Rebecca (1940)

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“He had a theory that if you should find one perfect thing, or place or person, you should stick to it. Do you think that’s very silly?”

Rebecca snatches from a lot of classic literature in true Gothic style. At times, I felt I was reading Jane Eyre, with its mysterious, brooding man elevating a girl of charming lower class through marriage, only for her to find he has kept dark secrets. So, then, I also felt as though I was watching A Place in the Sun (based on a classic 1925 novel), with its desperate plea for a happy ending, even though the past has yet to catch up with its protagonist. Rarely did I feel like I was watching Psycho or North by Northwest, although I was just as entertained, speaking to Hitchcock’s mastery of cinematic storytelling.

A charming but naïve young woman (Joan Fontaine) finds work in Monte Carlo where she meets the handsome aristocrat Maxim de Winter (Laurence Olivier). They fall in love and marry, only for the newly titled “Mrs. de Winter” to find that she is constantly compared to Maxim’s former wife, the original “Mrs. de Winter.” Everyone in the manor seems to question the new wife’s place as a housekeeper, especially the cold, calculating housekeeper Mrs. Danvers (Judith Anderson) who seems to be undermining Mrs. de Winter at ever turn, furious at her attempt to replace a woman she deemed superior.

The central theme is duality of identity, and its repercussions. The protagonist is only named Mrs. de Winter, while the original Mrs. de Winter is granted a first name. Meanwhile, Mr. de Winter has a handful of first names, rattling them off jokingly as if he has many to spare. This duality is represented in countless ways throughout the film, such as the East wing and West wing where the two wives live in the manor, or even in other characters such as the straight-laced, bitter Mr. de Winter and the scheming, playful villain Jack Favell (George Sanders).

I’ve never been as charmed by the way these sort of movies always seem to end with a legal proceeding. It’s the very classic notion that movies have to tie up every loose end for an undisputed happy ending, and everything past Joan Fontaine’s big confession speech to Mrs. de Winter feels like the weakest part of the movie. It’s satisfying to see their legal battle play out, but it marks a shift from most of the movie that just isn’t as interesting in my opinion. It’s not a major detractor, but I just feel that the soul of the movie comes from Mrs. de Witt’s notions and frustrations surrounding the almost godlike Rebecca, and when the truth is actually revealed, it takes away a lot of the punch.

That being said, I think this is one of Hitchcock’s most refined movies. It’s neat to see him constrained to such a rigid, conventional source material. It brings out a different style of directing when he has to build suspense without killer birds or a psycho killer roaming about. Shots of the manor are beautiful, but he also does a great job at making Mrs. de Witt feel small by presenting such a large, vacuous space. He also provides pivotal character information through his direction alone, even when those details aren’t mentioned until later (with Jack Favell and Mrs. Danvers being prime examples).

I think I’ll always enjoy looser, zanier narratives more than a conventional romantic drama, but as much as my own personal tastes are holding me back, I still found myself captivated by large portions of Rebecca. It’s a hypnotic film that feels loaded with stakes and marks unquestionable Hitchcockian talent. It impressed me less with its action and more with its “in betweens,” and I’ll always take that as a sign of a great film.


Films Left to Watch: 842

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Cinema Paradiso (1988)

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“Life isn’t like in the movies. Life is much harder.”

The last few months have been strong, with another magnificent film. Cinema Paradiso feels like the heartwarming classic they’d show on movie day in a middle school classroom. It’s very conventional; how it’s written and directed are nothing new, but it seems more charming than most films of its nature. Movies about movies will always strike a chord with cinephiles over anyone else, and if they’re done well, they’ll hit you in that special place where Cinema Paradiso resides.

Salvatore Di Vita, nicknamed Toto, is a famous filmmaker reflecting on his childhood in Italy. As a wily six-year-old, Toto befriends his village’s projectionist Alfredo (Philippe Noiret), who urges Toto to rise above his humble beginnings and follow his passions wherever they may lead him. With a familiar structure and a dash of magic, the film is a coming-of-age tale that clings to your heart and inspires you to chase your dreams, feeling at times like a genuine fairy tale.

I’m not sure how much the cinephile-pandering was responsible for my love of this movie, but I imagine it was a big influence. Tornatore films the projection booth with such care, and Noiret brings a powerful performance as the man behind the magic. Cinema Paradiso makes being a projectionist seem like the coolest job in the world, until it doesn’t anyone, and this is where the movie really gripped me. As Alfredo loses his vision and becomes a lonely shut-in, he pushes for Toto to become something greater in a sad but inspiring plea for him to never return to the village, and it resonates as the most genuine moment in the movie.

I also adore the atmosphere that Tornatore creates. I love the scene where the priest has to screen all the films before they are shown to the public, ringing his bell in disgust if two characters appear to be getting intimate. I also love the mob mentality of the village, with Alfredo as a sort of king among them. The scene where he projects the film outdoors to the public is a wonderful moment of triumph and rebellion, reminiscent of the Mozart scene in Shawshank Redemption.

I think the first act overpowers the second, but they’re both beautiful, and I think I’m just somber on the idea of things getting harder when childhood is portrayed so wonderfully. That’s the gut punch of Cinema Paradiso, though, that it lulls you into an illusion of safety and innocence, only to make the claim that at some point you have to be bold and work hard to find beauty, and that it doesn’t always come for free.

This film was a wonderful delight that has such a wide appeal, I would recommend it to just about anyone. It’s among the finest coming-of-age films, and for anyone with a passion for movies, it will only pull you even further into that happy place.


Films Left to Watch: 843

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The Evil Dead (1981)

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“Kill her if you can, loverboy.”

The Evil Dead may not have invented the cabin in the woods trope, and I wouldn’t even say that it perfected it, but God is this movie fun. Sam Raimi starts his career at the height of lunacy, with Evil Dead and even more-so the sequel, throwing horror tropes and sharp comedic timing into a crockpot of crazy. I think these movies are considered dated or derivative, but there are few horror movies that have nearly as much fun as this twisted classic.

The film follows a group of friends spending the night in an old log cabin in a far-out forest. They read an evil incantation from a journal they find in the basement, and it awakens evil spirits which aim to possess any living thing they can get in their clutches. The group is led by Ash (Bruce Campbell), the only one with the slightest survival skills. Ash faces the evil spirits head-on in a comedic, action-packed horror countdown to see who can survive until morning.

I mentioned recently that I love clean horror: when the setup is so simple that it seems nonexistent and you only remember the movie for its meat. Evil Dead and its first sequel are some of the meatiest horror movies ever made. This is a movie of heroes versus spirits, and this conflict is written and photographed with such joy that you can’t help grinning from ear to ear. This movie is scarier than the others, likely because it’s the least comedic, but the balance is still wildly entertaining, and loose ends are tied up beautifully while setting up the sequel in a quick, exciting way.

I also love the mood that Evil Dead builds from the opening shot. The camera is used for clunky but engaging POV shots of the spirits moving through the forest. Every scene is photographed in a similar way: indicating a young director with some lessons to learn but a tremendous amount of gusto and ambition. There’s no hesitation with The Evil Dead, and in a genre where hesitation is perhaps the biggest problem facing the landscape, this nearly 40-year-old film is a breath of fresh air.

It’s worth reiterating that The Evil Dead isn’t among the most well-crafted horror movies, but I think it’s among the best for how much enthusiasm it brings from start to finish. There’s nary a dull moment in this movie. It feels electric and sinister, imbued by some evil steroid that never lets it hit the breaks. And for that, I truly love it.


Films Left to Watch: 844

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Videodrome (1983)

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“Television is reality, and reality is less than television.”

 In a compulsive effort to expand by Blu-Ray collection, I was intrigued by the Criterion release of Cronenberg’s Videodrome. I think body horror is exciting in a niche sort of way, and I’ve been meaning to get more into Cronenberg, so I dived into the film with high hopes. I was pleasantly surprised by what I found in Videodrome: a strange tale of psychosexual obsession and the postmodern horror of mass media.

Max Renn (James Woods) is a sleazy TV executive who specializes in softcore pornography and shock value entertainment. He finds a mysterious signal, seemingly from Malaysia, transmitting a transfixing program known as Videodrome: a program where torturous sex dominates the screen. Renn becomes transfixed by the program, and he falls down an unsettling rabbit hole of delusion and deception while trying to discover the truth behind what might be a sinister psychological conspiracy.

Renn’s delusions are the meat of the film, where Cronenberg really shines. His trademark body horror takes on a technological spin. The most memorable image is Renn’s chest splitting apart to receive and eject VCR tapes. I get tiresome of movies where the central question is whether or not the events are just psychological, and Videodrome sort of carries this same issue, but I like that it owns up to this trope and lets you know early on that delusions are central to the story and should be expected. Cronenberg’s talent in photographing these delusions is unquestionable, and if you prefer your horror to be twisted and surreal as opposed to the conventional “suspenseful and chilling,” Cronenberg is certainly your man.

I like the deterministic vibe that the movie gives off. Especially once you start to piece together the mystery of the film, the events seem perfectly suited to follow each other, and everything builds into a horrifying mess. I appreciate when horror is clean, as in You’re Next where every loose end is tied and every beat crafted to perfection, but I also have a soft spot for big messy train wrecks, and Cronenberg pulls off a wondrous train wreck with this movie. Horror comes from moments: from twisted imagery. The story clearly only serves to support those moments, but it works nonetheless, and I’m also a sucker for movies about conspiracies, so my interest was always firmly held.

The movie also stuck with me in a very personal way as body horror aims to do. Something about seeing the human form disfigured and twisted where the soul loses all control- it’s unsettling in a long-lasting way. I found myself most uncomfortable as the credits rolled and the home screen of the Blu-Ray flashed back into view. The horror behind Videodrome is the television, the media itself. I feel like the movie begs to be watched not on the big screen but on a television in your comfortable space for this reason. Not only does Cronenberg frighten you through fear of your body, but also through fear of your cable box (or Netflix account, I suppose).

Videodrome isn’t a perfect movie, and it never felt like conventionally awesome horror to me, but I feel that’s not how Cronenberg cares to be described. The movie delights in its sloppy construction and demented images, and those are the things that will stick with me the most.


Films Left to Watch: 845

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Cool Hand Luke (1967)

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“Sometimes nothin’ can be a real cool hand.”

Cool Hand Luke is an American film by all accounts. It boasts a rebellious, masculine spirit that seems to triumph against convention. It’s a loose ensemble piece with a mysterious Christ figure at its helm. It reminded me of both The Shawshank Redemption and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, both films about imprisonment and the mental decay it can cause in a man. Despite the 4:3 aspect ratio on which I was forced to watch the movie, I enjoyed it quite a bit, particularly its cinematic innovations coupled with its barrels-of-fun populist appeal.

Luke (Paul Newman) is sentenced to two years in a chain gang prison for cutting the heads off parking meters on a bored, drunken evening. In prison, he develops a friendship with tough guy Dragline (George Kennedy) after refusing to back down from a boxing match. In turn, he earns the admiration of the entire prison, and they begin to view him as a hero, particularly when Luke rebels against the administration of the prison and ultimately attempts to escape.

Similar to The Graduate, which came out the same year, this movies lulls you into a familiarity of watching a 1960s movie at times, but then it strikes you with beautiful cinematography and storytelling decisions that seem well ahead of its time. The depiction of the prison warden comes to mind: his silent but menacing presence with destructive potential hidden beneath his sunglasses. There’s also the “coming together” scenes like the egg-eating contest that are photographed with such delight that you forget you’re watching a prison movie.

There’s a lot to love about Cool Hand Luke, and I can’t get behind it as a masterpiece, but I was thoroughly entertained without much else to say. It’s a cleverly arranged tale of dignity, friendship, and lots of other big movie values. I think this duality is what interested me the most: its conventional appeal to people like my Dad while also boasting cutting edge formal elements with its cinematography at the forefront.

I really appreciate the careful construction of Cool Hand Luke, and if I’ve learned anything from it, it’s that movies are meant to be watched in widescreen format like God intended.


Films Left to Watch: 846

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Roger & Me (1989)

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“Some people just don’t like to celebrate human tragedy while on vacation.”

I think a lot of Michael Moore’s charm has faded over the years, even among those who agree with his views. His gonzo style can be off putting, and I think this is apparent in all his movies, even the ones that don’t go as far politically as Fahrenheit 9/11. His first movie, Roger and Me, isn’t exempt either. But with just the right tone and a really neat style, I still really enjoyed this movie, and I think it was a great start for a now very controversial filmmaker.

Flint, Michigan is the focus of the film, particularly the town’s reliance on the General Motors plant for employment. Moore grew up in Flint and shares some neat memories and reflections on the town’s relationship with GM, and he chronicles the rise and fall of one of the biggest losers of big business practices. He attempts to track down the elusive GM President Roger B. Smith, inviting him to come to Flint and meet the people affected by his decisions. It’s a dark, witty, fascinating look at a town’s complete devotion a single business that seems to care nothing for the town in return.

I found it interesting how Moore personalizes the film while also keeping a comedic sort of distance. You get to see what fascinated Moore as a child growing up in a city essentially owned by General Motors, but Moore also portrays himself as a bit of an outsider: more interested in media than manufacturing. His humor is as dry and charming as it’s ever been, and he proves himself a great storyteller, weaving us through the highs and lows of this American tragedy.

I think the pushy attitude Moore brings to his movies can really make them stand out, and it can often be hard to root for him. He has a sense of entitlement when trying to get in contact with Roger Smith, and while his cause is just, there’s something not quite right about his actions. I’m all for civil disobedience and dangerous pursuit of the truth, but Moore never gives Smith a reason to actually be interviewed. He makes himself a nuisance to General Motors, storming into their buildings with a camera crew and a nonchalant attitude, instead of coming from a courteous journalistic approach that I’m not entirely convinced he pursued to completion.

I was amused, however, by Roger & Me. It also made my heart sink for Flint, Michigan, particularly due to their even grander tragedy in the recent water crisis. On the whole, though, I think Michael Moore has done a lot of great work for documentary film as a genre, and when his focus is in the right direction, he makes movies that are both informative and captivating without being a jerk about it.


Films Left to Watch: 847

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Paris, Texas (1984)

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“And for the first time, he wished he were far away. Lost in a deep, vast country where nobody knew him. Somewhere without language or streets. He dreamed about this place without knowing its name.”

It’s peculiar that I would have two transformative film experiences in such a short span of time, but I found myself rushing to IMDB to solidify for myself that both Seven Samurai and Paris, Texas would be among my new favorite movies. The former was a triumph, a mystery of scaled storytelling that left me ripe with excitement. The latter is perhaps the most haunting movie I’ve ever seen.

Through a beautifully barren American landscape stumbles Travis (Harry Dean Stanton). He is a drifter and has been for several years, when he suddenly finds his way back into the lives of his brother Walt (Dean Stockwell) and 10 year old son (Hunter Carson). At first amnesiac but slowly regaining his memories, Travis must face the actions of his past and attempt to forge a path for his future and how it relates to those closest to him.

Harry Dean Stanton brings his undoubtedly finest performance, but I was most entranced by Nastassja Kinski. I speak often about those moments when I forget everything I know about film and become transfixed by a scene, and in this movie, it was just about any time Kinski was on screen. Her polite, familiar demeanor gives way to a broken thousand-yard stare that would make Kubrick proud. It’s stuck with me since the moment the film ended, and it conveys the horrors of good realism in a way that I’ve never seen a movie pull off before now.

This ties into another crucial piece of the brilliance of Paris, Texas, the screenplay from playwright Sam Shepard that feels, well, like a play. The landscapes are beautiful, and the movie deserves deep praise and analysis for its photography, but the words always come first. Characters take their time when they speak in a wise but somber way that you find in great American theatre. Motivations aren’t easy to pin down, and we don’t find get Travis’s backstory until near the end of the movie. Paris, Texas isn’t about turns of plot or spectacular occurrences. It works, as theatre does, on a more intimate level to deliver moments of beauty in the closest thing that the arts can present as real people with real struggles.

The Criterion website, from which I draw 100 percent of my knowledge and opinions, claims that Paris, Texas is “a powerful statement on codes of masculinity and the myth of the American family,” which I also find fascinating. Harry Dean Stanton’s final speech indicates the fleeting, near-impossible nature of the conventional family unit as people grow and change. While this unraveling isn’t revealed until the climax of the film, it seems to loom over every scene, and I look forward to watching the movie again for this reason. Even in the numerous moments of joy and connection between Travis and his family, a sense of despair seems to prevail, as if these successes are only temporary.

The movie is a masterfully written work of cinematic brilliance, and I believe this is due to its inherent theatricality. Director Wim Wenders conveys in an interview that his desire was to create a truly American film, and I think he does so in a subtle, uncomfortable way that comes out beautifully resonant by the time the credits roll. It left me deeply affected, and I already hold it as a personal treasure that I am sure to revisit again and again.


Films Left to Watch: 848

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