Top Ten List pt. 1

In order for readers to gain a better understanding of the criticism that will be posted on this blog in the following weeks and months, I thought it would only be fair for me to post lists of my ten favorite films and directors. Although list-making can be seen as a self gratifying, masturbatory action, I find ample justification for it in this sense. This post is an attempt for readers to contextualize my writings. Upon referring back to these lists, they will be able to know exactly where I’m coming from as a cinephile, and be able to better understand my relationships to the films being discussed.

With that being said, it must be noted that there are far too many great films in the world to be able to compile and adequate list of ten. So many films have impacted me in so many different ways, it would be impossible to chronicle the astonishing effects of them all. All of these films have had a deep impact on me. Whether they’ve struck me emotionally, intellectually, or artistically, they have all been unforgettable in one way or another. I’ve done my best to number them adequately, but, as it often is with these lists, the numbers dissolve into the arbitrary when given too much thought. Because of the length of these entries, I’m going to break this list up into two parts. The first will be my numbers 10-6, and the next post will contain my top five of all time. Enjoy!

10. Stardust Memories (1980)

            Woody Allen has been my favorite director for quite some time now. There’s something unexplainable about his films. I’ve tried and failed many times to put my finger on exactly why I think he’s so great. There’s something about his delivery, his timing, his simplicity, and his understanding that rings true for me.

            Stardust Memories is one of Woody Allen’s favorite Woody Allen films. In this homage to Federico Fellini, Woody Allen concocts possibly his most personal film to date. The film is about a director trying to jump from directing pure comedy into creating Bergman-esque dramatic films. It tells the stories of his artistic struggles, his fame, his relationships, his anxieties, and his stunningly beautiful moments of peace. There is no other film quite like it (except for perhaps 8 ½), and it is a truly unique gem hidden inside the Allen canon.

             After every viewing, I get the unmistakable feeling that Allen poured himself into the film completely. It exposes his worries, anxieties, and fears in ways that none of his other films do. Stylistically, the film takes risks. He plays with time and the perception of reality. It is riddled with flashbacks to his childhood, where we can see each of his adult neuroses being born. Gordon Willis’ cinematography is beautiful, playing with shadows, subtle camera movements, and negative space with a mastery of the craft.

            Stardust Memories may come off as confusing to some viewers. If this is the case, my suggestion would be to watch his other films. To understand Allen’s life and his body of work is to understand Stardust Memories. If you’ve got the time, invest in Woody Allen, because this film is certainly worth it.

9. Duck Soup (1933)

            There isn’t much that can be said about the Marx Brothers anymore. You either love them or you really love them. Their timeless comedy will never wear old. I have a friend who once said, “The first time I saw Harpo Marx as a kid was basically the first time I’d ever really laughed.”

            Duck Soup is so great that it’s almost unexplainable. The first time I saw it I was sitting alone in my room, watching it on my laptop. Not often do movies make me laugh out loud, especially when I’m watching them by myself. Duck Soup was an exception to this rule. I found myself bursting out with laughter at almost every gag. There’s no way to explain it, there’s no way to intellectualize it. They’re just so damn funny.

8. Fast, Cheap, and Out of Control (1997)

            Fast, Cheap, and Out of Control was my introduction to the phenomenon that is Errol Morris. One of the great filmmakers of our time, his documentaries have shed light on a variety of subjects.

Morris focuses on quirky subjects. He points his camera at them, asks a question, and lets them speak until a timeless truth has been revealed. These moments of truth and clarity are what every documentarian strives for. None of this could be fabricated or recreated. They are seen as they are happening, and Morris is expert enough to capture them forever, preserved in celluloid.

            Fast, Cheap, and Out of Control takes four different professionals from very different walks of life and simply lets them speak. He takes a lion tamer, a topiary gardener, an expert on naked mole rats, and a scientist from M.I.T. who specializes in making bug-like robots. These four people couldn’t be any more different, yet the truths that they lay bare are essentially the same.

            The film operates with these four conversations as its guide. Morris cuts between the conversations with reckless abandon, splicing in B-roll of circus animals, naked mole rats, robots, archived film footage and beautiful hedges where he so pleases. The music (composed by Caleb Sampson) gives the whole film a dance-like feeling. The transitioning from conversation to conversation feels elegant and fluid. It’s incredibly hypnotic, constantly moving forward, and vastly entertaining to watch.

            The whole idea of this film goes back to a discussion that a professor and I were having in class. We were talking about the incredible ability for the cinema to be so specific, yet so universal at the same time. This is exemplified in all of the work of Ozu, Fellini, Chaplin, Allen, and almost any other universal filmmaker there has been. In order to explain or communicate a profound human truth, you must delve into the specific. Morris’ subjects turn inward, explaining the intricacies of their specific professions. By doing this, they all inadvertently reveal the exact same truths about life. They have all spent lifetimes learning and studying their subjects with incredible depth, and they have all come to the same conclusions. Morris knows this, and he lets his subjects speak. While he dazzles in the editing room, he knows to leave well enough alone while the experts are talking.

7. Magnolia (1999)

            When I first saw Magnolia, I admittedly didn’t know what to think of it. The ending confused me, Tom Cruise scared me, and the slow dollies in on the characters made me feel anxious and uncomfortable. I remember raising myself to the edge of my seat and looking over at my friend. He was doing the exactly the same thing. Afterwards we both couldn’t really speak. We tried to discuss the film but words couldn’t really do it any justice. It’s a hard film to swallow, and, I think, an even harder film to discuss.

            My reaction to the film was so physical and unexplainable that I felt the need to purchase it right away. I bought a copy, received it in the mail, and watched it again almost immediately. This time I knew what I was in for, but the reaction still persisted. There are ways to explain why I was feeling what I was feeling, but no clear ways to communicate exactly what I was feeling, That, to me, is the mark of great filmmaking.

            Paul Thomas Anderson has truly created a masterpiece. The back of the DVD calls it a “mosaic of human suffering,” and I’d be inclined to agree with that. The acting is near perfect, the cinematography is astounding, and the script is airtight. Every step of this film is calculated down to the last, minor detail. The minute the excellent opening sequence has ended, the film refuses to let up. The energy and anxiety that drive the film never go away. The music and the editing give a sense of urgency to every frame, making the final, smiling, calming conclusion of the film all the more powerful.

            Magnolia takes a lot of risks. The opening sequence is an amalgamation of film tropes and styles from every corner of the art form. Its pacing and length refuse to let viewers rest, and the attentive audience will be rewarded for their pursuits. Again, I think this film is great because it caused me to feel something utterly unexplainable. Words don’t do it justice. If you haven’t seen it, watch it. If you’ve seen it and didn’t like it, watch it again. It’s worth another glance.

6. 2 or 3 Things I Know About Her (1967)

            2 or 3 Things I Know About Her is one of the most difficult movies that I’ve ever watched. I struggled to understand it the whole time I sat in the screening room. Being socialized as I am, my brain strained to hold onto whatever loose threads of a narrative I could piece together. This was my first mistake. The key to Godard is to let everything go and to experience the film. The other key to 2 or 3 Things is to understand that it can only be understood through the limitations of the film medium. All of Godard’s films are about film itself. And this is no exception.

            I won’t pretend that I understand this film even a little bit. It challenges perception, reality, art, film, acting, dancing, writing, directing, and living in general. No interpretations will suffice to explain Godard’s aim or point. I would wager to guess that 2 or 3 Things is even beyond Godard. A project that artistically breaks free from its mold. I think the thing that attracts me most to this film is its denial of interpretation. It’s unexplainable, hideous, beautiful, artful, messy, and calculated all at once. I keep coming back to it in a futile attempt to pin it down. Each time I see it, I feel like I’m getting closer and closer to what it’s really about, and then I watch it again and it all slips away.

            And so concludes my first five films! I would hope that I’ve convinced readers that these films are worth your time, as they hold a very special place in my heart. Until next week!

Sam Flancher

Films watched this week: La Dolce Vita, Night of the Hunter, The Rules of the Game, How Do You Know, and True Grit.

A Rationale

            So much has been written about film over the years, you’d think that the subject would be completely exhausted by now. There comes a point in film criticism (especially when looking at past films deemed “classic”) where you’d think all classical criticism would become a moot point.

            One could take this idea even further and argue that all artistic criticism is useless. It can be seen as a bastard art form, surviving only because of the parasitic relationship it holds with the material it concerns. It could be argued that, rather than adding to the art it discusses, artistic criticism detracts from it, somehow making the art worth less than it was at face value.

            While I can understand wanting to experience art completely devoid of outside influence (which would allow for a more personal interpretation), criticism after the fact can be immensely illuminative and rewarding. It becomes an art form itself, enhancing the source art to levels that it wouldn’t have reached before.

            Not only does criticism add to original text, but it is also helpful in providing historical context. Research after watching a film always provides me with new insights as to the political/economic climate surrounding a film, the place the film holds within the history of the medium, and information about the personal life of the author (be they writer, director, producer, cinematographer, or a culmination of these roles). Especially when looking at films from the past, criticism is key to context.

The point that I’ve ended up dancing around is that criticism only adds to art. The original impact of a film will still stand even after reading pages of analysis. The artist/text/audience triangular relationship is essential here. Any work of art can be read in different ways, taking personal experiences, supplemental texts, and historical context into account. Every work of art exists differently in millions of places. Criticism is the act of chronicling personal interpretations so these different interpretations can be considered, sparking new works of art. Because of thought, reflection, and criticism, one work of art is viewed through multiple, unique lenses. This is the joy of criticism.

This blog is an attempt to offer up my own critical interpretations of films. Nothing written here is fact. Nothing written here is the be-all and end-all of film meaning, I would never pretend that it was. My goal is merely to relate to any readers my own experiences and relationships with films, and hope to spark any sort of illuminating discussion. Above all, I’m hoping this blog will be a way for me to organize my movie watching, my observations, and my thoughts.

I hope everyone will have as much fun reading this as I’m sure to have writing it!

Sam Flancher