Easily one of the funniest films I've ever seen. I have a great deal of trouble discerning between nostalgic pleasure and genuine awe. Here: I think it's a bit of both.

Simplistic almost to the point where it wriggles from Herzog's grip (by which I mean, defies his docufiction/fictumentary caste), Lessons of Darkness is meant to be followed in the literal - or is it? - and taken as a science ficttion tale about a planet in our solar system that commits an envioronmental Hari-kari so pungent that its inhabitants can't bear to see it remedied - - - and start its cycle all over again. Of course, this is all complete nonsense: It's a collection of images taken after the first gulf war ended - oil fields burning, fires being put out, devastating spills, first-person accounts of torture and murder, overheads of Kuwait City, news footage of the bombing of Baghdad - cut into chapters and served with spare commentary by a removed, almost abstract Papa Werner. Because he puts grand, triumphant music over these scenes of nature's folly, he creates an anti-war contrast more powerful than even he seems to be striving for: The film seems to announce this as a victory (as the U.S. would have) despite the blunt force of the images, all of which clearly show this as a horrible defeat for nature and for man.

I really liked A Man Escaped, but I've had a great deal of trouble enjoying a Bresson picture since that one. This film is stitched together as an overemoting fable, offering what looks like a very young Henry Fonda (okay, the French equivalent: Martin LaSalle), who is hopelessly addicted to the thrill of theft - but isn't really all that good at it. Unfortunately, his downfall lies simply in how inept he is, not in any sort of poor moral fabric, leaving the audience as befuddled at Bresson's waving finger as Marika Green, the young man's girlfiend (who looks just like Natalie Portman). What's most interesting about the film is the craft of pickpocketing, which the main/title character has developed a love for not out of necessity or out of defect in conscience, but because he has been influenced by Barrington's "Prince of Pickpockets", which makes the quick thieves into the very Supermen of the world. It all seems like much ado about nothing - the supermen, the army of cops assigned to stop him, the ridiculous reconciliation at close; The music does most of the work, I'm afraid to admit.

In which The Coen Bros. make their bonafied art film - all existential thematic sketches with an insanely off-kilter Sturges riff - and, for which they deviated from the crime genre for the first time. Having worked out how dark they wanted to be (in Blood Simple), how caricature-hilarious they could be (in Raising Arizona) and tested the two on a genre picture (called Miller's Crossing), Barton Fink is a logical progression: Contained therein is the dark and hilarious (genre-less) dissection of the madness of writing a film in the first place. It's as if they take all they knew and start over, examining their own unique headspace with metaphors and satirical jabs: Vague ideas instead of concrete ones. And, because I've already started on this road, I think it's hilarious that their next film - The Hudsucker Proxy - was hailed as a spectacular failure (a la Unfaithfully Yours). Because it follows it sequentially, Hudsucker gives Barton Fink's edgy tale of failing in the film business a jolt of life imitating art. More than any other directors, The Coens make auteur theory into a grand sport. More when I figure out how in the hell I even begin to rationalize the existence of The Ladykillers.

Melville is so good at showing the method of, well, anything. Alain Delon's every move is indexed as the film transfers the discipline of the east into a stylistic noir scenario. Preparing for a hit with the same precise timing as he'll later navigate the labrynthine corridors of the Metro, the title character also has the distinction of making cigarettes look, probably, cooler than any other movie character not played by Bogart.

Technicolor! Three-strip, blinding bright, eye melting colors! And also, it's probably one of the tightest big studio films of its kind. With Errol Flynn in a much more likable version of himself than in Captain Blood, and it fits, too: He's a natural for lighter material. Despite the similar themes of the oppressed rebelling and corrupt officials, The Adventures of Robin Hood almost seems a comedy first, as Flynn never really stops cracking wise, bringing his trademark swaggart of cocky self-awareness out in a character who seems to know that his personality matches that of his ego (or, at the very least, plays up his own in-process "legend" status). Because both Robin Hood and Errol Flynn seem to have this in common - as the film is written, that is (and there are plenty of other adaptations for comparison) - the character becomes instantly likable and sorely missed whenever he's offscreen (except when the scenes draw close to an affeminate Claude Rains and a too-perfectly groomed Basil Rathbone, plotting to carry out their fiendish plans). It's also one of those films they tend to show around the holidays. Purely entertaining without a second wasted. And marvelously, squintintly, colorfully pleasant to look at.

Cast with a very specific period time-stamp, the journey from contradiction to enlightenment in 25th Hour is wrought with the same bouillabaisse of confused emotions as the Attack on America itself. It follows a convicted drug dealer through a landscape where alcohol permeates every meeting, every every background, and even plays a key role in his father's guilt-bearing quandary (he is behind on payments to loan sharks on his bar). Underlined, of course, is the legality of alcohol as well as its place in the culture of urban life (see it on advertisements in the b.g. of the self-pity sequence with the men's room mirror), its genetic necessity ("I'm Irish - we don't get drunk!" Frank announces) and entwined in celebration (the Russian mobsters send Monty off with Vodka; his friends, with Champagne).  His friends' contradictions are stated - and obvious (Frank is a great bachelor, but he doesn't know how to behave; Jacob milks a stiff academic front for his brazen underage lusting; Naturelle seems controlling, but is hopeless in swaying or rescuing Monty and his fate) - but the Russian mobsters reveal a more appropriately ironic worldview per Uncle Nikolai's advice that Monty "find the man nobody's protecting and beat him until [the man's] eyes bleed", an exacting course of action that would lower Monty to the level of his asspecific surroundings, namely, as he would also be the man whom nobody's protecting. This is mirrored by a more Zen-like interpretation by the club bouncer ("Don't lose your temper until it's time to lose your temper"), whose advice is a compromise between Nikolai's and Papa Brogan's words of wisdom ("Keep your head down and don't start trouble"). These contradictions echo the thematic drive, namely, that nothing is certain once things change (the loss of freedom) and that, for certain, things will never be the same as they were. The whole thing's about a constant vulnerability, made worse by an open sore. These questions follow: Is the act of destroying the WTC Towers meant to be represented in the scene where Frank beats Monty up to "buy him some time"? Did the powers that be allow It to happen in order to manipulate a vulnerable mindset racked with fear and hatred to focus those strong emotions elsewhere (like, say, on a war)? Is Monty allowing his comfort borders to be breached in order that he will reach that fragile mindset and prepare for war (i.e. - jail)?

Never. Gets. Old.