"I chose a middle road between loneliness and freedom. You chose total freedom and total loneliness." Forever plagued by dogs as if she were some sort of waning demon, the dirty drifter called Mona is a deeply complex character we distinctly dislike but sympathize with all the same. Her plight is outlined as if a novel. Everything that happens to her is eventually revisited as a smaller confessional passage. We see her corpse in the opening frames and put together the pieces of the puzzle as we watch her descent into death unfold. Director Agnes Varda keeps these "interviews" desperately short, often dimming the lens before the character finishes his or her disclosure. These people arise as witnesses, as evening news tagalongs who didn't know the victim from Adam, but would gladly offer their passing opinion. Only three people of the dozens she meets seem to care for her as she passes through their lives like a cold, foreboding wind. The most harrowing interview is with a Tunisian man she shacked up with for a few weeks. When asked about Mona, he is unable to speak. And the camera dims. It struck me, also, watching 'Vagabond', that the cloudy sky wandering of a figure more beast than woman, lost in depressive insecurity, was captured in all the glory I was disappointed to find missing in 1999's 'Rosetta'. A worthy thing to bring to the cinema - that is, the alienation freedom affords the young - 'Vagabond' shows us Mona at length, but Varda does a strange and extremely powerful thing: she distances us from Mona every time we think we're going to get close (by using music and camera movement). Commentary like this, while we're enraptured in her struggle, is shattering and shaming. And brutally effective. One of the more absorbing experiences in recent celluloid ventures of mine.

Primarily, Olivier plays a great Shakespearean heavy. As the villain Richard of Glouster, he gives perhaps the most vigorously mechanical performance you're likely to see him give - certainly the most automaton Richard you'll see. Every moment shaking the tree, plucking the fruit and carefully imagining what to do with it. The gears are almost physically represented on the screen in how concentrated and methodical Olivier makes Richard's realized vision of becoming "King of England". Though I continually called to mind the 1995 adaptation by Richard Loncraine (with a more venomous Ian McKellan in the lead role), this traditionally stagy production is often more exciting than the 1995 version simply in its attention to theatrical cues. The costumes are classical tudor dress (tights included) with ruffled, brightly colored satin sheets draped around the shoulders of the actors. The sets are dapper - in an unnatural, too colorful way - and appear to emulate a world crafted on-stage. As purposeful as this seems, later, when the action shifts to the battlefield, a mannered plain of dry whites and browns encircles staged sword fights (which clearly took place on a sound stage) and drains from the film its energy. This technique - further exploring the pace of live action performance, presents the film as top heavy and bottom light, which works marvelously. Richard is visibly exhausted by his exploits and conscience. Olivier uses the state of his character, milking the inclusion of every single line of text in the first two acts - only to be reductive and sparing as the third act comes around. The way he vividly envisions and crafts the original story as an always slanting system wherein it would be impossible for Richard not to become king just as it would be impossible for him not to be killed shortly after being crowned - - - is a much clearer, more literary avenue to travel. Beyond the greatness of Olivier's performance - with that long nose, wet-lipped smile, hair of an expressive wig clad blackness dripping over an intense, calculating gaze - there are the great Sir Cedric Hardwicke as Edward; Sir John Gielgud as Clarence and a small role by Michael Gough ('Batman's Alfred) as one of the two murderers of Lady Anne's children. This is electrifying Shakespeare for those fond of the page, but not of the radical interpretation of sed page. I'm blessed with a enthusiasm for both, it seems.

Though there's no getting around the fact that German director Wenders represents a body of work that contains more films replete with less content but bearing expansive, trying running times - - - 'The American Friend' is at once a puzzlling dissection of the unnamed force of passing companionship and a scant adaptation of one of the most promising source authors feeling a rebirth in the business (Patricia Highsmith, writer of the well received 'The Talented Mr. Ripley', 'Ripley's Game', based upon the same book as 'The American Friend', is set to go before the cameras this year with John Malkovich as the reprehensible manipulator Tom Ripley and 'Strangers on a Train', for no other reason than it tastes good after all this time). Not that she's laid dormant or has even been forgotten. Both 'Strangers on a Train' and 'Purple Noon' are continually placed on pedestal critics' lists, cited for precise, quality rendering in a crowded, copy-heavy genre. This moody, almost indecipherable (from the standpoint that you watch most of it going, "It can't be that simple, can it?") film follows a dying frame maker, played with a real edge by Bruno Ganz, as he takes an odd job that includes murdering the enemies of a tycoon. Taking the shady job in order to leave money to his wife and son, Ganz never really questions his immortal soul - but he sure seems interested in finding out how long he has to live from more than one doctor (which feels more like a gaping plot convenience than a piece of this puzzle). Though at more than one point you can feel Wenders stretching everything out about ten minutes longer than it should be (the film itself, at 127 minutes would have made a fabulous 87 minute film), it turns out to be worth watching for every single bleeding moment Dennis Hopper (as Ripley) is onscreen. Firing off a muted, desperate - and at once, quietly ruthless - performance, it feels like a rehearsal for the one dimensional villains, straight-to-video kingpins and weird cameos he's settled into doing nowadays. A flawed venture from a director who works better with his own material ('The End of Violence', 'Wings of Desire').

Watching this pop masterpiece, a static imaged mosaic of teenage freedom - and then some - I get so homesick for my high school days. Back when things were easier. Sure wish I had enjoyed them while they were there. Nevertheless, having seen the film close to a dozen times since it was released (that first week on video back in October of 1993 saw three viewings, I believe), I have trouble competently paying attention to the focal point of the frame. Eyes wandering hither and thither, details accruing - - - catching lines I'd missed previously, extras recycled in odd scenes and wig designs that seem much more transparent than I'd remembered. A hoot for the soundtrack - available on twin discs which each get playtime in my house to this day (almost once a month) - and for the sprawling cast, most of whom have become exposed to a wider audience at this point: London and Cochrane in 'Empire Records', Goldberg in 'Saving Private Ryan', Katt in 'The Limey', 'Boiler Room' and 'The Way of the Gun', Ribisi in 'The Brady Bunch Movie', McConaughey in, well, everything.....the list goes on and on. Nothing makes me feel more at home than buying into how easygoing this world caught on film is - and at how skilled Linklater at infusing just enough of his sculpted, documentary style footage with just enough detail, so we feel like he lived it - - - and needed an outlet. 'Dazed and Confused'', outlet in tow, is plugged in to the tune of an American classic. Recognition to follow in the next couple of years, guaranteed.

Antonioni's film is one of the most expressively photographed and telling pieces of cinema I've seen, I couldn't help but wonder why he chose to make it so weary (it sags for a spot in the late second act, as too many films do) and snail-paced. The evocative images that stir the viewer from a frenzy of panic and grief as socialite Anna (Lea Massari) disappears to the wide-open countryside that seems to swallow up the two protagonists (played by Monica Vitti and Gabriele Ferzetti) to the devilish parameters of wealth as a mansion in the country becomes the sight of innumerable elements, none of them light - - - all of them weighty and surreal. The film itself ranges from exasperatingly watchable to steaming dry ice. Made me want to instantly see other ventures of Antonioni. I'd seen films that had obviously copied its genius and to have seen the original work was a hoot. I stand by almost everything it administers us, from the sexually charged mood to the casualness of aquaintence that Monica Vitti exudes in every conversation she has with anyone. The end result is a human being so in tune with the intimate, she wants to alienate herself and her world because she can't stand being needy. The beautiful realization at the end of the film that she has become another character - and by doing so, assumed the inability to need - and wants her sweet, caring ways back; this is a realization that feels at once earth shattering and like a pulled rug: we knew it all along. Unbelievable film that occasionally, could have been a snappier drug for cinema addicts.

Funny to think that the brilliance of high wire editing came from a propoganda artist even more fervently dedicated to brainwashing - and not the subtle kind with the subliminals - his viewers with Bolshevik mumbo jumbo. Funnier still, to see that the joke is on him (as if was on Reifenstahl, whose films are beautifully edited and gorgeous to look at, but never exceed their subjects' vacant hostilities or the saga that would surround her imminent knighthood of Nazism) as both 'October' and 'Battleship Potemkin' are a wash with style over substance, a common frailty of many modern filmmakers, among them the almost brilliant Darren Aronofsky, who most certainly has viewed the work of Sergei Eisenstein. In 'October', Eisenstein remarkably captures the insanity of a revolution in how desperate his editing feels; there is no moment in the film where a quick jump cut to metaphoric image or, worse, barking intertitle could not be lurking, eager to snatch up our gaze and coat it with political paint. I loved the moments of pure arcane symbolism - the man smoking a cigar only to be intercut with several horse's asses (the sentiment is clear, I hope). As a piece of art - and on video, now, a complete piece of art - 'October' is far too choppy to pass for an epic, or even a collective epiphany of montage work. At the very least - and if you'll avert your eyes to my rating, you'll see it is a hefty least - Eisenstein catapults his theories and inventions to the forefront of your viewing experience, leaving no trace of doubt that he influenced most of the major hot-seats of experimental filmmaking today; and topples the half-cooked blend of narrative and radical expression he demonstrated in 'Battleship Potemkin' into a full fledged assault of exciting art for politics' sake.

How many times do I have to watch this in order to show people that, by my obsession, George Clooney really is the risen Cary Grant? The answer? I think I'm up to four, actually. Probably not enough.

Noir imagery has its ins and outs and ups and downs in American cinema. Heist scenes are often hyperkinetic and toppling their respective brims with action, yelling and downright roguery. In John Huston's 'The Asphalt Jungle', though, the heist scene comes within the first hour - a quiet heist scene with the mastermind standing in the back, chewing a cigar and looking on as his hooligan and his safecracker make with the five finger grab for a jewelry stash worth half a mil.As an event, the one this film chooses to use as a figurehead for its choice blend of character reflection, meticulous planning and the disappointingly heavy-handed moralizing, the heist is a big deal and a beautifully crafted piece of fluidity. Much of the cinematography is sincerely imparted with a rich chiaroscuro, the techinique of blacks and whites that even some of the most lauded of film noirs don't exploit. Here, Huston has long shadows and dimly lit scenes coming together almost throughout. Much of the film is too talky and the police characters are shallow figures of drawn dimension meant only to cater to the baffling anti-crime message. Here we have a film where characters (particularly the doctor played by Sam Jaffe) are ripe for a free trail out of the police line of vision. No one is granted their freedom and, of course, it stands to the time period that everyone is punished. Sad though, that we are treated to a spectacular image of the now dead Sterling Hayden being nuzzled by horses. The only truly unconventional frame in the film and we can't enjoy it because we mourn the loss of a screen heavy, one that had honorable aspirations. I wonder how many viewers see films of the past as I do: with the modern eyes that expect the realism infused and the good guys left high and or dry. 'The Asphalt Jungle', though a solid - if unexceptional - film noir, could have done with a darker pitch in its closing moments. Still, hard to beat Louis Calhern's almost tragic loss of freedom - and mistress Marilyn Monroe, looking unbelievable in a bit role as Angela.

While at first, I suppose Lonergan's film seems a tad simplistic (There are blue towels, the character is sad; Hey! That's symbolism!), later, you come to see just how all-knowing and skillful his window into sibling/newphew/son relationships really is. It doesn't really end with Ruffalo or Linney in different places on the surface and I think that's worth noting. Very few modern films are careful and interested enough in developing characters to the point that audience members see changes without the characters actually acknowledging them onscreen. It doesn't hurt that both principles give earth-shattering-ly good performances - Linney graced with a long shot Oscar nominnations, Ruffalo unfairly snubbed (his performance is among the best supporting turns of anyone this year) - or that Matthew Broderick comes by to lendd a particularly interesting twist on the character he developed in 'Election' (admit it, you couldn't stop thinking about that guy, could you?). What ends up crippling 'You Can Count on Me', besides Lonergan's flaky preacher character is the fact that Linney can have a more convincing relationship with her boss, a married guy she's just using for sex, than she can have with a guy who is genuinely interested in her. Stemming perhaps by how shakily the movie gets started (love the arcane opening scenes ripped from the past, find the defining "character" moments for both principles to be abrupt and weak, though), it doesn't matter in the least; 'You Can Count On Me' is interested, very clearly, in the light at the end of the tunnel, the cheese at the end of the maze - - - the ephiphany at the end of a visit. This is a promising first shot from a playwright etching a screenplay like he had never even heard of theatre or "the stage". His next film will probably be the best film of the year (whatever that may be).

Alright, so its not that bad of a movie. Did it really need to take three viewings and 7 and 1/2 hours of my time to prove it though? I think, finally, the last word is this: It doesn't work as an epic, but rather as a too long modern period piece. It is missing the acknowledgement of the entertainment-driven script that 'Braveheart' had and the literary conciseness 'Rob Roy' (which it most closely resembles) carried. What raises it up this third time is the face that, honestly, I enjoy being immersed in this world. The first two times I was bored midway through. This time, I just gave myself over to it and risked a sub-satisfaction at its end. The saccharine manipulation of the music and the nature of the ending ensure a plastic mindset as you leave. You're happy, but you've been drugged. Drugged by the cinema? I'll take it.

I'm glad I was given the opportunity to watch this film again (I once played Revered Parris on the stage), as I'd not seen it since its theatrical release. An unearthly powerful movie with big, bold performances and a script that just about comes to life in how vividly it renders the here and now aspect of its message. There are certain abridged moments and add-ons, all of which leave the flow of this searing warning uninterrupted. Highlights include the strong Joan Allen (can she give a bad performance? Is it humanly possible?), the brutally forceful Daniel Day-Lewis (Where'd this guy disappear to?) and my favorite of all, Judge Danforth as envisioned by Paul Scofield, an actor who popped up to do this and 'Quiz Show' in the mid-90's and then disappeared into quiet hermit existence again. His portrayal of a maniacal and riotous (not to mention familiar) man campaigning for the black & white justice we picture to be synonymous with the Salem Witch Trials is easily one of the best performances of the decade - - - and one I'd not underrated, even when I did so to the film in the years that its embers grew cold and I refused to view it again (for no real reason; maybe "refused" is the wrong word. Too late now, it's set in stone). If Arthur Miller was waiting for a time to re-demonstrate his knack for brilliant playwrighting - and screenwriting - he grabbed a hold of it with this film thaat is sure to be overplayed in English classes the world over.

I hate to say it, but I have about the same opinion of this pre-amble to the best films of Frank Capra as I do 'Twentieth Century' (the pre-amble to the best films of Howard Hawks). Not to discount 'It Happened One Night' (made two years prior to this), but the naiveté of Gary Cooper - whose not at all interested in being rich - is so staggering and so clearly meant to jjut into message movie central, I almost feel insulted in how far in the future you can see it coming. Still, casting Jean Arthur in anything scores extra points (she's hot, folks. Real hot.). Love the moment when Cooper wakes up his servants to yell into the house, hearing the echo of it (though the symbolism is point blank and hurts for hours). Not really a fan of films that build a huge case against their protagonist (good Lord, the loony bin for doing good? The hell you say!) and then let him off after a bravura monologue - Capra's 'Mr. Smith Goes to Washington' embodies a number of the ideals displayed here, but does it much, much better and without hiding behind the pretense of a fish-out-of-water comedy. As a film that hides its true intentions, 'Mr. Deeds Goes to Town' is shameless. As a knock around of Capra's style to enjoy as entertainment - as long as you can filter out the strong preaching and heavy handed message of "Do right by your neighbor" - 'Mr. Deeds Goes to Town' is a fine film and worth enjoying.

I intensely disliked the first half hour of 'Red Desert'. If this was a film about Monica Vitti's condition, why were there scenes featuring other characters alone? Why the perspective change? Later, as the film begins to turn, showing itself as a vision through the cracked filter of a traumatized human being, a hurt animal that hates to need (some of the same themes Antonioni explored four years prior in 'L'Avventura') and can't seem to repel her throbbing urges as they manifest themselves; i.e. - she's a different person altogether in some ways - - - I began to crave the buzzing hum that stood for quiet, the slow-moving ships that portrayed a mindset unable to work correctly and up to speed. Vitti is so enrapturing in this role, as she climbs about with a stare on her face of complete and utter unpredictability - laced with an awe-aspiring bewilderment. One of the great roles and great films to inspire numbness, the best passage in the film finds her reading a fairy tale to her son and, for the briefest of seconds, she - and we - escape the bleak wasteland of the harbor port she lives and forages in. As her events come to a close (there is no three-act structure, just a meandering ass-biting build), the evocative, near-perfect cinematography begins to show its unfolded layers: the blurry, close-up hand-held, dark shrouded moments are the most pure. Those we can see are like a wall - we know it is there, we know what is on the other side, but we can't quite figure out why its there or why we can't be on the other side of it. Once there, we want to be back on the other side again. Welcome to the life of Guliana - where trauma has both inspired and dehabilitated the same encoder/decoder in her mind, body and soul. Almost every minute of this masterpiece puts us insider her consciousness.

Hard to imagine a film that is entirely about telling stories could be as good as Smoke is. It's one of those films that you finish and feel the strange, warm sensation like you need to go write. Now. Seen it a couple of times now, but as anyone whose seen it will tell you, it is the bravura closing story that Auggie tells Paul Benjamin that leaves you with a feeling of euphoria rarely matched in American cinema.

Is it a goddamn pre-requisite that they show this utterly pretenscious yet wholeheartedly professional short film in every class I take? In the one I'm taking now, we've seen it three times. And I once had a professor that swore that the boom mike was actually meant to be in the shot. Right.

Most beneficial from the earlier work of Eisenstein - 'Ivan the Terrible, Part One' is not. Therre are traces of collision editing in a battle sequence and the trademark close-ups are still in tow, but Eisenstein loses the interest and energy of his craft with the explosion of film sound. It isn't just that auditory elements are a technique that Eisenstein fumbles (actually, the film doesn't necessarily sound bad, per se), but the combination of the two, as a mathematical illusion (that which Eisenstein seemed to be angling for in his 1920's propaganda films), is all but stifling. Furthermore, he creates a smoky, dreamy, almost hazy mood about the film that is at once eerie - and devastatingly slow. Clearly Russia hadn't yet left silent acting in the past and though Nikolai Cherkassov (as Ivan) has a startling, magnificent presence to him, Eisenstein only manages a minor triumph in this tale of political intrigue - a triumph better manifested when he was screwing around at the editing board, unconcerned with what worked and what didn't. Here, he seems to have either story boarded the film to death or fallen headlong into backburnering his direction in order to keep his script the main focal point. To be honest, the film probably succeeds as a Russian History lesson, but the translation and the mannerisms of the actors leave its credibility in such disarray, one can only wonder if they are grandstanding - or if being any culture but Russian, it is inaccessible. Nevertheless, the visual element resembles, at first, the German Expressionist period (ironic, as one of the major points of the film is a German-Livonian trade war), moving later into sprawling sets and mise-en-scene wet dreams but ultimately, cornering the viewer and leaving him a very limited point of view.

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