The Reference Mill was a-turnin' - quite promptly, I might add - after Summer and Victoria watched it with me. Some favorites included (Sacha Baron Cohen singing in pompous Italian dandy voice: "To Shave-a the face/To Cut-a the hair"; Johnny Depp concluding, finally, that the hair tonic is piss by simply saying "This is piss"; and last but not least, in the most cartoonish moment of Alan Rickman's cartoonish villainy, his protectorate in j'accuse-mode "You gandered! You gandered, sir!") Like Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow, watching this on an inferior visual medium really gives it a dulling effect; Seeing it on DVD shows off its too-hewn looking digi-backgrounds, which saps the old-fashioned looking, nostalgic spur of the thing. A crutch, really.

Our viewing was interruped by the realization that our cat had exited our home some time in the afternoon and was trying to re-enter. When we opened the door, he ran from us and we gave chase. It seems he was squabbling with a neighborhood scrapper we affectionately dub "the other gray cat". We wound up staking out his hiding place under our neighbor's house for about an hour. He emerged, we grabbed him and then, though late, we decided to finish the movie anyway. Upon returning to the film, I was so relieved that my cat had been safely retrieved, I forgot how much of a sweeping movie of the week (before such things existed), how insanely melodramatic it was. But it hits you. A fascinating portrayal of labrynthine interworkings of the adoption agency (you show up and they give you a kid based on your word) and other wince-worthy topics. Silly and then some.

Preminger is a snap at mood - and Bunny Lake is Missing sustains a terrific mood. What's more, the way it casually pits you against the protagonist and her brother (at the same time, but for clearly different reasons) with Laurence Olivier's indifferent detective as your guide has a boxed-in feel, a suspense element you aren't entirely okay with. Unfortunately, as things clear up, the problematic final sequence has everyone chewing the scenery, vying for your attention; It just plays like overcaffeinated DePalma, with Keir Dullea and Carol Lynley attempting to out-yelp each other.

Delightful, and featuring more of Rene Clair's mind-blowing staging. Dick Powell is just splendid.

Summer's first viewing. Its hilarious, its gorgeous, but I always fall asleep. Every. Single. Time.

Is such a pleasure, so entertaining, such a classical genre film - I could watch it once a month.

I actually do like pretty much everyone in the film, but its hard not to really dig on Philip Seymour Hoffman's Gust Avrakotos, who has more great lines than I have room for here. It really feels like everyone in the film gets it, which is the Nichols touch. His films tend to feature more cast members than not that seem to be chuckling, as if in on the joke rather than attempting to tell it. Again: I could very much do without the full circle spit-ding at the end when Gust tells Charlie of the "we'll see" prophecy and Charlie can't get the money to build a school. Please. Anyone else been under a rock lo' these recent years?

So complicit in its expertly-staged procedural setpieces (of which there are many), but also pitch black from the word "go", with only its bizarre morality play conclusion seeming out of place, as if tacked-on out of fear that the good guy's white hat might have too many black smudges for a comfortable night's sleep. Dana Andrews' face is a chiseled, hardened thing; He's a brick wall walkin'. Karl Malden's wet-behind-the-ears/detective prodigy who figures the scheme out and still finds himself out-proved by circumstance is terrific. An absolutely engrossing film noir.