HIROSHIMA MON AMOUR (Alain Resnais, 1959, France/Japan) Two desperate lovers become entwined and inseparable like twisted steel and melted concrete blocks, unforgettable remnants of Hiroshima’s explosive fate. Director Alain Resnais’ narrative is a complex design of flashbacks and gruesome stock footage of the Allied destruction, utilizing a female voice-over that is often contradicted. An eerie score irradiates the film, creating tension and a vague emotional unease between these disparate characters whose flesh has melded into one. Lui is a Japanese architect who is married with a family, but he has become suddenly obsessed with a French woman: an actress who has a small part in a documentary on Hiroshima. As she narrates the film’s beginning, she is subsumed by her role, speaking as if she were present during the droning doom of the Enola Gay, but Lui keeps reminding her that she wasn’t. Resnais doesn’t spare the audience the horrible images and effects of war, and does so without condemnation or acclamation...the judgment is ours alone. We soon learn that Lui’s parents were vaporized on that beautiful August day, and Elle begins to open up about her past in German occupied France. This is an allegorical love story whose outcome is doomed to fail, but she begins to unburden herself with the painful memories of the death of her true love: a Nazi soldier. After the Liberation, she is castigated and shaven, flung carelessly into a basement prison for her traitorous desires towards the enemy, though she only saw love and devotion towards this man. Lui’s obsession grows deeper like toxic roots drawing water from a poisoned well, and we wonder if he is willing to give up his family, and Elle hers. We experience her young life through flashbacks, and in one powerful jump cut we see Lui sleeping and his hand twitch, and for an instance we see a dead soldier’s bloody face and last trembling gasp. HIROSHIMA MON AMOUR is a love story that can only end in the dissolution of the nuclear family, its atomic power destructive and all consuming. (A+)

THE FUGITIVE KIND (Sidney Lumet, 1959, USA) Orpheus descends upon small town America lyre in hand, shedding his snakeskin Dionysian past, only to be terminally punished by the bigoted raving ones. Xavier begins the film by speaking to the faceless god of authority, charming this Hades-like figure into allowing him release from this steel caged underworld. His only companion is an acoustic guitar given to him by the legendary Leadbelly, and with his physical mystique and twelve-string chorus, he leaves the bacchanalian heat of New Orleans for the tempest of an unknown destiny. Feet planted back onto Terra Firma, he finds work in a dingy retail store, a silent sentinel amid the rutted main road and failing commerce of a rotting and rancid community. As he seeks to escape his past, it catches up to him in the comely shape of a nymphomaniac named Carol, a drunken and castigated inhabitant whose very presence causes clucking rumor. The wife of the sheriff is also smitten by this modern-day Apollo, a man who truly understands her paintings as a way of feeling the world through Art: a connection that decouples her from her marriage. But it’s the shop owner’s wife Lady Torrence whose emotional torrent leads to his fiery demise. Director Sidney Lumet embraces the vagaries of the dialogue with beautiful mise-en-scene; from a forlorn walk through a charred past, a simple painting above a newly made bed, or a tiny bird chirping in a skeletal tree, we are given visual clues to the narrative subtext and allowed to discover the characters instead of being told about them. Kenyon Hopkins sad score is eerily reminiscent of his work on 12 ANGRY MEN, and here it helps to underline the impending trauma like a gentle teardrop. Women always surround Xavier but he keeps his peace until he allows himself to be seduced, out of sorrow and pity, by the aging and lonely Lady. Her husband is dying upstairs, his room separated from the store by prison-like bars, and his final gasp of breath is to expel this stranger from his town. The local militia dowses Xavier’s fiery sexuality until only a tiny piece remains which Carol holds dear to her heart…while Lady holds something more precious. (B+)

TROPIC THUNDER (Ben Stiller, 2008, USA) TROPIC THUNDER’S heart of darkness explodes with the shrapnel of irony, a cutting satire that excises Hollywood excess. Full of self-deprecating humor, each character is a shadow of the actor who hides behind the makeup: Robert Downey Jr. pokes fun at his own reputation as a “serious” performer, Jack Black at his penchant for playing “fat” roles, Ben Stiller and his perpetual “full retard” shtick, Nick Nolte as a growling “handless” veteran, and Tom Cruise as a bald slimy Producer with a “RISKY BUSINESS” song and dance homage. The film begins with faux movie trailers that set up each character’s business persona so it can be deconstructed as the film progresses. Then we cut to what seems to be a serious war drama with shades of APOCALYPSE NOW and PLATOON, but soon becomes apparent that it’s a parody of popular war convention…and it’s played straight! Jets of blood streaming nonstop from a head wound, guts spilled onto the ground, a soldier shot hundreds of times but keeps running, and his comrade that jumps from the helicopter to save him from the onrushing enemy. Of course, the brotherly dialogue as one man lies dying is meant to wrench your heart, and this whole sequence is played to perfect sidesplitting effect. But as the film progresses, it’s Robert Downey immersed as an Australian playing an American black soldier that carries the narrative weight: Kirk Lazarus must rise from the dead, his true identity hidden by the masks of comedy and tragedy: to save his comrades he must speak with his own voice once again. His dialogue with Tugg Speedman (Ben Stiller) about his role of SIMPLE JACK is dead-on hilarious, never actually considering his own fault of going “full black”. A wink to Spielberg’s SAVING PRIVATE RYAN becomes fuel for laughter as Speedman scrambles in the dirt after an explosion, his hearing muffled as time slows down; his friends caught amid a hellish inferno. Finally, this absurd story comes full circle, a nexus of celluloid fiction and reality, and Speedman receives his accolades…for just being himself. (C)

A STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE (Eli Kazan, 1951, USA) A tattered curtain separates Blanche from the mechanical curse of nymphomaniacal desire, her body ridden like a streetcar, and the beckoning whisper of death. From the now deserted and lost ancestral home, her aging corpse wanders towards paradise…but no heroic spirits populate this Elysian Field. The demanding orders of soldier’s haunt her dreams as she tries to escape from herself, only to discover that her final resting place will reside in the hands of kind strangers. Stanley Kowalski is an abuser, an intensely possessive and egocentric man who “always bangs things around”: a double entendre that reveals his impulse to supplant sex with violence. Stanley is a classic wife-beater: from extreme outbursts to sudden apologetic cries in the night, he has Stella completely under his control. He is a man who replaces love with dominance, and Stella confuses tenderness with submissiveness. When Stella says that Stanley broke all of the light bulbs on their wedding night with the heel of her shoe, we discover the machismo wrathfulness and male entitlement that exudes from his very pores, soaking his shirt (and wife…now an object he owns) with pungent perspiration. Stella’s meek infatuation is assailed when Blanche appears and Stella becomes self-assertive. A homosexual riptide pulls the audience into the narrative depths as Blanche declares her scandalous past, the suicide of her effeminate ex-husband, testing the manliness (re: heterosexuality) of her suitor Mitch. Director Eli Kazan’s excellent compositions help this talky adaptation transcend its origins, framing Brando in tight sweaty close-ups while portraying the aging Vivian Leigh in darkness and shadows. Kazan brings the night alive with throbbing sounds and thick heat amid the ubiquitous whistling streetcar that trolleys its passengers through this barbaric Tartarus. The film’s subtext can be read as the dissolution of the patriarchal family unit, as Stella is finally able to escape her bondage and take the newborn baby boy upwards…from this pit of despair. (A)

TIME BANDITS (Terry Gilliam, 1981, UK)
“If there is a God, he is a malign thug”. –Mark Twain

Kevin escapes into fantasy, stealing time to journey with six dwarves through an epic adventure of enlightenment and nightmare, free from the bourgeois constraints of moral imprisonment. His mum and dad are victims, the ultimate consumers consumed by plastic values of materiality and modernity; their lifeless and vapid existence alien to Kevin’s fertile imagination. Director Terry Gilliam and co-writer Michael Palin take us on a beautifully loony adventure through the ages: capitalizing from Napoleon’s syndrome, a falling out with the idiosyncratic Robin Hood and his not-so-merry mugs, embracing the fatherly Agamemnon, brief respite aboard the doomed Titanic, and a trip into Hell…all from a child’s perspective. These adventures are not meant to be literal, they are fantastically inventive and ethereal, a dream world inspired by a little boy’s creative wonderland. Look closely, Kevin’s room contains every visual cue that appears in the story from childish scrawls on paper to clippings and toys: the entire odyssey is already prepared for our joyous protagonist! Gilliam often films from low angle, achieving a view of a large world dominated by adults, a world that is grimy and dirty poisoned by the acrid progress of time. Kevin replaces the seventh dwarf Horseflesh who died before the film’s events, and these characters are portrayed as human beings…not freakish outcasts: they love, quarrel, steal, show devotion, and become multi-dimensional people who are more flesh and blood than the “grown-ups”. Chased by the Supreme Being, they jump through wormholes using a stolen map trying desperately to become international thieves: instead of fixing this botched-up universe they prefer to pilfer it…how wonderfully silly and quixotic! Gilliam’s golden light casts creeping shadows, allowing this chimerical tale of good and evil to create friction: death is always present and stalking the nightmare. And in the final battle, even the Supreme Being is callous in his remarks concerning the many violent deaths and noble sacrifices, encouraging Kevin to keep up the fight against spiritual tyranny. As reality reasserts itself, a little boy is left homeless and without parents while evil is loosed upon the world: life is such a grim fairy tale. (B+)

FAST COMPANY (David Cronenberg, 1979, Canada) High-octane absurdity fuels this noxious mixture of made-for-television dialogue and adolescent contrivance of easy women, fast cars, and mechanical caricature. This ridiculous narrative is structured around “Lucky” Lonnie Johnson, an aging race car driver who falls victim to the all consuming dictatorship of his sponsor; a man who replaces his morals with those of his unabashedly despicable manager. The resulting 91 minutes are an aberration for director David Cronenberg because the film’s frisson is turgid and hollow, full of supercharged hot air. The fiery finale is totally unconvincing and melts the story’s abject fiberglass structure, as our protagonist commits murder before a crowd of thousands…yet no police investigation ensues. Through the dense smoke of spinning tires and spitting flames, Cronenberg captures some striking visuals. The cinematography brings the viewer inside a funny car at over 200 mph while we watch the seconds tick by, their length heightened by the thrill. Cronenberg films on location utilizing real events and this contrasting montage adds glamour to the burning rubber and gas-drenched scenery, revealing the beauty beneath the growling beast. Unfortunately, FAST COMPANY should be quickly forgotten. (D-)

DEAD AND BURIED (Gary Sherman, 1981, USA) Potter’s Bluff is a peaceful average town where hearts are kept hidden and secrets buried, its Thornton Wilder theatrics cozen for a dark coven. The town itself is aging and decrepit, embalmed by the obsolete fumes of anachronism, its buildings bleak and crumbling while the monotonous citizens stumble about their prosaic duties. But strangers began to die violently and their grotesque corpses soon haunt this desolate community. Sheriff Gillis, a College man recently returned to his hometown, begins to investigate this vicious mystery. Director Gary Sherman utilizes the creeping fog and shadows for nightmare effect, even washing out the daytime images of all primary colors…except the thick congealed crimson of blood. He also indulges in the horror before the gruesome murders as we walk in the victim’s place, building gripping tension towards the gory expectoration. Sherman doesn’t shy away from the ghastly details: a man burning to death, a needle through the eye, or a telltale heart but his quick montage only deepens the frisson because he doesn’t linger for strictly visceral effect. Jack Albertson is wonderfully creepy as the town mortician who delights in practicing his preserving art upon the newly deceased. Though the plot is forbidding it is full of holes, its loose ends not stitched together tightly. But as a minor genre movie it has its moments of action and thrills, and the story always remains the focus rather than the next virulent extinction. Sheriff Gillis calls the mortician’s bluff and the fetid truth is revealed, his rotting fingers clenched in existential agony: he has come home. Forever. (B-)

L’ANNÉE DERNIÈRE À MARIENBAD (Alain Resnais, 1961, France) Restless spirits rendezvous, victims haunting a grand manor that looms above them like Hill House, ghosts lost amid a maze of elliptical memories and infinite corridors. The protagonist is frozen outside of time, tortured like the prisoners of Dante’s ninth circle of Hell, his emotions icily detached from any human concerns except traitorous desire. The others who stalk the carpeted hallways, their footsteps and tremulous whispers absorbed by this mortuary that swallows the last vestiges of their humanity, seem to dress in the funeral attire of the upper class. The musical score is a dirge that is often antithetical to the visual montage; beautiful art-deco adorations of the nouveau riche contrast this sullen march towards perdition. The inhabitants cast long shadows that seem to stalk them; ghastly creatures that have consumed their souls…or possibly these shadows cast them? The nameless protagonist pursues his lover throughout the endless passages, his voice-over narration opposing the film’s reality, as if he is trying to convince himself that by repeating this mantra he can change his past, present, or future. Burdened by guilt of rape and murder, his victim dressed as a feathery angel, he is startled and falls from the crumbling balcony. In one great match cut, the jilted lover turns and aims his gun at a target then Resnais cuts to the woman gliding gently down the hall, implying that she is the object of his violence. The “husband” seems to be the grand tormentor, always winning at Nim and holding power over his prisoner, as the Devil incarnate. When the final game is lost, the protagonist makes the sign of the cross with the game-tiles, as if to drive away the consuming evil. Director Alain Resnais has crafted a mysterious film that demands the viewer to imprint his own psyche upon this celluloid canvas. The gorgeous deep focus black and white cinematography lets focal points disappear into dark mirrors and long passageways, while the slow tracking shots remain obtuse and disembodied. Though many people seem trapped in this immaculately kept netherworld, they are spiritually isolated…and whoever walks there, walks alone. (A+)

THE SMALL BACK ROOM (Michael Powell & Emeric Pressburger, 1949, UK) Sammy must defuse his own ticking time bomb of alcoholism and drug addiction before his life explodes. He must face a monotonous government bureaucracy that is more concerned with statistics than human lives, full of old men who willingly sacrifice the lives of young soldiers upon the altar of their own overblown egos. Sammy’s scientific team works just beyond this viscid red tape as they attempt to discover and deconstruct a secret Nazi weapon that has already murdered three children. But Sammy’s penultimate battle is with himself, his artificial leg a reminder that he is not fully human, consumed with pain that is only subdued by whiskey and pills: a bottled demon who begins to drink from him. Powell and Pressburger have directed a taught though occasionally slack wartime melodrama imbued with burgeoning tension as Sammy’s life disintegrates into emotional shrapnel. A surrealistic montage dominates his fever-dream as a giant whiskey bottle haunts his delusions like some Lovecraftian horror; unable to resist he succumbs to the liquid succubus and drowns in an epiphany of destructive ecstasy. THE SMALL BACK ROOM is beautifully filmed in black and white that belies the static interior set designs: when the narrative moves outdoors the extraordinary deep focus brings the story to life. Finally, Sammy wakens from his drunken fugue and must immediately travel to a pebble-strewn beach to defuse the Nazi weapon, his good friend already a victim of a previous attempt. The tension is like razor wire as Sammy delicately maneuvers the bomb amid the trickling stones, using every ounce of strength, willpower, and shredded reason to solve this violent enigma. He fights this incendiary conflict within his own psyche whose victory is only assured with a sudden twist of a wrench. Sammy has conquered the enemy…himself. (B-)

THE GRADUATE (Mike Nichols, 1967, USA) Benjamin Braddock is about to graduate from teenager into the static adulthood of his listless parents, a prisoner who is emotionally overwhelmed by annoying prattle; a young man about to become a slave to conformity. Ben doesn’t want his parent’s lifestyle because he doesn’t know exactly what he wants, but that doesn’t stop everyone from telling him what he should desire: a trophy wife, a high-paying job, and all the physical trappings of material success. Director Mike Nichols begins the film as Benjamin literally comes down to earth in a daze, his fish tank a backdrop to his tired visage metaphorically implying his drowning personality, while his parents fully eclipse his identity. Nichol’s montage editing is outstanding as he quickly allows himself to become seduced by the drunken (but gorgeous) Mrs. Robinson: images of Ben floating in his pool are cut to him lounging on her bed, or his jumping on his plastic raft cuts quickly to him mounting her slender physique. Ben is under the illusion that he has regained control of his life, floating above the water instead of submerged in the abyssal depths: he is still dependent on compressed air and filtered from the world in an armored suit, his spear gun nothing more than showpiece. As his resentment grows, his affair becomes tenuous and he realizes he has been consumed by the voracious appetite of an older women, who denies him Elaine…the love he so desperately desires. THE GRADUATE is about rebellion, fighting back and chasing a dream, and Benjamin pursues Elaine with hope of a future but she is disgusted with his perverse affair with her mother. But Elaine’s epiphany is realized at the last moment as she sees through to harsh reality; as Ben screams her name from above, her own parents and fiancé are vicious caricatures baring fangs and hatred. As Ben and Elaine run away together, neither suspects that their future will be together: Nichols doesn’t show them kiss or embrace, only a thousand yard stare into the unknown. The yellow public bus looks like a school bus as it disappears, Ben and Elaine framed in the back window, implying they have much yet to learn. (A)

HARLAN ELLISON: DREAMS WITH SHARP TEETH (Erik Nelson, 2007, USA) Ellison’s prose incisors are weapons that shred his adversaries, giving voice to his vociferous condemnation of stupidity and vapid fandom: a shrill cry from a man with a mouth who must scream. Erik Nelson’s documentary gives us a rare insight into Harlan Ellison’s wonderland though he doesn’t pretend to understand what makes the Ticktockman tick: Nelson remains virtually invisible and lets Ellison run the show. This is not fanboy adoration where Nelson bends over at the altar of Ellison, offering his orifice for deific recognition. There are a few eloquent friends and peers such as Neil Gaiman, Robin Williams and Dan Simmons who share their stories and dangerous visions, but basically Ellison talks about himself and his life. We see brief clips of past interviews from the Today Show and Tom Snyder, and see the angry young man has not disappeared from the visage of the elderly grandmaster: he is still fueled by pugnacity, a wraith of wrathfulness. But there are tender moments when Ellison’s shtick dissolves and the real man emerges unguarded, an intelligent and remarkable man who is as human as you and me…only more so. But it’s his words that count, literally, millions of them through the years and awards that are to become his legacy. This documentary should convince you to pick up copies of not only his fiction but also his non-fiction and essay collections, which are too numerous to name here. After the feature is over, let Harlan read a few stories to you in his own idiom, then watch the dialogue between him and Neil Gaiman while they eat pizza, making you a silent partner in their friendly interaction. Buy the books, read the books, Harlan is not a number, his life is his own: you might learn something from him. If you can’t figure it out, I’ll give you the answer: Naomi Campbell. (B+)

IL CASANOVA DI FEDERICO FELLINI (Federico Fellini, 1976, Italy) Nina Rota’s music-box score implies the mechanical nature of Casanova’s obsession and sexual addiction, an echo in the void of existential despair. Director Federico Fellini deconstructs the myth of Casanova and strips him bare to reveal the egocentric and one-dimensional spirit of this 18th century libertine; a man who prays at the alter of self, a vapid ghost who haunts the dark nights and shadows…a spiritual death long before his clockwork body winds down. Fellini eschews narrative formula and films operatic vignettes where Casanova is always the centerpiece like an actor cavorting among Europe’s elitist coterie. The exceptional cinematography and absurd makeup glorify and indulge the comic aspect of this sexual farce by using oversaturated primary colors contrasted by clownish cosmetics, a pantomime of absurd visuals beautifully captured on celluloid. As we follow Casanova’s exploits we see his life entirely from his perspective as instigator and prima donna, a man who believes himself the cultural apex of homo sapiens evolution. Fellini even contrasts this belief when Casanova studies with Dr. Mobius in Sweden: there are many cut scenes to a stuffed chimp as he attempts to seduce the current “love of his life”. Donald Sutherland as the titular character is exceptional as he imbues this unlikable rogue with a subtle sadness, his red-rimmed eyes reflected in a frosted mirror, his downcast eyes almost make him a victim of his times, an ogre created by the very society he tries to subsume, all of which defies Fellini’s intentions. The other characters and conquests are sideshows, orgasmic paraphernalia that react to Casanova’s whim, until he is an old and bitter man, an empty phallus who has no more seed to plant. He is relegated to a feces smeared portrait whose books and philosophies are long forgotten, a man who substituted lust of fame and fortune for true love, and now can only dance with a simulacra in his frozen dreams. (B+)

THE SHOP AROUND THE CORNER (Ernst Lubitsch, 1940, USA) Alfred chases an elusive ink and paper fantasy, lost amid lofty ideals and imagination which are shrouded by the reality of his working class life. Director Ernst Lubitsch’s gregarious film brings these characters together in a believably adversarial sales environment full of Eros and Thanatos. Jimmy Stewart suffuses Alfred with just the right amount of lovable despair, his haunting eyes the mirror to a lonely soul, and Margaret Sullivan as Clara is sometimes a spiteful woman but her beautiful visage belies the turmoil within. The supporting cast each fulfill an allotted role to carry the narrative tension and humor, but the acting is so good with taught pacing and scripting that all the pieces fit together creating a satisfying picture. The story reveals the pen-pal faux pas early in the final act and we feel the tension between Alfred who is testing Clara’s emotional depths: a women who is rather vicious in her condemnations of him. Lubitsch’s tender shot of Clara looking through the mail slot for a letter that we know isn’t there, her hopes and desires a vaporous dream, is a perfect reflection of cupid’s Cheshire grin. The film never becomes a humdrum melodrama and surprises with its honesty and pugnacious audacity, as lateral incidents include a cheating spouse, Alfred’s unjust firing, a suicide attempt, a nervous breakdown and a fist-fight between “gentlemen”. Mr. Matuschek’s transformation is personably conceived: from cranky boss to humble man, whose heart melts during the frigid Hungarian winter. Finally, two disparate people reveal themselves truthfully, opening their hearts to one another to become victims of love’s fickle embrace. (A)

LONELINESS OF THE LONG DISTANCE RUNNER (Tony Richardson, 1962, UK) Colin is running in place, burdened with his treadmill existence of angst and isolation while the world passes him by. Arrested for burglary, Colin is imprisoned in a juvenile detention facility whose purpose is to redeem the young hooligans by physical activity and mind-numbing tasks of conformity. They painstakingly disassemble antiquated gas masks into basic parts, an apt metaphor concerning the school’s deconstruction of their volatile individuality into fundamental components: a gaseous sublimation into British society. But Colin is an exceptional runner, a trait augmented by his often absconding from authority, and he soon understands that this ability could help him escape the ghetto of his lower class foundation. Director Tony Richardson films in the grim and dirty streets of Britain, his protagonist a victim of environment, crushed by the pondering social hierarchy, a victim of hopeless repetition. The cancerous death of Colin’s father eats away at his spirit, and though he sees the finish line, he understands the human sacrifice and makes his terminal decision. The beautiful black and white cinematography brings the film to life: from the littered streets, claustrophobic flat, and fog shrouded woods we breath Colin’s atmosphere of discontent and exhale his emotional schizophrenia. Tom Courtenay portrays Colin with the right balance of zealous rebellion and moral insight: though he seems annoyed by his father’s dying plea, he also shows a gentleness by covering his father’s ashen face with the bed sheet…an act that never occurs to his mother: she is only concerned with the insurance money and her new lover. Colin soon lives a life of luxury at the reformatory compared to his home, and he becomes the Governor’s favorite because he can win fame and recognition for Ruxton, especially winning against a private school. As Colin easily outpaces his rival, Richardson uses montage to create a psychological battle, an interior monologue that weighs Colin’s own values against those of “selling out”. As the Governor cheers him on and victory is certain, he decides to be his own king…and not become a sacrificial pawn. (B+)

WENDY AND LUCY (Kelly Reichardt, 2008, USA) Wendy Carroll drifts along a rail thin steel umbilical, barely connected to family and friends, her canine companion Lucy’s unconditional love keeping her from an emotional breakdown. Wendy’s microcosm is representative of those living a fringe existence, her small tragedies ubiquitously expressive concerning the smallest of lives of this unjust human condition. Director Kelly Reichardt utilizes a cinéma vérité approach to reach an ultimately unsatisfying truth (but not unrealistic), bringing her subjects close to the camera while filming on location, forgoing static set-designs and montage which allows the audience direct contact with Wendy. We often fall through the page when reading and in Reichardt’s cinema we tumble through the looking glass and into this celluloid world that not only captures our own…but also becomes it. The minimilistic plot purposely breaks with convention and shows us life with unexpected patterns: Wendy encounters a friendly security guard and blunt mechanic, and finds compassion at the local dog pound. She also meets others like herself who ride the rails, and sees them as human beings to be kept at a distance because she’s content in her isolation, living moment to moment. Reichardt’s observations are non-judgmental though Wendy is angry with the local clerk for turning her in; she begins to understand the necessity of which he spoke. There is no Deus Ex Machina during her lonely search for Lucy in this strange town. She is lost and afraid of the unknown, which leads her to a bittersweet decision. The clacking heartbeat of the train to nowhere is like a breaking heart: for love, she sets her companion free and vows to return…when things are better. Someday. (A)

GRAN TORINO (Clint Eastwood, 2008, USA) Walt finally earns his Silver Star for gallantry in action against an enemy of the United States, not by killing a young boy…but by saving one instead. Walt Kowalski is an anachronism, a warrior ghost who haunts a homestead he must defend from invasion. As his neighborhood changes he is witness to outsiders inhabiting his static world, Hmong citizens who barely (if at all) speak English, perceived foreigners that trespass upon his territory, igniting a moral conflagration that threatens his gasoline powered American values. Director Clint Eastwood has created a subtle narrative whose trajectory isn’t blasted from a Korean era M1 rifle; instead, he focuses upon a lonely dying man who realizes that it’s never to late to change, his final metamorphosis is an emotional salvation that sublimates a corrosive disease that is a by-product of his violent past. Kowalski himself is obviously a descendant of immigrants, not much different than those he chooses to condemn and deride. Eastwood portrays Walt with a grimace of deep angst and a wounded growl of pain, but imbues him with humanity and humor while (mostly) overcoming caricature. But the film’s flaws relegate most of the supporting cast to hackneyed characterizations and the familial relationship between his two sons is poorly acted and rather monotonous. The plot is boilerplate and predictable and it’s only Eastwood’s high-octane persona that fuels the engine. The boyish Catholic Priest is pretentious and unreasonable, offering only hollow words to heal Walt’s wounds; this young seminarian knows nothing of either life or death and his inclusion in the drama is annoying and obtuse. Father Janovich is a figurehead for the writer to say something profound but only fills the screenplay with needless and inane prattle. Though ripe with stereotypes, GRAN TORINO doesn’t delve into DEATH WISH theatrics: after all, Walt only fires one shot…and it’s accidental! Walt’s final messianic pose nearly crucifies the story’s sudden impact thus relegating the final resolution to a far-fetched but heartfelt climax. (C)

THE MISFITS (John Huston, 1961, USA) Roslyn is a dying flower surrounded by three dead men, her crippling innocence blooms into victimization of a patriarchy whose objectification diminishes her humanity and consumes her. She is a creature of instincts, a great enabler who wants to heal the world…while running away from it. Roslyn is attracted to men who need her help but can’t be helped; men who are jagged puzzle pieces that don’t fit together and who must find their own way to find themselves. Full of self-loathing, Roslyn is contrasted with Isabelle, an aging fiery woman of the world whose existential attitude is one of survival and gritty realism. Roslyn is lost and insignificant among a vast interior wasteland, a prison whose walls are flesh and bone. But her insights are profound and caring, wanting to help but not asking for help, her emotional body invisible against her voluptuous physicality, reflecting this pure misogyny that infuses our society. Gay and Perce are cowboys, a nomenclature that defines their superficial qualities of free men who shall never “work for wage”. Guido is the devious innocent, the manipulator who lives his life above others, looking down at the destruction he’s wrought but never seeing the people. Director John Huston’s camera adores Marilyn Monroe and embraces her femininity with sensual close-ups that accentuate her lovely form, but often films her in reflection showing her dramatic duality as her morality surrenders to a hellish world. The narrative’s vertex is an emotional duel in the Nevada desert, as the three men subdue a handful of graceful wild-horses, pulling down the world with their own egocentric insignificance. Roslyn sees them as murders, machines of death, things no longer human, and her faint plea is almost lost amid the cosmos. The soft whinnying of dying horses is her own death rattle, as she becomes a ghost in the arid desert. But Perce decides to forego the money and free the horses while Gay recaptures the stallion…only to set him free: he abides by his own terms. Roslyn’s fierce love resurrects Perce and Gay…but Guido remains one of the walking dead. (A)

SHALLOW GRAVE (Danny Boyle, 1994, UK) Three flat mates discover just how shallow their friendship has become, their morality stripped like the skin from a corpse and consumed by gluttonous cupidity. Director Danny Boyle’s (SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE, 28 DAYS LATER) debut thriller is a darkly humorous dissection of the human condition: Alex is a reporter, Juliet a doctor, and David a boring accountant. The film begins as they hilariously belittle prospective renters for their flat, which strengthens their camaraderie, showing just how well they tolerate and respect each other. But a mysterious man finally rents the room and dies from a drug overdose…and they discover his briefcase full of money. And someone always comes looking for a briefcase full of money! Their disposing of the body and the thugs who come looking for the money propels the plot forward, but the subtext is concerned with the effect that this has on their interrelationship. Alex and Juliet spend money frivolously while David, who had to cut apart the corpse, begins to spiral into an internal abyss of guilt, self-loathing, and all-consuming greed: after all, he’s the one who really earned it. Boyle’s overhead shot of the winding staircase is metaphor for the narrative, while David imprisons himself in the attic drilling holes to peer god-like upon his victims. The tight editing and taught acting combined with Boyle’s surreal camera-angles (the crawling baby would be put to better use in TRAINSPOTTING) elevate this film above a standard low-budget thriller. Though a few plot-holes exist such as the noise and smell not alerting other residents, and the police failing to notice strange holes in the ceiling, the knife-edge narrative is still compelling. Alex subverts his friendship and hides the blood money (literally, his blood drips through the cracks), and he becomes our empathetic connection to the story. The dreamlike ending is ambiguous: Alex is laughing while a coroner is taking his picture, the police looking rather bored in the background. We see this from above like his spirit rising: is he dead or alive? (B)

THIS GUN FOR HIRE (Frank Tuttle, 1942, USA) Raven migrates towards Los Angeles, vengeance on his mind and hot metal in his hand, his cold blood warmed by a love that can be nevermore. Alan Ladd as Philip Raven the mechanical murderer, a man of seemingly nihilistic qualities, gives an excellently nuanced performance, balancing his callous nature with a subtle smile and tender feline touch. Ladd’s inherent innocence shines like a beacon from the visage of this stone-faced sociopath, a man who kills for a paycheck and isn’t adverse to shooting anyone who gets in the way of his contract. Graham Greene’s colloidal subterfuge never truly mixes into a believable plot, relying on too many contrived circumstances, but the quicksilver pacing and taut dialogue elevate this deadly melodrama to a poetic polemic. Director Frank Tuttle focuses his attention upon the drop-dead gorgeous Veronica Lake, submerging the audience beneath her riptide of sexuality: he utilizes two song-and-dance routines which are narratively insouciant and serve no purpose except to relegate Miss Lake to showpiece. To her credit, she fosters a sympathetic and gentle character in Ellen Graham: a woman who must lie to her fiancé and who sees the good in the doomed dark Knight; a woman who must sacrifice everything for her country in its dire time of need. Finally, Raven’s eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming, and the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; and his soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor…shall be lifted, nevermore! (A)

SATURDAY NIGHT AND SUNDAY MORNING (Karel Reisz, 1960, UK) Arthur Seaton fears becoming the living dead, mummified remains of a patriarchal hierarchy whose nights are spent hypnotized by the TV; a dank destiny reflected in the cracked mirror of his parent’s flat. Arthur is an angry young man, rebellious and zealous, living his life in the moment with little saving for the future: a fate he dreads like the incessant metal screams of machinery that overwhelms human dignity. Stuck in a machine shop with limited prospects, he finds pleasure with a married woman and a lovely young lady, enjoying life in every moment of action. But he finds himself becoming hooked, like a fish taking the bait, as his working-class environment becomes an inescapable prison. Director Karel Reisz’s gritty drama is filmed on location in the clanging factories and cobblestone streets, in the smoking pubs and dingy carnivals of real life. Cinematographer Freddie Francis (THE INNOCENTS & THE ELEPHANT MAN) films in gorgeous deep focus black and white, emphasizing the characters while the conformity of London’s housing tracts and belching smokestacks are visually present in the backgrounds. This subliminal detail makes Arthur a part of his environment, a non-conformist whose petty antics are only a temporary reprieve from this larger panorama, which shall consume him…and mold him into that which he most despises. Albert Finney’s excellent performance as the young misfit is both violent and affectionate: he imbues Arthur with compassion and intelligence while careening towards subjugation. The slice-of-life narrative eschews plot like voyeurs into Arthur’s private life: though there are events that he must confront, the film isn’t propelled towards any final solution. Eventually, Arthur is hooked on his new girl Doreen and he sees himself fading away, though he swears never to stop throwing stones. Unfortunately, we know that another vow will replace this independent oath. (B+)

UNDER THE VOLCANO (John Huston, 1984, USA) Geoffrey Firmin haunts his last day with the spirits of the dead, his tempestuous life boiling like the fires of Popocatépetl: a man who foresees the Nazi conflagration ready to engulf the world. Set in 1938, Firmin is an ex-British Counsel, a man whose life has descended into the liquid inferno of alcoholism, a man who has become an iconoclast seething of self-hatred and sarcasm. Geoffrey is not an immoral man but he has pushed those closest to him towards the abyssal boundaries of his life: his wife Yvonne and his half-brother Hugh, his caretaker. Director John Huston foregoes any traditional narrative and utilizes a cinéma-vérité style as we flounder alongside Geoffrey in a nihilistic stupor. Huston’s location filming and the use of non-actors and crowds add to this documentary style insight, which allows the audience direct contact with Firmin’s inner demons. Huston pay homage to THE HANDS OF ORLAC (aka MAD LOVE) another film about a man who loses his actress wife Yvonne but in Geoffrey’s world there is no happy ending. Albert Finney deftly captures the decaying decent into the thickening gloom of desperation, even his dark sunglasses give the impression of a living skull, but there is a subtext to the narrative that transcends his addiction. Firmin has abandoned his post as British Counsel in this small Mexican village, which has been infiltrated by Nazi sympathizers: his physical impotence reflects that of his patriotism, Britain’s signing of the Munich Pact with a country of murderers. The story flows from this weakness, as he understands that no miracle will save him or humanity, and it is better to live a few hours on your own terms than in a world of madness. He stumbles through a rainy night and arrives at a seedy bar where he finally achieves his last orgasm, before being executed by local bandits. Yvonne’s bold love is trampled under a white horse: her knight in shinning armor has returned home. (B+)

LES QUATRE CENTS COUPS (Francois Truffaut, 1959, France) Antoine Doinel is held static by the centrifugal force of his life; he fights against his environment but remains grounded by his family’s repressive gravity. Writer/Director Francois Truffaut’s exploration of his own tormented childhood is as viable now as it was in 1959, in this age where irresponsible parents want the government to fix their familial meltdown and raise their violent children. Antoine is a victim of his environment; his mother abandoned him and preferred an abortion to his lovely presence, his natural-father exempt. Now his infelicitous mother and stepfather argue incessantly about her fidelity, this strife resounding through the young boy’s very core: does he really stand a chance? Truffaut begins the film with the Eiffel Tower seen from the back streets and neighborhoods surrounding the icon, giving life to Paris beyond the glamour of fantasy. His cinema-verite style becomes a young man’s perspective as the buildings loom like angry adults over Antoine, the gloom of dirty and crowded streets echoing his despair and emotional isolation. Finally, he commits a petty act of stealing his stepfather’s typewriter to sell for a few pounds. Unable to pawn it, Antoine attempts to put it back, showing his tilted but sincere morality, but he is caught red-handed. His stepfather presses charges and Antoine is incarcerated overnight then deported to a youth detention facility. The smell of salt air and freedom are too much for our young hero and he escapes, trapped between the vast ocean and a tragic past: where can he go? (A+)

THE BED SITTING ROOM (Richard Lester, 1970, UK) The British analogy to Kubrick’s masterpiece DR. STRANGELOVE, a transmogrifying satire concerning the mass-murder of Nuclear Holocaust and the madness of an escalating Cold War Arms Race. Twenty survivors haunt the bleak and desolate landscape of Britain after the “unnamed event”: each unable to articulate the horror of this explosive atrocity. These men and women stomp through the debris of a past civilization but keep their British conceit alive: they talk about retaliatory strikes; the police must keep them moving so they make difficult targets for the enemy, the BBC must air the nightly news, and one man must power the entire subway system by riding his bicycle. This inane dedication is the very thesis of self-destruction, as a society subsumes its people and become a larger predatory organism, devouring morality and human essence. Soon, the fallout begins to strangely affect people: one man transforms into a small room, one woman a cupboard, another becomes a parrot, and one woman remains pregnant for 18 months before giving birth to an unseen monstrosity. Director Richard Lester’s burlesque of tragedy condemns the “nuclear family” and the religion that supports it, while reflecting the absurdity of war through a filtered lens of saturated colors. The comedy is played strictly straight and the laughs are nervous reactions as the truth swims close to the surface scum of this plausible future. There is no happy ending for a world past the eve of destruction; only wish fulfillment as green fields and a happy newborn seem to indicate. The film ends with swelling national pride while reciting God Bless Mrs. Ethel Shroake: after all, the Empire must go on. (B)

LE SILENCE DE LORNA (Luc & Jeanne-Pierre Dardenne, 2008, Belgium) Lorna pays for her malignant silence with a pregnant guilt that begins to consume her spirit. She prostitutes her dignity to a foreign man, her body owned by a pimp, in order to save enough money to realize her tiny dream. The plan: she marries a drug addict to become a legal Belgian citizen, then a divorce (or accident) separates the two and she is free to marry a wealthy Russian exile thus giving him legal status. But she begins to feel shame over her deeds, her body only worth a few thousand euros; her humanity drained and emptied, she becomes a hollow vessel that can no longer feel love. Her future plans begin to evaporate because she can no longer live this lie. Eventually, her pimp realizes that she is no longer a useful ingredient for his success. The Dardenne brothers once again film with hand-held cameras, their cinema of truth bringing Lorna into sharp focus as an individual, shooting her in many close-ups amid realistic settings, eschewing the soundstage or other faux backgrounds and taking to the streets. They specialize in long takes and realistic dialogue, as if we are peering into the very personal lives of the characters. The film utilizes diegetic music so a structured score doesn’t intrude upon the narrative, creating an almost documentary feel to the story. It’s only in the very last moments of Lorna’s isolation, curled up like a fetus, that a forlorn piano haunts the soundtrack. (B+)