BFI Top 50: The General, Released in 1926, Directed by Buster Keaton and Clyde Bruckman

What I know going in

I have actually seen the film once before and enjoyed quite a bit. I’m looking forward to a re-watch.

Immediate response

The General is a film dedicated to movement. There is a momentum to almost every shot, rarely is anything static, whether that is through the movement of the trains or the movement of the camera. In this way, The General, is the original action film. All the typical aspects of an action flick, from the car chases of The French Connection, to the whirring bodies of The Raid: Redemption, spring from chases and stunts presented in Keaton’s film. In a way, Keaton himself could be considered the original action hero. He starts the film as an ordinary dude, like Bruce Willis in Die Hard. He has to rescue a damsel in distress from a group of baddies and prevent an evil, complicated plot through skill, ingenuity, and luck. It is all very Indiana Jones-esque. Finally, he performs a series of courageous, death-defying stunts. All of these facets have been integrated into the DNA of every action film at this point.

The limited mobility of trains allows Keaton to pull off some very impressive tracking shots that would be impossible at the time if cars were used. Of particular note is the chase near the end where Keaton and his girlfriend are escaping from a northern camp to warn their friends. The camera zips back and forth between Keaton and his pursuers. Telegraph lines are ripped up, traps are laid, and people are thrown, tossed, and shuffled. There is a head-bopping rhythm to the editing in the train chases that is really enjoyable.

However, there is one aspect of the film that I did not like and that is Keaton’s status as a Confederate. I did not have a problem with Keaton’s own actions, because he seems to be acting purely out of desire for his girlfriend. But the movie has this weird tone where it seems to be pushing the Confederacy as underdogs. This also adds an uncomfortable edge the Confederate victory at the end. I really do not know why Keaton chose to position the film this way, you could easily switch his allegiance and nothing would change. I hesitate to accuse the movie of racism, but portraying the South as freedom fighters defending against Northern aggression smacks of revisionist history.

Further thoughts

The General has a surprising number of small comedic moments and observation that would not be out of place in a modern comedy. An early example is Keaton rubbing the tops of his shoes on the back of his pants legs. It’s a small moment which reveals that Keaton’s character is concerned about presenting himself to his girlfriend, but is also a bit of a schlub. Another neat moment occurs during the end chase. Keaton and his girlfriend are working together to power the train. They start conversing and she grabs a small part of his uniform and twists around in her fingers a bit. This is a very small, visual way to show her concern about him, and it is even better for showing up in a silent film, a genre most people mistakenly characterize as being full of over-the-top mugging. The same character, in throwaway bit of comic mischief, tosses a piece of wood for having a knothole.

Why is the film on this list?

The General is a technical masterpiece that embodies the term “moving picture” in every possible way.

BFI Top 50: Metropolis, Released in 1927, Directed by Fritz Lang

What I know going in

I know of Metropolis and have seen a few images from it, but I don’t really know much about the plot. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Fritz Lang film before either.

Immediate reaction

When I got my copy of Metropolis from Netflix, I hesitated to watch it immediately. I saw the runtime (two hours and 30 minutes) and flinched a bit. The length and the fact that this is a silent feature overrode my usual ability to dive into a film. I don’t know why this happened. I have seen a few silent films and a few very, very long films (cough, Satantango cough), so maybe it was that specific combination that had me worried. I suppose that I thought the technique of Metropolis would be too limited for me to find engaging for two and a half hours.

I was astronomically wrong on that last part, but I will get to that later. I am kicking myself for being hesitant to watch the film. I thoroughly enjoyed Metropolis and, after one viewing, it may be my favorite silent film. The first, and most obvious, aspect of Metropolis I found impressive was the scale. I know this is the most talked about and highly praised characteristic of the film, but I would be remiss if I did not mention it. Metropolis features many sequences that involve hundreds of extras and awe-inspiring sets. Spectacle is not usually enough for me to enjoy a film, but knowing the technological limitations of the silent era make what the Metropolis pulls off doubly awe-inspiring. There’s that special electricity of “I can’t believe they are really doing this!/How are they are doing this?!” that only the most daring of films can generate. One part that immediately comes to mind is the huge, steam-filled machine seen near the beginning of the film. Freder accidentally ends up there after looking for Maria. He is greeted with a mechanical monstrosity that not only transforms its handlers into robots, a neat little bit of visual storytelling, but also chews them up in its many gears and scalds them with white-hot steam.

The second aspect I found so, so fascinating about Metropolis was its wildly inventive camera movement and editing. There are techniques in the film that I rarely see used, even today. For example, when Freder is trapped in Rotwang’s lair searching for Maria, he spots a piece of her clothing. He then reaches out to pick it up and inspect it. Now, this could have been filmed in a standard shot, zoomed out to show the majority of Freder’s body. Instead, Lang switches to a first person perspective whereFreder’s arm reaches into the frame and picks up the piece of fabric as the camera moves forward. I am not totally sure why Lang chose to shoot the scene this way, but it is a technique that I rarely see used and I was surprised that Lang was able to think it up so early in the history of film. It did get me to audibly exclaim “woah!” to myself, so perhaps that was the point. Two other neat camera tricks are a short tracking shot following Freder and Josaphat, and a shot of a crowd where Freder appears way in the back of frame and runs into focus. These sequences add a sense of excitement that some people mistakenly think is missing in silent film.

As I mentioned above, the editing is also spectacular. I want to draw special attention two sequences, Robo-Maria’s dance party and the flooding of the worker slums. Robo-Maria’s dancing at the Yoshiwara reaches this nightmarish peak that left me floored after it was over. Lang cuts between Robo-Maria’s feverish dancing and the faces of the men of the crowd. The men seem to get closer and closer to the camera after every cut until their faces become distorted. Eventually their faces morph into this horrific collage of leering eyes. All the while, Robo-Maria’s dancing gets wilder and wilder and Gottfried Hupertz’s score just pounds on and on. The flood sequence reaches a similar level of intensity. Lang manages a complexity in his editing that almost matches the Odessa Steps movement in Battleship Potemkin. He cuts between Freder and Josaphat escaping into the underground city, the worker’s destroying the heart machine, Maria trying to save the children as the city floods, and Freder’s father arguing with his spy. This is an excellent example of rapid parallel editing, a technique that Metropolis did not originate (that honor goes to Intolerance), but is deployed by Lang with aplomb. What is unique about this scene however is the way Lang seems to edit in time with the score. He even inserts several close-ups of the warning cymbal Maria struggles to activate. This creates a unique rhythm, which is reflected by the inclusion of a drum snap in the music. Editing to music is a technique that is rarely employed, but always creates a very hypnotic effect when done well.

Lang’s mastery over a still-young art form was so apparent from Metropolis that at the end, I felt I had to clap even though I was watching the film alone on my small television, an action that serves as a great testament to the film’s vision, which remains powerful even today. 

Further thoughts

The one thing I did not expect going into the film was how much Metropolis would draw from religion. It has the reputation of being the first science fiction film, which technically it is, but it would not be that difficult to set the film in present day when the assembly line had been recently invented. A good majority of Metropolis’s settings, plot, and ideas come directly from religion. The huge structure the elites live in is reminiscent of the biblical tower of babel. Maria even directly uses that story as a way to demonstrate the main theme of the film. Speaking of Maria, she, combined with Freder, can be seen as a Christ figure. She promises to lead the overworked masses of Metropolis to a more fair future. Her speech even takes place in an ancient catacomb where she is surrounded by numerous crosses. In addition, the action of the final section of the film takes place around a large church, where Robo-Maria is burned at the stake (a very Old Testament style of punishment).

Furthermore, Freder has a vision of the seven deadly sins coming to life and Death himself appearing to slay the residents of the city. Another scene shows Robo-Maria being compared directly to the Whore of Babylon. Writing this, I have realized that all of Freder’s visions have religious connotations. After he witnesses the machine explosion, he converts the scene and sees an ancient god, Moloch, whose adherents were known for ritual sacrifice. Again, I did not expect these elements to show up, but it makes sense that Lang would utilize the language of religious symbols, since those elements are so recognizable to everyone. It serves as an easy way to ground the more outlandish parts of the film.

Perhaps my one criticism of the film is that it presents a very muddled political message. The worker revolt at the end of the film, an act which should have a lot of resonance during the 20’s, is shown as a negative and is started by the villain of the film, Robo-Maria. The ending does not do much to clarify this message. Freder satisfies his role as the mediator, but the film ends before it becomes clear what exactly the new role of the workers will be. Only during the beginning, with the workers moving mechanically to the rhythms of the machine, does the film seem to make a consistent statement.

Why is the film on this list?

Every aspect of Metropolis is epic. Its scale, set design, symbolism, editing, and score all have an intensity that I have rarely seen replicated.

BFI Top 50: Rashomon, Released in 1950, Directed by Akira Kurosawa

What I know going in

As a burgeoning film buff, I know the basic outline of Rashomon. The film involves the story of a rape/murder that is relayed to the audience through different characters and each character manipulates the story in a new way. The only other Kurosawa film I have seen is Yojimbo, which I enjoyed, but haven’t seen in a while. I am looking forward to filling in this huge gap

Immediate Reaction

To be honest, I did not find Rashomon very gripping. I suppose my biggest problem was that I found some of the execution a bit poor, especially the fight scenes. The sword fights between The Bandit, played by Toshiro Mifune, and The Samurai, Masayuki Mori, were not convincing in the slightest. It looks like they are trying whap each other with plastic sword and, as a result, there really isn’t a sense of tension when they spar. The actors commit themselves physically during these scenes, Mifune in particular seems like he is rolling around in the dirt half the time, but the actual swordplay is so amateurish that it hurts the flow of the film.

I have also been wrestling with the film’s treatment of the only female character, The Wife, played by Machiko Kyo. She bounces from a shrill harpy, an encourager of murder, and a mocking presence throughout the course of the film. Having said that, I know that the film takes place in medieval Japan, so I shouldn’t expect women to behave the same way they do know. Furthermore, the main incident of the film is told from the perspective of four different characters. There is nothing to indicate if a character is telling the truth or altering the real events to suit their own needs. Likewise, at the end of the film, none of the retellings seems truer than the others. It is entirely possible that The Wife character came off poorly because the plot of the film is told with a bias. However, her portrayal was still off for me in a way that Ugetsu managed to avoid.

Now, I do not mind if a film does not viscerally engage me as long as I find an interesting theme to ponder. However, Rashomon evaporated from my mind almost immediately after watching it. I was worried that I would not be able to write anything about it. The main idea I took from Rashomon is that it is commenting on how everyone sees the world in a different way and even actual event can be open to interpretation. This even works as a sly comment about movie watching, because no one, due to their own personal experiences and biases, is going to get the same thing from a film or other work of art. I like that idea, but I had that thought before I even sat down to watch the film. I suppose Rashomon could be seen as a warning to the people of Japan against re-interpreting or forgetting the events of World War II. I imagine that Japanese actions during that conflict were distorted or forgotten in its immediate aftermath, and Rashomon was released in 1950, so its timing fits well with that idea.

Further thoughts

Rashomon may be a film that is hard to appreciate now due to how much other films have stolen from it. At this point, a nonlinear narrative is nothing special. Only about half the films I watch on a weekly basis have a strictly linear structure. In fact, a few of the films on this very list seem to crib directly from Kurosawa’s film. These include Mulholland Drive, Close-Up, and La Jetee. What is David Lynch’s masterpiece if not an examination of the subjective memories of its lead character? And what is Close-Up if not a maddening look at the intersection of reality and fiction. The same statements could be applied to Rashomon as well. Realizing this fact helps me appreciate the film a bit more than I initially did. If viewed through the lens of a film like Mulholland Drive or Close-Up, Rashomon can be seen as one of the first instances of a film investigating the line between memory, reality, and fiction. That is a very modern notion for a film made so long ago and an idea that I think about often and enjoy exploring through this specific medium.

Why is the film on this list?

Rashomon manages to question the nature of reality in a direct, economical manner. Its nonlinear narrative and intentional obfuscation of memory and truth make it a hugely influential film.

BFI Top 50: Andrei Rublev, Released in 1971, Directed by Andrei Tarkovsky

What I know going in

I know the film is a period piece of 15^th century Russia and also a biopic about famous icon painter, Andrei Rublev. I loved Stalker so I am looking forward to watching some more Tarkovsky.

Immediate Reaction

Unfortunately, Andrei Rublev is in the same category as Jeanne Dielman and Satantango for me. I really had to struggle to stay focused on the film. Maybe it’s because the film was vastly different from what I was expecting. Based on the film’s title and description I thought it was going to be a meditative, solemn, but straightforward portrait of the eponymous painter. That notion was perhaps a bit silly since this is a Tarkvosky film, but the actual film was not particularly satisfying for me. For one, the film seems to violate the “show don’t tell” rule. Numerous characters comment about Rublev’s skill, but I rarely observed him going through the process of painting. A process I imagine would be very rigorous, especially in the time the film is set. I felt that I had to take Rublev’s admirers on faith. At a certain point, Rublev decides to take a vow of silence and give up art after a life-altering event, so the decision to not show anything afterwards makes sense. Perhaps the film is making an esoteric statement about the relation between art and public recognition, but this seemingly purposeful omission resulted in the film being less viscerally satisfying for me.

In addition, the film being called Andrei Rublev sets up an expectation that he will be the focus. I found this to be untrue. I would be a bit better to consider the film as a portrait of medieval Russia. This is the one front I found the film to be completely successful. Like Marketa Lazarova, Andrei Rublev surpasses the usual falseness with period pieces and transported me fully to an incomprehensible time. Everyone in the film looks starved and battered. Their clothes are thrown together from random bits of scraps and no attempt is made to cover up scars or rotting teeth. The monks in particular walk with a hunch that suggests ancient Russia was a singularly brutal place. Like Tarkovsky’s first film, Ivan’s Childhood, Andrei Rublev is shot in black and white. However, unlike the ghostly, high contrast style of Ivan, the world of Andrei Rublev takes on a grey color palette. Similar to Satantango, color simply does not exist.

Furthermore, Humans interact in a different manner. The beginning of the film sets this up by having a mob of angry villagers decry a ramshackle hot air balloon. The stunning raid that opens the second half of the film is savage. The film does not attempt to hide the fact that women will be raped and civilians will be needlessly killed and a struggling horse provides one of the movie’s most distressing images. The conflict between paganism and Christianity is depicted as a no win scenario and the film doesn’t really comment on which path might be more fulfilling. The witch’s mass reveals the pagans as sensual and free, something that attracts event the spiritually rigid Rublev. Christianity is portrayed as quiet and thoughtful, but is also used as an excuse for extreme barbarism.

I was hard for me to really pinpoint what the film was trying to say about art. As I mentioned earlier, Andrei Rublev is somewhat of a misnomer. At time he seems barely present in the film. When he is the focus, most of what the film is trying to say about art is conveyed in dense, overly philosophical dialogue that was difficult for me to keep track of when reading subtitles. The only sequence that I think manages a consistent statement is the bell-making sections near the end. The minute details and rigor that go in to making a work of art is on full display here. These scenes have a sense of reality and scale that was fascinating to me. The sequence ends a beautiful manner as the bell-maker falls to the ground and cries after hearing the bell ring. It turns out his father had never told him his secret and his son was basically winging the whole thing.

Further thoughts

I will say this; Andrei Rublev maintains an impressive scale and a complexity of composition and movement that is rarely seen. One shot that demonstrates all three of these traits is during the raid of Vladimir sequence. A group of Tatar’s is seen from a raised platform. The camera tracks the group as they wind up the hill. Instead of cutting or following the group all the way around, the camera moves to follow a group of men dragging a girl away while the original group of bandits is still seen moving in the background. The camera finally rests at the entrance of the church as the riders arrive. All of that is done in one take. Tarkovsky manages to move the events of the raid forward while simultaneously conveying its horror.

Of course, the entire bell-making sequence demonstrates similar qualities. I’m honestly not sure how this sequence was filmed, but its depiction is so convincing that it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that Tarkovsky and crew actually cast a new bell. During this section, the camera floats elegantly from extreme wide shots where every person and piece of rope is composed as if in a painting to intimate, detail-packed tracking shots showing the distress of the blustery bell-maker Boriska.

This complexity is even carried into the final five minutes of the film. I imagine most directors wouldn’t be able to make close-ups of paintings dynamic, but Tarkovsky manages it with aplomb. The sequence cuts between the minutiae that make up the painting, building up an intense fascination until finally giving the audience a release and revealing the painting’s full splendor. The montage is cut almost symbiotically with the music, creating a transcendent effect.

Why is the film on this list?

Andre Rublev has a scale that is rarely seen in films so esoteric in nature. Tarkovsky uses a sizable budget to create a visually dynamic and complex tableau of medieval life. This would be enough to earn the film a spot on this list, but the film also manages to make an important statement about the value of art in the harshest of times.

BFI Top 50: Mulholland Drive, Released in 2001, Directed by David Lynch

What I know going in

I am familiar with some of David Lynch’s most well-known works. I marathoned all of Twin Peaks a few years ago and would Blue Velvet as one of my favorite films. Mulholland Drive is widely recognized as one of Lynch’s greatest works, and is perhaps even more critically acclaimed than Blue Velvet. I am very excited, and a bit hesitant, to watch the film.

Immediate reaction

For its first 90 minutes, Mulholland Drive appears to be exploring the same space as Blue Velvet. Several parallels can be drawn between the two films. Naomi Watts main character, Betty, has an almost too sunny disposition and is incredibly eager to dive headfirst into a seemingly dark mystery. Her can-do attitude is reminiscent of the boy scout know-how that Kyle MacLachlan displays as Jeffrey Beaumont in Blue Velvet. Furthermore, Laura Harring’s main character, Rita, is similar to Isabella Rosselini’s character, Dorothy Vallens, in the same film. Rita contrasts Betty’s optimism with a dark, unknowable sexuality and draws Betty into the dark side of Hollywood, much like Dorothy Vallens pushes Jeffrey into the hidden depths of his seemingly innocuous hometown. In addition, the plot of both films is structured as a neo-noir/mystery beginning with the identification of an enigmatic woman.

Even the general atmosphere of both films is similar. Mulholland Drive gains it power through the clash of a nostalgic, sun-dappled version of Hollywood with its dark, shadowy nighttime reality. In the world of Mulholland Drive, a typical fifties diner, Winkies, serves as the host for a disfigured, homeless monster who haunts nightmares of the diner’s patrons. The casting decisions for a poppy, throwback musical seem to be up to a secret cabal of disfigured businessmen who hide themselves in shadows. And, in one of the film’s best scenes, two actors find the hidden sexuality in a scene that had previously seemed like a piece of over-the-top melodrama. Blue Velvet thrives off a similar contrast between the cheery surface of a small every-town and its dark underbelly.

However, all of those similarities disappear in the film’s final section, during which MulhollandDrive somehow becomes more cryptic and psychologically distressing than Blue Velvet. For the purpose of this article, I’ll try to lie out what I think actually happens in the film, but I think the later events are much more interesting if taken as intentionally ambiguous. At the end of the film, it is revealed that all prior events were simply the dying dream of a failed actress, Diane Selwyn, also played by Watts, after she puts out a hit on the lover who spurned her, Camille Rhodes, also played Harring. The previous events now make sense as a kind of tragic dream. Diane’s mind filters pieces of her real life into the mystery we saw play out earlier. Her dream character’s name is Betty, taken from a waitress she meets at Winkie’s. Her Aunt has simply left for the weekend, instead of dying. Finally, Mulholland Drive, in reality the location of swanky party, servers as ground zero for the initial mystery.Diane even uses her dream to craft an elaborate fantasy for herself where she is not only a fantastic, optimistic actress, again see the audition scene, but also the dominant partner in her relationship with Camille, a reversal on reality. In fact, in Betty’s dream, Camille is an amnesiac and literally has no personality. With this interpretation, the movie serves as a comment on how Hollywood grinds up and spits out aspiring ingénue’s with glee.

But what if my interpretation is incorrect? What if the final moments of Mulholland Drive suggest something far more insidious? What if we have entered a world where personality, memory, identity, and reality have all been jostled to the point where one ends and the next begins can no longer be discerned? This thought is what makes the film so terrifying. Diane/Betty seems to be completely lost. Her emotions and subconscious desires have begun bumping against reality to the point where her only solution is to end it all.

Of course, all of my philosophizing about the film wouldn’t mean much if it wasn’t viscerally horrifying. Lynch always knows how to create an image that is off in the just the right way to stick itself in the back of your mind forever. The man behind Winkie’s, the tiny people, and the elderly couple who attack Diane at the end are all burned into my skull. Lynch is also helped immensely by Angelo Badalamenti’s sinister score. It’s menacing enough to make a simple walk through a sunny courtyard one of the tensest sequences in the film. Mulholland Drive is thematically deft enough to be analyzed over and over, but the highest compliment I can give it is that after its last few seconds, I sat in the dark afraid to move due to what my own subconscious might conjure up.

Further thoughts

One of the key aspects I missed after my first viewing of MulhollandDrive was how the film deals with artifice, particularly of the kind created by cinema. There are several scenes in the film that establish character or emotional depth that are filtered that involve multiple layers of reality. The first come when Harring chooses her character’s name. Harring is sitting in front of a mirror and her reflection is filmed. From this point of view, Harring looks at another mirror that is reflecting a poster of Glenda starring Rita Hayworth. This scene involves three layers (both reflections and the poster), four if you count the film itself, and five if you see the main thrust of the film as a dream. A similar analysis can be applied to the scene during Betty’s audition and the scene where Rebeka del Rio lip syncs to a passionate recording of a Spanish version of Roy Orbison’s “Crying.” Even though it can mind-bending to think about the true nature of these scenes, they are still passionately felt by both the audience and the characters in the film. Perhaps Lynch is suggesting that when the artificial is this powerful, it’s not really Betty’s fault that she becomes mentally lost.

In addition, Lynch uses these many surfaces to trick the viewer. Several scenes have a false start that is carefully hidden by tricky editing and sneaky framing. When the film initially cuts to Rita and Betty rehearsing a scene, it seems they are having an argument. The falsity of that first opinion is revealed when the camera pans back to reveal Rita holding a script. There is a similar cut during the latter half of the film. A group of old brownstone’s comes into a view, and, for a split second, the film seems to have moved across country to New York. After another cut, the scenery is revealed to be a backdrop for another film.

Finally, to anyone complaining that is Betty and Rita’s romance is unrealistic due to the blankness of Harring’s character, is it really that far-fetched that would someone would fall in love with beautiful image in the age when everyone has celebrity fuck-list?

Why the film is on the list

Mulholland Drive is a modern, psychological spin on the movies about movies genre. Sunset Boulevard, Singin’ in the Rain, and F for Fake all deal with similar themes, but none with the same visceral terror of Mulholland Drive. That makes it a modern classic.

BFI Top 50: Stalker, Released in 1979, Directed by Andrei Tarkovsky

What I know going in

I have never seen a Tarkovsky film, but from a bit of osmosis I know that he prefer a very slow, meditative, deliberate style. I am also familiar with the mythology of Stalker as I have played the games very, very loosely based, from what I understand, on the film.

Initial reaction

Stalker, like so many films on this list, is impossible to describe to someone else. Typical words used when reviewing a film (such as good, bad, beautiful, rich characters) can’t really impart the experience of watching the film. I’ll do my best to describe my own personal experience though.

I had an exciting realization upon watching the first few minutes of Stalker, a realization that I secretly long for any time I watch a new film. Entering the world of Stalker, felt like suddenly appearing in someone else’s mind. Except for opening crawl that was demanded by a few producers, Tarkovsky makes no effort to explain the mythology of “The Zone” or “The Room” and there is very little exposition provided about the characters who gradually reveal themselves to the main players of the film. The viewer is thrown into a new world and given very little in the way of explanation. Even Tarkovsky’s style seems unlike anything I have seen before. The beginning of Stalker has the haunting, monochromatic feeling of a silent film. It seems oddly two-dimensional at times and, like Satantango, it goes beyond simply being filmed in a sepia tone and enters a world where color does not exist. Eventually, the film transitions into “The Zone” and into lush color. Certain images from “The Zone” section of the film are beautiful and powerful enough to be hung as portraits. Examples include the main stalker kneeling in a bed of reeds and the three main characters staring into the vastness of “The Zone” upon entry.

As bracing as it was to discover a new style, it was even more exciting to ponder what theme Tarkovsky is trying to explore. Again, I don’t really feel up to the task of trying to determine the message of Tarkovsky’s film. Like a few of my recent favorite films, (such as Blade Runner, No Country for Old Men, 2001: A Space Odyssey and Inside Llewyn Davis) I feel like Stalker has a thematic richness that I am barely grasping, but I’ll do my best to explore what I thought Stalker was going for. Like 2001 or Blade Runner, Stalker uses a science fiction setting to explore some aspect of humanity’s existence. In 2001 that is humanity’s status in the space age and in Blade Runner it’s what it means to be human in the face of artificial intelligence.

 Finally, in Stalker, Tarkovsky is attempting to explore the purpose and place religion has in a world that appears to be physically and spiritually decaying. Knowing what little I do about Russian history, it is very surprising to me that Stalker was not banned. At times the film is explicitly pro-religion, an idea that Soviet Russia would be vehemently against. In the world of the film, the zone is a place where the laws of physics don’t apply. It is a place of wonder and mystery that, much like The Wizard of Oz, blooms into full color outside of a monochromatic world. However, that majesty is frequently called into question. The only way information about the zone is relayed to the viewer or the other characters is through the proselytizing of a stalker. I never really saw any actual evidence of the zone’s supposed power. Sure, a burst of wind overtakes the writer when he attempts to take shortcut to the room, but he doesn’t suffer any ill consequences. The stalker basically serves as a priest. He explains the weird unseen rules of the zone much like a preacher would interpret the bible, but he is unable to offer any real proof of the zone’s power.

In addition, the room which all the characters are journeying towards could be seen as a representation of God, or at least some type of deity or supernatural force. The room is initially understood as a place that can grant wishes. The stalker has been guiding people to this room partly for money, but also in the belief that the hopeless and wretched people he deems worthy will achieve some kind of transcendence or happiness when they reach the room. However, near the end of the film, the three explorers come to the realization that the room doesn’t grant wishes, but brings to life the innermost desires of those who enter. The writer determines that Porcupine, a former stalker, entered the room hoping to wish his brother back to life. Instead, he found out that his greatest desire was for money. Thus, the room seems to pass some odd type of judgment, much like one would experience in the biblical afterlife. When faced with this fact, the three main characters are unable to take that next step and seem to recoil in fear of finding out the truth. The stalker even has a crisis of faith when faced with the possibility that all he thought about the zone is false. 

Where some would find only confusion and frustration in Stalker’s mysteries, I see a challenge. I look forward to watching Stalker many times in the future and attempting to dissect it further and further. I may never fully understand it, but the idea that the film can spark that kind of curiosity within me is incredibly satisfying.

Further thoughts

In the absence of proof in the otherworldly, is pure faith enough to bring about happiness and purpose? I think Stalker is an attempt to answer that question, and I think the film might even come to a definitive answer. Like I mentioned previously, no physical evidence is shown validate the stalker’s claims. However, even without this evidence, the zone can still be seen as representation of hope. Again, it is a lush landscape in contrast to dullness of the outside world. Furthermore, near the end of the film, the stalker’s wife goes on a monologue about how she dedicated herself to loving him. Even though this act brought about little material happiness, she still sees their life together as fulfilling. The simple deed of committing to him and their life together was enough to bring about certain measure of satisfaction. With this, and the final shots of their child bringing color back to the world, Tarkovsky shows that it is the act of having faith and being hopeful that leads to spiritual contentment. 

Why is the film on this list?

Stalker is a science fiction in the barest possible. Tarkovsky utilizes a barely explained futuristic setting in order to explore the purpose of religion in a world where it seems increasingly useless. This spirituality, along with Stalker’s gorgeous cinematography and deliberate meditative mood, make it a towering work.

BFI Top 50: The Godfather Part II, Released in 1974, Directed by Francis Ford Coppola

What I know going in

I watched the first half of the film four years ago. I never got around to watching the second half. I will use this marathon as an opportunity to remedy that mistake.

Immediate Reaction

The Godfather: Part II’s inclusion on the Sight and Sound list may be the first time I disagree with the BFI. The film continues to follow Michael’s descent into the murky morality of being crime overlord. By the end of the film, he has cut ties to anyone he was loyal to in New York, has murdered his brother, has watched his mother die, and has completely separated himself, and his children, from his wife. To put an even finer point on it, the final shot of the film is of Michael sitting literally alone on the edge of his compound. This slow, downward spiral is portrayed with the same care, skill, and style as the first film, but I just don’t think it reaches any new conclusions. I imagine most people could extrapolate the Michael portion of the storyline just from seeing the ending of the first Godfather film. Therefore, I am bit baffled by the film’s inclusion on the list. As I mentioned previously, the list tends to reward films that are stylistically daring, an exemplar of a particular genre, or an evolution of film technique. Part II is a great film by most measures, but the inclusion of the first film would seem to cover the series deserved place on this most prestigious of lists.

Perhaps the reason Part II was included was the parallel stories of Michael’s moral fall and the rise of Vito’s empire. If the first film was epic, the second manages to become even bigger. Due to the inclusion of Vito’s storyline, we see that the violence perpetrated in the first film is part of some awful, decades (maybe even centuries) old cycle. Vito’s story is started when his entire family is killed by a Sicilian crime boss. Vito later returns to Italy just to get revenge on this man, who is now decrepit probably would have been dead from natural causes in a few years anyway. Due to his parentage, is it any wonder that Michael seems similarly obsessed with offing everyone even tangentially involved with the failed attempt on his life? Similar to Vito, Michael even goes to extreme lengths to rid himself of the ailing Hyman Roth. Placing these two stories together definitely gives the film a sense of tragic fate.

In addition, Vito’s story further advances an idea posited by the first film, that the only way for an immigrant, or someone of meager means, to advance in American society is to participate in crime. At the beginning of the film, Vito tries to fly right and just work steadily at his job as an assistant baker, but the forces of crime intervene. Another Mafia boss interrupts Vito’s somewhat stable life, by insisting that his nephew get a job at the same bakery. This action forces Vito into the orbit of a young Peter Clemenza and on his path to being the overlord we see in the first film.

 Further Thoughts

Perhaps I was a bit too quick to judge Michael’s arc in Part II. At the end of The Godfather, he enters a life of a crime that he had previously hoped to avoid, but he does ascend (emphasis on that word) to the role his father had previously occupied. Michael initiates a string of violent killings, and even goes as far as to kill his brother in law, but he does manage to keep his family together. In contrast, Part II ends with Michael having forsaken what this universe has established as the most important thing, FAMILY! I doubt Vito would have approved of Michael’s slaying of his brother, even under the same circumstances. Michael even tellingly waits for his mother, the last tie to his father’s regime, to die. In addition, he forces Connie to kiss his ring, in a scene that mimics the opening sequence in part one. He subjugates his last blood relative into servile position. Kay finds herself shut out, literally and figuratively, from Michael and her children. Surely Vito would have found some way to reconcile business and family in this situation. Michael’s journey in Part II reveals how is unfortunately similar to and tragically different from his late father.

Why is the film on this list?

While I did find enough of a difference between the two films, I still think part one’s inclusion would have been enough.

BFI Top 50: The Godfather, Released in 1972, Directed by Francis Ford Coppola

What I know going in

I have seen the film once before. However, it was about 8 years ago, so I know the overall plot beats, but I am a bit fuzzy on all of the details.

Immediate reaction

In The Story of Film Mark Cousins introduces three new styles of filmmaking that came about in the 70’s as part of the New Hollywood movement. These categories were satirical, dissident, and assimilationist. The first two, are self-explanatory. The last may need to be elucidated further. According to Cousins, assimilationist films reworked old studio genres (gangster, western, noir, melodrama) with new techniques. These films such as The Last Picture Show, Badlands, and The Wild Bunch would apply the style of Old Hollywood to New Hollywood subject matter.

Of course, The Godfather is an assimilationist film. In the past, the gangster picture had stayed primarily in the realm of quick, suspenseful films with clear, black and white morals. The Godfather takes the subject of an old crime picture, the progress of a group of people in the criminal underworld, and expands it into a near three hour epic about the importance of family, the immigrant experience, and the American dream. The various characters that weave in and out of the film cannot be defined as only criminals. They all have complex motivations and histories that inform their decisions and lead to their eventual fates. Vito rationalizes his hard criminal past as a means to support his children, but has become soft in his later years. Sonny has a hot temper and seems reckless, but moves to protect his sister when she is abused. However, this decision only expedites his ultimate demise. Finally, Michael feels alternatively pushed and pulled to and from the orbit of his family. He starts the film wanting to keep his distance from them, but when his father’s life is threatened, he starts heading down the path that will leave him shut off from his wife and children.

The sequence where Michael is consecrated as godfather to his nephew while simultaneously orchestrating several hits is justly praised for interweaving scenes of religious ceremony and intense violence. However, it is simply the film in microcosm. The Godfather has been working on a similar level during its entire runtime. All aspects of these characters exist close to each other. While Vito is handling business, children play around in his yard. When Pauli fails to protect Vito, his hit is carried out while the Stature of Liberty stands in the background and amber waves of grain waft in the wind. During Michael’s preparation to assassinate two rivals, a picture of a saint stares solemnly while Michael gets used to his new pistol. This heterogeneous mix of religion, family, violence, and business is the genius of The Godfather.

Further Thoughts

I’m not one to pay too much attention to acting, but nearly all of the performance in The Godfather deserved to be discussed. This, and Apocalypse Now, are the only films I have seen Marlon Brando in, so it has for me to judge the full impact of his portrayal of Vito Corleone. I imagine for audience members who new Brando from such films as A Streetcar Named Desire and On the Waterfront, seeing him as the old, decaying head of the Corleone family must have been a revelation. Heath Ledger’s performance as The Joker in The Dark Knight or Joaquin Phoenix’s portrayal of Freddie Quell in The Master could be seen as similar transformations.

Furthermore, Al Pacino is almost unrecognizable as Vito’s brooding young son, Michael. Pacino’s portrayal of Michael is free of all the tics that would come to define in his later years. There are no big scenes of yelling or mega-acting. Pacino is capable of displaying a wide range of emotions through eye movement or small facial gestures. The best example is the scene where Michael goes to assassinate a rival gang member and a corrupt cop in a rustic Italian restaurant. Pacino displays Michael’s ambivalence about the situation and his rage about the hit on his father without even speaking.

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Why is the film on the list?

I feel like anything I say here is just going to be a cliché at this point, so I’ll keep it short and just say to watch the film and let it speak 

BFI Top 50: Taxi Driver, Released in 1976, Directed by Martin Scorsese

What I know going in

I know the film portrays New York City through the eyes of a deranged, isolated cab driver played by Robert De Niro. I am also aware of the basic plot details of the film, but don’t know all of the specifics.

Immediate Reaction

A common aspect of expressionism is “to present the world solely from a subjective perspective, distorting it radically for emotional effect in order to evoke moods or ideas (Bruce Thompson, University of California, Santa Cruz, lecture on WEIMAR CULTURE/KAFKA’s PRAGUE).” By this definition, Taxi Driver qualifies as an expressionist film. Through voiceover, the film allows us to see the interiors of Bickle’s mind. He is clearly an isolated, socially distant individual, explicating on his own state with lines such as:“Loneliness has followed me my whole life, everywhere. In bars, in cars, sidewalks, stores, everywhere. There's no escape. I'm God's lonely man.”His thoughts frequently move to describing how New York is a nightmarish hellscape, and even thanks “God for the rain to wash the trash off the sidewalk.” Travis also has a distorted view of his own importance, claiming he “is a man who would not take it anymore. A man who stood up against the scum, the cunts, the dogs, the filth, the shit.” The film is expressionist because the exterior world exaggerates itself to match the mood and thoughts of Travis. At night, the city looks like a phantasmagoric, neon-soaked blur. Every block seems to have a porn theater, a hooker on the corner, and several drug dealers. Every person who gets into Bickle’s cab seems to be on the verge of fornication, angry, or insane. Bickle is clearly shown to be racist and appears to exchange tense stares with several African-Americans whom other characters do not even notice. Betsy appears almost angelic later in the film, reflecting Travis’s post-hero state of reverie. Even the score morphs around Travis’s shifting psyche. It starts slow in the beginning, moves to a more romantic tone as Bickle courts Betsy, and enters a clipped, jarring style as Bickle’s already fragile mental state deteriorates further.

The film is often an unnerving experience. For example, during the scene where De Niro purchases a gun, he points it out a window and aims it at two old women. Shortly after, he aims the gun almost directly at the viewer. Even though the gun is empty, the scene has an air of danger, due to the unpredictable nature of De Niro’s character. Early on, he establishes himself as some type of arbiter of moral justice. Who know what he is capable of accomplishing with a firearm?

In addition, the movie works as a rebuke to the vigilante films that were popular at the time, such as Dirty Harry and Death Wish. In these films, the main character is often depicted heroically, lionized for going outside the law and meting out justice to people who “deserve it.” Taxi Driver shows that you have to be insane to engage in this kind of behavior.Bickle could have just as easily killed his initial target, a presidential candidate. Instead he takes out several pimps and rescues an underage prostitute, more as a way to get an outlet for his violent urges and release his previous desire for Betsy, than as a true act of bravery. In the film’s final joke Travis is viewed as a hero for his actions. His glorification is a nasty comment on the backwards morals of New York at the time.

Further Thoughts

There still a debate raging today on the validity of having an unsympathetic character as the protagonist of a film. If the film were not so dedicated to portraying Bickle’s fractured psyche, Taxi Driver could easily be dismissed by morality-wielding people who take offense at being put so near to a lunatic. However, Scorsese and Schrader add one wrinkle that prevents complete disengagement with the main character. That trait is Bickle’s loneliness. Who among us have never felt a pang of isolation at some point in our lives? The tiny measure of sympathy that we feel for Travis allows Scorsese to trap us and push us further into our protagonist’s head. The camera frequently moves to Travis’s viewpoint, the city takes on a fantastical (if nightmarish) quality and the editing and score splinters further and further. As Travis circles the proverbial drain of New York City and inches closer and closer to a predestined violent outburst, the viewer can’t help but be dragged down with him.

Why is the film on the list?

While it’s not the first film to use a subjective camera, Taxi Driver uses the full power of cinema to place the viewer dangerously close to the mind of an urban outcast. That makes for an immersive and uncomfortably enjoyable experience.

BFI Top 50: Bicycle Thieves, Released in 1948, Directed by Vittorio De Sica

What I know going in

I know the movie involves a man searching for his stolen in post-war Italy. I know it is also one the first, and possibly the most famous, film in the Italian Neo-Realist genre.

Immediate Reaction

I have recently been watching The Story of Film: An Odyssey, which is an extended essay on film history put together by film historian Mark Cousins. An argument I often hear against a film is that is unrealistic. This is an area I have grappled with as well. Should film attempt realism or embrace the visual and clipped nature of its form to try to create a fantastical world? What The Story of Film has helped me realize is that neither side is right or wrong. Instead, the history of film has been a long back and forth between the display of romantic, idealistic fantasies, and attempts at depicting the world in all of its gritty glory. What a film should do however is transport you. Whether that is to the far reaches of the universe in 2001: A Space Odyssey or to the rubble-strewn streets of post-war Rome, as in Bicycle Thieves. The film is a warning shot, announcing a new cinematic movement and boldly rejecting the decadence and falseness of previous Italian features. It is also an excellent document of a city, and people, still wounded and literally in ruins after suffering the greatest catastrophe in modern history.

I’m going to make an odd comparison. I recently watched the film Alien, for the first time. It was a bit of revelation, because I realized that every science fiction film that has tinges of horror released after Alien, should be sued for plagiarism. In a similar manner, any film that deals with poverty in an honest manner or attempts to provide an unblinking view of a place or group of people, owes everything to Bicycle Thieves. Such recent films as Gimme the Loot, Fish Tank, and War Witch come to mind, and even an action film like The French Connection, with its detailed depiction of the grubby milieu of New York, seems to be linked directly back to De Sica’s classic.

Now, I should probably start talking directly about the film. At its most basic, Bicycle Thieves concerns the struggling Antonio Ricci as he drifts through the crumbling paths of Rome with his son Bruno in an increasingly vain attempt to recover his stolen bike, which he needs to keep the job that will feed his family. For the most part, the focus is on Antonio and his many trials. However, what I found I most interesting was the depiction of the other people in Rome. The city almost seems alive, with people in huge masses always gathering, running, grifting, or struggling. Antonio’s actions poke and prod at the other people around him, until they rise up against him. He enters a church in an attempt to harangue an old man to take him to the eponymous bicycle thief. As Antonio gets louder and angrier, the church-goers crowds around him, people give him side glances, and the clergy erupts in anger at him for disturbing the service. Later, near the end of the film, Antonio is at his wit’s end and is surrounded by people rushing past him on bikes. He notices a lone bike, and in an act of desperation, attempts to ride off with it. A huge group of concerned citizens bursts out of nowhere and envelopes Antonio. After being released due to the cuteness of his son, father and son are automatically moved forward by a group of people, bikes, cars, and trams. They are unable to contemplate their situation and are forced, by Rome, to face the next day.

Further thoughts

The critic Roland Barthes defined a term known as the punctum: unplanned natural details within an image that move us. I’m not sure if certain images within Bicycle Thieves were planned, but the basic point still applies. The reason Bicycle Thieve remains affecting, even today, is due to its gradual accumulation of tiny, human details. A fantastic example is when Antonio goes to hock his bed sheets not only buy a bike, but one he just pawned and has to re-buy. At the pawn shop, the camera peaks behind the counter and we see the mountains of shelves full of bed sheets. The clerk then takes Antonio’s package, climbs all the way to the top of one shelf (without using a ladder), and deposits Antonio’s linens. From a plot perspective, this serves no purpose. De Sica could easily have had Antonio go to the pawn shop, sell his sheets, and then leave, cutting out the part with the clerk entirely. Such a cut wouldn’t be noticed and wouldn’t seem jarring. However, that small moment, speaks volumes about the then-current state of Rome. Antonio’s situation in that moment is depressing enough, but when I saw the clerk’s ascension, I began to imagine the story behind each item and the terrible conditions that led to their sale. That’s pretty powerful for a “pointless” shot.

Another moment comes in the wistful sequence where Antonio, feeling guilty for slapping his son, takes him out to eat at a decent restaurant. Overall, it is one of the few happy moments in the film. There are two punctums in this scene that any parent, or child, should be able to recognize. The first is when Antonio orders a full bottle of wine and in a sort of jokey manner allows Bruno to have a sip. Antonio even amusingly flouts his wife’s authority. The second is when Bruno eats his mozzarella bread, and, like every child since the beginning of time, takes a bit and stretches out a huge string of cheese that he then linearly munches up.

Why is the film on the list?

The film is an important document of not only of a new style, but of a tragic time and place.

BFI Top 50: Journey to Italy, Released in 1954, Directed by Roberto Rossellini

What I know going in

I know the film is about the dissolution of a marriage between characters played by George Saunders and Ingrid Bergman. I also know about the famous affair with the director and how it destroyed her Hollywood career.

Immediate Reaction

This is the first Rossellini film I have seen. I primarily know him, as I expect most people do, as one the Italian Neorealist directors exemplified by films such as Rome, Open City, Paisan, and Germany Year Zero. Knowing that, I was a little surprised that he would direct a film about a huffy English couple who travels to Naples to sell a glorious house.

In a nutshell, the film charts the dissolution and eventual reconciliation of the marriage between Katherine (Bergman) and Alex (Sanders) Joyce as they travel around Naples and contemplate their lives together. Both do an excellent job of portraying characters that, at this point, are only comfortable when insulting each other. In fact, I was surprised at how hurtful they could both be. They don’t blow up at each other in a way that could be considered cliché or overblown, instead, their barbs gather to create a toxicity that I haven’t quite seen before in a film about marriage.

Bergman’s role in particular is free from any vanity that a huge star might employ to try and make their character more sympathetic. From the opening scene, she wears a sneer on her face that could whither anyone trying to engage her. I don’t know much about Sanders, but he is perfect as the “rational” unemotional Brit. He views his marriage with Bergman with a shocking degree of coldness. Also, both behave exactly as expected (for an older, wealthy couple) when they interact with the less well-off residents of Naples. Anyone with rich family members should recognize the mix of faux-politeness, annoyance, and condescension.

Even though I enjoyed the film, I’m not entirely sure why it is on the Sight and Sound List. Films on the list usually fit into a few categories: they introduced some new technique and advanced the language of film (Battleship Potemkin)), they were stylistically daring (Jean Dielman, Satantango), they were the first of their kind or are representative of particular movement (Breathless, Bicycle Thief), they are a paragon of a particular genre (Seven Samurai), or they investigated the nature of film in a unique way (Close-Up, Vertigo). I can’t really say what group Journey to Italy falls into, unless it was one of the first films to deal with divorce and alienation within a marriage. I even had a few complaints with the film. I though the couple’s ultimate reunion came out of nowhere. I could not get a sense that they had overcome the problems within their marriage. If you asked me to project their future, I would say they would probably divorce when they get back to Britain.

The film is quite lovely, many props to Criterion’s excellent transfer, but I couldn’t pinpoint a particular style, and I don’t think it really utilizes camerawork or cinematography to suggest the themes of alienation and loneliness that come up in Alex and Catherine’s discussions. It’s too clean looking to be considered neo-realist, but not striking enough to be commended for its photography. However, there is a thread that runs through the movie that I might be totally missing. Alex and Catherine’s marriage is interspersed between scenes of Catherine exploring Italy’s long, violent, and tragic history and Alex having fun with another group of ex-pats. I’m sure the movie is trying to suggest something with the scenes of Alex and Catherine responding to different aspects of Naples, but I can’t really pinpoint what that something is. Honestly, before I rate the film, I will have to go read other analyses about it.

Further Thoughts

After reading a few other pieces about the film, the most intriguing ideas Journey to Italy explores is the difference between the external and the internal and how our environment can shape our action or lead our thoughts. I initially had trouble relating to Journey, I am 22 years old, have never been married, and have never had a romantic relationship deteriorate to the point seen in the film. However, I can relate to the idea that your surroundings have a subtle effect on not necessarily your actions, or who you are as a person, but on your thought process and mood. I recently came back to the States after living in Germany for four months. My German isn’t great, it was a completely new town, I worked a new job, my roommate was very quiet and a bit impersonal, and I made very few friends. Therefore, I can relate to one of the main themes of Journey, isolation and alienation from other people caused by your surroundings. Alex and Catherine are often separate during Journey, she is more interested in visiting famous landmarks, and he is more interested in flirting with ex-pats. The new location, Naples, initially pushes them apart.

Of course, while in Germany, I visited many museums, churches, and castles. Being constantly faced with such a staggering amount of history and culture, forced my thoughts to go to a very internal and contemplative place. I believe Naples had a similar effect on Catherine. I think Bergman was trying to distract herself by doing all of these tourist activities, but found that even the grandeur of ancient Rome wasn't enough to stop her from thinking about Sanders. In fact, these visits, in the case of the Pompeii sequence, pushed her to realize that she still cares deeply about him. I think her journey was more internal than I was expecting, which is why I found the ending to be a little unearned, but now feel a bit better about it.

In addition, I like the idea that the couple needed some external force, the crowd of people near the end, to try and separate them before they were able to respond with compassion towards each other. Their marriage had probably wilted slowly away over the years, and had become an internal struggle to continue. When they were faced with an actual, physical threat toward their marriage, they found they were able to forget their issues with each other, at least for a moment, and respond with care.

Why is it on the list?

I unfortunately don’t know enough about film history to understand the context Journey was released. It has been called the first modern film by the Cahiers critics and Martin Scorsese. I can’t really say whether or not this is true, because I am not aware of the films released before and after Journey. I understand that Journey’s focus on environment was a huge influence on Michelangelo Antonioni, but I have yet to see any of his films. I can say that I see Journey’s influence on La Dolce Vita, Lost in Translation, and The Tenant. All three films focus on how a new environment can spark loneliness, isolation, and confusion.