These notices are usually on down notes and I really don't want to spew invective as if it were somehow required of me (for I take films more seriously than perhaps I should), but the relative brevity this year is - while welcome to the reader I'm sure - somehow quite displeasing to me. Ultimately, I've found myself hopelessly snarled in a job that does not allow for the hour here and there in which to labor on these sorts of things (spare me your shock). What follows is more cut and dried than my typical mailings.

But I do hope you enjoy it.

The Ten

01. The Squid and the Whale - (Noah Baumbach)

Herein, Baumbach tells a story so personal, you can't help but wonder if it hurt him more than it hurt us. I mean, how could one whittle from such a life-affirming, cataclysmic event a film so succint and detailed and thorough, but keep it as slim as Salinger? Films that make honest use of such personal subjectives - like literary elitists who split up but continue a half-assed attempt to model their divorce after the family life they could barely hold together - always end up being the ones I can't help but gush over. The unique quality of its voice - it's a pretty amazing little dissection of the ill effects of divorce, but it's also riotously funny all the way through - is expansive and carefully threaded but, also, so spare and simply told and you don't want to spoil it with overthinking.

02. The New World (Terrence Malick)

The stylistic psyche massage of Terrence Malick's quietly abstract tone poem - with its slow building long takes set to Wagner and its constant parrallels to nature - strikes me on that hazy, above-the-clouds level of indescribable clarity. Choosing the indelibly simple story of Pocohantas and John Smith, and framing it with an absence of historical urgency, Malick ensures that at no moment we're wrapped up in pondering the film's accuracy or bygone recall. Instead, we're stuck in bubbles of beautifully nattering voice over, culminating in a reversal of the film's initial "loss of eden" bent: A child runs through a garden maze, practically floating in his own eden of youthful ignorance.

03. Frank Miller's 'Sin City' (Frank Miller and Robert Rodriguez)

Easily Rodriguez's best venture to date, Sin City is nothing but craft, a film whose eye-popping digital overhaul manages to cleanly produce the purest elements of  visual comic book physicality since Dick Tracy. And, if you've ever had a single, nerd-apparent back and forth with me on the subject of that film, you'll know that what I'm paying this film is the ultimate compliment: There is no moment in all of its pulpy, gory, sex-crazed glory where it doesn't feel like its speaking the voice of frames, panels and ink - especially when assuming an easily recognizable cast (Bruce Willis, Jessica Alba, Mickey Rourke, Elijah Wood, Clive Owen, Rosario Dawson, Nick Stahl, Benecio Del Toro and Josh Hartnett) into content as risky and uncooth as anything Tarantino has released. It couldn't make more sense that Quentin himself guest directs a sequence where a murdered cop harasses a well-meaning vigilante through the gaping hole in his freshly slit neck.

04. Grizzly Man - Werner Herzog

Did this kind of life - basking in the close proximity of grizzly bears in the remote Alaska wilderness - lead to Timothy Treadwell's feeling of separation from traditional society? Was he committing a slow suicide by teasing death for thirteen years? Treadwell's insanely self-absorbed overcoverge of his escapades suggest that the fodder for the film is one big long downward spiral into lunacy as an unanswered cry for help. (The completeness of the footage is also the most generously accidental anticipation of a feature documentary since Capturing the Friedmans.) Seen gravely through Werner Herzog's recepter (one hellbent on taking human nature at face value), Grizzly Man gradually begins to speak to the crazed hypocrisy of Treadwell's arrogance: He could stand the primal, even violent tendencies of one society, as long as they didn't have the profoundly crushing emotional inclinations of another. The footage of his last day on earth is among the most haunting I've seen.

05. Tropical Malady (Apachitpong Weersethakul)

Though I've made the claim that Brokeback Mountain is the best love story of the year, the first half of Tropical Malady - which pinpoints the exact moment when you start to crush on someone as it un-self consciously unfolds through a series of memories - steals its fire without question. Its second half, in a sense, retells this love story as a nearly wordless fable about a shape-shifting shamen and the soldier who hunts him in the endless jungle. It also inspired a record number of half-baked interpretations (scenes transcend their seemingly random construction, existing through both main characters' consciousness because we all embody one another in the end, leaving the link between the first half of the film and the second half to be buried in the idea of overlapping memory (that is, if we all share the same consciousness); The story of our lives can only be experienced through our memories, some of which overlap, but all of which are, in the end, the same). Even hyperbolic claims you'd typically be embarrassed to make in mixed company remain kinda true: Tropical Malady is what Henri Chomette referred to as "Cinema-pur".

06. Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith (George Lucas)

Successfully avoiding the scatterfocused hyperexposition of Attack of the Clones, Revenge of the Sith is all terrific execution, with Lucas opting not to let absence make the heart grown fonder (there's no long-winded, high drama to suffer through as you wait for the climactic combustion): The whole darn movie is crammed tight with set pieces, living up to Pauline Kael's spot-on diagnosis of the very first Star Wars film ("It's like a crackerjack box full of prizes.") Of all the great pleasures of Revenge of the Sith, the greatest is, without a doubt, the sense of warmth in this film's final deliverance: It drops us off right where we've been breathlessly anticipating to be lo' these last twenty-two years: At the beginning of our collective, linear Star Wars experience again.

07. 2046 (Wong Kar-wai)

Sad, and just absurdly entertaining, 2046 is one grand digression after another, picking up (sorta) where its predecessor, In the Mood or Love, left off. Wong Kar-wai navigates through the past, present and future on whims of bitter, unwavering romantic motive, driven by Christopher Doyle's lush, colorful, shape-obsessed frames. The photography doesn't just wash over us: It's like your eyes are having sex with the screen for two hours.

08. Brokeback Mountain (Ang Lee)

While the bulk of the film is about love being hidden away in "correct" values such as wives, children and gainful employment, Brokeback Mountain is smart enough not to overdose on the heartbreak that, in other, heavier hands, might have easily soured the deeply sacred-feeling first leg of the film, wherein Gyllenhal and Ledger simply and unassumingly fall for each other on the natural land mass referenced in the title. Teasing out the universality in this love story feels almost effortless, largely due to Lee's insistence on taking his time. It seems like a given that both actors be phenomenol in a film like this one (and they are, particularly Ledger, raising reticence to an art form) and that the scenery be awe-aspiring (as it mixes with what sounds to me like the best score I've heard in forever), but its greatest triumph - for me, anyhow - is that it brings Lee back to some major Ice Storm territory.

09. Match Point (Woody Allen)

Hype-laden almost to a fault, Match Point is such a departure for the Allen we've come to underrate, we almost feel like we have to unconsciously deduct the weight of his name from the proceedings. The film is such a pleasure to watch, smoothly unfolding to squarely observe, sans moral pondering, that luck and greed tend to keep the same company (in this case, a very striking Jonathan Rhys-Meyers, who plays an outsider who patiently marries into an affluent family of British Woody Allen characters). Rhys-Meyers celebrates their faux-intellectual privelidge, their expensive clothes and their acquirable opinions. He loves this new world of his so much, he chooses a trophy: The eye-meltingly gorgeous ex-fiance of his new brother-in-law. It's like a Hitchcock movie, for the most part, because our protagonist keeps raising the stakes and, at the same time, brandishes a very real, very affecting puppy-face when he realizes he's so stepped in it. By close, it's chillingly apparent: Rooting for or pitying him seem like the same thing.

10. Last Days (Gus Van Sant)

Giving his anti-narrative a very effective displaced point-of-view, Van Sant envisions his Blake (the not-really-all-that-veiled Kurdt Cobain character) as a mumbling, introverted manboy who can't seem to find enough hiding places from his bumbling, narrow-minded friends, occasionally living in the woods, spending his last few days on earth plotting his own permanent escape, wandering mostly, sitting down to compose brilliant songs off the cuff and, it is inferred, doing a great deal of heroin. What sets this one apart from the other films in his Death/Bela Tarr Homage Trilogy (Gerry and Elephant) is the purpose of his master shots, here instrumental in relaying a character study bent, leaving Blake (an uncanny - at least from afar - Michael Pitt) to be blurred into our consciousness through camera trance.

Ten More Then

Batman Begins (Christopher Nolan)

A terrifically myopic rite-of-passage movie posing as a popcorn flick. Director Christopher Nolan's tone, along with freshly cast punctuations of the comic book's peripheral characters (Oldman's Commissioner Gordon, Murphy's Scarecrow, Caine's Alfred) help pave the way for Bale's muscular, guilt-ridden Dark Knight: An interpretation that is classical without blurring the character's identity into complete mystery. And he's a pretty ripping Bruce Wayne to boot.

Broken Flowers (Jim Jarmusch)

This is a rather pleasant jumble of episodic Jarmuschian oddities and misdirecting road signs (every scene keeps leaning in to you, as if to say: "Here's the big piece of this puzzle"), capped by Murray's quietly disquieting performance as an aged lothario attempting to track down a possible Jr. When it reached the perfect moment to conclude, I began pleading - in my head, mind - for Jarmusch to cut to black. My plea was reciprocated.

Downfall (Oliver Hirschbiegel)

What really counts here is the chilling, objective spectrum of pro-party politics, still fiery and en vogue, as the world collapses around the remaining Nazi brass at the close of WWII. Stubbon, confidant and loyal to the end (as they off themselves one by one), the men and women who support a quiet, Parkinson's-ravaged Hitler seem almost...human. As the cold, symmetrical layout of their gray, concrete bunker begins to empty out, it occurs to us very slowly: No one is going to learn their lesson here. A very matter of fact speculation.

Good Night, and Good Luck. (George Clooney)

Clooney directs his "serious" picture with an irreverant glee, really enjoying the spunk of his characters and their wordy trademarks as they find themselves wrapped up in a snapshot very similar to the one in The Insider (when corporate policy suddenly dictates what is reported - and how). Strathahairn pours himself into the role of Edward R. Murrow, communicating very palpaby a man who knows his weight but makes a conscious effort not to throw it around. Love the very convincing, very minimalist period evocation where Scotch is king, Tobacco is like oxygen and the suits are still square.

King Kong (Peter Jackson)

Wholly enjoyable as if it accidentally dropped right from a box of film reels shot during the time period in which it is set, King Kong affords Peter Jackson the occasion to stage consistently exciting CGI-fights with the same attention he shows to building the relationship between Naomi Watts and The Big Gorilla. The best thing about the film is it's hilariously madcap first act, set in a pitch perfect screwball comedy vein where Jack Black's charming and ruthless film director encapsulates the spirit of the film.

Munich (Steven Spielberg)

Munich is best when its lost in the throes of its thriller chops, some of which are as dazzlingly methodical as anything in Catch Me If You Can, the somewhat lukewarm dramatic entry to Spielberg's oeuvre this film most precisely parallels. Spielberg examines the ironic complacency of revenge via political violence by showing that the plight to stay human is the most integral part of understanding the concept as a whole. Framed very specifically as a warning focused on behavior in the wake of terrorist attacks, the subtext of Bana's punitive cycle, as stated in the film, says it best: "Home always costs more".

No Direction Home: Bob Dylan (Martin Scorsese)

Scorsese clearly makes the effort to preserve some measure of his own style, repeatedly cutting back to the second half of 1966's infamous Royal Albert Hall performance where Dylan went from Jesus to Judas in the time it took him to plug in his electric guitar. In the film, this era's specter prevents any sort of easy "finding his roots" out, instead presenting the Dylan who is so impenetrable that he often finds himself saying one thing (present day) while the facts say another and the Dylan of yesteryear (clearly getting off on dismissing everyone's interest in him) continues to avoid giving a straight answer.

3-Iron (Kim Ki-Duk)

The lightness and absurdity of the main character's drift from whim to whim - he occupies temporarily vacant living spaces as if entering the skin of their rightful owners - is merely a starting out point: When he stumbles upon a woman whose marriage has nose-dived, his sense of purpose is charged with an intensity that Kim contrasts, beautifully, with the same film-as-a-narcotic ebb and flow displayed in last year's Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter...and Spring.

War of the Worlds (Steven Spielberg)

I was genuinely enthralled, at times, as great portions of it achieve a wonderment and terror tantamount to both Jaws and Jurassic Park. Delivers just what you'd envision it to: Apocalyptic spectacle followed by suspenseful getaways bookended with more apocalyptic spectacle, giving way to more suspenseful getaways which, inevitably lead to massive apocalyptic spectacle that reaches across a rather suspenseful getaway towards, yes, another dose of that wondrous, apocalyptic spectacle.

The White Diamond (Werner Herzog)

Herzog's delightfully bizarre blend of reality and his own, controlling influence over the events smears into potent long takes (carved in his typical starved-for-images grandeur), but it is his fervent demand to accompany his camera on a balloon ride into a rarely visited rainforest canopy in Guyana - despite its inventor's fallibility - that stands as the turning point into a beautiful limbo: This great moment of manipulation (reality for art's sake) pushes the film into a quasimodo fictional documentary middleground, eschewing any promise of genuine non-fiction. By doing this, its as if he's creating the story as he goes.

The Lowest Five Under All of them

Though I decided after about twenty minutes to simply sleep through Bewitched instead of watching it's S1MONEesque cliche-fueled/based/driven Television world, and, technically, that counts as a flat-out walkout; I doubt it would have even placed on this list (I barely spent those horrific moments as annoyed as I was through these five).

01. Crash (Paul Haggis)

So carefully is the race card engineered to be played every other scene (imagine Million Dollar Baby's coup de grâce repeated ten times), Haggis seemingly forgets to direct the dang movie, leaving every character the same dynamic: They flip over an ironic moment of goodwill that helps them forget their inherently racist tendencies. I realize this is being done to evoke a reaction, but Haggis' strategy to simultaneously preach the same hate he's decrying only ends up in a muddle: Crash's worldview is so clean and rounded, it couldn't possibly be mistaken for reality.

02. Mr. and Mrs. Smith (Doug Liman)

Initially, I thought that this was one of those movies where the surprise secret should have been left out of the marketing campaign and given as a gift to the viewer. However, the actual context of them being assassins with double lives makes their cartoonish marriage "spats" less interesting (because we're never surprised by what they're capable of - the movie never develops these characters past the immediate, let alone sets any sort of limits on them). In turn, the hositility is supposed to be cute, but comes off as awkward. It's like being trapped in a car with a couple who is fighting.

03. High Tension (Alexandre Aja)

A perfectly serviceable slice of method horror marred by a changeover that makes the one in Fight Club seem easy to swallow and takes everything High Tension has earned, spends it on a gift horse and proceeds into a twenty minute close up of said gift horse's mouth. There's no moment after we're through the looking glass where we're not adding up the cost and feeling patently ripped off. It. Flat-out. Does. Not. Work.

04. Racing Stripes (Frederik Du Chau)

A girl missing a parent. A farmer in debt. An evil racetrack owner. A crazy old man. A determined - but different - horse (different in that he's a zebra). A barnyard full of talking animals. Two wisecracking flies. A lazy porch dog. A mafia goose. The former training pony who gives it one more go. The voice of reason (it's Whoopi Goatberg.) A Fast and the Furious parody. Lines like "I can't believe you disobeyed me", "Care to make it interesting" and so forth.

It's all here.

05. Millions (Danny Boyle)

Millions turns out to be just the sort of sloppy wet kiss of pat, emotional drivel you'd imagine it to be, milking FC Boyce's painfully obvious point about the difference in money's worth from person to person (thereby underscoring its overall worthlessness).The idea just sits there, right up on the screen, never reaching epiphany for any of the characters. The movie ends with the main character simply conversing with his dead mother, which resolve completely a film's worth of half-posed questions (apparently).

10 I saw for the first time (Pre-now)

01. Touchez Pas au Grisbi - Jacques Becker (1954)
02. I Know Where I'm Going! - Michael Powell & Emeric Pressburger (1945)
03. The Miracle of Morgan's Creek - Preston Sturges (1944)
04. Eraserhead - David Lynch (1978)
05. The Lavender Hill Mob - Charles Crichton (1951)
06. The Adventures of Robin Hood - Michael Curtiz and William Keighley (1938)
07. Night and the City - Jules Dassin (1950)
08. Dressed to Kill - Brian DePalma (1980)
09. Kagemusha - Akira Kurosawa (1980)
10. Z - Constantin Costa-Gavras (1969)

These are The Holes, (or, those which I have not seen)

Who's Camus Anyway?, Tale of Cinema, Drawing Restraint 9, Tideland, Three Times, The Matador, The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada, Cache, The White Countess, Capote, The Ice Harvest, Jarhead, Rent, Walk the Line, Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, The Weather Man, Sara Silverman: Jesus is Magic, The Holy Girl, Get Rich or Die Tryin', Pride & Prejudice, Shopgirl, Princess Raccoon, Izo, Thumbsucker, Transamerica, Junebug, The 40 Year Old Virgin, Proof, Hustle & Flow, Howl's Moving Castle, Inside Deep Throat, The Aristocrats, Oliver Twist, March of the Penguins, Domino, In Her Shoes, Pretty Persuasion, Mirrormask, The Devil's Rejects, a hole in my heart, Wallace & Gromit: Curse of the Were-Rabbit, Memories of Murder, The Brothers Grimm, Cinderella Man, Lord of War, Eros, Wedding Crashers.

Anecdotes where I'm just using the film, now, as a common thread

Five minutes late to Grizzly Man in the city, we decide not to go in. It shows up at the colonial and we are busy every night its playing. On netflix, it has a short wait for what feels like an eternity (but is, actually, only about three weeks). I end up buying it with a gift card just to see the damn thing. (No, it never crossed my mind to rent it at the local video store. I have this sort of soured complex when it comes to video stores: I know how easy it is to not pay to see films on video and, also, if I can't lord over the place in a position of minor authority (but intellectual superiority), I find myself too intimidated not to be an embarrasing jerk.

I get to the Ritz once this year and its to see Tropical Malady - a film I'd seen twice already on DVD. I suck.

I see a film twice within a five hour period, something I've threatened to do (in my head) more than once. The film was Revenge of the Sith.

Randy gives me a copy of Funny Ha Ha in 2002. Being kind of snobbish (and loaded down with so many other films to watch), I give it back to him. When the film gets an official release in June, he's kind enough to lend it to me again. I'm especially insistent about Mutual Appreciation, as I don't want to make the same mistake twice.

The Colonial Theater in Phoenixville is host to a wine and cheese singles' night that ends just before 2046 begins. The drunken singles file into the balcony and loudly decry the film, laughing at it and audibly making comments through a fine stretch. I could have avoided the whole debacle if the DVD I bought from Hong Kong had contained English subtitles. Live and learn, I suppose.