Long Day's Journey Into Night (1962)

Deep, haunting domestic melodrama about a moderately wealthy family on the verge of collapse, due to the son's progressing battle with tuberculosis, and the mother's resulting insanity and paranoia. The whole of the film takes place in their Connecticut cottage, where the mother, Mary, has secured herself in an attempt to keep reality at bay, and her delusions to run wild. Her primary concern, and reason for instability, is the gnawing thought that her youngest son is on the verge of death, but we learn, as the story progresses, that there are other causes for her troubles. The rest of the family stands idly by and watches its deterioration: the father, a stuffy, British actor, refuses to take any stand, save for coddling his wife and her delirious fantasies, and their other son is a lush, seemingly street-wise, yet completely awash in incompetence and self-pity. As the day goes on, their various tensions, concerns, and insecurities abound, and reveal themselves; while the action is moderately reigned in, there is no doubt that the events that transpire leave the characters remarkably haunted by the end.

This is an early film by the late, great Sidney Lumet, and it shows in his staging; rather than hide the fact that the film is a literal adaptation of the Eugene O'Neill play, he uses long takes and wide shots to keep the geography and physical dynamics of the play on full display, but is unafraid to cut from an all-encompassing wide to a stark, intimate close-up. The film is shot in magnificent black and white, and has that old Hollywood feel that complements the more confrontational, emotionally cutting dialogue well, particularly for Katherine Hepburn. Hepburn, perfectly utilizing her legendary star status, turns in a gut-wrenching, soulful performance as the haunted matriarch, simultaneously smiley and shaky as she searches for something, anything, that she can depend on or respect. While a section of the film puts her at the forefront when, I feel, her character would have served the story better from offscreen, the performance itself is flawless, and more indicative of her talents than more lightweight fare, like The Philadelphia Story. As her husband, Ralph Richardson is all early 20th-century bluster and panache, speaking constantly, but saying very little; his clearly stagey style is a teriffic contrast with the younger men in the family, played by Dean Stockwell and Jason Robards. Stockwell is haunting as the wide-eyed innocent playing it cynical, and we wait for him to fail in keeping up with his father's ignorant cynicism and lose his tenuous grip on sensibility. Robards could play his drunken louse in his sleep, but luckily, he brings his experience with the character (he played him on Broadway) to the table, giving the most raw, physical performance in the movie; you can almost smell the whiskey on his breath. O'Neill's mannerred dialogue becomes almost a hinderence to the film, as Lumet's style is far more contemporary and revealing than O'Neill's early 20th-century prose. O'Neill also leads the narrative into one or two dead ends, where nothing new is revealed, nothing relevant is reflected upon, and the characters stagnate, which, I'm sure, was more forgivable in 1940's theater than it was in 1960's cinema. However, the director, and the actors, are comfortable enough with the material that they intuitively relay O'Neill's ideas and motifs more successfully than the actual words he put in their mouths.

Recommended for fans of the cast, or of family-driven chamber dramas. It is comparable to Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf in its staginess, its amalgam of old and new aesthetics, and its emotional rawness, but it is the lesser film, and does not contain the remarkable, cohesive beauty of that work.

El Topo (1970)

Strikingly original, yet slightly overlong, this surreal western tells the story of a gunfighter as he trains his son, rescues a damsel, hunts down rival gunmen, and, finally, seeks redemption. The imagery of this film is its most striking element. Utilizing its fullscreen scope to its full potential, the exposures of the sky, the desert, the caves, and the mountains contained within the film are all absolutely gorgeous and picturesque. The imagery is heavily slanted towards religious symbolism, which, thankfully, is not specific enough to turn off atheists and agnostics (like myself). The action is effective, but minimal and quickly-cut; this is not a Sergio Corbucci actioner, by any means, but a more broody, evocative piece, where the violence, although prevalent, is the exception to the rule. The first part of the film is a more traditionalist western, with the gunfighter being taunted by his woman into challenging the four master gunfighters in the area. Each of them have their own method of survival, directly tying into their philosophy of life, which the gunfighter is then forced to emulate or subvert in order to achieve victory. Had the film been solely about this narrative, it could have been a more open-minded, spiritual cousin to the other foreign-made westerns coming out at that time (see Leone and Corbucci). However, writer/director/star Alexander Jodorowsky tacks on a whole other act, jumping forward a decade-plus, showing the gunfighter on his path to redemption.

Although there is plenty of inspiring, poignant footage within, it is this section of the film that is the most problematic. For one, the other characters of the film disappear, and the one(s) that remain are magnificently warped, creating a brand new plotline almost completely separate from what came before. This could be very brave, and, potentially, outstandingly effective, if not for the second crucial problem, which is that the new plotline is, surprisingly, rather cliched. The gunfighter is nursed to health by a band of malformed outcasts, and he becomes a monk, devoting himself to reintroducing his new friends back into mainstream society, possibly by force. While there are interesting aspects to this, such as his dwarf love interest and the uncompromisingly brutal ending, it is fairly preachy and, dare I say, soft in comparison to what came before it. It remains a hauntingly executed, astoundingly inventive western, one that shares much more stylistic commonalities with Orson Welles and Godard than Sergio Leone or John Ford. However, I cannot forget the feeling of waiting for the film to end, and seeing the multiple opportunities to do so effectively without dragging the more sentimentalist, middling elements of the film out to their breaking point.

Recommended for fans of highly original, New-Wave influenced work of the late '60s, early '70s, or of less conventional, more outside-of-the-box westerns, such as Dead Man or High Plains Drifter. I am definitely fascinated enough with Jodorowsky's style to seek out his grand opus, Holy Mountain, which, without the trappings of the traditionalist western, I can imagine will be an even more revelatory, striking experience.

Freaks (1932)

Half behind-the-scenes showbiz drama, half genuine freakshow, this Tod Browning classic portrays the lives of several sideshow performers, and their relationships. There are several subplots, but the central throughline concerns a dwarf and his troubles with his fiancee as he is conned by the Strongman and the new, physically normal blonde with the troupe. Their plotline is adorable, and exemplifies the point of this production, which is that these physically deformed people go through the same emotional trials as us, "normal" folk. It is the backbone for the rest of the film, which focuses more on the sensationalist aspect of the sideshow, and the human interactions between the motley crew of societal outcasts. The freaks are great; being real-life performers, they are all comfortable in front of the camera, and several (such as the Half-Boy and Angelo Rositto's dwarf) actually possess genuine, magnetic charisma. The dialogue they are given successfully straddles the line between 1930's wholesome banter and genuine, thoughtful, expository interplay. Director Browning, a year into his post-Dracula fame/infamy, deserves a load of credit for portraying this saga with a remarkable amount of confidence, and without a hint of condescension; these are real people, with real problems and feelings, and he knows how to shoot them as such, without ignoring the fact that these are physically deformed people, with handicaps and/or gifts beyond the realm of many of our understandings. This film nearly sank his career, and I am not surprised that it was considered a flop and a travesty until the counter-culture of the 1960's embraced it wholeheartedly (much like another bonafied classic, Fantasia).

Highly Recommended. There is enough substance here for the genuine cinephile, along with a plethora of freakish people doing freakish things to satisfy even the most hardened of sensationalists. A truly brave, wonderful film.

In The Heat Of The Night (1967)

Involving and still relevant, this Civil Rights-era murder mystery explores the relationship between a brutish, racist Mississippi cop and the stalwart black FBI agent assigned to assist him. The victim was a local industrialist, whose business interests conflicted with several of the town's citizens, both rich and poor, so the unlikely duo has to comb the entire town for clues, suspects, and evidence. The actual murder is almost circumstantial; the movie is mostly an examination of the town's treatment of the intelligent, unwavering, strong, and moral black Fed, Virgil Tibbs. From his first encounter with Rod Steiger's Sheriff Gillespie, it is clear that the townspeople immediately mark him as an other, and do not look at him, nor expect to treat him, as an equal, regardless of his demeanor and good intentions. As the two interview townsfolk and examine the crime scene(s), they encounter a great deal of resistance and animosity solely based on the fact that Tibbs is an authoritative black man. The relationship between Tibbs and Gillespie strengthens based on mutual professional respect, and various townspeople, including the victim's wife, begin to appreciate what Tibbs brings to the table.

As the unflappable Mr. Tibbs (with that great line that you'll find if you google his name), Sidney Poitier narrowly avoids coming off as a squeaky clean, soulless "Uncle Tom" by infusing his character with an almost aggressive disposition, a veiled sense of kindness, and subtle facial gestures that imply that he is, in fact, understanding of the backwards nature of these Mississippi folk, just completely frustrated with it. However, as the country bumpkin sheriff, Steiger was the one to pull down an Academy Award for this film, and the evidence is on full display. He refuses to fall into any cliched notion of what the character should be, and it is an absolute delight to see Gillespie's racist tendencies repeatedly subside and surface to Tibbs' frustration. He never makes the character a monster, yet never falls into the trap of making him some confused, lost puppy of a man, begging for redemption and understanding. Even by the end, his treatment of Mr. Tibbs does not extend beyond a deep respect for his intelligence and tact, but it is clear that his opinion of black people in general has softened. While he is not going to run out and march with MLK, he is not so ignorant that he does not lose his ability to dismiss a whole race of people who can produce people as helpful, to the town and to himself, as Mr. Tibbs. His arc is a very natural, un-preachy way of getting across the nuances of racial tensions and the reasons that mankind should focus on expelling them. Other performers that show up as townsfolk include Warren Oates, Lee Grant, and Scott Wilson, who all turn in terrific, invisible work (save for Grant's overdone "bereaved widow" scene), and the music is a wonderful southern-fried concoction by Quincy Jones.

Highly Recommended for fans of 1960's social dramas, particularly examinations of the civil rights conflict, as well as fans of Poitier or Rod Steiger. Aside from Steiger, this film won oscars for Best Editing (by future master director, Hal Ashby), Best Screenplay, and Best Picture, over The Graduate and Bonnie and Clyde; they were all well-deserved.

A Face In The Crowd (1957)

A wonderful, gritty (especially for its time) depiction of a small-town country bumpkin who, despite his surly, alcoholic nature, becomes a national country star and moral compass. The film shows how the opportunistic producer, played by Patricia Neal, who coddles and nurtures the lost, but talented "Lonesome" Rhodes, digs her own grave by giving the volatile, thoroughly undeserving superstar her full idolatry and attention. Despite the urgings of others from inside Rhodes' camp, she refuses to save her public and personal dignity by sticking with Rhodes, and overlooks his monstrous ego, careless nature, and apocryphal hypocrisy for the small, fleeting moments of tenderness and weakness he exhibits towards her. The depiction of this moment in post-WWII Americana, which we tend to look at through Nick-at-Nite goggles, a admiring the sexless, raceless, prosperous suburban bliss, is revealing and merciless in a way that few movies, particularly Hays Code-era films, were able to achieve. These are not characters to idolize, emulate, or identify with; even the most morally upright "good guy" of the piece (played by Walter Matthau, of all people) only emerges unscathed due to his mostly passive, and, one might say, cowardly nature. The "Star is Born" ill-fated celebrity trajectory is painfully rendered, as Rhodes' small-town beginnings lend itself so perfectly to his average American persona that it is easy to see how his more crude, selfish tendencies are swept under the rug for ratings and commercial spokesman gigs. And the key factor in making these sort of grand, ambitious themes work is the central performance by television star, Andy Griffith.

Thankfully, or unfortunately, Griffith's pristine, stalwart figure he cut out during his 8-year run on the Andy Griffith Show (which came 3 years after this film) has defined his public image in the years since, which makes his feral, uncompromising role in this picture all the more shocking. He drinks, spits, and smokes with none of the over-the-top staginess so common in pre-1960 cinema. He barks out the worst bile imaginable at all his loved ones, and then successfully, and convincingly, coddles up to Neal nearly immediately after. And when he sings, we, just like everyone else, are transfixed at his ability to vocalize his rawest emotions through his country twanging. He never sang like this on the show, and it defines his stage persona within the film so well that, once offstage, his character is allowed to be biggest bastard he can, because once he is performing, all is forgiven. Had the singer been a more clean-cut, Ricky Nelson type, the film would have dated horribly, but with Griffith's musical touch, the film never loses its luster, nor is the viewer reminded of the terrible laws that kept American cinema intellectually castrated until the Vietnam era. The other performers, thankfully, are capable enough to keep up with Griffith's bravura turn: Patricia Neal is unrelentingly sympathetic, even at her weakest, Matthau (as a fellow producer) cuts a simultaneously understanding and bluntly realistic figure, and Lee Remick, as Rhodes' underage wife (Rhodes' persona has shades of Jerry Lee Lewis), is appropriately wide-eyed and reverent. The dialogue, the music, and the staging (particularly the open-floor TV studio scenes) are all remarkable, involving, and evocative. Elia Kazan, whose On the Waterfront and The Last Tycoon I really enjoyed, achieves a raw power unseen in much of his other work; there are no odd, forced innuendos or double entendres here.

Highly Recommended. This movie is more relevant in today's gossip-hungry, celeb-worshipping culture than it was in those pre-internet, pre-Us Weekly, and pre-Vietnam days, when successfully feigning innocence and integrity to millions of people was only mildly impossible.

The Apartment (1960)

Teriffic, swingin' 60's office comedy about a beleaguered clerk who gains standing in his company by allowing philandering executives access to apartment for their extra-marital trysts. Jack Lemmon secured his superstar status with his role as C.C. Baxter, the neurotic, high-strung cog in the machine who repeatedly sacrifices his dignity, his integrity, and much of his sanity in the attempt to advance his career; no stranger to spending the night on a park bench due to his "occupied" apartment, the film shows us how far he is willing to go before he decides to risk his job and reclaim his manhood. Just as he tenuously makes progress with his longtime crush, the cute elevator girl, played by Shirley Maclaine, his boss, Fred MacMurray, grants him a promotion with the stipulation that he must have on-demand access to Baxter's apartment to shack up with, you guessed it, the cute elevator girl played by Shirley Maclaine. The love triangle rambles along as MacMurray eventually assigns Lemmon the task of keeping an eye on Maclaine, which, inevitably, leads to lovey dovey scenes of their blossoming romance, with the increasingly stressed Lemmon being forced to definitively choose between the gold or the girl.

One of the most noteworthy aspects of this film, which no one had ever seen fit to mention in their appraisals of the film, is its firmly 60's era depiction of the workplace. The women are all secretaries, and, it is revealed, have all had affairs with their married bosses (until they got too old). The men are all joyous, fedora-sporting cads who amicably compete and banter without ever maliciously undermining each other for personal gain. There are plenty of cocktails drunk, floozies picked up, and codependent, selfless women; Maclaine's character is hopelessly in love with MacMurray, and provides a detached running commentary on the futility, and cliched nature, of her position as "the other woman." Fuck Mad Men; this is the real deal, without irony, in all of its politically incorrect, blissfully unaware glory. Lemmon's stalwart, yet career-minded schlub stands out among his peers for his minimal, but still-present respect for the opposite sex. His faded sense of morality makes him constantly edgy and nervous, and makes him both an identifiable, yet thoroughly watchable protagonist. MacMurray is surprisingly sympathetic as the big boss man, Maclaine is adorable and sympathetic as the perpetually dumped elevator girl, and Ray Walston kills it in a fast-talking smaller part as a coworker of Lemmon's. Billy Wilder made some very ambitious thematic choices for this era (including a scene, my favorite, of Lemmon picking up, and discarding of, an aging barfly floozy), and the end result is a film that has dated in all the right ways, and remains both a delightful narrative and a snapshot of a time, era, and mentality that does not exist (aside from bad xerox copies on AMC).

Highly Recommended for fans of Lemmon or Maclaine, or of classic business comedies such as Sweet Smell of Success or The Front Page (also with Lemmon). I have not seen Wilder and Lemmon's previous collaboration (the obscure, largely forgotten comedy Some Like it Hot), so I cannot say how it holds up, but that film would have to be simultaneously funny, involving, and surprisingly touching to land in this one's ballpark.

Jane Eyre (1944)

Literary, but well-staged adaptation of Charlotte Bronte's classic novel about an abused, but subservient girl who searches for comfort and love in 1840's england. The sprawling narrative opens with Jane as a young girl in the house of her aunt, who abuses her in favor of her own gluttonous, pampered son. Hoping for a change, she is eventually transferred to a institution for young girls, where she becomes friends with Helen, played by a young Elizabeth Taylor. However, they are regularly abused, and, following a night of punishment in the rain, Helen dies of pneumonia, leaving Jane alone and miserable once more. She grows up, and finds employment as a governess for the rich, blustery, and secretive Mr. Rochester, and finds a joy in life through Rochester's little girl, Adele. Then Jane and Rochester find love, despite their difference in class, background, etc. This is a handsome production, with grand sets and production design to complement the classic nature of the novel, but the plotline is too fractured and disconnected to make for a satisfying narrative throughline; we are given much insight as to what has happened to Jane over the course of her life, but it mostly serves as backstory to explain Jane's resistance toward comfort with Rochester and his household. Once the film gets Jane to Rochester's mansion, and Orson Welles finally makes his top-billed appearance as Mr. Rochester, the pace picks up, and the fairly traditional love story between the two is allowed to take full focus. While there is not very much, even in this stretch of the story, that is particularly fresh or enlightening to those who haven't read Bronte's novel, the performances (particularly by Welles...I know, shocker) and the grandiose presentation strike a consistent chord until the lukewarm, but thoroughly satisfactory ending. The first 45 minutes or so present a strong backstory for the titular character, but they bring the films pace to a snail's crawl in service of fidelity to the source material; aside from Taylor's shockingly mature presence, even at this young age, there is little here that is engaging beyond a technical level.

Slightly Recommended for fans of the novel or similarly handsome, grand Victorian-era romances. The performances and production were what kept my attention here, but I could say the same thing about Citizen Kane, a film that's three years younger, yet trumps this in every way possible.

Scarface (1932)

The Howard Hawks-directed, Howard Hughes-produced precursor to the '83 Depalma-Stone-Pacino remake about a gangster rising up in the contraband distribution rackets, this time selling Prohibition-era hooch. Allegedly based on Al Capone, whose cut-up face inspired the title, Paul Muni plays Tony Camonte as a crude, morally indifferent, ambitious tough guy whose balls of steel are actually a form of self-destruction; he is less of an inebriated slave to his impulses as Pacino was, and more of a hollow, aimless shell of a man who seeks to prove himself through terror and violence, rather than respect. The incestuous relationship with the sister is here, as well as the attraction to the boss' lady (who, surprisingly, comes off as more appealing and less plain stuffy and hard-to-get as Pfeiffer). Steven Bauer's Manolo is George Raft's Guino, and his, along with Muni, is the strongest performance in the film; constantly flipping his coin and silently backing up Camonte, Guino proves to be more like a real tough-guy, the spitting image of unflappable, unreactionary cool. The pace of the film is where it surprised me the most; about half the running time of its epic remake, this picture is relentless, opening up with Camonte doing his first hit and continuing with almost non-stop, shocking (even for today) violence, punctuated by scenes of Muni's snakey, amoral gangster usurping his superiors. The ending, while a cliche, is a prime example of noir iconography, and is expertly (and in very modern fashion) performed by Muni.

Highly Recommended to fans of noir, '30s gangster pictures, or, of course, Pacino's Scarface. I have not seen any of Hughes' other productions, but of Hawk's work, I have seen Rio Bravo and The Big Sleep, both more popular and heralded films than Scarface, and both more bloated and self-satisfied pictures; the level of slime here along with a general trailblazing violent energy distinguish, and contemporize, this film far more than those more famous works.

The Wicker Man (1973)

Fuck that admittedly glorious montage of the silliest scenes of Nicolas Cage's remake; this is the real deal, an old school British film along the lines of Straw Dogs and, oddly enough, Hot Fuzz with a great tone and terrific genre performances from Edward Woodward and Christopher Lee.

Highly Recommended for fans of edgy, offbeat, surreal '70s cinema.

P.S. This movie's kind of a musical. Still on board? You should be.

The Philadelphia Story (1940)

Hackneyed, but mildly enjoyable Hays code-hampered comedy about a high society wedding being crashed by leering (cliched) journalists. Katherine Hepburn is the lead, a prudish, wealthy woman about to married to an old, practical self-made man. James Stewart and Cary Grant play the journalists who come to mine the big wedding for headlines, but Grant has the added advantage of being Hepburn's ex-husband. The plot is probably among those that influenced Woody Allen, for it involves a lot of upper-class repression, sexual scandals, and rapid-fire dialogue; however, it also has a mandate by the Hays code to not say anything remotely lascivious whatsoever. As a result, the whole film has that "Streetcar" vibe to it, where it always seems like the characters are talking about something completely different from what they are saying. While the dialogue is snappy and fairly entertaining, it lacks a certain provocativeness that is only achieved in a stretch with Stewart and Hepburn where their character drunkenly cavort in the wee hours of the morning. The loose, romantic nature of these scenes, along with brilliant performances by Stewart (never more charming) and Hepburn (never more radiant) create that intimate, dream-like vibe that Allen worked so hard (successfully) to replicate in his later works. However, the film betrays these scenes by shoehorning in more traditional, Hays-appropriate romantic complications and writing off Stewart's character as a mischievous drunk. Cary Grant does not have the natural, human qualities of Stewart and Hepburn, but does get in his fair share of zingers with his trademark comic delivery. The supporting cast is suprisingly game, with the old aristocrats not seeming as blustery and comic as they would in, say, a Hitchcock film. George Cukor's framing is subtle, but works best in the more intimate dialogue scenes, where he is not afraid to establish fleeting, but real connections between the characters. However, the overly-done plot, the constant stupid misunderstandings and toothless arguments, and the stupid, obvious, heartless ending subvert the genuine, golden-era pleasures to be had here.

Slightly Recommended for junkies of old, classic Hollywood, James Stewart, or Katherine Hepburn. Stewart won a thoroughly well-deserved Oscar for this role, a thoroughly modern one trapped in a classic film (particularly for a moment where Hepburn tries to put on a classy act after their drunken night together and he impulsively laughs at her coyishness); the films biggest flaw, in the end, is that the Oscar (appropriately) was for Best Supporting and not for Best Actor.

On The Beach (1959)

Dark, thoughtful Stanley Kramer classic about a community of survivors living out their last days in Australia after the Cold War has escalated to the point of irradiating the rest of the planet. The message here is written on its sleeve; there are many scenes of long monologuing about how inevitable the planet's nuclear devastation was and how it was in our nature, and blah blah blah, but it's actually all written very effectively. The characters in the film are thin, but archtypal; of the four leads, Gregory Peck, Fred Astaire, Eva Gardner, and Anthony Perkins, Astaire and Perkins make the most sympathetic impressions while Peck and Gardner's romance is more interesting than either of their separate performances. There is a lot of submarine work in the film, due to Peck and Perkins' characters Navy ranking, and it looks fantastic and legitimate; a long sequence where the sub looks for survivors and/or methods of dispersing the global radiation proves to cause tension even when the planet seems globally doomed from the start. The gloom over the whole thing proves to be the defining factor of the film; in an era, clearly represented by Peck and Gardner's presence as leads, where films were basically legally obligated to be cheerful, this film has a one-two punch of having an unbeatable foe (nuclear radiation brought on by winds) and very uncompromising personal struggles. The last shots of the film are incredibly haunting and provocative.

Highly Recommended for fans of Sci-Fi with a more realistic, down to earth vibe a la Children of Men, which this film shares similarities to. Of the three Stanley Kramer films I've seen (so far), two of them have been very powerful social, moral tales; of the two, this is the lesser film (Judgement at Nuremberg being the other, superior film), but still wholly successful at conveying its message in a thoughtful, dramatic manner.

The Wrong Man (1956)

Surprising, serious drama from Alfred Hitchcock about a well-to-do cellist who gets mistaken for an armed robber and arrested. This is a rather humorless affair for Hitchock, and with good reason; it's based on a true story, and tells its story fairly straightforward. Henry Fonda is the poor patsy, an everyman with a loving family whose strong hold on reality is hampered by his wrongful imprisonment, and its effect on his family. His wife is played by Vera Miles, and she manages to outact Mr. Fonda by displaying her character's increasing guilt and paranoia with shocking subtlety, especially for the era. The thing that really shocked me about this film is that it completely lacks Hitchock's trademark cheekiness (save for a gratifying scene where a robbery goes wrong). It completely empathizes with Fonda's character, and Hitchcock goes to great lengths to put yourself in his shoes. He frames the world around Fonda, not just the jail cell, as a prison, as the impending sentencing for a crime he didn't commit looms around his shoulders; some of the tilted angles and intense camera movements recall Fritz Lang more than Hitch. He films New York City as a giant prison, with constant enclosures and corners being focused on to heighten the tension, with great success.

Highly Recommended for fans of the more serious side of Hitchcock's work, or of Henry Fonda or Vera Miles. This is a wonderful '50s drama, albeit with a more stark, European edge than much of the American work of the time, including Hitchcocks.

Paths of Glory (1957)

This early film from Stanley Kubrick has Kirk Douglas leading the cast as a colonel in WW I defending the rights of several of his men who retreated after a failed advance. The early scenes in the trenches are well portrayed and appropriately somber and tragic, but it is the later courtroom scenes where the film truly connects emotionally and intellectually. The court martial takes place in a grand palace hall, and the tension that builds in the decidedly high-stakes proceedings is palpable.

Kubrick's touch can primarily be seen in two places: the framing of grandiose scenes such as the aforementioned court martial, and a bleak sense of humor. The somber tone of the film is made bearable by several subtle forms of gallows humor in the spirit of Full Metal Jacket and A Clockwork Orange, particularly satirizing the French high command and their foppish attitudes toward the countless men dying daily on the front. The military element, with obvious liberal overtones and a definitive anti-war stance, reeks of Kirk Douglas, but, aside from the early scenes that give the film a sense of preemptive overkill, the subject matter is quite effective. The ending, like much of Kubrick's work, is a knockout.

Recommended for fans of Kubrick, Douglas, and classic cinema. Not the most exciting film in the world, but an enriching watch nonetheless.

The Seventh Seal (1957)

"You've...sunk my Battleship!!" All Bogus Journey memories aside, this movie does really have a spellbinding appeal that warrants its legendary status. The cinematography is ace and the acting, for the most part, is very good. Even most of the philosophical hoobajoob is at least mildly interesting. But the best parts of this film are undoubtedly the scenes with death. This movie does contain very interesting ruminations on, god, death, and the moment at the end of life when we must look into the abyss, with nothing but our faith left.

Still, I can't say I was 100% focused for the whole film. It gets sidetracked a number of times, and I could have done without the subplot of the juggler and his family. That being said, Max Von Sydow's Antonius Block, his Sancho Panza-esque sidekick, and the drunk smith Plog provide more than enough entertainment and intellectual stimuli to sustain ones interest for the entirety of the film. Highly recommended for those who don't bore easily.