Hello all. So, the 82nd Academy Awards are less than a month away. This means that I'm probably thinking about Oscar more often than not. In an attempt to spread my love of these dubious awards of quality, as well as provide a crash-course in film history, I'll be spending the next month doing something of an Oscar Retrospective. Today, for your viewing pleasure, I'll be profiling the ten best and five worst picture winners (in my opinion, of course). Following, because I can, is a list of the Best Picture winners to refresh your memory. In bold are the films that I've seen.
(And I know you didn't ask, but this list is from memory. Because I'm that good.)
Slumdog Millionaire
No Country For Old Men
The Departed
Crash
Million Dollar Baby
The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King
Chicago
A Beautiful Mind
Gladiator
American Beauty
Shakespeare in Love
Titanic
The English Patient
Braveheart
Forrest Gump
Schindler's List
Unforgiven
The Silence of the Lambs
Dances With Wolves
Driving Miss Daisy
Rain Man
The Last Emperor
Platoon
Out of Africa
Amadeus
Terms of Endearment
Gandhi
Chariots of Fire
Ordinary People
Kramer Vs. Kramer
The Deer Hunter
Annie Hall
Rocky
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
The Godfather Part 2
The Sting
The Godfather
The French Connection
Patton
Midnight Cowboy
Oliver!
In the Heat of the Night
A Man For All Seasons
The Sound of Music
My Fair Lady
Tom Jones
Lawrence of Arabia
West Side Story
The Apartment
Ben-hur
Gigi
The Bridge on the River Kwai
Marty
On the Waterfront
From Here to Eternity
The Greatest Show on Earth
An American in Paris
All About Eve
All the King's Men
Hamlet
Gentlemen's Agreement
The Best Years of Our Lives
The Lost Weekend
Going My Way
Casablanca
Mrs. Miniver
How Green Was My Valley
Rebecca
Gone With the Wind
You Can't Take it With You
The Life of Emile Zola
The Great Zeigfeld
Mutiny on the Bounty
It Happened One Night
Cavalcade
Grand Hotel
Cimmaron
All Quiet on the Western Front
The Broadway Melody
Wings
As you've surely deciphered by now, these lists will be highly subjective, as I've only seen about half of these. They will also obviously skew toward more modern fare, as the half I've seen errs toward the present (my viewing is particularly shabby in the 40s, which begins with All the King's Men and ends with Rebecca; I've only seen one). Also bear in mind that this is more my list of favorites than anything else: I'm not going with the boldest decisions, or the most atypical; I'm going with the ones I like the best. We can debate greatness another time.
The Best
10. Titanic (1997. Other nominees: As Good as it Gets, The Full Monty, Good Will Hunting, LA Confidential)
I'll start with the most controversial choice right now so we can get it out of our hair. No, Titanic is not a great film. No, James Cameron is not an inspired auteur. What Titanic accomplishes, however, is pure cinema. Cameron lays his hand on the same lightning rod that Selznick, Cooper, and Fields all found to create old-fashioned, decidedly epic film. This is the one bone that escapism gets on my list: Titanic isn't concerned with being overly thought-provoking, or introducing new ideas. No, the film is slavishly devoted to delivering an experience, and it doesn't fail on those terms.
9. Shakespeare in Love (1998. Other Nominees: Elizabeth, Life is Beautiful, Saving Private Ryan, The Thin Red Line)
It might not be the best of the nominees, and it sure as hell caught crap for defeating Steven Spielberg's WW2 epic, but something about this little romance grips me in a way, I suspect, it gripped Academy voters. John Madden's only film of interest, Shakespeare in Love is a pitch-perfect combo of humor, intrigue, and emotional honesty. The film's effect is no doubt increased through the charismatic turns of Gwyneth Platrow, Joseph Fiennes, Judi Dench, and Geoffrey Rush, and the score remains one of the most by-turns whimsical and melancholy pieces of music written for film in recent years. Shakespeare in Love may feel like a light-weight, but it's got one hell of a punch.
8. No Country For Old Men (2007. Other nominees: Atonement, Juno, Michael Clayton, There Will Be Blood)
I'm honestly still confused about how this film walked away with the big prize. Sure, it was unanimously acclaimed, and is a staggering piece of work, but it's so...dark. Nihilistic. Graphic. The Academy normally loves something safe, warm, and mildly inspiring. No Country For Old Men is none of these things. I'm glad the Academy decided to head way out on a limb and reward a film outside their comfort zone. No Country For Old Men is easily one of the best films of the new millennium. As this is a favorite, not greatest, list, however, it's relegated to the 8th spot.
7. The Departed (2006. Other nominees: Babel, Letters from Iwo Jima, Little Miss Sunshine, The Queen)
Here's another atypical work. I can understand how The Departed won, however: though gritty and profane, it plays safely within an Oscar-loved genre (the gangster picture), and was helmed by modern directing legend Martin Scorcese. To try and understand the politics, however, is to undersell Scorcese's best film since GoodFellas. The Departed is vibrant, tense, and altogether thrilling, anchored by stellar performances from its youthful leads: Leonardo Dicaprio, Matt Damon, and Vera Farmiga. Add an outstanding ensemble (Jack Nicholson, Ray Winstone, Martin Sheen, Mark Wahlberg, so on and so forth), and the editing genius of Thelma Schoonmaker, and you have a completely unique, fantastic film.
6. It Happened One Night (1934. Other nominees: Cleopatra, Flirtation Walk, Here Comes the Navy, Imitation of Life, One Night of Love, The Barretts of Wimpole Street, The Gay Divorcee, The House of Rothchild, The Thin Man, The White Parade, Viva Villa)
Admittedly, I've hardly even heard of any of the other nominees, much less seen them, so I can't intelligently comment on the worthiness of It Happened One Night as compared to its fellow nominees. What I can do is attempt to share the 100 CCs of joy that were injected straight into my veins whilst watching this film. The original cliche, It Happened One Night is arguably the first romantic comedy. It is also, arguably, the best. Claudette Colbert and Clark Gable practically invented the concept of screen chemistry while filming, and the script, despite being 76 years old, never fails to feel timelessly modern.
5. The Godfather (1972. Other nominees: Cabaret, Deliverance, Sounder, Utvandrarna)
If we were listing the greatest Picture winners, The Godfather would be even higher on the list. Francis Ford Coppola's signature piece is still the crowning achievement of cinema in the 70s; the world of Don Corleone is incredibly complicated, vividly realized, and endlessly engrossing. Containing one of the most indelible screen performances (Marlon Brando, of course), some of the most shocking screen violence seen in its time, and one of the most memorable endings in film history, The Godfather is richly deserving of all the accolades it receives.
4. Amadeus (1984. Other nominees: The Killing Fields, A Passage to India, Places in the Heart, A Soldier's Story)
I might be a little biased here. I love Mozart. Needless to say, a film concerned entirely with the life and death of the famous composer is bound to play my heartstrings (pun intended) quite a bit. That doesn't change the fact that the film is amazing. Milos Forman breathes joyous life into the dull, dusty public image of Mozart, warping him into a foppish, ridiculous young man for whom genius isn't a burden so much as an amusing inconvenience. F. Murray Abraham, as his rival Salieri, provides the perfect ballast to Mozart's raucous vivacity: Salieri acts as if every moment is an exercise in tragic dignity. The performances, as well as the film itself, pulse with an unrestrained joy of a kind seldom seen in theaters.
3. The Silence of the Lambs (1991. Other nominees: Beauty and the Beast, Bugsy, JFK, The Prince of Tides)
The Silence of the Lambs is not the Academy's cup of tea: it remains the only horror film to win the big award (indeed, one of only two nominees for the genre). The Academy found the film impossible to ignore, however, and with good reason. Containing what might be the most electric leading couple to grace the silver screen (Jodie Foster and Anthony Hopkins), as well as one of the most intelligent, surgically horrific screenplay in recent memory, Lambs proves a difficult film to shake. After rewarding this film, the Academy, in its infinite wisdom, would spend most of the 90s rewarding large, inspirational, contrived films.
2. All Quiet on the Western Front (1930. Other nominees: The Big House, Disraeli, The Divorcee, The Love Parade)
Needless to say, I haven't seen any of the other nominees. Doesn't matter. All Quiet on the Western Front is, arguably, the only true anti-war film ever made (at least to play within the war genre), and, as such, is also, arguably, the greatest war film ever made. The movie juxtaposes lengthy sections of waiting, wondering, and worrying with spans of almost sadistic battle scenes. All Quiet...allows us to become attached to a classroom full of impressionable young men, then forces us to watch as it horrifically maims and murders them. This film is one of the most pessimistic and cynical of any I've seen: completely fitting, given its subject matter.
1. American Beauty (1999. Other nominees: The Cider House Rules, The Green Mile, The Insider, The Sixth Sense)
I debated for a while about whether or not my longtime favorite should cede this spot to All Quiet on the Western Front, but, in the end, I had to vote with my heart. And, as stated before, this is a list of favorites. I honestly don't know what else to write about this movie that I haven't written recently. Suffice to say it's got a lot of heart, and hits a lot of people, including me, in all the right places. Thank God the Oscar didn't go to The Cider House Rules.
Now, a tougher list. The five worst. No, let me rephrase that: these aren't the five worst films. They're the five that disappointed me the most. The five that let me down. The five that should have become close friends, but ended up stabbing me in the back. I highly doubt these would find themselves in a Five Worst list had I seen all the winners. See, I tend to avoid films that I hear are terrible, and, as such, have avoided the worst best picture winners.
5. Crash (2005. Other nominees: Brokeback Mountain, Capote, Good Night and Good Luck, Munich)
Crash is a skillful manipulator, but little more. I'll admit that there good acting lurks around the edges (particularly Matt Dillon, Michael Pena, and Don Cheadle), and the film contains some truly affecting moments. When viewed with an objective eye, however, Crash can't escape the creakiness of its own screenplay, which relies on contrived coincidence.
4. Braveheart (1995. Other nominees: Apollo 13, Babe, The Postman, Sense and Sensibility)
Braveheart is very big, and very pretty, and somewhat inspirational. It's also incredibly sophomoric, filled with toilet humor and homophobia, and is helmed by a painfully ham-handed director. Braveheart is enjoyable enough. But a good film? Please. Like I said: pretty, exciting, big. Also crude, intolerant, and stupid. And not inventive enough to be forgiven for any of its sins.
3. Terms of Endearment (1983. Other nominees: The Big Chill, The Dresser, The Right Stuff, Tender Mercies)
This movie plays like a daytime soap opera. We have star-crossed lovers, worrying mothers, terminal illness, cute kids, and every other Movie-of-the-Week cliche worth its salt. None of elements every congeal into anything compelling, however, despite the noble efforts of Debra Winger and Shirley Maclaine. Jack Nicholson does nothing to help, either: his normal 'Crazy Jack' schtick feels grotesquely out of place.
2. Forrest Gump (1994. Other nominees: Four Weddings and A Funeral, Pulp Fiction, Quiz Show, The Shawshank Redemption)
I know I'm going to catch some heat for this, as most if not all of my regular reader love this movie, but I'm going there anyway. Forrest Gump is the Academy at its most conservative. The film itself is safe, conservative, almost condescending. I know I'm a pretentious film dick, but I tend to prefer new, or original, or daring in some way. Forrest Gump is as safe as it gets. I'm not saying it's a terrible film. It's just the kind of movie I'll never enjoy.
1. A Beautiful Mind (2001. Other nominees: Gosford Park, In the Bedroom, The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, Moulin Rouge!)
I will say that this one is a terrible film, though. Director Ron Howard is the master of faux-inspirational, historical garbage, and this is the creative nadir of his not-so-illustrious career. The fact that this film won is downright offensive. A Beautiful Mind's success is the best proof that sometimes, the Academy just doesn't care about quality.
Well, there you have it. Sorry, long post. I know. I got carried away. If anyone's still reading, what do you think? Am I being too hard on some films, and too easy on others? Willing to show me how wrong I am about Forrest Gump? I'll never learn if someone doesn't try to teach me.
Showing posts with label american beauty. Show all posts
Showing posts with label american beauty. Show all posts
Monday, February 8, 2010
Sunday, December 6, 2009
American Beauty and Donnie Darko as companion pieces
The other day, I was speaking to a friend and fellow movie enthusiast. He told me that he thought American Beauty and Donnie Darko were perfect companion pieces, though he wasn't quite sure why. I asked him if he would let me take his idea and run with it, and here are the results.
(note: Big spoiler warning over the whole article. It's impossible to tackle this subject intelligently without writing about the endings.)
American Beauty and Donnie Darko are startlingly similar pieces, both superficially (as concerning location, subject, etc.) and thematically. One key difference, however, sets these films travelling in tangential directions and makes them such fascinating mirror images of each other. That one key element is the possibility of hope.
It's easy to begin to draw parallels between the two films. Both take place in the suburbs; American Beauty in a suburb of Chicago, Donnie Darko in a suburb of Virginia Beach. Both follow stereotypically normal and reasonably well-off families. Because of the similarity of the environments the films portray, they can't help but touch on the thematic bases inherent in any suburbia film: lack of meaningful connection, the shallow wastefulness of a capitalist-motivated culture, etc. Another similarity, however, is that neither film makes suburban disillusionment the main subject (for an example of films wholly concerned with suburban disillusionment, see the lesser achievements of The Chumscrubber and Ordinary People).
No, the driving element of both films is the main character: a man who begins the film in a form of mental death (be it complacency or overmedication), finds a catalyst for change, acts on it, and dies in a physical sense because of his commitment to following through on his actions. Admittedly, the catalyst in American Beauty is a little more realistic than Donnie Darko (strangely, there's less time travel in American Beauty), but less noble. Lester Burnham sees an attractive girl and rearranges his life as a way to attract the girl (though I think we can all agree that the film isn't so much about an older man courting a younger woman as it is about the attempts to regain lost youth and vitality). Donnie Darko, on the other hand, sees a six foot tall talking rabbit that tells him the world is going to end, and sets him on the path to stopping it.
Interesting tangent: Angela Hayes and Frank the Rabbit are quite similar in their characterizations, purpose, and effect on the film. Both pop up intermittently to remind the main character of his quest, and both set the hero on the path to death, but aren't directly responsible for the death itself. Angela only inspires Lester to change his life which leads to his association with Ricky Fitz, which leads to, of course, his murder. Frank broaches the subject of time travel with Donnie, but it's Roberta Sparrow's book that leads him to make the conclusions he does about his role in saving the world. Also, both Angela and Frank are responsible for killing the main character's hopes at new love; admittedly, Angela less literally so. She tells Lester she's a virgin, Frank runs over Donnie's girlfriend. Maybe not the same ballpark of a scenario, but thematically similar.
So, it's ultimately the catalyst for change that kills both Lester and Donnie. Here's where it gets interesting. Here's where the films diverge and become entirely different creatures. As Donnie Darko's Jim Cunningham might say, American Beauty and Donnie Darko are on different sides of the Lifeline: one is fear, and the other is love. Here's what I mean: only one film allows the possibility for hope.
Both Lester and Donnie experience moral, emotional, and/or theological awakenings of some kind. Lester's path is different, however, in that his awakening allows him to see the world with optimistic new eyes, to find beauty in everything around him. Donnie's awakening helps him to see the underlying evil and shallowness of the world around him. Lester's awakening leads him back to happiness and contentment, while Donnie's awakening leads him deeper down the rabbit hole of emotional despair.
Here's the kicker, though: consider how each character dies, and what their death accomplishes. By now the films are complete inverse images. When Lester dies, his death throws everyone else's lives into chaos: his wife, emotionally broken in the closet, his child, looking at her father's body, her plans of running away to New York with her boyfriend dashed, her boyfriend, his chance at a happy escape ruined, Mr. Fitz, adding more things in his life to submerge, hide, and feel guilty over, and so on and so forth. So, the world around him is thrown off its axis, but Lester is content, and the film ends on a tentatively hopeful note. Now consider Donnie Darko. In his death, Donnie restores the order of the world, saving his girlfriend from vehicular homicide, saving his teacher's job, saving Jim Cunningham's reputation, though not his soul, saving his mother from the unspeakable horror of accompanying Sparkle Motion to California, etc. So Donnie saves everyone with his sacrifice, but the movie is one hell of a downer. So, one character throws his universe into chaos for the sake of his own happiness and the film ends optimistically, and one character saves his universe from chaos at the sake of his own life, and the film ends on a depressing note.
What does this say about the two films thematically? Is American Beauty a predominantly selfish film? Does it opine that individual happiness is more important than the good of the collective, and that the chance for Lester to die with dignity, having regained his soul, is more important than the harmony of the lives around him? What is Donnie Darko saying? That the death of one person is still a tragedy, regardless of the good that comes of it? That a world of rights can't change one wrong? Consider both films: both use violence and death as a way to create change. Or, perhaps, violence and death occur because of the attempt to create change. Could the films be suggesting that any change to the world must be paid for in blood? That altering one's circumstances creates an alternate reality in which the sin of change must be atoned for with human sacrifice?
Honestly, I don't have the answers for any of these questions, but I'm going to try to address them anyway. If you've got different opinions, I'd love to hear them.
Yes, American Beauty is inherently selfish. But so is human nature, and creating a film that deals so intelligently and accurately with human nature without portraying selfishness is impossible. Every person, when attempting to break out of their routine, does so with less regard for the people around them than for the eventual consequences that their thrashing about will bring. And yes: Donnie Darko does think that one death is a tragedy, regardless of the good that comes of it. That's one of the underlying themes of the film: that any amount of good can't eradicate the presence of something bad. It can offset it, or alleviate its effect, but it can't get rid of it. And yes: both films regard change as something dangerous. Not negative, mind you, but dangerous. They warn that for every reaction, there is an equal and opposing reaction. Lester and Donnie find themselves on the shit end of their opposing reactions.
Here's where hope comes in, however. Why does American Beauty end on an optimistic note? Hope. Yes, Lester dies. Yes, everyone else's lives get irrevocably screwed up. But during the process, they find moments of beauty. They realize the world for the place it is ('big, beautiful, and ultimately too exhausting to live in'), and are happier for it. Lester's last monologue (so much beauty in the world, he's grateful for every minute of his life, and so forth) balances the tragedy of his death by unearthing ways to see hope and beauty in any circumstance. Indeed, American Beauty hardly realizes something tragic happens at the end of it: it's too distracted by all the beauty in the world.
Donnie Darko lacks this capacity for hope. The theme that I addressed in the last paragraph (no amount of rights can right a wrong) is too strong to be denied, and quickly subdues the idea of an optimistic ending. Donnie Darko sees no beauty in the world: the beauty it finds, however rare and fleeting, comes from legitimate human connection, which it strives to introduce into its characters' lives. It sees death as the end of any possibility for real connection, and thus, for Donnie, beauty and hope are rendered irrelevant. There's nothing poetic or acceptable about his death, even if he saved his loved ones in the process. He's still dead, and he won't be around to see the good things that his actions wrought.
So there it is: hope. One movie has it, the other doesn't. I love these two films as companion pieces because they essentially address the only two ways to approach life: with hope, or without it. You see beauty, or you don't. You're afraid of death, or you aren't. You allow the good in your live to overshadow the bad, or you allow the bad in your life to usurp the power of good. Man is born crying: when he has cried enough, does he begin to see the world, or does he just die? I'll let you answer these questions for yourself.
Alright. Your turn. My philosophical monologue isn't nearly as interesting as a dialogue would be. Pipe up!
(I have to credit Michael Cunningham's Flesh and Blood for the quote about the world being 'big, beautiful, and ultimately too exhausting to live in,' as well as Akira Kurosawa's Ran for telling me that 'man is born crying. When he has cried enough, he dies.')
(note: Big spoiler warning over the whole article. It's impossible to tackle this subject intelligently without writing about the endings.)
American Beauty and Donnie Darko are startlingly similar pieces, both superficially (as concerning location, subject, etc.) and thematically. One key difference, however, sets these films travelling in tangential directions and makes them such fascinating mirror images of each other. That one key element is the possibility of hope.
It's easy to begin to draw parallels between the two films. Both take place in the suburbs; American Beauty in a suburb of Chicago, Donnie Darko in a suburb of Virginia Beach. Both follow stereotypically normal and reasonably well-off families. Because of the similarity of the environments the films portray, they can't help but touch on the thematic bases inherent in any suburbia film: lack of meaningful connection, the shallow wastefulness of a capitalist-motivated culture, etc. Another similarity, however, is that neither film makes suburban disillusionment the main subject (for an example of films wholly concerned with suburban disillusionment, see the lesser achievements of The Chumscrubber and Ordinary People).
No, the driving element of both films is the main character: a man who begins the film in a form of mental death (be it complacency or overmedication), finds a catalyst for change, acts on it, and dies in a physical sense because of his commitment to following through on his actions. Admittedly, the catalyst in American Beauty is a little more realistic than Donnie Darko (strangely, there's less time travel in American Beauty), but less noble. Lester Burnham sees an attractive girl and rearranges his life as a way to attract the girl (though I think we can all agree that the film isn't so much about an older man courting a younger woman as it is about the attempts to regain lost youth and vitality). Donnie Darko, on the other hand, sees a six foot tall talking rabbit that tells him the world is going to end, and sets him on the path to stopping it.
Interesting tangent: Angela Hayes and Frank the Rabbit are quite similar in their characterizations, purpose, and effect on the film. Both pop up intermittently to remind the main character of his quest, and both set the hero on the path to death, but aren't directly responsible for the death itself. Angela only inspires Lester to change his life which leads to his association with Ricky Fitz, which leads to, of course, his murder. Frank broaches the subject of time travel with Donnie, but it's Roberta Sparrow's book that leads him to make the conclusions he does about his role in saving the world. Also, both Angela and Frank are responsible for killing the main character's hopes at new love; admittedly, Angela less literally so. She tells Lester she's a virgin, Frank runs over Donnie's girlfriend. Maybe not the same ballpark of a scenario, but thematically similar.
So, it's ultimately the catalyst for change that kills both Lester and Donnie. Here's where it gets interesting. Here's where the films diverge and become entirely different creatures. As Donnie Darko's Jim Cunningham might say, American Beauty and Donnie Darko are on different sides of the Lifeline: one is fear, and the other is love. Here's what I mean: only one film allows the possibility for hope.
Both Lester and Donnie experience moral, emotional, and/or theological awakenings of some kind. Lester's path is different, however, in that his awakening allows him to see the world with optimistic new eyes, to find beauty in everything around him. Donnie's awakening helps him to see the underlying evil and shallowness of the world around him. Lester's awakening leads him back to happiness and contentment, while Donnie's awakening leads him deeper down the rabbit hole of emotional despair.
Here's the kicker, though: consider how each character dies, and what their death accomplishes. By now the films are complete inverse images. When Lester dies, his death throws everyone else's lives into chaos: his wife, emotionally broken in the closet, his child, looking at her father's body, her plans of running away to New York with her boyfriend dashed, her boyfriend, his chance at a happy escape ruined, Mr. Fitz, adding more things in his life to submerge, hide, and feel guilty over, and so on and so forth. So, the world around him is thrown off its axis, but Lester is content, and the film ends on a tentatively hopeful note. Now consider Donnie Darko. In his death, Donnie restores the order of the world, saving his girlfriend from vehicular homicide, saving his teacher's job, saving Jim Cunningham's reputation, though not his soul, saving his mother from the unspeakable horror of accompanying Sparkle Motion to California, etc. So Donnie saves everyone with his sacrifice, but the movie is one hell of a downer. So, one character throws his universe into chaos for the sake of his own happiness and the film ends optimistically, and one character saves his universe from chaos at the sake of his own life, and the film ends on a depressing note.
What does this say about the two films thematically? Is American Beauty a predominantly selfish film? Does it opine that individual happiness is more important than the good of the collective, and that the chance for Lester to die with dignity, having regained his soul, is more important than the harmony of the lives around him? What is Donnie Darko saying? That the death of one person is still a tragedy, regardless of the good that comes of it? That a world of rights can't change one wrong? Consider both films: both use violence and death as a way to create change. Or, perhaps, violence and death occur because of the attempt to create change. Could the films be suggesting that any change to the world must be paid for in blood? That altering one's circumstances creates an alternate reality in which the sin of change must be atoned for with human sacrifice?
Honestly, I don't have the answers for any of these questions, but I'm going to try to address them anyway. If you've got different opinions, I'd love to hear them.
Yes, American Beauty is inherently selfish. But so is human nature, and creating a film that deals so intelligently and accurately with human nature without portraying selfishness is impossible. Every person, when attempting to break out of their routine, does so with less regard for the people around them than for the eventual consequences that their thrashing about will bring. And yes: Donnie Darko does think that one death is a tragedy, regardless of the good that comes of it. That's one of the underlying themes of the film: that any amount of good can't eradicate the presence of something bad. It can offset it, or alleviate its effect, but it can't get rid of it. And yes: both films regard change as something dangerous. Not negative, mind you, but dangerous. They warn that for every reaction, there is an equal and opposing reaction. Lester and Donnie find themselves on the shit end of their opposing reactions.
Here's where hope comes in, however. Why does American Beauty end on an optimistic note? Hope. Yes, Lester dies. Yes, everyone else's lives get irrevocably screwed up. But during the process, they find moments of beauty. They realize the world for the place it is ('big, beautiful, and ultimately too exhausting to live in'), and are happier for it. Lester's last monologue (so much beauty in the world, he's grateful for every minute of his life, and so forth) balances the tragedy of his death by unearthing ways to see hope and beauty in any circumstance. Indeed, American Beauty hardly realizes something tragic happens at the end of it: it's too distracted by all the beauty in the world.
Donnie Darko lacks this capacity for hope. The theme that I addressed in the last paragraph (no amount of rights can right a wrong) is too strong to be denied, and quickly subdues the idea of an optimistic ending. Donnie Darko sees no beauty in the world: the beauty it finds, however rare and fleeting, comes from legitimate human connection, which it strives to introduce into its characters' lives. It sees death as the end of any possibility for real connection, and thus, for Donnie, beauty and hope are rendered irrelevant. There's nothing poetic or acceptable about his death, even if he saved his loved ones in the process. He's still dead, and he won't be around to see the good things that his actions wrought.
So there it is: hope. One movie has it, the other doesn't. I love these two films as companion pieces because they essentially address the only two ways to approach life: with hope, or without it. You see beauty, or you don't. You're afraid of death, or you aren't. You allow the good in your live to overshadow the bad, or you allow the bad in your life to usurp the power of good. Man is born crying: when he has cried enough, does he begin to see the world, or does he just die? I'll let you answer these questions for yourself.
Alright. Your turn. My philosophical monologue isn't nearly as interesting as a dialogue would be. Pipe up!
(I have to credit Michael Cunningham's Flesh and Blood for the quote about the world being 'big, beautiful, and ultimately too exhausting to live in,' as well as Akira Kurosawa's Ran for telling me that 'man is born crying. When he has cried enough, he dies.')
Thursday, November 26, 2009
A Special Slice of Zen for Thanksgiving
It's a little long, but it's worth reading. You've probably heard it before, but it's always a message worth remembering.
"I had always heard that your entire life flashes before your eyes the second before you die. First of all, that one second isn't a second at all. It stretches on forever, like an ocean of time. For me, it was lying on my back at Boy Scout Camp, watching falling stars, and yellow leaves from the maple trees that lined my street, or my grandmother's hands, and the way her skin seemed like paper, and my cousin's brand new Firebird. And Janie. And Janie. And Carolyn. I guess I could be pretty pissed off about what happened to me, but it's hard to stay mad when there's so much beauty in the world. Sometimes, I feel like I'm seeing it all at once, and it's too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst. And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold onto it, and then it flows through me like rain, and I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life. You have no idea what I'm talking about, I'm sure. But don't worry. You will someday."
"I had always heard that your entire life flashes before your eyes the second before you die. First of all, that one second isn't a second at all. It stretches on forever, like an ocean of time. For me, it was lying on my back at Boy Scout Camp, watching falling stars, and yellow leaves from the maple trees that lined my street, or my grandmother's hands, and the way her skin seemed like paper, and my cousin's brand new Firebird. And Janie. And Janie. And Carolyn. I guess I could be pretty pissed off about what happened to me, but it's hard to stay mad when there's so much beauty in the world. Sometimes, I feel like I'm seeing it all at once, and it's too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst. And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold onto it, and then it flows through me like rain, and I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life. You have no idea what I'm talking about, I'm sure. But don't worry. You will someday."
Monday, November 9, 2009
The Best (favorite?) of the 90s, part 2
Here we are, back again in List-Country, stalking that elusive beast: the best film of the 90s. We have, however, nine more creatures to take down before we reach that one, so how about y'all get comfortable. Without further ado, Part 2 of the best of the 90s!
10. The Shawshank Redemption (Frank Darabont, 1994)
The Shawshank Redemption is a bizarre phenomenon of a movie, in that it seems to be all things to all people. Currently, it sits at #1 on IMDB's "best of all time" list. That may be taking it too far in the superlative department, but I can't deny this film its rewards. The Shawshank Redemption sticks out in my mind as one of the more inspirational films in recent memory. I admire it for its pacing: Frank Darabont makes time feel real and tangible, as if the audience is in prison right along with Andy Dufresne. This isn't to say that the film is interminable, of course. Despite its moments of occasional violence, Shawshank's overall tone is one of hope and dignity in the face of adversity. Morgan Freeman, in, if not his best role, his most famous, provides a steady, weatherbeaten rock to which the audience anchors. His final monologue (Hint: it involves the phrase "I hope") is one of the cinematic highlights of the decade.
9. Titanic (James Cameron, 1997)
This movie is one of my greatest guilty pleasures. Perhaps it's because this is the first "adult" movie I remember seeing in theaters; at the tender age of 7, it seemed like nothing as good as Titanic had ever happened, nor would ever happen again. Now that I'm older and wiser, I'll be the first to admit that the first half of the film is uneven melodrama that is hokily written and clumsily acted. The last half, aka the sinking, is some of the most intense and proficient filmmaking ever to grace the silver screen. I have to respect James Cameron for his single-minded dedication: for the film, they literally created a near-scale model of the actual Titanic, and then proceeded to sink it. I'm a sucker for Big Movies that earn those capital letters, and Titanic is the biggest movie since Gone With the Wind. At the very least, Titanic earns its spot on this list for having the balls to go for old-fashioned epic filmmaking in a decidedly anti-epic modern cinemascape.
8. Saving Private Ryan (Steven Spielberg, 1998)
Saving Private Ryan might not be the best WW2 movie of 1998 (that one you'll meet in a minute), but it's certainly the loudest. ...That might not sound like a compliment. What I mean to say is that Saving Private Ryan is completely unsurpassed in its depiction of battle. The opening Normandy sequence is, for my money, the best battle scene ever committed to film--not to sell short the other fantastic set pieces in this blood-soaked film. With Saving Private Ryan, Steven Spielberg almost achieves the completely impossible: he sets out to make an anti-war film about the futility and dehumanizing nature of conflict set entirely within the confines of a conflict-driven film. As I said, he almost succeeds. I'm not sure I approve of the ending (SPOILER WARNING: jump to the end of the parentheses if you haven't seen it. Had I made this film, I would have ended it as Tom Hanks was shooting his pistol at the tank bearing down on him; the perfect metaphor for the futility of men trying to halt the machines of politically driven combat. But then, the deux ex machina comes, and we get the present-day framing, and the film loses a little power. SPOILERS ARE OVER...) If the ending were altered slightly, this film might be higher on the list. Still, I can't deny its extraordinary power and technical acumen.
Warning: I might not be able to control my enthusiasm for the remaining seven films on this list. Act accordingly.
7. The Talented Mr. Ripley (Anthony Minghella, 1999)
I really don't have words to describe this movie. Let the movie's title try: it's mysterious, yearning, secretive, sad, lonely, troubled, confused, loving, musical, gifted, intelligent, beautiful, tender, sensitive, haunted, and passionate (that's the full title of adjectives, as it were). It's also creepy, ugly, strange, angry, bitter, and cynical. So many adjectives, yet I still feel no closer to solving the mystery that is this movie. It's just like its main character. Matt Damon's performance as a social climber who'll do anything to remain on top is downright chilling. Normally Damon is so likable: here, he inspires feelings that crawl under my skin and promptly die there. The Talented Mr. Ripley's stylistic and thematic beauty and flippancy is constantly overturned by moments of brutal violence whenever the film seems to come up for air. It drags the viewer down into the Stygian depths of its madness, and doesn't allow respite until the credits begin to roll. This is a bromance, of sorts. No, I take this back. This is a tale of male-on-male infatuation that ends in the worst way possible. Nothing like a kind-of-sort-of-not-really-but-still gay serial killer to start off one's week, is there?
6. Fargo (Joel Coen, 1996)
Here's another movie that's nearly impossible to describe in conventional terms. I told a friend recently that Fargo was a movie "in which terrible things happen to good people in cringe-inducingly funny ways." Fargo is like a comedy of errors in which every error results in some form of grisly carnage. This Coen tale of a planned kidnapping gone terribly wrong is completely unique; I've never seen another film like it. Most of it is as cold, heartless, and unflinching as the Minnesota winterscape in which it occurs. The scenes involving Frances MacDormand's Marge Gunderson, however, are filled to the brim with warmth, humor and love. It's a bizarre juxtaposition, even more so when the heavily pregnant Gunderson finally crosses paths with the kidnappers-turned-murderers on the make. Fargo makes for incredibly absorbing filmmaking. Watch for Gunderson's monologue at the end of the film; its almost religious in its simplicity and depth (hint: it's the "there's more to life than money, ya know" speech).
5. Good Will Hunting (Gus Van Sant, 1997)
Who knew math could be so enthralling? Sorry, I jest. Good Will Hunting is a fascinating piece of work, not for its math (what the hell is an Advanced Fourier proof, anyway? ...not sure I spelled that right), but for its examination of the reluctance to depart from routine for fear of something new. Matt Damon and Robin Williams have never been better as a JD genius and his therapist, respectively. Conversations that could fall into tired cliche stay constantly insightful and interesting, thanks to the absolutely fantastic script written by Damon and co-star Ben Affleck. That this was their first screenplay is completely astounding, as this is, in my opinion, one of the most intelligently written films in recent memory. Yes the movie is intelligent, but it's also very moving. There are moments of dramatic intensity ('it's not your fault,' anyone?) that are nearly unparalleled in recent cinema. And all this from two kids in South Boston. Good Will Hunting isn't just a great movie: it's definitive proof of miracles.
4. The Thin Red Line (Terence Malick, 1998)
What a beautiful, beautiful film; the best war movie of 1998, regardless of what Steven Spielberg would like you to believe. Make no mistake: The Thin Red Line is not entertainment: it's work. Malick's film is a three-hour long visual poem with little in the way of conventional storytelling, plot, or even characters. The one real character in the film is Charlie Company; the men in it are pushed in and out of the spotlight, doing their bit and then receding into the background. The Thin Red Line is hardly about warfare as much as it is between man's conflict with nature, and the balance of good and evil in the soul of the individual. This is not to say that the film doesn't offer moments of violence: indeed, the assault on the Japanese entrenchment halfway through the film is almost overwhelming in its cruelness and intensity. Most of the film, however is devoted to long, bittersweet monologues concerning the world, eternity, morality, and what one man can do to cope with the infinite. The cinematography must be mentioned: this is one of the most beautiful movies you'll ever see. Every frame is stuffed with enough gorgeousity (shut up, it's a word) to make a grown man cry. This, coupled with the underlying thematic power and the completely unique directorial style, makes The Thin Red Line one of the most unforgettable cinematic experiences of my life.
3. The Silence of the Lambs (Jonathan Demme, 1991)
Man, it hurts to put this movie as low as #3, but them's the breaks. This movie is a rare gem, a near perfect cinematic confection. I have to start by saying that: there has never been a better villain on film than Dr. Hannibal Lecter. You kids can have your joker, I'm sticking with Anthony Hopkins. Hell, not only is this the best villain ever captured, it's one of the best performances in general. There aren't words to describe how perfect and spot-on Hopkins' character is. I don't want to undersell Jodie Foster, however. It must have been intimidating just to breathe in the same room as this man, but somehow, she found untapped resources of dramatic integrity, creating a foil for Dr. Lecter that is every bit as convincing as he. As for the screenplay: were it not for another movie that you'll be hearing about directly, I would call it my favorite screenplay of all time. It's a rare tribute to a film when, in a movie containing serial killers, cannibalism, and a race-for-time-against-a-deranged-killer, that the most riveting parts of the film are discussions between two characters. It's true, though. The skull sessions that Agent Starling shares with Dr. Lecter are absolutely spellbinding in their intensity. This movie is all about building up to tension: though there are few moments of violence, when those few moments do occur, they seem more shocking than anything the viewer could have imagined. This is filmmaking at its most intense.
2. Pulp Fiction (Quentin Tarantino, 1994)
Ah yes, here we are: the best movie screenplay ever written. As a wise friend recently told me after watching this: the art of interesting conversation has been lost. Right you are, wise friend (anonymity be damned: Nick, I agree). Consider the first scene, in which Jules and Vincent travel to their hit. They discuss Amsterdam, burgers, Samoans, and foot massages, but never once do they discuss who they are or what they do. Still, by the end of the scene, we realize that they're hit-men on their way to commit a crime. How many other movies have you seen that set up their exposition entirely in inferences and incidentals? And that's just the beginning. Pulp Fiction is never silent: it's over two hours of someone or another talking constantly. The miracle is that it never gets old, it never gets annoying, and you never find yourself wishing for less talking and more action. Thus far, I've made it out as if the dialogue is the film's only redeeming factor. Not true: the acting is great, particularly Samuel L. Jackson and Uma Thurman, and the plot is endlessly inventive. This film is great fun, but they're also something a little heartbreaking about it: a search for redemption. It shows us all these people at the bottom of the barrel, thrashing around, attempting to rise out of their situation, but with no idea how to do so. Samuel L. Jackson's Ezekiel 25:17 speech to Ringo at the end of the film goes down in my book as the best monologue in movie history, and Uma Thurman's "do you still wanna hear my joke?" has got to be one of the most heartbreaking.
1. American Beauty (Sam Mendes, 1999)
And it comes down to this: maybe American Beauty isn't the greatest film on the list, but it certainly connects with me the most. So there it is: emotional impact gets preference over technical proficiency. Not to say that American Beauty isn't technically proficient: its acting is magnificent all around, delivered by one of the most involving ensembles in recent history. It's beautifully shot, with moments of real, eye-opening wonder, it's evocative score finds all the right emotional keystones, and it's all put together so that the film never loses its balance. To endorse all of its surface qualities, however, is to neglect the sheer weight of its emotional impact. The film is, improbably, about hope and change. Its message implies that the catalyst and the end result aren't nearly as important as the desire to rescue oneself from mental and emotional death. It's about beauty: how the world is full of perfect moments hiding under the surface, waiting to flower for anyone willing to look. It's about love: love isn't neat, it isn't obvious, but it's full of those moments of beauty that make life worth living. In the end, it's about feeling gratitude for every minute of your stupid little life. And you know what? It works.
There we are. All finished. Based on this evidence, I humbly submit the 90s as the best decade for the film industry. Now then: what did I miss? I know there are hundreds of other movies that would back up that claim. Lay some of them on me!
10. The Shawshank Redemption (Frank Darabont, 1994)
The Shawshank Redemption is a bizarre phenomenon of a movie, in that it seems to be all things to all people. Currently, it sits at #1 on IMDB's "best of all time" list. That may be taking it too far in the superlative department, but I can't deny this film its rewards. The Shawshank Redemption sticks out in my mind as one of the more inspirational films in recent memory. I admire it for its pacing: Frank Darabont makes time feel real and tangible, as if the audience is in prison right along with Andy Dufresne. This isn't to say that the film is interminable, of course. Despite its moments of occasional violence, Shawshank's overall tone is one of hope and dignity in the face of adversity. Morgan Freeman, in, if not his best role, his most famous, provides a steady, weatherbeaten rock to which the audience anchors. His final monologue (Hint: it involves the phrase "I hope") is one of the cinematic highlights of the decade.
9. Titanic (James Cameron, 1997)
This movie is one of my greatest guilty pleasures. Perhaps it's because this is the first "adult" movie I remember seeing in theaters; at the tender age of 7, it seemed like nothing as good as Titanic had ever happened, nor would ever happen again. Now that I'm older and wiser, I'll be the first to admit that the first half of the film is uneven melodrama that is hokily written and clumsily acted. The last half, aka the sinking, is some of the most intense and proficient filmmaking ever to grace the silver screen. I have to respect James Cameron for his single-minded dedication: for the film, they literally created a near-scale model of the actual Titanic, and then proceeded to sink it. I'm a sucker for Big Movies that earn those capital letters, and Titanic is the biggest movie since Gone With the Wind. At the very least, Titanic earns its spot on this list for having the balls to go for old-fashioned epic filmmaking in a decidedly anti-epic modern cinemascape.
8. Saving Private Ryan (Steven Spielberg, 1998)
Saving Private Ryan might not be the best WW2 movie of 1998 (that one you'll meet in a minute), but it's certainly the loudest. ...That might not sound like a compliment. What I mean to say is that Saving Private Ryan is completely unsurpassed in its depiction of battle. The opening Normandy sequence is, for my money, the best battle scene ever committed to film--not to sell short the other fantastic set pieces in this blood-soaked film. With Saving Private Ryan, Steven Spielberg almost achieves the completely impossible: he sets out to make an anti-war film about the futility and dehumanizing nature of conflict set entirely within the confines of a conflict-driven film. As I said, he almost succeeds. I'm not sure I approve of the ending (SPOILER WARNING: jump to the end of the parentheses if you haven't seen it. Had I made this film, I would have ended it as Tom Hanks was shooting his pistol at the tank bearing down on him; the perfect metaphor for the futility of men trying to halt the machines of politically driven combat. But then, the deux ex machina comes, and we get the present-day framing, and the film loses a little power. SPOILERS ARE OVER...) If the ending were altered slightly, this film might be higher on the list. Still, I can't deny its extraordinary power and technical acumen.
Warning: I might not be able to control my enthusiasm for the remaining seven films on this list. Act accordingly.
7. The Talented Mr. Ripley (Anthony Minghella, 1999)
I really don't have words to describe this movie. Let the movie's title try: it's mysterious, yearning, secretive, sad, lonely, troubled, confused, loving, musical, gifted, intelligent, beautiful, tender, sensitive, haunted, and passionate (that's the full title of adjectives, as it were). It's also creepy, ugly, strange, angry, bitter, and cynical. So many adjectives, yet I still feel no closer to solving the mystery that is this movie. It's just like its main character. Matt Damon's performance as a social climber who'll do anything to remain on top is downright chilling. Normally Damon is so likable: here, he inspires feelings that crawl under my skin and promptly die there. The Talented Mr. Ripley's stylistic and thematic beauty and flippancy is constantly overturned by moments of brutal violence whenever the film seems to come up for air. It drags the viewer down into the Stygian depths of its madness, and doesn't allow respite until the credits begin to roll. This is a bromance, of sorts. No, I take this back. This is a tale of male-on-male infatuation that ends in the worst way possible. Nothing like a kind-of-sort-of-not-really-but-still gay serial killer to start off one's week, is there?
6. Fargo (Joel Coen, 1996)
Here's another movie that's nearly impossible to describe in conventional terms. I told a friend recently that Fargo was a movie "in which terrible things happen to good people in cringe-inducingly funny ways." Fargo is like a comedy of errors in which every error results in some form of grisly carnage. This Coen tale of a planned kidnapping gone terribly wrong is completely unique; I've never seen another film like it. Most of it is as cold, heartless, and unflinching as the Minnesota winterscape in which it occurs. The scenes involving Frances MacDormand's Marge Gunderson, however, are filled to the brim with warmth, humor and love. It's a bizarre juxtaposition, even more so when the heavily pregnant Gunderson finally crosses paths with the kidnappers-turned-murderers on the make. Fargo makes for incredibly absorbing filmmaking. Watch for Gunderson's monologue at the end of the film; its almost religious in its simplicity and depth (hint: it's the "there's more to life than money, ya know" speech).
5. Good Will Hunting (Gus Van Sant, 1997)
Who knew math could be so enthralling? Sorry, I jest. Good Will Hunting is a fascinating piece of work, not for its math (what the hell is an Advanced Fourier proof, anyway? ...not sure I spelled that right), but for its examination of the reluctance to depart from routine for fear of something new. Matt Damon and Robin Williams have never been better as a JD genius and his therapist, respectively. Conversations that could fall into tired cliche stay constantly insightful and interesting, thanks to the absolutely fantastic script written by Damon and co-star Ben Affleck. That this was their first screenplay is completely astounding, as this is, in my opinion, one of the most intelligently written films in recent memory. Yes the movie is intelligent, but it's also very moving. There are moments of dramatic intensity ('it's not your fault,' anyone?) that are nearly unparalleled in recent cinema. And all this from two kids in South Boston. Good Will Hunting isn't just a great movie: it's definitive proof of miracles.
4. The Thin Red Line (Terence Malick, 1998)
What a beautiful, beautiful film; the best war movie of 1998, regardless of what Steven Spielberg would like you to believe. Make no mistake: The Thin Red Line is not entertainment: it's work. Malick's film is a three-hour long visual poem with little in the way of conventional storytelling, plot, or even characters. The one real character in the film is Charlie Company; the men in it are pushed in and out of the spotlight, doing their bit and then receding into the background. The Thin Red Line is hardly about warfare as much as it is between man's conflict with nature, and the balance of good and evil in the soul of the individual. This is not to say that the film doesn't offer moments of violence: indeed, the assault on the Japanese entrenchment halfway through the film is almost overwhelming in its cruelness and intensity. Most of the film, however is devoted to long, bittersweet monologues concerning the world, eternity, morality, and what one man can do to cope with the infinite. The cinematography must be mentioned: this is one of the most beautiful movies you'll ever see. Every frame is stuffed with enough gorgeousity (shut up, it's a word) to make a grown man cry. This, coupled with the underlying thematic power and the completely unique directorial style, makes The Thin Red Line one of the most unforgettable cinematic experiences of my life.
3. The Silence of the Lambs (Jonathan Demme, 1991)
Man, it hurts to put this movie as low as #3, but them's the breaks. This movie is a rare gem, a near perfect cinematic confection. I have to start by saying that: there has never been a better villain on film than Dr. Hannibal Lecter. You kids can have your joker, I'm sticking with Anthony Hopkins. Hell, not only is this the best villain ever captured, it's one of the best performances in general. There aren't words to describe how perfect and spot-on Hopkins' character is. I don't want to undersell Jodie Foster, however. It must have been intimidating just to breathe in the same room as this man, but somehow, she found untapped resources of dramatic integrity, creating a foil for Dr. Lecter that is every bit as convincing as he. As for the screenplay: were it not for another movie that you'll be hearing about directly, I would call it my favorite screenplay of all time. It's a rare tribute to a film when, in a movie containing serial killers, cannibalism, and a race-for-time-against-a-deranged-killer, that the most riveting parts of the film are discussions between two characters. It's true, though. The skull sessions that Agent Starling shares with Dr. Lecter are absolutely spellbinding in their intensity. This movie is all about building up to tension: though there are few moments of violence, when those few moments do occur, they seem more shocking than anything the viewer could have imagined. This is filmmaking at its most intense.
2. Pulp Fiction (Quentin Tarantino, 1994)
Ah yes, here we are: the best movie screenplay ever written. As a wise friend recently told me after watching this: the art of interesting conversation has been lost. Right you are, wise friend (anonymity be damned: Nick, I agree). Consider the first scene, in which Jules and Vincent travel to their hit. They discuss Amsterdam, burgers, Samoans, and foot massages, but never once do they discuss who they are or what they do. Still, by the end of the scene, we realize that they're hit-men on their way to commit a crime. How many other movies have you seen that set up their exposition entirely in inferences and incidentals? And that's just the beginning. Pulp Fiction is never silent: it's over two hours of someone or another talking constantly. The miracle is that it never gets old, it never gets annoying, and you never find yourself wishing for less talking and more action. Thus far, I've made it out as if the dialogue is the film's only redeeming factor. Not true: the acting is great, particularly Samuel L. Jackson and Uma Thurman, and the plot is endlessly inventive. This film is great fun, but they're also something a little heartbreaking about it: a search for redemption. It shows us all these people at the bottom of the barrel, thrashing around, attempting to rise out of their situation, but with no idea how to do so. Samuel L. Jackson's Ezekiel 25:17 speech to Ringo at the end of the film goes down in my book as the best monologue in movie history, and Uma Thurman's "do you still wanna hear my joke?" has got to be one of the most heartbreaking.
1. American Beauty (Sam Mendes, 1999)
And it comes down to this: maybe American Beauty isn't the greatest film on the list, but it certainly connects with me the most. So there it is: emotional impact gets preference over technical proficiency. Not to say that American Beauty isn't technically proficient: its acting is magnificent all around, delivered by one of the most involving ensembles in recent history. It's beautifully shot, with moments of real, eye-opening wonder, it's evocative score finds all the right emotional keystones, and it's all put together so that the film never loses its balance. To endorse all of its surface qualities, however, is to neglect the sheer weight of its emotional impact. The film is, improbably, about hope and change. Its message implies that the catalyst and the end result aren't nearly as important as the desire to rescue oneself from mental and emotional death. It's about beauty: how the world is full of perfect moments hiding under the surface, waiting to flower for anyone willing to look. It's about love: love isn't neat, it isn't obvious, but it's full of those moments of beauty that make life worth living. In the end, it's about feeling gratitude for every minute of your stupid little life. And you know what? It works.
There we are. All finished. Based on this evidence, I humbly submit the 90s as the best decade for the film industry. Now then: what did I miss? I know there are hundreds of other movies that would back up that claim. Lay some of them on me!
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