What's of particular interest is composition: Deliberately impossible angles to film from put us on board as witnesses - or even co-conspirators - just as in mostt of Haneke's films. When Majid forces the guilt he feels Georges has lacked and his son confronts Georges, its as if the entirety of our ignorance is as real and literal as it is in the earlier scene where Georges casually dismisses the possibility that his son might be missing as images of the Iraq War on a huge flat screen TV take over his massive bookshelf. Time and time again, Haneke makes us conscious of our identity and begs us to consider how fragile it is. And though it smarted something awful when we were forced to confront our natural urge to consume violence in Funny Games, I think Caché works even better, calling to the mat our daily comfort in a life built on the subjugation (or death) of those with less money. It is as overwhelming as the worldview of The Seventh Continent, but tethered just enough not to remain hopelessly abstract (as it did in that film). And yes, that last shot is the stuff of fucking genius.

I still reside - very lonely, I might add - in the camp that believes the truths of Waking Life are likely the most relevant, potent and necessary dogmas of human life. Period. Let that sink in. Then just nod your head.

Disturbing from the word go, this one hints more deeply at the cynical Lucas, especially when viewed as one half of a whole with Caravan of Courage. We sort of screwed up the order by watching this one first. This order, the nerd in me is screaming, more succintly mirrors the by-release date chronology of The Star Wars Trilogy: The hopeful before the wicked. Also, despite the lazy acting and piddling, seemingly endless middle-section at Terak's castle, this one features Teke, the dimwitted, alter-Ewok with the power of The Flash. Price of admission validated.

Suffers from all the things that TV movies tend to suffer from - lack of scope, mediocre actors/acting, too-breakneck pacing - but contains some memorable images (The GGorax appearing through the fog) and genuinely pulls off the nature documentary riff with objective, observed-in-the-wild narration by Burl Ives. Lucas' story keeps us semi-rapt, at the very least, and what more can be asked (at least for a reasonably subjective Star Wars fan who first saw this at age 5, at the height of his youthful obsession with the franchise).

Tristram Shandy is harnessed by its conceit (excessive post-modernism, as it readily mocks on more than one occasion) and, put simply, very narrowly escapes being dubbed 24 Hour Party People Part Deux. Though camera takes do happen, the whole film is essentially a DVD featurette on a fictitious film shoot of a title adaptation. It's less a mockumentary (though its rightly pointed vision of how filmmakers would mess up the transfer from novel to film is well taken) than a self conscious walk on the eggshells of pretention, hoping the audience either won't notice or will forgive due to having been cracked the fuck up. Deleted scene reveals the possibility that Steve Coogan The Dick is a clever extension of his persona/character in "Cousins?", his Coffee & Cigarettes segment. Even if I'm half right about that theory, it would be the most wonderful, unthinkably comfortable crossreference since Michael Keaton appeared for nothing in Out of Sight.

Predecessor to Psycho in so much as it switches main characters about thirty minutes into it. Though it ends with an meandering, obvious gunfight (just as a couple of the early sound films do, unfortunately), The Lady Vanishes is such great bend on the usual Wrong Man string that Hitchcock overmilked, it almost defines itself as a workprint for later films that stands superior next to its product. Surely one of Hitch's best romances (or, at least, best cast, as Margaret Lockwood and Michael Redgrave are smile-inducing to no end in my opinion).

The loyal, heroic leading man - a face (Cagney) audiences typically associated with the wrong side of the law, at that - finds his way, hopelessly intertwined, innto a set of circumstances so ripe for melodramatic propaganda, it's no wonder the picture's reflection in 2006 is that of fond recall rather than continued reverence. Keighley taps that moment when the spirit of a successful America, comfortable with itself, seemed to have only grand, staged crime to contend with. Cagney is proprietor of a failing law firm and, recognizing an opportunity to file into the establishment and affect revenge for his dead friend, ultimately joins the Department of Justice as the title indicates. G-Men is by the book, sans a few images that flirt with its noir-edged tale: Light splintered all over a shade by the grates of a fire escape during a gun battle, a husband murdering his unarmed wife from behind as she rats on him and tons of spinning newspapers. What's best about it is the nonstop barrage of Cagney's loyal saint antics, relishing a decidedly satisfying character reversal. We can't help but root for him, despite his role as a programming tool by a group who bullies lawmakers - in a terrifying moment - to pass national law allowing themselves to be armed. As I said: In 2006, it's hard not to look back on this as the beginning of the end.

I've never been able to separate my first viewing of this film from its practical use (to cleanse my head of a horrifically tortorous weekend camping trip) and, as a result, probably underrated it as some sort of mental cleanser the first time around. I had an inkling, always, that I'd revisit it and, being me, I revel in the comfort that I was absolutely wrong - and absolutely right at the same time - to take it lightly. Subtext is completely out of the question and its unassuming visual power celebrates life as a female pornographic fantasy in the key of what I would call carefree intensity: The latent indulgence of risk to get laid. Magically. Mixing a tinkling score and dreamy camerawork (a stark contrast, as stress seems to rule the Parisian night of transit strikes, feuding couples and crying babies), Friday Night is sensual fluff one must allow to wash over oneself.