2011 / Nicolas Winding Refn > The worst thing about Drive is the hideous, misuse of Mistral during the credits. You sit there, as Ryan Gosling drives into the night, wondering if you've been transported to a grittier version of Miami Vice. Maybe genre films remain an insular interest because the kitsch factor is too embedded in their culture? After all, this is the font that graced the intro of television's Night Court.
But then the film unfolds. And sets up. And takes off. And during this ride, which can effectively be described as a classic noir tale with a penchant for real violence, there is nary a hole that can be poked. Every second is necessary, every shot elegant, every piece of music supports the action on the screen. Every question normally asked of a film, this one answers either with some level of extrapolation or faith in its characters. Gosling, credited simply as "Driver," is reminiscent of Clint Eastwood's The Man with No Name. We gradually discover over time that he's exactly the kind of person missing in 99% of Hollywood cinema: One that doesn't cop out. That, in itself, is a tremendous victory.
As those who've watched his Pusher trilogy as well Tom Hardy's brilliant, psychotic coming-out party in Bronson can testify, Winding Refn is a momentous talent. In fact, the lyrics of Kavinsky and Lovefoxxx's "Nightcall," which overtures the opening sequence, speaks of both the director as well as Gosling's Driver: There's something about you, it's hard to explain. They're talking about you, boy, like you're still the same. In short: They are not to be underestimated. Drive shows the maturation of Winding Refn as a controlled director, Gosling as an action star and together they've come up with a fine piece of entertainment that's a beauty to look at, satisfying to watch and evocative enough to remember.
2008 / Tomas Alfredson > Ever since I first saw this by happenstance at the Tribeca Film Festival in 2008, it's been stuck in my mind. Coming of age stories tend to hold a constant place in my heart, but the choicest of these only float around once in while. Each has its own little niche: Rushmore channeled overachievement and the quirkiness of Wes Anderson, Hana and Alice dove into the teenage dramatics of Shunji Iwai and Let the Right One In somehow molds youth, alienation and things that go bump in the night into one cohesive jolt. Alfredson has created a film rooted in a dark loneliness and an even darker elegance. Every scene and detail is necessary, and even those that come across borderline-kitschy end up making sense in context.
But let's get the whole vampire bit cleared: This isn't one of those bloodsucking genre films that go by-the-book in their treatment of the Draculan descendants. Just like Cloverfield was an episode of The O.C. with a monster in it, Let the Right One In is a coming-of-age love story that happens to include someone with a penchant for blood. It's a surprisingly tactful method of curving an otherwise generic story into one of the year's best films. Rarely does the script take the viewer's intelligence for granted: myths are mostly hinted at, the gory visuals kept minimal and the camera angles respect our ability to extrapolate. The last sequence at the pool? It includes arguably the best scene in film from 2008. When Oskar's eyes open up, it's almost perfect.
Originally posted on March 12, 2009 before inclusion into (Through Time).
1979 / Shohei Imamura > For all the serial killer stories that have ever been put on the silver screen, none have approached the subject in a manner as blankly as this. Vengeance is Mine is a story about love—not that of a man and a woman, but about a human being vs. society. The way the dominoes fall don’t often go as planned, and sometimes killing a stranger and sticking his cold, dead body in the closet is necessary. For Iwao Enokizu, this is neither good nor bad. It is an action that complements his strategy for survival. There is no premeditation besides the obvious need to grow older, but in his eyes, one has a hard time seeing a rationale for even living. Ken Ogata’s performance as Iwao, for whom Japan led a 78-day manhunt in 1963, is chilling in its exactness as it captures the kind of stoic judgment the killer makes at will. His value of life is a mystery, but his existence is the kind of evil that myths are built around. He begs, over and over, a simple question to the viewer: Is it possible that there are those who cannot possibly be loved?
Originally posted on April 1, 2010 before inclusion into (Through Time).
1947 / Jacques Tourneur > It's pretty obvious why David Cronenberg paid homage to Out of the Past in A History of Violence: If you're going to put a twist on a genre, why not pay respect to its standard-bearers? Tourneur's take on classic film-noir is thoughtful and riveting. The directing is meticulous, setting up a moody atmosphere, taking time to play out scenes that would otherwise have been rushed and making sure each of our characters are aptly developed. I can also now finally understand why Robert Mitchum was such a big deal. His quiet poise calls upon him an honest appearance while underneath he has the ability to carry deeper, darker secrets. And in a film where Jane Greer counters him as a dame of great beauty and equally great villainy, both work together balancing each others' brilliant performances.
But fundamentals aside, Out of the Past is more notable for its congruence of issues: Lies, murder, secret pasts, infidelity, love, hope, greed, happiness. Novelist and screenwriter Daniel Mainwaring threw the kitchen sink plus some toiletry in the story's mix of ingredients. But what amazes is how well it all works out. The final scene with the boy stands the test of time as one of those moments that leave you wondering the improbable quality of the film you've just witnessed. These days, the descendants of noir have simply too much cynicism or lack of storytelling skills to be this effective.
Originally posted on February 11, 2009 before inclusion into (Through Time).
#1: Poetry by Lee Chang-dong.In the ten days leading up to the 83rd Annual Academy Awards, I will be listing, in reverse order, my ten favorite films of 2010. They will each be accompanied by a custom Criterion cover inspired by Sam Smith's Top 10 of 2010 Poster Project. 2010 / Lee Chang-dong > After a minor "hiccup" that earned Jeon Do-yeon Best Actress at Cannes for Secret Sunshine, Lee is once again at the top of his game. In three feature films (Peppermint Candy, Oasis and now Poetry), he's covered ground on the psyche of the Korean man, love in the darkest corners of humanity and the perils of aging in modern society. His ability to so seamlessly combine the brutal strength of the human condition with a probing yet tactful eye makes him arguably the greatest of all contemporary Korean directors.
Yoon Jeong-hee's masterful performance (the best of the year, I'd argue) guides us in Poetry. She is Mija, an older woman who seems to be losing her mind. She takes care of her moody, borderline insolent grandson while her daughter is M.I.A. She works as a part-time maid to pay the bills and stay busy. One day, she decides to enroll in a poetry class at a local community center. From the onset, we get the basic situation: The last century has been very unkind to aging parents who get left behind as their children take advantage of relocation. (The ease of remittances eases a guilty mind, but it doesn't make up for lost time.) Lee, however, doesn't transfer upon us the blame for Mija's current state. In fact, his habit for developing characters who learn to control their destiny is what makes him such a fine cinematic craftsman.
Over the course of the Poetry, Mija rekindles her relationship with the cruel world she's lived in for so long. Many of us don't realize the daily atrocities that occur until we find ourselves in the mud with others, and Mija is no different. Lee is not a flashy director: Every scene flows into the next without extra baggage. We know what's happening, but we're more interested in seeing things unfold than wanting an instant resolution. The process matters. The core conflict in the film, which is best learned while viewing (and may be spoiled immediately by most reviews), creates such a moral conundrum that there would be no consensus if viewers were polled on a course of action. Whether we agree with Mija or not, we still want her to find the strength to fight for what she believes is right. Poetry is not a melodrama. It is not about the underdog coming out victorious. As Mija writes her poem, there is a solemn tone of acceptance that the world will go on—but we know this acceptance has a price, and what's important is that we fight with her so that only she, independently, gets to judge its true value.
#2: Somewhere by Sofia Coppola.In the ten days leading up to the 83rd Annual Academy Awards, I will be listing, in reverse order, my ten favorite films of 2010. They will each be accompanied by a custom Criterion cover inspired by Sam Smith's Top 10 of 2010 Poster Project. 2010 / Sofia Coppola > For the third straight film, Coppola dives into the emotional troubles of the rich and famous. While the general perception may be that money has the ability to buy one happiness, the truth is that wealth is a relative meter of comfort and works only as a superficial divider amongst the populace. One of the great examinations of this came from Nick Smith in Metropolitan: "It's a tiny bit arrogant of people to go around worrying about those less fortunate." The theory works completely in reverse as well. Mistakes can be made by anyone, regardless of job, money or location. It's how we deal with those mistakes and what we learn from them that actually defines us.
In Somewhere, we follow Johnny Marco (played without pretension by Stephen Dorff), a Hollywood star lacking energy for life. We take in his aimless minutiae until his daughter Cleo pays him a visit. In Cleo, Elle Fanning is able to bring forth the grace of life that wakes up sleeping giants. In what may be my favorite supporting female performance of the year, her simple smiles keep our attention, and we understand, almost instantly, the value of truly loving someone away from all the glitz and glamour the world so continuously taunts us with. Sure, she's still able to order expensive room service in an Italian hotel because of her father's fame, but it's more important to think of the loving kinship here than let our mechanical jealousies take precedence.
Of all films from 2010, Somewhere might be the one that I find with the most rewatchable. Every scene mesmerizes in its naturalness—including a wondrous episode of Guitar Hero that many of us can identify with. In contrast to Nicole Holofcener's Please Give, Coppola doesn't really force any resolutions. Johnny's emotional curve remains relatively flat throughout because, let's face it, some of us never learn our lessons. And while that's a tragic truth to admit, it's a link that sticks.
2009 / Duncan Jones > When it comes to modern science-fiction, there’s nothing worse than predictability. Problematically, science-fiction, in itself, is a derivative art. It takes into effect what’s already around us and extrapolates those objects and ideas into the future. Unfortunately, cinematic conventions are often one of those things. You can argue that much of the last decade’s laziness can be attributed to the endings of The Usual Suspects and The Sixth Sense. Their success pigeonholed lesser-known directors into formulas that were known to work. This has led to a barrage of films, including many in the science-fiction genre, to become innocuous, even lame.
Once upon a time, someone told me the reason they loved Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon was because it infused everything that Chinese cinema had been built on for the last half-century and refined it into one final product. And so enters Duncan Jones, mimicking that approach of Ang Lee and creating Moon as a appreciative hurrah for the genre. In the process, he does one thing very, very well: Playing with expectations. Everytime I thought I knew what was going on, one of two things happened: It didn’t, or it happened immediately instead of at the end as a final twist. Without going into plot details, Sam Rockwell has a run-in with another Sam Rockwell early in the film. Who is the second Sam Rockwell? Even if you think you know, you don’t. And that’s the beauty of it.
Aside from Jones, Rockwell stands out as one of the best performances of the year. He won’t get an Oscar nod, but cultists will appreciate this work for a long time to come. Add in Clint Mansell’s techno-tragic soundtrack and newcomer Gary Shaw's awesome cinematography, and you have the recipe for one of the best films of 2009.
2008 / Charlie Kaufman > Here's a thought: Twenty years from now when we look at 2008's global filmography, Synecdoche, New York will be the year's towering achievement. Kaufman's directorial debut is an injection of a life into the bloodstream, and the way it shakes down our internal struggles and chaotic delusions is truly magnificent. It's imperfect in ways it should be, in that pseudo-bullshit philosophical manner that nobody can really explain. And because it tries to explain things so minimally, it becomes the viewer's movie. Everyone can live this, everyone is this, and as crazy as it sounds, sometimes I find myself thinking that it's about me. The aging of man is a topic that has been touched upon with much success in the past (Ikiru, Wild Strawberries) but never like this. It's something only Kaufman can do, and it will undoubtedly polarize, fascinate and confuse for years to come.
1946 / Frank Capra > The television stations loved playing this every Christmas when I was growing up, but I never actually saw the whole thing. The moments I caught here and there over the years, I somewhat fused together, but until now, I never really understood the mythology of George Bailey. Consider this a spiritual companion piece to Memories of Matsuko: Sometimes the things that we want to do weren't meant for us to begin with. Luck and circumstance are part of the game, and It's a Wonderful Life shows us the grass doesn't always have to be greener in order for a happier day. It's highly manipulative, but ironically not nearly as sentimental as one would expect. By the end, we don't really care because the manipulation was for a positive cause, because without it the modern moviegoer may be too cynical to enjoy a scene of sincere, unexpected happiness and joy. Could they make this now? I doubt it, but I'm happy that its spirit has barely aged in over half a century.
1968 / Sergio Leone > Most of us who grew up in the 80s only knew Charles Bronson as the man who answered your Death Wish, but before that came the man who stood tall against screen-legend Henry Fonda in Once Upon a Time in the West. Now, I'm not generally a big fan of Westerns—I have a hard time identifying with them, especially the setting and rural lifestyle. But that definitely didn't keep me from respecting what may be the finest film I've ever seen in the genre. Unlike The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, everything here just fits. The long shots linger, making sure we notice Fonda's gray hair and blue eyes, the glean in Bronson's squint as he plays the harmonica, the hidden softness beneath Jason Robards' beard and the mystique of Italian beauty Claudia Cardinale. The story develops in a calculated manner, and then deconstructs itself in a near mirror image. Ennio Morricone's score is subtler, but still comforts every scene with its soothing touch. But most importantly, there's a sense of moral ambiguity. Nobody's outright good or bad, and everybody's got a bit of the ugly in them.
2007 / Andrew Dominik > I've never seen Chopper, but if this is what Dominik is capable of, then Cormac McCarthy's Cities of the Plain is in great hands. The term "lush" isn't one you would usually use to describe a Western, but somehow Dominik and cinematographer-extraordinaire Roger Deakins brings that sort of vibrancy to the era heretofore unseen. For its 160 minute running time, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford is an immensely watchable picture that rarely tires, and in fact accelerates into the final 20 minute homestretch. Much of this is driven by the awkward and solemn performance by Casey Affleck in his Oscar-nominated role for Ford. He outshines Brad Pitt at every step, though one could argue this was not an acting film. It was about the mood, the feeling, the drama and the mythology.
2008 / Danny Boyle > Boyle's really hit me from left field on this one: Boasting one of the most impressive and varied filmographies in cinema today, I imagined this to simply be a heart-warming tale of rags-to-riches and romance. Well, that it is, and so much more. Slumdog Millionaire is conscious of the modern-day India, crisscrossing from the slums to India's upper class while still approaching the shady underground gangsters and their counterparts (and every American's favorite) the call center operator. Stylistically, it borrows as much from Boyle's own Trainspotting as it does from City of God. The vibrant colors and sharp editing energize the film's pacing so that the viewer's journey is a non-stop feast of entertainment. And a soundtrack cutting M.I.A.'s beats and vocals only support that foundation. There are a couple of things to be understood, though: The story is fairly conventional, the "plot twist" happens in the beginning, so the viewer isn't being suckered on, and it's a bit predictable. But none of that keeps it from being arguably the most incredible, enjoyable film of the year. The whole experience is a crescendo that culminates with the kind of gritty satisfaction that no straight-edged family film can offer.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
2006 / Ryan Fleck > Bad before the good: Much of the film's realism and objectivity is lost through the "mini-lectures" made on society and the government. While interesting, they take away from the interplay between the king (Gosling) and queen (Epps) of the show. The only reasonable explanation for these inserts might be that writers Fleck and Anna Boden needed a little bit of this and that to stretch the original short ("Gowanus, Brooklyn") into this full-fledged feature.
That aside, the poignancy of Half Nelson is present in the way it's resonated in my mind for the past few weeks. Against the backdrop of Broken Social Scene's score, Gosling's portrayal of a crack-addicted schoolteacher in the inner-city is a testing experience. The beats are heavy, and the film is filled with areas of gray that have little in terms of definition. Shareeka Epps' performance as Gosling's headstrong pupil is glowing—undoubtedly one of the breakout young actors of the year. Not much of the story is predictable. The second half of the film crescendoes into its final sequence, one of heartbreak and simplicity. Things click, and things may or may not work. Thankfully, the film does.
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.
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.
