Ages ahead of its time (subject matter: Fucking dark), Pabst's trolley ride through the tragic flapperdom of 1920s Weimar is as unflinching as his gravitation towards Louise Brooks' perpetually naive mug. Both beautiful and immensely sad, Brooks seemed to have half a dozen smiles on hand at any given moment, all of them capable of penetrating that mythic black bob she vollies in and out of man after man. While her journey sputters a bit long for its own good (despite its eerie staging and role in the finality of the thing, the final act seems tacked on from minute one), she glows with a carefree, almost childlike enthusiasm for life, balancing the cold cruelty of her situations with such aplomb, such a measure of hope, its almost impossible to give yourself over to the wretched bleakness. Pabst, naturally, earns the wrenching conclusion, martyring his leading lady with an inevitability that really snuck up on me.

"Damnation has some of the most gorgeous photography I've ever seen...I can't wait to flip over this guy's filmography". Cohesion isn't Tarr's strong point and Werckmeister Harmonies takes him further from this than Damnation. What makes WH a significantly better film isn't the photography per se (although it supercedes the already overzealous hyperbole tossing I gave that film), it's the way he strings a thematic slang, if you will, through some of the most amazing set pieces ever constructed (opening with the poetic physical recreation of the solar system's mysteries in a pub, sliding into what Randy helped self describe as "the hospital scene" and, later, the magnificent tracking shots of souls peering through post-communist Hungary's buildings, of the whale rotting in its trailer and many, many more); Staring, unblinking, at desolation and the imbalanced social structure of the community - tensely perched on the brink of upheaval at nearly every moment - Tarr uses his eye to gain access to our imagination before planting a vision of humankind's most horrifying interaction with itself, bolting, then doing it again and again and again. While Van Sant plundered his visions to creat meditative films about death, Tarr looks into the day to day with even less concern for narrative and, furthermore, almost no concern for meditation. Its fascinating, now, to go back to Tarr's work and see that Van Sant was under his spell but creating something wholly new. (Think of Truffaut under Hitchcock's spell while making The Soft Skin, but veering closer to Rohmer's dissection of methodology rather than methodology simply laid out.)  This one still haunts me.

I really don't remember enough of this film to comment, but I remember thinking it was a devilishly solid screwball comedy, and was all the better for reteaming Loy and Powell (leaving, bizarrely, actors like Spencer Tracy and Jean Harlow with decidedly second fiddle status), the former of which was easily the most attractive actress of her time - or, possibly, any.

The contrast between their dark, goth-via-Berlin image and goofy tour bus behavior is really the one and only conceit, but it serves, spooning the borderline harrowing black and white concert footage and giving the film a momentum that builds to - - well, nothing much, really. Highlights include a barely lit, extremely creepy live version of "Saint Huck", a dry run of a still in-progress version of "The Weeping Song" and Blixa Bargeld arguing with the road manager for no apparent reason. Probably not of much interest for Cave novices. I came on board with Henry's Dream and have backtracked cautiously and slowly, so I was less familiar with the material (most of it off of Tender Prey).

Still in my top three Disney outings. The Jungle is the stuff of my most tender and wondrous dreams, while its atmospheric qualities make it one of the Big Mouse's least pandering outings; There used to be a simulcrum of art in these things and The Jungle Book is one of the few animated fables whose songs don't seem tacked on. As Victoria watched this day-in, day-out for a series of months, I have a pretty biased, deeply special bond with it. (So, anyway, don't mind me.)

Like Vertigo told from the point of view of both women, The Double Life of Veronique aggressively and obsessively strives to filter Kieslowski through eye-meltingly gorgeous photography that seems uncharacteristic of his usual thematic practicalities and incidentals. It would be off-putting if the film itself weren't so entrancing. Or maybe I just have a objectivity-crushing attraction to Irene Jacob. Bit of both, probably.

Here's another one I can barely remember, but probably not because my memory is compromised. More likely, its the fact that its a gorgeous film that's almost impossible to follow. Those colors, that framing, those women, the fucking sets. Wow. I have no idea what just transpired. Something about fascist secret police and assassination. And hot women. Okay. Not a clue. Moving on.

I'm already stressing about what I'll say about this next year when I watch it. Why can't more quintessential Christmas films exist? Best part this year: Tori was definitely the exact right age to watch it. She laughed with a confidence I couldn't have predicted. It was lovely.

I resent the commercialism (vacation packages to tour the house it was filmed in! a museum! the henpecked sequel!) that is now inextricably wound into this magical film. (Particularly since the film itself decries commercials.) Nevertheless, the warmth of its iconic vision of 1939 Indiana has only been approached by that of John Hughes. Its undeniable, and its power stems directly from this absolutely wondrous sense of chemistry embodied by the Parkers. It is impossible to overrate.