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Lost in Translation 
2003 / Sofia Coppola > Coppola's sophomore effort has quite a few tangibles working for it: Impactful yet understated acting, a functional/moody location and a near-perfect mixture of ambience and rock for the soundtrack. But these only tell half of the story. The feel of it all—being alone in a city where your mind and body seems misplaced, not knowing if what tomorrow brings is worth waking up or going to bed for, wondering if the past you've lived is the past you've wanted to live—these are the intangibles that are undeniably infused into the self-analyzing experience that is Lost in Translation.
But I'd be lying if I said this was a perfect film: I find Scarlett Johansson's character to be weak, though part of it's because Bill Murray puts forth a subtle yet powerful performance portraying a man of such humanity that she comes off comparatively cookie-cutter. The pacing isn't always perfect, with hiccups that seem misplaced and solo scenes of Johansson that pale in comparison to those of Murray. And while I never really found the film to be racist by any means, the xenophobic viewpoints sometimes come off silly rather than calculated. But the point remains that Coppola, with the help of Brian Reitzell and Roger J. Manning Jr.'s effusive score, has concocted a mood piece of master quality that takes away our sense of vengeful cynicism and fills it with the kind of hope and bewilderment that both the young and the young at heart seek.
The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
2007 / Julian Schnabel > When I first heard this was going to be made into a film, I was filled with both worry and wonder. A film about a man who communicates by blinking? How interesting could that be on the screen? In amazement and awe, however, Schnabel and cinematographer Janusz Kaminski (who ought to be a lock for an Oscar nod) have adapted The Diving Bell and the Butterfly into celluloid with a level of imagination that even Jean-Dominique Bauby may not have had in his writing process. The scenes where Bauby (played immaculately by Mathieu Amalric) and his father (played by an appropriately aging Max von Sydow) communicate before and after the stroke are mesmerizing and heartbreaking. All the women in the film shine in reflection to Bauby's "butterfly," each adding an extra layer of emotion and character to a life not to be pitied. No doubt one of the year's very best, the film is an epic of human creativity and strength.
Yi Yi
2000 / Edward Yang > Yi Yi is loved for the same reason it isn't perfect: For three hours, Yang meticulously orchestrates the lives of a middle-class Taiwanese family through everyday trials and tribulations, both simple and complex, but ends without a proper conclusion. Generally, this does little but to anger the viewer who's given up 180 minutes of their life, but as the credits roll, a feeling comes over that contradicts such expected notions.
Beautiful and easing, Yi Yi is full of warmth while staying true to the crass happenings of life. In some ways, it's just easy to watch—there are no fancy editing techniques or climactic sequences, but even in its calm demeanor, the film commands attention throughout. As a character says, "films let us live three times," and in that vain, we are able to connect to others and empathize about the richness and hope of living. It's a must-see for those who've been turned off by Tsai (and to some degree Hou) to once again believe in the future of Taiwanese cinema, while at the same time coming to appreciate the loss that Yang's death earlier this year has caused to the film world.
Be With Me
2005 / Eric Khoo > Be With Me is structurally flawed. On a pure fundamental basis, the trio of stories that create the network within the film should each have a similar level of importance and screentime to keep the balance, right? Khoo decides otherwise and starts to increase the focus on a specific one as the film progresses, weaving in a documentary style because, as we find out, one of the characters is actually a real person—Theresa Chan, the Singapore equivalent of "Helen Keller." This mismatch of fact and fiction is jarring to us because we don't know whether to take this as entertainment or a life lesson.
The film's style, with a total of 2.5 minutes of dialogue in its ninety-three minute span, is sparse but elegant. Each shot is gorgeous in its own right, and the transitions are apt and don't reek of style over substance. The unfolding of each story is judiciously spliced and paced to keep enticing us. The real meat, once it gets rolling into its third and final act, is its open-ended theory on love and loneliness. It's a thesis of sorts in understanding the have and have-nots, and its true beauty is in the manner in which it translates this fiction into a real-life perspective. It's heartwarming but strong, quaint and unforgettable.
Pan's Labyrinth
2006 / Guillermo del Toro > The combination of fantasy and violence is something that's always fascinated me because at the core of most fairy tales is a sense of naivety that is both wondrous and disagreeable. Emotions toward the latter comes outward mostly because we realize that stories are an escape, and that fairy tales don't really happen without hard work (i.e., don't exist). In film, we simply take a ride in our minds that comes hurling back to square one once the end credits roll.
With Pan's Labyrinth, del Toro has given respect to the reality of time and space while still proceeding with his story of magic. The parallelism of good vs. evil along with the convex nature of Ofelia's fate are the cornerstones of the film's effectiveness. And since the idea of the happy ending is a modern one (and not one that's fair or objective to the viewer's emotions), I believe del Toro's choice of conclusion judiciously stops short of manipulating the viewer and the viewer's after-film hopes.
I'm neither perturbed nor surprised that The Lives of Others beat out Pan's Labyrinth for the Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film. Both are beautifully crafted, but the latter's taste in violence is not fit for all. That being said, only The Last King of Scotland and Memories of Matsuko compete with this as my personal favorite films of 2006.
Memories of Matsuko
2006 / Tetsuya Nakashima > Considering I couldn't bear more than 30 minutes of Tetsuya's Kamikaze Girls, imagine my surprise when I found Memories of Matsuko creeping up my mind months after having watched it. While it may be a ridiculous musical with an abrasive color palette, misplaced violence and oodles of sexual innuendo, it also ends up falling just short of being a masterpiece of human resilience.
Miki Nakatani's portrayal of Matsuko is one of the year's great performances, showing a wide emotional range while still successfully hitting every note. Her ability to be a chameleon is further complimented by Tetsuya's storyline of life's ironies and heartbreaks than span multiple occupations and decades, creating an epic of personal proportions. This is a story about one person, a very normal person who has dreams like the rest of us. And this is the story of one whose dreams don't come true in the fashion that was intended, but magically we find solace in the fact that life isn't dictated by those failed dreams.
The Last King of Scotland
2006 / Kevin Macdonald > Let's get the 800-pound gorilla out of the way: Forest Whitaker is masterful, true and full of credible passion as megalomaniac dictator Idi Amin. And yes, it's absolutely worthy of an Oscar nomination if not the Best Actor trophy itself. From the twitch in his bloodshot eyes to the insane, instantaneous smile, Whitaker arguably does more for Amin than Hoffman did for Capote. It's considerably less gimmick-based; we don't have a lisp or some sort of disability. It's just simple brilliance.
What Macdonald has done is also quite a wonder, fusing every type of emotion into an incredibly balanced and well-paced two hours. In portraying the Uganda of the 1970s through the eyes of James McAvoy's young, naive eyes, Macdonald somehow remains objective. In contrast to films such as Terry George's overly apologist Hotel Rwanda, there is little preaching or glorification. The deep emotional palette of the film is further enhanced by a deeply engrossing story, part truth, part fiction, that breaches genre expectations for a typical political biopic. It's not hard to find yourself smiling, laughing, shocked or becoming filled with lust for sex and power. It has the essence of a small but necessary epic.
A Good Lawyer's Wife
2003 / Im Sang-soo > There are so many layers to Im's A Good Lawyer's Wife that a minimum of two viewings are a must. But even on the first viewing, it's fairly evident that he's created a fine work exploring the status of the modern Korean family, analyzing issues with aging, infidelity, class distinction, adoption and love/loneliness. It's easy to imagine a sophomore film class dissecting the ground beneath the film for a week, pondering exactly what Im intended to say, and what is just a natural consequence of the world he's trying to represent.
Much of this, undoubtedly, is driven by the incredible cast. Of note, as always, is the sheer blistering performance, subtle and true, of Moon So-ri in her portrayal of the title character (for which she won Best Actress at the 2004 Grand Bell Awards). Moreover, I found the film to have some of the most successfully interesting use of music I've ever witnessed: A mixture of upbeat orchestration and mismatched visuals often bringing forth feelings that would generally be hidden away.
I could go on, but it's probably better to just watch it. The combination of Im Sang-soo and Moon So-ri yields a result that ranks atop the ten best Korean films produced this decade, and establishes Im as a cornerstone director of contemporary Korean cinema.
The Bad Sleep Well
1960 / Akira Kurosawa > It's taken me quite a while to appreciate the power of Kurosawa's storytelling, but The Bad Sleep Well is one step closer to the nail on that coffin. Forget the fact that this is a Shakespearean adaptation (and note that knowing the story itself is of no consequence). What we have here is an elegantly crafted corporate revenge thriller that touches on multiple facets of capitalism as well as social construction. While there may be a leftist bias, thankfully the gravity of that bias is appropriate when the plot and setting are put in perspective.
Toshiro Mifune is as lean and mean as ever: No Seven Samurai-style overindulgence is necessary for him to convey his character's anger and compassion. The remainder of the cast each flower the pot to full bloom, notably Ko Nishimura's paranoid contract officer and Tatsuya Mihashi's loving brother. The cryptic and often jolly musical accompaniment is haunting, and the pacing slowly builds an emotional snowball within the viewer that enhances attachment. Too often we get bored and want the bad guy to win—but here, even though at times we question the protagonist's moral tactics, we stand by him and hope for the best.
The film is often forgotten among the annals of samurai flicks in Kurosawa's ouevre. But The Bad Sleep well is not simply about social relevance to today's society, but rather a sobering experience in expert storytelling. It lacks the gimmicks that drive most of today's films, and instead depends on human curiosity itself, an obvious yet underused technique. The wedding cake scene alone is worth the price of viewing.
Oasis
2002 / Lee Chang-dong > One of the greatest, if not arguably the most unexpected, love stories ever captured on film, Oasis is a tour de force of emotion from one of Korea's finest directors. It's an awkward but endearing tale of discovery between a woman with cerebral palsy and a man, fresh out of jail, who seems to be not completely there. Both Moon So-ri's performance as the woman and Sol Kyung-gu as the man are arguably the best duo seen in Korean film in the last five years.
In direct contrast to Lee's Peppermint Candy, which delved into the psyche of the modern Korean man, here he brings forth the universal ideal that everyone deserves to love and be loved. There are many occassions during the film where it becomes hard, even painful, to watch, but the sense of payoff is grand when the credits roll. Oasis is a true testament to the power of film.
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