In Memoriam: Robin Williams

The first film I ever saw in a movie theater was Aladdin. I couldn't honestly tell you that I remember the experience, but it doesn't surprise me that I would be just old enough to see the smash hit Disney movie once it hit the dollar theater in the Spring of 1993. In many ways, I can't really remember a time before I had even seen Aladdin. I had grown up with an array of Disney films as a child in the '90s, and it had remained a fixture of my childhood for so long. I watched it again and again countless times, reveling in what I then perceived to be the film's trove of treasures. One of these was the scene-stealing, larger than life genie who always made me giggle (My favorite part? When he transforms that poor monkey into a "brand new camel"). I had a vague idea of actors performing as characters in films, but I can clearly recall the first one I could identify just by seeing and even hearing him. That actor was Robin Williams.

Robin Williams, who died suddenly Monday, was one of the most distinct faces of American Popular Culture. Over the course of a career that spanned forty years, he had planted himself firmly in the collective consciousness of old and young, through television and film, as a wildly manic and original personality that didn't just leave an impression; he could change the very atmosphere around him through seemingly sheer force of will. He was born to be a star, and this became apparent even early on in his career when he got his first break as the character of Mork the alien on an episode of Happy Days. Mork proved so popular a character that Williams became the star of his own sitcom Mork and Mindy from 1978 to 1982. But it was through stand-up comedy that Williams garnered a reputation as one of the most exciting comedians of his generation. Here, in a 1977 show, you can already see Williams perfecting his comedic chops, with his innate gift of improvisation (notice how he constantly interacts with the audience) and creating absurd characters with rapid-fire delivery, almost as if he's unleashing a bevy of material that's bursting to escape from his comic id.

It was only a matter of time before Williams made his way into film, and though he participated in Can I Do It 'Till I Need Glasses?, a 1977 comedy film comprised of vignettes, it wasn't until 1980 that he would nab his first starring role in Robert Altman's Popeye as the iconic, spinach-guzzling sailor man. The film itself was a flop, and still remains something of a divisive cult classic. But Williams persevered through the 1980s, and by the end of the decade had become a bankable lead and had been nominated for an Oscar twice for both Good Morning, Vietnam and Dead Poets Society. Both films featured terrific performances from Williams while also marking the beginning of a trend in his dramatic work that became more and more heavily criticized: the sentimental role model who sermonizes against the establishment. This aspect became insufferable in dreck like Patch Adams and Bicentennial Man, but both Vietnam and Society remain beloved entries in Williams' filmography. In the case of the latter, Williams doesn't overstay his welcome by becoming the chief focus of the film. He gives invaluable advice to his students, yes, but it is ultimately their story, and Mr. Keating has the good sense not to meddle too deeply in it. His goal is to inspire, not to interfere.

By the end of the millennium, Robin Williams had become a household name in America. He had starred in several hit comedies, including Mrs. Doubtfire and the American remake of The Birdcage, and had become a stalwart in several movies aimed for children, including Fern Gully: The Last Rainforest as a mentally unhinged bat and in Steven Spielberg's Hook as an adult Peter Pan who must return to Neverland after his children are kidnapped by the dastardly Captain Hook. And then there was Aladdin. Though debatable as to whether it is his greatest performance as an actor, there's little doubt that the Genie remains the most influential role of Williams' career. His performance not only turned Aladdin from a routine animated musical into a first-rate entertainment, but it set the standard for A-list actors cast in animated family films. While famed actors like Dom Deluise or Burt Reynolds had been featured in prominent roles in animated movies in the past, notably in Don Bluth's films, Robin Williams' genie was an altogether different animal. Without him, there would be no Donkey in Shrek, no model for studios to follow in the hopes of creating a bona fide hit that would cater to both kids and their parents. Williams broke the mold, and over two decades later it's inconceivable what the modern animated film from Hollywood would look like without his contribution.

While a master of slapstick, goofiness, and tomfoolery, it's very easy to forget that Williams was more than a competent dramatic actor. His choice in roles was not always wise, leading to well-intentioned but ultimately abysmal results like Jakob the Liar and House of D. That being said, when Williams did choose the right project, he was nothing less than extraordinary. He could play kind, empathetic people, but also surprised in roles that required him to tap into dark recesses of the human soul. In films like One Hour Photo and Christopher Nolan's remake of Insomnia, he plays disturbed men who are either struggling to latch onto a semblance of normalcy (in the case of the former) or rejecting their humanity altogether (in the case of the latter). Even in Terry Gilliam's The Fisher King, Williams' Terry is a frazzled but goodhearted man haunted by literal and metaphorical demons and who often finds himself in the midst of a violent confrontation as he attempts to rid himself of the one that drove him insane. And in Good Will Hunting, the film that earned him the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor, Williams sheds his onscreen persona by becoming a man who does help a brilliant kid turn his life around but is himself hounded by inhibitions that prevent him from living his life. I remember seeing this scene for the first time and gradually forgetting that I was watching Robin Williams. It's still a revelatory performance in a great film.

The last decade of Williams' life may have been marred by a string of unexceptional comedies, from License to Wed to Old Dogs, but there was the occasional foray into uncharted territory like the black comedy World's Greatest Dad that served as a reminder that Williams, when faced with a challenging script, was more than up for the task. In his private life he was considered a warm, genuine friend to many, perhaps most famously to Christopher Reeve. Both Reeve and Williams met while attending Juliard in the 1970s, and they maintained a close friendship that lasted until Reeve's death in 2004. In his autobiography, Reeve recounts how, following the riding accident that left him a quadriplegic, it was Williams visiting him in the hospital under the guise of a Russian proctologist that lifted his spirits and turned his thoughts away from suicide. Which is ultimately what makes Williams' apparent death at his own hands all the sadder. It's difficult watching this scene from the underrated What Dreams May Come and not realizing in hindsight what drew Williams to a story about a man who, in the afterlife, must save his wife's immortal soul after she has committed suicide. The film's preoccupation with the struggle between love and despair must have been a personal one for the actor, and it makes an already powerful scene like this even more devastating.

Robin Williams meant a great deal to me when I was growing up. When I was a small boy, I wanted to be involved in the movies, whether making them or starring in them, because I wanted to make people happy. I aspired to be like Steven Spielberg (in many ways my hero at four years old) as a filmmaker, but the first person I ever really wanted to channel was Robin Williams. Not just because he was so funny, and not just because he was in many films I've cherished in my life, but because he was a person who seemed genuinely alive in whatever he did. He was a vibrant soul who positively affected the lives of countless people, and he made it seem so easy. And it breaks my heart knowing that this man succumbed to his demons after what was no doubt a long struggle. Yet I refuse to remember Williams by his tragic death, but rather by the joy he brought to so many in his life. I'll remember the actor who was in A.I.: Artificial Intelligence, Hamlet, Jumanji, and the many other movies that I've listed here. Above all, I'll remember the man who inspired me by laying the foundation for my sense of humor and for imbuing his comedy with sensitivity and vivacity. He helped teach me that being funny and being genuine were not mutually exclusive, but on the contrary complemented each other perfectly more often than not. For that, I will always be grateful.

Snowpiercer (2014)

 

“The aristocrats, if such they could be called, generally hated the whole concept of the train on the basis that it would encourage the lower classes to move about and not always be available.”

-Terry Pratchett

Of the automated modes of transportation mankind has developed, trains have always been the most surprisingly cinematic. You would think that such a setting, comprised of cramped spaces and narrow passageways, would ultimately be more suitable for a more intimate art form like the theater, yet some of the most memorable moments in film history have incorporated trains. While there's always a rotten example like the Atlas Shrugged films, there will always be Rick Blaine having his heart broken on the last train out of Paris, or Bruno and Guy discussing how to pull off the perfect murders in a shared compartment, or even the Whitman brothers riding through India on the Darjeeling Limited. What is it that makes locomotives an indelible, and irresistible, hallmark of cinema? I think there's a claustrophobia inherent in a train that forces a group of characters to confront each other, as well as the notion that each boxcar, let alone the entire vehicle, represent a more contained and controlled environment meant to counter the chaos and unpredictability of the outside world. All of these core traits and tropes fuel Bong Joon-ho's Snowpiercer, a dazzlingly thrilling blockbuster that provides a much needed alternative to the soulless and personality-deprived Hollywood dreck currently in multiplexes.

The premise is an intriguing one, albeit one that requires you to suspend your disbelief. Global Warming prompts our scientists to develop a solution that inadvertently sends the Earth into a second Ice Age. The human survivors, what few that remain, have taken refuge on the titular train which has been in perpetual motion for seventeen years. The privileged few live in relative comfort in the front cars whereas the unlucky majority dwell in the tail section, forced to live in their own filth and have "protein bars" as their only dietary option (though the actual source of that protein is far from savory). These unfortunate souls find leadership in Curtis (Chris Evans) and the wizened Gilliam (John Hurt), both of whom are planning a revolt that will result in them gaining control of the engine. Several others have tried, and failed, in the past to gain control of the train from Wilford, the creator of the train. The only thing these rebels have on their side is desperation, but that might be just enough to finally succeed.

The array of characters encountered on the train are garish, horrifying, or comical, often all at once. Curtis and his companions earn an uneasy ally in Namgoong Misu and his daughter Yona (Song Kang-ho and Go Ah-sung, respectively, playing an extension of their roles in Bong's classic monster film The Host). Misu knows how to unlock each door on the train, but he and his daughter demand Kronol, a rock-like hallucinogen, as payment. Our heroes must also contend with the villainous Minister Mason (a delightfully dastardly Tilda Swinton) and her legion of lackeys who, with their vibrantly colored and festive outfits, look like they've stepped out of a lost Terry Gilliam film. Indeed, Bong takes a few pages from Gilliam's best work by fluctuating between the goofy and the grotesque without giving his audience emotional whiplash. Like the antagonists in Brazil, Mason and her associates are both sources of ridicule and intense menace due to their emotional isolation. One brilliant sequence takes place in a train car that is meant to be a kindergarten of sorts that has a twisted sense of humor and, ultimately, a pervasive sense of horror. What makes Snowpiercer truly remarkable is Bong's ability to navigate tonal shifts without ever coming across as insincere or cheap.

There are many other memorable set-pieces scattered throughout the film, often both thrilling and visually arresting, including fight sequences in a dark boxcar and a hazy spa. I could list more of the strange sights and sounds Curtis and our heroes encounter, but that would spoil some of the surprises the film has in store. I'm not giving anything away by saying that there are a few revelations waiting for Curtis when he finally makes it to the front of the train, but they don't feel like cheap gimmickry but rather earned twists that don't betray the film's thematic concerns regarding social order and its necessity (or lack, thereof) in the face of complete oblivion. The climax of the film becomes a little verbose in spots with its bevy of monologues, but it works because the audience has an emotional stake in the hero's journey. When Curtis explains his motivation for reaching Wilford (who may not even exist) and the engine, his earlier reluctance at being seen as a leader seems more like the natural reaction of a man haunted by severe demons and less like the pat prerequisite for an action movie character, and it's Evans' surprisingly affecting performance that gives Curtis conviction.

There are moments that beggar belief, from small logistical quibbles (who is, if anybody, maintaining the tracks that have ensured the train's been running for seventeen years?) to larger flaws that border on the ridiculous (one thug becomes incredibly persistent to kill to the point that it becomes absurd without necessarily being amusing). Nevertheless, Snowpiercer excels as an action film that, while not the most intellectually stimulating of recent science-fiction films, still has a beating heart and a clear-eyed conscience on what goes into maintaining societal hierarchies when the alternative is sheer chaos. Finally, consider the boldly ambiguous ending Bong chooses. The Weinstein Company, which distributed the film, wanted to insert a voiceover that would offer unneeded clarity for the audience, but Snowpiercer isn't meant to comfort moviegoers into a lull. Not when it's so uncertain about our future as a society and as a species.

Godzilla (2014)

"History shows again and again

How nature points out the folly of men."

-Blue Öyster Cult, Godzilla

Destruction and spectacle are the choice du jour for the contemporary blockbuster. In the last few years alone, we've witnessed countless cities being obliterated by aliens, superheroes, giant robots, giant monsters, practically everything save for an enormous kitchen sink. It should come as no surprise then that Hollywood would eventually find it's way at Americanizing that Japanese icon, Godzilla. Their previous effort, the 1998 Roland Emmerich flop, did not go over well with either fans nor mainstream audiences, and that's putting it kindly. In a post-9/11 and post-Fukushima world, however, the potential for a truly good American Godzilla film is enormous. So it saddens me to say that, despite some truly inspired scenes and moments, Gareth Edwards' Godzilla is not the movie it could have been.

Let me explain: the film begins in 1999 when a power plant in Japan is destroyed in what the authorities deem an earthquake. Plant Supervisor Joe Brody (Bryan Cranston) loses his wife (Juliette Binoche, here and gone in the blink of an eye) in the ensuing disaster, and fifteen years later remains obsessed with what actually caused that fateful accident. His son, Ford (Aaron Taylor-Johnson of Kick-Ass fame) attempts to break away from his old, broken family by creating a new one with his beautiful girlfriend (Elizabeth Olsen) and their son, yet he is drawn back by the past when he comes to collect his father in Japan after Brody, Sr. is arrested for trespassing on the prohibited grounds of where the power plant once stood. Papa Brody remains stubborn in his conviction that what transpired that tragic day was no mere natural disaster, and his son is roped into helping him. What could go wrong?

Quite a bit, as it would turn out. The two stumble upon a massive creature housed in a cocoon that is being studied at a top-secret facility. To say the creature eventually breaks loose and wreaks havoc would not spoil much, though its modus operandi remains unclear until the second half of the film, and by then another leviathan of the same ilk awakens to cause even more destruction. And then Godzilla shows up (that sounds like the punchline to some bizarre, nerdy joke). Despite the consternation of the military regarding the emergence of three behemoths, Dr. Serizawa (Ken Watanabe) and his partner (Sally Hawkins) insist that Godzilla has come to counter the chaos by killing the monsters and restoring balance to nature. But really, any explanation for this type of film would suffice as long as it gave these monsters an excuse to beat the living tar out of each other.

Considering the failure of the last American Godzilla movie, this new film has some admirable creative traits. The film's director, Gareth Edwards, has only directed one film prior to this, the micro-budgeted Monsters, yet his creative decision to withhold revealing the titular behemoth until nearly an hour in harkens back to revered classics like Jaws. Like Spielberg, Edwards also focuses on the dissolution and ultimate renovation of the Nuclear Family through the Brody clan. This would be all well and good if any of these people had even the basest framework for an emotional arc, but it is here that Edwards falls woefully short. Elizabeth Olsen tries valiantly to give her character some spunk but can't overcome the flimsy work given to her by the screenwriters, and Johnson as the film's lead is, to put it kindly, an emotional vacuum. He reacts to the catastrophic events happening around him less like a man fighting for his life, and his family, and more as if he's annoyed at suffering yet another delay at the airport.

If our leads can't carry the film, then the only hope would be in the supporting characters offering scene-stealing moments that inject vitality into the proceedings. Yet the only actor who manages to elevate the material is Cranston, who makes his Joe Brody a mass of rage and grief that, while not a character of the highest caliber, is the most recognizably human element in this blockbuster. If the film focused on him more, or even strengthened the arcs of the rest of its human cast, it may have stood a chance of matching some of the power of the 1954 original Godzilla. Yes, that film is dated and not terribly complex, but the humans there contended with the moral crisis of destroying Godzilla with a device that could be exploited as a weapon more catastrophic than the A-Bomb. At what cost do we destroy that which poses a threat to us? Where else can it all end than in mutually assured destruction? These ideas persevere and make the original a classic, and they are in fatally short supply here.

The name of the doctor in that film, Serizawa, is carried over into the new Godzilla as an homage. If only some of the ideas, the doom, or the humanity weren't lost in translation as well. The fight sequences are entertaining enough, but even in comparison to last Summer's Pacific Rim, this new Godzilla doesn't have the visual panache of some of the sequences in that film, nor even a single character as memorable as Ron Perlman's uniformly batty Kaiju dealer. Is this as bad as the Roland Emmerich disgrace? No, but it is a forgettable film as well as a missed opportunity, and in that sense that's an even bigger disappointment than Matthew Broderick being chased by giant iguanas.

Boyhood (2014)

"We cannot despair of humanity, since we ourselves are human beings."

- Albert Einstein

In an almost perfect moment near the halfway point in Boyhood, Richard Linklater's epic of the everyday, a father gives his son a mix CD compiled solely of solo work by the members of the Beatles on his fifteenth birthday. It's almost as if they never broke up, the father claims. As they drive along, George Harrison's "What is Life" begins to play before fading into the next scene, and indeed it is this very question that Linklater's posed throughout nearly his entire career. While known for the occasional mainstream hit (School of Rock), most of his films have a freewheeling spirit, filled with characters governed not by a traditional arc but rather by questions: Why are we here? Is there a purpose to life? Do our actions really matter? That these queries are never answered is beside the point. Films like Waking Life, Dazed and Confused, Slacker, and the Before trilogy are perfectly content to engage in introspective speculation. Now comes Boyhood, perhaps the simplest yet conversely most radical film Linklater has ever made. The fact that it even exists is a minor miracle in and of itself. Even more miraculous is just how excellent the whole enterprise turned out to be.

But first, a beginning of sorts: the year is 2002, and we enter the life of a six-year old boy named Mason (Ellar Coltrane). We aren't told it's 2002, but rather pick up on little cues, from the boy playing a Gameboy Advance (remember those?) to his dynamic and, quite honestly, bratty sister Samantha (Lorelei Linklater, Richard's daughter) singing "Oops, I Did it Again" just to bug poor Mason. Throughout the course of the film, which concludes in 2013, we gradually become aware of the time period we are in not only by the boy's gradual growth but by references to social and pop culture events, including the Iraq War, the midnight release of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, and the Presidential Elections of 2004 and 2008, among others. Were it made as a traditional period piece, these little details would feel overly calculated and self-conscious. Here, however, it feels as if the filmmaker and his cast and crew are trying to capture the present moment around them without sacrificing the integrity of the story.

For yes, indeed, there is a plot of sorts. Mason and Samantha are living with their divorced mother (Patricia Arquette) while their father (Ethan Hawke, absolutely wonderful here) visits them on a weekend every now and then. He's vivacious, fun, and always trying to impart wisdom upon his children, despite the fact that he's something of a deadbeat. When Mason, later at the age of 10, asks his father if he has a job, the man has almost no idea how to respond. Their mother, on the other hand, is a strong-willed woman attempting to earn her Master's and become a teacher. The film chronicles not only the events of Mason's childhood that shape him as a young adult, but also the slow transformation of his parents, both in the literal, objective sense and from his perspective.

An example: his mother strikes up a relationship with her professor, and she and her children move in with him and his kids. Things are initially fine, but the stepfather descends into alcoholism, first hiding it from his family, then openly exposing it in all of it's ugliness. "Do you not like me, Mason?", he asks drunkenly during a tense dinner. "It's okay, I don't like me much either." While the film is filled with plenty of wit, this portion is surprisingly terrifying in it's portrayal of an abusive household without devolving into tired tropes or cliche. Mason and his family ultimately flee, and while it's never explicitly stated, it's clear the experience has a profound impact on the boy. He becomes disillusioned with the father figures in his life, including his real father who slowly but surely compromises bit by bit from his hardcore liberal politics to marrying a kind woman whose parents give Mason a Holy Bible for his fifteenth birthday. "Life is fucking expensive", he tells his son, part justification and part illumination of his fallible humanity. As Mason nears adulthood, he struggles with possibly losing his identity to a world where everyone is expected to fulfill certain obligations as parents, as lovers, as people, and still have no idea how to make sense of life.

There are also the scenes of Mason contending with puberty and romance. He hangs out with some older kids who will turn into sadder, more pathetic versions of Matthew McConaughey's Wooderson in Dazed and Confused, is berated by yet another stepfather when he is found wearing nail polish (a girl in class did it to him as a lark more than anything, but the man of the house doesn't abide by that), and even falls in love with a beautiful girl (Zoe Graham) he meets at a party. He confides in her that she's the sort of person who he can share some of the emotional confusion in his life that he's unable to articulate to others. You know the type of person, that first love in your life who you can completely be yourself with and whom you share something never quite felt before. Their relationship is not necessarily unique from any other young love, yet it doesn't have to be. It's blossoming and, yes, inevitable dissipation, are still powerful for Mason and for anyone who recalls the communion and ultimate loss of that moment in life.

This duality, the specificity and universality of Linklater's coming-of-age story, is part of what makes it such a remarkable achievement. Linklater shot the film over the course of eleven years with his actors, crafting different vignettes for each age that we visit Mason. This isn't a gimmick, but on the contrary the very essence of Boyhood. It's a humbling vision of a human being gaining awareness, of those pivotal years in life that shape the foundation of our very selves without utilizing mawkish sentimentality. Is it a perfect film? Not quite. No film this ambitious ever is, and while the humor of the film is often naturalistic and observantly sharp, it sometimes runs the risk of turning some of the minor characters into caricature. But it's assets vastly outweigh any slight flaws it may have. Above all, Boyhood is the type of film that can make you look at the way you've lived your life and consider how you want to spend the rest of it, and it makes you look at people and consider what events have shaped the course of their own stories. Great art has the potential to provoke contemplation of what precisely makes us human, regardless of whether we come to any resounding conclusions or not. By that token, Boyhood handily earns that honor.

The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)

"In history as in human life, regret does not bring back a lost moment and a thousand years will not recover something lost in a single hour."

-Stefan Zweig

There's something to be said about using comedy to cope with truly horrific subject matter. At what point does the use of humor seem to undermine the gravity of a given situation? To be precise, when does it all stop being funny? The intermingling of humor and severity is one of the most difficult balancing acts to successfully pull off, and only a handful of filmmakers have mastered the feat; Ernst Lubitsch, Charlie Chaplin, the Coen Brothers, and of course, Wes Anderson. The latter is no stranger to infusing a pervasive sense of melancholy into his whimsical settings, often underscoring a bizarre quip with a bitter sense of irony. In his newest film, The Grand Budapest Hotel, it's as if the cult filmmaker has dialed up all of these idiosyncrasies to the nth degree. In other words, this may be the most chimerical yet conversely darkest of Anderson's films. And that's saying something.

The story itself is told through a refraction of gazes; a young girl in the present day reads a book written by a renowned, nameless Author (Tom Wilkinson) in 1985. We see the Author in that year regale us with the details of the book in which he visits the titular hotel in the fictional Republic of Zubrowka in 1968 as a young man, this time played by Jude Law. The young writer is drawn to the enigmatic and elegiac owner of the hotel, Monsieur Moustafa (F. Murray Abraham). Moustafa agrees to tell the writer of how he came to be in possession of the hotel, and it is here the story begins proper in 1932. Detractors of Anderson's films will sniff that this is merely an exercise in transposing meta-literary flourishes into a filmmaking aesthetic. And it is, but there's also a purpose at work here.

For now, we meet the main concierge of the hotel, Monsieur Gustave H. He is played by Ralph Fiennes, that marvelous British actor who's come to be known for the majority of his villainous roles, like Amon Goethe, Ramses, and, yes, Voldemort. Yet he's shown, whenever given the rare chance, that he is more than capable of being a competent comic actor (see In Bruges or the Wallace & Gromit movie), and he's finally given his chance to shine in this film. His Gustave is a charismatic, elegant gentleman who is equally brusque, vulgar, and impertinent. In short, it is arguably the finest melding of character and performance in an Anderson movie since Gene Hackman's bravura turn in The Royal Tenenbaums.

Gustave takes young "Zero" Moustafa (Tony Revolori, a talented newcomer and excellent comic partner to Fiennes) under his wing as the chief lobby boy of the hotel as the concierge sees to the needs of his most distinguished guests, especially the geriatric ladies who take pleasure in his company (and then some). News of the sudden passing of one of his female companions, Madame D. (Tilda Swinton, virtually unrecognizable) prompts Gustave and Zero to attend the wake where her will is read and it is revealed that Gustave has inherited her most prized possession, a painting known as Boy with Apple. The revelation of the painting after Gustave sings of it's virtues is hilariously anticlimactic.

Yet this doesn't sit well with Madame D.'s son, Dmitri (Adrien Brody, looking like a monstrous bird from a Tim Burton movie), and he orchestrates a nefarious plot to frame Gustave for the murder of Madame D. The majority of the rest of the film is a romp of a caper with our two heroes out to prove Gustave's innocence. There are an assortment of allies and adversaries, trials and tribulations, all delivered with Anderson's whimsy and wit. Oddly enough, the film is of a piece with his animated masterpiece Fantastic Mr. Fox in it's madcap pacing and even some of it's casting (Willem Dafoe plays a delightfully creepy henchman). In fact, it is the hectic atmosphere that almost threatens to derail the film in certain portions, and even still there are characters I wish were given more attention, particularly Edward Norton as an officer whose conflicted morality is manipulated by forces of darkness, and Saoirse Ronan as the love interest to Zero. And I haven't even mentioned the handful of actors who are in the film for a few fleeting moments.

Yet The Grand Budapest Hotel ultimately succeeds, not just as an entertaining entry in Anderson's oeuvre, but also as a comedy with a startling emotional heft. Though never mentioned by name, the specter of Hitler and the Third Reich lingers over the characters. Even the sporadic acts of violence, which have been present in all of Anderson's films, seem more brutal and sinister here. Like Lubitsch's classic To Be or Not to Be, we remain constantly aware of the insidious presence of evil and barbarism that threatens to destroy any and all vestiges of civilization while also laughing at the expense of the most monstrous villains. Anderson's film, however, doesn't have as happy an ending.

One last note, albeit an important one: the film is dedicated to Stefan Zweig, one of the most revered 20th Century European writers who fled Austria in 1934 after Hitler's rise to power. He and his wife committed suicide in 1942 in despair over the future of human civilization, and his works remained relatively unknown in the United States until a few years ago. Now Anderson has made a film about the legacy of a good human transcending the ages through the works and words of others. In the end, behind the artifice and the whimsy, is a sincere tribute to a man who lost so much of what he once knew, regardless of what he did to prevent it from disappearing. The loss is acutely felt, and all that once was has passed into the ether of time. Yet the very knowledge that it existed must be some kind of a minor victory.

In Memoriam: Philip Seymour Hoffman

Where does one even begin? Philip Seymour Hoffman, who died earlier today in his Manhattan apartment at the age of 46, was that exceedingly rare actor who left an indelible impression despite the fact that he could hardly be called a leading man. But looking back upon his filmography, one can easily see a man who was arguably the most eclectic actor of his generation. He was an invaluable addition to any ensemble, and he could play any role, heroic and villainous, noble and despicable, comedic and tragic. And he made it all seem so effortless.

Hoffman, who received his Bachelor of Fine Arts from the Tisch School of the Arts in New York University in 1989, had his first role in an episode of Law and Order back in 1991 but got his foot in the door a year later by starring in four feature films, including Leap of Faith and, most notably, Scent of a Woman. Near the end of the decade, Hoffman established a reputation as one of Hollywood's brightest talents, a guy who could be the comic relief in an action blockbuster like Twister and only a year later star in Boogie Nights as a tortured soul whose crippling self-loathing and impossible infatuation with a porn star made him one of that film's saddest characters in an American Epic full of sad characters.

Boogie Nights was the second of many collaborations between Hoffman and then-newcomer director Paul Thomas Anderson. Hoffman would go on to star in every film Anderson directed, save for There Will Be Blood, and one could dedicate an entire tribute to the actor focusing on these roles alone. You won't find a better example of Hoffman's range as an actor than in these films. In Magnolia, he played a kindly nurse who dedicates himself to making amends between a dying man and his estranged, enraged son. In The Master, he was the equal to Joaquin Phoenix's animalistic drifter as a venerable spiritual pioneer who was barely able to mask his own primal instincts. And despite the fact that he was in the film for what could barely amount to around ten minutes, he stole the show in Punch-Drunk Love as the slimy Dean Trumbell, a pimp doubling as the owner of a mattress store in Utah who pushes Adam Sandler a little too far. Here, while never betraying the intense tone of the film, Hoffman makes Dean a vile scumbag whose aggressive nature makes him as much of a grotesque buffoon as an imposing threat.

Yet Anderson was not the only director Hoffman would have a fruitful working relationship with. Films by Anthony Minghella, Spike Lee, Joel and Ethan Coen, Todd Solondz, and Cameron Crowe, just to name a few, all featured Hoffman in unforgettable roles. Yet Hoffman himself wouldn't win an Oscar until his performance as Truman Capote in the 2005 biopic Capote, which dealt with the writing of the author's most famous book In Cold Blood. Hoffman doesn't merely adapt a funny voice and specific mannerisms to show that he's "acting": in a scene where a dinner discussion turns somber, his Capote is a born storyteller, a man who can effortlessly transition from an amusing anecdote to painful truths about human nature. The actor disappears, and there is only the storyteller remaining.

Hoffman would continue playing supporting roles in movies, though he by no means plateaued into comfortable mediocrity. On the contrary, some of his best and most adventurous work was in the last eight years of his career. He'd remain a viable presence in theater, the medium that gave him his talent, as Willy Loman and the treacherous Iago in stage revivals of Death of a Salesman and Othello, respectively. He also starred in the lead role of the play Jack Goes Boating which Hoffman would later adapt to film as his directorial debut in 2010. And Hoffman's status as Hollywood's go-to working actor never faltered, playing memorable characters in blockbusters (Mission Impossible III, The Hunger Games: Catching Fire) and independent films, perhaps the most ambitious of which was the lead in Charlie Kaufman's directorial debut Synecdoche, New York. Kaufman's opus contains a thematic heft that it wouldn't be able to sustain were it not for Hoffman's performance as a neurotic, self-absorbed fool who attempts to create something that does nothing less than encapsulate the entirety of human experience. Yet he has his own story, and he is robbed of some of what he holds most dear by external forces as by himself. Here, he attempts to reconcile with the daughter that's grown up with a manipulated view of her father. It's a scene imbued with as much black comedy as unbearable sadness, but it is Hoffman who gives the playwright an aching, recognizable humanity that works in conjunction with Kaufman's intellectual and layered writing.

And there are still so many films I haven't even mentioned, and many more I've only alluded to. It's a testament to Hoffman's genius as an actor that even in dreck like Patch Adams or Along Came Polly he still managed to elevate the material he was given to work with. And think on some of his sterling examples: 25th Hour, The Big Lebowski, Happiness, Mary & Max, Red Dragon, The Talented Mr. Ripley. All, quite frankly, an embarrassment of riches. There's so much that can be said about the great Philip Seymour Hoffman, but it doesn't really need to be said. It's evident in his body of work that he was an actor who committed himself to the role he was given with complete abandon, that he didn't need to be a "star". He had such immense talent that one needn't look very hard to notice it. Because he embodied so many characters, so many personalities, I think it's safe to say that there really wasn't anyone else quite like Philip Seymour Hoffman, nor will there ever be.

Inside Llewyn Davis (2013)

"How does it feel
To be without a home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?"

-Bob Dylan

It seems glib opening a review of a film about a failed folk singer with a Bob Dylan quote, yet Inside Llewyn Davis is like an answer to the question Dylan famously posed nearly half a century ago. This is stranger still when the titular musician not only doesn't have any answers but doesn't really have any questions either. In a career checkered with misanthropic characters, Llewyn Davis might be the most antagonistic protagonist the Coens have ever crafted, more Barton Fink than Marge Gunderson. Much like Spike Jonze's Her, Inside Llewyn Davis is the type of film that, were it handled by less competent or deft storytellers, would have been a chore to sit through, a nearly two-hour pity party for an unlikeable prick. What we get is something far harder to categorize: a character study that is never less than painfully honest, the transmogrification of the 1960s folk scene into bleak American mythology, and a parable of the paralysis of grief in a world on the cusp of change.

Llewyn (Oscar Isaac) is a transient vagrant who trudges around the Greenwich Village scene circa 1961. He hops from couch to couch, attempting to curry favor with the precious few who don't despise his guts, though that number seems to be dwindling by the day. We meet a number of characters throughout Llewyn's travels, including Jean (Carey Mulligan) and Jim (Justin Timberlake), fellow musicians and friends, though just barely in the case of Jean who may or may not be pregnant with Llewyn's bastard son. Others include Roland Turner (John Goodman), a truly reprehensible man that seems, with his hulking physique constantly clutching a pair of crutches, like some monstrous fairy tale creature; the Gorfeins, a hospitable upper-class couple who have some very peculiar acquaintances; and Bud Grossman (F. Murray Abraham), a record producer based in Chicago who may give Llewyn his long-sought ticket to fame. The thread that links all of this together is the Gorfeins' orange tabby that follows Llewyn when he leaves their apartment building after crashing there for the night. What does this cat signify? When Llewyn attempts to leave a message with the super of the Gorfeins' building, she misinterprets his message as "Llewyn is the cat", not "Llewyn has the cat." Yet I don't believe even that is the only explanation that can be extrapolated from the existence of the film's feline.

The plot of this film is episodic on a surface level, with Llewyn encountering a slew of problems, many of which are of his own creation. Llewyn's manager, Mel, isn't terribly competent and hasn't been able to successfully sell Llewyn's debut solo album which was recorded in the aftermath of the suicide of his former partner Mike. Llewyn's attempts at maintaining artistic integrity are undermined by his own pride or bitterness, as well as just a spot of bad luck. When he records a single with Jim and a fellow musician (Adam Driver), the song is absolutely cheesy and Llewyn demands payment upfront instead of settling for any royalties, which of course comes to back to bite him in the ass when the song becomes a hit. Another instance featuring a cameo by a certain singer near the end that I dare not spoil only serves to further illustrate that, more often than not, fame comes to those who really are in the right place at the right time.

Yet perhaps more important is the scene where Llewyn, eating dinner with the Gorfeins and their guests, is asked to perform a song. He obliges, and chooses "Fare The Well (Dink's Song)", which was his big hit with Mike. Yet when Lillian Gorfein attempts to sing the harmony, which was Mike's part, Llewyn explodes in a fit of rage and insults everyone present. The Coens, who have portrayed their characters in the past in broad strokes, bring a startling sensitivity to this scene. The Gorfeins are not at fault for attempting to bring music into their "loving home", as they call it. Llewyn himself is cruel and hardly the victim here, yet it's apparent that it's not solely arrogance that spurred his tantrum but rather a desperate possessiveness of that song, as if he's tried to preserve the memory of his dead partner like some fragile butterfly encased in amber. This doesn't excuse his abrasive attitude, nor does it sentimentalize some of the harsher things he does in the film towards other people. It only serves to make him more human, an acerbic asshole mourning what he has lost and stubbornly refuses to replace.

I haven't even begun to touch upon the allusions toward mythology present in the film (perhaps the most overtly Odyssey-influenced film the Coens have made since O Brother, Where Art Thou?), and I could indeed devote a whole article to peeling away the layers of the Sisyphean structure of the film. I also must commend the performances, both in terms of music and acting, from everyone in the cast, particularly Oscar Isaac who proves himself to be a performer of considerable talent. But you're probably asking yourself why on Earth you should see this film. I don't blame you for asking: the film is  uncompromisingly downbeat, both in plot and aesthetic (the cinematography by Bruno Debonnel is like a smudged photograph, beautiful yet faded), and it's hero is an unlikeable and unpropitious character who may not in fact change by the end of the film. Yet I feel therein lies the point of this sad little fable. Llewyn Davis has some talent, and is often quite commanding in his haunting delivery. But despite his constant movement, he is a man who determinedly stays in place, a guy unwilling to embrace anything or anyone, least of all himself, due to his crippling sadness. But the world changes around him, and it will continue to change, regardless of what he does or who he becomes. That insistence that life can, will, and must go on, is what makes Inside Llewyn Davis curiously moving. With one of their darkest films, the Coens have made one of their more powerful affirmations of existence. 

"If it's never new, and it never gets old, then it's a folk song," Llewyn remarks to an audience at the film's beginning and end. What a shame Llewyn keeps foolishly hoping the same could be said about people.

Her (2013)

Science fiction has done a really good job of scaring us into thinking that computers shouldn't get too smart, because as soon as they get really smart, they're going to take over the world and kill us, or something like that. But why would they do that?
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/l/luisvonahn561402.html#syu6OioRohpmyFhb.99

Science fiction has done a really good job of scaring us into thinking that computers shouldn't get too smart, because as soon as they get really smart, they're going to take over the world and kill us, or something like that. But why would they do that?
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/l/luisvonahn561402.html#syu6OioRohpmyFhb.99

"Science fiction has done a really good job of scaring us into thinking that computers shouldn't get too smart, because as soon as they get really smart, they're going to take over the world and kill us, or something like that. But why would they do that?"
-Luis von Ahn

Think, if you can, on a time before technology became ingrained in our social consciousness, before our cell phones and laptops became an extension of our very selves. In the dawn of a new year, it still stands to reason that future generations will find it almost unthinkable that we managed to live any kind of existence without YouTube, Facebook, email, even Google. I belong to perhaps the last generation to be alive before the Internet became a household commodity, yet I would be lying if I said I didn't constantly use, let alone enjoy, the plethora of technological innovations at my disposal. Despite the promise of constant advancement in technology, so many people have come to rely upon it as an emotional crutch, as a distraction from confronting or even being ourselves. The great paradox of this exciting era is how technology has both unified us as a global society yet isolated us from even our closest companions. This is the conceit at the core of Her, the newest film from Spike Jonze. That it's also a sincere and aching love story makes it an acute observation of us not only as a society, but as a species.

Theodore Twombly (Joaquin Phoenix) is both a completely ordinary guy and a rather exceptional person in that he writes Thank-You letters addressed from and to people he doesn't know at all. This concept of having complete strangers writing intimate missives of affection for you is rather unsettling while also completely in the realm of possibility. After all, in a world that's demanding results at a faster and faster pace, it's only sensible that we hire professionals to deal with any trivialities that take up any of our precious time. Yet Theodore isn't an exploitative hack but a forlorn man who's lost some of the earnest spark his letters are imbued with. He's reeling from a break-up with his wife, Catherine (Rooney Mara), and spends his free time playing video games or having sex chats over the phone with anonymous night owls. Both of these past-times are laced with wicked humor that doesn't make light of Theodore as much as it marvels at the absurd turns these situations take.

Theodore decides to find a companion, and find one he does in the form of a new Operating System that has artificial intelligence. Theodore decides upon the "gender" of the OS (female), and after thinking on the matter for 2/100ths of a second she christens herself Samantha. Samantha (voiced by Scarlett Johansson) becomes Theodore's confidant, relaying his emails and conversing through an earpiece he wears while displaying wit and compassion, both of which Theodore sorely needs. But how can that be? Of course machines aren't capable of any emotion, not if it falls outside of their programming, and Samantha herself begins to question whether anything she feels is "real". Yet as her knowledge grows at an exponential rate, Samantha acquires sentience. It certainly appears that way to Theodore, and their friendship blossoms into romance. They even have sex, though how that's possible I will leave for you to discover.

This premise sounds a little shaky, and in lesser hands it very well could have been a disaster. Yet Jonze, who has directed only four feature films in his nearly two-decade career as a filmmaker, accomplished the herculean task of making me care for this man and his computer with unflappable sincerity that nevertheless remains aware of how bizarre the existence of this romance really is. Theodore's wife is of course appalled to hear that he is dating a machine, yet Theodore's old friend Amy (Amy Adams) is not only happy for him but has even initiated a friendship with the OS her husband left behind soon after their divorce. It isn't before too long that we see numerous bystanders having unheard conversations with their respective Operating Systems. This could very easily have turned into a straight-up farce or black comedy, yet Jonze strikes a delicate balance. The look of this futuristic Los Angeles, thanks to superb production design by K.K. Barrett and cinematography by Hoyte Van Hoytema, is both attractive and permeated with quiet melancholy and works marvelously in tandem with Jonze's optimistic yet pragmatic view of technology's potential.

Yet what of the heart of this film, the relationship between Theodore and Samantha? On the surface, Samantha very well could have been a Manic Pixie Dream Girl, or in other words a character designed solely to make the male protagonist a more fulfilled person. Yet Samantha is her own character with an arc that, while closely tied to Theodore, by no means revolves around him. It would be a disservice to both her character and the actress who voices her if her happiness rested solely upon Theodore's well-being, yet Jonze is smart enough to know this isn't how relationships should or do work. There's a genuinely inspired scene where Samantha hires a human surrogate to have sex with Theodore while she speaks in his earpiece in an attempt to give the illusion to Theodore, and most of all to herself, that she has a physical body. Of course this ends disastrously, though we laugh in sympathy for our lovers and not in self-righteous scorn. Theodore learns an important lesson from this incident, but we quickly learn that it is Samantha who gains even more than he does.

This is still all so very unusual, and I know that Her won't be for everybody. The satirists in the audience will demand a more biting film while the hardcore science-fiction aficionados will perhaps expect less sentiment in the portrayal of these machines. Yet those who do respond to this film will find so much to cherish. Jonze has always shown in his work, from Adaptation. to Where the Wild Things Are, a knack for finding the extraordinary in the ordinary and vice versa. With Her, he's shown that he completely understands how intricately connected love and loss truly are, how loving another person can constitute of little more than our heightened perspective, and ultimately just how much there is still to gain from loving someone else. "Sometimes I think I have felt everything I'm ever gonna feel," Theodore confides in Amy. "And from here on out, I'm not gonna feel anything new. Just lesser versions of what I've already felt." With that, Jonze encapsulates not only our fears of an uncertain future but the universal despair and grief that can overwhelm and inhibit us in the haze of raw heartbreak. How wonderful it is for Theodore, and for us, that he couldn't be more wrong.

My favorite films of 2013 (not from 2013)

Of all the things I look for when compiling a top ten list of my favorite films in a given year, a specific unifying theme is not always one of them. I never took notice of one in the three years I have been publishing these lists, yet as I reviewed what I saw in 2013 and what I gravitated the most towards, I began to realize there was a correlation between each of my favorite films. That correlation, that odd similarity, was anxiety. The films on this list belong to a wide range of genres: wacky comedy, tragic romance, classic western, contemporary satire. Yet, to one degree or another, they all featured an impending sense of dread, some tension that either trapped their characters or drove them into seemingly insurmountable circumstances. There are of course a bevy of other reasons why I loved each of these films, yet I found it a curious, if slightly amusing, commonality that may say just as much about my taste in film as it does about the films themselves. Yet I'm here to analyze movies, not myself, so without further ado here are my ten favorite films I saw in the past year:

10. The Age of Innocence

   There's something to be said about the power of language. Besides some of the obvious advantages, like communicating our thoughts in a clearer fashion than if we were mere animals grunting our assent or disapproval, it also has the potential for great harm or self-preservation. The careful selection of a specific set of words can both convey what our intentions are while simultaneously masking any of our ulterior motives. To be precise, what is left unsaid can leave as much of an impact as what is said. This may seem blatantly obvious when stated in such direct terms, yet few films have portrayed this distinct trait of human nature as effectively and as purely in terms of visual expression as Martin Scorsese's The Age of Innocence. Based upon the 1920 novel of the same name by Edith Wharton, the film concerns itself with the upper echelons of 19th Century New York society. Our protagonist, Newland Archer, is a successful lawyer who is engaged to the lovely May Welland. Their relationship is amiable, if ultimately insubstantial, and both are perfectly comfortable with the notion of marriage. Yet May's cousin, Ellen Olenska, returns to New York after a tenure in Europe. Her marriage to Count Olenski, who never appears in either novel or film, is recounted as a cruel and unhappy one, yet her family fears of the scandal and disgrace that would result from a divorce, so Archer's services as an attorney are called upon in an effort to persuade Ellen to remain legally married to her husband. Yet of course, Archer and Olenska find themselves being drawn to each other, and needless to say complications arise. This plot had the potential for pure melodrama, and there are melodramatic elements present here, yet what surprised me the most about Scorsese's film, besides his immaculate attention to period detail and lush visual eloquence (he's clearly channeling Luchino Visconti's films like Senso or Il Gattopardo), is how tempered the emotions at the core of this story really are. There is a great yearning shared amongst some characters, and there is great cruelty enacted upon others, yet these are all carefully guarded by the strict adherence towards the unspoken codes of conduct of the society these people inhabit. Daniel Day-Lewis plays Archer, and it's intriguing to see an actor so accustomed to playing characters who bring their emotions to the surface play a man who represses his feelings with a sort of refined desperation. Michelle Pfeiffer also brings a temerity and natural sensuality to the role of Ellen, yet it's Winona Ryder as May who might have the most difficult performance in the film. She is required to be a seemingly naive waif who only gradually reveals herself to be capable of both great care for her betrothed and a quietly unsettling capacity for subtle manipulation. She is never painted as a villain, however, and that's what makes The Age of Innocence a truly remarkable film. It's a portrait of human beings that maintain certain niceties because it is what's expected of them and because they convince themselves that these rules are more impermeable and more worthwhile than trivialities such as human desires. Their great folly and the film's tragedy is how wrong they are.

9. Synecdoche, New York

   Human ambition is... wait, let me start over. Ambition itself, that persistent quality indigenous to humans, drives us to do the impossible. Yet it must be more than ambition for ambition's sake, musn't it? Why is it that so many feel the need to attain the unattainable? Is it for ego? A testament of our existence for future generations to reference? Or perhaps a desire for connecting with our fellow human beings on a level that transcends the ordinary to encompass the universal? These are a few of the questions Charlie Kaufman's mulled over in his labyrinthine brain for his entire career, and they all coalesce into his divisive directorial debut, Synecdoche, New York. Caden Cotard (Phillip Seymour Hoffman) is a theatre director whose intense neurosis make him emotionally difficult to engage in as well as prone to physical maladies. His only notable contribution to the theater is directing a revival of Death of a Salesman, and feels both inadequacy when compared to his artist wife Adele Lack (Catherine Keener) as well as resentment towards her. She acknowledges the emotional gap between them and promises reconciliation once she and their daughter return from a vacation to Germany. They never come back, but Caden's chance to make the impact he's always striven for finally arrives when he inadvertently receives a MacArthur Fellowship. He commits himself to creating a truly great play, something that will capture the Human Condition... though that seems like a glib description. Caden's obsession with death will also be the play. Yet he'll focus on the paradox of how universal yet precisely distinct each human life truly is. Yet he'll also focus on the notion of how our lives are like roles in some cosmic play that.... well, whatever his focus may be, it constantly expands and morphs, and all the while he lives what could barely be called a life with empty relationships with one of his actresses (Michelle Williams) and his secretary (Samantha Morton), while simultaneously making futile attempts to re-connect with his estranged daughter (several scenes in this latter story arc are either painfully sad, horrific, or permeated with bizarre dark humor, sometimes all at once). As noted earlier, Synecdoche, New York polarized both critics and audiences who argued that it was either a brilliant masterpiece or an indulgent folly. Personally, I think the film is a little of both. It's not my favorite piece from Kaufman, and it's whimsical flourishes sport some spotty metaphors (the eternally flammable house the secretary lives in is a little forced), yet I feel, through all of the Fellini-esque set pieces and Freudian layers of psychoanalytical jargon, that Kaufman does touch upon some very painful truths about being human. In Caden's quest to conquer life (re: death), he learns too late that there is no way to fully grasp the absolute enormity of life. As homo sapiens, we condense our experiences, categorize the important events in our lives, assign transparent roles to the multitude of people we know. Our lives are messy, unsatisfying, and confusing. And in the end, it's often quite disappointing how tiny they really are, how our grand stories barely account for a paragraph of a page in a chapter of the epic story of Everything. Yet here we are, and our stories unfold all the same.

8. To Be or Not to Be (1942)

    Comedy and suspense have one very crucial commonality, and that is timing. Both require consummate attention to detail and precise pacing, yet even with the abundance of great comedic thrillers that exist out there, I feel as if these two styles haven't been combined as much as they could be. Certainly they've been rarely utilized to as great effect as in Ernst Lubitsch's To Be or Not to Be, a sharp and buoyant classic that manages to retain some of it's razor-sharp wit seventy years after it's release in the midst of World War II. The film focuses on a troupe of actors in Poland, led by Prima Donna leading man Joseph Tura (Jack Benny) and his co-star/wife Maria (Carole Lombard, who infamously died in a plane crash before the film's premiere). Their lives are very quickly impacted by Hitler's conquest of the continent, and soon they're embroiled in a plot that involves the very stature of a Freedom Fighter group being compromised by a duplicitous professor, as well as a romantic triangle between the Turas and a dashing officer in the rebel group. This sounds like the basis for a potentially insensitive, exploitative movie, and indeed Lubisch's film did offend several critics upon initial release. However, the movie does work because of the brilliant balancing act Lubitsch and his talented cast and crew perform by juggling laughs and tension. Early in the film we see the devastation of Warsaw and the despair that encapsulates the people of Poland, and while the film unloads it's joke at a rapid pace, they're underscored by the very real danger of Nazism. What most critics misunderstood when they first saw To Be or Not to Be is that while it was meant to mock the Nazis, it certainly wasn't meant to belittle the threat they imposed upon the Free World. Yet, as is often the case, the most efficient way of confronting evil is to diminish it's power with laughter. That, above all, is what makes To Be or Not to Be not only a great film but one of those rarities: a dark comedy with a passionate humanity.

7. Seconds

   As the counterculture of the 1960s coursed into the mainstream, Hollywood struggled to connect with an alienated American audience with enormous flops that catered to a generation on it's way out the door. By 1967, they had finally struck a nerve by capturing some of the national attitude with such classics as Bonnie and Clyde and Guess Who's Coming to Dinner. Yet Seconds, the eerie thriller by John Frankenheimer, not only accomplished this feat but also seemed to anticipate the feeling of bitter resignation and ultimate distrust that took hold of the American people in the 1970s. The film tells a cautionary tale of Arthur Hamilton, a successful if unsatisfied upper-class family man who yearns for a fresh beginning, and indeed finds one in the form of a mysterious Company that forces him into signing a contract with them as much as it persuades him on his own terms. With a little plastic surgery here, and some forged documents there, Arthur Hamilton is no more and Antiochus "Tony" Wilson is borne into the world, a handsome and successful painter who will live in a luxurious house by the ocean. Wilson is initially thrilled with his new life, and indeed finds romance with an exotic blonde by the name of Nora. Yet there is still something insidious about this new life, and Wilson begins to suspect that he may not be as free as he think he'd be or to do as he'd please. Seconds is the sort of film that plays best as a midnight movie you might find switching through the channels in the darkest recesses of a late night. It's use of fish-eye lens, wide-angle closeups, and accentuated production design give certain sequences a fever-dream quality that easily morphs into a hazy nightmare. The performances are uniformly excellent, with super-stud Rock Hudson showing surprising depth and range as Wilson, and barring one party sequence that may run just a tad long the storytelling remains concise and effective. This all culminates in an unforgettable punchline of an ending that is on par with some of the bleakest endings of any Twilight Zone episode, a darkly dire denouement that's equally devastating. Despite it's 60s trappings, Seconds is a prescient critique of the notion that you truly can start over in America regardless of your origins. What the film suggests is that, in America, individuality can be retained so long as you conform to certain expectations of society, and any deviation is inevitably corrected. That doesn't seem too far from reality, and that's what makes Seconds a truly disturbing film.

6. Dog Day Afternoon

   What can you learn in a day about a person? About a group of people? About how they view each other? These are the underlying questions of Sidney Lumet's classic heist film Dog Day Afternoon, except to label it as a crime movie would be a disservice to what Lumet is really trying to get at. The film, based loosely on true events, recounts the robbery of a bank in Brooklyn by three small-time crooks on one hot summer day in 1972. Sonny (Al Pacino, in a truly stupendous performance), the ringleader, assures his partner Sal (the great John Cazale) that they will be in and out of the bank within a matter of minutes, but things gradually start going wrong. The third man, Stevie, immediately loses his nerve and flees the scene. The amount of money remaining in the bank is far smaller than either of the other two anticipated. Then one of the bank tellers needs to use the restroom. One thing leads to another before Sonny receives a phone call from the business across the street, and he turns to see a horde of cops staring right back at him. The bank is held by the two men for several hours, all while demands are made by the robbers and a crowd of curious onlookers congregate to bear witness to the unfolding spectacle. Dog Day Afternoon was a huge hit on release, and it's endured as a staple of 1970s American Cinema. Even if you've never seen it, you've probably seen Pacino's screaming chants of "Attica! Attica!" to the roaring approval of the crowd outside of the bank. Yet why Sonny robs the bank in the first place I will leave for you to discover yourself. The film has made an unmistakable impact on modern heist films, most notably Spike Lee's Inside Man. Yet where that film stumbled in attempting to preach awkwardly on social issues in a post-9/11 America, Dog Day Afternoon retains it's potency and power by simply incorporating truths of American society in the time it was made. Is there a point to be made once all is said and done in this film about the establishment in America, or the power of the media, or how the injustice of many is a constant undercurrent in our country, regardless of era? Perhaps, and perhaps not. Lumet doesn't try to give an easy answer or attempt to proselytize. He wants to capture a snapshot of how the world was then, and by doing so he illuminates why this botched robbery still matters now.

5. Yoyo

   Every once in a while, a film that hasn't seen the light of day for years, often decades, is unearthed to great acclaim by the viewing public. One of the most recent examples in North America would be the brief yet brilliant filmography of Pierre Étaix, a heretofore unseen talent in French Cinema whose gift for comedy rivals Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, and his fellow Frenchman Jacques Tati. Of his films, my favorite so far is his 1965 masterpiece Yoyo, and it truly is a remarkable re-discovery. Yoyo, a bored and doleful billionaire (played by Étaix), goes about his day with a strict regiment. He has servants all over his magnificent mansion open each and every door for him with a tinny squeak that reminded me a little of the sighing doors in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. He walks his dog by driving his car in the grand circle that is his front lawn. He also has the occasional seductive entertainment stay over (there is a shot of a woman slowly unzipping her leather boot that would make Tarantino blush). Yet above all, he yearns for a woman whose picture he keeps in his frame, a picture which he makes certain he has enough time in the day to cast a baleful glance towards. One day, the circus arrives, and indeed the woman of his dreams is a part of the troupe, only she is accompanied by the son he never knew he had, also named Yoyo. They reunite, and after the economic crash of the end of the decade they travel the country in a makeshift wagon. It is important to note that, save for certain sound effects, dialogue is almost completely absent in the first part of this film, which in turn replicates the effect of a silent film. Yet as time goes on, dialogue plays a more important role in the plot, and we focus on the adult Yoyo jr. (Étaix, again) attempt to regain his family's fortune. I can't even begin to describe the number of jokes in this film, nor exactly how Étaix pulls them off. He often utilizes optical illusions to build up the jokes, and they work consistently to uproarious effect in the silent portion of the film. Even with dialogue in the latter portions the film's jokes don't let up, and Étaix shows his skill for comic timing in one sequence after another. Yet what makes Yoyo a great film is it's gentle yet surprisingly affecting tale of redemption and loss. It rarely stoops to sentimentality, yet I was taken aback at how much of an impact the climax of the film had on me. It's a comic farce about the fleeting nature of human lives and relationships in the face of time, and it's this effortless combination that makes Yoyo a masterpiece. I can't recommend this film enough, and now that it's been given a new lease on life I implore you to seek it out and watch it. You'll thank me when you do.

4. The Conversation

   How does a voyeur feel about eternal observation? To put it more precisely, how does somebody who conducts the surveillance of anybody keep any semblance of professionalism? I suppose it would have to be the self-imposed severance of one's personal feelings when it came to their work, and I have equal measures of admiration and unease about the efficiency of these people. Perhaps that's why I felt such a pity for Harry Caul (Gene Hackman), the protagonist of Francis Ford Coppola's The Conversation. He's smart enough to craft such high-tech yet discrete equipment to spy on people, yet he's not smart enough to know that he hasn't the stomach for this job. What drew him to this line of work? Coppola never gives an explanation, but Caul doesn't strike me as someone who's proud of their work. Perhaps he was at one point, but he's certainly not anymore, not since a couple he was assigned to put under surveillance ended up dead. His Catholic guilt weighs heavily on him, and it fills him with unease now that he's been monitoring another couple for a shady company. Why do they need to be spied on? That's not his business to know. In fact, the less he knows, the better. Yet he feels compelled to uncover the truth, not for the sake of some moral crusade but to assuage his fears. "I'm not afraid of death!", he tells the woman he's been watching in a dream sequence. "But I am afraid of murder." This preceding description certainly doesn't sound like your typical thriller, and The Conversation isn't a thriller in the way something like Enemy of the State was (perhaps Hackman's character in that film is Caul in another life, angrier and more bent on vengeance than personal salvation). That isn't to say the film doesn't have it's share of unbearable tension, including one of the finest jump scares I've ever seen in a film (you won't see it coming). What makes The Conversation a unique film is it's sparse portrait of a man haunted by people and events far out of his control. Maybe that desire for control, that sense of order of events that can be replayed, pored over, and obsessed upon, is what drew Harry Caul to spy on people. Despite his prowess, he's still not cut out for this type of expertise. What a shame he doesn't realize this until it's far too late for him and his immortal soul.

3. Once Upon a Time in the West

 "Even the hero gets a bullet in the chest..."
          -Dire Straits, "Once Upon a Time in the West"


   The West is so ingrained in our cultural id that it's very history been mythologized, deconstructed, revised, and mythologized once more out of that new revision. Perhaps that's why Westerns, regardless of what decade they are released, remain popular. They say so much about our views on masculinity, our fragility in the unforgiving natural world, our proclivity towards brutal violence, and the secretly sought promise of a new beginning in an uncultivated land. Of the many Western films made over the last century, very few have captured the grand majesty, the otherworldly fabric, of the West than Sergio Leone's Once Upon a Time in the West. The plot must be told in who it contends with. A man who plays the harmonica is seeking revenge. A woman is looking for restitution after her family is slaughtered by a hired goon. That hired goon is looking for a way to impose his dominance over all things, not just people. And a drunken outlaw merely looks for a place to rest before going on the move once more. These characters are both distinctly human yet archetypal of the mythology of the West, and they are all entwined in a plot concerning the railroad and a small town, and their lives are defined by violent confrontations, often with each other, against the backdrop of the vast and developing land that became America. If I were to describe the story of Leone's masterpiece in more detail, I'd be failing to convey some of what makes his film so remarkable. It's not that the story he tells isn't a good one. On the contrary, it's because of his command of atmosphere that lends the story more pathos, more mystery, and more grandiosity than the material might have warranted in the hands of a lesser filmmaker. Leone crafts, with a deliberate pacing that allows you to take in every living, breathing detail, a vision of the West that both once was and has never existed, familiar and completely unrecognizable. By the time he made this film, Leone was finished making Westerns, and in many respects Once Upon a Time in the West is a farewell to the genre that brought him international attention. Yet it is not nostalgic of a bygone era, but rather embracing the fortunes progress brings, or rather the potential it has for the persecuted and the mistreated. He mourns for those who must disappear along with our constantly changing ways of life (save for the cruel who exploit others and hinder progress). The wicked will perish, the virtuous will endure, and all things must pass, either in a violent burst or a gradual fade into obsolescence. Yet some semblance of these qualities, good and bad, persist in our world, and they will remain immortal. So shall this film.


2. Barton Fink

   There's no adequate way of beginning to describe Barton Fink, one of the most bizarre films by the Coen Brothers in a filmography consisting of bizarre entries. What is the film really about? I could tell you a summary of the story: in the midst of the Great Depression, successful New York playwright Barton Fink (John Tuturro)  secures a job as screenwriter for a major Hollywood studio. He lives in a hotel for the duration of his stay in Tinseltown, and he meets a slew of interesting characters, including a washed-up drunkard writer (John Mahoney), his eternally patient secretary (Judy Davis) who may be the true author of his works, the ebullient yet dangerous studio executive (Michael Lerner, in an Oscar-nominated role) who's hired him, and his next door neighbor Charlie (John Goodman), a salesman who wants to give Barton as much help as possible. Yet it is still difficult to pinpoint exactly what Barton Fink is about, though there is far more that happens in the film that I would not dare to divulge in here. Is it a satire of America as seen through the film industry? A comedic horror film about the writing process gone horribly awry? A Bildungsroman where the protagonist's change becomes irrelevant, even discouraged, in the face of a changing world? Critics have pored over exactly what the Coens were attempting to get at since the film swept the Cannes Film Festival in 1991, just six months before I was born. The Coens themselves, while claiming that there is some significance to certain motifs, do not wish to prescribe any singular reading to the film. As for myself, what do I think it's about? Maybe what I think isn't really the point. Perhaps the point isn't to ask these questions but to soak in the palpable dread the Coens craft with the darkest of comic gestures. I responded to the surprises the film had in store for me and reveled in the way the Coens shifted tones with ease and confidence, as if their unpredictable fable had it's conclusion predetermined from the first frame. Whatever the case may be, Barton Fink is the kind of film that will be argued over for years, and I'm certainly not the one to give a definitive answer that solves the puzzle. But I will savor the genius of the storytelling, the electrifying performances, and the haunting humor that pervades this enigmatic movie for repeat viewings to come.

1. After Hours 

    By it's first half-hour, I knew After Hours was going to be my cup of tea. By it's first hour, I knew it   was one of the funniest films I had ever seen. And by the end, I knew I had seen one of the best films by it's director, Martin Scorsese. Yet the moment where I knew this film would become one of my favorite films of all time came near the end, after all of the comic mayhem and mishaps that were visited upon Paul, the unfortunate word processor who made the mistake of going on a date with a girl he'd just met earlier that night, came to an abrupt halt. Paul isn't a saint by any means: he's a bit crabby, a little impatient, and not always graceful when attempting to gain sympathy from strangers. But at the end of the day, or night in this case, he's just some poor schmuck who's had a run of absolutely terrible luck. And near the end of this darkly comic parable, he finds refuge in an isolated bar, puts Peggy Lee on the jukebox, and lets her rendition of "Is That All There Is?" help him find the words to explain just what the fuck has happened to him to a lovely woman he sees sitting alone. As they dance, and as he murmurs with a hoarse voice to this doubtlessly befuddled woman, he quietly, almost pleadingly, ends his monologue with five simple words; "I just want to live." This is the emotional coup de grace of Scorsese's tale, the moment the film had been building up to for almost ninety minutes. That simple respite from the chaotic forces outside, that simple gesture of the necessity to have a positive connection with another human being when it seems as if everyone else is out to do you in, not only perfectly works with Scorsese's film. It moved me in a way I'm not certain that I'm either willing or able to articulate. This comedy, made by a man as a sort of diversion between projects, ended up enthralling me from start to finish in it's comic invention and hyper-kinetic filmmaking. But it's this scene that convinced me I had watched something truly special, something that I would value for as long as I valued watching movies. Perhaps it's because I saw it at the right time in my life, or even the right time of day. Perhaps I will see it again years from now and softly smile at that part, remembering how much it unexpectedly moved me that hot Summer day when I watched it with my brother, knowing that it just won't have the same impact it had on me the first time I laid eyes on it. But I doubt that very much. Not when the rest of the film is still After Hours, my favorite film I saw in 2013.