Junta Juleil's Top 100: #75-71

75. HANA-BI (1997, Takeshi Kitano)

 

Takeshi Kitano– one of the great, unsung heroes of contemporary filmmaking. Comedian, actor, novelist, director, painter, poet, singer, tap dancer, game show host– you name it, and he's done it. Do yourself a favor and read about his occasionally bizarre, occasionally incredible life story, which encompasses strip club stand-up comedy, a burgeoning art career, hitting rock bottom, a suicide attempt, rebirth, and a new Kitano renaissance. It's difficult for me to pick a favorite Kitano– amongst the films he's directed, there's SONATINE, VIOLENT COP, ZATOICHI, KIKUJIRO, and BROTHER; amongst the film's he's appeared in there's BATTLE ROYALE, GOHATTO, MERRY CHRISTMAS MR. LAWRENCE, and JOHNNY MNEMON– er, forget I said that last one. Anyway, HANA-BI (FIREWORKS) is presently my favorite. Kitano took up painting in a big way after his suicide attempt, and he often credits it as a factor in his rehabilitation and recovery. As such, painting is a central motif to HANA-BI, and there's a grand stillness in this film; somehow Kitano makes the act of soaking in a painting a kinetic, cinematic act. But it's not all tranquil musings on our own impermanence, it's also cool, calm, collected nihilism punctuated with sporadic, impromptu thunderheads of violence which would make Joe Pesci blush. In short, it's essential cinema.  

 

74. DAZED AND CONFUSED (1993, Richard Linklater)

 

While it might be heresy to rank this film higher than its inspiration, AMERICAN GRAFFITI, it's so much damned fun, I can't help it. Talk about a movie with a high rewatchability factor– I can watch this film anytime, anyplace. But probably the best time is late spring or early summer, so you can duplicate, even vicariously (especially vicariously!), that ecstatic feeling of 'SCHOOL'S OUT FOR MUTHAFUCKING SUMMER!' The feeling of an endless (well, it sorta felt like it at the time), boundless vacation as you're jamming spiral-bound notebooks into the trash and purging the piles of lead-scuffed busywork from your locker– it's the ultimate cleansing, a feng shui of the soul! Linklater unravels his tale with the ensemble-cast storytelling acumen of a Renoir or an Altman, portraying a rogues' gallery of middle and high school types with playful honesty and complete sincerity. Nicky "WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?!" Katt's raging asshole townie; Parker Posey's shrill, hazing harpy; Wiley Wiggins' newly-minted high schooler with a penchant for nose-touching; the trio of lovable proto-intellectuals (Adam Goldberg, Anthony Rapp, & Marissa Ribisi); Matthew "it'd be a lot cooler if you did" McConaughey; a paint-bedaubed Ben Affleck (which is the proper state for an Affleck)...I could go on. Pass the Lone Star.  

 

73. PHENOMENA (1985, Dario Argento)  

 

There's not too much to say that I haven't said already, so I'll say it again: "Jennifer Connelly plays a girl named Jennifer who can telepathically communicate with insects in this Dario Argento masterpiece. The atmosphere is exquisite- dreamlike, comforting, dangerous. Something about his use of the Swiss Alps, the rustling pine trees, the ominous mountain winds, and the over-the-top gore... it's a throwback to the original R-rated storybooks: brutal folklore like the Brothers Grimm. I love this movie. I love the fact that there is one line of narration in the entire film, spoken about twenty minutes in. I love that in that one line of narration, they mispronounce the name 'Richard Wagner.' I love that there is a chimp with a straight razor (in homage to Poe's "The Murders in the Rue Morgue"). Between this and SUSPIRIA, it is clear that Dario Argento loves maggots, retching, girls' boarding schools, brutal murders, and the volatile combination of all four. I love that he loves that. I love that there's not only ladybug POV, sleepwalking POV, murderer POV, and Great Sarcophagus POV, but there's also MAGGOT POV. I love that the supernatural is represented by fan-blown hair. I love that the ending somehow manages to be as abrupt AND more ridiculous than the screamfest at the end of TENEBRE. I love the inappropriate use of heavy metal, the baroque visuals, the viscerality, the Bee Gees & Richard Gere references, the charming and sympathetic Donald Pleasence (in spite of Argento dialogue), the evocative soundtrack, the bitchy teachers straight out of SUSPIRIA...in fact, there's nothin' NOT to love here. The only way it could be more ridiculously perfect would be if she made out with the chimp." Amen, Dario. Amen.  

 

72. FLESH + BLOOD (1985, Paul Verhoeven)  

 

Another sort of rehash here: "I'll begin with two quotes by Paul Verhoeven which seem apropos to this film: "People love seeing violence and horrible things. The human being is bad and he can't stand more than five minutes of happiness. Put him in a dark theater and ask him to look at two hours of happiness and he'd walk out or fall asleep." and "Remember that Christianity is a religion grounded in one of the most violent acts of murder, the crucifixion. Otherwise, religion wouldn't have had any kind of impact." A lot of people like to pin down Paul Verhoeven as 'the guy who did SHOWGIRLS,' and while he cannot erase the fact that he is indeed guilty of being the guy who did SHOWGIRLS, he's one of the most audacious filmmakers to emerge from post-WWII Europe. FLESH + BLOOD is Machiavellian power games, stillborn children, nun snipers, yellowed teeth, and dogs lapping up pools of diseased gore. This movie is absolutely BRUTAL. Every single character looks out for number one, and here, 'looking out for number one' means ripping an earring (and a chunk of flesh) from a woman as she's being raped or using 'God's word' when it's to your liking (Verhoeven has called organized religion a symptom of societal schizophrenia). Any time there's a moment for levity or genuine romance, it's immediately undercut by something like the rotting genitals or random carrion. It’s not exactly a historically accurate depiction of medieval warfare and the Black Death, and it doesn't quite take place in the 14th Century... sixty years ago it took place on the battlefields of Europe. Verhoeven was just a kid then, but he was there. As we speak, it's being waged by talking heads on TV, by hypocrites behind closed doors, and by vicious opportunists from here to the far corners of the world. Where an exploitation flick would insert a rape scene so the viewer could feel 'morally superior' as they enjoyed some T&A, Verhoeven stages sexual assault as a grotesque vortex of ever-shifting power dynamics between man, woman, and the collective. The performances are outstanding: Susan Tyrrell was born to do the Dark Ages- she enters the scene as a bawdy, pregnant, perpetually wasted camp follower whose life is a series of the highest, barbaric highs and the lowest, 'WHY ME?' lows; Brion James is pure animal, ruthless but bewildered; Ronald Lacey is the sinister Cardinal- malicious, but sincere (not that it matters when he's got his sword in your guts); Jack Thompson is the beleaguered hunter, embodying an almost Peckinpah-style morality (think Robert Ryan in THE WILD BUNCH); and Tom Burlinson is the man of science, but his singlemindedness gives way to a sanctimonious depravity. Rutger Hauer simmers and scowls- a calculating, towheaded, serpentine fiend, rapist, and murderer who might be the closest thing we've got to a 'hero.' Jennifer Jason Leigh- in possibly her finest performance- is a privileged, maid-beating blueblood who attends the condottiere's ‘school of hard knocks’ and emerges as perhaps the most complex and guileful of the bunch." It's nihilistic entertainment at its best, and my favorite Vehoeven (today, anyway).  

 

71. MR. SMITH GOES TO WASHINGTON (1939, Frank Capra)

 

A film which seems to grow in relevance with each passing year. Politicians love to reference this film in attempts to inflate their perceived "inner-patriotism" and vaunted "outsider" status, yet if there was indeed a real life Mr. Smith, soon after the events depicted in this film he'd probably be killed in a Cessna crash that'd be deemed "completely accidental." Oh, and by the way, it was written by a socialist who refused to name names to HUAC and got blacklisted for it (Sidney Buchman). Jimmy Stewart is absolutely brilliant as the callow, unsophisticated vacancy-filler with truthful eyes and hay behind his ears, and his journey perfectly illustrates how the powers that be have hijacked patriotism and hammered it into submission, recreating its twisted form in the new normals of jingoism, belligerence, graft, and corruption. Shouldn't we trust in humanism instead of the oligarchs' smear factory? Ah, well– I guess we're just doomed to repeat history, whether we can remember it or not.

Coming up next... silent film, Gary Busey, and what some have called "the most-hated film in the Criterion Collection besides ARMAGEDDON!" 

 

Previously on the countdown:

#80-76 

#85-81 

#90-86  

#95-91 

#100-96  

Runners-up Part 1 

 Runners-up Part 2

A glimpse of NIGHT OF THE LIVING DOLLS

Thanks to all who came out this Sunday, and apologizes to those who were plagued by persistent and fearsome nightmares afterward. Below is a glimpse of my ventriloquist's dummy play, "Lester's Hidden Talent."

Mommy (Jillaine Gill) clutches Lester as she contemplates a better future. Photo by Michael Blase.

This Sunday: NIGHT OF THE LIVING DOLLS!

In the continuing series of one-night events at the Bowery Poetry Club as part of a joint-residency ("the Psycho Space Laboratory") between my Junta Juleil Productions, Rachel Klein Productions and BlueBox Productions; the Rachel Klein Theater presents:

It will be a variety hour of burlesque, theater, dance, circus, and a frightening ventriloquist's dummy routine featuring yours truly.

The details:
WHO: You.
WHAT: Night of the Living Dolls!
WHEN: Sunday, June 26, at 9:30 P.M.
WHERE: The Bowery Poetry Club. 308 Bowery, between Houston and Bleecker. F train to 2nd Ave, or the 6 to Bleecker.
WHY: Support independent theater and the imbibation of libation.
HOW MUCH: $10, cash only, at the door.

Junta Juleil's Top 100: #80-76

80. THE LAST DAYS OF DISCO (1997, Whit Stillman)

"You know that Shakespearean admonition, 'To thine own self be true?' It's premised on the idea that 'thine own self' is something pretty good, being true to which is commendable. But what if 'thine own self' is not so good? What if it's pretty bad? Would it be better, in that case, NOT to be true to thine own self?" Welcome to Jane Austen's SATURDAY NIGHT PYREXIA, a world where the silver-tongued parry, slash, and down vodka tonics (and whisky sours) deep into an endless night of excess, crippling malaise, and the sweet, sweet disco beat. The most clever, nuanced work of art ever written with "Disco" in the title, I've said before that it "follows a circle of UHBs (Urban Haute Bourgeoisie) as they simultaneously wrestle with preconceived notions of failure AND try to get the most out of their nightlife. If you prefer your comedy subtle, intricate, and full of stinging wordplay, then LAST DAYS OF DISCO will likely rank among your all-time favorites. Stillman's characters are at once extremely lovable and hateable; they either possess no sense of propriety or far too much, they won't take 'no' for an answer, or will, cheerfully." Also, we've got Chris Eigeman as, uh, well, Chris Eigeman. And make no mistake, that's one of the best things a movie can have. One of the great comedies.

79. NAKED (1993, Mike Leigh)

Ah, NAKED. A misanthropic cry unto the night. It's like FIVE EASY PIECES meets STREET TRASH. If ever there was an actor's director, it's Mike Leigh, whose rigorous rehearsal process and proclivity toward improvisation have allowed some of the finest performances of the last thirty years to flourish. David Thewlis is "Johnny," an on-the-dole-off-the-dole miscreant with scraggly beard, a bad attitude, horrifically misogynistic tendencies, and constant commentary about your "diminishing pachyderm collection" or "the 'ole Highland fling" or this or that or the other. He gravitates toward people to whom he can feel superior; it's important for him to continue believing that he's 'above it all,' and that no one is capable of understanding his suffering. His nocturnal journey takes him past a security guard who protects empty space; a sad sack waitress who sits at home and does nothing; a man who pastes retraction posters over posters for concerts that have been cancelled; and all manner of fascinating, disturbing, and well-written characters and vignettes. And who can forget Greg Cruttwell's insane, ever-snickering evil yuppie, who seemingly exists only to show that there are indeed even worse people than Johnny? Lesley Sharp is genius as the perpetual doormat, who possesses a certain command over her life despite a gullible streak, and Katrin Cartlidge plays the "wicky wacky friend Sophie" with strung-out, wounded aplomb– a truly connected performance. And yet for the hideous way the film makes you feel, it's endlessly quotable ("Ya big girl's blouse!," or "Jane...Austen...by...Emma"), and offers even greater rewards on subsequent viewings. Also: a fantastic, billowing harp and string score by Andrew Dickson and sordidly beautiful visuals courtesy of Dick Pope.

78. THE SHINING (1980, Stanley Kubrick)

Looking at this list in its entirety, it's sort of hard to believe that this is my highest-ranked Kubrick, but here it is, so I guess it must be true. It could have easily been eclipsed by A CLOCKWORK ORANGE (#88), or by 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY, PATHS OF GLORY, or even THE KILLING. So there must be a logic behind it. Maybe it's because, in a way, it's his most focused film. He zeroes in, amidst the vast, solemn expanse of the Rockies (set to the sounds of another "fantastique" Wendy Carlos reimagining), into the phantasmagorically deteriorating psyche of one man, and the effect that it has on the family around him. Rarely has such an exquisite sense of foreboding, of pure, tangible dread, been built by a film, between the architecture, the empty spaces, the sounds, the explosive imagery, the sense of being watched. And, of course, there's Nicholson's terrifying, deadened stare, which is perhaps even more frightening than his notorious deranged leering! Also: the insanity of Kubrick forcing Scatman Crothers to explain "the shining" for 148 takes, or him calling up King at 3:00 AM and asking if he believes in God– yep, Kubrick's nuttiness goes a long way, too. See ya in Room 237!

77. THE PIANO (1993, Jane Campion)

I mean it's not often that a face-tattoed quasi-Maori Harvey Keitel squaring off against an axe-wielding, stuffed shirt Sam Neill over the love of a mute, piano-playin' Holly Hunter, but here we are, so I guess it happened. Years before THE LORD OF THE RINGS introduced your average joe to the natural beauty of New Zealand, Keitel lorded over the majesty of its landscapes, and he was naked at the time, too. In all seriousness, though, this film is fantastic: the swirling through-line of Michael Nyman's masterful score and the intense, committed performances preside over disparate ideas on colonialism, ownership, emancipation, nature, gender, art... People occasionally try to pin down THE PIANO, either insisting that it beautifully depicts a woman's struggle for independence, or, on the other side of the coin, saying that it shows a woman traded from one brute to another ("I want to lie together without clothes on"), but it's not a film that trades in moral absolutes; it's just a tale of love and abuse and defiance and music and fleeting moments of joy and tenderness in one of the furthest corners of the world..

76. BAD LIEUTENANT (1992, Abel Ferrara)

Keitel, passed out on a couch, suffering the ill effects of crack, meth, coke, heroin, and God knows what else; a child, a niece or nephew of some kind, clambers over his prostrate body as a vintage cartoon depicting hardworking mice blares in the background: "WE'VE DONE IT BEFORE, AND WE CAN DO IT AGAIN, ANNNND WE CAN DO IT AGAIN!!..." Just another day in the life of Harvey Keit– I mean, the "Bad Lieutenant."
This nameless "bad" lieutenant (Harvey Keitel in perhaps his most crazed and convincing portrayal yet) wanders through his waking life with the sole intent of pleasuring himself (something shown quite literally in one notorious scene involving the Lieutenant and some teenage girls which probably gave it its NC-17). As the Lieutenant investigates the rape of a nun and his gambling debts continue to escalate, he begins a simultaneous downward spiral of depravity and an upward surge toward the divine. As with almost every Abel Ferrara film, plot and coherence take a back seat to character study and a twisted look at spirituality. The Lieutenant's overindulgence in drugs, sex, gambling, petty theft, and poor parenting (amongst many other vices) leads many viewers to take an unsympathetic stance; as the film progresses, however, we see that the Lieutenant is something between wounded animal and man-child, wavering between cruel intensity and pathetic innocence as he forever nears the bottom of a barrel that never quite comes into focus. He steals food from the store in which he is investigating a robbery. Is this the bottom? He does coke off of his children's photos. Is this the bottom? Perhaps a scene between the Lieutenant and a junkie (played by Ms.45 herself, Zoe Lund, also a co-writer for the script) puts it best as she says, "Vampires are lucky, they can feed on others. We gotta eat away at ourselves." We've seen stories like this before, but Ferrara and Keitel create such a raw, low budget (under $2 million) atmosphere of existential doom that it makes MEAN STREETS look like a walk in the park.

Coming up next... Maggots and Jimmy Stewart!!!

Previously on the countdown:
#85-81
#90-86
#95-91
#100-96
Runners-up Part 1
Runners-up Part 2

Junta Juleil's Top 100: #85-81

85. INDIANA JONES AND THE LAST CRUSADE (1989, Steven Spielberg)

I really need to do a full-fledged review of this one of these days. Following two installments chock full of visual and choreographic mastery, Spielberg, Jeffrey Boam, and script doctor Tom Stoppard add something which would be inconceivable in a Republic serial: emotional resonance. The relationship between the Joneses (Ford and Connery as Jr. and Sr., that is) is a flawless synthesis of actor and role. This, of course, is steadily peppered with exquisite action sequences and visual gags- as if THE GREAT ESCAPE and THE GENERAL could somehow cohabitate on the same reel. This sort of film could easily fall flat, but under Spielberg's firm, unwavering hand, there's not a single note which rings false. There's so much to love here: the incredibly clever prologue (starring a vibrant River Phoenix) where it seems that every single event which molded Indy's life occurred on one summer's day in 1912, Indy's 20th Century motorcycle-jousting knight (and his father's phlegmatic reaction), the incredible stuntman's leap from galloping horse to hurtling tank, the breathless speedboat pursuit through labyrinthine canals, Connery and Elliott's silly secret handshake, the dour librarian with the world's noisiest stamp (in a touch worthy of Tati), or Connery slapped by a Nazi's leather glove and fiercely growling in retort- "It tellsh me that goose-schtepping morons such as yerschelf schould try RRREADING BOOKCHS inschtead of BAURNING THEM!" All of this is accompanied by John Williams' greatest score; and the payoffs- involving the three challenges and the reveal of the grail- have left an entire generation of adventure films stumbling and teetering in their wake.

84. CHARLEY VARRICK (1973, Don Siegel)

This movie has a finale which involves a '67 Chrysler Imperial versus a biplane. And no, that's not the only reason it cracked the Top 100. As I've said before, CHARLEY VARRICK is one of the best gritty, 70's, take-no-prisoners crime films populated with brutal, pistol-whippin', lady-slappin sons-of-bitchery. This movie isn't just cynical, it's amoral. Cutthroat. A lot of these flicks are like a punch in the guts– CHARLEY's a kick in the teeth! You could call it a series of clichés– it's "every-man-for-himself," "dog-eat-dog-eat-dog," "lookin'-out-for-numero-uno" etc., but Siegel takes it over the top to such a degree that we see (between the setpieces and the tough talk) the crumbling social structure, an America where calculated ruthlessness is a matter of survival, the ice-cold blood flowing through your veins a necessity. Walter Matthau is brilliantly inscrutable as our anti-anti-hero (usually the cop-killer is not the most pleasant character in a film). And Joe Don Baker's sadistic "Molly" is one of the great screen villains. Highest marks.

83. PARIS, TEXAS (1984, Wim Wenders)

A work of tenderness, of mystery, of reassurance. Robby Müller shows us the vastness of the desert landscape; Harry Dean Stanton shows us the vastness of the human soul. The pacing may be slow, but it's the sort of film in which you can lose yourself, just as you would while traveling by foot through a wild expanse. Wenders has always been deliberate; fascinated by nostalgia, sentiment, music; the ways in which we try to find order, meaning, and respite in our lives. Harry Dean Stanton, Dean Stockwell, and Nastassja Kinski deliver moving, realistic portrayals; you get a sense of the spaces they inhabit, and those boundless spaces within their characters' minds. It's a movie through which you can roam, and maybe the epitome of Americana as represented on film (naturally, directed by a German).

82. CRASH (1996, David Cronenberg)

"They bury the dead so quickly; they should leave them lying around for months." I've written before that "the car itself is a conceptual hotbed of primordial fears and visceral desires: the stifling, claustrophobic space; constrictive belts and cold metal clasps; exhilarating accelerations and jolting stops– it's even the site of many a Baby Boomers' first sexual fumblings... and, oh yeah– the ever-present threat of death and shattered glass and crumpled metal and blood and fluid and bodies penetrated, torn, and ripped by the thundering collision of jagged steel and spongy tissue. We are surrounded by machines: they are part of us, and there is no escape. So we adapt, we integrate, we re-form ourselves like the maladjusted flesh sculptors we are. Howard Shore's dark, entrancing score sends metallic echoes and screeching guitar reverberations up from the pit of our deepest fears– it's as relentless and hypnotic as a highway cloverleaf. It taps into some primal fascination we don't quite have the vocabulary for– from watching bacteria mingle under a slide to pornography to, say, KOYAANISQATSI." Many great artists and writers wring truth from tracking the progress of the human mind; Cronenberg forces us to confront the progress of the body. It's ugly yet sterile, like a hideous medical tattoo. The performances are magnificent: the intensity of Elias Koteas, the smarm of James Spader, the commitment of Holly Hunter, or the gleefully misshapen Rosanna Arquette. And rarely is such a disturbing film so goddamned hilarious. Enjoy that car ride home, kiddies!

81. TOTAL RECALL (1990, Paul Verhoeven)

"If I am not me, den who da hell am I?" Now that is a fine question, sir, and perhaps the most eloquent philosophical inquiry posed to humanity since the days of Voltaire; maybe even since Montaigne. But maybe, just maybe, TOTAL RECALL is the future of human thought. Post-thought. "I've got to hand it to you, Cohagen – that's the best mindfuck yet." See what I mean? Short-attention-span philosophy with a satisfying payoff: the mindfuck. We don't have to fritter away hours flipping through the vellum of dusty tomes: that time is over. It had it's couple centuries in the sun, but now it can go the way of the Dodo. How 'bout instead– er, what was I talking about? I got over here some salacious photographs and a bunch of puns about Weiners. Er, wait– this is loosely based on a story by Philip K. Dick! How 'bout some Dick puns? How 'bout that instead?
This is what Paul Verhoeven means when he says he makes the movies that America deserves. TOTAL RECALL is completely fucken ridiculous, and meant to be enjoyed on many levels– as a latter-day Hitchcock sci-fi suspense thriller, as a quasi-Philip K. Dickian paranoid tract, as a joke on what passes for entertainment these silly days. I mean, he introduces a character, Benny, over and over and over again, just in case we've forgotten, in case we've been distracted by all the Martian mutants and gunplay and midget hookers. "Hey, it's Benny, remember me? Remember me?! IT'S BENNY!" Ah, a goddamned fun time if ever there was one. Also: Michael Ironside, in one of his finest, most startling performances; insane eye-bulging and rubbery Arnie faces; a sweeping Jerry Goldsmith score; and some of the most incredible special effects ever committed to celluloid. And, of course, I wrote this short story about what really happened behind the scenes. Pass the Labatt Maximum Ice!

Coming up next... Harvey Keitel gets naked– TWICE!

Previously on the countdown:
#90-86
#95-91
#100-96
Runners-up Part 1
Runners-up Part 2

Junta Juleil's Top 100: #90-86

90. THE USUAL SUSPECTS (1995, Bryan Singer)

A heist film that's at once fun and fatalistic, it's cleverly written and incredibly well-constructed. However, its fanboyish following and unfortunate susceptibility to pea-brained parody certainly threaten to undermine any prospective "Greatness." But after a handful of viewings across the past decade and a half, I've come to the conclusion that it really holds up– John Ottman's flowing, occasionally beautiful, occasionally malevolent score; Christopher McQuarrie's razor-edged but never self-congratulatory dialogue; Kevin Spacey's furtive, crippled sad sack; Gabriel Byrne's classy Euro-gangster; Kevin Pollak's smartassed grease monkey; Benicio Del Toro's fashionable, generally incomprehensible sidekick; Pete Postlethwaite's ominous litigator; Chazz Palminteri's loud-mouthed, thick-necked cop; even Stephen Baldwin makes for a believably rugged gunman. And even beyond the intricacies of the now-notorious plot, there's plenty of layers to uncover here: blue collar (criminal) heroes overwhelmed by shadowy, international corporations; homosexual undertones fused with themes of criminality and counterculture that run far deeper than the surface gag of "going straight"; strange mirrorings of THE WIZARD OF OZ; and, hell, bit parts by Paul "EATING RAOUL" Bartel and Dan "COMMANDO" Hedaya. Yep, I still stand by this movie.

89. GREY GARDENS (1975, Albert & David Maysles)

Perhaps the ultimate experience in "cinéma vérité," GREY GARDENS observes the goings-on at the eponymous, ramshackle mansion which is home to a pair of reclusive, ex-high society Bouviers who go by the sobriquets "Big" and "Little" Edie. In turns funny, tragic, horrifying, heart-warming, and simply hard to watch, the Maysles brothers cross that sterile, journalistic boundary, going beyond simple exploitation and into a deeper truth; perhaps they even form a makeshift family along the way. It's a film about decay and aristocracy, sure, but its aims are chiefly humanistic– beneath each mould'ring shutter and crumbling wall we find alternations of genuine vibrancy and misplaced dreams. One of the great documentaries.

88. A CLOCKWORK ORANGE (1971, Stanley Kubrick)

The sort of film that was my all-time favorite when I was seventeen, but now, apparently, it's somewhere closer to #88. Regardless, it's a work of operatic beauty and hideous ultra-violence, one of quasi-futuristic daydreams and elaborate linguistic fascinations, of oppressive institutionalization and unhinged criminality. Based on Anthony Burgess' novel of moral choice (a novel which I highly recommend, along with other Burgess classics like ONE HAND CLAPPING, ENDERBY, and THE LONG DAY WANES), Kubrick's film really feels like an event; a larger than life, more than occasionally grotesque extravaganza of free will and urban decay. Wendy Carlos' electronic reimaginings of Purcell, Beethoven, and Rossini lend the film an evocative, dystopian soundscape, punctuating the drama, in turns, with black comedy and Stygian dread. And how can I neglect to mention Malcolm McDowell, whose volatile, darkly enthusiastic portrayal has come to define the film and its place in history. Also, Patrick Magee's completely over-the-top, eyebrow-indicating appearance as a revenge-seeking writer is well worth the price of admission.

87. TALES OF HOFFMANN (1951, Michael Powell & Emeric Pressburger)

Hot damn– TALES OF HOFFMANN! The (Techni)colors, the sets, the choreography– pure, radiant, cinematic spectacle that has irrevocably and personally shaped filmmakers from George A. Romero to Martin Scorsese to Francis Ford Coppola. Powell and Pressburger's definitive adaptation of Jacques Offenbach's renowned opera is a smorgasboard of eye candy, enchanting harmonies, and morbid reverie. It's absolutely absorbing; I defy anyone to watch the first twenty minutes and not find themselves enthralled by the movement, by the dancers, by the overwhelming waves of joie de vivre and frenzied emotion... Eh, I'll shut up for now and let the damn thing speak for itself:

86. RIO BRAVO (1958, Howard Hawks)

John Carpenter's favorite movie and my most-beloved Hawks. One might accuse Carpy of overindulging in imitation (ASSAULT ON PRECINCT 13, GHOSTS OF MARS), but the set-up is too damned fun for even Hawks to resist– he remade it twice himself! (EL DORADO and RIO LOBO). What we got here is a stalwart sheriff (John Wayne) determined to make a solitary stand against a horde of voracious outlaws. Of course, there's a drunk (Dean Martin), a cripple (the adorably hilarious Walter Brennan), an up-and-comer-guitar-slingin'-show-off (Ricky Nelson), and a inscrutable, hard-drinkin' lady (Angie Dickinson) waiting in the wings, not yet sure what parts they'll play. The eventual shoot-outs and the gut-mashin' pay-offs are thrilling indeed, but the movie's not about them; it's about character development, it's about waiting, it's about the forging of regular dudes into men of action. It's got comic relief, silly romance, nail-biting suspense, but, most of all, a genuine depth of story, of character, of locale. It's the sort of movie that people mean when they say "Boy-o, they don't make 'em like that anymore."



Coming up next: Harry Dean Stanton, crumpled metal perversions, and eyeball-popping insanity!

Previously on the countdown:
#95-91
#100-96
Runners-up Part 1
Runners-up Part 2

Junta Juleil's Top 100: #95-#91

95. ONLY ANGELS HAVE WINGS (1938, Howard Hawks)

I'm not sure anyone has ever matched the skill with which Hawks integrated exposition, character development, and sheer entertainment. He makes it look so damned easy, too. He often sets up a situation where men are doing a serious job, a dangerous job, and then events simply unfold. As they unfold, we learn everything we need to know about the characters because we've been there with them, in the trenches, seeing how far they can be pushed, and how hard they can push back. You don't feel as if you're watching something contrived by sheltered Hollywood-types, because it's not– he's incorporating details, the way his men act under pressure, the way he directs a picture, even, from his real-life experiences as an aviator, a race-car driver, an army man, and a factory worker. This is the sort of film to which I give my highest recommendation; I don't even think I have to tell you about the plot. Just another one of his immaculately constructed tales of men's men and ladies who pull no punches. Did I mention that Hawks' middle name was WINCHESTER?

94. MAKE WAY FOR TOMORROW (1937, Leo McCarey)

"It would make a stone cry."

–Orson Welles.

Sweet God in heaven, I'm not sure that any movie has ever jerked as many tears from its audiences, per capita, as MAKE WAY FOR TOMORROW. Leo McCarey, who won a Best Director Oscar the same year for the well-made, but far lesser film THE AWFUL TRUTH, said in his acceptance speech: "Thanks, but you gave it to me for the wrong picture." It'd be a difficult movie for audiences to 'enjoy' in any time or place because it asks difficult questions about the relationship between parents and their children; how we care for them, how they cared for us, and what fate is to be earned for all "as the long day wanes." Victor Moore and Beulah Bondi play the elderly couple at hand, delivering a couple of the most purely, emotionally reactive performances in the history of the medium. The clock ticks, the children wait, and the old couple relive youthful memories, a moment of respite before moving on. Dr. Samuel Johnson said it better than I ever could: "We never do anything consciously for the last time without sadness of heart..." And so I join the ranks of viewers who find themselves grasping for the telephone as the final reel ends, calling up loved ones, contemplating these fleeting moments, and hoping for the chance to have more of them.

93. ROSEMARY'S BABY (1968, Roman Polanski)

From producer William Castle– yeah, you heard me right!– comes one of the finest horror films of the 1960's, or of any other era. Castle recognized his dramatic limitations (handing the reins ultimately to master of claustrophobic/metropolitan/conspiracy-horror, Roman Polanski), but he does show up for a brief, wordless, yet somehow amazingly hammy cameo during the phone booth scene. Regardless, this is really Polanski's film, and he spins the tale with paranoid gusto and eye-popping imagery; swirling, hallucinogenic dream sequences and off-kilter quotidian happenings. It's a hotbed of primal fears and existential dread: Polanski has got his finger on just the right nerve, and he plucks and twangs it unceasingly– rape, domestic terrors, body horror, the things we try to hide, the things we don't understand, our fear of doctors and the elderly and babies and enclosed spaces and antiquarian objects and of failure and of seeming crazy and of going crazy; and it all begins to collapse upon you like a black hole and a cry unto the pit– SWEET GOD, WHAT A MOVIE!!!

Also, Ruth Gordon and Sidney Blackmer are just about the most adorably frightening and frighteningly adorable elderly actors I've ever seen (not to be confused with the elderly actors from #94!). And I have to say that John Cassavetes' "I didn't want to miss baby night" has got to rank as the most hilariously inappropriate excuse ever uttered, on or off a camera. (You'll know what I mean if you've seen the film– yikes!)

92. FAIL-SAFE (1964, Sidney Lumet)

It's difficult to incorporate methodical, systematically structured storytelling with genuine emotional stakes, but goddamn, does Lumet pull it together, and with the fate of the human race in the balance, no less! Most prefer DR. STRANGELOVE, which is sort of a loose, parodic retelling, but for my money, FAIL-SAFE's the stronger film. Some have said that STRANGELOVE's satire cuts to the bone, but I say FAIL-SAFE cuts to the bone, then fractures the bone, and then looks down at the bone, somberly, as tears well up in FAIL-SAFE's eyes. FAIL-SAFE then clenches its jaw; anguished, but with an abundance of dignity. As a side note, by and large, though your average fictional president is more appealing than your average actual president, I have to say that Henry Fonda's portrayal in this film goes beyond that– he is so sincere, so thoughtful, so determined, so damned invested, that you wish he really was the president. Also: Dom DeLuise in a serious role– chew on that for a little while.

91. BIG TROUBLE IN LITTLE CHINA (1986, John Carpenter)

"Have you paid your dues, Jack– yessir, the check is in the mail." I've written a few observations about BIG TROUBLE IN LITTLE CHINA before, saying "it's about the exhilaration of being ALIVE in a world of unfathomable mystery," and, of Kurt Russell's performance, "he's a runaway train of swagger, guts, and bluster...I never tire of his maniacally youthful cackle, or his proclivity toward moaning 'Awwwwww, CHRIST!'" In short, it's one hell of a time, written, directed, and performed by artists and craftsmen who are having one hell of a time. But it's no mindless shoot-em-up: it's a Hawksian ode to the bonds of friendship, the measure of character, and those ecstatic moments of temerarious action, where, against all better judgment, you feel damn near invulnerable. (Also, you just drank from the six-demon bag.) And, while we're at it, how 'bout that kickin' song over the end credits?


Coming up next...
George Romero's favorite movie, a legendary documentary, and... a movie with a lesser Baldwin!

DARK OF THE SUN finally coming to DVD!

I've written of this film's bareknuckle-to-chainsaw brilliance HERE, and, after years of unavailability, the Warner Archive has seen fit to release it. Supposedly it is the uncut version, but I guess we won't know until the reviews come in.