My Favorite Movies

"'Garcon' means boy." "Ah man, I shot Marvin in the face." "It's not a motorcycle, baby, it's a chopper." "How would you like that cooked, burnt to a crisp or bloody as hell?" "Nobody's gonna hurt anybody. We're gonna be like three little Fonzies here." "She's getting the shot, I'm gonna get my little black medical book." "Oh, I'm sorry, did I break your concentration?" "Now I wanna dance, I wanna win, I want that trophy--so dance good." "That's thirty minutes away. I'll be there in ten." "They call it a 'Royale with Cheese.'" "Nobody ever robs restaurants. Why not?" "This was divine intervention." "Dorks. They look like a couple of dorks." "I think we should be leaving now."

The film opens silently with the dictionary definition of "pulp," tipping off the audience from the beginning, without apologies, that what follows will be "lurid." The first shot places us in the middle of a conversation, the very first words being an answer to a question we'll never hear. There is no effort to establish a context; we must simply listen to find out who these people are and what they're doing. They are a man and a woman who refer to each other with the cutest nicknames imaginable, engaged in a colorful discussion on the safest way to continue their larcenous lifestyle. The debate reaches a conclusion agreeable to both parties, and they proceed to rob the very diner in which they sit. The shot freezes, Dick Dale's "Misirlou" suddenly bursts into our ears, and we are treated to the opening credits of Quentin Tarantino's "Pulp Fiction."

The definition, the conversation, and the explosion of music all somehow work together to send the same message: what we are about to watch is a very unusual (feel free to say "strange") movie. Indeed, the plot(s) of the film involve some of the strangest situations ever conceived. Tarantino ventures freely into the bizarre and the disgusting, but for me at least, he does so in a way that is consistently fun and upbeat. This is raucous entertainment, a complex structure of tangentially related stories told with enough skill and daring that we have no choice but to come along for the ride. Here is one movie, among the countless told by Hollywood over the years, where one can only guess what will happen next. It's a movie that, after many viewings, I still feel has secrets for me to discover, besides the secrets that it playfully keeps unexplained.

The first thing to mention, as anyone who's seen this film will know, is the chronology. Tarantino tells his stories out of order, placing each scene where it will best serve his tempo and the mood he creates. All of the major characters are introduced in successive scenes near the beginning, and we assume that these events are happening at roughly the same time, one after the other. By the end of the movie, we know better. Tarantino inserts clues that will be explained much later, two of which I remember off the top of my head. The first is the clothing worn by Jules and Vincent the second time we see them. The second, which no one is likely to notice on the first viewing, or possibly any viewing without the audio commentary, is a shot of Vincent, seen from the back, walking in the diner where Pumpkin and Honey Bunny are talking.

It's little details like this that keep me watching this film. There are a few more during the "OD" scene, for example. Tarantino has Lance, the drug dealer, watching the Three Stooges when Vincent calls him. The reference is funny in itself, but Tarantino times it perfectly, for just a single line, to coincide with the situation in the movie. Later, at a pertinent moment, we see the board games "Life" and "Operation" in the room. And there are so many more of these details throughout the film. Tarantino fills his movie with references to films, television, and other forms of culture. As had become his trademark, the dialogue among his characters covers a range of topics above and beyond what the plot requires. It is all delivered with such perfect rhythm, such speed and energy, that I never once feel the conversations are a waste of time. The fact of the matter is, they are anything but a waste of time. If nothing else, they help us get to know the characters, which is the most rewarding thing this film has to offer. The inhabitants of these stories may be an odd group of miscreants, but they are also people, capable of making stunningly insightful comments now and then.

The method of storytelling is exciting and liberating. We are pretty much forced to be in the moment; piecing together how and when everything happens should be done later. As a result, one can be honestly confused about the overall plot and have no less enjoyment of the movie. Some films require a struggle to keep up with everything that's happening; this one makes it clear very early that it's practically impossible, and really unnecessary, to try that here. A person can adore this movie and keep the assumption that the dialogue and the events have been picked at random. Repeated viewings reveal an immense structure of which every turn of events is a part. Even some of the seemingly throwaway lines of dialogue come back later with new meaning. From the smallest prop or reference to the overall arc, this film shows incredible care and enjoyment in its making.

Beneath the awesome style, one can detect a beating heart to this film, one that's personified by Jules (played by Samuel L. Jackson with one of the greatest performances I've ever seen, the standout performance in the most amazing ensemble cast ever) and Butch (played by Bruce Willis with his signature tough-and-funny-at-the-same-time manner). They express the spiritual and social morals of the story, respectively. But this film doesn't pound any discernible message into our heads. I've thought a lot about the final scene, and I think what happens is, more than anything, a stab at the pretensions of popular entertainment to say something profound in the midst of all the action, jokes, sex, and violence. Jules makes the decision to turn his life around, but his epiphany is merely that being a hired killer is wrong. Whatever "Pulp Fiction" has to say, it says through satire--through humor. It is first and foremost a comedy, and an absolutely hilarious one at that. Tarantino turns tragic, violent, ugly situations into absurdly funny moments. The "OD" scene and the scene in the pawn shop are the most famous examples. Tarantino lifts society's veil every chance he gets, but he keeps us laughing the whole way.

"Pulp Fiction" is a collection of thousands of my all-time favorite film moments and quotes. It's so great, that I love a deleted scene more than most scenes in other movies (I'm referring to the one where Mia asks Vincent about Elvis and "The Partridge Family" before their date. This scene mysteriously ended up in the televised version where I first saw the movie). This is the best example I've seen of how much fun making and experiencing a movie can be. Despite its casual, just-for-fun exterior, it still deserves comparisons to movies like "Intolerance" and "Citizen Kane." It's not the greatest movie ever made, but it's the defining film of my lifetime so far, and at least until I know better, it's my favorite.

"No. He is not ready." "Yoda? I am ready, I--Ben, I can be a Jedi. Ben, tell him I'm..." "Ready are you? What know you, ready? For 800 years have I trained Jedi. My own counsel will I keep on who is to be trained. A Jedi must have the deepest commitment. The most serious mind. This one, a long time have I watched. All his life has he looked away, to the future, to the horizon. Never his mind on where he was. What he was doing. Adventure--heh! Excitement--heh! A Jedi craves not these things ... He is too old. Yes, too old to begin the training." "But I've learned so much." "Will he finish what he begins?" "I won't fail you. I'm not afraid." "You will be."

I've never seen another action movie that is so densely packed with meaning as this one. The characters are each significant parts of a tapestry of conflict and loyalty the likes of which we, the audience, could not have guessed existed in the first movie. It's astonishing how completely this film surpasses the accomplishments of the original, in terms of acting, effects, scope, locations, and drama in general. "The Empire Strikes Back" is the best of the Star Wars trilogy. The first movie got things going, the third one wrapped them up, but this one does almost all the hard work. Characters on both sides of the Force are given more complicated motivations; they're not just convenient to the plot, as in the first movie. In fact, the developments of this film are what drive the plot to its conclusion in "Return of the Jedi," as well as providing the impetus for the entire prequel trilogy. For its importance and for the brilliance of its execution, this film has always been near the top of my list of all-time favorites.

First, the characters. Our hero, Luke Skywalker, has suddenly become an important figure in the rebellion. Blowing up the Death Star will do that for you. Unfortunately, he is plagued by ghostly visions of his mentor, who advises him that in order to become a Jedi, he must abandon the rebels for awhile. In his training under Yoda, he learns some uncomfortable truths about the dual nature of the Force. The film offers subtle and frightening hints that Luke might not be as pure as we'd thought. Near the end of the movie, we find out why. Yoda, of course, is a marvelous creation, probably the single most memorable character on the good side of the Force. Like the Muppets, he is an inanimate object miraculously given as much life and personality as the people around him. The puppeteer's techniques are so perfect that Yoda becomes a real person in our minds. It is his job to inform us about the intricacies of Lucas's hodgepodge philosophy, and in so doing he sets the rules for how this whole thing must play out. Meanwhile, Han and Leia slowly begin to overcome their horrible first impressions of each other. Their romance is one of the many surprisingly mature aspects of this installment. But, although they fall in love, there is something unique about Leia's relationship with Luke, a psychic link that sets up an intriguing mystery and a love triangle, both of which are satisfactorily dealt with in the next movie.

As interesting as those developments are, they pale in comparison with what we learn about the Dark Side and he who is enthralled by it. Early in the film, we are offered a brief glimpse at Darth Vader without his helmet on. We might have guessed, from his odd breathing, that he wears his suit because of some deformity, but this is our first real clue. Within a second, the film presents a reason for Vader's appearance, a reason going beyond just an overkill version of putting a black hat on the villain in a Western. There might just be some vulnerability beneath his awesomely formidable exterior, we reason. Later in the movie, we find out just how much. I can't remember a time before I knew about the game-changing revelation at the climax of this movie. That's unfortunate, but it doesn't take anything away from my enjoyment of the story. Suffice it to say that Vader's motivations get a whole lot more complicated than we could have imagined. I refuse to put in a spoiler. I know, the two people left alive who haven't seen these movies have almost definitely heard the spoiler by now, but I'm adamant. The moment I'm thinking of, and the moments that follow it, tell us more about Vader and Luke than the rest of the series put together. It is a moral victory in the midst of the most devastating defeat. I love the ending of this movie. It resists the urge of tacking on a resolution. Yes, the film feels incomplete, but each individual film in the series does to some extent. With this ending, the film offers the unique message that sometimes the best victory we can hope for is just survival.

Concepts this strong require good acting to give them life. We can probably thank the director, Irvin Kershner, for the improvements in assuredness and energy by the actors. This time around, everybody seems to be having just as much fun as Harrison Ford. Remarkably, they betray no signs of the unbelievable pressure to make a movie that's at least as good as the first one. It is an immeasurable help to the movie that the actors create believable people right in the middle of these places and creatures that are so removed from our experience.

It is also helpful that those places are so vivid and fascinating. The first film had Tatooine, but this one has the blinding snow of Hoth, the deliciously boggy Dagobah planet, and the beautiful orange sky of Cloud City. Just three years later, the improvements in special effects technology are plain to see. I find it easy to take for granted how much better this film looks. The attention to detail is wonderful. Hoth, like Tatooine, is pretty much blank, but it's a lot of fun to observe that there is a life form hiding in just about every frame of the Dagobah scenes. The Imperial Walker sequence on Hoth has always been my favorite battle scene in the whole series. I love the sense of slowly approaching doom.

To conclude, I should say some things about the trilogy as a whole, because there are certain aspects of the entire series that contribute to making this film currently my second favorite. One is the music. With this particular film, of course, John Williams accomplished the impossible, creating a second immortal theme. But I adore the way, in all three films, the original theme explodes into being at the opening and closing. It is an incredibly invigorating feeling, listening to this music. The sounds symbolize the ecstatic joy of the entire production, an enjoyment of the art of movies unlike anything else I've seen. It certainly contrasts with the often more lugubrious "Lord of the Rings." Another thing I appreciate about the series is just the array of diverse, iconic characters. They create an impression in the mind of watching people you know well, making me a willing participant in the films' journey. Plus, they get to blow up spaceships and fight each other with laser swords. This is incredibly fun modern mythology, and "The Empire Strikes Back" is as good as it gets.

"Now, if somebody gets dressed up to look like me, so they can hang this thing around my neck, I don't like it none, but I can understand it. What I don't understand is the 'why.'" "Neither do I." "But I see you looked a lot for the 'why.' Yeah. What if there were a whole heap of 'whys'? Round, yellow--you know the kind. You rap 'em on a stone, and they go 'ding.'" "Maybe. But I didn't find them." "By the way, do you know anything about a man going around playing a harmonica? He's somebody you'd remember. Instead of talking, he plays, and when he'd better play, he talks ... You know, ma'am, when you've killed four, it's easy to make it five."

The Western was on its last legs in America when the Italians picked it up. It's really one of the strangest events in movie history. Westerns are probably the most purely American genre, for obvious reasons. By the 1960's, however, we seemed to have run out of ideas and interest. The makers of the "spaghetti Westerns," none more so than Sergio Leone, instilled the worn-out themes and concepts with an energy and grandeur that they had never possessed before, and never would again. Given the Italians' unique vantage point on the West, theirs are Westerns about Westerns. They were merely putting their own spin on what had been done before, but they did so in a totally unforgettable way. Leone himself had perfected his directing style through the trilogy of Westerns he made with Clint Eastwood. Each film in that series was an improvement on the previous one, and by the time it was all over, he had arguably established himself as a master stylist with an easily recognizable view of the world. His next project is, in my opinion, his masterpiece.

There isn't another director I can think of who presents his signature style so much just by the pacing of his films. In the very first scene of "Once Upon a Time in the West," Leone slows things down to beyond a crawl. It's a polarizing technique; I understand that. To me it is, among other things, a respite from movies that try to move as fast as they can. Leone, with almost no dialogue, envelops us in his world. The three men on the screen are waiting for a train, and we'll wait right along with them. Leone employs a much bigger arc for suspense than is normal. By doing so, he brings power and majesty to the smallest, simplest events. Then, just as soon as the disengaged in the audience become convinced nothing is going to happen, the violence ignites and is over while they're blinking. And we're off...

The film's story is a collection of famous themes and icons, each subplot weaving in and out of the main story. What the movie seems to be about more than anything else is the extinction of the order and ethics that guided the Old West. The film works beautifully as an elegy for both our mythical understanding of what the West meant and the old Hollywood movies that celebrated those myths. Leone creates a towering portrait of men who abide by the most primitive of codes. They are doomed because they won't accept that money really can stop their bullets--not right away, but eventually, and sooner than they think. These themes are immortalized and given a lot more weight than we would probably allow them in the light of day. I freely admit that it's the style of the movie that I appreciate more than what it's trying to say. But this film makes perfectly clear why there will never again be Westerns like in the old days. Nobody is going to do better than this.

Leone and his composer, Ennio Morricone, were a flawless combination. The director understood that music is vital to the rhythm and power of a film, and so he made sure he had the music before shooting. This is, without a doubt, one of my two or three favorite scores in movie history. Morricone converges so many disparate themes, each perfectly suited to the characters. The music is lyrical, sweeping, sometimes menacing, and sometimes funny, like his "The Good, the Bad and the Ugly" score. It lends a sorrowful quality to the film's long march to its final shootout. Leone confirms his understanding of the importance of music by putting a harmonica in the hands of his protagonist. It is an object the full importance of which is revealed only at the end, in an outstanding example of storytelling through images and sounds, without relying on words. This film would not be the same without its music; it couldn't even exist. With it, though, the movie takes flight.

Leone enjoyed juxtaposing extremes of distance. The camera in his films looks deeply into human faces for long periods of time, in between the splendid establishing shots of the wilderness and dusty towns. Even more so than the beautifully authentic sets, the faces in Leone's films take us realistically back in time. To be polite, we could say that most of these faces have incredible personality. Many are dirty and ragged, but the eyes never flinch from their prolonged exposure to the audience. Leone lingers on them until they have burned their way into our memory. Obviously, he never had a better face on which to exercise his technique than that of Claudia Cardinale. One of the luminous beauties of the twentieth century, she exhibits quiet sadness and resignation as one of the two emotional centers of the film, the other being Jason Robards. His outlaw provides most of the film's humor; for example, memorably hiding his gun in his boot to reverse the perceived situation instantaneously. Charles Bronson is also very good as the enigmatic protagonist. Few actors have ever matched his toughness, and so he follows in the tradition of Eastwood and John Wayne.

The great performance of the movie, though, is that of Henry Fonda. Leone's boldest revisionist move was to make him the villain. Fonda vindicates the idea by giving possibly his greatest performance, and certainly my favorite. It's great because he had to work at it. Instead of relying on his iconic persona, he had to spend every moment of screen time subverting it. The result is a complete success. That little voice of his rings with malice and hatred, and his powerful eyes are the personification of spite. Even more so than the others, Fonda rose to Leone's epic heights with the dark side of his internal strength.

"Once Upon a Time in the West" is, with every shot, a triumph of personal vision. It is one of those films made by a genius at his absolute best, with the money and the team of actors and crew to make it precisely the way he wanted it made. It is also one of the precious few I know of that is large and commanding enough to drown out the rest of the world whenever I watch it. No other Western inspires such giddiness in me just by thinking about it. This is filmmaking.

"Just remember this, Mr. Potter, that this rabble you're talking about, they do most of the working and paying and living and dying in this community. Well, is it too much to have them work and pay and live and die in a couple of decent rooms and a bath? Anyway, my father didn't think so. People were human beings to him. But to you, a warped, frustrated old man, they're cattle. Well, in my book he died a much richer man than you'll ever be ... Well, I've said too much ... There's just one thing more, though. This town needs this measly one-horse institution if only to have some place where people can come without crawling to Potter."

Christmas has become famous as either the best time of year or the most depressing, depending on your situation. It is a time of manufactured good cheer, and either you get with the program, or you don't. My family has almost always had a great time with the season, spending the days together and never becoming too annoyed with each other. So it is ironic that we've made "It's a Wonderful Life" a part of our annual tradition, for this is the story of a man who falls into suicidal despair on Christmas Eve. If the central event didn't happen on that particular date, it wouldn't be a "Christmas movie" at all. However, the ending of the movie (pardon the spoiler) interlocks with the Christmas spirit so perfectly as to become legendary. It is necessary for us to be periodically reminded of hope, however dark the rest of the year gets.

It's possible that I've seen one or two movies more times than this one, but there isn't another film, obviously, for which the viewings have been spaced apart so evenly over the entire course of my life. The amazing thing is that I haven't gotten tired of the movie at all; on the contrary, I always look forward to seeing it again. There are personal, social, and spiritual treasures in this tragicomic story that haven't lost any of their effect over time. So many elements--the superb acting, the striking black-and-white cinematography, the strength of the dialogue, the morality and insights--play a part in what I consider to be great filmmaking that my respect for the film has only grown over the years. It is a complete experience, marked by childlike imagination and intensity as it deals with adult fears and insecurities.

The earth-shattering power of the film's closing scenes has been one of my most cherished movie experiences for as long as I can remember. Those moments penetrate to the deepest parts of the soul. But on recent viewings, I've acquired more appreciation for the humor of the film, as well. As soon as the story reaches its final day, the power of what is seen wipes away some of that humor from our consciousness, but up until that point, it's tremendous. I especially love the humor in the developing romance between George Bailey (James Stewart) and Mary Hatch (Donna Reed). The film gracefully and fearlessly dances on the edge of what the Production Code would have considered appropriate--even more gracefully, as a matter of fact, than George and Mary dance over the swimming pool, in a great example of comic suspense. There are also several interesting supporting characters to add comedy to certain scenes. Uncle Billy (Thomas Mitchell) is funny in a pitiful sort of way before his foible becomes tragic. Ward Bond and Gloria Grahame also contribute their talents. And I mustn't forget the early scenes, with George as a child. Those are some of the mostly lovably humorous moments I've ever seen in a movie.

Both Stewart and Frank Capra had just returned from service in World War II, and the darkness of the movie is plainly a result of their experience. Stewart, especially, plumbs his own spirit for the deepest possible agony, giving one of the ultimate performances in history. It's even more intense than "Mr. Smith," and he doesn't have the benefit of a marathon filibuster to "help" his suffering along; his torment is completely psychological. The extent to which he has succumbed to his situation is genuinely spooky and crushing. Capra doesn't let up for an excruciatingly long time, making the film's conclusion even more uplifting. He was a master of emotions, getting the audience to feel precisely the way he wanted them to at any given moment. None of those emotions is contrived or rushed upon us in this film. Capra just lets the power of the story do the work for him.

The message this film delivers is incredibly important. I have found it to be a great reminder of what life is all about, and I haven't even gotten a chance to try turning my ambitions into realities yet. In the event of failure, I know this movie can provide awesome comfort. It isn't just a self-esteem boost; it uncovers an easily forgotten truth, one that is fundamentally Judeo-Christian regardless of the filmmakers' points of view. We grow up with dreams about what we need to do or have in order to be happy. Those dreams grow and grow, and adulthood begins as the journey to make them come true. What we often fail to realize is that life is not our own creation to write for ourselves. There is a purpose for each and every one of us, and our personal ambitions may or may not be connected to it. Chasing happiness apart from our true purpose will only bring misery. George Bailey spends most of the film ignoring the subtle hints that his ambitions are never going to be fulfilled. He refuses to change his mindset in order to have true joy in the small but important work that he's been given to do. Finally, it takes supernatural intervention to show George that what he wants is actually the worst possible scenario, and that he has done great things through the people he has helped. Our dreams often involve changing the world as a whole. Merely improving the lives of the people closest to us doesn't feel significant enough. But many, if not most, people are meant to do just that. The magnificent elation of the film's ending comes because the protagonist has accepted his place. It's only icing on the cake when he finds out how much his friends are able and willing to help him.

Enough preaching. Sorry about that. This is just a rare case where what the film has to say is quite possibly even more important than how it says it. In style vs. substance, the substance of the film completely overcomes any problems I might have with Capra's style. Even Mr. Potter is saved from being an egregious, one-dimensional villain by Lionel Barrymore's performance, marked by moments of surprising, ironic humor. This is a story of redemption to stand for all time. It has probably the most powerful emotional effect on me of any movie ever made. And the movie's unusual history has made it a perennial showcase of the worst, and best, things that Christmas means to us.

"I had worked for this older man, and once he told me that he had spent all of his life thinking about his career and his work, and he was 52, and it suddenly struck him that he had never really given anything of himself. His life was for no one and nothing. He was almost crying, saying that. You know, I believe if there's any kind of God, it wouldn't be in any of us, not you or me but just this little space in between. If there's any kind of magic in this world, it must be in the attempt of understanding someone, sharing something. I know, it's almost impossible to succeed, but who cares really? The answer must be in the attempt."

Richard Linklater is an anomaly in his generation. Movies, generally speaking, have recently been adding more action, always with better special effects and bigger explosions. Even many romantic comedies of the last twenty years or so have placed a lot of dependence on some gimmick of the storyline to hold the audience's interest. The bar for generating excitement has been raised so often that Linklater's special quirk comes as a complete surprise: he makes movies about people who ... just talk. He loves hearing and listening to people talk so much that some of his movies are really about nothing else. With "Before Sunrise," he used all his gifts for dialogue and characterization to create a romance. It's a romance with the intense premise that the camera will not leave sight of these two people for the duration of the movie; it will not slip away to subplots, because there's only one "plot" that matters. We will merely observe the conversations between a young man and a young woman over the course of the day they meet and ... you'll see.

I love words. This should come as no surprise to anyone by now. There are times for action (and that is a very loosely defined term; it can apply to anything a character does that's significant in the movie). Certainly, most movies need action at specific points to keep them from being boring. But sometimes--and maybe Linklater is the only director I like who fits this definition--sometimes a movie comes around with such fresh, intelligent, and powerful words that it needs nothing else. Now, "Before Sunrise" isn't one long scene with two people sitting across from each other for an hour and a half. They walk and ride through Vienna, so there are plenty of interesting things to see in the movie besides the two faces. Still, whatever they actually do is of secondary importance to what they say to each other and the attitudes that those words convey. But they communicate with each other, much more fruitfully than most people in the movies--incredibly so.

Ethan Hawke plays Jesse and Julie Delpy plays Celine. I suppose they're acting. Both of them approach the material with such ease and fervor that there isn't a single unconvincing moment between them. I can barely say how much it helps the whole enterprise to have two people like them in the only two real roles in the film. Seldom have I cared so much about anyone on the screen as I care about, not just one, but both of these people. I don't always agree with them, and there are times I don't even understand everything they're thinking about, but they've got me listening every step of the way.

If you put an attractive guy and an attractive girl in a movie, there is already a sense of necessity that they end up together. Of course, there is even more of that here. But Linklater doesn't waste our time by inserting problems and misunderstandings--reasons to keep the couple apart when there's never any doubt how it will end. From an early moment, Jesse and Celine connect, both mentally and emotionally. It's a great testament to how the barriers of culture can be crossed. These two have plenty in common, regardless of how far apart they've been most of their lives. Barriers still exist, obviously. Their relationship wouldn't be possible if they didn't both speak English (hooray for English!). With that established, though, they can find out how close they truly are at heart--both of them thoughtful, creative, funny and smart.

Because there isn't really much of a plot to the movie, the conversations are free to touch on whatever topics are most important and interesting to the characters, in whatever order they think of them. So the story develops in extraordinarily subtle ways. Each subject is important in itself and in how it contributes to the rapport of Jesse and Celine. They discuss religion, philosophy, music, poetry, marriage, family, the afterlife, rebellion, past relationships--they talk about so much, in fact, that one gets a sense by the time it's over that one understands their respective worldviews almost completely. The movie is the act of two souls pouring themselves out for each other to see.

Many couples have a problem of not communicating enough. This one, you might be tempted to say, looks to have the opposite problem. Maybe so, but circumstances dictate from the beginning that this will be extremely temporary, and both people understand this. Jesse will be leaving the continent tomorrow, in fact, so they share the feeling that whatever they need to say to each other has to be said right now. Mostly, though, they have each found someone they enjoy speaking with, perhaps to a greater extent than in a very long time. The day unfolds as just an unusually long first date. It's simply the best first date ever.

There isn't much more to say about the movie. It would ruin it to describe some of the wonderful discussions instead of just letting you listen to them for yourself. There is one brief wordless scene that should be mentioned. It comes early in the film, and involves Jesse and Celine listening to a record together in a music store booth. Their faces engage in a sort of circular dance, stealing glances at the other person and looking away before the other notices. It's the simplest of ideas, yet it says even more about how they have already come to feel about one another than any words could.

"Before Sunrise" is incredibly beautiful. The beauty of the words, thoughts, and ideas is accompanied and enhanced by the jaw-dropping loveliness of a great European city. This is my favorite movie love story. I always feel, as I watch it, that I'm looking at a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, that these individuals will never meet another person who is more right for them. It is a profound dream. The film expresses the ideal of two human beings fitting together like pieces in a puzzle, but it doesn't idealize them as people. They are all too imperfect, living in an imperfect world, where time always catches up with you eventually.

"You had your world, and I had mine. And I wanted him in mine, not chasing through the universe with his father. Actually, he's a lot like you, in many ways ... Please tell me what you're feeling." "There's a man out there I haven't seen in fifteen years who's trying to kill me. You show me a son who'd be happy to help him. My son ... my life that could have been, and wasn't. How do I feel? Old ... worn out." "Let me show you something that will make you feel young, as when the world was new."

Science fiction has always been attractive to me. There's something about it that seems to diminish other genres. Using outer space as the setting, in particular, allows science fiction films to overcome the limitations and the dirt of other stories. It appeals to my imagination in a special way. However impossible it may now seem for us to do much more in space than we've done already, in another few centuries, who knows? That's the kind of suspension of disbelief that is infinitely more fun than skepticism. It's what gives life to "Star Trek" as a series, both on television and in the movies. The universe offers an endless arena for exploration, one of the most exciting things mankind has ever set out to do.

I owe my enjoyment of "Star Trek" to my dad, who got started with the original series and has loved the shows and movies ever since. Being obstinately peculiar has long been a hobby of mine, and there was even a time when I would have picked "Trek" over "Wars." To this day, I haven't seen much of that first TV series, so other than "The Next Generation," my familiarity with the franchise starts and ends with the films. A few of those films have managed to maintain their status as some of my favorites. And now that the latest "Star Wars" trilogy has produced films of varying quality, the competition between the two is as robust as ever. They have completely different approaches to the genre, and so comparing them isn't really fair. I like both "Trek" and "Wars" for different reasons.

Of all the "Star Trek" movies, the one that best expresses the spirit of what they're all about is "The Wrath of Khan." It has weathered the storm of my increasingly critical eye better than all the rest. The plot can be described as a good excuse to get the original crew back on the same ship again. We needed an excuse for that. A lot of time has gone by, and there's no reason to think that each crew member's situation would remain exactly the same. They're so successful that they just have to get promoted, and that's what happens. But the power of "Star Trek" has always been the way that the cast worked together, so whether Kirk has become an admiral or not, he simply must return to command the Enterprise, as Spock even explains in so many words. Fortunately, the film allows him that chance, and Spock voluntarily accepts a temporary demotion. With that complication out of the way, the film settles comfortably into its story.

That story is driven by one of the greatest villains in the "Star Trek" universe: Khan Noonien Singh. The back-story of this character is crucial, and the film explains it in such a way that the audience need not have seen the original TV episode on which Khan appeared to fully understand him. What Khan has suffered is intense enough to provide plenty of motivation for a feature-length quest for vengeance. His presence dominates the screen when he appears. The performance depends just as much on subtle facial expressions as it does on big, charismatic speeches. His super-intelligent, "Moby Dick"-quoting villain is constantly trying to think up ways of doing worse things to Kirk than simply killing him. In this way, the film elegantly sidesteps the problem of the villain having the hero in his power and then letting him go, just because, well, the hero can't be allowed to die. Khan accomplishes enough in a short time to feed his massive ego, which becomes his greatest enemy.

"Star Trek" has always had the right to claim more of a cerebral quality than "Star Wars." The use of strategizing is one of the things I find most interesting about this film. For example, the movie makes great use of the premise that Khan has commandeered a Federation ship, a situation that quickly changes from advantage to disadvantage. Most importantly, it means that the two ships are evenly matched as far as firepower, and both Kirk and Khan must find ways of overcoming the stalemate. Admittedly, there's not a great deal of action in the movie, but I actually prefer it when the fighting suddenly bursts upon us and then stops. The chess match metaphor is stale, I know, but it applies here in more than one way. "Star Trek" combat has all the strategy of naval battles (stretched to a third dimension), with lasers. In other words, it's insanely cool.

A common science fiction theme is the blessings and curses that come from advanced technology. Mostly, this theme is used to warn against the potential curses, and this film is no exception. This time, our abilities have stretched so far that we can successfully plant living things on dead, rocky planets. It's hard to think of anything wrong with that, beyond the common "playing God" argument. But human nature always seems to seek out the ways of turning creative things into destruction. As the great triumvirate of Kirk, Spock and McCoy figures out, Khan wants the so-called "Genesis" device so he can use it on a planet that already has life, killing everything before the new life takes its place. This would be the ultimate form of playing God, wiping away everything He's already done to start your own world. It's over-the-top, "Bond villain" stuff, but thankfully Khan is a great deal more interested in making Kirk suffer. "Genesis" is just a way of taking it out on the universe once that first bit of revenge proves to be insufficient.

"The Wrath of Khan" is a classic, simple story, told with humor and power. In the middle of that story, it finds time to think seriously about aging and how much a person's career should define his life. Shatner considers these subjects with understated sadness; he's not nearly as hammy as you might think. And then the ending of the movie comes. Without giving it away, I think it's the most touching moment in "Star Trek" history. It also provides ample reason for Kirk to get back in the captain's chair for at least a few more movies, and that's a very good thing.

"Do you remember the Shire, Mr. Frodo? It'll be spring soon. And the orchards will be in blossom. And the birds will be nesting in the hazel thicket. And they'll be sowing the summer barley in the lower fields, and eating the first of the strawberries with cream. Do you remember the taste of strawberries?" "No, Sam. I can't recall the taste of food, nor the sound of water, nor the touch of grass. I'm naked in the dark, with nothing, no veil between me and the wheel of fire! I can see him with my waking eyes!" "Then let us be rid of it!"

The scene quoted above illustrates how Peter Jackson's LOTR trilogy works. Most movies make pitches for emotional commitment with the characters on the screen. In the vast majority of cases, they have very little time to establish that commitment. But there's a reason Jackson made these movies so long (besides the amount of story he had to tell). He successfully forges a bond between the audience and the characters through nothing so much as prolonged immersion. By the time this scene rolls around, the audience has been watching for nearly nine hours, all told. That's what makes it so effective. In isolation, this moment between Frodo and Sam is one of childlike simplicity and corny sentimentalism (albeit couched in some truly poetic dialogue). In a much shorter movie, it wouldn't have worked at all. But properly placed at the tail end of this epic, it is one of the most intensely emotional moments I've ever seen in a movie. It is the best example I know of a small, human moment (forget the fact that they're not exactly humans) totally outshining the sprawling war scenes.

That's what Jackson's LOTR is all about: small people in a big world. It is an epic, yes, but an epic revolving around a trinket so small that it could fall out of a character's pocket and be lost forever, at least if it weren't for its magical properties. Throughout the trilogy, Jackson finds interesting ways of getting around the fundamental difficulty of epics: making them personal, giving the audience individuals to root for so that their eyes don't completely glaze over during the big battles. There is a constant escalation in LOTR, reaching its peak in the utterly majestic scope of "The Return of the King." At many different points in between, however, there are moments of people battling their inner demons, enjoying friendship (as much as they can), and even romance. It all comes together in this final chapter. The filmmakers clearly understood that they had to top everything with the last movie, and they manage to produce their best work on both the small scale and the large.

Another of my favorite "small" scenes comes toward the end of the film. I generally agree with the criticism that this film drags to a halt after the resolution, presenting several scenes that look like they could easily be the last one, but aren't. A few probably should have been cut, and perhaps it wouldn't be as much of a problem if they didn't end so many scenes with what looks like a final "fade to black." But compared with the total running time of the series, there's not much to complain about here, and at least one of those final scenes is indispensable. I'm referring to the wordless scene in the tavern, as the four hobbits sit together for a drink. They pause briefly, and one can see on their faces all the pain they've endured, as well as the comfort from knowing they lived this great adventure together. Also, possibly, they share a feeling of separateness from the place they once called home. However easily the unchanging ways of the Shire will make it to return to a normal life, they each carry the burden of what they've been through, emotional scars that, like Frodo's stab wound, will never fully heal. The scene is quite poignant. In the midst of an extremely noisy movie, it's very nice indeed.

Now for those big battle scenes. Simply put, this is the biggest, grandest CGI-fest of them all. The "battle for Middle Earth" lives up to its title. The sheer spectacle of it all completely surpasses the battle in "The Two Towers." This makes up for the lack of a sense of desperation as compared to Helm's Deep. There certainly does seem to be an endless supply of reinforcements this time around. But the film spaces the arrival of these reinforcements perfectly, creating a seesaw kind of battle where a certain scenario is clearly established, then flipped. The fighting goes on for so long that they had to do something to keep it from getting monotonous, and that's exactly what they do. As impressive as it is, though, it is over before the climax of the movie. The real conflict comes down to three people fighting over a ring inside a volcanic mountain.

The entire trilogy was blessed with an awesome ensemble cast. For the most part, of course, the job of the actors is to look worried, but in each movie, different people are given moments to shine. In this film, I believe the standout performances are by (not surprisingly, given what I've said already) Sean Astin and Andy Serkis. It occurs to us at some point that Sam (Astin) has been through almost as much as Frodo, but he hasn't shown any signs of cracking until now. He takes on the role of the hero when Frodo can bear it no more, and the depth of his emotions is truly remarkable. Serkis, of course, creates Gollum, with the help of computers. His performance here is just as great as in "Towers," embodying the ugly, vicious result of too much time spent with the ring, but still somehow arousing our pity.

"Return of the King" is by no means a perfect film. Nothing so ambitious ever could be. I sense that the filmmakers' deep love for the source material, which usually serves them so well, goes a little too far with some of the dialogue. There are just a few too many "big statements" made by kings and wizards and whatnot about what this battle means. Some work fine, but others feel stilted. They're just too overtly literate, breaking faith to a degree with the visceral immediacy of film. But these are slight qualms, and the best moments in the movie more than make up for them. As a whole, it's a spectacular achievement, although it does require a commitment to sit down and watch the thing from beginning to end. It's worth it. Here is a wondrous visualization of Tolkien's immense universe, a massive parable on good and evil, and a warning about the ever-present temptation to do things the easy way.

"I thought you'd like, you know, a bedtime story or something. I've got some really cool ones! MAD Magazine--very funny! "The Spirit"--very cool. "Boys' Life"--eh. Oh, here! This guy is "Superman"! Sure, he's famous now. But he started off just like you. Crash-landed on Earth, didn't know what he was doing. But, he only uses his powers for good, never for evil. Remember that ... Oh, that's "Atomo: The Metal Menace." He's not the hero, he's the villain. He's not like you. You're a good guy, like Superman."

To sum it up, I believe "The Iron Giant" is the closest thing to perfection of all the animated films I've seen. I say that somewhat tentatively; after all, I need to familiarize myself with Miyazaki a little more before that statement approaches decisiveness. In any event, it's my favorite and is likely to remain so. Like "Sunrise" and "The General," made just as the silent era was coming to an end, this film was made as CGI animation was on the verge of becoming dominant, and now the film stands as the last traditionally animated American masterpiece. Technologically speaking, I think it arrived at the perfect moment, fusing the awesome potential of computers for elaborate and realistic effects with the artistry and personality of hand-drawn animation.

I have been disappointed over the last decade to see the gradual extinction of the old style of animation. Computer-animated films look more spectacular by the year, to be sure, but I prefer to think of the two techniques as alternatives, rather than seeing one as intrinsically better than the other. Traditional animation is a link, however wobbly, with the art of the past--a grandchild of painting, and a cousin of the comic strips. These are all things that I hold dear. Computer animation, on the other hand, seems to have sprung up out of nowhere. It points to the future more than the past, and it's a future that sometimes looks disturbingly sterile. I realize there is some hypocrisy in what I say, particularly in the midst of a discussion on "The Iron Giant," a film that would never look as beautiful as it does without computers. As I said, I think the film truly incorporates the best of both worlds. It's especially fitting that the mind-blowing alien technology of the title character should be rendered by the best technology we have available.

In addition to the gorgeous visuals, this film possesses a story that highlights everything that's great about animation. The filmmakers are simply interested in telling a good story, not in easy laughs or merchandising. The greatest of care is evident in every scene, every detail. This film is the best evidence I know for the power of animation to bring kids and adults together. The story and the characters appeal to both without any condescension whatsoever. It is at heart an expression of wonder at the world (and the whole universe, in fact), man's place in it, and what man has made for himself in it. The story further develops into a formative experience of the dangers of the world, including dangers from fellow human beings, some of whom claim to be friends but in fact are not.

In building a complete world, the filmmakers evoke the whole spectrum of emotions. The laughter and tears that the film produces, in particular, are supremely marvelous. This isn't just one of the funniest animated films I've ever seen. The variety and dexterity of the humor, the immaculate skill in timing and buildup, make this one of the funniest pieces of work I've ever seen, period. It has not faded into stale cuteness--something that only the best of the best films aimed at children can achieve. Some of the jokes are deliberately aimed at older age groups, I suppose, but there's something about a perfectly timed sight gag that works just as well for anyone. The humor envelops the viewer in the warmth and security of childhood, but just as that can't last in real life, so it must be interrupted here. The pathos of the film's final scenes is unsurpassed; Disney certainly hasn't done better. Everything suddenly boils down to the simplest and most potent of human emotions--fear (the fear of death), sadness (the sadness of complete impotence in the face of death, but most of all the sadness of realizing that all our technological innovations have just made death on a massive scale quick and easy), and courage (the courage of facing the decision of how one's life will be defined, a decision that in the last analysis must be made right now). This conclusion to the film forces the children in the audience to understand the deepest adult fears of the Cold War, probably the most frightening period of our nation's history. It's relentless, but finally hopeful.

Few animated films have captured the period in which they're set as well as "The Iron Giant." The idyllic veneer of the 50's is slowly blown off by the obsessive suspicion of our rivalry with the Soviet Union. As the film opens, Sputnik orbits the Earth. This was an incredible achievement that America couldn't seem to match. It would take several years before we again caught up with, let alone surpassed, Soviet technology. All told, this was a low point. Understanding this fact adds considerable layers to the villains in the movie. A child has the luxury of happy excitement when he meets a giant robot, but the obvious fact that American weapons have no effect on it would be a real cause for alarm. The movie's message, though, is that such alarm, without any evidence of aggression to back it up, is not only wrong but goes against the best characteristics of the human race. This film has very simple morals to teach, and it teaches them well. In our time, it is especially good to see a movie that shows children how not to romanticize guns and their use.

Talent is everywhere apparent in this movie, from the animation itself, to the writing, to the voice cast. As with the most satisfying films, the elements all play their part in a cohesive whole. What separates an animated film from live action is the fact that nothing can appear on the screen by accident, and if you look closely, you can see that every detail has its purpose. I enjoy the homages to past animated films and to the comic books that clearly influenced the filmmakers. Best of all, the smallest detail in the whole movie is used to create the story's most powerfully sanguine moment. Watch closely.

"You want to clean the slate as much as I do, right? So maybe I am killing everyone in the school. Because nobody loves me! Let's face it, all right? The only place different social types can genuinely get along with each other is in heaven ... Seriously, people are going to look at the ashes of Westerburg and say, 'Now there is a school that self-destructed, not because society didn't care, but because the school was society.' That's pretty deep, huh?"

I remember high school very well. Of course, it wasn't too terribly long ago, but I have done a lot since then. The memories are persistently happy; I push to the back of my mind the fact that some of the most miserable days of my life were in high school. Those four years were also home to some of the best days, though, and when we came to the end, I didn't want to leave. Responsibility was right around the corner, and childhood was receding into a memory. For all the hassle, high school was the last pocket of freedom before "real life" started. And I also made some great friends there.

"Heathers," in my opinion, is the ultimate high school movie, not because it especially resembles my own experience (or that of most people, I hope), but because it pushes its extremely familiar characters to the limits of what they're capable of and, thankfully, rarely get around to doing no matter how often they think of it. This movie is black comedy at its finest, teaching us to laugh at tragedies. There's a time for crying, to be sure, but laughter can heal in amazing ways. I must tread carefully, because I can see how this movie could be offensive to someone who has lived through Columbine or other events like it. On the other hand, good comedy is bound to offend someone. As for myself, I am simply too happy with my life to not enjoy this movie.

The events of the story, as I said, are very unusual, but they flow from the realities of high school, particularly the nature of cliques. A high school cafeteria is all-too-often a patchwork of recognizable groups. In this case, the dominant clique of the school in question is referenced in the film's perfect title. Cliques discourage outsiders; the more that members choose to conform, the better. The dark, surreal nature of this film is hinted at right off the bat by the fact that members of the most popular clique all happen to be named Heather. That is, except for one, Veronica Sawyer, played by Winona Ryder. Her standing in the group is from the beginning tenuous, not just because of her name but also because of her curious unwillingness to help reinforce her clique's superiority. But things go generally the way they're supposed to until she becomes involved with a true outsider: Jason Dean, played by Christian Slater. Every name in this movie is evocative (Dean, aka J.D., rides around on a motorcycle); that fact should not be missed.

Most high school movies have a "warm and fuzzy" or nostalgic quality about them. This one is decidedly different. It practically swaggers with its own intelligence, and is far too cool to ever be sentimental. Ryder and Slater both do perfect jobs at fitting in with and helping create the film's mood. Neither has ever been better; they certainly have never had better material to work with, and their roles fit their personalities beautifully. Slater merges James Dean qualities with a Jack Nicholson-like voice to create the perfect rebel--irresistibly cool, and at the same time perhaps slightly insane (a fact that won't be obvious, at least for one character, until it's too late). Ryder's natural sweetness is helpful for establishing her character's sense of morality, but she successfully suppresses it in favor of superior intelligence that she uses as an effective weapon against the idiocy of those around her. Both actors utter their unforgettable lines with either earnestness or deadpan irony, depending on the situation.

Daniel Waters's script for the movie is one of my all-time favorites. There are so many great lines that I could easily spend most of my time here just quoting them. In epigrammatic style, some of the sweetest dialogue expresses the innate chasm between teenagers and adults, but it does so with a definite edge. The adults in the film are various forms of clueless, but once or twice they get at the heart of the matter with inescapable wisdom. Still, this is from the teens' point of view, so it often feels as if the adults are speaking a different language altogether. As for the students themselves, Waters gives them some of the sharpest, funniest, most ironic dialogue I've ever heard. It's a war of words that degenerates into another kind of war, and the film just gets more effectively outrageous as it goes on.

In a way, I probably like this film most of all because of, not in spite of, the fact that it's so different from what I remember about high school. It gets to the heart of the matter, stripping away all pretensions of decorum or the need to present a moral message of some kind; above all, it never feels the need to be too serious about its subjects. After all, the film is all about teenagers who take themselves and their problems far too seriously. Somehow, I have a feeling that in the distant future the problems I dealt with during that time will fade into absolute insignificance. However, it's nice to know I have the freedom to blow them up to Shakespearean proportions, even now, if only so I can laugh at them harder. This movie shows the way to do that.

"Heathers" has stood the test of time, the hardest test for any film to take. It survives because the realities of high school remain as they are from generation to generation. The film's presentation of each individual clique, and how they fit into the fascinating whole that is a high school, is perfect and acerbic. However much it shows its support for those who stand outside the system completely, the film acknowledges the fact that the system is what makes coexistence palatable. It certainly keeps the students well-adjusted, as opposed to the alternative. But it's still rewarding to see individuals thinking for themselves--plotting ways to throw everything out of whack, expressing their displeasure with both words and actions, and always finding new and interesting ways to light their cigarettes. The resulting film is a macabre, sinister joy to watch.

"Don't talk to me about importance! Because of you, the security of this entire universe is in jeopardy. Right now, poised at the edge of the galaxy, Emperor Zurg has been secretly building a weapon with the destructive capacity to annihilate an entire planet! I alone have information that reveals this weapon's only weakness. And you, my friend, are responsible for delaying my rendezvous with Star Command!" "YOU ... ARE ... A ... TOYYYYYY!!!!"

When I first saw "Toy Story" with my dad in 1995, I enjoyed it a great deal for the story, the characters, and for the overall idea, which complemented my own imagination in many ways. But as I recall, I couldn't have had any more than a perfunctory understanding of what this movie meant in film history. It was the first animated film created entirely by computers--I knew that much. The effect of this technique was marvelous to watch. It rendered the plasticity of the toys in a way that traditional animation couldn't duplicate, and it placed them in a three-dimensional world defined by such glorious realism that everything really looked substantial enough to touch. The amazing depth that computer animation accomplished gave the camera freedom to behave as it would with a live-action film. Again, I only recognized these things subconsciously, if at all. Mostly, I was thrilled to see so many familiar toys leading lives of their own, intuitively freezing in place whenever a human being was around.

Looking back, my first viewing of the movie is a cherished memory. I now recognize more clearly what then was only a side benefit: the filmmakers were doing something completely new, and I was among the first to see it. This was almost certainly the first time in my young life that I had such a privilege. The experience must have been similar to that of the first audiences seeing "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs," and perhaps even, in a way, similar to the first audiences of motion pictures themselves. All of us, to some degree or another, were watching our concepts of what was possible being expanded. In an age when every living generation grew up with movies as an easily accessible reality, having that experience with a movie must have been rare indeed. Of course, I myself haven't seen another movie that could do the same thing, to the same extent, since.

Most adults at the time were probably aware that this kind of animation was the future. But for me, it's still an impressive fact that a single movie could change the entire animation industry in such a short time. Pixar Animation Studios can boast not only pioneer status, but now also a string of great films with ever-increasing quality of animation and realism. The most recent films, naturally, surpass this one in beauty, smoothness, and all the things they can do. However, I do not subscribe to any kind of evolutionary theory when it comes to movies. Quite simply, nothing that has been done since can match the simple yet profound pleasures of watching this film.

"Toy Story" is an undying reminder of childhood, a stage in life that dies ever so quickly. It was a time of endless possibilities, glorious freedom. As preparation for adult life, childhood should teach us to find enjoyment in physical activity, in friendships, and in creativity. For me at least, the third has been the most important. And there is no better outlet for creativity, if you're a kid, than your toys. Not everyone is rich enough to have every toy in existence, but having a limited supply only makes you think harder to use what you do have in unexpected ways. The first scene of the film shows this brilliantly and humorously. A child looks at all the toys in his collection and channels them into an integrated conflict. This is the birth of storytelling. I get the feeling the filmmakers wouldn't be in the same line of work if it weren't for their toys.

But "Toy Story" isn't about Andy, of course. It's from his toys' point of view. Some of the best moments in the movie are created from insights into what a toy's life is like. However thrilling it is for a kid when he gets a new toy, the old ones would be reasonably concerned. Woody's alarm is selfish, and the story is all about him losing that selfishness. Even so, the basic idea of a simple toy losing its place to a complex toy is dead-on and more revealing as time goes by. The more complicated the features, lights and sounds become, the less room there is for creativity. Even if the specific conflict between cowboy-toy and space-toy is now lost on us, the general idea remains. There are no video games (outside of Pizza Planet) in "Toy Story."

Watching the DVD with the commentary turned on gives me more appreciation for this movie than I thought was possible. The filmmakers peppered it with movie references, catching the spirit of the time by slyly paying tribute to their influences. In this way as well, the film has clearly exerted influence in the field of animation. It has also done so in its use of irreverent humor. None of the painfully obvious, banal toilet humor that we've been exposed to in recent years, fortunately. The jokes are perfectly designed to go over the kids' heads if necessary, and so they serve as another conduit to let adults in on the fun. Most of this type of humor comes from Mr. Potato Head, one of my favorite characters in the movie. If he's a little too irreverent, to balance things out the film gets incredible mileage out of the fact that Mr. Potato Head's parts fall off very easily.

Individual moments in the film provoke wonder in me to this day, none more so than the spectacular Army Men sequence. But many animated films have moments like that without having an overall story to match. That's not the case here. At the center of everything is the relationship between Woody and Buzz, which develops from a rivalry to a deep friendship. It is the satisfaction I get from this basic story that keeps the movie from being just a collection of jokes and toy "cameos." The care that was put into these two characters (spectacularly given voice by Tom Hanks and Tim Allen) is what makes the finale work. We are taken on a flight of imagination that is totally inspirational. This, the filmmakers are telling us, is what we can do. Their influence reverberates to this day.

This movie is about robbery, betrayal, death, and tipping.

There is a moment in the middle of "Reservoir Dogs" when a character tells a story about a marijuana deal and a group of cops chatting in a men's room. Watching the movie, we already know this story is a complete fabrication. But we're still on the edge of our seats watching the events as they're described. This scene, more than any other in the movies that I know of, exemplifies the ability of films to turn illusions into reality. Everything ever shown on a movie screen is an illusion: the illusion that we're watching actual movement, in addition (most of the time) to the illusion that we're watching real people instead of actors in front of cameras with makeup, artificial lighting, and multiple takes. A person can know all about the artifice involved and still get wrapped up in the storytelling of a good film. "Reservoir Dogs" is as much about a love for the movies and their power as it is about its own story. In every way, it introduced the style and themes of Quentin Tarantino, who wrote and directed this film with remarkable poise and absolute self-confidence.

The movie is completely dominated by its dialogue. Sure, there is some violence, but most of the blood to be seen slowly seeps out of gunshot wounds because the victims, for one reason or another, can't get to the hospital. The most notable acts of violence in the movie are actually all done off-screen. Violent images have an unfair advantage in that they're easier to remember (or, we could say, harder to forget). But those images are comparatively few and far between, and it's the dialogue that carries the film from beginning to end. The strength and unusual nature of the conversations sets the movie, and all Tarantino movies, apart from other crime dramas. His primary innovation was to allow his characters to talk about anything and everything, only offering specifics about the plot every once in awhile. Before this movie, if a line didn't contribute something to the story's development, it would most likely be eliminated to make the movie shorter. If that were done here, the film would probably be over in ten minutes or so, and there would be practically nothing to recommend it besides the visual style.

As it is, the casual conversations in this movie serve an essential purpose no matter what they're about: they establish the relationships among the characters. Most of these men didn't know each other at all until they were recruited for this particular heist, but for the most part, they become close almost right away--telling jokes, discussing their favorite songs and baseball teams, and debating each other on tipping in restaurants and (encroaching on the plot for just a moment) their respective code names.

Every subject is tackled with perfectly natural rhythms and fine acting. Tarantino gets away with rambling sometimes in his screenplays because he has an amazing gift for dialogue, and knows it. Whatever they're talking about, the characters consistently show that they have a lot in common. They didn't know each other specifically before this moment, but they share a general respect for all the people in their left-handed line of work. Yes, they all steal for a living, but they can trust fellow thieves as long as they don't start stealing from each other. That's why the undercover cop situation is such a problem. From an objective standpoint, the police are just playing by the robbers' rules, but in doing so they've crossed a line which should never be crossed. Even the bad guys follow a code that separates the "professionals" from the "psychopaths" and the traitors.

Tarantino's command of the material is often breathtaking, seamlessly incorporating his now-famous movie and pop culture references. He alternates scenes before and after the central event with perfect pacing and a compounding sense of dread. What explanatory dialogue there is, Tarantino wisely divides into different sections of the film. This aids suspense and keeps the story moving. It all leads up to one of my favorite conclusions in film history, a brutally honest outcome fueled by emotional and psychological torment. At that moment, being on the right side of the law is unimportant; the important thing is that someone switched sides. Since Dante's time and earlier, betrayal has been seen as the worst possible sin. This film remains extraordinary because it takes the time to establish real trust among the characters before that trust is tragically broken.

Batman settles into the role of an unwanted hero; it's a bumpy ride along the way.

Pre-release hype can be lethal for a movie. Expectations become so enormous and so specific that, even if the movie is relatively good, the fan will probably only see it as a disappointment. Fortunately for this movie, I can proudly say that my expectations were exceeded. It was looking to be the most ambitious superhero film ever made, and that's exactly what it is. The story is such a serious look at the people and concepts it handles that it blows all other superhero movies away. It captures the emotional tenor of its time in ways that can't be put into words and that need to be experienced.

Christopher Nolan returned to direct the sequel to "Batman Begins." In retrospect, that film's essential purpose was to set the stage for this one. It was a decent movie, but it lacked emotion, had too many villains, and failed to present its action sequences in a coherent manner. "The Dark Knight" is a vast improvement in all three areas. One of the best things about "Batman Begins" was the extraordinary cast, and this film is more of the same in that regard. Morgan Freeman, Michael Caine and Gary Oldman deserve praise for taking relatively small but crucial parts and doing them perfectly. Aaron Eckhart puts the right kind of strength and honesty into Harvey Dent, and his sudden transformation is made much more believable by the fact that his Two-Face isn't so much a "villain" as an angry, grief-stricken man who's out for revenge. Maggie Gyllenhaal is a significantly better Rachel Dawes than Katie Holmes was. I could go on and on, but let's get to the two characters this movie is about.

Heath Ledger's tragic death puts an unfortunate spin on any assessment of his work in this film, but here goes: he's fantastic. He buries himself in the role completely, presenting a fully-formed image of what this kind of person would look like. When thinking about the performance, I've thought of Johnny Depp several times. Depp is the kind of actor who would have loved a role like this, a chance to immerse himself in another person. But I'm not convinced that Depp would be willing to go as dark as Ledger does. Ledger's Joker takes himself seriously, at least insofar as he never, ever breaks character to wink at the audience or give them any reassurance. That's what separates his Joker from Jack Nicholson's, as well. Nicholson, deep down, didn't take the Joker seriously as a living person. Maybe he was right not to. As with some other aspects of Nolan's film, the Joker doesn't necessarily fit in with the realistic portrayal of a three-dimensional world that Nolan creates. But no one can ever come closer to making him a real, terrifying presence than Ledger does. There is a spark, an obsessive joy in every scene; for this performance, Ledger unleashed gifts we'd never seen out of him before. This is the definitive Joker, and the definitive supervillain performance.

Ledger was the only reason for the hype surrounding this movie, beyond the fact that audiences always seem to look forward to the next blockbuster comic-book movie. Despite this fact, Nolan corrects the problem with Burton's original "Batman" by giving the hero more screen time in his own movie, for a change. Christian Bale is very good, just as he was in "Batman Begins." My only complaint is the one that everyone else has made already. It really almost kills the awesome power of the conversations between Batman and the Joker when he growls like that. Oddly enough, though, there are other moments when it sounds great. I wouldn't know exactly how to advise Bale in this matter. Otherwise, he does a wonderful job depicting the pain always lurking underneath whatever he's thinking at a particular moment.

Everything in the movie, including also the special effects and the music, work consistently to present Nolan's vision. This is not the kind of comforting, exciting action movie that our summers are filled with. It is a relentless look into the heart of evil in our world. It presents situations much more perilous than anything seen in the genre before, and it still takes time to question whether heroes are what we need right now. I had been a holdout for Burton until I saw this. Now I can admit that this is the best Batman movie to date, and it comes very, very close to being the best possible.

Disenchantment, hopelessness, and eternal vigilance in the face of corruption.

In my experience so far, I find it pretty rare indeed for a single performance to (1) dominate almost an entire film, and (2) be good enough to recommend that film all by itself. Typically, I'm more interested in spirited interaction between two intriguing characters, or more. There has to be something in the movie to distinguish it from a long speech or sermon. Capra's 1939 masterpiece is something of an exception. It does have a few more characters than the lead, but they exist to help or oppose Jefferson Smith; from the moment he appears he is the focus of the movie. In this one case at least, the character of Mr. Smith, and the performance in that role by James Stewart, are easily sufficient to make this one of my favorite movies of all time.

It's hard, or even impossible, to discuss the role and the performance separately. Stewart personified his character so much that he could hardly get a chance to play anything but variations on the same person for the next decade. He has become an archetype in cinema history, and one can just as easily say that Mr. Smith has become an archetype. The down-to-earth mannerisms, the initial naivete that celebrates certain principles and that, given pressure to abandon them, grows into an unflagging determination to keep them--Smith/Stewart is what we call the Everyman, a hero for ordinary people, the kind of hero that can be found anywhere if we look hard enough.

Lest anyone unfamiliar with the material think that this character is some sort of one-dimensional preacher or saint, it is worthy to note that Mr. Smith moves through an intensely well-developed character arc. The course of the movie is a test of his inner strength, and there are in fact many moments when it appears he might fail. Without giving too much of the plot away, let it be said that he has grown up embracing heroes: the historical heroes of American politics, the men that so many other young Americans have admired as well. Smith also has at least one hero who's still alive: Joseph Paine (played by Claude Rains), the U.S. senator from "his state" (the precise location kept vague to make it universal [or at least universal insofar as America is the universe]). When Smith gets the chance to see this man's heroism at first hand, naturally he finds reasons to be disappointed. Even more so, he finds reasons to be truly shocked. Faced where a situation where he can take his stand for what's right--if only that--or to walk away, the stakes prove to be very high for either possibility.

Stewart's performance is impressive on many levels. He manages the early comic scenes with the beautifully awkward demeanor of a man who's honestly not trying to be funny, but it still is funny. As the film progresses, he shows the noteworthy ability, even at a young age, to dig deep into his own soul and pull out the motivation for the most passionate anguish imaginable. Capra knew his actor was on fire, so he trains the camera on him and simply lets him work. The character and the actor mesh so amazingly that it's hard to keep from thinking that we're actually seeing Stewart himself, at least in some way. The Sidney Buchman screenplay allows this deeply felt and genuinely virtuous man to utter some of the most beautiful statements about America and her government that I've ever heard. His speeches are poetic and moving, no matter how often the people in the movie fail to listen.

What Capra accomplished with this film was to show what might happen if an ordinary citizen were to be admitted into the culture of Congress. The disconnect between one and the other seems to be just as much of a threat today as it was then. What's remarkable is how angry the message is. In the movie, the villains in Washington are horribly vicious; they literally stop at nothing. Capra had a tendency of, shall we say, putting more nuances into his heroes than his villains. But the extreme nature of the corruption here serves a good purpose. It allows the film to go above the politics of right and left, so that it can ask the question: where good and evil are not murky at all, will we still choose the good? Mr. Smith's awesome struggles speak to all of us. They warn us that liberty really is fragile; even the best people, through nothing so much as inaction, can jeopardize it entirely. Perhaps the only hope is that this archetype will inspire others to speak up when necessary.

The world is a circus.

Musicals, it would seem, are alive and well. We're far removed from the Busby Berkeley or Rodgers & Hammerstein days, but the genre maintains its popularity on Broadway, and every now and then a great musical play gets adapted into a movie. So here we have "Chicago," a story that, at least in retrospect, was absolutely begging to be filmed. The medium allows all the imagination of the original Kander/Ebb/Fosse play to be fully realized. The result is a generation gap-closing piece of fine Hollywood style and craftsmanship.

There are two kinds of musical number in "Chicago": one that takes place on a stage as an actual performance within the story, and another that occurs only in the mind of the main character. Both kinds are clever ways around the age-old difficulty of musicals. One needed to sacrifice realism in order to portray ordinary people singing on the street or in the living room. For many years, it seemed that American audiences had become too sophisticated for that kind of thing. So there aren't many great Hollywood musicals in the last quarter of the twentieth century. "Chicago" sidesteps the problem entirely, and I think it's better for it. The "imaginary" songs especially allow the filmmakers to take the songs in directions gleefully removed from reality, so that what happens on the screen tells the audience just as much about the characters as the content of the songs themselves. Mostly, they work as a detailed look into the mind of Roxie Hart, who does the imagining. Clearly caught up in the world of 1920's entertainment, she sees the whole world as one big show, with every person dying to do at least one big song (or dance, or magic trick). Once again, the power of movies allows her dreams to become the most vivid kind of reality, at least for us.

The original songs, by John Kander and Fred Ebb, are catchy, energetic, satirical, and, as with every great song in a musical, they perform the duties of exposition and character development in the most entertaining way possible. They frame the characters in a world of excitement and amusement. Without the songs, these people would be depressingly cynical and back-stabbing. Take Richard Gere's character, for example. He plays just about the same role in this film as he did in "Primal Fear," (you could say he was typecast) but there's a lighter touch to his performance here. His first song sets the mood for his character with brilliant irony. That irony, shown throughout the film, is another way (along with the "imaginary" songs) of reminding the audience not to accept things at face value. The events in the film are not as important as the overall mood of the storytelling, and the bigger themes that shine through. In fact, even those things are probably not as important as the sheer enjoyment one gets from the music.

There is nothing more enjoyable about this film than seeing established Hollywood stars exhibit gifts that many of us never knew they had. The songs fairly drip with legitimacy; it's very nice to see that voices didn't need to be dubbed and that the actors could do their own dancing. As for the non-singing parts of the movie, Zellweger seizes the chance to be a little more devious than usual. Everyone does an amazing job at playing their parts as if they really did live in the 20's. The design all around and particularly during the songs is colorful and fun. I love how reality and the images in Roxie's mind combine in the same shot every now and then. It's done with the same kind of adroitness as Fellini's "8 1/2."

"Chicago" works as a good picture of the dissipation of the Roaring Twenties--a time, it appears, when people lied, cheated, murdered, etc. and got away with it. The movie itself has the electric delight of getting away with something: inverting morality, making the worst kind of people the heroes. But then John C. Reilly gets on stage and sings "Mister Cellophane," and the audience is once again oriented the correct way. It might be the best song in the movie, despite the fact that it threatens to spoil the fun. It reminds us that there are still people of integrity in the world, who don't show us the opposite of the truth to get what they want. We just don't cheer for that kind of person enough.

Orson Welles gives us the inimitable story of an American, for better and worse.

Writing about this movie is a bit of a challenge. If I didn't like it, I'd certainly have to provide some strong reasons. Fortunately, I love it, and there were several consecutive viewings where I felt I enjoyed it more each time. But now my problem is that all the great things about this movie have been written about so many times I feel I have little to add. I'll begin by admitting I have no idea if this is the greatest thing ever filmed. I'm in no position to say. It doesn't seem right, given the genius of Hitchcock, Kurosawa, Fellini, and others, not to mention the number of films each of them worked on before creating their masterpieces--it doesn't seem right to give Welles' debut that title. Regardless, my personal opinion is that, of all the films generally in the running for "greatest ever made," not one is as enjoyable to watch as this, and almost none of them are quite as groundbreaking, given the system this was produced under.

You can watch any single scene from "Citizen Kane" and, if you've seen anything else out of Hollywood in the 1940s, you'll recognize right away that it looks different. Things are shot from unusual angles, hiding and revealing faces with shadow and light. If you've trained yourself to notice, you'll see that many of the shots last a very long time, without many cuts during a scene. Along with that, the camera creates dual focus, as two different characters perform important actions simultaneously. This film offers plenty of interesting things to look at, particularly if you're interested in filmmaking. Due to his experience in radio broadcasting, Welles also knew how to use sound especially well, and he experiments with voices and how they project in different settings.

All of that is enough to initiate my interest in the film, but what keeps me watching is the story, and even more so, the way the story is told. On the surface, this is a biopic, describing a single life essentially from beginning to end. The way it unfolds, though, proves this movie to be more of an anti-biopic. I, for one, can't really watch or read any biography anymore without thinking of this movie at least once. In the last analysis, this movie says, a life can't be explained in two hours (let alone by one word). The simple, objective listing of major events obscures as much as it reveals. Because Kane is dead after the first scene, the film doesn't look at his life so much as it looks at how his closest acquaintances remember him. These memories range from idealized to just the opposite, and in a way they each explain how Kane is unexplainable. I love how the story is told out of order: each new revelation comes somewhat unexpectedly, and they illuminate one another in ways that would not be possible with a straightforward chronology. This movie looks at some awesomely big subjects, but it questions whether the man at the center of it all really is bigger than any of us. In terms of morality, the film is a somewhat grim reminder of how talents, and riches, can be wasted.

Welles himself did fantastic work in all stages of production, both in front of and behind the camera. But the movie would not be as great as it is without Gregg Toland as the cinematographer, or without Robert Wise's editing, or Bernard Herrmann's music, or Herman Mankiewicz's contributions to the screenplay. The cast is almost uniformly exceptional; most of them worked with Welles on the stage, and so they knew exactly what he wanted from them. The use of makeup to simulate aging still looks fantastic, albeit probably better than it would in color.

In conclusion, a word on a single shot that I love: it's the first shot in the movie. I'm not sure I can explain exactly why the image of a chain-link fence impresses me so. Maybe it's the fact that no other film I've seen begins with an image like that. Other movies dive right into the personal affairs of the characters, but this one quietly reminds us that we're looking into the life of a private individual. Whether this is meant to point a finger at the audience or at the filmmakers, I don't know. As with everything in the movie, it looks unbelievably cool.

Truth breaks through the miasma of dreams.

Back in 1999, the Wachowski brothers gave us the millennial movie. Expectation was in the air about transitioning from one period to another, and "The Matrix" is about that very subject. It takes so much of what we had learned over the past century, all the ideas and thoughts specifically about technology, our dependence on it, and the possibility of artificial intelligence. Continuing in the tradition of science fiction masterpieces such as "2001," "Blade Runner," and "The Terminator," this film presents perhaps the bleakest look of all at the road we're taking. At the same time, it leaves room for a dogged hope that we can not only escape from our situation, but use it to explore our own potential more than ever before.

The philosophy of "The Matrix" is a compilation of primarily Gnostic and Christian ideas. In this way it follows in the "Star Wars" tradition, presenting a worldview that is vague enough at times for almost anyone to agree with it. The basic premise is that the world isn't what it should be, and neither are we. The Christian symbolism is fairly obvious, with the Messiah character, the Judas character, and the image of being "born again." Underneath everything is the Gnostic idea that knowledge is salvation. But the fact of the matter is that knowledge isn't enough. Neo has just been told that his senses have deceived him for his entire life, and now he's supposed to start believing them? Along with knowledge, trust is essential.

There's so much going for "The Matrix" that it's hard to know where to begin. Interspersed with all that fascinating philosophical inquiry is one of the best action films ever made. The choreography of the martial arts scenes, the tension surrounding the seemingly invincible opponents, and the use of slow motion make for a completely engrossing experience. You know it's good when it's imitated and parodied as often as this has been. The camera rotates through 360 degrees, emphasizing what are some of the strangest images of combat ever conceived. The action is shot fluidly, without excessive editing, so that the audience can see everything, and hence enjoy it more. It's a shame there are so many action directors who haven't taken the hint.

The cast of the film is mostly there to service the story and the visuals. No character is explored too deeply. Still, they're fun roles to play, and the actors respond very well to the physical demands. Laurence Fishburne has the perfect voice for Morpheus. It is the deep, smooth voice of wisdom and leadership. Hugo Weaving once again shows his magnificent talents as the great villain. Keanu Reeves' acting ability has been ridiculed many times, but there is a reason he is a world-famous actor and the people who make fun of him are not. True, he's not asked to display deep emotion or quick wit, but he does a perfectly fine job at realistically demonstrating shock, disbelief, and resolution. He fits right into this world.

Probably my favorite thing about the movie is the eccentricity of little moments here and there. I love the unusual uses of lighting and rainfall; the squeaking and groaning made by the window-washers outside Mr. Anderson's boss's office. The Wachowskis make the film their own at every opportunity. Too many films lack the signature of their creators. This one, fortunately, has individuality to spare.

The message of "The Matrix" is to break free of the mundane restrictions that have been forced upon us. Those restrictions are extreme in this case, taking the form of an Orwellian control over our minds and bodies. When Morpheus shows Neo the battery, it's so surreal as to be almost funny. But as the meaning slowly sinks in, you realize with horror what an indignity the human race is suffering. The movie's power rests in the fact that, for all we really know, we could be in the Matrix right now. Our response, the movie shows us, should be to reject complacency and conformity. We must unmask all the lies and discover truth. Our lives should be defined by truth; that's what we're here for.

It's alive.

Among other things, Walt Disney was a man of positively titanic ambition. By 1940, he had already done enough to be considered the most important pioneer for animation in the world, introducing American audiences to Mickey Mouse, sound cartoons, color cartoons, and even a feature-length film. Because of him, people in the film industry began to think that animation could be something more than a simple trick to please children. Entire legacies rest on accomplishments less impressive than what Disney did in the 30's. But he was far from done. Knowing that animation would soon become a significant film category, he set out to show people how it could be done.

The central challenge in bringing Carlo Collodi's "Pinocchio" to the screen was giving life to the main character. The animators would need to give the puppet personality and emotion while maintaining his woodenness. It's an almost impossible balance, but with the design of Pinocchio's joints, hair, and of course his nose, they pulled it off. In so doing they displayed, on two different levels, the fundamental nature of animation. The Blue Fairy in the story is herself an animator, bestowing movement and life on what had been inert. Disney's goal for the entire film was to make an even more exciting illusion of life than had been seen in "Snow White." He employed new techniques to add realistic depth and effects to the film. The illusion of three dimensions is particularly impressive when compared with his first feature. So many things are being done for the first time here--from the overall complexity of the story, to the realism of the underwater scenes, to the sheer overwhelming size of Monstro--that watching the film creates a sense of exhilaration even today.

That exhilaration is matched by a fearsome sense of morality. "Pinocchio" is a fable about the dangers of the world around us, especially the danger of temptation, which begins in our own hearts. The statements this film makes about evil and moral obligation reduce countless other animated films to laughable triteness. For example, the movie's most famous scene creates the perfect, unforgettable image of the consequences of lying, hammering home the message for all time. Most terrifying of all, for me, is the scene on Pleasure Island, as Lampwick utters the primal sounds of horror and guilt that suddenly morph into the braying of a donkey. These are the sounds of hell itself: a person dragged away to inhuman suffering because he threw his life away and is full of remorse now that it's too late. It's the kind of thing that sticks with you forever because you see it as a child. I believe for that reason it's one of the most powerful scenes ever filmed. You might say this movie scares you into doing the right thing, but it only does so by lifting the veil from evil's face, in brutally realized metaphorical images.

The underlying theme throughout "Pinocchio" is growing up. Children feel the need to prove they belong in the world of adults, and learning morality, ethics, and etiquette as they grow older allows them to do so. Pinocchio himself must accomplish a great deal of growing up in a very short time. He learns to spot potentially bad influences, to tell the truth, to help people, and to be brave as few of us are ever asked to be. It's just possible he learns more from direct experience than he would have if he ever made it to school.

Still a wonder to behold, "Pinocchio" remains one of the most piercing explorations of human nature ever drawn. It also contains delicate and intelligent humor, and an assortment of memorable animated characters (even the ones who don't speak). And that song. If there was nothing else, this film would be important for introducing us to a beautiful song, its lilting magic summing up the Disney legacy in its entirety. Walt Disney still wasn't finished, but this feature-length film might be his greatest single accomplishment. He brought that puppet to life, and placed him in a world of mind-blowing imagination--a world where purity and courage win the day; where a boy can come of age knowing he has lost nothing of the enchantment and danger of life, and has gained freedom and the feeling that he truly belongs with the people he loves.

Burton, Keaton, Nicholson and Prince take us to Gotham City like we've never seen it before.

I can just barely remember a time when Batman wasn't my favorite superhero yet. I've always liked him, but I'm sure there was a time when I liked Superman just a little better. Whenever it was that the scales were tipped in Bruce Wayne's favor, this movie probably deserves a lot of the credit. Its existence is the reason I basically grew up with Batman, because the success of the movie inspired three sequels as well as the great cartoon television series. The film also proved again (as did the Superman series) that a comic book-inspired movie could be successful, and Hollywood has spent the last decade in particular mining that resource, producing a few more of my favorite movies along the way. Of course, I was one year old when this movie first came out, so any influence it has had on my life has been indirect, but it's still important.

What Tim Burton accomplished with his Batman movie was to return the character to his roots and endear Batman to the public once again as a dark, brooding figure. Following from the trailblazing work of Frank Miller, Burton created a Batman who was the polar opposite of Adam West's campy incarnation. Guess which extreme I prefer.

The casting of Bruce Wayne/Batman was crucial in making Burton's vision work. Having already directed Michael Keaton in "Beetlejuice," Burton felt Keaton could pull off the role even though he had done nothing even remotely like it before. It seems like the casting of superhero film characters has often been a gamble, but they usually work out fine, and this is no exception. The script unfortunately doesn't allow Keaton a whole lot of time to show it, but I stubbornly maintain the opinion that he's the best Batman of the live-action movies. There are moments when he lets just a hint of madness poke through his painstakingly created facade. It's the kind of madness that was so blatant with Beetlejuice but that also, repressed and controlled, makes Batman possible. Most impressive of all is Keaton's duality in the role. Christian Bale's Batman voice has been criticized to no end, but Keaton really does a much better job with it. His Batman does sound completely different from his Wayne, using the raspy, quiet tones of someone who only speaks when he has to. It's a small part of the theatrics that allow his secret identity to remain secret, but it's very effectively done. And Keaton's Wayne has settled into his situation wonderfully (this is not the origin story). He is an amiable, slightly dopey character who is also just a bit of a recluse, enough so that people won't pry too closely into his personal life. Overall, Keaton does a great job presenting a vigilante who's just barely on the right side of the law, angry enough to terrify and beat up anonymous criminals and intelligent enough to defeat the Joker's plans.

Which leads me to Jack Nicholson. His Joker gets more screen time than Batman, which is a little wrong, but given his virtuoso performance, it's easy to see why they wanted to do things that way. The Joker is the perfect Batman villain because he's everything that Batman isn't, and the way they slowly approach each other from opposite viewpoints is one of the most satisfying facets of the movie.

The real star of this picture, Keaton and Nicholson notwithstanding, is the oft-celebrated production design by Anton Furst. It's a vivid, unbelievably creative realization of Gotham City, a place so dreary it probably wouldn't even look good on a sunny day, which it doesn't seem to be blessed with very often. The architecture places us squarely in a comic book universe; this isn't the real world, and shouldn't be treated as such. The film's atmosphere is perfect for Burton's imagination.

Finally, let me quickly say how much I love Danny Elfman's music in this film. Burton and Elfman are the perfect team, and I think the Batman theme is Elfman's best work in any of their films together. It's instantly recognizable, dark, frightening, and at the same time somehow inspiring--just like Batman himself.

He had me with the old Klingon proverb.

Quentin Tarantino adores movies and is completely intoxicated with the chance to make some of his own. Virtually every frame of his three 90's movies attests to this fact, but with "Kill Bill," he created a work that in certain ways represents a culmination. No other filmmaker could have made a movie quite like this, and it's doubtful even Tarantino would have been allowed to make it without the success of "Pulp Fiction." In it, he channels the myriad distinct influences of all the movies he's seen, focusing them each in their own way to tell a single, simple story.

Beginning with the image of "Bill" coolly shooting Uma Thurman in the head in black and white, then transitioning to the opening credits set to Nancy Sinatra singing "Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)", and finally getting the story started with the intertitle "Chapter One: 2," the film makes one thing abundantly clear: we're in Tarantinoland now. It's a brilliant opening. The very first shot is a close-up, giving us an intimate introduction to our heroine, as well as introducing her antagonist in a menacing, melodramatic kind of way. Everything is narrowly focused. We get a definite sense of the two characters' relationship to each other, but the details of the situation are not revealed. They're not particularly important, as the rest of the movie will reveal. What is important is that Bill tried to kill "the Bride" (Thurman), who, as her dress indicates, was on the way to getting married before Bill disrupted everything. This inciting incident inspires the Bride to seek revenge.

Aiding her in this new quest is the fact that the Bride is one of the deadliest assassins in the world, part of a troupe of killers led by Bill himself. Part of her plan for revenge is to kill those other assassins who sided with Bill against her. In this first part of a two-part story, she accomplishes half of her task. Pardon the spoiler.

That's all there is to the story, at least for now. It took less time for Tarantino to tell it with images than it took me to put it into words. But Volumes 1 and 2 are really incomplete one without the other. If you don't absolutely hate this movie, there's no way you can see how it ends and not want to see the next installment as soon as possible. The great thing about Volume 2 is how it adds important depth to the story, giving significant new meaning to everything that the Bride does here. I still love Volume 1 just slightly more because now I get to have it both ways: I can know everything about the story without having to sit through much of any exposition or development. What's left is an unadulterated thrill ride that's completely filled with action as well as a contagious joy in the art of movies that so many other filmmakers can't seem to express even if they share it.

The two basic, archetypal film elements that Tarantino works with here are the Western and Martial Arts genres. Specifically, he's interested in the "revenge" subcategory of both. His insight is that both the East and the West share important ideas when it comes to a revenge story. It's a universal, flawed aspect of human nature (and Tarantino takes at least a brief moment to say, through the Bride, that he sees it for what it is--not that he lets the fact stop him from making the movie. But before this whole thing is over, the Bride's mission will be about a lot more than revenge). In a more purely enjoyable way, he combines the two genres through his use of music, settings, and of course weapons, creating a delightful mash-up of icons.

It is all wrapped up in a film marked by Tarantino's strong, absolutely unique humor, along with several magnificently filmed action sequences. A word on the bloodshed: granted, there's more blood spilled in this film than anything else I've ever seen, but there are "less violent" films that are far more disturbing because they're more realistic. This is "Tom and Jerry" violence, with more dismemberment. It's probably impossible to get someone to agree with me on this if they don't already, so I'll stop there.

A fight to the finish between action and romance; true love wins.

Rob Reiner did some incredible work in the 1980's; it's easily the best decade of his directorial career. To me, the zenith of that period in which he made "Spinal Tap," "Stand by Me," and "When Harry Met Sally," is this film. It's the ultimate genre-blender of a movie, bringing together fantasy, comedy, romance, and action, excelling in each department. The story pays so much respect to each of those four elements that it's impossible to see this movie being marketed to any one audience. Instead, it should bring disparate audiences together; this is one of those perfect date movies that come along much too rarely, a movie that the guy and the girl can agree was something special.

As with almost every movie Hollywood produces, the primary target audience is young (in this case, let's say anywhere from 10 to maybe 30--those are the people who go to the movies), but there are even moments for older people to appreciate (if they have grandchildren, at least). But the thing about a fairy tale is that it should appeal to every age. We can grow out of them, and probably should to some extent. Still, what is banished from the head with relative ease cannot be so easily removed from the heart. The excitement of a fairy tale as it celebrates virtue should be at least appreciated, if not shared, by everyone.

This film goes beyond a standard fairy tale, too, by the tongue-in-cheek nature of its story. As a matter of fact, male audiences can easily feel the movie speaks mostly to them as it puts on a show of cynicism towards all that "true love" nonsense. The conclusion of the film is obviously intended to manipulate such males to share the opinion of their female counterparts about romance. Only a heart of stone can truly resent such manipulation, however. It should be a time to bask in the glow of shared experience, a moment when all our differences fade behind our mutual enjoyment and satisfaction in a good story well told.

This is not a perfect movie, by any means. Despite fine production values, a handful of scenes feature some of the poorest, most transparent set design I've seen this side of the 1930's. This doesn't bother me too much, though. It reminds the audience that what they're seeing isn't the real story, but a story-within-the-story, the product of an imagination. The real story is about an old man entertaining his sick grandson. That story is really about broadening the horizons of the little boy so that he likes something more than sports. The film has the same purpose for everyone who crowds into the theater to see it: it's intended to get them to like the genre that didn't appeal to them before. In this, the film is a complete success.

The large, talented cast of this film doesn't have any really big stars, but each character is so well-drawn that the audience begins to love even the unfamiliar faces. The supporting cast is a menagerie of colorful characters who show up for one scene, have as much fun as possible, and then leave. As for the leads, Cary Elwes strikes the correct note of long-simmering anger even as he embraces the funniest role of his career. His brand of sarcasm is scene-stealing, but the raw emotion of Robin Wright as the title character is powerful enough to silence it. Together, they make their journey back to love just as interesting as the quest for the kingdom. However good they are, though, the emotional center of the movie is Mandy Patinkin's character. The princess is ultimately too much of a damsel in distress to fill that role. Patinkin's lovably wild yet determined performance brings a subplot to the forefront of our minds. This combination of a revenge story with the standard love story is probably the film's cleverest aspect.

Each ingredient in the movie adds up to an immensely fun experience. The minds of Goldman and Reiner meet to a degree shared by the greatest screenwriter/director teams in history. The acting, from Elwes's protagonist down to Billy Crystal's single scene, is wonderful. This is great stuff.

The foundation for the humor is the fact that Danny Kaye doesn't belong here. He's no Robin Hood; in fact, he's not the heroic type at all. Lacking the strength, skill, or intelligence to lead the operation that falls into his lap, he's so out of his element that we even wonder sometimes how he survived this long in the Middle Ages. Melvin Frank and Norman Panama, the writers/directors, have placed Kaye in such incongruous situations that he wouldn't have to do much for this film to be at least a little funny. Naturally for Kaye, he does more than he has to. I think this film represents his overexcited style at its best. This is another film I've grown up with, and in this case, my familiarity with it hasn't ruined it at all. There is enough good writing at work here to make up for Kaye when he's not quite so funny and to make it truly wonderful when he shines. As I said, he's not a hero in any conventional sense, but his character gets the job done in every other way possible. To begin with, he's a master of impersonation. This skill is hinted at in an early song and first put on display when he impersonates an old man (one of the best scenes in the movie). Later, he poses as a jester (not exactly a stretch, although this particular jester is a pretty sophisticated fellow when he's not performing) to sneak into the castle of the impostor king. Said king is played wonderfully by Cecil Parker, who acts like a man almost as out of place as Kaye. While there's clearly one star to this movie who gets the bulk of the opportunities for humor, the supporting cast does admirably. We can be especially thankful for Basil Rathbone, who portrays a ruthless villain in a movie where such a character clearly stands no chance. The film anticipates Inspector Clouseau in one scene where Kaye appears to perform a daring feat of assassination while remaining absolutely clueless. This is the other way he manages to perform the duties of a hero: he gets a lot of help. In a serious film, this would be unforgivable, but here it only makes it funnier. The simple idea of putting Kaye under a witch's spell to make him brave and a great sword fighter, for example, is played out perfectly, showing exquisite timing with the finger-snapping trigger. Of course, the best and most famous scene of all involves a poisoned drink and the oddly challenging mnemonic device that Kaye must learn in order to avoid it. His escalating tension makes for delirious comedy, and the whole scene is capped with the perfect payoff.

Spoofs are interesting. They purport to highlight the stupidity of their subjects, but in many cases the spoof will display intimate knowledge of that subject, the kind of knowledge that would not be possible without repeat viewings. A well-made spoof, then, can work as half-parody, half-tribute. It reminds the audience of the original, even going so far as to make them want to watch the original again. This may or may not be intentional, but if what I've heard about "Young Frankenstein" is true, it was absolutely intentional in this case. The differences between this and Brooks' "Blazing Saddles," released the same year, are telling. BS doesn't seem to want to be a Western, offering a constant barrage of anachronistic jokes and props until it finally breaks free completely towards the end. But in adapting the story of Frankenstein, Brooks was careful to set his zany humor in a believable place, with just enough atmosphere to legitimately evoke a sense of horror. It all begins with the decision to film in black and white. The difference in approach between this and BS might not seem so stark if they were both in color. In any case, the choice acts as an effective time machine, immersing every audience from 1974 to today in a world different from what we usually see in the movies. In addition to the visuals, the music, by John Morris, goes a long way toward setting this movie apart. It's lovely and ominous, perfectly suitable to a real horror film. All the work that was put in to create the look and feel of the old Frankenstein movies makes the humor twice as effective. The laughs are delivered by the best cast Brooks ever had to work with. Madeline Kahn, thankfully, is given a bigger role here than in "Blazing Saddles." Marty Feldman, Peter Boyle, and Teri Garr are all great. The supporting cast includes one or two fantastic cameos as well. But Gene Wilder steals the show. Possibly the most gifted comedian in the movies at the time, his characterization is dynamic, wild, powerful, and funny in every conceivable way. He makes an utterly convincing (and equally silly) transition from a bemused, "absent-minded professor" trying to distance himself from his ancestor, to the maddest mad scientist of them all. Eminently quotable, "Young Frankenstein" is the greatest kind of spoof/tribute, making observations about its source material that are both clever and bawdy. I don't think Brooks ever made anything this funny again.

Billy Wilder's humor remains as sharp as ever; it's really extraordinary. Today, the ways that Wilder pushes the envelope in "The Seven Year Itch" are hardly shocking anymore (nothing is). Maybe that's just what makes the movie so great. Modern comedies don't seem to have much of anywhere to go, having explored every extreme of language and bodily functions. There will always be conservative audiences somewhere who can be caught off guard, but for the most part we've seen it all, and it doesn't even have the appeal of novelty anymore. Comic filmmakers, given very few restrictions as to content, feel the need to show us everything with ephemerally shocking literalness. Fifty years from now, the vast majority of early 21st-century comedies will be absolutely useless. Not so with Wilder. His films remain subversive in all the best ways. At every turn, "Itch" encourages the imagination to work. As the plot unfolds, it becomes easy to see why this is. The film is an impressive work of imagination that is also about imagination, and the control it can exert over a person's will if he doesn't control it first. The story indulges a fantasy, as only Hollywood can, about a man who indulges his fantasies. It's a crash course on irony and how it can be used most effectively. Tom Ewell's character is a hopelessly boring individual who nevertheless dreams big and has a way, with the help of movie magic, or passing his dreams off as reality. It comes as no small surprise when the most desirable woman in the world walks into Ewell's life, for real, and with apparently no qualms about spending an evening with him of all people. His family away for the summer, he is, incredibly, in the perfect position to have an affair. That he doesn't really have one might be cause for some frustration on the audience's part if the film weren't so funny. Marilyn Monroe is actually quite terrific in the film: she's playing dumb, but with enough intelligence to know exactly what she's doing and how to capitalize on it. As for Ewell, he masters the art of the monologue as few actors in movie history ever have. The script introduces jokes and situations that are hilariously repeated later, with interest. As the opening scenes illustrate, the core situation of the plot is eternally up-to-date, blowing up masculine vices and shortcomings to CinemaScope proportions.

I love music of all kinds, and I have full respect for its power. That's what I find so magical about this movie. I can't think of another single Hollywood musical that's about music itself. The songs in this movie are used because they're essential to the plot as well as to the characters and their feelings. The story is all about the power of music, in this case the power to change the fortunes of a town and its people who didn't realize their fortunes needed changing, and also to mesmerize and bend people to one's will by getting them to sing. The latter is part of the film's rich use of humor; it's not realistic, of course, but rather a hyperbolic example of good music's acknowledged ability to turn attitudes around. Harold Hill, played with scene-dominating showmanship by Robert Preston, is a successful con artist whose work depends greatly on affecting the attitudes of his marks. By singing songs (and miraculously getting the dour River City townsfolk to sing and dance with him), Hill launches and maintains his elaborate scheme with apparent ease, although he must deftly avoid several close calls. Everything works well until he becomes romantically involved with Shirley Jones's character, who, naturally, complicates everything. Preston plays a man who is great at what he does but is in desperate need of a healthy conscience, and Jones supplies one for him. She plays a very dynamic character and makes the arc from beginning to end believable. Obviously, she was hired because of her tremendous singing ability, but she does an excellent job at the drama, comedy, and romance as well. "The Music Man" is an incredible amount of fun, a fantasy set in seemingly the most unspectacular place imaginable. The songs are brilliant and beautiful, written and placed in the movie perfectly to coincide with plot developments and tell us everything we need to know about the characters. The ballet performances are majestic and strange, adding another important layer to the effect that music has on people, who had previously given no indication they could dance. The film's finale inspires on many levels: serving as a curtain call for the great cast, as the grandest bit of fantasy in the whole film, and finally as a musical symbol for newfound joy in living, a parade that extends into infinity.

Wall-to-wall crazy brilliance from beginning to end. This film came at the perfect moment in the Marx brothers' careers. Having already made a few talking motion pictures, they had mastered the form and were free to do with it what they liked. At the top of their game comedically, they didn't have to share the story with a boring drama, romance, or anything else sensible. The film is just over an hour long, which is the perfect length; laughter of this magnitude begins to hurt if it goes on too long. This might be the funniest movie ever made. Innumerable priceless one-liners from Groucho, along with plenty of brilliant exchanges between Groucho and Chico, as well as the always wonderful silent comedy of Harpo--they never seem to hit a false note, no matter how far into left field they go with their ideas. Just about everyone in the movie is insane, so it's important to have at least one "straight man" to provide a voice of reason and to remind the audience that there are still normal people in the world. Zeppo fills this thankless role admirably; in fact, something I can't really define seems to be missing from the movies the other brothers made without him. He puts up with everything without losing his dignity, and gently reminds characters of where the plot is going, which they would never know on their own and probably don't care about anyway. We do. Zeppo is onscreen just enough to give us a break from laughing and to move the story forward to its conclusion. The story itself is perhaps the ultimate anti-war statement in the movies, just because it goes for the jugular: war is insanity, and the politics that begin wars are often insane as well. Anti-war movies are often angry, but this one mocks the nature of war with big-hearted slapstick. It also does so with a fantastic spoof of an early 30's Hollywood musical number. Making fun of musicals was a funny idea; making fun of war was brilliant. The real genius was combining the two, so that on another level it works as a stab at Hollywood itself, which tends to reduce both war and music to pageantry. This is a comedy of bold strokes and little moments, a masterpiece that creates a movie world fit for all manner of hilarious possibilities. Something like this cannot be duplicated.

For me, there's really nothing to warn you that this movie will be anything special until Bogart shows his face. Prior to that, it's just a slightly interesting war story without the war. With the introduction of Rick Blaine, however, the film lets loose all its creative energy, as the spectacular array of major and minor characters are introduced one by one. It's a famously perfect screenplay by the Epstein brothers and Howard Koch. The story is marked by some of the most powerful reversals in any movie, with the essential conflicts driven by romance, patriotism, and self-preservation--surely three of the most dominant human impulses. Each character is drawn so as to mesh with the personality of the actor assigned to play him, so that the performances all feel totally genuine. Moreover, the script manages to do all this and also produce more famous catchphrases than possibly any other movie besides "The Wizard of Oz." The cheerful intelligence of the humor brings a smile to my face every time. Bogart begins the film inhabiting a world that's largely under his control, a world he can be comfortable in. The sudden, dramatic reintroduction of Ingrid Bergman into his life sets a new, urgent tone for the rest of the film, as flashbacks deepen the drama by creating a truly marvelous and painful love triangle. Everything is brought to a head with that brilliant final scene. Throughout, a certain cynicism had been clashing with the concepts of nobility and sacrifice, and at the last moment the cynicism withers away. The music helps drive the powerful emotions, in one scene in particular. I'm an American through and through, and "The Star-Spangled Banner" will always be my favorite of the two, but the moment "La Marseillaise" is sung in this film, how it symbolizes freedom prevailing over tyranny in the hearts of men, could not be more effective. In a way it's universal. "Casablanca" is great for what it represents, an honest grappling with what's most important in life. More than that, though, it's great for the simple fact that each member of the cast works wonders with great material. Made at the perfect moment during World War II, the film remains relevant as a heartbreaking and heartwarming picture of humanity.

Science fiction, CGI, and comedy have rarely been brought together in a film to such great effect. The premise, taking a conspiracy theory about aliens and playing it for laughs, was ingenious. It's a wry metaphor for illegal immigration, but the filmmakers don't make any overt political statements. They do nothing more than offer us a chance to look at the issue in a different, and very amusing, way. Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones are a great comedic team. Their chemistry makes the whole film work, as their very different personalities set each other off perfectly. Also great in a bizarre role is Vincent D'Onofrio. He's so convincing as an alien inhabiting his own skin that you forget it's the same actor. Playing the heavy in a comedy is always a sacrifice, and he does excellent work, even getting a few funny moments of his own. That's the way the whole movie works. It takes concepts fit for the science fiction and even horror genres, and makes them funny. Not since Kubrick has anyone winked at global destruction with such a cavalier attitude. In a sense the filmmakers are making fun of other "alien invasion" movies, and that ridicule is probably deserved. Such movies tend to assume the worst about extra-terrestrial intelligence. According to this movie they're not all bent on our destruction for no reason; most would rather coexist, sharing technological advancements. The movie is filled to the brim with memorable alien characters, most of them taking idiosyncratic disguises. Just about all of the special effects are done with CGI, which has admittedly dated somewhat since 1997. We have to live with the fact that special effects will always suffer that fate. Happily, it takes nothing away from the humor of, for example, watching two men standing completely still as a flying saucer crashes directly in front of them. This was a great, refreshing concept for a movie--another case of Hollywood poking fun at its own conventions. The whole thing is brought to life by good acting and a palpable sense of enjoyment in both the material and the chance to shoot aliens with huge guns.

This is the perfect kind of movie to serve as a reminder of my early childhood. Things were much simpler then. I was unfettered when it came to knowledge of the outside world, and I was surrounded by warmth and joy. Or at least that's how I choose to remember it. That's exactly the kind of nostalgia this film evokes. It does not allow too much complexity to cloud its battle of good and evil. It is all about the simple joy of flight, literally and figuratively. This would have been my first exposure to the concept of flight without aid of an airplane or of being an alien (or otherwise super-powered). It's a powerful dream, and to the film's credit, its protagonist indulges that dream for a time but ultimately chooses to relinquish it in the face of greater responsibilities. That is the simplest possible message, and the movie doesn't try to say anything more than that. I'm glad it doesn't make any pretense of being a masterpiece. Sometimes I'd rather just enjoy a film for what it is. In this case, it's just an entertaining and sometimes thrilling adventure story, told in an unapologetically old-fashioned way. The cast certainly embraced the nature of the film, turning in performances suiting an old adventure story: simple, but true. Sorvino and Dalton are very fun to watch, but best of all is Alan Arkin, who gives extra life to the whole movie whenever his character appears. Another life-giving attribute is the music, undoubtedly my favorite aspect of the film. In fact, James Horner's score is one of my five or six favorites ever composed. As with any great piece of music, it flows over me, flooding me with warm memories of the film before the opening credits are finished. It's stirring stuff. "The Rocketeer" is a movie I've always loved and haven't grown out of yet, despite my increasing understanding that it's far from the greatest movie ever. Too many moments have become essential film memories for me; too much of the spirit of the film has informed my sense of what the adventure genre is. The nostalgia, and the lack of cynicism and anxiety are always refreshing.

Having already turned the full-length animated film into a legitimate artistic medium, Disney allowed his animators to run wild with this film. No longer constrained by any obligation to appeal strictly to a young audience, they unleashed some of animation's potential for creating worlds that could not exist anywhere else. "Fantasia" is nothing if not an exercise in expanding the styles, themes, and stories that could be created with hand-drawn images. Each vignette has a life of its own. This is not a narrative film, to be sure. The segments don't add up to any single story or premise. What ties them together, besides the obvious, is the imagination at work. The segments each show the possibilities that were opened up when synchronized sound came to the movies. The ear adds fresh meaning to what the eye sees, and vice versa. The greatest thing about the movie is its capacity to make animation lovers enjoy classical music, and classical music lovers enjoy animation. I watch the movie from the position of someone who already loves them both, but it still manages to further my interest in both as well. The animators choose not to be limited by the programs of "Nutcracker," "Rite of Spring," or "The Pastoral Symphony." It would just not be as interesting for them to draw only the images that seasoned listeners expect to see. Not being a musical professional, I like each and every one of the changes they made. The finished products are works of fantasy, evolutionary epic, and mythology. None of the three is quite as interesting or exciting as the abstract art of "Toccata and Fugue" or the frighteningly accurate visualization of "Night on Bald Mountain," however. To these are added the wondrously funny "Dance of the Hours" and the immortal "Sorcerer's Apprentice," starring Disney's greatest creation. I love the Deems Taylor narration as well, and in recent years I've even come to enjoy the live-action parts to a certain degree, especially the use of color and shadows. The movie is a wonderful experience of beautiful music, beautiful images, and creativity for its own sake.

Hollywood satire has almost never been this brilliant, accurate, or funny. Part of the reason for this is Mankiewicz's perfect dialogue. The performances are another major factor. But choosing to aim all that firepower at the culture of Broadway was a masterstroke. On the surface, the result of this choice was to make mincemeat out of any pretensions held by what was certainly the major rival to the movie business at the time. Also, however, as one of the characters implies near the beginning of the movie, the very same weapons the film uses could easily be turned against Hollywood itself. Lust for stardom, in any form of "theater," is addictive. Fame, even when it's achieved, lasts an intensely short time--regardless of the fact that a movie can immortalize a great performance. That performance is a shadow, it's not the person. Acting is being something you're not; it's a lie. So, someone can view this film and see that the villain's only real crime is great acting, both on and off the stage. That being the case, the film becomes the ultimate paean to acting and actors. There is no greater joy for an actor than to be handed a scene in which he can spout glorious dialogue that is intelligent and true to his character. Every scene in this movie is like that. And the actors return the favor. Bette Davis, as is well-chronicled, is the standout. She can be a whirlwind, overpowering everyone else in the scene with her personality, but there are also moments when she uses nothing more than those eyes of hers. The sad part of the story of the movie is that this role reflected her real life to some extent. For our benefit, that fact does lend more power to her performance, just as her off-screen relationship with Gary Merrill makes their relationship in the film even more believable. The other actors are great as well. George Sanders is terrifically slimy, and Anne Baxter, always looking as if she doesn't quite belong in the crowd, manages a difficult role very well. If all that wasn't enough, Marilyn Monroe shows up. This is a universally recognized classic that is also truly enjoyable to watch--graceful and vicious at the same time.

Movies being what they are, I am in the interesting position of knowing all about Audrey Hepburn's performance as Eliza Doolittle, without ever having seen Julie Andrews in the role. Further confusing things is Andrews' colossal performance as Mary Poppins (who is, of course, nothing like Eliza) the same year this movie was released. As such, my mindset is that Hepburn was perfect for the role, while I have difficulty seeing Andrews really pulling it off. Ironic, that. But in any case, Hepburn was a fine replacement. Her clothing, the smudges of dirt on her face, and the way her hair is messed up might not be sufficient to hide her beauty on their own. Hepburn was a great actress, and the way she carries herself in the first parts of the movie really completes the picture of a poor Cockney flower girl. Plenty of actresses have put on ugly makeup to try to win an Oscar, but Hepburn does just enough to be convincing while retaining a hint of a winning personality under the dirt and that wonderfully grating accent. She is no less a valuable human being at the beginning than at the end. Still, the movie is an ode to the power and beauty of the English language. It convincingly shows how the ability to express oneself well can transform a person even more than material blessings. Henry Higgins unwittingly empowers Eliza with nothing more than words. Given my own love for the language, this would be reason enough to appreciate the movie. On top of that, it's a great musical. The Lerner and Loewe songs are energetic, funny, and memorable. Cukor stages them each differently, and they are all in their own way fun to watch. The film is positively gorgeous to look at, with great costumes and sets. It's delightfully old-fashioned, filled with classic Hollywood musical aplomb and gentility. And at least they got Rex Harrison and Stanley Holloway, who are both hilarious and were also responsible for creating their roles on Broadway.

I love most of the Batman movies that have been made so far, each for different reasons. I don't think any individual film represents the definitive look at Batman or the world he inhabits, but Burton, Nolan, and even Schumacher present a particular point of view that contributes something important. Of the three, it's Burton who maintains the most perfect balance between dark, serious realism and the look and feel of a comic book. His characters have real psychological problems to explain their vigilantism, but they are also creatures of fantasy, breaking the bounds of the real world by the way they look and act. If Batman himself takes a back seat to the villains in Burton's second film, that is just another way of shrouding the character in mystery. We know enough of the basics to understand his increasing withdrawal and brusqueness. Burton does a much better job than the other two filmmakers of presenting Gotham City. It is a stark, disgusting place, simultaneously the only environment that could create/tolerate Batman, and the only one that could turn its back on him precisely when he's trying to help. Christmas in Gotham is actually the worst time of the year in this movie. The whole thing is beautifully shot. It was a good decision, given the size of Batman's rogues' gallery, to bring two more of his classic villains to the screen in this film. Michelle Pfeiffer gives the best performance in the movie, and the best performance as a villain in any Batman movie until Heath Ledger. As the film progresses, she transforms from the victim of her sexist boss to, well, Catwoman. Danny Elfman provides the terrific score again, this time adding some genuinely creepy choral segments to his theme. The film makes great use of the characters' respective animals as well, lending the story a kind of mythological quality. Here we have Batman descending deeper into darkness, only to be rescued by a spark of love from an unexpected source.

Yes, the plot is so convoluted and inscrutable that it almost spirals completely out of control, but the same thing could be said for Hawks' "The Big Sleep," and that's a classic. It's exceptionally rare for a "summer" film released in my lifetime to have a plot this complex. Unlike most action movies, it is satisfying in more than just the typical, superficial way. This film is an entertaining puzzle as well as a great excuse for explosions. De Palma directs the film well enough that it's hard to get frustrated even if you've lost your place with the story. He evidently has fun inserting quirky camera angles and mildly disturbing dream images. The action scenes themselves are spectacular, with masterful special effects that haven't dated much at all. The image of Cruise dangling in midair has become iconic. Best of all is the finale, involving a helicopter, train, and chewing gum. It is brilliantly staged and utterly thrilling, a climactic struggle that could only happen in the movies. Cruise is fine as the lead. I think his particular talents are well-suited to a movie like this. Although the movie doesn't ask him to do very much emotionally--he's too busy running around to stop and think too much--his charisma makes him an ideal lead, someone to root for and to focus on among the vicissitudes of the story. Jon Voight is also very good. This is a great spy movie through and through. The genre is all about deception, and every trick in the book is used here to disorient and point in a new direction, masking and unmasking characters until the real villain is finally revealed. It's a lot of fun.

It's sacrilege to like this movie better than anything Hitchcock himself made, but I can't help myself. The irresistibly smart, dialogue-driven humor of Stanley Donen's film is more than enough to recommend it. Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn both put their unique personalities into the humor as well, so that I don't think I can see anyone else doing it exactly the same way. Grant had already enjoyed a long career exhibiting the sophistication he has here, so his performance is natural and familiar, almost as if his character reminds us of someone else. Hepburn is lovely as always, and she proves in this film to have a wonderful gift for comedy to boot. The age difference between the two stars doesn't get in the way for a second; intellectually, at least, they are on exactly the same level. All in all, this is a suspense-comedy with accent on the comedy, but the thriller aspects of the story are pulled off with great skill. Donen and writer Peter Stone allow the plot to be revealed in bits and pieces, funneled through several different sources, so that the viewer develops significant doubts about whom to trust. Whenever the situation threatens to get too light, another in a series of murders takes place to turn the plot into a new direction. The twists and turns continue until almost the very end, followed by a decisive and thrilling standoff. Again, this is the kind of movie that Hitchcock put a definitive stamp on at least a decade earlier. If pressed, I would probably admit that he did it better than Donen. This film will always be special to me, though. It has stood the test of time with its humor and star power.

Donner's "Superman" moves along with the kind of charm, wit, excitement, and epic sweep that every superhero movie strives for. Each classic character is put on the screen in exactly the way he should be. Christopher Reeve, so good that unfortunately he could never do much else with his short career, nails the duality of his role completely. Clark Kent and Superman are so different that it's actually believable for those glasses to provide a sufficient disguise. If Reeve has more fun with Kent, that just goes to show that Kal-El would probably rather fit in on his adopted home than anything else. Margot Kidder brings intelligence and spunk to her Lois Lane, as well as an inexplicable yet humorous problem with spelling. Gene Hackman's Lex Luthor is one of the best realizations of a comic book villain in the movies. He combines over-the-top cruelty with a great sense of humor and equally over-the-top egotism. Ned Beatty and Jackie Cooper are also magnificent in lesser roles. Marlon Brando is in the film as well, although I can't help but think his talent is wasted with so little screen time. He does have some of the best lines in the movie, though, mentoring his son from beyond the grave. I love the way this story unfolds. It's long, but enough happens for that not to be much of a problem. The origin story is detailed and believable, with the young Kent slowly coming to grips with who he is and what he can do. The film has one of my all-time favorite openings; simple, but when the music kicks in it puts me in the mood more than almost any other opening in film history. Everybody loves John Williams, and I like his music here even better than in "Star Wars." It embodies so much of the spirit of the Superman character and story that the two are now completely inseparable.

An unusual film noir in that the characters are upstanding members of society at the start. Yet, as with all noir, bubbling beneath the surface is a sovereign rage against the world and everything in it, not least of all the very MacGuffins that Walter Neff pursues: women, money, freedom. Such things are curses masquerading as treasures for the heart that seeks them selfishly, and the film is not afraid to show this (not say it, but show it). For the screenplay, we get a look into the minds of two of the greatest writers ever to work in Hollywood--Billy Wilder and Raymond Chandler. If I might parse their superior work without really knowing, I would say that Wilder contributed the film's rich, yet dark humor, while Chandler was responsible for the intricacies of Neff's scheme. In any case, the script alone is a masterpiece of crime fiction, with cold logic alternating suddenly with bursts of passion in the truncated romance. Furthermore, bringing the work to life are three very good actors who bring their best to each role. Barbara Stanwyck's Phyllis Dietrichson is the greatest of all icy noir villainesses. She has considerable power over her situation without seeming to exert any effort for it. Behind her eyes, one recognizes the result of stifling any feelings that might keep her from doing what she must to get what she wants. Edward G. Robinson is the heart and soul of the picture without seeming to want to be. And as for Fred MacMurray...I must say I like his mean, fast-talking side the best.

The Al Capone story gets a proper mythic treatment in De Palma's tribute to the classic gangster film. De Niro plays the man as larger than life. If the real Capone wasn't much like this, it doesn't really matter; this is a highly entertaining example of "printing the legend." Even so, his performance pales in comparison with that of Sean Connery. As the wise, brutal, sardonic cop, Connery steals the show completely. This role was instrumental in establishing his post-007 persona, and probably ensured the extension of his career into the next decade. He lifts the film up just at the moments when the story and other characters are incapable of doing so themselves. Also, of course, his mentoring of Ness drives the crucial change that helps bring the plot to its conclusion. Costner, while being his usual bland self, does manage to show in subtle ways the disillusionment and toughening that he goes through. The supporting cast is good as well. This is a very effective period piece, transporting us back in time with its use of sets, clothing, and music. The score by Morricone proves yet again why he's simply the best. The script carefully avoids saying anything for or against Prohibition, despite the apparent fact that without it, there wouldn't be an Al Capone. Or at least it avoids it until the end, with one of my favorite closing lines in a movie. The line I refer to succinctly illustrates an important tenet of law enforcement: They didn't write the laws, but now that those laws are here, someone has to enforce them. Morally dubious, sure, but would America function without such a principle?

This movie was made for actors. It's light, easy entertainment wherein just about everybody gets to look cool and do little else. What makes the movie so fantastic is the fact that they have acting talent to spare. Guys like Don Cheadle and Casey Affleck shine in tiny little roles, proving they could become leading men later in the decade. As for Clooney and Pitt, it's pretty obvious their roles were written specifically for them, because they just have to be themselves; namely, insanely cool. The story of the heist is invigorating to watch, as the thieves methodically make the impossible possible. The fact that this could never work in real life only makes it more fun. For all the smoothness, the film avoids being entirely predictable with little quirky moments here and there. But I think the best part of the movie is the dialogue. It might not have been quite as good if lesser actors were delivering it, but it's fast, witty, and awesome. Even Andy Garcia and Julia Roberts, who otherwise get left out of the fun of the heist itself and have to be villains for awhile, get some meaty lines. Garcia is perfect for the mean villain role, as has been seen before. He even injects a sort of grace into his embarrassing downfall. Roberts, the only female, gives us a subtle reminder of vulnerability amidst all the posturing of the men. Everybody's having a blast. This is the perfect escape movie for me, a glorious blend of charisma, banter, and light thrills.

There's something childlike about the finale to George Lucas's masterpiece. Whereas I needed to grow into "Empire" somewhat, I can't really remember a time before I loved this one. Being the newest of the trilogy means it has the best special effects, and at least the potential to top everything that came before. In at least a few scenes, notably the opening ones on Tatooine, it absolutely does. The pure excitement of this film is potent, almost a dream come true in that this is just what the final battle with the Empire should look like. Each little conflict is resolved down to the last detail. Of course, the film is not without its problems, one of which is the very fact that everything must be wrapped up in time for the end. The storytelling gets a little clumsy at times. Still, despite the fact that a bunch of teddy bears save the day, this film is at its best when looking into the darkest regions of the human soul. Picking up where the last film left him--emotionally and spiritually--Luke now has a genuine dilemma on his hands. It is actually hard to tell from moment to moment which side he will choose. The tension is perfect up to a certain point, after which the best character in the whole story takes over. It's probably fitting that the film is such a mix of light and dark. Those are the simple archetypes that these movies have been about all along, and keeping it simple is part of what makes it so legendary.

The sequel has to be bigger and better, and in this case it's at least one, and almost both. Some of the jokes and themes from the original are recycled, but for the most part it's done in an original way. For example, Woody's fellow castmembers reveal that their show suffered the same problem as Woody himself did with "space toys." Buzz meets a copy of himself in a toy store that has the same delusions he once had, so we get to see a "before and after." Most of the new jokes are brilliant, as well, with all the original toys getting moments to shine. As with any good sequel, we are also introduced to a set of new characters, each of whom deserves their place in the roster. The genius of this film and its predecessor is that it treats toys as toys (none of this "Transformers" nonsense we've had to sit through the last couple years). Simply using a computer to make toys move is rather simple, but these movies truly bring them to life by giving them the kind of thoughts and feelings that any real toy would have. In this case, the theme is growing older. The film does not shy away from the consequences of humans growing up, or the fact of toys becoming old, broken, and no longer useful. It's effective as a metaphor for anything in life that doesn't last forever. As young children, our toys become almost like friends, something to play with and cherish. The thing to do, if you're a toy, is just what Woody says at the end: to enjoy it while it lasts. That's the only way to live: to fulfill and enjoy your purpose for as long as it lasts.

Competition from Don Bluth was exactly what the Disney studio needed. Getting back to basics, with a fairy tale musical, more than made up for what had been a generally uninspired decade. Of course, it also paved the way for Disney's fantastic comeback in the 90's. All historical influence aside, though, it's a terrific movie. The animation is magnificent, providing one of the main reasons I hope hand-drawn animation isn't gone for good. The songs were justifiably awarded at the Oscars; every single one is a classic. It's very, very ironic that both of Sebastian's songs fail in their intent, as far as the story is concerned. But Samuel E. Wright, the voice of Sebastian, produces what I think is one of the all-time great characterizations in the history of animation. Every seemingly throwaway quote is precious. Jodi Benson's talents are on display as well in a two-character performance. The prince isn't given much more to do than in previous films, but I do think I detect some intelligence in Eric, and he is given a few funny moments. He's right up there with Philip from "Sleeping Beauty" in my opinion. The entire film is really unabashed in its embrace of the classic Disney themes, and it's clear from the film's success that they had not gone out of style. I might not be as interested in animation as I am were it not for this film. It still stands up: a beautiful film, and adolescent melodrama at its finest.

It can take some time to get used to Baz Luhrmann's style. Ironically, though, this was the first of his movies for me to see and it's still my favorite. Opening with a blindingly fast pace that slaps you around for awhile, it then settles into its unusual, often beautiful, story. It's unusual not only for the subject matter, but also for the way that it's told. The story unfolds on two levels thanks to the play within the play, making it possible for the characters essentially to write their own story. Suspense is to an extent taken away by this method, but it's so interesting that I don't really care. Any illusions of a happy ending can't gain much traction anyway, at least until the climax, when the hero finally takes his stand. The editing job by Jill Bilcock is fantastic throughout, everything timed so well as to be visceral. Ewan McGregor is his usual charming self, with the added treat of a powerful singing voice. And I must admit that it's the music that really makes this movie special. It's playfully ahistorical; that's the first thing you notice. But each song is perfectly chosen, complementing the story as well as giving a taste of the best popular music of the second half of the twentieth century. Much like "Singin' in the Rain," I love the idea of using old songs in a new movie. In fact, this comes so eerily close at times to the kind of movie I'd like to make that I'd probably hate it if I weren't convinced I could do better. I might, but it will definitely be a challenge.

When this movie was first released, I knew very little about the books and had never read them all the way through (that's still true today). What I remembered from "The Hobbit" was enough to make me vaguely interested, and the trailer helped. But, just as an earlier generation couldn't have seen "Star Wars" coming, I walked into this movie with no inkling that it would become one of my favorites. In this case, I'm glad I didn't read Tolkien before seeing it. There was no chance of disappointed expectations. I still believe this film, judged on its own merits alone, has almost nothing disappointing about it. It is the full flowering of mythic imagination, bursting with an infectious love for its source material. It might be the fastest three-hour movie I've ever seen, with so many twists and turns, chases, and battles large and small. The locations are gorgeous and incredibly varied: forests, caves, snowy mountains, mines, rivers. The variety of effects used to create Middle-Earth, as well as the creatures in it, is famous, and rightly so. The cast is a true ensemble, with no one taking the spotlight more than is needed (Frodo is the main character, but he is absolutely surrounded by interesting people throughout the film). A sumptuous film--the visuals and the great music by Howard Shore reawaken the spirit of adventure in me every time.

It begins with one of my favorite credit sequences, the burning playground serving as a perfect and unique symbol for the man-made apocalypse. Like any good sequel, this film is a rhapsody on the themes and story of the original, not a mere copy of the formula. Our side in the battle of man vs. machine is given a chance to go on the offensive in this film, even while facing a much more dangerous assassin. This is supremely exciting science fiction, blessed this time around with the best special effects of the day. Its emotional center is powerful, and it's amazingly poignant how the film strikes at the heart of what people are like: "It's your nature to destroy yourselves." That has never been more apparent than now, looking back at the 20th century. The point of the film is that technology has gone far enough that we are actually capable of wiping ourselves off the map. Can the path we're on be altered? The actors clearly understand the material, and they all give good performances. Schwarzenegger's accent is still a hindrance, but he gives us a great character anyway. His presence in the first film was one of sheer terror, but this time he adds, quite unexpectedly, a sense of humor (it helps that he's the good guy now). Linda Hamilton's performance is fearless, fearsome, even feral. Always on the edge mentally, Sarah Connor has rigorously trained herself for survival physically. Happily, her effort to become a stone-faced killer is a failure. It's better to be human.

A colossal experience. One of the films I was raised on, I can watch it today and see how much it has influenced me. First off, the film is an imaginative, yet always lighthearted look at time travel; specifically how traveling to the past might affect one's own time. After unwittingly putting his very existence in jeopardy, Marty McFly has the opportunity to change things for the better. Second, we are shown a hilarious, idiosyncratic vision of the high school experience from the student's perspective, with instantaneous crushes, bullying, and absurdly antagonistic adults. Finally, the film manages to prove once and for all that our parents were just like we are. It gets downright touching (in spurts: never enough to drag the film down) to see Marty connect with his father. Michael J. Fox brings tremendous charisma to his role. Crispin Glover as his father does a masterful job at playing two very different ages. Christopher Lloyd creates an immortal character with his humorous spin on the mad scientist. These are the standouts in my mind, but the whole cast leaves an impression, and it's clear they're having a ball. The writing is intelligent and funny--after all these years, it hasn't gotten old at all. Neither has the music, which gives us a snapshot of 50's culture and makes the mental trip back in time easy. My favorite musical moment is when the classic R&B hit "Earth Angel" (a forerunner of rock) gives way to "Johnny B. Goode," the early rock masterpiece. On top of all the fun, it's a history lesson. Our parents were cool once, it seems.

The worst problem with the first movie (the villain) is corrected, and everything else is just as good or better. For all our superhero-worship of the last decade or so, few films take a more interesting look at how difficult it is, on a personal level, to actually be one. "Personal sacrifice" hardly begins to describe what Peter Parker must go through for the sake of all those anonymous people in distress and anonymous criminals. With his origin story, his situation was mostly thrust upon him against his will. This time around, it is 100% his choice. That he makes the right choice is, again, what makes him a hero in the best sense of the word. The special effects are vastly improved over the first film. Computer-generated or not, it's breathtaking to watch. The Harry Osborne story arc is continued with a very good performance by James Franco, and with patience in the writing. He will not be the major villain just yet. All the characters are effectively portrayed, particularly Aunt May (Rosemary Harris). In my opinion, her character in the original comics is just plain annoying, replaying the same terrible joke over and over again and contributing nothing else. But this movie is an improvement on that. May shares the wisdom of her long life with Peter at a crucial moment, giving a lovely speech on heroism that serves as the moral of the entire film.

It was a ridiculously simple joke, really. Something to be treated by an SNL skit (albeit a super-innovative one). Using a truly impressive amount of creativity, however, Murray, Rubin, and Ramis made a full-length film out of the unusual premise, and they did it with style. As a matter of fact, viewing the finished product, it might be safe to say that they've exhausted the comedic possibilities of their subject. Trapped in the same day for what must be years, Murray uses his free time to indulge every conceivable fantasy, and finally to become a better person. His performance is really something else. It's one of the funniest ever filmed (not surprisingly--Murray is a master), but that's not even all. His character goes through a legitimate arc, and every emotional change is registered in his face. This is another one of my favorite films to mix together different genres. The comedy-fantasy-romance is satisfying in all three respects, but it keeps its focus on the characters, even while gleefully exploring, with Murray, all that he can make out of his gift/curse. The way he discovers love along the way is simply expressed (he just chooses to think of others before himself for the first time), but it's a fundamental and huge step for any human being to take. I will close by resisting the urge to make any sort of time-loop joke. Fill in the blank.

A whopping six years later, it really is hard to remember, after two huge and egocentric sequels wore the basic idea to its nib, how surprising this movie was in the summer of 2003. I, for one, didn't really have any expectations for it, good or bad. Repeated viewings over the years may have taken away my joyous surprise, but I can still remember how much I loved the wit, adventure, and special effects. Depp, of course, is reason enough to keep watching the film. His pirate has created a place for himself in the popular culture, a place so ubiquitous for several years that it can be helpful to watch this again, just to see his inventive energy at work. To the film's credit, the rest of the cast is allowed to have plenty of fun as well. Geoffrey Rush, always good, lends the film an extremely interesting villain. The story is complex, with real conflicts between three-dimensional characters. And, yes, there are plenty of visual pyrotechnics. I had always wanted to see a movie with walking skeletons, and the gimmick with the moonlight is brilliant. This is an exciting and extremely funny movie. The only problem with it is that it convinced Hollywood that making movies based on theme park rides was a good idea. Since then, they've been scraping the bottom of the barrel for ideas. Regardless of its legacy, though, the movie still stands as great entertainment.

One of the most emotionally powerful films I've seen. It is an elegy of a most unusual nature. Its subject was not a great man; his circumstances were too harsh for that to be possible. His only real ambition was to be normal, to live normally and to be treated normally. Shot in remorseless, yet mollifying (and beautiful) black and white, the film itself treats him more normally than anyone in it does. Above all, the story is an indictment of the people who stared at this man for amusement. The film raises the question, though: are we, watching it, guilty of the same thing? This is not an easy question, and the film doesn't try to answer it; it's something even Anthony Hopkins's character asks of himself. This movie is beautifully done, featuring some of the best makeup work I've ever seen. I can't even begin to know how difficult it would be to give a performance through all of that, but John Hurt does so, and without overacting. Somehow, he reveals Merrick's innate dignity and deep sorrow every moment he's on the screen. This was a man who lived a life of torture--a fact that is brought forth with hints big and small. Slowly, as the film progresses, Merrick is transformed from a circus freak, to an object of pity, to an intelligent and artistic man who, nevertheless, we would not be interested in if it weren't for his deformity. This movie isn't meant to be merely watched, but to make us rethink our ideas about beauty and monstrosity.

Live action and animation had been blended before--just as, when "Snow White" was released, full-length animated films had been made before. In both cases, however, never before had it been done with such quality, both in its technical aspects and in the power of its storytelling. The special effects of "Roger" are no gimmick. One viewing will thoroughly convince you how well they serve the story. We are treated to a completely believable world of toons and humans living (almost) together, a world that is both a feast for the eyes and imagination and also a potent metaphor for--wait for it--racism. This wouldn't work if the toons weren't presented as powerfully as they are: wacky, to be sure, but undeniably human in their own way, capable of love, anger, jealousy. The performances are terrific. Kudos especially to English actor Bob Hoskins. He doesn't look like a star, and hence never will be. But here he is glorious, giving a performance that perfectly complements and reinforces the idea of a half-film noir, half-cartoon. And Kathleen Turner as Jessica Rabbit is, hands down, one of the greatest voice casting choices ever. This film is great fun, in addition to boasting a scene that scared the pants off me as a child.

Everything that made the original comics so successful is faithfully translated to the screen with Sam Raimi's film. First things first: Spider-Man had an origin story to match that of Superman and Batman, and it's riveting to watch here. It's not a rote retelling, but it adapts details to fit the story they wanted to tell. David Koepp's screenplay is wonderful. Although the origin story takes awhile to develop, the point is this: Peter Parker doesn't become a superhero when he gets his powers. That transformation requires a radical change in attitude toward himself and others. Tragic as it was, the death of his uncle was exactly what he needed, just like Batman and Superman wouldn't be who they are without being orphans. The great thing about this movie is that, even after that point, he really spends the rest of the movie becoming Spider-Man as we know him. That's how long it takes, and that's the film's message. Spidey is helped along in his journey by the perfect foil, the Green Goblin. Willem Dafoe is a bit hammy, but his character was well-written. Tobey Maguire, on the other hand, does surprisingly well; so well, in fact, that he makes the character his own. After this movie and its sequels, it's hard to imagine anyone else playing the Webslinger. This is a great fable about the gifts we've been given and how we have the "responsibility" to use them well.

One of the great movie-watching experiences from my childhood, and a film that I still appreciate at least as much, if not more, today. It's one of the few "family movies" that really deserves that title, because it's not just for kids at all. It's astonishing how much it has to say about its characters, who, despite being talking animals, are not silly, comedic caricatures of people, but real people in a metaphorical sense. At the same time, they are real animals--perfect anthropomorphic ideas for each respective species. The variety of special effects employed is never distracting, but makes the world completely believable. Cromwell's subtle, laconic performance as the farmer somehow makes it easy to accept how such a person could serve as a link between humans and animals. It's all part of the thoroughly unusual spell this film casts. And while the final scene is possibly the most bizarre thing in the known universe, it also happens to be so jaw-droppingly good and joyful and life-affirming that I will never forget it. This movie blows all other stories about pigs out of the water, which is really saying something (what a crazy world we live in). I don't anticipate growing out of it--so there.

As it turned out, this was the only great "Next Generation" movie, but they made it count. Using one of the best two-part episodes from the series as a basis for the plot was a good start. The Borg have always been my favorite Star Trek villains, and this movie gives them their due. Picard's handicaps and advantages due to his past experience with them are explored marvelously. Probably the best thing about the movie is that, although watching the episodes I referred to would be helpful, the film takes the right amount of time to explain things so that it can stand alone. This is done quickly, in bits and pieces, mostly with an opening nightmare scene, so the story doesn't slow down too much. The story itself is an ambitious one, employing everything Star Trek is known for. To top it all off, there's plenty of action, with special effects that still look good. By turns exciting, terrifying, moving, and funny, this is another great entry into the good vs. evil battle. In addition to the understandably comfortable original cast, we are treated to the great James Cromwell, as well as Alice Krige, playing arguably the creepiest, yet most compelling antagonist in the film series.

Simultaneously, Richard Lester raises the stakes in the plot to earth-shaking seriousness--both on a personal and global level--and makes a funnier film than the first one. The latter is easily explained. The origin story was behind them, and they could move right into the bulk of the new story. Clark Kent and Lois Lane were established and familiar characters who could be reintroduced right off the bat, even without the awesome pictorial reminders of the credits sequence. As for the seriousness, this film also managed to explore the character of Superman more than any other in the series. He has been saddled with enormous responsibility (e.g. beginning the film by flying to Paris to stop an H-bomb), and as his mother predicted, he is isolated. The thrill of keeping his alter ego alive, with all the necessary acrobatics and acting, has worn off. He gets to the point where fitting in, and being with Lois, becomes tempting. From the beginning, Superman had been the archetype that all other superheroes imitated, and in this case, his internal conflict would later become a staple of superhero sequels. The combination of the original Donner footage, the performances of Reeve, Kidder, and Hackman, and Lester's great pacing make for one of the best comic book movies ever.

Charles Laughton's only film credit as director: a one-hit wonder for the ages. This is an incredibly thrilling piece of filmmaking, shot with unique expressionistic flair. The use of light and shadow is especially memorable. Strong performances all around, including the child actors, but special praise goes to Robert Mitchum for creating one of the most memorable villains in movie history. The film is an often terrifying look at the power of religion in the hands (pardon the pun) of the righteous and the opportunist. As a Christian, I find it challenging and ultimately encouraging. Harry Powell is a vivid example of the kind of person that uses piety for financial gain. He is, however, much more dangerous than any televangelist I've ever heard of. At the other end of the spectrum, Lillian Gish's character is a strong Christian woman. Gish shows a much different side of her than we saw in her silent films. Her character displays "pure religion and undefiled" as she takes in the fleeing children. The juxtaposition of good and evil is one of the most effective ever shown on the screen. It's brilliant.

"Halloween" was a crazy attempt to create new rules for horror, and it's all executed so flawlessly that the slasher film was born. Nick Castle, the actor who played Michael Myers, was given a most peculiar acting challenge (portraying pure evil). His performance is based entirely on physical presence and heavy breathing. For this movie, it's perfect. He has an uncanny ability to know exactly where to stand. Donald Pleasence is also great, anchoring the film as the doctor who knows all about Michael. Jamie Lee Curtis is a great blend of intelligence and helplessness. But the movie completely belongs to Carpenter, who wrote the music and co-wrote the screenplay as well as directing. His compositions are unbelievable, perfectly framing Myers at crucial moments, then allowing him to slip in and out of the camera's view. The music is so simple, yet it's used in so many ways throughout the film. It's unforgettably creepy, and I love it. Finally, the speeches Carpenter wrote for Pleasence explaining Myers's condition are, I think, some of the absolute best the genre has to offer. In all, the movie is a terrific example of a simple idea brought completely to life.

This is one of the most beautiful action movies ever made. It proves that such a statement doesn't have to be a contradiction. The forests and deserts of China are used to striking effect, but even the action itself is beautiful. There's no speedy editing or shaky camera work to ruin it. In fact, the camera is entirely unobtrusive, not even punctuating the, well, rather extraordinary agility of the characters. The special effects are presented so naturally that I actually start to believe gravity need not always be quite as constricting as it is for ordinary people. Given the choreographer and the time of release, comparisons with "The Matrix" are inevitable. I actually think this movie is superior, at least in one way. It has, not one, but two complex love stories that are both effective and moving. The only thing that takes away from my enjoyment of this film is the subtitles, and that not by much. This certainly isn't a fault in the film. I am an American monoglot, but this is easily the most enjoyment I've ever had from reading a movie.

This is the queen of Gen-X romantic comedies because all the ingredients came together; namely, the romance AND the comedy. It is completely effective on both levels. Meg Ryan forged her entire persona with this performance, and it's wonderful to watch. Billy Crystal, too, shows surprising skills at doing more than cracking jokes, although the jokes themselves are gold. A film that thinks this deeply about male-female relationships had to be funny to be palatable, and Nora Ephron's delightful writing balances it perfectly. The story is an ambitious attempt to track a relationship through several years of peaks and valleys, but those moments are captured so well that it doesn't really matter if, in the back of your mind, you can't stop thinking that genre conventions dictate how it will end. The strength of the film is that we want it to end the way it does. I love the documentary-style interludes as well--that's just one of many things that sets this movie apart from others like it. Incidentally, I also think it's a portrait of New York to rival Woody Allen.

They took the time to write a good story between the numbers. That's what makes this musical better than most, if not all. Even if you're jaded enough to hate spontaneous singing, you will find this movie fun. Personally, I can smile through the entire thing with no effort at all. This is a classy example of Hollywood poking fun at itself (rather, itself twenty-five years before the movie was made, but still...). It's a fantastic look at that unique era when the talkies came into being. More specifically, it is something of a tribute to how musicals came into being--an homage to the bumpy transition that made this film's own existence possible. The songs in the film are, of course, classic. They were mostly old songs that had been used in musicals before, which is fitting for a musical about musicals. All the performances are wonderfully smooth; sadly, this is the only masterpiece Donald O'Connor was fortunate enough to appear in. His is one of many facets of comedy that the film plays to the hilt, one of several engaging characters in a highly enjoyable exercise in movie magic.

A classic comedy about the rebirth of a soul. It seems to me Cruise was born to play this role. Every single moment is just so comfortable and authentic, there's nothing he can do in his personal life that can take away from the joy of watching him here. This movie is famous for blending a sports movie with a romantic comedy, and I happen to love that mix of genres. Time for a confession: I am a man, but movies that are just about sports tend to bore me (admit it, they're almost all the same). This one takes a different look at sports than most, though, examining how the focus on money at the professional level has nearly destroyed love for the game itself. The two genres fit together in that both storylines are attempts to rekindle the romantic, joyful aspect of life. Both of Maguire's relationships in the film develop and flow from his initial crisis and "mission statement." And the film is very funny as well. Crowe's personal stamp is clearly visible on it, with the way he films scenes. Cuba Gooding Jr. has never been better in a movie, either.

One of my all-time favorite Disney films for no other reason than that it's so hilarious. There's a moral, of course, but the focus is on the comic talents of the small cast, each of whom was chosen perfectly for their distinctive voices. Any one of these actors is capable of stealing the show, but their scenes are balanced very well. The film is more than willing to make fun of its own artifice, including an early moment when the film comes to a jarring stop so that Cuzco can emerge and mess with the still image. The filmmakers are cuing us here that they don't have much in the way of story, but we're not going to care. It's too much fun to see all the creative ways of making a joke that they've come up with, for us to quibble about the cliches. The animation, too, is unique for Disney. The trend prior to this film had been to mimic as best they could the proportions of real humans. In this film, with the angular faces and the caricature-like proportions, the emphasis is less on verisimilitude and more on fun, which is what animation is supposed to be.

Nobody tells a story quite like Tarantino. After the blinding speed of Vol. 1, he takes us in an entirely new direction here, fleshing out the story to tell us why he has made essentially a four-hour movie about revenge. Things kept carefully hidden in the first part are finally revealed, most notably (and thankfully) the face of the late David Carradine as Bill. His performance saves this movie when otherwise it might have become too slow. He has a powerful presence of quiet evil, tempered by his own sense of loss. As for the Bride, she certainly blossoms into a character worthy of such an epic as well. It begins to appear that these two are just opposite sides of the same coin as they prepare for their confrontation. This lends the film a sense of melancholy completely missing from the almost insanely exuberant Vol. 1. While the climax is, quite shockingly, made up of a lot of exposition, Tarantino has written the dialogue to transfix and enlighten, even as it builds to the inevitable fight. To keep us interested and make us want to wait shows immense control over his own film, a control that, I think, puts him up there with the greats.

The fear of making a bad first impression with the potential in-laws is very real. It's easy to imagine situations where you can do nothing right. The great thing about this movie is that they play up that fear to comedic effect, sustaining it over nearly two hours as the situation gets worse and worse. There's a real sense of release to the humor, as Stiller's character gets to a point where all he can do is endure, having already been asked to do much more than most of us would be willing to do. Having De Niro in the film is, naturally, the best thing about it. He plays with his tough persona to great effect. The humor of escalation, where one thing happens, which leads to something bigger, and so on until the laughs build to an uncontrollable level, is something I love and would absolutely use if I ever make a comedy.

The paradoxical quality of a good horror movie is that it makes you want to watch it again even though you could barely sleep the last time. "Psycho" is the kind of movie that will sear itself onto your brain, but I still love returning to it, just to gaze at the skill. Hitchcock had made a career out of building suspense, and he uses his skills here to slowly build a sense of vague fear even at a point when nothing has happened yet. When something does happen, you get the most famous death scene ever, which annihilates the heroine and leaves you with a truly disturbed killer as your main character. Norman Bates and his mother are two of the most interesting characters, let us say, that Hitchcock ever put on the screen. They are part of a deceptively normal situation that instantaneously becomes extraordinary. The entire slasher subgenre probably owes its existence to this film. Before this, horror films tended to be set in European castles, based on 19th-century works of literature. Hitchcock brought horror to places where audience members had spent some time, maybe recently. It is all done with a combination of years of experience and the daring to try something new, and it will never stop being frightening.

Ashman and Menken once again wrote the songs to take this film to the next level. They are brilliant, advancing the plot and developing the characters. The opening song, after the beautiful stained-glass prologue, is especially effective at character development, setting up Belle and Gaston. Gaston, an ironic twist on the classic Disney premise that the two most attractive people in the film will naturally end up together (and one of the best Disney villains, period), is determined to marry Belle. She is not only uninterested in him, but she has other things on her mind altogether. With Belle, Disney had created their strongest and most intelligent female lead yet. This reflects a 90's worldview, to be sure, but then as a nod to their roots, and to the fairy tale itself, the filmmakers bring Belle, quite unexpectedly, into a relationship with a Beast. The story captures the nature of falling in love in a fresh and rewarding way. As such, it is perhaps Disney's most mature film. The creativity at work in bringing household items to life is just icing on the cake.

Things definitely got to a point in the 60's where no one could make a traditional Western anymore. The genre hasn't recovered since, but what smart filmmakers did in those early years was to take the dying genre and make movies about the death of the West itself. George Roy Hill, of course, takes an extremely different approach to this than Peckinpah or Leone, by making a comedy. As a result, the film is great fun to watch. Newman and Redford were a terrific team, serving up two of the most likable characters in the genre's history, if not movies in general. They're smart, funny people--not really violent, although they can shoot if they have to. The film's humor is often unique, featuring the funniest explosion I've ever seen, the funniest knife fight, etc. The movie is also fortunate enough that, due to the ever-increasing speed of technological improvement, the theme will only become more relevant as more and more of us become obsolete. That those involved with the film can put a smile on that fact makes the film perpetually worthwhile.

This movie set the standard as high as it could go for the Depression-era rom-com. The script by Riskin is probably the best part. He created two rich characters for Gable and Colbert, and they deliver. It's a comedy about the assumptions different social classes make about each other--especially relevant in the 30's, perhaps, but it'll never go out of style. Capra was The Man in that decade, and this film shows why. Everyone is simply having too much fun for it to get in any way heavy-handed. To top everything off, this movie was the inspiration for the shtick of the greatest cartoon character of all time. That would be reason enough to praise its existence. But the very scene I'm referring to takes it several dozen steps further with the most brilliant hitchhiking scene ever filmed. I run out of superlatives to describe this charming film.

Since Griffith, it has been an American tradition every generation or so for mildly insane filmmakers to try and outdo everything that came before and make the biggest movie ever. Not necessarily "best," but most expensive and spectacular. I don't think any movie before or since has succeeded so well as GWTW. The film funnels its big historical events through the perspective of a handful of major characters. If it wasn't moving enough to see a big screen full of wounded Confederate soldiers, the camera focuses on Scarlett O'Hara moving forcefully past them to accomplish her own agenda. Everything in the film reinforces her extraordinary selfishness, and yet we can't help but admire her strength. Both Leigh and Gable are wonderful--absolutely big enough to fit into the unbelievably big movie around them. The film builds to an impressive crescendo before the intermission and even more so at the end. It's still the best that money can buy, an American legend to rank with the book it's based on.

An assault on the human mind by science, and the mind fights back. The movie does nothing short of explore the nature of personhood, which, it has been said, is related to memory, if not synonymous with it. Thoroughly enjoyable on both an intellectual and an emotional level, the movie really makes you care about what happens to Joel and Clementine. Carrey gives a beautifully normal performance as just a mediocre individual, although he is allowed moments of virtuosity when the plot takes off. The special effects, some old-fashioned and some new, are jaw-dropping AND they blend in perfectly with Kaufman's screenplay. Michel Gondry deserves credit for putting together such a complex film cohesively. Best of all, the story is told in such a way that after seeing it, you both need and want to see it again. It is a mature look at love, in its highs and lows, and it gets the point across that love is a major part of what makes us human.

This movie is all about the greatest comedians of the 1930's at the top of their game. The "plot" serves to give them some semblance of direction and purpose for what they're doing, and it also provides a good reason for sticking in several decent musical numbers to give us a rest from laughing. Individual scenes are what make this movie memorable, though, more than any connection they may have with one another. This one features some of the funniest scenes, of any movie, ever--including the scene in Groucho's tiny room on the ship, and of course the final opera scene. Harpo and Groucho are at their acrobatic and fast-talking (respectively) best. Chico is always my least favorite of the three, but he does have some great moments as well, most of them with Groucho. Overall, the film is perhaps not as inspired as "Duck Soup," but the important thing is that none of the jokes seem forced; everything still rings true seven decades later. It's a true classic, funnier than most movies out today.

The dramatically delayed sequel to "Before Sunrise" contains most of what made that movie great. The conversation between these two characters is still spot-on (Hawke and Delpy co-wrote the screenplay with Linklater this time, so these characters have clearly become important to them). This film is much more serious, due of course to the significant change in circumstances, and also because the story is told in real time. Every minute counts. There are moments of emotional power to match and even surpass the original, as Jesse and Celine come to grips with what they've made of their lives, and how the other person has affected them. I alternate between liking and hating the ambiguous ending. The movie is definitely going for realism, and it wouldn't be likely that a complete resolution could be accomplished in the time allotted here. But the film leaves me wanting more, and if what I've heard is true, there might be more sequels in the future. Whatever the case, this film is an important installment, beautifully made.

One of those "ALittleSomethingForEveryone" movies, sure, but all of the pieces come together well. Love stories don't usually delve into what happens when one of the partners inevitably dies, or if they do, it's usually the end of the movie. Here we have the wonderfully romantic idea of a man who dies before truly showing his lover how much he cares for her (symbolized rather prosaically in his refusal to utter those three words), but who gets a second chance after his death. While the love story is pretty good overall, it's the other elements of the story that interest me most. I especially love the sound effects when he tries to move through solid objects. The film does a great job showing what an adjustment it might be to "become" a ghost. It's a ghost story that's not horror and not comedy, although there are certainly funny moments. Whoopi Goldberg is actually quite good in this movie; the character suits her perfectly. Overall, I appreciate the work put into a movie to make it fit into more than one genre. This film is quite unique.

This film is the culmination of a trilogy in which individual films don't have much to do with each other as far as continuity of plot and characters goes, but that each showcased and developed the directorial style of Sergio Leone. This is his "masterpiece" in the sense that for the first time he brought all the techniques at his disposal together with an absolutely sure hand. And it's still one of his very best. It fits into its epic length a surprising and meaningful look at war. Eastwood perfects his iconic version of the Western hero, showing his "Good"ness most fully in the war scenes. The music features one of the most famous themes in the movies. Ennio Morricone's score is perfect, and as it slowly builds during that famous climactic scene, it envelops the viewer. Here is a case of the director's and the composer's visions coming together so completely that it's impossible to think of one thing without the other after you've seen it. This is how music is supposed to be used in a movie. Fortunately, the two men would work together on a few more films.

Still exhilarating, frightening, tense, mesmerizing. Schwarzenegger is a truly terrifying, screen-filling presence. It may not be acting per se, but it's effective. It certainly made him a top name in Hollywood. The same can be said for Cameron. It's rewarding to see the creativity at work in this relatively low-budget film that allowed him later to make movies with infinite budgets like "Titanic." Still, outdated special effects notwithstanding, this movie is still essential, in part for the way in which it explains the entire "Terminator" mythology. Amazingly, even the "exposition" scenes are woven into the story so well that they don't slow anything down or distract from the action. And when the talking is over, the movie goes into a frenzy, as the machine gets seemingly closer and closer to finishing its job. The way it keeps coming back after apparently being destroyed is done so effectively that the sequels can only mimic the original in that respect. This is one of the best time-travel films I've ever seen, and really one of the better science fiction in general as well.

Considered his best, and I can see why. This movie is mind-boggling. It features the craziest and most successful murder plot I've ever seen, punctuated by nightmarish imagery that is perfectly blended in with Herrmann's awesome score. It always seems like the movie really starts around its midpoint, but that point puts an entirely new spin on what's gone before. Stewart gives easily one of his best performances in a great, long career. His Scottie makes Norman Bates look rather simple. In fact, it can be argued that Scottie's psychosis is much more serious and complex than Norman's, although he is too weak to take it as far as Norman does (and just barely at that). The film opens with a brutal, unforgettable moment of heights, and we're never allowed to relax after that point. And the final scene is probably the greatest cliffhanger ending ever filmed (at least until 1980, anyway).

It's nothing short of amazing that a talking film this great was made in Germany in 1931, just a few years after Hollywood made the switch, by an established silent film director. But Fritz Lang goes above and beyond in incorporating sound into his film. The use of dialogue, intercutting dialogue in particular, to tell the story is impressive. The sounds of a mother calling for her daughter and Peter Lorre's whistling are unforgettable. With his experience in silent film, however, Lang also knew how to tell the story with images, and he knows precisely what to show and what to hide. Overall, the editing is fantastic, and the tension is perfect right up to the climax. Lorre's performance is just as terrifying, and sympathetic, as the character he was asked to play. The story element of good guys joining bad guys to defeat a common enemy has been copied many times; so has the idea of searching the mind of a criminal to find out why he's so evil. This film might be the best ever at both of those.

Woody Allen's most well-rounded, enjoyable film. Every aspect works well, from the performances of the ensemble cast, to the use of music, to the intertitles. Allen seems to pour everything he's learned into this movie, presenting a complex story (series of stories, really) that veers extremely close to tragedy for many of the characters but resolves itself with irresistible joy. The last line slowly envelopes you as you leave the film thinking deeply about the themes of family, love, life and death, religion, and art. Quite ambitious for a movie that's less than two hours, but it only touches on those themes, never straying too far from its focus on the characters. Probably the greatest moment is a lovely tribute to the power of the movies themselves, a tribute that reinforces this particular movie's impact on me: it is a cure for cynicism, satisfying on every level.

The most interesting Ron Howard film I've seen to date. A well-executed look at how genius can push a mind over the edge. Crowe isn't especially subtle here, but his performance commands your attention. Jennifer Connelly is perfect as his long-suffering wife. This movie has one of my all-time favorite plot twists, a revelation that changes the entire story in a single scene. Sure, you can think of it as a gimmick to make you watch the movie a second time, but I have no problem with that, in this case at least.

Straight parody can be distasteful, because it tends to seem more destructive than anything else. The great thing about "Scream" is that, while it's filled with self-aware jabs at the slasher genre, it clearly loves that genre nonetheless. It explores how movies affect us and how they've changed our behavior and expectations. But, of course, it's not a philosophical movie. It's much more fun. Williamson wrote a terrific screenplay; the use of "Halloween" during the climactic sequence is especially effective.

A compelling story. Cruise gets less annoying as the film moves along, and he puts together a very good performance in the courtroom scenes. But, of course, Nicholson dominates the film. The supporting cast is excellent as well. The film tackles a difficult subject and comes out with what is probably the best moral solution. I find the mixed-emotions ending strangely satisfying. Reiner directs the film well, with good pacing and tension.

Yet again, Disney adapts a classic story and makes a classic of its own. It would have been hard to believe at the time, but this is arguably the last time they managed to do that. One of my favorites since early childhood, I still love it, although I now see the story isn't its strong point. Robin Williams is. It's been said before, but he makes an incredible cartoon character, maybe one of the best ever. Genie singlehandedly keeps the movie interesting, even after all the many times I've seen it.

Burton meeting Depp was the best thing to happen to either one of them. Depp's jaw-dropping performance perfectly matches Burton's unique vision. They quietly create an unforgettable character in an equally unforgettable world. The story is touching and funny (the movie is quite willing to laugh at itself and the bizarre premise for its main character). Everything is resolved properly, albeit harshly, at the end, including the romance, which is probably the weakest part of the movie.

Great special effects that fit in with the story, including scenes of live-action and animation that still look great today. Julie Andrews is of course terrific, much darker and more nuanced than her legend would seem to suggest. And the music--Disney movies have seldom had better music than this, which is saying something. The restoration of the family at the end is always rewarding to see.

I have to confess I still haven't seen most of the 20+ Bond movies, but this is easily the best I've ever seen. It presents a convincing, heartbreaking explanation for why Bond is the way he is. Daniel Craig is absolutely perfect, presenting Bond as a man with complex, suppressed emotions: he is not naturally a heartless killer, but he understands that he has to become one to do his job well. On top of all this, "Casino Royale" is a great poker movie. The pace of the action and suspense is very good as well.

The humor is ridiculously broad--they tried everything they could think of. Naturally, not everything works, but for a movie about two idiots, what else would you expect? And the best moments are such unbelievable genius they totally make up for any unevenness. "Genius" is hyperbole, of course, but it really is deliriously funny. Jeff Daniels does a great job of matching Carrey's superhuman energy, and the final scene is perfectly timed.

Most of the silent film stars were never seen again. Chaplin was too big for that, however. After stubbornly making another silent movie 4 years after "The Jazz Singer," then poking fun at sound (among other things) in "Modern Times," he finally embraced the new technique in 1940. As it turns out, he could talk, too. Still, "The Great Dictator" incorporates many silent slapstick routines into its brilliant, ahead-of-its-time criticism of the Nazi regime. And Chaplin's final speech is still rousing almost seventy years later.

The third great even-numbered Star Trek movie did a great job of saying goodbye to the original cast. I love the music and the mystery elements of the story. Nicholas Meyer does a great job directing again. The Shakespeare and Cold War references, while not always especially profound, are creative. It's a huge improvement over #5, because the crew is permitted to make a team effort rather than relying on Kirk alone.

The 1960's were an amazing time to be making movies, and this is one of the most revolutionary, for its treatment of the characters, genre, and violence. It's still noteworthy today for its freewheeling energy and the charisma of its lead characters. And as for the last scene -- well, there's nothing like a famous movie death for becoming immortal.

In 1950, the Hollywood movie industry took an amazingly critical look at itself, the culture of fame, beauty, and success. There have been plenty of brilliant and funny movies made about making movies or about Hollywood, but this one is deadly serious, and as such it rises above light entertainment. The writing and direction are wonderful. In an unmistakably ironic fashion, Gloria Swanson makes a comeback with a terrific performance.

I think this movie has one of the best premises of any horror film ever made. There is literally no place you can be safe if even your dreams are threatened. It's similar to "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" in that the movie creates real fear about going to sleep. Robert Englund puts together an iconic horror performance, the music is terrific, and we get to see a young Johnny Depp die in over-the-top gruesome fashion. It's great.

I'm a sucker for the classic Disney films, and this is one of the best. It's a cute love story, and the scene at the pound contains some of the most sickeningly adorable puppies ever drawn. Beautiful animation all around, in fact. Great songs; the Siamese cats are two of the most effective villains in all of Disney and they're only in one scene. This movie is a fitting tribute to man's best friend.

A very good "inspirational teacher" movie. Dreyfuss is very good, and it's interesting to see the many different ways he interacts with the people at the school and in his own family. It has something of an "It's a Wonderful Life" theme, which is great, and the whole thing is a celebration of music, which I love. Good selection of music over the long time period.

Not only does the film make cooking interesting and beautiful to watch; not only does it create sympathy for the life of a rat. In addition to these things, Pixar has created a wonderful tribute to artistic creation of all kinds. This film is inspiring to anyone of humble origins who seeks to be a "great (fill in the blank)". Peter O'Toole does some inspired voice work. The movie is also very funny--something I think we're starting to take for granted from Pixar.

Some of the best special effects in any film, ever. CGI hadn't yet gotten to the point where you knew it was fake, and that the actors weren't looking at anything. A good blend of CGI and animatronics, as well. This film is a childhood favorite, and although I can see more problems with it now (this is the first time I've been willing to admit that the kids are annoying and worthless), it's still a good story with a great pace. Jeff Goldblum is actually very good in this.

A hilarious piece of work. So many of the lines are just priceless. I'm not the world's biggest expert on Russian history or literature, and I still think it's an awesome film. I don't typically care for war movies, so it's great to see them made fun of. Allen's movies got better after this, but they also tended to get a little more melancholy. This one is just fun.

On a visual level alone, this is one of the most creative animated films ever made. The depth and variety of thoughts expressed by the participants just brings it to another level. In "Slacker," it seemed like most of the people were anywhere between borderline off-kilter and total psychos. But these people are asking important questions, discussing them in exciting, meaningful ways, expressing themselves with both words and images. The results are incredible, if a little episodic and disconnected. The subject of dreams ties them together, which is one of the most interesting subjects I know.

Beautiful, mysterious (almost to the point of incomprehensibility), Kubrick's masterpiece is the exceedingly rare film that not only asks for your attention and respect, but commands them every step of the way. My favorite theme (and one that has proved to be one of Hollywood's favorites as well) is the conflict between man and machine. But this, as with everything, is handled by Kubrick in a totally unique and unforgettable way.

One of the last of the Pink Panther movies, this one is far from consistently great, but there are moments of such incredibly absurd brilliance, that it's easily the most memorable to me. Herbert Lom finally gets a chance to play a Bond-style villain, and he's terrific. The movie does a hilarious job of highlighting the improbability of the invincible spy hero...ploy.

Not much more can be said about this one. So many archetypes, brought to life with such power and energy. A lot of movies from my generation owe their lives to Star Wars. If it's not rated higher, it's only because the film's reputation is a little suffocating, and there are admittedly a few corny moments.

The blending of humor and suspense is so unique, and the portrait of this particular American region is so accurate, even while the Coen brothers have so much fun with it. In my opinion, nothing else they've done is as funny or exciting as this movie. McDormand, Macy, and Buscemi are all marvelous.