My Favorite Movies

David Lynch's most complete and perfect film!

One of the most sensual and romantic films ever made, without one single kiss. This film is 100% pure beauty. From the colors, to the music, to Maggie Cheung... Stunning in every possible aspect, In The Mood For Love is one of the first masterpieces of the twenty first century, perfection reached in the art of film making. No matter what Kar-Wai does in the future, this will always be the film that made me 'fall in love' with him...

The greatest film ever made...

The kind of film that makes me believe in perfection. Hitchcock's masterpiece.

It just doesn't get any better than this! The perfect union between drama and comedy and a lesson of film-making and acting from Benigni! Has clearly his touch in it. Simple and pure comedy! Not any kind of "intelligent" humour, just goofy and innocent... Very much Chaplin's style, brilliantly mixed with a very emotional and intense story that makes you undecided between laughing or crying... The film is clearly divided in two parts. A more "enjoyable" first one, and than a little more difficult and sad second one. As for the "so called" critics (not even a masterpiece escapes!) who said this film was irrealistic, among other barbarities, yes it can be a little irrealistic. But that's not a bad thing! I don't think Benigni's ideia was to diminish or offend the Holocaust survivors in any way. On the contrary! This is simply a story of love and above all hope, that happens to take place during the war and in a concentration camp. It has also one of the most perfect, uplifting and brilliant endings I've seen... You know those films that make you stare at the credits for a couple of minutes when it ends? (Unlike the millions whose imediate effect on you is to get up instantly, get your jacket and leave...) This is one of them! Obviously a very restricted list...

Allen fans will forever discuss this but... Annie Hall is his masterpiece. Manhattan can only approach perfection, Annie Hall reaches it.

The movie that made me "fall in love" with David Lynch and cinema...

"There was me, that is Alex, and my three droogs, that is Pete, Georgie, and Dim, and we sat in the Korova Milkbar trying to make up our rassoodocks what to do with the evening. The Korova milkbar sold milk-plus, milk plus vellocet or synthemesc or drencrom, which is what we were drinking. This would sharpen you up and make you ready for a bit of the old ultra-violence."



Stanley Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange will always go down in history as one of the most polemical, violent, disturbing films ever made. A tale most vile, full of the old in-out and other such nastiness. A tale in which Alex (Malcolm McDowell), our faithful narrator and leader, is imprisoned for the accidental killing of a person and later conditioned by his government to abhor sex and violence, but also the glorious music of Ludwig Van. Sometimes karma can be a cruel, cruel mistress. Sometimes it can be poetic. But, the thing to remember, is that it's always in play.

So learns Alex after his release from prison. Cured of his predilection toward sex and violence, he encounters the victims of his earlier transgressions only to find that people's forgiveness cares little for his cure or the fact that he's paid his debt to society. The wounds Alex has inflicted are deep, so it's little surprise when his victims exact their revenge because, deep down, they are no better than Alex. Freed from restraint by a feeling of righteous indignation, they are able to expose their true selves, as dirty and nasty and vile as Alex in his prime, only now Alex has been so conditioned that he cannot even fight back. He is defenceless, begging for mercy. It's doubtful that this was a desired effect of the conditioning, so you have to wonder: if the government takes away Alex's ability to defend himself and sends him out in a society that hates his very existence and distrusts this so-called cure, does perhaps the punishment exceed the crime? Taking nothing else into consideration, possibly. But when you factor in the conditioning against the perfectly natural sexual appetite and the music of Ludwig Van Beethoven, then it's clear the government has gone too far.

There's little question that's part of the film's message, but to what end? The Prison Chaplain (Godfrey Quigley), as close to a voice of morality as A Clockwork Orange gets, argues before the review board that due to the conditioning "He ceases also to be a creature capable of moral choice." He's right, of course, as the Pavlovian approach to morality takes away the subject's humanity, reducing him to nothing more than a castrated animal. He's pitiful, really, which is a stunning turn of events considering his actions in the first half of the film. A great deal of that change relies on the acting abilities of McDowell, who's amazing in the role. His performance is often noted as one of the best to never be nominated for an Academy Award. He was also snubbed by the British Academy. The film received four Oscar nominations: Best Picture, Best Director, Best Adapted Screenplay, and Best Editing. It won zero.

Part of what made A Clockwork Orange so controversial upon its initial release - Kubrick received death threats against both himself and his family and took measures to ensure the film wouldn't be shown in Britain until after his death, which happened in 2000 - is that switch wherein Alex goes from hated to pitied. Kubrick presents us with a protagonist and narrator who is essentially an uber-villain - a gang leader who picks fights with rival gangs, beats up a homeless man, orchestrates a gang rape, and has a three-way with two teenage girls. There is no code of ethics by which he could be considered a good person. But, he is a clever and charming young man who serenades his rape victims with "Singin' in the Rain" and has a strange, unexplained fascination with Beethoven.

It's difficult to reconcile that this likeable young man could be capable of such atrocities, which is partly what Kubrick's going for here. Take Alex out of his odd white outfit and into some normal clothes and he looks no different than anyone else his age. Only at night he lets his inner demons run wild, where the rest of society has decided to suppress them. But the solution of just taking the demons away isn't a solution at all, because the demons are vital to who we are. Think of it as a ying and yang approach to the soul of man. Without that battle between good and evil we have nothing but an empty, boring wasteland. And that's not a life worth living.

A Clockwork Orange, like so many of Stanley Kubrick's films, is an acquired taste. It is a bold, daring piece of cinema that aims to provoke a reaction in the belief that it is better to be found spectacularly bad than dull. Thankfully, it is neither. Kubrick paints in broad, provocative strokes, muting nothing in the frame. He employs a broad range of colours and flourishes that give the film a vibrant and raw feel, as if you're watching the characters and images explode off the screen. Alex mentions during one of his sessions that "the colours of the real world only seem really real when you viddy them on the screen", so Kubrick does his best to make them seem really real, from Mum's hair to the red outfit of the woman being raped to the flashing lights of the record store. Couple that with the wide-angle lenses Kubrick is fond of, the slang bordering on gibberish, the numerous phallic symbols, and the occasional intention continuity error and the entire film is a bit disorienting and unnerving. It's designed to put you slightly on edge.

Of course, A Clockwork Orange isn't for everyone. It's an X-rated film that contains rape scenes and torture and pretty much anything that could make someone uncomfortable, but it's also a brilliant film with grand ambitions. Sure the film's message gets a little muddled near the end, and it isn't always clear what the intention is, and it tends to occasionally lose its way, but that isn't a reason to discount it. Thanks in large part to Kubrick, A Clockwork Orange feels like jazz, and because of that it feels alive, and a flawed film that feels alive is always preferable to a by-the-numbers one that's dull, especially when it's directed by a genius.

Everything that was made after 1967 regarding the mix of comedy and romance - the so called 'romantic comedies' - has in The Graduate its main source of inspiration. Owner of one of the most ridiculously perfect endings ever!

"He said war was too important to be left to the generals. When he said that, 50 years ago, he might have been right. But today, war is too important to be left to politicians. They have neither the time, the training, nor the inclination for strategic thought. I can no longer sit back and allow Communist infiltration, Communist indoctrination, Communist subversion and the international Communist conspiracy to sap and impurify all of our precious bodily fluids."



Widely hailed as the greatest black comedy ever filmed, Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb is Stanley Kubrick's subversive take on a common Cold War theme. Deranged General Jack D. Ripper (Sterling Hayden) has sent his squadron of planes an order to attack the Soviet Union as they held at the fail safe point, and subsequently made it impossible for anyone other than him to call the planes back. When news of this reaches Washington, President Merkin Muffley (Peter Sellers) calls his advisors to the war room, where General Buck Turgidson (George C. Scott) suggests the best plan of action may be to back the planes up with a coordinated all-out offensive that's sure to cripple the Soviet forces and limit American casualties to twenty million, tops. But the Russians, to everyone's surprise, have just completed a "Doomsday Machine" designed to destroy all plant and animal life on the planet, and even they cannot prevent it from retaliating.

Combine the plot details with Kubrick's direction, and it's probably safe to assume that few people in 1964 automatically assumed Dr. Strangelove would be a biting political satire. But on second thought, maybe they did. In retrospect, Dr. Strangelove feels like a departure from Kubrick's normal fare, like 2001, A Clockwork Orange, The Shining, and Full Metal Jacket, but Dr. Strangelove pre-dates them all. So a comedy doesn't seem like a Kubrick project to us, but it makes sense when you view it in context. This is a man who had done several self-produced projects, which he had parlayed into the Kirk Douglas war film Paths of Glory. When Douglas couldn't get along with Anthony Mann, he replaced Mann with Kubrick for Spartacus, primarily to serve as a figurehead through whom Douglas could operate. Naturally, this didn't work. Kubrick took over, then made Lolita, a 'light-hearted' version of the Vladimir Nabokov novel that featured a supporting turn by Peter Sellers. All this is to say that when you view Kubrick's career in that sequence, a Peter Sellers dark comedy isn't all that unexpected. In fact, it's a rather natural progression.

But enough history, let's look at the film itself. The primary settings for Dr. Strangelove are deceptively simple: the interior of a plane, the War Room, and General Ripper's office. Apart from a few others, that's pretty much it. A knowledgeable audience member realizes that much of the film is shot on sound stages, but a couple of choices in staging and camera work gives the impression of so much more.

The plane interiors are filmed as if the camera is being operated by one of the crew. There are no long tracking shots or wide establishing shots. They are instead framed in a way that at no time are we given the feeling that the production has taken out a chunk of the plane so that the camera can get the perfect angle. This gives the scenes a cramped, uneasy feeling further heightened by the borderline mental instability of the pilot, Maj. T.J. "King" Kong (Slim Pickens). Our level of closeness to him and the rest of the crew is uncomfortable, especially when you consider the nuclear bombs stored below. Contrast that with the scenes in the War Room, where Kubrick goes to great lengths to show us just how big it is.

He seats all the advisors around the type of enormous round table you only see in a film, with a circular florescent light hovering overhead. Behind them is the "big board", a large map of the Soviet Union with lights indicating the position of the planes. The room itself is so big that even the widest wide-angle shot cannot show it all. Clearly rooms of this size do not exist, but Kubrick uses it to remind us of the great power the men in this room hold, but at the same time, he often puts them in the lower part of the frame, an indication that despite all their power, there is little they can do in this situation.

And the one man in the room who should be able to prevent a nuclear holocaust, comes across as the most ineffectual of them all - President Merkin Muffley (Peter Sellers). Originally conceived by Terry Southern as a character with a bad head cold, the President is shocked to learn that not only has someone authorized an attack, but that there's no way to bring them back. And to top it off, the bill that enabled such a bizarre scenario is one that he approved. It is a politician's worst nightmare.

Of the three characters Sellers plays in the film (Muffley, Group Captain Lionel Mandrake, and Dr. Strangelove), this is the most memorable, or at the very least my favourite. His telephone conversation with the Soviet Premier ranks as one of the best comedic exchanges in all of cinema, and it's all that more impressive that we can only hear one half of the call. The Premier is drunk, so Muffley must explain things to him multiple times and deviate from a very important issue to reassure this man that "Of course I like to speak to you! Of course I like to say hello!" The three-pronged performance by Sellers is clearly one the best from this comedic genius. Much of Muffley's scenes are played against Gen. 'Buck' Turgidson (George C. Scott), a military advisor a little too enamoured with the business of war and highly distrustful of the Russians.

Scott, a criminally underrated actor, is perhaps the best thing in the film. Chomping violently on multiple sticks of gum, he's all big movements and facial contortions, ready to fly off into a rage at a moment's notice. Secretly he's thrilled with the turn of events and a little perturbed that he must waste valuable time convincing this damned politician to launch a coordinated attack. Acting-wise, Scott is off in his own little world, but it's important to note that even as he launches nearer and nearer to madness, he stays firmly grounded in the reality of the film. Few actors can chew the scenery with such vigour without detracting from the film. It's a fine line, and Scott walks it perfectly.

There's little doubt that Dr. Strangelove serves as the high-water mark for anti-war films, but it also ranks alongside not only the best comedies ever made, but also the best films. For such a timely film, it feels as fresh today as it did in the Cold War. But what's most remarkable is that it was even made at all. Imagine the modern equivalent: a dark satire about terrorism featuring the melody "We'll meet again" playing over footage of the explosion. It's the sort of bad taste no one would permit, but when you have people as bold and talented as Stanley Kubrick and Peter Sellers, they find a way to make it work. In their able hands, the gruesome becomes absurd and the horrific becomes somewhat campy and sweet. It is, hands down, one of the greatest and most brilliant things ever put on film.

"I am not an elephant! I am not an animal! I am a human being! I am a man!"

I remember a conversation I had a couple of years ago with a friend of mine who goes to art school in which she told me something very interesting about how she perceived Picasso's work. She said that she thought he was just alright until she saw his early works, that it wasn't until she saw that he could paint very well while following the rules of art at the time that she could truly appreciate how he was able to break the rules.



In a similar way, I think The Elephant Man is an absolutely essential piece in David Lynch's - who, as I'm sure you know, is also a painter - oeuvre. It shows how he was able to craft a film that played by the rules of Hollywood and keep his vision and integrity intact. Lynch's career path has taken so many twists and reached so many peaks and valleys, that you really can't call it a path anymore. Not with a straight face, anyway. He abandoned any pretence of a traditional Hollywood career a long time ago and a familiarity with his subsequent work makes watching The Elephant Man all the more fascinating. Back in 1980, Lynch was just beginning to make his way as a filmmaker, but had already found a style distinctly his own through his experimental short films and the 1977 cult hit Eraserhead. This cinematic voice reverberates through every frame of this film. Even today, The Elephant Man remains one of Lynch's very best films and certainly one of his most accessible.

The film is based on the true story of John Merrick (John Hurt), discovered by Dr. Frederick Treves (Anthony Hopkins) on display as a circus freak and billed as the Elephant Man. Treves teaches anatomy at London Hospital and is immediately overwhelmed by the wide array of physical deformities suffered by Merrick. He is intrigued by him as a specimen, but - understandably - assumes him to be an imbecile. Even so, when Treves discovers that Merrick is savagely beaten and misused by his "owner" Mr. Bytes, the proprietor of the attraction, he arranges for him to be given shelter at the hospital.

Once there, Treves is astounded to learn that Merrick is in fact quite literate and his misshapen body houses the soul of a true English gentleman. Word of London Hospital's new patient spreads and Merrick again finds himself the centre of attention, greeting visitors from the highest echelons of society. Treves now begins to wonder: is he any better than any of the others who've exploited Merrick for their own benefit? Merrick seems happier than he's ever been, but why did Treves bring him to the hospital in the first place?

The first act of the film, before we see Merrick's face, is wonderfully directed. Lynch makes us hate the people who gawk at Merrick, not because we believe in the dignity of all creatures as we would like to think, but because we are jealous of the people who see what he looks like. We paid our money, and we want to see what these people are seeing. It is only after we see Merrick's face and learn of his intellect that we are able to raise ourselves above the level of the gawkers, of only by a little bit.

Of important note are the two shots that set Merrick's first visit to the hospital. Each shot is taken from an elevated position, distancing ourselves from Merrick. This distance works on multiple levels. First, it gives the impression of a peeper looking at Merrick. This is emphasized in the first of the two shots, since we are able to see a staircase leading up to our level. Second, it shows how we look down on him, both literally and figuratively. Third, and most importantly, it is the same distance and angle shot. This shows how nothing has changed. Treves doesn't understand him as a human being, and neither do we. We do later, but at this point he is just another freak to us.

The film's fascination with the two-faced nature of Victorian London society is born out in how Lynch employs veteran cinematographer Freddie Francis' gorgeous black and white photography. Over and over again, Lynch's camera is fixated on the elements of industrialization and modernity - smoke chimneys, enormous machinery, an operation on the mangled body of the victim on an industrial accident. While much of the story takes place in the world of the upper class - the hospital, Treves' home, the opera - many scenes are set in the squalid back alleys of London, which immediately establishes a consistent visual juxtaposition that illustrates Victorian society's deep split. This is complicated, however, by Merrick's outcast status, as his deformed body precludes his being fully a part of either the upper or the lower class - he is completely outside.

The cast of The Elephant Man includes some of the most distinguished actors of all time, including Sir John Gielgud, Anne Bancroft, Wendy Hiller and Freddie Jones as Bytes. But the brunt of the film rests on Anthony Hopkins and John Hurt. Their work in this film ranks among the best of both their careers. Hopkins expertly conveys the warring feelings of ambition and compassion that Treves struggles with. As for Hurt, he's extraordinary, completely buried beneath prosthetic make-up that renders him totally unrecognisable. John Hurt is the heart and soul of this film and it is virtually impossible to remain unmoved by his performance.

David Lynch, who - I've told this story 300 times, I know - is the filmmaker who made me fall in love with cinema, is too often dismissed as an intellectual weirdo. He may well be an intellectual weirdo, but that shouldn't stop you from enjoying his films. Whenever I meet someone who can't quite embrace Lynch's more esoteric films, like Mulholland Drive, Blue Velvet and especially Eraserhead, I usually point them toward The Straight Story and especially The Elephant Man. This is a beautifully produced, deeply humanistic film that promotes a message of tolerance, which makes it mandatory for any cinephile. Nominated for eight Oscars - it won none.

David Lynch in its more raw and natural state. A film that has haunted me profoundly (in the most positive way possible) since the first time I saw it. A work of rare genius and real bravery. A stream of subconsciousness work of art in surrealism and abstractness. Eraserhead, ironically, for being Lynch's first and most honest, even 'naive' film, ends up being the one that can get you the closest you'll ever be to understand his world, to see through his mind. It's a film that seems to require interpretation. Answers, however - and this really is what stops any human being from enjoying Lynch's work - are so distant that you'll wonder if they are even intended. May very well be the greatest debut by an American director after Welles' Citizen Kane.

First of all, what people need to understand and have in mind (I saw some comments here that blowed my mind), is that this was made in 1968... 1968! You have to understand that number. That's almost 40 years! What we need to ask ourselfs, and try to answer truly, is that if we could possibly have the vision to do something like this in that time. And the answer is obviously NO! I don't have the slightest doubt when I say that this film is one of the greatest achievements in Cinema history! The way Kubrick imagined the 'future', 2001, our present (or past), is brilliant and fascinating. Technicly the film is flawless, considering it's time, and there are moments, scenes that I actually didn't believe that that was made in 1968! Of course I understand people who say it's boring. As a classic has to be recomended to anyone who loves Cinema, but it's not for those who expects action and dumb entertaining. What I would say is that this is one of the most 'difficult' films to wacth and analyse. It just can't be watched if you're sleepy, as simple as that... Anyway, I said it and I say it again: this is one of the most important achievements in the history of Cinema! That's why it's one of the few that deserves 5 stars...

NOTE: This review will discuss the film's ending. If you haven't yet seen it, beware.

"Hate the smell of dampness, don't you? It's such a, I don't know, creepy smell."

The film that made a generation wary of the shower, Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho is a landmark of cinema, one of the high-water marks for the man many consider to be one of the greatest directors in history. Janet Leigh stars at Marion Crane, a rather ordinary secretary who one day decides to steal $40,000 from her boss and run off with her unsuspecting boyfriend. After napping on the side of the road, she arouses the suspicion of the local authorities, but nothing comes of it. Nearly in the clear, she stops on a rainy night at the secluded Bates Motel. She rents a room, shares a pleasant enough discussion with Norman Bates (Anthony Perkins), the son of the hotel's owner. Then, she is brutally murdered. Meanwhile, back in Phoenix, Crane's boss starts to worry, both about his secretary and his cash, so he sends a Private Eye (Martin Balsam) looking for her.



While a great number of people would rather forget it ever happened, we all know Psycho was remade in 1998 by Gus Van Sant. Employing a shot-by-shot approach and starring Vince Vaughn and Anne Heche, the remake is generally considered to be a preposterous travesty - which, for me, is being nice - but it actually has some value for the purpose of explaining how genius the original is. One would assume that a shot-by-shot remake would approximate the quality of the original, at least to some extent. It doesn't. So what does this tell us about film? Well, for one, one could argue that the contributions of actors holds more value than originally assumed. After all, that's the major variable at play. Beyond that, though, it suggests that perhaps Film is an art form where genius lies between the shots. That is, if the shots are identical and the script is identical, then what does it do to the auteur theory? Van Sant is no slouch of a director, so you have to wonder if his remake indicates that perhaps we're spending too much time analysing the specifics of a shot, if perhaps there isn't something larger at play that conventional criticism can't put a finger on. It is, at very least, something to ponder.

As for the masterpiece, to fully understand the impact Psycho had when it was originally in theatres, you have to know a little of the backstory. Hitchcock purchased the option to Robert Bloch's little-known novel without telling anyone, then proceeded to buy every available copy he could find. During the production, which was filmed under the fake title "Wimpy", he planted casting rumours in the press that he was considering Helen Hays for the non-existent role of Mother, had a chair on set reserved for the character, and went to the trouble of billing Janet Leigh as the film's lead, despite the fact that she dies in the early going. Effectively this created two stunning plot twists with the dual benefit of being completely unexpected both in the context of the film and in the reality of anyone familiar with the various Hollywood machinations of casting. Few expect the lead to die in the first half of the film and fewer still expect the casting rumours to involve a character that is a figment of another character's madness.

Part of what makes Leigh's death scene so powerful is that the film never gives us any indication that it isn't going to be about her theft of the money. It invests a great deal of energy in developing her story, from the opening scene of her in a hotel room with her lover, to the nerve-racking encounters with the police, we are completely behind her as a protagonist. So when Hitchcock "kills" her, revealing the theft as the ultimate MacGuffin, it has the ability to take your breath away, but the way Hitchcock films it - with quick cuts and lots of screaming - creates one of the most harrowing scenes ever put on film. It is such a vivid scene that many audience members swore they saw red blood washing down the drain, when in fact the film is done entirely in black and white.

With the protagonist gone, the audience is left scrambling, open to suggestion and manipulation and all sorts of trickery. So we focus on the relationship between Norman Bates and his mother, or what we believe to be his mother. Hitchcock wisely gives us only as much information as is absolutely necessary for us to be convinced of her existence - a shrill voice, a silhouette in a window, a shadowy figure in a dress - but none that might suggest otherwise. Yet the ending survives our suspension of disbelief, partly due to the psychiatrist's explanation but largely thanks to the performance of Anthony Perkins, who is nearly flawless as the boy with the Oedipal complex. He's a friendly enough person, perfectly comfortable with small talk, but note the slight shift in his eyes when someone mentions his mother. He reflects both devotion and a quiet desperation, but more importantly goes from helpful to protective. It should be clear that he's got something to hide, but the devotion to one's mother can be a fierce one, so a son protecting his mother's health isn't all that insane. Only, in this case it is.

To me, one of the most powerful aspects of Psycho is the way the film presents two false realities without undercutting the impact or validity of what's truly going on. So often a twist ending is either telegraphed well in advance by excess foreshadowing or so far-fetched that no reasonable person would ever believe it. But Psycho manages to avoid both pitfalls, striking a perfect balance where it is both shocking and realistic. Factor in Hitchcock's unique ability to ratchet up tension shot by shot and what you've got is one of the greatest thrillers ever filmed, the likes of which most films can only dream of duplicating, even if they duplicate everything else.

The most magical and honest celebration of cinema ever created in the form of film. A film with such a heart and soul that you feel literally happy for being alive. Genuinely emotional and authentic. A beautiful, sublime cinematic piece. Virtually impossible to not be loved, because, in the end, if you don't like Cinema Paradiso, you don't like films.

Sublime. The kind of film Sir. Alfred Hitchcock himself would have been proud to make. One of the most imaginatively scripted films ever made. A 2-hour comedy-mystery-thriller and a tour de force for two enormous, genius actors. Expertly directed by Joseph L. Mankiewicz (his farewell film) and based on the play by Anthony Schaffer, the film opens with delightfully circus-tinged music that lends itself throughout the entire film to mix up the tone as each of the characters transition from serious to comical. Sleuth is a grand example of how you can take the barest of essentials - two great actors, one great script, one great set - and make magic happen. A game of murder, mystery, intrigue, deception and good old-fashioned sleuthing. Outstanding acting from its two main - and only - actors. Michael Caine and Laurence Olivier in one of his most eccentric and wickedly clever roles ever. One of the greatest British films ever made.

I've had the "why is Woody Allen a genius?" discussion many times. There are virtually hundreds of explanations. One of them is the fact that he did something few - if any at all - filmmakers in history have: he took essentially the same thematic material and made two great, huge films out of it, and they feel entirely unalike. They are obviously Annie Hall and Manhattan. They both star Allen and Diane Keaton, both are about imperfect and somewhat forced relationships, and both have the traditional Allen-isms of him playing essentially himself as a neurotic character who inhabits New York. However, the two are completely different in tone. While Annie Hall is the blunt, sad realist of the pair, Manhattan is the hopeless romantic. Annie Hall's honesty reminded us that two people in love don't always end up together in the end - which is true everyday - Manhattan's naiveness made the point that the idealizing and glossing of life can't be considered a bad thing either. Call one the realistic adult that we eventually become after eperiencing life and the other the dreamy child we're often asked not to leave behind. They need each other to make their points. In the end, it's one's personality and view of the world and life that dictates which one we love the most. Personally, my heart belongs to Annie Hall (the character and the film), but Manhattan will always be one of the few films which remotely approaches its sublimity.

Would certainly rank very high (quiçá #1) in a hypothetical "Most Watched Films of All Time" list of mine.

Elliot: "Oh, God!
E.T.: Elliot.
Elliot: What?
E.T.: Elliot! Elliot!
Gertie: I taught him how to talk. He can talk now.
Elliot: Wait. Can you say 'E.T.'? E.T.?
E.T.: E.T.
Elliot: Aha!
E.T.: E.T.! E.T.! E.T.!"



There are certain cultural experiences that tend to define a generation, sometimes a song or a novel or a current event, but quite often it tends to be a film that transcends demographics and is able to reach people on an intimate level. For a variety of reasons, few films can accomplish such a feat, but the ones that do are permanently burned into our collective memories. Steven Spielberg's E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial is one such film.

The story, for the uninformed (is there any?), centres around Elliott (Henry Thomas), a little boy trying to adjust to his parent's divorce and the myriad of things boys his age must adjust to. Then one night he encounters E.T., an alien accidentally left behind by his spaceship. They form a fast friendship, even to the point where Elliott begins to feel what E.T. feels and react to what he does and sees. But as E.T. stays separate from his own kind, it begins to have negative consequences on his health and, by extension, Elliott's. He attempts to "phone home", but it may be too little too late.

It had been roughly five years since I last saw E.T., a long time to be sure, but an eternity when you consider that my primary focus back then was less on cinema and more on sports and creating havoc. As a result, the E.T. I remember only somewhat resembles reality. Certain things are lodged in the back of my head - the Reese's Pieces, the NASA men, and the rest of the iconic images - so it was surprising to watch it again and realize just how different the actual film is from the film in my memory. The childhood version of me found the film, while certainly endearing and moving, slightly creepy. But what do kids know anyway?

In actuality, very little, but they do have the unique ability to respond to stimuli without the burden of knowledge and cynicism. So when E.T. propels the bicycles across the face of the moon, a child is much more likely to believe they're flying, rather than assuming the film is using some form of rear projection or other such effects. It's that innate sense of wonder that E.T.: the Extra-Terrestrial employs more effectively than the vast majority of films dare dream. It has the ability to move people to tears with a simple tale of a friendship that transcends all barriers.

One thing Spielberg does in the early going is model the visual style of the film after all the alien invasion B-films of the 1950s. At every opportunity he fills his night exteriors with fog and lights cutting through the haze. He puts more light then is even remotely plausible in the shed where E.T. is hiding, so when contrasted against the fog, it tends to glow with an otherworldly eeriness. And this is before either the characters or the audience has met the alien, so there's an amount of unease about the scenes where Elliott is sitting in the lawn chair armed with nothing more than a flash-light. For all we know, the alien could pounce on him at any moment. There's always that risk in an alien film: they're either friendly or hell-bent on world domination. Rarely is it something in-between. And sure, you could assume that, since this is the man who idealized Close Encounters of the Third Kind, the aliens are likely to be peaceful, but young directors love to try new things, so you never know.

So when we discover that E.T. is indeed friendly, a lonely soul accidentally left behind, we breathe a sigh of relief knowing that Elliott and his family will indeed be safe, that no one is going to get shot with a laser. Elliott, for his part, does what virtually every boy his age would do in such a situation: he treats E.T. like a cross between a little brother and a pet that's followed him home and he won't be allowed to keep. That is, he hides him in the closet, confiding only in his older brother, Michael (Robert MacNaughton) and little sister, Gertie (7-year-old Drew Barrymore), who, despite some conflict earlier in the film, are more than willing to help. The task of keeping E.T. a secret serves to unite these siblings in a common cause. Gone is the constant bickering and yelling of the film's early scenes. When Elliott is teased in school, Michael actually sticks up for his brother against his friends. They learn, in some small way, what it means to be part of a family, growing closer in pursuit of a goal.

Of course, they don't become nearly as close as Elliott and E.T., who actually form a bond so tight that their heart rhythms begin to operate in sync. They begin to share experiences, such as E.T. drinking beer while Elliott gets drunk during school and mimics the actions of the film E.T. is watching on TV. This is by no means an original way to show how two characters are linked, but by tying their fates together in a supernatural way, Spielberg is able to present it in a new way and it's so effective that when they lay side by side on the verge of death, you can scarcely stand the thought of what might happen. As an audience member, you're torn between wanting E.T. to be able to phone home and re-join his family and wishing he could stay on Earth with Elliott and his family. But if they're to both live healthy and productive lives, they cannot stay together. E.T. cannot stay on Earth and Elliott cannot leave his family behind, and so ends one of the great friendships in all of cinema. The film, however, will live on forever.

[Mary hits E.T. with the refrigerator door]
Gertie: "Here he is.
Mary: [absently] Who?
Gertie: The man from the moon. But I think you've killed him already."

The kind of film that is above any kind of personal opinion or 'taste'. Is and will ALWAYS be a masterpiece! Gibson's first proof that he's a natural-born filmmaker.