My Favorite Films of 2014 (not from 2014)

The past year found me viewing a smaller number of films in comparison to years past in an attempt to catch up on some of the most acclaimed works to be released in 2014 (and I still haven't completely caught up on everything yet). Nevertheless, looking back on what I had seen, I realized that everything had, for better or worse, left an indelible impression on me. It was the strange sort of year where I saw a Lars von Trier movie that I liked and absolutely detested something created by Louis C.K. Of all the exceptional movies I saw, the following ten were the ones that I adored above all others. Some were haunting, humorous, and heartbreaking, yet they were all exceptional in their subversion of cinematic tropes to create unforgettable masterworks that invigorated my imagination.

10. The King and the Mockingbird

I must confess that I had seen a good portion of The King and the Mockingbird (or better known in its native country as Le Roi et l'oiseau) years ago on the internet, primarily the first twenty minutes or so. Only now when the film was finally given a theatrical release in the United States did I have the opportunity to see the entirety of this legendary film, and in many respects I'm glad I waited. It's a gorgeous film whose painterly aesthetic enables it with a storybook atmosphere much in the same way Takahata Isao utilized Japanese brushwork in this year's excellent The Tale of the Princess Kaguya. By employing a retro design, The King and the Mockingbird becomes timeless. The story, very loosely based off of a fable by Hans Christian Anderson, tells of the strabismal sovereign of Tachycardia (cough, cough) who detests his subjects as much as they do him, though he reserves the strongest barb of loathing for himself. The only source of tenderness within the bitter King Charles III + V = VIII + VIII = XVI (yes, that's really his full title) is a portrait of a fey shepherdess in his secret apartment that he pines for. By night, while the king slumbers, the ornate artworks come to life and the shepherdess expresses her love for the chimney sweep in the adjacent portrait. The two escape and are aided by the titular and titillating mockingbird while His Majesty is disposed of by his painted and optically superior doppelgänger who promptly orders the palace guard to hunt down the eloping lovers. Any animation buff has doubtless heard of the protracted production history of The King and the Mockingbird which took place over the course of three decades and was surpassed for the longest production of a film by Richard Williams' The Thief and the Cobbler. The ultimate result is a wholly strange yet beguiling masterpiece of French animation. It is simple enough for children to understand yet imbued with enough knowing subtext by animator Paul Grimault and co-writer Jacques Prévert (who is perhaps most famous for writing the French classic Children of Paradise) that adults may appreciate the sly social commentary on tyranny, freedom, and technology. But the greatest appeal of this fairy tale is its lyricism and earnest adoration for life. As opposed to so many animated films today, The King and the Mockingbird doesn't barrel from plot point to plot point but rather luxuriates in the world it creates as well as the small moments of beauty permeating it. What The King and the Mockingbird strives to convey is the glory of imagination, the vivacity of movement, and the joy of creation rather than destruction. In these regards, isn't that what animation, and by extension cinema, is for?

9. Shoot the Piano Player

The film begins like this: a man runs through the streets at night as he is pursued by a sinister car. He cuts corners, lunges down alleys, rushes along a sidewalk, and then does the inexplicable; he stops to chat with a person walking their dog. They have an amiable, if innocuous, discussion, exchange pleasantries, and after bidding each other farewell the man resumes his run. This anarchic attitude immediately establishes the tone for Francois Truffaut's Shoot the Piano Player (Tirez sur le pianiste), one of the most playful deconstructions of genre to emerge out of the Nouvelle Vague. François Truffaut once said that he strove to "make a film where all the scenes would please [him]", and this confident disposal off conventions and audience expectations led to a mixed response from critics and poor box office that ultimately frightened Truffaut off from experimenting as boldly ever again. It's a pity, because the story of Charlie the pianist is a dazzlingly gleeful journey that sashays from comedy to tragedy in the space of mere moments. Charlie has distanced himself from his prior persona as Edouard Saroyan the revered musician following a tragic incident. Now he occupies a nondescript existence as the titular employee of a seedy bar, yet he draws the attention of an attractive waitress named Lena as well as two gangsters who are looking for his brothers (one of whom is the chased man at the film's start). While inspired by B pictures by Samuel Fuller as well as crime movies, Shoot the Piano Player satirizes these genres as much as it pays homage to them. There is a scene where the film screeches to a halt to partake in a nonsense song about a raspberry. The antagonistic gangsters, more akin to their successors in Pulp Fiction in their lackadaisical demeanor than their predecessors, freely converse about the appeal of wearing women's clothing. As for Charlie Kohler himself, he is a far cry from the brooding masculine image of the American antihero. If anything, his passivity renders him an inept, as well as impotent, protagonist that takes little to no accountability for events either directly or indirectly influenced by his actions. What Truffaut explores with Shoot the Piano Player is a new world on the cusp of breaking away from the old one and the enervated entertainer who cannot accommodate it but is forced to accept it as an implacable and, for him, tragic reality.

8. After Life

If you could take one memory with you when you die that would act as your own personal heaven, what would it be? This tantalizing theoretical query forms the foundation of Koreeda Hirokazu's remarkable After Life, a 1998 drama that blurs the demarcation between fiction and veracity. Initially conceived as a documentary primarily consisting of interview subjects, the film chronicles a week for a team consigned with the task of welcoming newly departed souls into a state of purgatory and charging them with naming their most cherished memories in three days time. Once they have done so, the team will manifest these memories by committing them to celluloid. They screen the short films they create on the final day, and the souls disappear, now fully engulfed within their memories. On this particular week, one of the counselors, Takashi, meets a client who struggles so mightily to summon a happy memory that he must review his entire life through videotapes to scrounge up anything. Takashi is unhappy with him and requests a transfer, though his reasoning is revealed only gradually to be deeply personal. It's this patient narrative drive that characterizes the films of Koreeda, and the process of discovery through observation perfectly suits the thematic concerns and visual aesthetic of After Life. Several of the souls asked about their happiest moments are shot in straight-on medium close-up with the interviewees addressing the camera, and in fact many of these sequences where shot without a script. This verisimilitude lends an immediacy to the film even during the clearly structured sequences that, while not necessarily manipulating the audience into believing they're watching a documentary, convey an emotional truth. What constitutes the legacy we create for others as much as for ourselves? Is it wrong to craft one's time on this planet around a falsity for the sake of garnering absolution? After Life raises these questions, then leaves its audience to dwell upon them while reinforcing the significance of the cinematic apparatus for preservation and personal representation. It is reflexive, poignant, and ultimately inspiring.

7. In Bruges

 

Violence is so ingrained within the human psyche that the existing iconography of barbarism has become commonplace within visual representation, particularly in the Western world. What lingers longest in the mind, however, is not primarily how cruel the violent act is but what it's implications are, the consequences it bears for those it affects. Playwright and filmmaker Martin McDonagh is one of the living artists whose very best work understands this core tenet of humanity, and In Bruges is one of his finest accomplishments. A sort of cinematic elaboration of The Dumb Waiter, the film follows two hit men named Ray (the rookie) and Ken (the seasoned professional) as they hide out in the small town of Bruges ("It's in Belgium", Ray helpfully informs us) as they await instructions from their boss Harry Waters following a botched job. Ken is enamored with the rustic vista, but Ray's impertinence ends up getting them involved with a beautiful production assistant who peddles drugs in her spare time as well as a dwarf actor who harbors some seriously questionable ideas regarding race. But Ken is charged by Harry to kill Ray as punishment for the horrible mistake that exiled them to Bruges in the first place, and Ray himself is overcome with immense guilt over his unspeakable transgression. While the film bears many superficial similarities with the aforementioned Harold Pinter play, McDonagh's film reveals itself to be pulsating with sorrow and fear. In actuality, In Bruges is the comedic equivalent of Nicolas Roeg's Don't Look Now, a resemblance that is invoked by the film-within-a-film, yet this not simply a pastiche of the horror classic. Bruges is portrayed much in the same way as Venice is as a cold, barren cityscape whose streets paved with cobblestones are more foreboding than charming. The characters are trapped both by their environment and by a portent specter of doom that  is inescapable. All of this culminates in a final bloody act that... well, to say any further would be to spoil both films. Ultimately, McDonagh's great talent lies in pinpointing the humanity within the obscene and grotesque, and In Bruges is an uncommonly intelligent thriller with fantastic performances from the three leads that just happens to feature Colin Farrell karate-chopping a stoned dwarf.

6. The Long Day Closes

The coming-of-age subgenre  is immensely tricky to pull off. The difference between nostalgia and sentimentality is a tenuous one, and when done wrong can result in insufferable indulgence. Then you have a film like Terence Davies' The Long Day Closes which can be categorized as a coming-of-age story yet is nearly indescribable in how it presents the crucial turning point from youth to adolescence. It's a movie where what happens isn't as important in the sense that it builds to a climactic moment (as in, say, Steven Soderbergh's King of the Hill) but rather that it is meant to craft an impressionistic portrait of a very specific time in the development of a young man. That young man, named Bud, is living with his mother in Liverpool circa the 1950s. Bud's father is absent, and it is never clearly established what has happened to him, though any explanation would be perfunctory. Bud fosters his love of the cinema by constantly attending the smoke-filled movie theater, and his captive attention of moving pictures is compounded by his vivid dreams, whether they be of a grandiose mercantile ship in the middle of a class period or of an unseen man (perhaps the ghost of his father) grabbing his face in a horrid nightmare. In his waking state, Bud attends school and pals around with few friends, yet he is a quiet, introspective lad that doesn't mind having moments to himself. But as he reaches the early stages of puberty, Bud discovers his burgeoning homosexuality, which severely clashes with his catholic upbringing  and he ultimately experiences s a loneliness never felt before. What sounds like the makings of a treacly sermon on childhood and sexual discrimination within society couldn't be further from what we get here. Based loosely off of his own experiences growing up, Davies focuses on particular moments of sight and sound that not only constitute Bud's youth but signify the early indicators of his inevitable transition into manhood. Bud develops an awareness of sexual mores when his brother discreetly motions for him to leave while his girlfriend chats with the boy. A Christmas celebration is associated with not only caroling but narration from The Magnificent Ambersons. There is a famous shot of a carpet that lasts for nearly two minutes and made Gillian Anderson weep. We even open upon a rainy street while the 20th Century Fox theme and Nat King Cole's "Stardust" usher us into the world. It's nearly impossible to fully communicate what Davies achieves here through words, but if there's one demonstrative example of the poetry of The Long Day Closes, it is the montage set to the Debbie Reynolds standard "Tammy". Here, in full, Davies expresses his intent to capture a formative moment in his lifetime while expressing an innate understanding of the inexorable march of time as well as a tacit acknowledgment of the pervasive presence of social institutions within our daily routines. It is a snapshot in flux, a flash of beauty that lingers long after it has disappeared, and it's one of the most elegiac, sensitive, and unique films I have ever seen. Much like after seeing Richard Linklater's Boyhood, I felt a little older and wiser for having seen it.

5. A Woman Under the Influence

American Independent Cinema wouldn't be what it is today without John Cassavetes. In a career that spanned nearly three decades, Cassavetes was one of the most prolific filmmakers of the second half of the 20th Century while memorably appearing in front of the camera in classics like The Dirty Dozen and Rosemary's Baby. Cassavetes used his camera to focus on profoundly troubled people who, in spite of themselves as much as others, desperately sought happiness. A Woman Under the Influence may be his greatest achievement and forty years after it's release it hasn't lost one iota of its power. Mabel and Nick Longhetti are a married couple whose dynamic proves to be dysfunctional, to say the least. In the opening sequence, Nick calls home to report that he'll be late from his construction work and out of loneliness and anger Mabel ambles into the night and has a sexual encounter with a total stranger. The next morning, the man offers to make her some coffee, but Mabel is bewildered. "You're Nick, and I'm Mabel!", she exclaims, and if it wasn't clear before it becomes painfully so now that something is not quite right with Mabel. While her mental illness is relatively harmless to her children and her husband's co-workers, Mabel's ailment nevertheless creates uncomfortable situations for everyone within her periphery. After a catastrophic play date their kids have with a friend from school, Nick and his mother decide to have Mabel hospitalized for six months. During her tenure in an asylum, it is gradually revealed that not only is Nick less capable of caring for his children than his wife but that he may have a psychosis of his own. The film was originally conceived as a play for Cassavetes' wife Gena Rowlands but only turned into a movie when Rowlands felt it would have been both physically and emotionally exhausting performing the material every single night, and she's right. A Woman Under the Influence is one of the most uncomfortable films I've ever sat through, and I mean that as the highest praise. It's two and a half hours long, but Cassavetes takes advantage of the length to fully immerse you within the micro-universe of this troubled family. Mabel desperately tries to conform to what she believes is the ideal housewife, and Gena Rowlands makes her a tragic figure without sugarcoating her manic tendencies. Peter Falk has perhaps an even trickier role as Nick, for his madness is far less noticeable than Mabel's yet it becomes so clear by the end that it's baffling how we could have missed it in the first place. Both of these characters love each other, but they cannot sustain a calm equilibrium before another eruption occurs. We don't condone all of what they do, but we do empathize with and grieve for them. As a portrait of a family in crisis, A Woman Under the Influence is of the highest caliber. As a critique of gender relations and the treatment of mental illness within American society, it remains more relevant and troubling than ever.

4. Macbeth

The greatest film adaptations of William Shakespeare have all accomplished the feat of creating a singularly cinematic experience while maintaining fidelity towards the original words of the Bard. But for every Laurence Olivier or  Kenneth Branagh, auteurs who speak Shakespeare like a second language, there's a filmmaker like Roman Polanski who, while not a connoisseur of the material, offers a distinct reinvention of a once thought unassailable text. Case in point: his 1971 film of Macbeth, co-adapted with British playwright Kenneth Tynan. Along with Akira Kurosawa's Throne of Blood, it is the supreme retelling of the rise and fall of the mad Thane of Cawdor crowned King of Scotland. What differentiates Polanski's version from what came before? For starters, the leads are played by young people rather than a traditionally older couple. While a controversial creative decision, I think it's a bold and rather ingenious gamble that pays off in dividends. By beginning as enterprising, youthful schemers, the story charts the moral disintegration of both Macbeth and Lady Macbeth (played brilliantly by Jon Finch and Francesca Annis, respectively) into weary, paranoid, and morose monarchs more effectively than ever before that they seem to waste away before our very eyes. The second noticeable difference is the depiction of graphic violence. While not necessarily more gruesome than anything seen on a typical episode of Game of Thrones, this is easily the most bloody version of Macbeth that's ever been presented. The murder of King Duncan and, particularly, the massacre of the Macduff family are appropriately clumsy and blunt, contrasting powerfully with the poetry of the written word. Speaking of which, most of the revered soliloquies from the play are spoken in voice-over. The resultant effect is one that preserves some of the most powerful monologues Shakespeare ever wrote while never impeding upon the cinematic illusion of realism Polanski sustains, and some of the most famous sequences from the play are strengthened by the expansive advantages of film (the moving forest of Birnam Wood in particular becomes a tremendous sight of awe and fear). With these primary ingredients, Macbeth is a shocking, nightmarish and wholly unique interpretation of the classic tale of greed and ambition that posits man not as inherently evil but as always possessing the capacity for evil deeds, a trait that the slightly altered and far darker ending suggests will endure through the ages, long after the tyrannical Macbeth has been beheaded.

3. The Innocents

When we think of the modern ghost story, we have to give our dues to Henry James' 1898 novella The Turn of the Screw. As influential as it is open to scholarly interpretation, the story of a governess who tends to two very precocious children in a secluded mansion that may or may not be haunted has been adapted several times to theater, television, and film with varying degrees of success. The best, and a seminal horror work in its own right, is Jack Clayton's 1961 film The Innocents. In the opening minutes, you know you're watching a highly unusual supernatural tale, one that relies not on shocks or loud noises to frighten its audience but rather an eerie sense of dread and unease.

The governess, named Miss Giddens here and portrayed expertly by Deborah Kerr, is charged by an insouciant aristocrat to look after his niece and nephew in his country estate of Bly. Giddens takes immediately to the children, but begins to question the housekeeper Mrs. Grose about her predecessor and the mysterious and ghoulish man she sees stalking the grounds. It is here she begins to doubt the presumed purity of her charges, particularly of the young boy Miles. The genius of James' original story is the ambiguity of whether there really are ghosts terrorizing the governess or if they are an extension of her own psychosis, and it's a testament to the direction and script (adapted primarily by none other than Truman Capote) that this uncertainty is preserved. What Clayton and especially Capote elaborate upon is the sexual subtext of the novella. There's a distinct possibility that the children were exposed to the sexual escapades of Giddens' predecessor, Miss Jessel, and of the sinister man Quint while they were still alive, if not worse. In a particularly famous and still unnerving scene, Miss Giddens is kissed on the lips by Miles, and she recoils... but with the faintest expression of pleasure in her eyes. Later, as Miss Giddens walks the halls in the night, the sound of laughter and intercourse pound in her ears. Have the ghosts soiled the innocence of these children, or are they an extension of Miss Giddens' own repressed sexuality? We never fully know, but what we are given is a riveting work that is as beautiful as it is disturbing, thanks in large part to the deep focus cinematography by Freddie Francis, and the remarkably modern score by Georges Auric that opts for quiet terror where a lesser score would succumb to bombast. What makes The Innocents so powerful and lasting is not solely the imagery of gothic decay that adumbrated the cliches of ghost movies, but the very palpable ideas involving human frailty and evil. Think upon the final shot of the film and ponder if, perhaps, whether in her head or real, Miss Giddens ultimately becomes the thing she fears most?

2. A Hard Day's Night

Fifty years have passed since they landed on North American shores and we still talk about The Beatles in the present tense. Their music is eternal, their place within the cultural lexicon assured. But does the same apply to their films? When you talk about A Hard Day's Night, the answer is "absolutely". One of the most inventive and liberating movie musicals ever made, Richard Lester's chronicle of a day in the life of the Fab Four disposes of the rules for what a musical should look and sound like, and seen half a century after its release seems surprisingly fresher and more anarchic than ever. Yes, the lads sing songs from the album of the same name, but they're not shoehorned in like the songs in an Elvis picture. There's a visual dynamism that accompanies songs like "I Should Have Known Better" or "And I Love Her". While consistently blithe and boisterous, A Hard Day's Night has something substantial to say about entrapment and repression. John, Paul, George, and Ringo are constantly hounded by fans kept at bay by only a train or the limo that drives the band around. They have to show up for rehearsal for a show, do their homework, and follow a barrage of orders from their flustered manager. When they sneak off from the studio into the fresh air, Ringo cries, "We're free!", and the lads barrel into "Can't Buy Me Love", speeding across a field and bouncing over each other like gravity itself can't hold them down. If there's an antagonist, it would be Paul's grandfather who instigates trouble through manipulation and mischief. But even that "little old man" feels cooped up, and his desires aren't that dissimilar from our four heroes. He's a very clean man, he and others reinforce throughout the film. "Well, are ya?", John pointedly asks near the end, and the generational gap between the Baby Boomers and the forebears seems less pronounced than previously thought. Fundamentally, it isn't the music that makes a Hard Day's Night a terrific film, though it certainly helps, and it isn't because the film is giddily hilarious, though it certainly is that. What cements A Hard Day's Night as a canonical work is the way it inadvertently captured the moment before the counterculture took off in the second half of the decade. When the group sings "She Loves You" at the end, the audience is shrieking, ready to break the roofs off the stadium, and with it societal constraints. Those taboos would collapse within a scant few years, and there were The Beatles to embody the hopes and dreams of a generation. That we still can find something to relate to in a film from a bygone era is a testament to their greatness as artists. Their music belongs to all of us, young and old, generation to generation. So does this film.

1. The Umbrellas of Cherbourg

 

Jacques Demy's The Umbrellas of Cherbourg is one of the most brilliant tricks in cinematic history. It's a brightly hued technicolor French romance that features every line of dialogue sung and whose most famous song was featured in an episode of Futurama. It's also one of the most devastating tragedies ever put to the screen with an uncommonly wise awareness of human fallibility. It sets the stage for an overblown tearjerker and closes the curtain on a brief yet earned moment of melancholy acknowledgment. Allow me to explain; Geneviève and Guy are a young couple passionately in love. Guy works as a mechanic, but he intends to marry Geneviève and provide a stable household for their future family. Her mother is doubtful of the young man's ability to act as breadwinner, but their idyll is shattered when Guy is conscripted into the military to fight in the Algerian War. The two promise to stay true to one another, but matters only become more dire when Geneviève realizes that she's pregnant with Guy's child and despairs of Guy returning to her when his correspondence becomes more infrequent. With her mother's help, the young woman marries a kind and wealthy jeweler. But Guy does indeed return, and... you're doubtless expecting this to turn into an operatic version of The Notebook, which sounds absolutely dreadful. But a keen understanding of human nature belies the artifice and grandiose expressions of emotion, and that makes all the difference. Demy doesn't portray any of his characters as ones we should be clearly rooting for or against, but rather as people we empathize with in spite of their shortcomings. Geneviève's mother is not supportive of the relationship her daughter has with Guy, but because she doesn't believe he'd be stable enough as a patriarch if he ever comes back and not because the script demands her to be antagonistic. When Guy does saunter back into the town of Cherbourg, he's clearly been shaken by his experience and his emotional stability is shrouded in uncertainty. Would he be a good spouse to Geneviève? I doubt it since he needs someone to help care for him and seems rendered incapable, at the moment, to provide for others. And what of the sweet girl Madeleine who cares for Guy's aunt but harbors feelings for Guy himself? When he proposes to her, the woman has the wherewithal to question whether he's using her as a rebound from his last love. Each of these characters have an agenda, something at stake, and all of them yearn for their own happiness. Do they achieve that by the end? The answer is complicated, far more open-ended than one is accustomed to in a cinematic fantasia, and that's what makes The Umbrellas of Cherbourg a singular triumph. It is a torrent of pure feeling that earns every single one of its emotional beats, a kaleidoscopic burst of sound and color that somehow remains strikingly intimate, and an epic that never once loses sight of its achingly human core. All of this culminates in a wise and heartbreaking denouement that recognizes how ephemeral the encounters in our lives are without passing judgment on anyone. The Umbrellas of Cherbourg is unlike any other film ever made, and it's stylistic flourishes and pathos expand the parameters that constitute a motion picture. For that, among other reasons, it is my favorite film I saw in 2014.

Be sure to check out the honorable mentions as well as what made my pick as the worst film I saw in 2014.

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.