A genuinely laugh out loud-witty film about two out of work actors whose drunken misadventures lead them to an English cottage in the country - and produce a thousand brilliant lines for audiences to quote with their, ahem, mates. Withnail and I, a (foolishly branded) cult hit in England, is worth pretty much every drop of its booze-soaked garrishness. Grant and McGann are stunning as the title characters - but Robinson's bleary-eyed, semi-cartoonish world also throbs with low-life drug dealers (Ralph Brown, creator of the Canterwell Carrot, a joint that requires 12 rolling papers and "has been known to get you incredibly high") and Grant's overweight uncle, hell-bent on buggering McGann (and played, in an unintentionally eerie twist, by Richard Griffiths - currently seen as Harry Potter's Uncle Vernon). Thought its obvious (and out of place) final bells for the end of a decade (it takes place in 1969) don't seem to enhance or expound on any of the film's thematic qualities (assuming these qualities actually exist - which they, uh, don't) - you'd have to be told, as you are, what year it is - the film seems remarkably immune to this weird decade-mourning. All-inclusive and transporting, the main characters will have you skulking about, afterwards, bitter and acid-tongued, completely soaked with their sly, gloomy worldview (I'll buy the drinks if I'm wrong). I'll be watching it again.

I turned the commentary on for a second when Jay Bennett starts arguing with Jeff Tweedy about when "Ashes of American Flags" should end and "Heavy Metal Drummer" should start and found that he band leaves the room. Then Sam Jones goes on and on about how it was the breaking point for the band. Then everyone involved uses the word "record" about twenty times too many.

As a Paul Newman vehicle, Hud is a masterwork. Every attention is given to centering his performance, even at the expense of the well-rounded subplots (Patricia Neal's presence feels less and less necessary as the film proceeds) or, to the benefit of soap opera splashes (Hud's dark, dark secret is terrifically implausible, though somehow Newman makes this point seem almost unimportant). Melvyn Douglas' turn is superb as well; He plays the aging patricarch of the ranch who is, at once - somehow - completely forgiving and utterly begrudgging. It doesn't all come together as smoothly as it should (again, it seems too herky jerky to make all of these heady themes successful, especially the father figure revolving door), but Hud isn't as deep as it appears: The crackling dialogue, all too often, tips its hat towards a more sinister end: It is programmed to be all about enjoying Newman as the despicable, drunk and charming title character.

Empathy for an animal that doesn't talk isn't easy. (And I can't believe I just said that). Regarding the short life of a mistreated donkey as some sort of saintly metaphor for burdens bourne, Bresson swivels wildly from preachy to just plain flat. Most of the great moments (not surprisingly) revolve around the donkey's plight, (though he spends so much time off screen, existing only as an extension of the cruelty of humans, you often forget the film's obvious purpose). It's got an effective streak (and it's moving - the ending is heartbreaking), but Au Hazard Balthazar never really marries itself to its message directly.

If Mr. Blonde did four years in prison for Joe - lost four years of his life instead of rratting Joe out - why is it so hard for Nice Guy Eddie to believe that Mr. Blonde wouldn't turn around and plan to (per Mr. Orange) kill everyone and make off with the diamonds? Is it really that far-fetched?

The use of flash-back in The Merchant of Four Seasons is so brilliant (and often so intense), I can't believe no one has ripped it off (that I know of). Fassbinder - who has a bit part as a fruit wholesaler (nudge, nudge) - creates a portrait of the disasterous and downtrodden lot of a fruit vendor whose abused wife takes him back after he suffers a heart attack. Time in forward motion is often, as a seemingly natural transition, interrupted by events withheld - or, by events from the distant past - flashing into our consciousness as if they were as real as the present. Watching Hans as his alienation takes hold, as his life's decisions (and failures) continually overtake his daily life, is continually and effectively stirring. The ending is monumental.

This movie is all about Hugh Grant (because when he's not onscreen, its all about dozing).

Stewart and Day are such despicable, American, bourgeouise lunatics in the first part, you almost feel like they deserve all the shit they get. Luckily, it doesn't really matter because Hitch turns the suspense up (natch) big time and the bizarrities - the dude and his wife posing as churchgoers ("I want you to go home and meditate and next week, we'll discuss that"), the fairly cool taxidermy red herring, and the eerie way Stewart loses his temper in the restaurant - which, coincidentally, reminds me of Dana Carvey's characterization in SNL's famous lost ending to It's a Wonderful Life.

Believe it or not, it's only the second time I've seen this film. Both times - pure happiness when it was over. Falls in the Cinema as a Drug category.

Seeing practically the first videotaped (from start to finish, it seems) instance of terrorism on record is truly upsetting. The voice-over and music occasionally try to push your buttons further (bastards!).

Ramsey's quest to represent the space cadet glow of common detachment is so unequivocably gorgeous to look at (all those blinking lights, precisely framed visages and scenes of random whimsy), yet compelling only to the degree that it can mood-fuck you. Yeah, I'm all for watching Samantha Morton's sweet, arty brooding - but so often Morvern Callar is bogged down by how little we (to be honest) could possibly contemplate caring about her. It's best when she's tramping around, ear-to-headphone, gulping down earfuls of the music left her by one dead lover (whose novel she appropriates with her own moniker, and secures a million pound deal with). I've always had a mid distrust of films that seem to grab the viewer only when using music to bridge the gap between being entertained and being able to connect with their characters. I'm buying the soundtrack, securing my seat for her next film, still reccomending Ratcatcher, but the rarely mise-en-scene-led Morvern Callar isn't "the one".

Episodic (and frequently hilarious) and mostly the same salute to confronting hecklers head-on (and frequently hilarious) and never really revealing whether Cross, himself, is a human being or just an asshole (big points for that - and, oh, uh frequently hilarious) and a sort of misfired structural format that apes Mr. Show without actually being all that funny ( but, still, frequently hilarious) little documentary that follows David Cross on his Shut Up, You Fucking Baby! tour with ultrababyfat. CD in stores now. Please run and get it. This is not a promotion. This is a demand. (Oh, and the film is frequently hilarious).

I still think that subplot where Jennifer Jason Leigh gets knocked up and has an abortion and the guy who is supposed to pay her for it, but doesn't and then gets a mean word spray-painted on his car, that subplot, stops the film dead in its tracks. It never recovers (really). Everything else is pure Eighties High School Movie gold.

Watching it today - almost 14 years after I first saw it - it seems so small-scale, so cheap, so much like a remake of a foreign film. The lack of political correctedness translated to "live action cartoon" when it was released. Nowadays, it might seem almost barbaric - and certainly tasteless. I'd jump on thaat bandwagon if it weren't still such a harmless cornball fantasy

Screw you people who call it a lousy film and quarrel with its "generic" qualities. What are you going to watch every year? Bad Santa? (C'mon...)

One of a handful of the most seamlessly fun instances of pure adventure storytelling ever put on film. Alfred Molina's Dr. Octopus will never be as wicked as his companion to Jones in the opening sequence. I doubt Spider-Man will ever hear "Adios, Senor" in such a malevolent, deadpan drawl.

My favorite of the three - mostly because it's so dark (and because I've seen it the most times). The ever-present reds, which looked so pukey on video, translate cleanly and orgasm-inciting-ly on DVD. This one is also a gulp of pure entertainment.

Clearly the most commercial-driven of the three pictures, what makes it so much better than your average action-adventure film is how seriously the film takes the subject matter - but how much fun it still cares to have. Sure using Connery as Ford's father is kind of a cheap gimmick that doesn't always seem necessary - but it's still funny, every single time, when he calls him "Junior".

It's like Truffaut took all the charming aspects of Buster Keaton - minus the gravely, fit-for-silent voice - and navigated him through the landscape of a Woody Allen film