cows and acts exactly like their predictably odd Eastern European foil. Brevity is the soul of Christo, so this runs a little long, but whatever.

A confusing film, partly because it was a Friday night and I was itching to get my party on, and partly for reasons that aren't Mizoguchi's fault: long thought a lost film (or at least an incomplete one, with the ending gone), the 35mm reconstruction of this (from three different 16mm prints) is as good as it's gonna get (complete with the rediscovered ending), but it's still got blurry images and a lot of missing frames, which does not help this hyperactive film, which changes tones from comedy to drama at the slightest provocation and uses an entire arsenal of tracking shots and other visuals to move faster. In addition to a plot that's pretty much impossible to follow without benshi narrative, none of which was provided here. So a hard film to get a handle on: Mizoguchi's tracking shots are to die for, obviously, as is his ability to keep the silent actors at near-naturalistic levels, but I'm not entirely sure what I saw either.

2nd viewing; it still seems maddeningly poky, although I get it this time round that that's a way of underscoring Leth's remoteness and opacity (from von Trier's perspective), but it's still less-than-fascinating viewing. Ending's a bit of a tear-jerker, being as it's one of the few times the ultra-judgmental von Trier has ever admitted that he might be wrong.

The kind of film which makes you all excited about the medium, simply by combining so many great, revelatory images back-to-back. Not a stellar documentary formally, and certainly not for those who don't care about the subject.

A retarded film, but surely a Film Of The 90s, not just because it's for stupid goth kids (who, thankfully, seem to be taking off their make-up and getting real jobs these days), but in its oddly touchy-feely qualities. In-between misquoting Poe and exacting vengeance. Brandon Lee convinces a mom to stop doing methadone and restore some Family Time and Togetherness to her home, gets Ernie Hudson to stop smoking, and kills the main bad guy by having him literally Feel His Pain. Not to mention that the bad guy's apparent motivation for evicting tenants is to get the buildings empty for burning and possible gentrification (although the movie's setting is an obvious hangover from the peak of Detroit's "Devil's Night" oriented hellishness). Subtextual crap aside, this movie's stupid, even if it has the wit to play The Cure when Lee first applies his make-up.

I'm not sure about the whole 8 minutes, but thanks to the stroboscopic effect of cutting back and forth between two separate shots 1 frame at a time, there's an amazing effect that happens at least twice: persistence of vision makes it appear like the camera is simultaneously traveling to the left and to the right forward in space, which is fairly mind-expanding, to say the least.

Repetition repetition repetition. Whatever.

Landow's first accessible short in this set for the non-initiated, mostly because there's something fairly irresistible about a tenor singing inexplicably in a grocery store. The rest is just inexplicable.

The rhythm created between the two sides of the screen is...mildly compelling. The opening fuzzy vintage footage made me think it would be Rose Hobart II for a second.

Uh. I'm guessing the fact that footage is repeated over and over, only edited to shorter and shorter chunks, is what the title means: clarity and refinement through repeated processing. I'm still not that interested though.

A family-oriented noir; weird. Not quite sure what to make of this, other than that a second viewing seems necessary. Sautet spends the opening twenty minutes basically showing a lot of transportation (train, car chase, boat), which is definitely cool but not what I was expecting, and then our hero spends the rest of the time trying to keep his kids safe and happy. This ain't the homosocial world of Melville by a long shot, nor is it in the same league as other recent Rialto re-discoveries like Touchez Pas Au Grisbi.

A mess of a movie: Anand Tucker's return to the screen is an unwelcome one, as he ramps up the budget with CGI trickery like showing Steven Martin staring out a window and then zooming back from the sky into Clare Danes' window. The movie would be both better and less expensive without this crap. Nor can I say much good about the endlessly repetitive shots of Martin staring out an airport window, a glass door, etc. (it's always nighttime and raining too) as Barington Pheloung's plaintive strings drone on and on and on. (Speaking of musical cues: there's a hilarious moment when Clare Danes accidentally cranks her stereo up with what sounds like death metal. That's an odd blip for someone who would seem to be a musical hipster or some such.) This movie is worth seeing for two reasons. 1) Despite the creepiness of his scenario, Martin gives an intriguingly unlikeable performance, and he isn't afraid of unflattering lighting which brings out his age and jowls. 2) JASON FUCKING SCHWARTZMAN, my celebrity doppelganger and one of the most inspired comic presences available. Watching him fishing around for a condom and coming up with a mint instead (and then eating it!) is gold.

It breaks down to a totally entertaining first hour of black comedy, and a second half of intermittently engaging but more "serious" work. Like most Hollywood films, Jarhead doesn't know how to get serious without getting stiff and sanctimonious; I utterly resist the image of Jake Gyllenhall confronting burning corpses and The Horror Of War. But I'll cheerfully take the first half (minus the leaden snark of using "Don't Worry Be Happy" over scenes of hazing and violence - an idea so heavy-handed it's almost the ironic deployment of irony) and Gyllenhall's successfully expanding his range to seem plausibly vaguely threatening, rather than just brooding and emo. The footage of the oilfields on fire is OK, but underwhelming after Lessons Of Darkness.

Schematic Kids-And-Adults-Learn-From-Each-Other narrative disguised as complexity mostly because of a downbeat ending; still, it makes some good decisions, like making the kids thoroughly unlikeable most of the way. And then there's the beach idyll, which is genuinely lovely (the warmest interlude this side of Miyazaki), but then it's back to downbeat times and Amelio screaming in your ear "SEE IT IS NOT INDIVIDUAL PEOPLE WHO ARE BAD IT IS THE SYSTEM WE NEED TO HUMANIZE AND HAVE INDIVIDUAL UNDERSTANDING." Thanks bud. Eurotrash techno was evidently the soundtrack of Italy, Summer 1991; cool.

Another master-class in formal control from Chabrol. Subtext weirdness: so what's up with the anti-colonialism and general confusion over national identity constantly displayed? Is colonialism and/or internationalism just another swindle? I'm confused. I'd rather watch minor Chabrols more than most other things.

Less confounding than My Mother's Smile (maybe that just seemed so bizarre because I'm neither Italian nor Catholic, though that still seems improbable). A slow-burn exercise in style and lighting which is either more or less impressive than I think it is.

Second viewing, first in about 3 years, and first on the big screen; what once seemed impenetrable but scary as fuck now isn't nearly as scary (though some bits, like our hero deciding the ghost isn't real - "If I run to you, you'll disappear" - only to discover that he's very real indeed, are still SAF), and also utterly obvious. (I mean, those floating dots; "if they connect, they destroy each other." Please.) But this is simply gorgeous filmmaking; Kurosawa has a great sense of rhythm (that is, when he's not busily destroying it, as in e.g. Bright Future) and these images are largely indelible. Best Cinematic Apocalypse Ever.

My 2nd Suzuki, after Pistol Opera, which is all-round a more fluid and cohesive film; even when the viewer isn't privileged enough to understand what's going on, it's clear Suzuki has some kind of lay-out. I'm not as convinced here; it seems like provocation for its own sake (a temptation I totally understand as a film student in the midst of Robert McKee-land). It destroys editorial rhythm and mise-en-scene along with its story, without building anything new in its stead. Still, it's always engagingly perverse, and that final senseless Western Saloon fight is awesomely entertaining. But it's a setpiece that would be equally fun on its own; Tarantino's movies are units.