Twist surreal into the red swan dive of cinema - twenty-three Groucho plays God. Groves quinine Frankie Avalon 6

Friday, January 03, 2020

Best Films of the Decade (10s)

It's maybe a strange accident all the films on this list are American (save one), but I doubt it. American flag tweet! Dear friends in Europe and abroad: in case it doesn't travel, I am being sarcastic.. In about one to five more years we should get our act back together, electoral-college-strangling-Americarily speaking. I guess all we can do until then is crank out adrenalin-packed escapism and say: 'Yo, world, why not disappear down the rabbit hole mit uns? Wir haben CBD!'

Argue about ART in cinema as art if thou wishes, but there's no reality anymore, no 'morality' to rail against, no church imposing enough to incite fascist riots at surrealist anti-papal movie screenings. All western institutions have long learned to incorporate their own critiques ("fight corporations with Coke!"); even homesickness has become an escapist fantasy, a Kansas mud-mired Dorothy missing Oz so much she keeps hitting herself on the head to simulate a tornado delusion, every visit the colors of Oz fade slowly to muddy red, and her vision gets blurred from all the concussions. Myth is the mirror shield with which we may behold Medusa. Straight-up gorgon offers only the wrong kind of stoning. 2011's Melancholia  is way too apt for repeat viewings. I cried during Tree of Life (also 2011) but I watched it in the theater minutes after I learned my dad was dying, so the fact I had a spiritual experience disqualifies my judgement.  After six viewings, I still am only halfway to appreciating Inherent Vice. Maybe I'd resonate differently with it if I lived in LA? It took me 20 viewings to appreciate Big Lebowski. What a ride that's "been."

These are the films from this decade that vibrated my kundalini fibers with their astonishing then-ness.

See also:

(2015) Dir. David Thomas Mitchell

Scary without being cruel or callous, sweet without being corny, David Thomas Mitchell has made  one of the most succinct and scariest cinematic coming-of-age myths ever, with the best scary cool analog synth score not made by John Carpenter. A dream-past reverie on that mortal moment when we realize we're now 'grown' and not 'growing' --so we begin running from death as it runs to meet us fast as a mental patient's relentless stalking countdown. Seeking immortality in the sexual drive, 'passing it on' through the generations (Life as the original STD), the horror of birth and fear of death commingled like atoms to form the core of what makes 80s slasher movie tropes our new Grimm's Fairy Tales archetypal lexicon. Beautiful pink and blue lights and 70s suburban shadows make every shot a luminous poem alive with vaguely 30s two-strip color used on films like the original Mystery at the Wax Museum. A masterpiece. (see: It's a Carpenter Hush)

(2015) Dir Denis Villeneuve

There is an eerie enigmatic near-Apocalypse of the Lambs artistry at work in this tale of an Arizona FBI rookie brought into the murky world of CIA drug dealer assassinations that marks Villeneuve as the premiere stylist of the decade. The refreshingly ominous and abstract use of sound, the way Jóhann Jóhannsson's droning ominous synthesizer casts an intoxicating pall over the proceedings, as if the bottom is slowly dropping out in an endless elevator to Hell that opens out onto the sky at the same time, the naturalistic low-key dialogue, the vast empty spaces, and one of the best scenes of slow building tension and violent explosion (at the Mexico-US border crossing traffic) ever. As the moral compass Emily Blunt whispers through the whole movie like a lover trying not to wake her kids. Brolin and del Toro have such chemistry they're reminiscent of Clu and Lee in the '64 KILLERS. The easy realism of the various military-CIA-Texas Ranger joint-op briefings recalls the best Hawks' men-in-group maturity, which is so rare it must be savored, like a last meal.

(2017) Directed by Darren Aronofsky

One of the trippiest, wildest, most insane biblical fables ever, it's also a perfect emblem of its #metoo / Greta and the Global Meltdown moment. Here we have Woman as Earth, as avenger and astro-turf for that grinding, rending, overpopulating violent plague, humanity. As someone who has spent his fair share of really bad acid trips at over-crowded house parties (in my own house!), with people I don't know rummaging through my room (and me tongue stop-tied toot out kick them), is how we never really notice the moment a single night's poetry book release party with a handful of fans on the front lawn devolves into a full scale riot, and then beyond, all in real time, as Jennifer Lawrence moves from room to room of her house, trying to prevent each new destructive urge in her uninvited guests. It's so familiar I began to feel that old tang on my tongue. I wanted to run to my room and lock the door before the seagulls could strip it dry in search of souvenirs to lick for possible holy lysergic residue. With Javier Bardem as the all-forgiving poet husband/god, always inviting in more and more of the great unwashed, rationalizing each new atrocity with his endless capacity for fogiveness. It's beyond horrible, back into blissful, and farther into the abyss of religious allegorical truth than any other film since Dogville. It's weird, but it's not as sadistic or pretentious as some of Aronofsky's earlier work, depending on your tolerances for atrocity. It's the allegory we deserve, and Jennifer Lawrence--so terrible in her last few 'big' pictures (ala X-Men)--redeems herself in spades as her generation's golden wild child. (more)

(2010) (dir. Gaspar Noe)

Death never had it so good: sex, drugs, techno, the Buddhist's wheel of fear and desire roulette afterlife, every drug dealer's worst nightmare is realized. A panic attack for all seasons, with some dynamo Fantasia 2001-meets-Tron lightshows, it simultaneously makes religion and pornography obsolete. It's the Sidpa bardo (look it up!) and the relentless quest for a new fertilized egg to incarnate in, and then the shattering realization that after all that soul I AM drifting, rebirth bring just another prison, this one of dirty diapers and the terror of motherless nighttime, rather than the loneliness of drifting through a completed level of a computer game, never finding that one key that unlocks the next. Noe's talent is without measure: savage, psychedelically-enhanced to the point of madness, but never incoherent, simplistic or pretentious. Maybe racist, and misogynist, and strangely pro-life, but so honest about it, so relentlessly scathing, and filled with so many intensely psychedelic day-glo tableaux, it can't help but leave you transformed, especially on a lot of cough syrup. (read more here)

(2012) Dir. Wes Anderson

Pair-bond romance has always been Wes Anderson's weak point: he tends to focus on the childhood friendship of two (or sometimes three) boys and/or immature men, often ne'er do wells or scoundrels which a girl--usually more mature--comes painfully betwixt, if at all. But in this, his so-far only true love story, and he nails it by making the pair too young to be out and about without disproving adult permission, and too cool to let that stop them. when pushed. They do not cower! With her dark eye shadowed fox eyes and focused fearless deadpan expression, 14 year-old Kara Hayward is to Wes Anderson as Lauren Bacall was to Hawks, or Lana Del Rey to Val Lewton, and the effect is the same; Jared Gilman as her opposite number, an intrepid woodsman orphan, is shorter and seemingly younger, with owlish glasses and a Daniel Boone cap, but possessed of an eerie confidence and curiosity that sets him leagues apart from the 'average' shy and smitten doofusness so many lesser directors mistake for 'real' kid behavior. He's a badass.

We all have felt this type of heady connection, this thrilling outlaw romance, at some point in our lives, I hope. I would regret anyone missing it, this lightning bolt that comes at any age, at any time. Whether we either rise to its challenge or drown it, like a wolf cub in the bathtub, is up to us. Moonrise Kingdom commands you help this pair of cool lovers escape parental and societal constraints; don't impede them, or you will get bit. And this is maybe the best and most undrowned wolf of a film Anderson film he's ever released into the wild. A true wolf whirlwind, it's full of great animal totems, woodcraft, folklore, park ranger-style factoids, and Francoise Hardy and two of the coolest kid/characters in movies since 1979's Over the Edge. 

(2015) Dir. George Miller

Miller's fourth Max film takes the big truck chase climax of the The Road Warrior and stretches it two hours into the void, filling it full of sunbleached women, Nordic mutants and crazy vehicles, a whole dense future warlord-led fiefdom in a sterile desert wasteland, where water, gasoline, and bullets are the currency that runs the small corner of the world, but everyone is decked out, and when the warlord and his mobile horde descend from their fertile mesa, they naturally have a kettle drummer and a mutant albino wailing on an electric guitar that's also a flame thrower to spur the gang to higher speeds. It left some critics too shellshocked to applaud but most of us had our socks blown off so far they drifted in astral winds, and we loved it. George Miller may have fumbled with the dreadfully PG Thunderdome, but this more than makes up for it. With its bright blazing graphic novel colors (those deep reds!) it's always a joy to look at, and edited so quick and with such a dense, character-infested, mythically coherent mise-en-scene, it can stand a trillion re-viewings and still have termite details left to unfurl.  

(2017) Written and directed by Greta Gerwig

Neither shying away from the romantic faux pas nor the cool little moments of triumph that come with growing up artsy but confident, here's a Catholic school girl movie that avoids all the tired (albeit necessary) sexual endangerment/obsession tropes we get with all the 'women's coming-of-age' stories (the ones written by dudes). Gerwig allows us clearly autobiographical triumphant sing-outs like the take-down of the visiting anti-abortion rally speaker, the inspiring albeit ridiculous aspects of an after-school drama club, and the disillusionment that comes with first-time sex. In a rapid series of stunning vignettes and perfectly-realized moments, we get the story, not of some 'average' girl buffeted by the winds of change in her rocky search for the right guy to surrender her freedom to, but of a specific strong-willed young woman who couldn't be conventional if she tried, and thank god.  Not quite as mature as she acts but totally free of anything resembling a cliche'd trait, lovingly embodied by star Saoirse Ronan. An amazing achievement that fulfills the halo of stoner grace I saw over Great Gerwig as far back as 2009's Baghead. But this is Gerwig's Live through This, her Exile in Guyville. It's the writing on the wall outside the gates of Eden, written in the blood of uncored apples.

Good ole Fashioned Florida Tie:

(2017) Dir. Sean Baker

For all her ratchet tats, foxy Bria Vinaite is hellfire and ice cream as a wildchild young jaguar mom, raising wild children who create, cause and relish in danger (the "project" is a cheap unofficially residential motel near Disneyland, inhabited by various transient families eking by week-to-week while their children run amok in the parking lot). I generally avoid 'social worker' movies (one has her eye on Bria due to her occasional trick turning to pay the bills), but I actually love these amok kids as they're not doe-eyed symbols of a failed welfare state but wild and free in that rare and vivid primal force state of Over her Edge and Wild Boys of the Road. Willem DaFoe's protective but vaguely annoyed presence as the hotel manager suggests another form of 'great 70s dad' as a kind of peripheral game warden, keeping the lion cubs away from poachers, but otherwise letting them do as they will provided they don't make more work for him. I even liked the CPS people - who try their best to do their job and aren't far wrong in their diagnosis. Meanwhile it's the summer and the gorgeous Florida skies have seldom looked more candy flip delightful, overrun with deep purples and greens that vibrate against the clear blue in some truly breathtaking panoramas, as when a rainbow surreptitiously arrives overhead. All beautifully and elegantly framed; every scene throbs with a vibrant resonant life, for better or worse. Scenes like when Bria brings her child to a hotel open brunch bar ("Just walk in like we're guests") glimmer with something of the profound mythic magic we used to get out of Tennessee Williams. In sum, a masterpiece.

 (2019) Dir. Harmony Korine

Harmony Korine has found a second home down in old Florida, apparently, and between Beach Bum and 2011's Spring Breakers must be having a high old time. It's palpable and this film has a great druggy mystical flow that only a wally would consider dull or self-indulgent (though who knows, the next time I see it I might feel that way --Korine's films are like that, then again so are Kubrick's). The great Matthew McConaughey does his thing better than ever as the titular Bum, flowing through life as a kind of Bukowski-Robert Hunter (no doubt similar to Harmony himself), welcomed and revered wherever he goes --a total fantasy only the MaMaCon could make so palpable and believable a contact high rolls right through the sceen. Here's a fantasy for every freshman poetry major on his first joint or shroom trip: fame in a world that looks the other way when he commits assault on a passers-by, or smashes his way out of rehab with an amped-up speed freaak Zac Effron -- whaaa?. Like Spring Breakers (a close runner-up), a great 4-AM movie for coming down of ecstasy, listening with your bedroom lights off and via good headphones while the rest of your threesome is asleep on the other end of the massive king-size hotel suite bed, sleeping off their intentionally taken half-a-Rohypnols.  Unafraid to put his mouth where the money is, HarKor keeps both films twisting in the mind like a slow burning big joint still drying after being moistened by a very sticky mouth. Very.... very sticky, to the point these films slither out of any conventional genre confines, link back up with Gummo and Julien Donkey-boy, and set up shop right in your cerebellum 4 life. (see Air Auda Beya Lah).

Gone-wrong Brothers' Tie

(2016) Dir David McKenzie

When lesser writers do these chamber piece rural Texas bank robber brother-bonding odysseys they get hung up on big messy Oscar-bait emotional dot-connecting rather than great dialogue and naturalistic moments (i.e. more drinking, less romance).  Here it's all written the way the bank robbing pair of brothers--specially the older, wilder jailbird one (Ben Foster), might talk, but with a kind of Cormac McCarthy/Elmore Leonard concisely mytho-poetic hipster brilliance. They constantly surprise us with their natural, easygoing back and forth. Both actors (Chris Pine is the 'clean record' one) are brilliantf. We also have the laconic, near-retired sheriff (a marvelously laconic Jeff Bridges), his Navajo (but half-Mexican and devout Christian!) deputy, and all the lawyers and bank tellers and waitresses in between. They don't need those artificial 'weathered' facial cracks big budget films give people in the Heartland to give off the feeling of being where they are. Here the flat endless horizon-line is a kind of TV, everyone trains their eyes on it and they stare at each other the same way, waiting for one or the other to make a move for their gun or proclaim it's "beer o-clock". Chris Pine more than lives up to the promise of those steely blue eyes -- moving so deep into character you'd swear he was found by a roaming casting director hitchhiking through Arlington. I had lines of his and his brothers' ringing in my head for weeks afterwards while writhing with the flu a few years back - and I Still love it. It's only drawback, some very ROTM country songs on the soundtrack.

(2017) Dir. The Safdie Brothers

This is a certain strata of outer borough living a lot of us 'aging hipster' New Yorkers don't really get to know anymore, not since the advent of cell phones made scoring so much simpler. And as rents rise, the lower world dregs are continually pushed farther and farther uptown, and marijuana more and more decriminalized, it becomes hard to find them. That's why scenes like the one with twitchy Jennifer Jason Leigh desperately trying to shout her way onto one of her mom's long-canceled credit cards from the bail bondsman's office will kind of blow your mind. The Safdies capture the mix of slumming thrills and the way some twitchy but charming hustler (Robert Pattinson) sweeps you up in their drama so fast that what started as you buying a dime bag and getting the hell back to your friends downtown winds up in you putting up your car up as bail collateral for someone you barely know after running from the police with a head full of angel dust you didn't know you'd smoked and taking another of your dealer's friends to a hospital ER, hoping to get him admitted before the cops show up and you have to run all over again, and you're too young and/or naive and/or nice and/or stoned to figure out how to make your goodbyes and extricate you from this hustler's Jenga hodge podge of quick fixes before it topples down into handcuffs or a bullet. Whew! Sorry that was all  one sentence but that's how this film moves, vibrant pulsing and rolling through the murk most of us just ride past in a Lyft or Arecibo on our way to JFK, and not without good reason. (more)

(2014) Dir. Robert Stromberg

Scripted with great sensitivity and Jungian Girls who Run with the Wolves-ish archetypal revisionist moxy by Linda Woolverton, this 'other side of the story' operates on the presumption there's more to Jolie's joyless laugh and a peerless sense of wry poise than we might think in our snide, sexist, dismissive tabloid cover disdain moments. There is. I know a girl or two just like her in AA and maybe they're cold for similar reasons, for here we have the origin story for why beautiful women become marble-cold and it's not just because they don't want to crack their make-up. Here, at last, never before in any Disney film, is a mythic contextualization of that unforgivably common social evil --date rape. One doesn't realize the extent of it as a problem of female maturity until its finally made mythic. Now it all makes sense. The resulting film, for all its beauty and fairy tale shimmer, is as alchemically healing as a caustic salve, brought up from deep murky chthonic of a growing girl's true poltergeist power, and slathered on all over the place while censorious moms and stern patriarchs can do nothing but moan in shame for letting it come to this through their centuries of their 'don't ask/don't listen' parenting and blind trust in authority figures. With art direction that can stand proudly next to the Pre-Raphaelite work of Edward Burne-Jones, J.W. Waterhouse, Michael Parkes, Maxfield Parrish, and William Blake, Maleficent's fairy kingdom pulses and writhes in ways that make every frame worthy of one. Trees grow and change at an accelerated rate; warriors of stone and tree root rise up from the ground on command; beings small and large fly and shimmer at night in ways Max Reinhardt would have been jealous of in his 1935 production of Midsummer Night's Dream. And this time there's not a single Mickey Rooney to grab the mic - it's a lady's show the whole way through - all the men can do is sulk about it, not even their best princely kisser need apply. (see also: CinemArchetype 11: The Wild, Wise Woman.)

Too bad about the sequel though. Pair with The Black Swan and/or Moonrise Kingdom for more women in black feathers clawing and cawing their way towards Dietrich in Shanghai Express-level coolness. 



These films came out in the 10s, but are they really from that decade? One is so rooted in the decor and vibe of the early-70s that it's almost a time capsule. It could also well be from some magical Arthurian pre-Christian chthonic paradise of matriarchal herbscraft -- figure it out for yourself, but irregardless, the colors, the unified art, music, costumes, colors and deliberately (I hope) stilted acting, all signify the arrival of a true wunderkind, Anna Biller. The other on this list is the result of Orson Welles acolyte Peter Bogdanovich finally finishing the master's great lost, long-in-legal-limbo, ever-in-progress, final masterpiece, shot mostly in the mid-60s-early 70s, and a towering titanic, if madly egotistical, achievement

(2016) Written and directed by Anna Biller

The drugs in this amber brew are potent, vibrant and rich, infused with an ingeniously stilted ceremonial acting style; thou cannot help but succumb to the film's cohesive look and sound, its adept deconstruction and Pagan rearrangement of the kind of pre-Quixote romantic Thoth Tarot blueprint for mythologizing reality into delirious love overload. Teen girls smitten with Disney and afternoon soap operas might imagine Love Witch while taking a mid-afternoon nap but never dream it could be a movie. Brechtian dissolution of the 'western eye' and a cohesive, eerily familiar beauty... Wait, is that even a sentence? Why am I getting so relaxed? What's in this flax, flaks... flask? I know now what love is, and it's fucking terrifying, but colorful, and Ennio is there. (See Bell, Book, and Hallucinogenic Tampon)

(2018) Dir. Orson Welles (w/ Peter Bogdanovich)

Thanks to the more decisive, less debilitatingly brilliant, mind of long-time Welles' friend and biographer, director Peter Bogdanovich, and state-of-the-art digital remastering, the last unfinished Welles film about the last day in the life of a Wellesian director working on his last, unfinished film is finally.... well, finished. What makes it even more meta is that Peter Bogdanovich plays such a key character in the film, as more or less himself, and he finished it, with John Huston filling in for Orson. Together they seem to be working through the angles of male friendship, biographer-subject, father-son, remora-shark, fan-hero, and apostle-Christ --which suits the unique nature of the finished product so well it seems like fate--like the ultimate metatextual Welles flourish, as if he knew the film couldn't be finished until long enough after he died that Bogdanovich could use digital means to clean-up the film stock and have the chutzpah to tackle such a mammoth project. It may be Bogdanovich's best film as well as one of Welles's, with film quality and sound are so good it's hard to imagine this wasn't all filmed a few months ago -it's actually better than new, even, since it's on 35mm film - and every frame is lovingly color-saturated or otherwise cleaned up to the point it all shines better than any new dime. It's not perfect, the inscrutable Native American actress lead seems to have an allure understood only by Welles, as neither we nor that camera seem to figure it out (especially when her make-up starts dripping off in the rain), though she does come alive briefly in the kinky Suspiria-lit sex car scene, and the mix of egotistic moveable feast self-indulgence phony 'Art' (Welles thinks he can indulge as long as he frames it all as a film-within-a-film) remains open to debate.  Then again, who cares? We're in the 20s now - where release dates no longer have meaning. (see longer entry, in best of 2018 here

Thursday, December 26, 2019

Best of 2019

It's all over, man, the year, the decade, the Great White Way, the coral, picnics (thanks to the killer bees) and fresh water. The burning of Australia and the flooding of somewhere else considered little more than deep state fake news by our twittering Nero. So what, you say? As Rodney Dangerfield once said, "So!? So let's dance!"

If 2017 was the year of the Woman, and 2018 was the year of howling rage, 2019 is the year of the fuck-it let's show last year's uninvolving Suspiria remake what a real Satanic dancing school rehearsal/dorm space looks like! So as dancing while old white paragons wheeze out swan song farewells as young women and/or non-white/non-straight men danced ecstatically while tripping their faces off, there were one but three films with long-haired dudes hanging out by the seaside getting loaded! Maybe five if you count Quentin's.

I'm sure there were other movies floating around worthy of note I haven't seen, like Hitler the Rabbit, Her Smell (which has one character up to the task of being as off the rails as three of these other movies, and the rest of the cast just circling around, trying to harsh her mellow, and then succeeding) and/or that Bong Jon movie we kept meaning to see at the Alamo but was always sold out. If I see anything else good I'll fold it in here later, and act like I wasn't too lazy to get out of the house back when it was on big screens. 

I'm Gen-X, and I'm on massive meds, so don't blame me if four films on here are superheroes you can see how none of it is my fault. 

Dir. Harmony Korine

One of a trio of neo-'head' movies (along with Climax and Midsommar) that marks 2019 as the year psychedelics became the new weed (and weed became a nootropic), The Beach Bum is a probably loosely autobiographical work of art from Harmony Korine starring a perfectly cast Matthew McConaughey - in the role he was meant to play ever since he fist rolled onto the scene in the ultimate high school initiation movie, Dazed and Confused. Korine takes that same druggy ASMR stream-of-consciousness flow--wherein reality is both captured and transcended, i.e. the actual experience of being on drugs, and I mean good drugs, the kind of drugs that make drugs worth doing... and... uh where was I? Poetry?! The fantasy that one can be a filthy rich and known and beloved by all while being nothing but a hairbag poet (my dad's phrase for me in college). That one can sell a poetry book and cash-in the way someone like JK Rowling might in real life, albeit with poetry, and that you might be the recipient of a Pulitzer and zillions and all sorts of free weed from Florida locals like Snoop Dogg. Like Korine's previous movie, Spring Breakers, this seems a great 'four-AM, strung out on cough syrup or coming down of ecstasy, listening to it with the lights on synchronized color changes and via good headphones while the rest of your threesome is asleep on the other end of the massive king-size hotel suite bed, sleeping off their intentionally taken half-a-Rohypnols' kind of a film. It's also what you show your grandmother before convincing her to give you a massive loan. (see Air Auda Beya Lah).

Dir Gaspar Noe

Gaspar Noe's super bizarro dance troupe amok on too-much LSD administered without their knowledge at a pre-tour/post-rehearsal party: Sofia Boutella, the lush sinuous Algerian dancer/actress (she was the latest incarnation of The Mummy and a cute alien in Star Trek: Beyond, etc.) stars, or is the most recognizable and sympathetic of the gathered dancers, though we only follow her about 1/4 or so of the time as Noe's ever-mingling camera merges the difference between a restless eavesdropping mingler and a choreographer using the party and its wild aftermath/devolution as the ultimate in a fusion of dance/party/collective insanity breakdown, and as an instrument of dance in itself. Aside from a few prolonged stationary shots such as the overhead shot from above during the big dance that breaks the first half (the rehearsal, the "normal" partying) with the second half, the twirling, dissolution, the camera never stops moving. The last 40 minutes seems to unfold all in real time, as incidents of sex, violence and druggy desperation with just one notable moment being when a girl accidentally lights her hair on fire while trying to smoke crack/freebase and deny it to some other joneser at the same time, and is in turn just walked past while the dancer we follow stalks the full length of the rehearsal space and the adjoining lounge, dorm rooms, and bathroom, looking for an escape back to some kind of sanity. Only time, sex, sleep, death, and the dawn's early police raid might bring this.

The dancer's ferocity is so convincing and the flow from organized normalcy (if their wild-but-controlled arcane dancing style, a mix of modern and street, filmed as if by a zonked Busby Berkley, can be called normal) to insane madness and finally murder and sexual hook-ups, is so organic that--being dancers all--even in their wracked state their bodies never cease moving and twisting to the throbbing incessant music, blurring the lines between this as an 'acid test' tragedy horror film and a kind of extended 90 minute dance performance. It seems almost impossible this isn't cinema verité from some weird circle of Hell (this is clearly an annex of the dancing school in Suspiria, and some of the characters seem to sense it, reacting to the blood/black red walls and strange flag ("I don't like that flag, man..." says one of the dancers). Since we barely see anything of the real world, aside from the snow right outside the front door (ala a group happening Shining), we lose contact with the real world as much as the actors, leaving us lost in the same weird cabin fever collective break. Watch it again and again! It's on Prime. Leave all hope behind. (see The Broken Dagger Mirror in the High of the Beholder).

Dir. Ari Aster

Though the tripping feels pretty real in the first two films on this list, thanks to some great sound mixing and the wild dancer amok grace of the talented young cast, the visuals of tripping are fantastically rendered only here, in this horror movie about the strange experiences of a deeply depressed young woman (Florence Pugh) who invites herself along on her boyfriend Christian's (!) spring break jaunt to a remote agrarian commune in Sweden, where they are pretty knowledgable about how to get you super high with just a drink of mead or a puff of powder into your unsuspecting puss. Sign me up! The best sex scene of the year occurs with the entirety, nearly, of the female population of said cult/commune, breathing in unison, and other stuff is so super weird yet logical and maybe saner than our own amok over-populated shithole of a normal world that you may find yourself smiling too.

Bobby "Haxan Cloak" Krlic's avant garde string-heavy score might veer strangely close to Colin Stetson's for Aster's previous instant horror classic Hereditary - especially near the end, when the Phillip Glassy synth drones and cascading triplets come flowing into a kind of transformative sound re-baptism - but he gets the paranoid long-bowing bottom-dropping coccyx- tingling drones, Lygeti-esque solar wind socking, and encounter group breath work flowing through the barn door cracks to just the perfect level of strange. The visitors, a conglomeration of Americans and--to the side--some Brits--are the right kind of bewildered, hunched over body language, cynical attitudes, and especially in the case of Florence Pugh's heroine and her passive-aggressive boyfriend, unable to let go of old programming. (Ed Note: It took me a second view to see how much the film is really about modern young people's romantic entanglements, the way guys especially lack the guts to break up with a girl, nor to commit fully to her, so the result is a kind of frustrating non-committal half-assed distance bound to drive any woman nuts). Once Pugh does break free, we see enough great moments and the 'truest' hallucinations ever in cinema - you have to watch every flower very closely, and the pupils! And it's probably the most even-keeled examination of communal life ever, showing the pros and cons of everything from the collapse of privacy, the loss of independent thought, the way 'breathing method' panting seems here a seamless part of conception, and the lack of abjectification within the ranks---it leaves us reeling in a kind of dream daze that the rest of the film takes and--if not runs with--certainly walks in imperceptibly slight slow-motion ceremonial clockwork steps with, right into the fire.  (full)

Dir Quentin Tarantino

The heavy thoughts of Manson and his Cielo Drive slaughter hangs over the first two hours or so of this film like an ominous portent, which only makes the big climax all the more cathartic - no spoilers. For a lot of us fans in the last year or so, hearing Tarantino was going to do a film about the Manson murders was as exciting as hearing Scorsese was going to do a first-person narrated mob story starring De Niro as an Irish hitman. Of all the tired, overly-eulogized scenes to explore --there were like eight Manson movies that year alone (including the dreadful but nicely dusky Bad Times at the El Royale). But we should not have worried. That's QT's big trick in his last four films, a long leisurely drive that we don't even know is setting a slow boil tension until it explodes in a full bore catharsis. The costumes and sights of LA, the endless great diegetic songs, that roar to life on radios of gorgeous period cars, and die as suddenly with every ignition key twist; it all denotes the hand of a confident master. Unlike Scorsese's Irishman, here there's no end need for a priest, God is clear as a bell, thanks to the miracle of film. Though it's hard to take Leo serious as a young western actor hero, he once again proves he makes a superb villain, which is one of the characters we see him playing for the film within the film, who bonds with the precocious omega-wave feminist child actor his character is holding hostage. Little bits of brilliance pepper throughout and Brad Pitt steals the show with his deadpan elan, though we also get a horde of cool young horror auteurs and up-and-comers including Kansas BC Butcher Bowling and Samantha Love Witch Robinson as either Manson girls or cool well-costumed friends of Margot Robbie's super sexily-attired Sharon Tate. Re-establishing herself as the super-talented fox of the hour, Robbie's wide-eyed innocent wonder conveys vast oceans of innocence and allure with very few words. Then there's her shadow opposite, a filthy but alluring Manson girl named Pussycat played by a fabulous Margaret Qualley who shares a long drive with a Brad 'statutory-rape-avoidance-made-cool' Pitt.

Tarantino's camera meanwhile roves the rooftops looking down on the highways and mansion pool parties like some omnipotent spirit made nonetheless FOMO restless by the Santa Ana winds. Who has ever visited LA who couldn't relate to that terrible but sexy yearning for that next party? And along the way we're treated to little digressions and eddies in the current, as when Tate cruises downtown and ends up seeing a Matt Helm movie she's in (The Wrecking Crew), showing off karate moves she learned from Bruce Lee (a perfectly cast Mike Moh) during his martial arts stuntman training days (while also playing Kato on the short-lived Green Hornet TV series). Another highlight: Leo's crushing realization of his advancing age and irrelevance, comforted by an up-and-coming precocious child actress (Julia Butters) who will shortly be his terrifying characters' innocent hostage. Little precious moments abound: all of working Hollywood taking an 8PM breather to tune into FBI on TV, as able to be subsumed into the hypnotic lull of a gripping narrative as much as anyone else. The climax measured and exhilarating, just much as the one in Django. And who can't relate to Leo's big tantrum of despair trashing his dressing room after flubbing his lines, rueing the fact he drank eight whiskey sours last night instead of the two or three he was intending? I sure can't.

Dir. Theorella Laguardia

Marty may be an old codger by now, but his awe of the wiseguys from that neighborhood never seems to fade. By now those old thugs must feel like museum pieces, especially with their unconvincing young person CGI botox (their bronzed faces nearly tumble into the Uncanny Valley; Pacino looks like he just had oral surgery and the novocaine isn't wearing off) but it's nice to see Joe Pesci in a restrained performance for a change -- and he's aces as an older mediary wiseguy in this vivid, funny, low-key Wild Strawberryfellas. Fans of the Bloods a Rover trilogy from James Elroy will be pleased as we get our lead's small but key roles in both Bay of Pigs to the Hoffa vanishing. The last half lags with way too much of De Niro's union thug trying to get Pacino's Hoffa to heed the warnings that things are about to get at the "It is what it is" stage due to his flagrant defiance of mafia edicts. Meanwhile when Hoffa's wife finally gets a line or two, the whole film seems to do a double take as no women have had speaking roles for the last hour and a half.

Al Pacino is here this time, acting in a Scorsese movie at last, and as with Avengers and Toy Story 4, and Once Upon a Time in Hollywood we sense we're in a 'capstone' project for an aging patriarchal superstructure -  equal parts elegy, celebration, spiritual last gasp /holy key brass ring grasp, and victory lap. But hey - you could edit Irishman together with Goodfellas and Casino and have one long seamless film lasting about 12 hours, especially if you could get over seeing Joe and Bobby in three separate roles, acting out numerous ages for each character while various ages themselves. Like old Don Fanucci at the San Genarro puppet show it might be the violence that gets to you, but the comedy is for keeps. Besides, why obey Marty's film snob edicts you should watch it all in one go and shun Marvel and small screens? I know I'm the last wit in the sphere to suggest you watch this on your phone in ten minute installments at an airport and loudly proclaim "it's pretty good but it ain't no Aquaman" but express it I will. These are the good times.

The real scene stealers here, despite all the heavy hitters, are really Ray Romano as a neighborhood union lawyer, and Anthony Palitano as a bar owner and Harvey Keitel, seething with silver-eyed menace as one of the big capos of the five families. His chemistry with De Niro, stretching back to Marty's big break-out hit, Mean Streets, seems to come to an icy climax.

Best of all is the historical connection between World War 2 and the rise of the mafia, both before and after. Remember that the nation was suddenly inundated with unemployed young men with experience killing people. The original flood of Forgotten Men in the Great War led to bootlegging empires thanks to Prohibition. After the second great war, it's unions, pension-skimming, extortion, and loansharking. De Niro's amiable brute learns to kill shooting unarmed German prisoners. Alas the whole back hour kind of runs out of steam as Scorsese tries to blend his loftier notions (the Silence, Kundun, Passion of the Chirst side) with his gangster bread and butter. Bergman seems to be what all New York auteurs strive to emulate, but he ended his film on time if you remember. Strawberries barely seemed like an end at all, how can a film so deeply about death end in a way that doesn't feel redundant? But The Irishman doesn't realize the hopelessness of winning such a bargain. The result, like the elderly characters themselves, it just waits there at the end, expecting something to happen and being forced to wait even longer than the film can stick around.

40 years on, and De Niro still hasn't started talkin'.

Dir Josh Cooley

The more our characters change in the Toy Story series the more they stay the same, but meanwhile-- thanks to Woody's 'never leave a toy behind' Munchausen-by-proxy neediness--there's never a shortage of rescues to be made out in the cruel world. Wow-settings include a traveling carnival sandbox packed with childless toys and an antique store policed by a quartet of ventriloquist dummies and a ceramic old school doll with the best limpid pool evil eyes in the history of animation -and it's the villain! Voiced by Christina Hendricks, she's both beguiling and terrifying. There is also the big debut 'good' character is 'Forky' a character Bonnie (the human owner) glues together on her first day in kindergarten. (The film never asks why she never makes a single friend). Thing is, Forky was made from junk Woody fished out of the trash in his micro-managing hovering. And Forky liked it there, but Woody won't let him die since he's so determined to keep Bonnie sheltered and cut off. In other words, Forky is a combination Frankenstein monster ("me... love dead") and any alcoholic or drug addict, with Woody as the hovering co-dependent 'fixer.' Randy Newman sings "I can't let you throw yourself away" over a montage of Woody pulling Forky from the trash over and over, addicts and alcoholics will surely recognize the pattern of that person in your life who continually comes over to run interventions rather than letting you disappear down the rabbit hole (Forky considers the trash warm and safe, like a good bottle of whiskey or shot of smack.)

As with Avengers: Endgame, there's a bit too many tearful goodbyes at the end, more or less stopping the film dead in its tracks to indulge in them, over and over, like a depressive Irish mother off her meds, but there are so many hilarious details and gorgeously observed moments (the residents of Bonnie's closet asking the less-played-with Woody what he'll name his first dust bunny), massive streaks of feminism (though possible lesbian Rosie-the-Riveter overtones aren't developed) and great bits from Key and Peele as a pair of never-won stuffed animals at a carnival toss game, that Hanks' overbearing caregiver schtick can be halfway forgiven.

Dir. Olivia Wilde

Sure, it's Superbad for girls-ish, an all in a single night/day "better cram all our partying into one wild time before graduation" flick. Certainly one can't do ecstasy and then be 'down' a beat later, especially if it's your first time even drinking; and sure, it's almost logically impossible for all the things that happen to happen before dawn. But hey, one look at the credits--which include a crew and production team of so many damned women--and it's a thunderstruck galvanizing moment. Lady Bird  may have launched the volley, but this is the film that slays the oncoming charge, the backlash brigade. The only sex on display is a lesbian third base foul in the bathroom with pouty beauty Diana Silvers (Ma) but the main thing is the intense screwball comedy patter between Kaitlyn Denver (a revelation) and Beanie Feldstein (the pal in Lady Bird). What dialogue! What energy! Finally another comedy duo where they know each other's rhythms like real best friends and sweep us along in their tide.

 I wish I had been able to see this movie in high-school instead of shit like My Bodyguard, and all the Stephen King adaptations with their endless bullying and abuse- all of which made it seem like it's impossible to attend school and keep your dignity at the same time. While I don't envy kids growing up in the age of constant texting and slutshaming, (in the 80s, sluts had a very special place in our hearts), at least there's no teacher-ignored assaults and bullying itself is at least less tolerated and therefore less visible. None of the stuff they hope for comes to pass but in the process, they realize there was nothing to fear or be intimidated by in their peers. Maybe that's the lesson America as a whole needs. The enemy has always been in our heads projected onto others and exploited by some sock puppet think tank in Russia. Stop fighting shadows and look deep into the eyes of your mirror foe... Dumbass.

Directed by Greta Gerwig 

Greta Gerwig uses the classic prestige pic template to herald the arrival of the female Bechdel test 'sister power' auteur and her ability to craft legit art, all in a way that puts the first three adaptations to shame (just kidding, no one is shamed here. The days of shame-based comparisons are done). A roster of familiar faces, including Hermione Granger (as the poor one) and Midsommar's Florence Pugh (as the 'sensible' one who marries Timothée Chalamet's Laurie after he's spurned by) Saoirse Ronan as Jo, once again demonstrating her perfect rapport with Gerwig's dialogue and vision. Its odd 'zipping back-and-forth through time' structure has apparently confused a few viewers not well acquainted with the book or its three more linear previous adaptations. Me, I'm not acquainted nor confused. But in 1994 I saw and loved Gillian Armstrong's Winona Ryder-starring version version. I remember I cried at that one, all boozy and emotional on a rainy Sunday night, all dewy and smitten by Ryder in ways neither Gerwig nor Ronan would encourage/tolerate today. But Chalament makes for much more engaging Laurie than Christian Bale was (Bale always seemed like he was encroaching on some precious girl time with some stealth testosterone). Though I cried less this when the sick sister (Eliza Scanlen) was dying, it might be as I'm now all sober and medicated (but then I remembered Olive, our beloved cat, dead now some months, I was able to quietly bawl along with the chicks I was with). Gerwig stages the descent into soap and romantic foibles as possible fictionalized to placate the publisher's idea of chick lit., which makes it all somehow easier to bear but less ultimately engaging.

For the first half of the film, this is the best movie of the year, all rich with overlapping simultaneously occurring chitchat dialogue as the girls all tumble over each other in brilliantly choreographed movements worthy of a Hawks screwball comedy, albeit with the cinematography of Yorick Le Saux capturing an eternal dusky autumnal period richness and Gerwig's keen familiarity and clear love of the book palpable in every frame. Streep and Chris Cooper are reunited again after Adaptation as the cool older generation and steal all their scenes (this is the rare story with no villains, not even the vaguely patriarchal publisher). A great early moment is a stunning tracking shots of Jo racing excitedly down the crowded period NYC street after selling her first story, and a haunting art gallery-worthy golden hued nighttime train station romantic 'possible concession to the publisher" climax. And of course the various plays and attics, lots of well photographed, orchestrated and attended dances, and some existential moments on a windy beach, and Louis Garrel makes a magnetic Friedric

Dir. James Wan

The plot may parallel Black Panther, Lion King and a zillion other movies/myths with some positions jostled vis-a-vis rightful heir to the crown battles, just with the ocean instead of Africa, but who cares? The tale was old when it was told in The Lion King and, probably, when Sir Thomas Mallory wrote Le Morte d'Arthur in 1485. It will never get old, as long as there are dudes hanging around guzzling brew instead of reclaiming their kingdoms from bureaucrat usurpers. But much as I mancrush on Jason Momoa, there's one reason why this should be one here, and one reason should be enough: the wet, straggly hair.

There's a moment when we're up close in Nicole Kidman's waterlogged grey (!) straggly dreads when it hits us - the hair in this movie could have gone horribly wrong: anime flat, soft boy gelly, or dry or worse, taped down, the sort of lazy cop-out akin to the having kaiju slap-downs occur on cloudy days (freeing animators from dealing with bothersome afternoon shadows and scale-glint highlights), but director James Wan (Fast and the Furious - the most consistently good dude-friendly action series ever) wisely knows the wet hair makes or breaks this movie and our belief these people are actually underwater rather than just making swimming gestures in slow motion in front of a blue screen. I'll grant you, all the hair isn't that amazing (Heard's artificial candy apple Ariel red) and some of the acting is hammy, especially by Willem Defoe who speaks in that declamatory outdoor voice kind of over-enunciation of Saturday morning cartoons where voice actors talk to each other adult characters like they're really talking to children despite their booming declarativeness and moving their lips in such a way as to make things easy for the dubbing crews to come.

Then you have Patrick Wilson -- one of those items you just keep getting on the menu though you never ordered it, maybe because it's not offensive enough to send back or deliberately request be left off the plate, like the pickle and the little tub of cole slaw at the diner. It might be delicious if you really dug into it, but why would you when there's mighty Dolph Lundgren as the King Triton-cum-Sea Monkey? There's that green spangle scale costume and clashing dyed red hair too on the usually sublime Amber Heard as the girl who brings the Momoa down deep to prevent a massive ocean-land war. Bad color grader, bad!

None of that matters, because this is the best of this kind of Henry V/Arthur-esque scraggly king and his girl and his mother riding in to the wasteland to declare his might against his kingdom's enemies together' movie since Dune. And then there's Jason Mamoa, with his massive beard and super-brooding eyes and gloriously tattooed body, is the kind of king you know you can swig beers with but then proudly serve, not unlike the Hemsworth Thor when we first found him way back in 2005 or whenever. Such a genius casting move to make him all a half-Polynesian / half-Poesidon rather than the towheaded Aryan in green slippers from the comics, and keeping his hair and groovy mods rather than streamlining him to some whitebread DC pap ideal in elvin slippers and orange scales

One weird but strangely hopeful sign too: the presence of a set of African-American father-son high-tech submarine pirates who open the film boring into nuclear subs to kill the crew and steal the nukes. What an idea --an African American father -son bond but they're the bad guys!! It's all well and good to put African Americans as sidekicks and main character heroes, but casting them as villains, for DC that's a huge complexity for which they should be congratulated. Watching them in action, we're so conditioned to scan a pair like this as stars in some underprivileged small scale drama that acknowledging them as evil and the Russian nuclear sub crew as the good guys, runs so counter to a lifetime of movie conditioning it quietly cracks open a long-closed iron door. Are we free of those prisons now? Am I showing my age just by pointing these firsts out?

10. CRAWL 
Dir. Alexandra Aja 

Kaya Scodelro gives a star-making performance as the tough ex-swim champ who didn't win on her big chance or something, and is heading past the barriers back to her immanently flooded Florida home where divorced handyman dad (Barry Pepper) isn't answering his phone. The result, daughter must rescue dad and dog from an influx of gators from a nearby gator farm, rolling in with a massive catagory 5 hurricane. All things considered (see above), it couldn't be more timely. The sets are amazing -including a massive flooded exterior, where the whole neighborhood, from the house across the street to the gas station, is actually flooded. Rescue teams come by but those gators won't quit. Aja uses every foot of the four stories of the house, from basement up to attic are used to wreak maximum suspense. The gators keep coming, and Haley keeps rising to the challenge leading to a pretty memorable final shot in a rollicking film that keeps one engaged and entertained from the beginning to the end.

Dir. Anna Boden, Ryan Fleck

I know, too many comic book movies in my list/s, but I can't help what I watch or like or what stands as genuine mythic arc lighting and social progress and screw anyone who disagrees. It's funny that Marty Scorsese's dislike of Marvel movies becomes a meme when The Irishman is such a cliche in its format, from Scorsese's regular guy narration to the moments chosen to focus in on, such as Joe Pesci's irritation with his wife's smoking in the car as an excuse for those stops along the symbolic Jersey road. Does Marty prefer not to drive so doesn't know that's a feature most cars have, that you can roll down a damned window?). It's simple shit like that. Scorsese thinking that we should feel involved in Leo Di Caprio's urge to kill the man who killed a father he didn't even know, when it was a fair fight during a big 5-Points battle (Gangs of New York) or that we're not supposed to be sick to death of De Niro's character's surprise when he's slammed by the gaming license committee after he refuses to keep Joe Bob Briggs on staff, even "farther down the trough" (in Casino). Such moments seem to indicate Marty is severely challenged when it comes to the basics of reality.

The best Marvel movies, on the other hand, don't give a shit. They're mythic, and so much more attuned to reality than Marty's asphalt-eyed adoration of regular guys. Though its plot is hardly original even in comic book movies, Lady Marvel has got everything great films should have. And as the title character, Brie Larson proves a sea change along the lines of the one we see in Booksmart and Little Women and Crawl, i.e. the arrival of 'last wave' feminism, wherein strong female characters no longer need to keep banging on the edges of the shattered glass ceiling like the millionth spokesperson for grrl power. The ceiling is busted and Brie knows you can just move on up through and, rather than stay up there making a speech on glass ceilings, looking for some small corner still uncracked so she can break it a bit more; to use a D-Day parlance, she's smart enough to gets the hell of the beach.  No longer merely identified via the handrails of the 'strong female woman' but eight miles beyond it, the way Sam Jackson's Nick Fury's whole demeanor changes when he realizes this is marvelous. While Captain Marvel was a wearisome snooze as a man, with Brie at the helm she's part of a grand scheme that points out to America, in the most mythic way, that in the next war, upcoming election pending, we might well be the fascist bad guys.

Dir. Craig Brewer

A fascinating rags-to-riches tale of DOLEMITE, a DIY film that broke cult midnight movie records and made its star and producer, Rudy Ray Moore, famous. It's a FUBU affair, with Eddie Murphy as Rudy Ray Moore, a stand-up comedian who makes a name for himself in his neighborhood and black clubs when he starts using the boasting limerick-style sexual potency pre-rap rapping of the local street bums in his act. Calling himself Dolemite he's soon putting out 'blue' records and eventually getting financed to make a small low budget movie. Stealing electricity and using local film students as a crew, the film goes onto become a smash hit primarily with all black audiences who'd been longing to see just such a participatory raunchy mess. Eddy Murphy disappears into the role of Moore, and captures the highs and lows of the character, letting us into the mix of go-for-broke moxy that every struggling filmmaker yearns to capture. The 99% black cast backing him up is top notch. Best of all, here is a film about the black experience that eschews any tired examples of racism as an impediment to success (there are police cars or social sermons) to focus instead on black culture taking the tools of the trade and making their own damn movie, free and clear of any liens on having to represent some kind of black crisis, black pride, or other "Big Message" that so often makes black movies seem like dreary liberal preach to the choir racism call-outs. The take-away is nothing sort of a revelation, a glimpse into what a post-racist black culture might look like, free of the need to define itself by past oppression or economic woes. Like the poetry of Langston Hughes, the film has the guts to reach way past that and provide a mythic core to the African-American experience and what it is--outside of music, of course--may still be forming, but Dolemite is my Name is proof of patent. The sea change is nigh. Black-made movies about black people making their own movies is just the first step out of the reactionary ghetto. The signs are all around that even as this world burns and drowns at the same time, the cinematic alternate is looking mighty rosy.

13. US 
Dir. Jordan Peele

Though in the end the reveal doesn't make a lot of logical sense, the meanings and interpretations remain intriguing and varied. And like Endgame, certain key termite moments transcend the whole and become original, real, iconic and terrifying. Lupita Nyong'o in particular is so balls-out crazy and lit so well that her round huge eyes and glaring white teeth, blazing but barely making a hight against the all consuming blackness of her ebony face, becomes a terrifying monster behind the mask of normality, as if the gleaming smiles of past America's past black caricatures come ripping open to expose some kind of terrifying archaic savage. It's such a wild piece of acting we can feel the pantheon of great horror icons opening up to embrace her, should she deign to stay. If the film itself and its weird obsession with Hands Across America can't quite live up to the expectations we all had after Get Out, it's still loaded with enough weird symbolism, an examination of a century-old problem in the African American community (i.e. that no one can enter the upper middle class without carrying the guilt of not helping the community they left behind move up too (and thus draining their own bank accounts). It's a problem that has never gone away in human history but is surely felt quite keenly in the African America community. The idea of this other linked world never quite feels real but it's beautifully lit, shot, and acted, with enough great horror moments that it earns a spot in this looney-tunes list.

By Anthony and Joe Russo

Well, in addition to the joy of partying like the tab for the world is about to arrive and, rather than admit you can't pay it, you just stall and start ordering more rounds of shots, the big 'last day on earth' celebrations also have a very real flip side, a tendency to lose a grip on their usual semi-cool and mythic elan and to get blubbery and let every character take a sobbing bow, dying in one another's arms left and right. I can't spoil the surprises in the bottom of the Endgame cereal box but, as with Toy Story 4, the maudlin goodbye speeches and dewy-eyed "human" contact moments kind of wind up in a fender-bender five mile back-up that seems to freeze time in place while the saccharine strings build and the hugs commence. One of the reasons I risk critical reputation (!) by regarding these movies so highly is their mythic resonance, but when they get like this they're no longer resonant towards the larger myths - the Parsifal/Moses/Perseus hero with a thousand faces archetypal blueprint --and more just a homage to a homage, like Red Riding Hood cut with B-12 and baby powder. Maybe that's what they call the actor's 'reward'. You can see the reward in TV shows, where--even in dramas--they'll let certain actors with musical theater roots belt out an anachronistic song, or the whole cast will do some choreographed lip sync dance party and you're like ugh.

Then again, as with Aquaman's hair, all the angst and sobbing (dude, no one gives a shit about Pepper Potts!) is worth it just for Thor's big gut and devolving from mega-hero to slovenly dude playing videogames and quaffing beers with the survivors from Asgard's destruction at the end of Thor: Ragnarok. The scene where he time travels and bumps into his mom (dead since Thor 2) and she instantly gets he's from the future on an important mission, and the way he plays it, clearly overwhelmed and finally breaking down in her arms, made my cinematic year. Go Thor! Go!

Dir Todd Phillips

The Beach Bum's even more crack-pot brother from another psycho mother, this is a well-crafted sashay into the looney-bin, with Hildur Guðnadóttir's brilliant droning, if familiarly Johan Johannson-ish (she was cellist on SICARIO and ARRIVAL) soundtrack like the opening bars of George Harrison's "Within you and Without You" blown out into a nightmarish elevator drop. Set in a very garbage strike 70s NYC-style Gotham, with shades of NYC in the Goetz-Sliwa 70s, with a Reagan's California 80s approach to the mentally ill in the depiction of paranoid schizophrenic workaday clown Arthur Fleck (Joaquin Phoenix), unwisely given a gun by his Peter Boyle-d work chum after he endures a stomping from a gang of local toughs. What's next is a fusion of Martin Scorsese-Robert De Niro cinematic allusions along with digs at the murph alt-right fascist juggalo contingents of your red state hometown. Fleck's ill-advised foray onto an open mic night stage (he aims to be a stand-up comic) merges his Bickle with the Pupkin (De Niro is in the Jerry Langford role, if that makes it more meta and less ripper-offy) leaving us to regularly wonder what's real vs. a psychotic delusion.

But that's a slipper-slopperly slope when making a silly-willy clown movie, Mr. Todd! There's a difference between WIZARD OF OZ and SUCKER PUNCH. To me and my gal, it was as much of a cop-out as the cracked head and opening disclaimer tacked onto Roger Corman's THE TRIP (1967) by an uneasy James Nicholson, or the censor-imposed hanging/trial ending to SCARFACE (1933). I can't be sure, but I presume it was added after nervous producers saw the rough cut and worried hooligan fans would start post-show riots in a reversal of Aurora's DARK KNIGHT RISES premiere.

STILL The one and only RIPoxoxox
Another issue: though Guðnadóttir's drones rawked, the classic rock songs on the juke box often seemed a little too on the nose. I loved, like everyone else, Phoenix's dance to Gary Glitter's "Rock and Roll Part II" atop a now meme-sanctified set of stairs, but hearing Burdon sing "It's my life/ and I'll do what I want," Creem's "White Room", CCR's "Fortunate Son," not to mention that tacky "Send in the Clowns" and "Smile" renditions, is problematic. Good thing that, despite all that, there's real dirty kick danger burned into this film, and I have no doubt that Joker mask shall be worn by more than one masked juggalo taking advantage of large protests to smash windows and throw rocks at cops. And though I initially had issues with Joaquin Phoenix in the lead (he seems way too old to play an origin story), his insane laughing is pretty terrifying. When confessing his crimes on Robert De Niro's TV talk-show in a lurid triple play version of De Niro's own characters in KING OF COMEDY, TAXI DRIVER and BLOODY MAMA, you know you're into some dark twisted waters, and no amount of 'all a dream' what-iffery can belay its Captain Ahab-esque order.

I just wish Phillips and Co. had the courage to ride its dark fantasy all the way up against the police barricades and beyond, for being caught up in a riot used to be a rite of passage (I've been caught in three of them, and each time I learned a little bit more about the ugliness of mob mentality - and that, for all my Herzog-ish fascination with the process, I can never quite join in).  Finally, here is a film not afraid to stage one but chicken to incite one - the FIGHT CLUB of its generation and it backs off. You think Heath Ledger's Joker, setting fire to millions of dollars was just empty movie gesturing? Would Phillips insist on having a close-up that it's just play money so don't cry, capitalism is safe.

Still, more than a lot of these films even on this list, JOKER stayed with me enough I snuck it on here in the tail end. It clearly has at least a finger up the external acoustic meatus of our national disquiet for the sheer amount of writing on it via this WWW has been staggering. With a mighty swath of acting by old Joaquin, great colors, pacing, dialogue and vivid characters and grime to spare, you can forgive it its whiffling and waffling. And even more so than is expected in the recent years rise in excellent creative sound mixing, the foley and other sound work here in duplicating the numb feeling of being getting the crap knocked out of you or racing down the street. Next time, Todd, put down your PC-bashing tweeter, put on your steel tipped sneakers, and kick out the struts like a summer camp can.

1. FLEABAG - Season 2
By Phoebe Waller-Bridge

Even my own significant other wanted to re-watch season 2 in order to nurse her crush on the hot priest (Andrew Scott) and she hasn't had such a notion in a decade. The in-love with the show critics note it's the perfect end to the series since she seems to break up with us, her viewers, at the end, but let's hope not. It's the most raucous, focused comedy on TV, and Waller-Bridge is a badass sex addict of the first order. We simply must stalk her into a third season. 

(HBO) Creators: Julio Torres, Anna Fabrega 

Written and conceived by doe-eyed El Salvadorian ex-SNL writer Julio Torres (the genius behind the 'Wells for Boys' sketch) and the startlingly deadpan young writer/comedian Ana Fabrega, LOS ESPOOKYS, a new HBO comedy, is one of the first HBO series to be filmed in Spanish but meant for American audiences as well as the world. Set in Mexico with forays to LA, the show chronicles the interlocking adventures of a group of horror make-up/effects specialists who--for a fee--stage 'real' scares: everything from UFO abductions, to exorcisms, sea monster sightings (to drum up seaside tourism), and old dark house hauntings (for will readings) and so forth. Fans of classic Mexican horror, Ed Wood, Alejandro Jodorowsky, the ficciones of Borges, the wheezing of Togella, the drollery of Armisen and all the true (?) ghost and UFO shows on cable--ay dios mio!-- must love it. (Full: "Disinformation Please!")

(Netflix) Dir. Samuel Bodin

This Gallic Stephen King-ish tale isn't the first to use Stephen King's collective ouevre as a genre unto itself, but it is the best. Ala It 2, we have a group of grown-up childhood friends in a French seaside town who reunite when one of them commits suicide at one of her book readings. Their leader, a hot girl version of Stephen King, is forced to realize her writing both creates and comes from the evil spirit, a kind of La Llorona in a mildly twee-meta vein, Marianne. The whole "you must write me so I exist" angle can get your eye rolling if you're not from a country that reveres writers (i.e. like the USA, where we're notoriously contemptuous of them), but the acting is all great and there is perhaps the scariest actress performance ever in the shape of Mireille Herbstmeyer as the possessed mother of the 'suicide' girl - clearly they're using some kind of imperceptable secret CGI to enlarge her eyes and mouth ever so slightly here and there, never enough to really break the wall of normality, and that's why it's so terrifying. Maybe the best use of 'subliminal' CGI since What Lies Beneath. 

(in French with English Subtitles)

(Prime) season 1

Using a family history of mental illness as a jumping off point, this rotoscope "Waking Life"-style animated series explores the before and after of a major car accident that throws disaffected Daria-style star Rosa Salazar into what is either a fourth dimensional reunion with her late father (Bob Odenkirk) or a total psychotic break. Deftly captured in the animation, the trippy segues in and out of alternate realities are a wonder to behold, as is the way the animation captures the wealth of expressions from wunderkind Salazar. Amazingly, the whole thing never strays very far from that split of the difference between reality and the vividly imagined, managing to give us both possibilities so seamlessly we realize that-- in our collective move towards re-embracing psychedelics as a doorway into the world normally experienced only via mental illness-- subjective experience is not only as legitimate 'consensual reality,' its more coherent.

(season 1) HBO

Though typical for the network in its shockingly blatant sexual violence, something that haunts me way too much even years after I see it (I get the shivers just hearing the word "Bolton" or seeing that actor in a different movie or show, because of GOT for example), I can't deny that EUPHORIA is a major work of art, especially in the writing and the performances of the two main characters, the barely-out-of-rehab Rue (played by the masterfully disaffected Zendaya) and fearless trans blonde pixie Jules (Hunter Schaefer), who together navigate the sometimes terrifying worlds of--for Jules--rough trade sexual online hookups--and Rue, the horror of trying to say remotely clean in a world filled with triggers. Meanwhile all sorts of horrible HBO sexual transgressions and violent repercussions go on, most thanks to a terrifying alpha male (Jacob Elordi) and his power top papa. There is, as usual too with HBO, stunningly vivid acting, including wildly grounded and super cool work by Angus Cloud as Rue's chill dealer.

6. Of course, Rick and Morty - season 4. It's just as wildly imaginative, trippy, densely woven and filthy as it ever was. To paraphrase Abe Lincoln, I don't know what they're smoking over there, but find out what it is and distribute it to the other shows. Great as it is, I only add it last, almost in secret, as the troll fan contingent and other elements give the show a tainted aura outside of itself, particularly where uppity broads like my own beloved #mefirst feminist cohabitant is concerned. But hey, don't throw out the baby with the bathwater, and all the other 'can't we just have this one thing?' blah blah appeals we SWMs make to keep the things that double us over in hilarity free from associative slime. Ohm, it's a shrinking island. I'm on it and increasingly worrying if the streak of 'just kidding' no fear gestures I make are getting through, or if I'm just sounding like a Drunk Uncle. That's I guess the challenge of the 20s. But guess what? Now we have a name for the decade! It's been weird trying to find the right moniker for this past 20 years, "way back in the aughts, or the 10s, or double-00s, or the 'teens" - nothing sounds or feels quite right. But the twenties?! Hell Yeah the 20s. Long may they roar, quietly.

P.S. - The best show, as far as prime time, was of course THE MASKED SINGER, but I'm too embarrassed to praise it properly. Had I the balls, its odd mix of Ken's annoying comedy, the crazy inspired dancers, the relative sexy middle-aged pair of statuesque female judges with normal looking lips, the idea of a game show with no prizes and no real losers (and the whole Who-scored demasking climaxes), the way the amazing host Nick Cannon never misses a beat, looks great in a Sikh/magician turban and stresses the hard G and K in the title (i.e. the "MasKed Sinh-Ger"), the strange, strange but wildly imaginative performances, and the propensity of judge Nicole Scherzinger to shed more than one tear the moment shit gets ballad-ish (plus her tender love affair with the "Thingamajig"), the amazing editing, cutting to random but always trenchant audience reaction close-ups, and the fact even hoity toity brainiacs like me and mine can get just as into it as some red state Fox viewer and neither of us have to feel slighted or ironic. If we can all agree on this show, there's no limit to the things we can achieve.

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