Cleansing the doors of cinematic perception since 2006, or earlater

Friday, August 08, 2014

Top 25: Erich's All-Time Favorite Films

April 12, 2014 Postscript: RIP to a great lady, say hi to the boys, we'll see you again soon
Bogey and Bacall - Hollywood's Coolest Couples

Anything that kills you makes you cool first

I've been going to bed really early lately, sometimes five or six AM. And any film lover knows movies at dawn have their own rare magic, illuminating inner truths not usually seen within earlier screenings, just as two opposing mirrors might illuminate rarefied sights such as the back of one's head, the better to appraise one's hair, freeing the gaze from its familiar angles in ways the day's medicine cabinet mirror glance of prime time doth not afford. Films I've seen a thousand times are alien and strange at this black magic hour, delivered from their familiarity and made new and wondrous. I would bring on my desert island these gathered here, though if I haven't been living on a desert island lately I never will be. So keep your VERTIGOs, your CITIZEN KANEs, your RULES OF THE GAMEs and GONE WITH THE WINDs. They make me sick. I've been sick all week, reaching the end of a decade-long mid-life crisis--all my tethers coming to an end at once (August has always been my emotional/spiritual Waterloo). So if e'er was a time to build a raft from these timbres, 'tis now. These here films have proven of late still lighter than air, and still potent enough to remind me why I drank in the first place, and that the ultimate message of my favorite director Howard Hawks is that anything that kills you makes you cool first.

dir Howard Hawks (1946)

I'll never go to bed early again, not when I can re-watch THE BIG SLEEP over and over, flipping the disc (there are two versions) and pondering the mystery of who actually killed Owen Taylor and what what exactly transpired in that sexy bookstore between "closed for the afternoon" and the rainy evening; and why Hawks + Bogart + Bacall + Chandler = infinite cool. All I need to know is that Bogie and Bacall both radiate such alchemically rich magic both separately and together (as long as Hawks is there, too) that time stands still and the fine print of the plot fades into the dripping shadows of time like the chuckling gasp of a post-poison Harry Jones. Bet that Agnes of yours wouldn't turn it down, even knowing it would be her last. (See Anima Scythe).

Latest viewing notes, post-reshoot version: I understand now that my adult tastes were formed around this film and that it left me with no love of outdoor scenes actually filmed outdoors. Hawks keeps the principle exteriors inside: the street around Geiger's house, Huck's Garage and the the house in the back --all soundstage. Bogie prowls around these zones like a cagey astronaut on the landscape of a great train set dream and Bacall glows right off the screen thanks to all that dark. Even CASABLANCA has an occasional sunny LA exterior (daytime comes to Casablanca) around the WB set to dampen the dream-like mood with hangovers and bazaars, but SLEEP never leaves the darkness, one sort or another, and all the women have jobs or are on the make, or are into drugs, gambling, decadence, smoking, drinking their lunch from a bottle, and falling onto a guy's lap while he's standing up. It's paradise. Hawks' greatest film, it leaves me with zero tolerance for the ditzy housewives, Norman Rockwell mailmen, apple-cheeked kids, and ladies auxiliaries so popular in MGMs movies during the sam era. May they all rot in hell for their code-enforced Americana poisoning. Why couldn't there have been Hawks-Bogart-Bacall adaptions of all Chandler's books, all filmed just like this? I would cut off my left foot for that. Hell, I wouldn't need it.

2. THE THING (1951)
Dir. Christian Nyby (Howard Hawks)

It was starting on a local TV station one afternoon in 1981, the exact moment we connected our first VCR. It was like landing on the moon. I taped it and I watched it obsessively, even though it was missing several scenes (I edited out the commercials). When those scenes showed up later I was as excited as I would ever get - that is until 1997 when the Army preview cut of BIG SLEEP surfaced. If I have courage in my life it's thanks to this film-- there's such a great rapport between Hendry and his crew that I really want to be all I can be in the Air Force, at the North Pole, in 1951, forever and ever.

(1979) dir. Jonathan Kaplan

When a peer group and time-place period are captured correctly on film, as in Wellman, Hawks, or Linklater, you get a feeling of the power and joy of belonging, paradoxically finding yourself through submersion into a group identity at the same time, a power and joy most adults hiding behind the evening paper at home have no recollection of and maybe never even experienced unless they fought in a war. They condemn it when they see it in their children as dangerous and refuse to discuss the matter further, searching their kids' sock drawers for drugs. EDGE was shelved for two years before being released under the radar, and I found it by accident on TNT one afternoon, surprised it got ***1/2 from Maltin, and soon enthralled and drunk by it, with it, and because of it. Now I know I was seeing a movie where the kids were genuinely cool instead of just screwing in cars and kidnapping the school mascot and being 'edgy' in that edgeless rote misogynist PORKY'S way. (See Vandal in the Wind)

(1944) Dir. Howard Hawks
"A home with mother... in Albany, too."
Every line of this movie is like champagne, and alongside Philadelphia Story and The Awful Truth a classic example of Cavell's "Comedies of Remarriage." Essential reading. Essential re-veiwing too, until the entire script sings in your bloodstream.

(1932) Dir. Josef Von Sternberg
"I wish you could tell me there'd been no other men."
"I wish I could, Doc. But five years in China is a long time..."
Second only to OVER THE EDGE as far as sending up the harbingers of decency and parental micro-managing, this has got a great pre-code Paramount jazz score, and the cream of the crop of character actors including Eugene Palette and Gustav von Seyffertitz and Anna May Wong at her most coolly exotic; and she looks so good in the train compartment with Dietrich in her black feathers and veil that they seem like a pair of 60s Carnaby Fashion models wandering into some dream version of 1932 via a Donald Cammell time warp.The whole first half of this film is a glorious ribbing of censors, colonialism, and British prudery, only to reverse the flow by having the Henry Davidson harumpher turn over to Shanghai Lily's side of things, because she's true and Hawksian beyond decadence. And it's a great movie to watch on a hot summer night with a fan blowing on you.

Finally, it's the ultimate rationale for why artifice and illusion are cinema's--as well as woman's--stock and trade. Without all the smoke and mirrors no one would ever stay together of their own free will. The man wants to fuck and run and it's the woman's task to devour him like a Venus flytrap luring the unwary fly. She mustn't betray her true feelings at first, mustn't tremble the leaves and tip off the prey; she must stay aloof in the same way the image mustn't include a boom mike shadow. It is accomplished.

(1941) Dir. Preston Sturges

Every viewing is like the first, reflecting the mythic undercurrents of the eternal, like a child who can hear the same story every night for months and months: just check the scene where their faces are pressed to each other, her hand (at left) occupying the far left of the screen, like a cobra bouncing back and forth through his hair. When he learns she's really a card sharp we only feel bad for her for a second - soon drowned in a ship's bellowing horn; her "I feel a lot better all ready" at seeing the check alive and well further cements us to her hip in admiration, re-bonding her to the magnificent Gerald. Love is for chumps and when a grifter falls in love with a chump we sense our hackles rising, but which are we, aren't we chumps, too?

Eric Blore shows up in the next scene: "Sir Alfred at the moment by my child" - he only has to introduce them all to his new name once or twice and they instantly remember and we wouldn't see such quick thinking until Jack Lemmon and Al Pacino in GLENGARRY GLEN ROSS. ("Good old Horace, ho! what a card player.") The next moment, the morning birds are chirping and the lovely bullfrog voice of Eugene Palette comes in "tomorrow we'll be sobURRR" - and you belong body and soul to this movie. The portly butler from ANIMAL CRACKERS shows up trying to supervise the preps for a party. And even as a royal dame from Great Britain, visiting during the Blitz as they often did to drum up support, Stanwyck's Lady Eve isn't some stuffy caricature but a lively suffusion of class and sauce, who jokes of her misunderstandings and cultural confusion trying to navigate the NYC subway, sweeping the whole bourgeois crowd off their feet and saving Palette from another dull evening ("take my arm and we'll fight our way through") Unlike Cary Grant in screwballs where he's either in on or not with the joke, Fonda is deliberately sincere, giving that measured earnestness in his voice talking about seeming to go way back, or presuming his superiority at cards."You don't understand psychology," as if he's navigating his way towards an unblinking monologue in GRAPES OF WRATH. Demarest as his bodyguard is paranoid but he's also right, and in the psyche scheme he's the superego, tripping Hopsy up time and again, the suspicious and egocentric angle - with Palette as the Fisher King and Piggy as the sage, magus, trickster yoda. Eve as the anima of course but she's also the princess--many guises: "Women change their names so often anyway it doesn't seem to matter."

I need him like the axe needs the turkey; the final image even is loaded - the snake sleeping like a contented penis by it's two huge apple balls, rattling it's baby rattle --the warning implied that desire's quenching leads only to more problems ahead with screeching children - problems which Sturges has no interest in (thank goodness, Sturges films are mostly child-free). I even love the James Harvey Criterion liner notes where he discusses the way childhood innocence survives only in the form of the Ralph Bellamy effect, creating prudes with small town homey naiveté just waiting to get took, but that cynicism in turn must turn back towards the innocent, not only for an easy route but one that's genuinely forward, rather than back again to the same old lair, now crusted over with so much blood it's hard to tell what's still fresh, and the result is so slow poisoning.

(1932) Dir. Howard Hawks

My second favorite comedy and most favorite gangland sage, it's like the Marxes if there were all Chicos and sociopathic killers; Mr. Camonte's secretary Angelo (Vince Barnett) getting so mad he almost shoots the phone, wondering 'bout the word 'education' - the uneasy chill of Camonte's clowning and smiles so easily melding into murder. The insert scene at the DA's office, which seems like Hawks took the DA scene out of SLEEP because they put this one in."But what can private citizens do?" The rant about "the National Guard offered their services two years ago!" The cops are dour "When I think what goes on in the minds of these lice I want to vomit!"The reporters are snarky and half-crazed from hot ink fumes. The gangsters are half mad from wealth and danger ; screenwriter Hecht's black comic Broadway witticism all over a scene at the theater seeing RAIN."This a girl Sadie... she's been a-what-a you call 'disillusioned"; Ann Dvorak's jazz baby seductive dance (the cornet rocks like Satchmo); Karen Morley calmly accepting Tony's light instead of Lovo's, and on and on.

(1964) Dir. John Huston

There's certain movies so much like my life I can't tell them apart. This is one movie like that, though I first saw and taped it on a TNT colorization, where it saved my life (details here); "I'm a New England spinster who's pushing 40." "Well who the hell isn't?!" Sure it's pretentious in parts but so is my life; when one is a romantic at heart one risks all for love even if or especially if it means your certain doom. And there's Sue Lyon luring you over the falls like a mirage in the mist.

Like OVER THE EDGE it is clearly on the side of the drunks and deviants, a punch in the snoot to the Tab Hunter beach movie (the fight with the beach boys and Hank). It's written by a gay man from the Southern 50s and the Ava Gardner part is meant for Ana Magnani where it would make more sense that Shannon's 'settling' to stay in paradise rather than take the long swim. And there's the old poet, ranting during the luncheon: "Love's an old remembered song a drunken fiddler plays / stumbling crazily along crooked alleyways."

My band and I loved this film in the 90s when the (colorized TNT version I'd taped) was a post-gig come-down favorite which we'd quote liberally: "strike the iron's hot, while its hot." It's a film for all kinds of romantic dysfunction, including abstinence and impotence and as one who's been both I respect that "nothing human disgusts (Deborah Kerr), Mr. Shannon... unless it's unkind... or violent."  That line has become my creed, and a good way to imagine AA meetings, the 'talking cure' the way sharing intimate personal tragedy and strangeness with others helps calm us down. "I had a spook like yours once, I used to call him the blue devil" / "Endurance is something that spooks and blue devils respect, and the tricks they use to dispel their panic. Everything we do to give them the slip and so keep on going." Well, this movie is mine, this my trick, this movie my life raft that's never deflating, even sans colorization, sans band, sans Cialis, sans alcohol, sans... everything.

(1933) Dir. A. Edward Sutherland

I had to pick one W.C. Fields movie, or Marx Brothers, so it was this. It's not perfect but I love it and can watch it incessantly. Peggy Hopkins Joyce is the pre-code equivalent of Anna Nicole Smith, and Burns and Allen do their schtick, and W.C. Fields is at his most feral, alcoholic, and assertive. I guess NEVER GIVE A SUCKER AN EVEN BREAK is a favorite as well, but it's tough to put on this list because of all the lengthy Gloria Jean musical numbers, which even she doesn't seem to like doing. Bela Lugosi is the Russian buyer for the radioscope.. "Kansas City is lost, I am here!

(1934) Dir. Howard Hawks

Death is all around in TWENTIETH CENTURY. Oscar Jaffe threatens suicide (with sublime melodramatic flair) every time he starts to lose control of his actress or budget and the dialogue is choked with hilarious threats and insults, like "If he were dead and in his grave, I'd throw a rope around his neck and drag him on a Cook's tour!" But like some crazy shaman, Jaffe treads the lip between life and death in split second ham doses. Contorted like his old silent version of Mr. Hyde with hands curled in pre-strangling mode one moment, lowering them them gently at his sides in the manner of a priest to meet a backer that wants to finance his play "from a religious angle" the next. In a split second after split second, Barrymore's whole soul morphs and erupts into entire plays worth of indelible moments bashed together in long single shot takes where Hawks just uses the edges of the image as the train dimensions and lets these cats with their tails tied together have at it. It's ham-shamanistic alchemy, and the great, dark self-reflexive material brings out a full-on dose of Barrymore mania...kind of like what Robin Williams pulls off sporadically as the voice of the genie in ALADDIN or the TERMINATOR 2000 model dying in a molten pool of steel. A tale, ultimately, of a doomed impresario hurtling ever forward into the void, we wouldn't see a better locomotive-character/fearlessly self-depth-plumbing actor combo until Jon Voight's crazed escaped convict in RUNAWAY TRAIN.

(1935) Dir. Max Reinhardt, William Dieterle

My anima ideal lies in Titania, the fairy queen played by Anita Louise, and Oberon her night-bringing mate is my idealized shadow. Mendelssohn's intoxicating music plays throughout like some rare opiate that charges each chakra in turn until, after all the floating on electric ether, one gets weak at the knees one falls down amidst the foliage to watch little fairies gambol about and Anita Louise run her fingers through your donkey hair, sending shivers to your soul's core. It's not just my favorite Anita Louise moment, but my favorite of late, Victor Jory's Oberon, alive with delightful Harpo-ish expression, resonant deep voice, so empathic over the lovelorn suffering of Helena (Jean Muir), his batwinged minions so perfectly blended with the night they remind me of fever hallucinations, Oberon so alive in glitter and his black tunic and antlers glow like Shanghai Lilly's black feather gown, that his scenes are some of my favorites in all movies. I still think of Jory saying "Give me that boy," followed by the hilarious drum strike, when warring with Titania over the changeling prince (played by Kenneth Anger, or Dean Stockwell, both are present) or their parade back into the night to the peak magnificence of the Felix, the imagery so nocturnally perfect no words need be spoken for whole reels of slow riding, Oberon standing in his mount like he makes his own parade float wherever he roams. I can even forgive Mickey Rooney's speed freak animism (his scenes being tickled by the Danish ballerina Nina Theilade are, to me, the cinematic equivalent of my favorite 70s babysitter moments), I can even almost forigive Hugh Herbert's incessant tittering. Erich von Korngold adapted the music, and whomever mixed the DVD deserves lionization as every damn instrument is clearly distinct from the rest and alive and on fire while chilled and half gone-to-the-sleepy-land beyond at the same time. It's my right not to reason.

(1962) Dir. Stanley Kubrick

Had to pick one desert island Kubrick. THE SHINING is maybe better, or has more class, but this has a sterling deep black comic magic that's in some ways far more terrifying, especially with the mad genius of Peter Sellers in full flower.

(1931) Dir. Todd Browning

This movie has my DNA stamped into it - it's a part of me and that's a fact. I've performed it in a one man ten-minute rooftop sideshow, screened it (in a 'Castle Films' reel) at druggy outdoor parties at half speed, been Drac for Halloween countless times, and I could give a shit that the film's so disjointed, that Whale's two FRANKENSTEIN films are so much better. This is the groundbreaker, the one everyone has seen once at least, and it used to be on all the time on UHF TV (without the girl being thrown in the lake cut out). Lugosi is the quintessential undead, the one from which all others flow. He is immortal. He's a part of me. His unworldly power is still startling, not that he's scary so much as magnetic. When he tries to control Van Helsing wiht his will you think to yourself Lugosi really does have ESP ability, you can see the shimmering auric tentacled drawing Van Helsing to him across the room. I even love the quiet, the lack of film music, making this seem like it was forgotten, that the camera just happened to be on during someone's 5 AM laudanum fever dream. Mina Harker - unearthly; David Manners - anemic - dwight Frye - hammy.

Lastly a recent uncovering (thanks to Mick LaSalle) of the existentially morbid WWI aviator films written by John Monk Saunders, I've been better able to situate the film in terms of drunken chilled moments at the flight control HQ bar or the consoling arms of Parisian meter maids. Lucy's recitation of the "Hurrah for the next who dies" toast in DRACULA connects to the same toast in EAGLE AND THE HAWK and DAWN PATROL (similar toasts and surrealist gusto in ACE OF ACES); and Helen Chandler wafts through LAST FLIGHT like the ghost of Mina Harker's soul now that Drac has her body. There may have been better movies, but this one's still never been bested. In its unearthly quiet and sheer perverse oddity it's like a British opiate addict WWI pilot's fever dream of what's going on in the mansion of his fiancee back home while he's battling the Hun. Next time you watch it just let it set in your mind that everyone involved with this film is long dead... that's true for most 1931 films but this one feels like it, it's a ghost transmission made from beyond while the actors were still alive (a formality); how's that for ghoulish existential truth? Black and white film - the ultimate vampire bite.

(2001) Dir. John Carpenter

John Carpenter is always at his best when trying to remake RIO BRAVO, and this here is RIO BRAVO on Mars meets the old school bad guys and cops binding together to fight an alien source that he explored earlier in ASSAULT ON PRECINCT 13, another favorite. I would never leave the planet without it. The greatest film of the 22nd century, its genius has yet to be fully appreciated, but if PLAN NINE had a baby with THE THING, it would be GHOSTS. And Ice Cube and Natasha are a dynamite team.

(1934) Dir. Victor Fleming

A stock of top shelf eccentric character actors as the salty pirates on a real ship on real seas, Beery hobbling masterfully about like he's seldom been t'land, Nigel Bruce huffing about, and cabins so thick with gunpowder you have to take the fight outside, all combine with lovingly-salted pirate talk ("this molasses is sweeter than serpent sedative!") to make TREASURE a personal favorite. I even love old Cooper as Jim Hawkins no matter how blubbery he gets, and I generally hate kid actors. When old scalawag Long John rows away at the end, there's a strange elegiac tone almost akin to the end of THE MISFITS or WILD BUNCH. We're saying goodbye to charming rogues who could advise and guide wide eyed innocents in the ways of social scheming, all the things the code was worried that kids would learn. After this, no Long Johns, certainly, could plunder happily ever after, and certainly not be around as a sage to children. Too damn bad. Certain it is..

Another plus: its ingeniousness in shucking all romance (it sticks to the book and doesn’t tack on any pointless love interests) and total absence of morality. After all, the plot involves young Jim Hawkin’s going after loot stolen by pirates from murdered Spanish men and women who fell victim to the marauders of the high seas. Talk about gray areas! It ain't like they’re gonna return it to the rightful owners…which I guess would be long-dead Aztecs if you want to get all provenance-y. No sir. You root for Hawkins and his bewigged parent figures because–to quote from the scriptures of the Holy Grail--“they ‘aven’t got shit all over ‘em” – but you also root for smooth talking Silver, played with great dog-eared goofiness by Wallace Beery and even his rawther repulsive looking band of brigands.

Basically what we see is that Silver wins out, evil as he is, because he’s good with children. He knows how to stoke the fires of Hawkin’s imagination and together they come out ahead even as everyone is dying all around them. You have to appreciate as well the sight of a young boy shooting a pirate he knows by name and killing him dead with no moral hand-wringing and all the crap you’d have to go through with the ratings board and parent organizations in today’s hellishly overprotective climate. There's also Chic Sale, crazy as a loon from cheese-cravings as Ben Gunn, Charles McNaughton as Black Dog ("and God bless King George!") proving the blind can be terrifying as well as hilarious, and Lionel Barrymore as Billy Bones, staving off the horrors with his near-end alcoholism, and drunkenly bullying all the folks at the Admiral Benbow into singing “Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle of Rum.” My favorite movie to convulse to back in my drinking days. Love those great wind effects.

(1932) Dir. James Whale

With numerous viewings the death and age elements kick in -- the way the 'that's fine stuff' rant by Rebecca Femm to Gloria Stuart (who's laserdisc commentary track led to her being cast in TITANIC) leads to her reflection like that of a skull in the mirror; the general nicety and British crust of Horace Femm (Ernest Thesiger) And the honest romance between lost generation lad Melvyn Dougas nd Bill's (Charles Laughton) traveling companion Perkins (Lillian Bond); the arrival of them like a dose of earthy lower grade humor, the blue collar full of good cheer taverner vs. the rich yobbos; the end point of madness and the beginning point of savagery, the way Laughton becomes the backbone of Britain; and the introduction of Roderick Femm, played by the elderly real life old lady of the stage Elspeth Dudgeon: "Morgan is a savage, I apologize" - he's a wise old gentleman  "my eldest son, Saul," cementing the biblical links.

(1948) Dir. Orson Welles

Why haven't any of Welles' better known films made it into my favorites? Because in the end so many are just about his own egotistical genius and the way, once he's tried to sheathe his towering genius within them, film structures warp and buckle. I picked this one because if I ever see it enough times to have it memorized from endless viewings, I'll be sitting pretty and sounding like a four dollar swell, especially if I have booze on this desert island. I had my last big alcoholic relapse bender in 1998 watching this movie round the clock on an old VHS dupe, Shakespeare's packed prose wormed deep into my guilty conscience like a dozen tell-tale heart press agents, and unlike the noirs and Kane the rich poetry of the material matches his booming grandeur in ways that challenge him to the fullest --he was born for it. The sturdy Republic B-western sets are built to buckle all they want. On the great new Olive blu-ray we can finally see the dirt on the sky, hear clearly the once indecipherable brogues and savor the way Welles' Genghis Kahn make-up drips under heat of the kliegs and weight of the IVAN GROZNIY crown. There's no place like home, and this rattletrap soundstage rings like his bedroom during an October childhood slumber party. I prefer it to all the other Shakespeare movies, particularly Olivier's, which tend to be far too bourgeois. The only other actor to match Welles' titanic booming ferocity in the Shakespeare realm is a short clip  Barrymore performing as Richard III n 1929's YOUR SHOW OF SHOWS, 

(1966) Dir. Howard Hawks

There are some who would think me crazy to prize this over RIO BRAVO but I can sum it all up in a few names and words: the first is Arthur Hunnicutt. Walter Brennan has sass in RIO BRAVO but its a two note sass; Arthur H. seems like the real McCoy. Only Richard Farnsworth or Sam Elliott even comes close to his level of mountain man folksy authenticity (where it taps into a sly drollery rather than 'simplicity.' Second is Robert Mitchum, who takes to the Hawskain air (the way comedy and "things at stake" action/drama coexist so sublimely) like a duck, making us wonder in amazement that this was their first and last film together. Third is 'detoxification.' Though it's played more for comedy here, the 'sobering-up from a two-month bender' feels truer than Dino's--not in spite of being funnier but because of being funnier. RIO's sobering up captured the sudden and mysterious way some random song or word will stop the shakes all at once, like the passing of a storm, and the way beer works (sometimes) for tapering down off whiske -but in general it's a different kind of drunken recovery, an earlier stage. After the wordless BRAVO opening we find Dino already sobering up and cranky watching the way into town, but Mitchum is still drunk when Wayne rides back into town; he looks and acts closer to how I felt when I went through the same thing. His hangdog eyes made for such glazing over, Mitchum captures what it's like to still be drunk even after you've woken up and not drunk for a considerable time, which I know well and Mitchum looks just how I used to feel.

And as for being funny, self-inflicted misery like that is nothing if not sardonically hilarious to the person suffering through it (if you can't laugh at it you wind up in the asylum like Don in LOST WEEKEND). I'd much rather have James Caan, Hunnicutt and Robert Mitchum in my corner as gunfighters (and drinking buddies / friends) than a teen pretty boy (Ricky Nelson, no offense), a short Italian crooner (Dean Martin) and cackling Brennan, though they're all great too, don't get me wrong. I would love to have been on the set of BRAVO and hanging out with Angie Dickinson, but EL DORADO is the movie I most want to live in... The Mitchum and Wayne combo, sharing the affection for Charlene Holt; the anachronistically cool side chicks pop up as regular as they do in BIG SLEEP; the colors of sky and interiors gorgeous, all those lots of warm yellows and deep purples thanks to the great night photography of Harold Rossen (more amniotically nurturing than the faded purple dustiness of BRAVO); even a cool Hawksian in the bad guys section for a change (Christopher George). I'm in heaven, every time I see it. Though there's no musical interlude (it seems to have been cut in between Wayne's getting "bounced around" and his farewell party) but there's Poe recitations, clanging church bells, and a groovy Nelson Riddle electric bass in the suspense parts. The whole second 2/3 seems filmed mostly at night. If you see skulls in the some of the rocky formations in the middle part, that could just be your hallucination or it could be the echo of all those X-es in SCARFACE. After this movie if you don't want to instantly RIO BRAVO and then RIO LOBO, there's no hope for you.... so

19. RED RIVER (1948)
Dir. Howard Hawks

There's hope for me. For I can't watch EL DORADO without watching RIO BRAVO, and then RIO LOBO (which is nowhere near as good as the first two, mainly due to the irregular cast but still great), and then this which is probably the best western ever made. 

dir. Eddie Cline

21. THE SHINING (1980)
dir. Stanley Kubrick

dir. Sidney Lumet

dir. Mike Nichols

dir. Ernst Lubitsch
(note Miriam's subliminal bat wings, above)

dir. Jacques Tourneur (prod. Val Lewton)


1. The Maltese Falcon (1941)
2. Only Angels Have Wings (1939)
3. The Hurt Locker (2009)
4.  Rio Bravo (1959)
5. Animal Crackers (1931)
6. Cat and the Canary (1939)
7. The Black Cat (1932)
8. The Fog (1980)
9. Masque of Red Death (1966)
10. The Birds (1962)
11. Plan Nine from Outer Space (1959)
12. The Black Swan (2010)
13. Spider Baby (1968)
14. Nothing Sacred (1937)
15. Kill Baby, Kill (1966)
16. Psycho (1960)
17. Morocco (1931)
18. Black Sabbath (1963)
19. Assault on Precinct 13 (1976)
20. Faster Pussycat, Kill! Kill! (1966)
21. To Have and Have Not (1944)
22. Casablanca (1942)
23. The Black Raven (1944)
24. Touch of Evil (1959)
25. I Know Where I'm Going (1945)



  1. Nice list. Here's mine:

    Those Who Love Me Can Take the Train (Patrice Chéreau, 1998)
    Out 1 (Jacques Rivette, 1971)
    8½ (Federico Fellini, 1963)
    La Commune (Paris, 1871) (Peter Watkins, 2000)
    Playtime (Jacques Tati, 1967)
    The Red Shoes (Michael Powell & Emeric Pressburger, 1949)
    Providence (Alain Resnais, 1977)
    Record of a Tenement Gentleman (Yasujiro Ozu, 1947)
    The Night of the Hunter (Charles Laughton, 1955)
    Good News (Charles Walters, 1947)

    Lola Montès (Max Ophuls, 1955), Le Diable Probablement (Robert Bresson, 1977), Une Chambre en Ville (Jacques Demy, 1982), A Movie (Bruce Conner, 1958), Film Socialisme (Jean-Luc Godard, 2010), India Song (Marguerite Duras, 1974), Palermo oder Wolfsburg (Werner Schroeter, 1980), Che Cosa Sono Nuvole? (Pier Paolo Pasolin, 1968), The Leopard (Luchino Visconti, 1963), **** /Four Stars (Andy Warhol, 1967), La Cicatrice Intérieure (Philippe Garrel, 1972), Judex (Georges Franju, 1963), Performance (Donald Cammell and Nicholas Roeg, 1970) Force of Evil (Abraham Polonsky, 1948), The Palm Beach Story (Preston Sturges, 1942),.

  2. Any list that puts The Thing and Night of the Iguana in the top 10 has my respect. In my opinion, both films stand out because they develop the characters and really care about people. I also would probably put a lot of the other films on my list too. And with the gentleman who commented above, I share a great enthusiasm for 81/2 and The Night of the Hunter. I enjoy your writings on film.


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