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 titanic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label titanic. Show all posts
Monday, February 8, 2010
Thursday, January 21, 2010
In Appreciation/Defense of James Cameron
So, there seems to be some sort of Avatar backlash building on the horizon, so I thought I'd take a moment to praise James Cameron, and, to an extent, defend my viewpoint on his latest offering/career in general. Cameron is an ubiquitous enough director that anyone who reads this should have at least passing familiarity with his filmography. His films are as follows:
Avatar (2009)
Titanic (1997)
True Lies (1994)
Terminator 2: Judgement Day (1991)
The Abyss (1989)
Aliens (1986)
The Terminator (1984)
Of this list, I've seen everything but The Abyss and The Terminator. I should obviously get to viewing the latter, as I've seen all of the four-film series but the first. The former, however, seems to be lesser Cameron (pretty, technically innovative, a little bit silly), so I'm fine with having not seen it for now, though it is on my rental queue.
If I'm forced to describe James Cameron as a film-maker in exactly one word, that one word is...
Balls.
Gigantic, solid brass balls.
There's no two ways around it. No other film-maker working today can come close to the sheer cinematic chutzpah that Cameron possesses. Look at his filmography: he plays almost exclusively in the science fiction sandbox; the most notoriously difficult genre to make, and even more difficulty to be taken seriously. What else do his films have in common? They're big. Hell, epic. People throw that word around like confetti, but James Cameron earns it, while almost no one else working does (I say almost, because Peter Jackson earns it when he wants to, as does Zhang Yimou).
Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that Cameron's films are good, regardless of actual quality, because of his cinematic daring. He's had some less-than-stellar outings (True Lies being the best evidence of this). Nor am I saying that his films are masterpieces. Indeed, Cameron's writing is hopelessly mediocre.
No, what I'm asking you to consider is his unadulterated cinematic talent. Think of his films as images. Not words. And what images he creates. Cameron is renowned for pushing the ball, technologically and visually. The Terminator, though it failed to play to wide audiences in its debut, showcased the fascinating possibilities incumbent to combining computer-generated imagery with live-action models. Aliens did so too, as well as laying the foundations for animatronics in film that Jurassic Park would so memorably capitalize on. The Abyss and Terminator 2 were some of the first films to utilize completely CG renderings: the liquid terminator from the latter film is still one of the most iconic and impressive technical achievements in recent film history.
So far, Cameron's just been warming up. Playing around. Stretching his legs. Now comes Titanic, a film for which Cameron literally reconstructed the famous ocean liner in anal-retentive detail, then proceeded to flood it, tossing stuntmen at the ocean with reckless abandon. New filming techniques were invented (most notable involving crane/tracking work), and Cameron succeeded in creating some of the most harrowing and exciting footage ever to grace the silver screen. And then, his magnum opus: Avatar. A film that took eleven years to make, Cameron's latest film redefined visual effects capabilities within the confines of dramatic storytelling. Advancements in motion-capture performance, filming digital environments, and 3-D camerawork all owe their genesis to Cameron's single-minded film-making.
One can easily break down Cameron's filmography into two groups: the fantastical and the realistic. Please note that I'm not discussing subject matter here. For instance, I would label Titanic as fantastic, whereas I would label Aliens as realistic. The difference lies in the stylistic choices, coupled with contrasting themes. Cameron's fantastical films (Avatar, Titanic, T 2, The Abyss) have a painterly quality to them, almost impressionistic. The cinematographic style lends a sense of mysticism to the work, allowing Cameron to work within one of his favorite themes: finding the surreal and mystical in the everyday world. This is most obviously manifested in Avatar, in which Cameron creates a fantastic world for his events; indeed, Avatar could also be filed under his realist category, in that it takes a realist approach to a completely fantastical environment. In these films, Cameron reminds me most of a young Jean Cocteau, a French New Wave director whose films were surreal, hypnotic even (a good example of this is his 1946 masterpiece, La Belle et la Bete). Cameron's realist perspective, owes more the Italian Neo-Realism/cinema verite movement. Aliens, despite the plot involving space marines sent to do battle with carnivorous extraterrestrials, plays like documentary footage. His edits are laser-focused, and his cinematography prioritizes function over form. Though it might be cinephile heresy to suggest this, Cameron's realist works bring to mind the filmography of famed Italian Neo-realist Vittorio De Sicca, whose Ladri di Biciclete is frequently shortlisted as one of the greatest films ever made. Indeed, all of Cameron's films are thematic cousins of the Neo-Realist movement, whose goal was to record a day in the life of a man to whom nothing ever happens. De Sicca takes liberties with this: in Ladri di Biciclete, a man is forced, by poverty and the hand of fate, to become a criminal, on the same day that he himself is victimized by crime. Almost all of Cameron's characters could be described as 'every-men'; normal people thrust into extraordinary circumstance. Sarah Connor in The Terminator; a regular woman beset by androids from the future. Ellen Ripley in Aliens; a ship-worker-cum-warrior woman. Rose Duwitt-Bukater in Titanic; rich girl who finds herself bridging a socioeconomic gap whilst dying of hypothermia. Jake Sully in Avatar; a marine who becomes the champion of an alien race. Cameron embraces Neo-Realist themes while rejecting the movement's anti-cinema aesthetic.
Now, allow me a brief tangent. King Kong. 1933. Poor acting, ridiculous script, ham-handedly directed. And routinely included in film conversation as the father of cinema as we know it today. The point of King Kong wasn't its story or its acting: the point was that someone ballsy was trying something completely new. Look at Star Wars: the plot (young man takes on a journey, learns new skills, defeats the bad guys) is as old as spoken word, but Star Wars is undeniably one of the most influential films of our time. Which brings us to Avatar. Not a very original story. Not a great script. But that's the point. As Roger Ebert pointed out in his review of Titanic, "you don't take a $200 million dollar film as your opportunity to reinvent the story-telling wheel." The point of Avatar, or many of Cameron's other films, isn't the snappy dialogue. The point is that a gutsy individual is attempting to take a step into the future of film-making. That's how the medium is advanced: a director has the courage to try something entirely new.
I admit that I might be biased in this area. Both of my earliest cinematic memories involve Cameron films (the first film I remember seeing in theaters was Titanic, and the first film I remember seeing on my own was the Alien trilogy, featuring a trifecta of talented directors: Ridley Scott, James Cameron, and David Fincher. Analyzing that series, and its stylistic changes, would make a great blog post, but I digress). Still, I can't help but notice something: the worst reviews of Avatar are coming from regular film-goers, whereas pretentious cinephiles like myself are going nuts for the film. Isn't this the inverse of the norm? Aren't regular film-goers supposed to fawn over blockbusters, while pretentious cinephiles turn up their noses and hit the arthouse theaters? What's happening? Here's my best guess: When I watch Avatar, I don't just see a movie. I see 110 years of film-makers taking one giant step forward. I see film history being made. If I'm still writing about films in fifty years, I'll look back fondly on 2009 as a year, like 1939, 1967, or 1977, in which film-making took one big step forward. And hey, I realize that I shouldn't evaluate a film based on its historical significance, but I'm only human, and I love movies more than I love most people. So seeing my favorite art medium begin a new phase of evolution in the space of a three-hour film is just about one of the most exciting, worthwhile things I can imagine. It doesn't matter that the script makes me laugh, or the acting isn't exactly masterclass: I'm watching cinema advance itself. And that's a hell of a thing to watch.
Avatar (2009)
Titanic (1997)
True Lies (1994)
Terminator 2: Judgement Day (1991)
The Abyss (1989)
Aliens (1986)
The Terminator (1984)
Of this list, I've seen everything but The Abyss and The Terminator. I should obviously get to viewing the latter, as I've seen all of the four-film series but the first. The former, however, seems to be lesser Cameron (pretty, technically innovative, a little bit silly), so I'm fine with having not seen it for now, though it is on my rental queue.
If I'm forced to describe James Cameron as a film-maker in exactly one word, that one word is...
Balls.
Gigantic, solid brass balls.
There's no two ways around it. No other film-maker working today can come close to the sheer cinematic chutzpah that Cameron possesses. Look at his filmography: he plays almost exclusively in the science fiction sandbox; the most notoriously difficult genre to make, and even more difficulty to be taken seriously. What else do his films have in common? They're big. Hell, epic. People throw that word around like confetti, but James Cameron earns it, while almost no one else working does (I say almost, because Peter Jackson earns it when he wants to, as does Zhang Yimou).
Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that Cameron's films are good, regardless of actual quality, because of his cinematic daring. He's had some less-than-stellar outings (True Lies being the best evidence of this). Nor am I saying that his films are masterpieces. Indeed, Cameron's writing is hopelessly mediocre.
No, what I'm asking you to consider is his unadulterated cinematic talent. Think of his films as images. Not words. And what images he creates. Cameron is renowned for pushing the ball, technologically and visually. The Terminator, though it failed to play to wide audiences in its debut, showcased the fascinating possibilities incumbent to combining computer-generated imagery with live-action models. Aliens did so too, as well as laying the foundations for animatronics in film that Jurassic Park would so memorably capitalize on. The Abyss and Terminator 2 were some of the first films to utilize completely CG renderings: the liquid terminator from the latter film is still one of the most iconic and impressive technical achievements in recent film history.
So far, Cameron's just been warming up. Playing around. Stretching his legs. Now comes Titanic, a film for which Cameron literally reconstructed the famous ocean liner in anal-retentive detail, then proceeded to flood it, tossing stuntmen at the ocean with reckless abandon. New filming techniques were invented (most notable involving crane/tracking work), and Cameron succeeded in creating some of the most harrowing and exciting footage ever to grace the silver screen. And then, his magnum opus: Avatar. A film that took eleven years to make, Cameron's latest film redefined visual effects capabilities within the confines of dramatic storytelling. Advancements in motion-capture performance, filming digital environments, and 3-D camerawork all owe their genesis to Cameron's single-minded film-making.
One can easily break down Cameron's filmography into two groups: the fantastical and the realistic. Please note that I'm not discussing subject matter here. For instance, I would label Titanic as fantastic, whereas I would label Aliens as realistic. The difference lies in the stylistic choices, coupled with contrasting themes. Cameron's fantastical films (Avatar, Titanic, T 2, The Abyss) have a painterly quality to them, almost impressionistic. The cinematographic style lends a sense of mysticism to the work, allowing Cameron to work within one of his favorite themes: finding the surreal and mystical in the everyday world. This is most obviously manifested in Avatar, in which Cameron creates a fantastic world for his events; indeed, Avatar could also be filed under his realist category, in that it takes a realist approach to a completely fantastical environment. In these films, Cameron reminds me most of a young Jean Cocteau, a French New Wave director whose films were surreal, hypnotic even (a good example of this is his 1946 masterpiece, La Belle et la Bete). Cameron's realist perspective, owes more the Italian Neo-Realism/cinema verite movement. Aliens, despite the plot involving space marines sent to do battle with carnivorous extraterrestrials, plays like documentary footage. His edits are laser-focused, and his cinematography prioritizes function over form. Though it might be cinephile heresy to suggest this, Cameron's realist works bring to mind the filmography of famed Italian Neo-realist Vittorio De Sicca, whose Ladri di Biciclete is frequently shortlisted as one of the greatest films ever made. Indeed, all of Cameron's films are thematic cousins of the Neo-Realist movement, whose goal was to record a day in the life of a man to whom nothing ever happens. De Sicca takes liberties with this: in Ladri di Biciclete, a man is forced, by poverty and the hand of fate, to become a criminal, on the same day that he himself is victimized by crime. Almost all of Cameron's characters could be described as 'every-men'; normal people thrust into extraordinary circumstance. Sarah Connor in The Terminator; a regular woman beset by androids from the future. Ellen Ripley in Aliens; a ship-worker-cum-warrior woman. Rose Duwitt-Bukater in Titanic; rich girl who finds herself bridging a socioeconomic gap whilst dying of hypothermia. Jake Sully in Avatar; a marine who becomes the champion of an alien race. Cameron embraces Neo-Realist themes while rejecting the movement's anti-cinema aesthetic.
Now, allow me a brief tangent. King Kong. 1933. Poor acting, ridiculous script, ham-handedly directed. And routinely included in film conversation as the father of cinema as we know it today. The point of King Kong wasn't its story or its acting: the point was that someone ballsy was trying something completely new. Look at Star Wars: the plot (young man takes on a journey, learns new skills, defeats the bad guys) is as old as spoken word, but Star Wars is undeniably one of the most influential films of our time. Which brings us to Avatar. Not a very original story. Not a great script. But that's the point. As Roger Ebert pointed out in his review of Titanic, "you don't take a $200 million dollar film as your opportunity to reinvent the story-telling wheel." The point of Avatar, or many of Cameron's other films, isn't the snappy dialogue. The point is that a gutsy individual is attempting to take a step into the future of film-making. That's how the medium is advanced: a director has the courage to try something entirely new.
I admit that I might be biased in this area. Both of my earliest cinematic memories involve Cameron films (the first film I remember seeing in theaters was Titanic, and the first film I remember seeing on my own was the Alien trilogy, featuring a trifecta of talented directors: Ridley Scott, James Cameron, and David Fincher. Analyzing that series, and its stylistic changes, would make a great blog post, but I digress). Still, I can't help but notice something: the worst reviews of Avatar are coming from regular film-goers, whereas pretentious cinephiles like myself are going nuts for the film. Isn't this the inverse of the norm? Aren't regular film-goers supposed to fawn over blockbusters, while pretentious cinephiles turn up their noses and hit the arthouse theaters? What's happening? Here's my best guess: When I watch Avatar, I don't just see a movie. I see 110 years of film-makers taking one giant step forward. I see film history being made. If I'm still writing about films in fifty years, I'll look back fondly on 2009 as a year, like 1939, 1967, or 1977, in which film-making took one big step forward. And hey, I realize that I shouldn't evaluate a film based on its historical significance, but I'm only human, and I love movies more than I love most people. So seeing my favorite art medium begin a new phase of evolution in the space of a three-hour film is just about one of the most exciting, worthwhile things I can imagine. It doesn't matter that the script makes me laugh, or the acting isn't exactly masterclass: I'm watching cinema advance itself. And that's a hell of a thing to watch.
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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