Decade’s Best?: Growing in Love With The Movies in the ’00s

(Yes, yes, first post in eons, you’re not a real blogger, etc.)

Lists of the finest films of the decade have started popping up all over the tubes, and I felt compelled to join in.  I love lists such as these, despite their relative meaninglessness.  How can anyone accurately catalogue the most important films in such a recent period, let alone the ‘best’?

I’ve compromised and created a list of ten movies from 2000-present that were revelations for me as a movie lover.  This is the decade I fell in love with the movies, and while several older movies have impacted me at least as much, I am happy to celebrate these contemporary films.

10)  Requiem For A Dream (2000)

Buzz around high school said this was ‘the most depressing movie ever.’  A friend loaned it to me at the end of the school day, and throughout that afternoon’s play practice I excitedly said ‘I can’t wait to get depressed!’  I sneaked the DVD into the computer room at home, and was amazed from the very start.  This was the first time I noticed the power of camerawork in storytelling and tone.  Someday I may call it self-indulgent instead of expressionistic, but for a few years this was my favorite movie.  It is still a powerful story of self-destruction and depravity.  That evening I went back to the well, turned the speakers on low, and was fortunately interrupted during a quiet, tame scene by my mother–’What are you watching in here?  What is this?  UN-Rated!?’

9) Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000)

Several friends berated this movie as silly.  Tired jokes were made about flying in trees.  I was enchanted.  Here was an action movie with the fighting done in character.  Its mysticism and appreciation for silence were eye-opening.  In a mere two hours this movie opened the gates for me to foreign film.

8 ) Billy Elliot (2000)

Where Requiem enlightened me to the many possible types of shots, Billy Elliot was my teacher in composition and staging.  Its use of color is also commendable.  Right after watching it the first time, I spoke with my theater director, bubbling over with delight for the film.  In cinematic terms I didn’t know yet, I tried to explain the scene in which Billy dances before his father, energetically daring to approach a yellow line on the gymnasium floor.  For a cherry on top, the film introduced me to the great, infectious glam rock band T. Rex.

7) Kung Fu Hustle (2004)

This ridiculous and carefree comedy didn’t broaden any horizons for me, but it played a special role in my life.  During my first bout of serious depression the docs prescribed Prozac and comedies.  I suffered through several duds that distracted me well enough, but Kung Fu Hustle was the miracle drug.  In one rental period I watched this movie nearly a dozen times, especially repeating the absurd fight scenes.  Everything about the movie is silly, but it’s also produced and choreographed better than most of its serious peers.  And the world would be an emptier place to live in without a dance interlude led by axe-wielding gangsters in formal attire.

6) Kill Bill Vol. 2 (2004)

I will only revisit most of these movies every couple years, but this one?  I could rewatch this sexy pulp every week.  First movie I ever saw alone in the theaters; went probably four times total.  Nearly all my favorite cinematic genre types are here: the Spaghetti Western, the revenge (justice?) mission, the deadly and broken romance now haunting and tense, and the pseudo-philosophizing of pop culture.  Throw in some babes, swords, cars, a poisonous snake, and some badass villains–you got yourself a movie.

5) L’Enfant (2005)

Movies that create tension and build suspense frighten and interest me a great deal more than those that shock and horrify.  This movie tunnels into a moral darkness that passes beyond bleakness.  Surrounded by a barren post-industrial world, the protagonists steadily fall into ruin in despairing scenes filled with dread.  The directors are not sadistic with their characters however, and the viewer slowly sympathizes with the man who has sold his infant child.  Indeed, it was the unexpected combination of Marxism and spirituality that affected me the most.  Such a pairing is virtually unthinkable in American discourse.

4) The Incredibles (2004) and Ratatouille (2007)

Yes, I believe that everything Brad Bird touches turns to gold.  Both of these movies sport the Pixar premium for animation, story, and character.  And while I love almost all of the studio’s movies, these two put the wind in my sail.  The Incredibles is a better deconstructionist superhero story than any adaptation of Watchmen will ever be, and it’s a thrilling ride to boot.  What other ‘children’s’ movie can you name that makes a homage to Boogie Nights?  Ratatouille tells a rich story with relatively complex morality, and its thematic subject is one of my absolute favorites–the development and value of aesthetics.  The scene of Anton Ego’s dinner critique made me cry.  Don’t judge me.  /geekout

3) The Wire (2002-2008)

Watching a season of this series is akin to reading an epic novel.  The detailed development of its characters and the scope of its vision are together unparalleled.  Plus, its insight into the intertwining of public institutions is more usually found in a history text–but don’t let that make you think it’s dry.  Each season has a different style and tone, delving into neo-realism and satire, buddy movie and picaresque.  All this is envisioned with a critical eye, and rests on Classical Greek tragedies.  David Simon loves this city, and word of mouth says that its real residents love the show–but they’re both fully aware of Bodymore, Murdaland’s corrupt condition.  No other story in movie or television has gripped me with such power for so long, and it is a superior witness to contemporary urban life in America.

2) Pan’s Labyrinth (2006)

Growing up, my strongest love for movies was via fanboyism–infatuations, really.  I could identify every alien and tech device in the Star Wars trilogy, and rejoiced in the Lord of the Rings films.  Nowadays I still enjoy those movies, but their faults are visible.  I never regretted being a geek, but it took Pan’s Labyrinth to vindicate my fascination with those fantasy films.  Juxtaposing a rebellion against brutal fascists with a young girl’s development as a fairy tale heroine sounded like an odd pairing at first, but now no other story could make sense.  The fantasy world here is hidden, oppressed.  In this story the more fully realized world is the cold and violent one of the revolutionaries.  Some characters appear simplistic, especially the ruthless Captain–but could we believe his evil deeds without such a vile nature?  The mythos is pagan in characterization and design, but its absolutism and esteem of myths’ revolutionary power are reminiscent of del Toro’s old Catholicism.  Finally, it must be said that the movie is beautiful.  I will watch any movie del Toro directs for its visuals, even if every other element stinks to high heaven.

1) No Country For Old Men (2007)

I hereby pronounce this film the most important American movie since The Godfather.  Really.  Where the Godfather was anthropological (and great for every other reason), NCfOM is literary.  It doesn’t quite deconstruct the Western genre so much as disassemble it, finding that the old tropes and form don’t match or fit.  Death stalks through this wasteland, and his victims do not find a heroic end.  This is a cop-out, but rather than try to explain the movie’s quality (two other posts on this blog pertain to it), I’ll direct you to one of its greatest defenders, Jim Emerson

Honorable Mentions, in no particular order:

The Pianist (existential survival), Finding Nemo (cried in first five minutes, awesome visuals, super cute & fun), WALL-E (apocalypse for kids, agrarian, silent film), Black Hawk Down (real soldier movie, stuck in front row seats opening night), Cache (sustained suspense ex nihilo), Spirited Away (re: CT, HD experience but animated, character development), Amelie (happy-go-lucky romance, colors + camera), Goodnight & Good Luck (polemical vs. television trends, period quality), Donnie Darko (possible explanations from any critical lens), Zodiac (unseen terror, due process), American Splendor (4th-wall breaking, underground culture), Iron Man (popcorn fun), A Prairie Home Companion (intro to good Altman, folk music)

Final thoughts–There are several movies from this decade that I have yet to see and expect to be great.  Bahrani’s work immediately comes to mind.  There are plenty of other great movies that didn’t make the list, only because of the list’s nature.

Mayhaps I became more judgmental in tone as the list came closer to my favorites, but they are dear to my heart.  After around eight years of actively pursuing great movies, I’m glad to say that I still enjoy them immensely. 

Did you have any similar experiences at the movies this decade?

 

In Honor of Brad Bird

“People think of animation only doing things where people are dancing around and doing a lot of histrionics, but animation is not a genre. And people keep saying, “The animation genre.” It’s not a genre! A Western is a genre! Animation is an art form, and it can do any genre. You know, it can do a detective film, a cowboy film, a horror film, an R-rated film or a kids’ fairy tale. But it doesn’t do one thing. And, next time I hear, “What’s it like working in the animation genre?” I’m going to punch that person!”

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The American Film Institute’s 100 Years series, now in its eleventh year, has indulged in some silly categories (100 Best Movie Songs?  And only a sub-list the next year for 25 Movie Scores?  Not movies’, nor America’s, strongest suit.)  The AFI’s nomination lists and final rankings usually offend in small ways, as they should; the rankings provoke discussion and promote great American movies for the general public’s edification and enjoyment.  The latest category, however, offends in its very nature.

The AFI has nominated fifty movies in ten categories, asking its members to vote for the ten best movies in ten ‘genres.’  (Hence, “10 Top 10,” or ten different Top 10 lists.)  The genres are all quite American, notably Sports, Westerns, and the Courtroom Drama.  Their final rankings should include some interesting selections, in spite of the lists’ shortness.  However, one of the genres chosen by the AFI displays an offensive irresponsibility on their part because animation is not a genre.

An animated movie can be a Western, a Romantic Comedy, an Action flick, a Mystery, or a Biopic–the possibilities are endless.  Animation is a medium, not a genre.  Calling animation a genre is just as helpful as calling silent movies a genre.  Both mediums can tell stories in any genre.  This distinction is important because the paradigm of ‘genre’ is more artistically limiting than ‘medium.’  So long as artists and the public think of animation as a genre instead of a medium, animated movies will be creatively limited. 

I will not go so far as to claim that this misunderstanding has ruined the medium of animation; several artists have created lovely exceptions to the predominant aesthetic rule of the medium (and some standout successes within that aesthetic).  The history of mainstream animation has, however, been limited primarily to comedy and fantasy because of their appeal to children and families, and various producers’ adept exploitation of that market.  The longterm consequences have included the mainstream audience’s misguided presupposition that animated movies are for children, and mainstream artists’ shyness towards creating animated movies in other genres. 

Since the AFI has an important role in the stewardship of American culture and the public’s understanding of movies as entertainment and art, this high-profile error is especially offensive.  The AFI would do well to publicly correct their language concerning animated movies.

 

The Infant Pattern

Why babies?

A curious question.  Several of the best movies over the last two years have featured infants.  Babies.  Not just children, but the real deal–snotty, wailing babies.  And in every movie they are essential to the plot and thematic sensibilities.  Usually the infant represents hope for the future.  I am reminded of David Patterson’s idea in When Learned Men Murder, that seeing and knowing a child’s face may prevent evil or unlock compassion.

Here are the movies I’ve recognized this recent pattern in:

Children of Men, Eastern Promises, L’Enfant, Juno, Knocked Up, Pan’s Labyrinth, Tsotsi.

Are there any others?  Is this pattern really recent, or have I missed a longstanding tradition?  And why (or why not) does it exist?

P.S.  I heartily recommend all the listed movies, except: Tsotsi and Eastern Promises are rather uneven and only half-good.  And Knocked Up is rather depressing.

 

What Do You Think? Or, Cinematic Litmus Tests

One of the most enjoyable parts of watching a great movie is when, after creating and establishing an entire world of cinematic ideas and motifs, the movie asks the audience What Do You Think?  An artful movie will handle this subtly and weave the question into the narrative in a way that does not feel ham-fisted, and does not (usually) break the Fourth Wall.  The attentive viewer will find great reward by engaging with the movie’s themes and purposefully testing them against her own worldview.  Furthermore, her response to this question from the movie is a great indicator of her beliefs–a cinematic ‘litmus test’ of her ethics, aesthetics, anthropology, and so on.  A great movie achieves a transcendent quality when it poses such a question, thereby invoking spiritual conversation about its themes and ideas as they relate to the viewers’ life. 

Before explaining, some qualifications need to be made.  First, this is not a formula for great movies.  Although these qualities should be universally found in some form in a great movie, they are too diverse and variable to simplify into some standardized test; a screenwriter could not plug in a final scene to this end and necessarily expect his movie to stand the test of time; it is a matter of art.  Second, the scene does not have to come at the very end of the movie.  Perhaps this timing is prevalent because of the nature of movies; it is easier to reflect on a movie once it is done, rather than throughout the viewing.  (Certainly this suggests a weakness in the medium, as compared to books and their invitation to reflect throughout the reading.)  There are likely several dozen examples of movies that contain such a scene in an earlier context.  Probably, however, such a scene is most powerful as a climax or open-ended resolution.  Third, this is by no means peculiar to movies as an art-form.  Music, which also demands attention for a set period of time without interruption, is the most exact comparison, with the establishment of musical ideas and themes in that medium’s own unique language.    

Three great examples of such a scene will suffice.  Since these are the ending scenes, please take the warning of SPOILERS very seriously.  To read only particular examples and not suffer spoilers, the examples are, by paragraph: No Country For Old Men, Do the Right Thing, and Citizen Kane.

In the Coen Brothers’ latest great movie, No Country for Old Men(2007), the central character is Anton Chigurh.  He represents fate, or more accurately, an irrepressible evil that has no decipherable motivation.  The thematic interest of the movie is how different people react to him: with contempt, disbelief, horror, curiosity, alienation, implacable rejection, charity, and so on.  The main characters represent different sections of contemporary society, each deserving a separate investigation, but the character in question at the end of the movie is Carla Jean Moss.  (Yes, Ed Tom’s final monologue contains another litmus test question, also worth consideration.)  Chigurh visits Carla Jean to kill her, thus keeping his word to her late husband.  Carla Jean objects to Anton, saying “You don’t have to do this.”  At first, he throws aside her comment flippantly, but then she brings in words like “choice,” and his reaction is pointedly different.  He appears to, as nearly as he can, get ‘choked up.’  And here begins the line of questions that build up to What Do You Think?  Is Anton startled, or sympathetic with Carla Jean, or completely thrown off in his ‘fate principles’ ideology?  Also, is Carla Jean innocent, naïve, or expressing a superior ‘free will/choice’ ideology?  The answer is left up to the viewer.  Indeed, the Coens display a remarkable detachment from the killing because it is not the subject of the scene; these questions are.  Chigurh then drives away from the scene, very carefully checking his mirrors for the boys riding bicycles behind him, observing the solid green of the traffic light, and is suddenly struck by a car.  It is clear that he was not responsible for the mash-up (the rest of the movie concentrates on the audience’s ethical responsibilities in relation to Chigurh), but why did it happen?  Here is the resolution to the scene with Carla Jean, and the open-ended encounter with the audience’s epistemology: What Do You Think?  Was Chigurh startled and moved by Carla Jean’s pleas for free will and thereby distracted, or was the car crash fateful, or totally random?  The answer is in the audience’s capable hands, and ultimately operates as a litmus test for the viewer’s beliefs about free will, fate and God.      

Spike Lee’s masterpiece, Do The Right Thing(1989), has been aptly compared to Dostoesvky’s novels for its ethical complexity.  In the colorful landscape of Bed-Stuy, racism, economic responsibility, youth culture, music, established law, family ties, and still other issues, intertwine and form a life-like world ripe for ethical conflict and questions.  Da Mayor poses the movie title’s challenge to Mookie early on in the film.  Mookie responds, “That’s it?” to say that such a command is too simple/abstract/ambiguous in the face of great complexity; he opens up the corresponding abstract question What is the right thing to do?  In some scenes Lee makes his answers to ethical questions explicit, as when Da Mayor rescues a young boy from being hit by a car; right action is sometimes complicated by harmful results or sacrifices, but the action is still right.  The climactic action that open-endedly asks the audience What Do You Think is Mookie’s throwing the garbage can through Sal’s pizzeria’s window.  Throughout the riot, Mookie does not say a word.  The rioters have bloodlust in their eyes after the police kill Radio Raheem, and they shout out death warrants for Sal, whose confrontations with Radio and Buggin’ Out constitute the rising action for the riot.  Mookie, whose role as protagonist or hero remains ambiguous, silently crashes into Sal’s pizzeria.  The rioters destroy Sal’s property but (with the help of Da Mayor) do not harm him.  Did Mookie do the right thing by throwing the trash can?  Did he save Sal by redirecting the mob, or express a righteous anger against institutionalized racism, or is he an emblem of rage and wrath?  Within the movie, Lee does not give his answer.  (For better or for worse, he has made his position more clear in interviews.)  Viewers who discuss the scene seriously will reflect on their own ethics in relation to the various issues as presented in the movie; the viewer’s argument serves as a litmus test for her ethical beliefs and, Lee would especially argue, her racial attitude. 

What is Rosebud?  Who is Charles Foster Kane?  And, what significance does the answer to the first question have for the second?  These are the three main mysteries of Orson Welles’ Citizen Kane (1941).  The observant trespasser on Kane’s life (or a faithful reader of Peanuts) will know that Rosebud is his sled, and perhaps represents his childhood, or his innocence, or his mother.  Also, the general agreement in criticism on Kane is that knowing Rosebud is a sled does not help much in analyzing Kane; he is not that simple.  A sled cannot explain entirely his yellow journalism, declaration of principles, political aspirations, or greed, or his obsession with Susan, or his relationship with Jedediah, and so on.  Nor is the sled meaningless, or its burning a nihilistic joke.  Ending with the objective long-shot of all Kane’s belongings ready to burn, and then the intimate close-up of the sled’s destruction, Welles leaves the final answering of Who is Kane to the audience.  The discussion of What Do You Think is: which pieces of the unfinished Kane puzzle are most important, and how do they fit together?  And the litmus test is for the viewer’s beliefs about humanity, and what makes a human human.   

As with most great contemporary art, these movies do not give explicit answers to these essential, worldview questions.  And even though they serve as a litmus test of important beliefs, they do not forcefully declare one of those beliefs as superior to another.  There is no correct ‘acidity.’  The best movies ask these questions in order to continue the great conversation on what it means to be human.  Great movies invite the audience to observe their own beliefs and principles, and consider them in new and exciting contexts.  The best movies are, in this way, great art.

*   *   *

Now, what do you think?  I’d especially be interested to hear about other examples that support my argument, especially any foreign films, which I have neglected.  Or if you disagree, why?  Other interesting considerations: what examples of this are in other art forms, and is this sort of open-ended approach specific to particular time periods in art history, or worldviews? 

 

Those Silly Coens!

Having just seen No Country For Old Men a second time, I am sure that the Coen brothers’ latest movie is full of self-referential cinematic jokes.  I wonder why they would include such antics in what is one of their most serious movies.  No matter, let’s have some fun pointing them out.

1) When Llewlyn has a striking thought in his bed at night (twice: the water, and the transponder), the camera angle and lighting mimic the epiphany of Nic Cage’s character in Raising Arizona in the last moments of that film.

2) Carson Wells’ throwaway line about counting the floors that lead up to an office serves two functions: first, to show the flippant meticulousness of Wells’ character.  Second, it is a reference to The Hudsucker Proxy, in which men of similar character worry about whether or not the mezzanine ‘counts’ as a floor.

3) And the U.S. border guard who chews out Moss is not pacified until Moss tells him about his Vietnam service record.  And he’s wearing Aviators.  Just like Walter’s in The Big Lebowski.

Too far-fetched?  There are a few other references I considered, but am not familiar enough with all of the Coens’ films to be sure.  Did you notice any others?  And why would the Coens be so silly?

Let me know what you think…