One of the most fascinating examinations involving the mystery of human connection comes from Krzysztof Kieslowski’s Three Colors Trilogy (1993-94). The three films (Blue, White, and Red) signify the tenets of the French Revolution: Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity. But that doesn’t begin to describe what these stories are like and how they seemingly relate, despite being separate from one another. Kieslowski takes these themes and molds them in a fashion different than what one may expect. These grand ideas are deeply focused toward personal and intimate stories, involving singular characters dealing with tremendous emotional adversity. In setting his films in a more grounded environment, Kieslowski enables us to connect with them in regards to love, life, and the invisible ties between strangers. Life is short, often times beautiful, and—on occasion—hilariously absurd. Kieslowski knew this, and depicted it in arguably one of the best trilogies ever made.

Three Colors would mark the peak of Kieslowski’s artistic height, and also its end. After Red was released in 1994, Kieslowski would announce his retirement, fully content to step away from the cinema. He would die two years later. But what he left was a catalogue of endlessly intriguing work that only got better as his career went on. Kieslowski was raised and taught in Poland, during the height of the Communist era. Much of his earlier work involved satires of the ruling government. But when the Cold War and Communism fell, Kieslowski turned his gaze toward characters in search of deeper meaning, of transcendence, even if they didn’t know how or where to find it. Often collaborating with his writing partner, Krzysztof Piesiewicz, Kieslowski’s later work would involve ideas hinted at, but not readily apparent. The Decalogue (1989-90) was a TV miniseries of ten one-hour films, each based on one of the Ten Commandments, although it’s difficult to decipher which commandment goes with which film. In The Double Life of Veronique (1991), the actress Irene Jacob plays two different characters somehow connected by an unseen bond.

This is what Kieslowski was so good at: creating human stories filled with an aura of the unknown. He always leaves us wondering about the subtext, but provides enough to give us our own interpretation. Three Colors is no different. The first installment, Blue, tells of a woman’s desperate struggle to move on from terrible heartbreak. Juliette Binoche gives one of the best performances of her career as Julie, the lone survivor of a car accident that took the lives of her child and musical composer husband. Flipping the idea of “Liberty,” we watch as Julie does everything she can to be free of her past. She sells her family’s home, moves into an apartment, and tries to get rid of all of her possessions, including her husband’s unfinished music. But all the while, she is nearly consumed by the tragedy, often startled awake by the memory of her husband’s compositions (the score was wonderfully created by Zbigniew Preisner). Julie is a musical person herself, and clues indicate that she may have had a hand in helping with her husband’s success.

What Julie desires most is the ability to feel again. She was so in love with her family that her loss left her numb and near emotionless. But as Kieslowski moves the story along, we sense that Julie begins to reach out again, even if it is cautiously. This comes in the most surprising of places, especially with her husband’s friend and colleague Olivier (Benoit Regent). Olivier tracks Julie down, asking her to help him finish her husband’s music. Not only does this help her focus on something other than her family, it contributes to her interacting with others again. These people include her next-door neighbor (who moonlights at a rundown sex club), a young boy who was the sole witness to Julie’s accident, and—of all people—her husband’s mistress, whom Julie has recently discovered. One can only imagine how Julie’s world is turned sideways at this new revelation—everything she once thought to be true was a façade. But how does Julie react to it? By selling her home to her husband’s mistress! Julie wants to shed her past so much that she is willing to give up her old home to the very woman her husband was secretly involved with. She so wants to feel anything that she sleeps with Olivier, not because she’s in love with him, but because she needs a physical and emotional release from her pain.

Blue is a devastating look at freeing oneself from grief. There is much sadness, but at the end there is a level of catharsis, even if we aren’t sure Julie has quite reached her own happy ending. In the second film of the trilogy, White, Kieslowski’s switches the tone to make a darkly comic story of revenge. The theme of “Equality” is defined here as “getting even.” We are introduced to a lowly Polish hairdresser, Karol Karol (Zbigniew Zamachowski), in the middle of a personal crisis. His French wife, Dominique (Julie Delpy), has filed for divorce, citing that they have never consummated their marriage. Even worse, she blocked all of his credit cards, and frames him with burning down their hair salon. At his lowest point, Karol finds himself on the street, playing music with his comb in an attempt to make enough money to get back to Poland. But in Kieslowski’s world, what goes around comes around, and Karol’s journey to self-improvement (and finally to equal footing with Dominique) is funny while also being strangely moving.

(Cont.)

Paris, Texas (1984). Let’s examine that title for a moment. When you hear the name of the town, chances are you immediately think of the city in France. Strange that the place referenced in this film is located in the vast desert of the second largest state in the U.S. I believe that is what director Wim Wenders was going for. Here is one of the prominent filmmakers of the German New Wave, telling a story steeped in the American culture. There’s a melding of two opposite voices—one of the outside observer, and the other of the characters he is observing—both trying to find common ground. It’s no surprise these characters are constantly adrift, trying to find truth and peace in their lives. By contributing these different cultural influences, Wenders makes this less about a certain place and time, and more of an overarching human experience.

The main character is a man named Travis (Harry Dean Stanton). Travis is a lost, sad, and aimless soul. We first find him wandering the desert, clothes ragged, sporting a heavy beard and a red baseball cap. There is something wrong with him. He travels on foot, with no sense of direction or purpose, and eats and drinks wherever he can. He stops by a gas station, and in a desperate act for water, chews ice from a freezer just before passing out. How did he end up here? Where is he going? In a way, we are put into his shoes. Travis has lost his memory, and as the film unfolds, he slowly begins to remember. We learn of Travis’s past just as he does. This rewards multiple viewings. As we come to understand who this person is, we can fully grasp how he found himself to be so alone. This opening act—of a man emerging from a long journey in the desert—is full of religious connotations, which are only strengthened as we continue further.

Turns out that Travis was once a family man, who (four years earlier) had a beautiful wife and son, and somehow left them for this world of isolation. Whatever caused this must have been traumatic, as Travis remains mostly mute throughout the first half of the film. When examined by the German doctor who finds him (Bernhard Wicki), he doesn’t say a word. Why doesn’t he speak? It’s clear early on that he is not mentally ill, but there is something that is bearing down on him. Perhaps his guilt (whatever it may be) is so heavy that it got to the point of him being afraid to talk and relieve his memories. All that is left is a face worn from time, eyes sunk from some hidden pain. The casting of Harry Dean Stanton was an act of brilliance. He has to emote with his facial features so often, but he does it effortlessly. Each wrinkle seems to have something behind it, a story wanting to be told. Stanton may not speak much here, but there is plenty that he says.

Travis’s return to civilization is a tough one. His brother Walt (Dean Stockwell), realizing that Travis is alive after all these years, travels from Los Angeles to Texas to fetch him. But as Walt tries to bring Travis back home, he must also help him start to remember who he once was. When they first reunite, Travis walks right past Walt as if he were a stranger. And when Walt leaves Travis in their hotel room to run an errand, he returns to find it abandoned and must search for him again. The only thing that gets Travis to talk once more is the mention of Paris, Texas. He once bought land there, and carries an old picture of it with him at all times. Travis confesses to Walt that their mother told him that was where he was conceived, and one day he wanted to return to live there. The place is more than just a stretch of dirt and grass; it stands as the main allegory for the whole film. Here is a character that wanted to escape to a place that he associates not only with his mother, but also as a form of lost happiness. It seems like Travis was willing to walk forever until he found it, or it found him.

The narrative is broken into three major sections, strung together fairly linearly. The first involves Walt discovering Travis in the desert and bringing him home, the second deals with Travis meeting his son Hunter (Hunter Henderson), and attempting to rebuild their relationship. We discover that after Travis left his family, his wife Jane (Nastassja Kinski), unable to provide for their son, left him with Walt and his wife Anne (Aurore Clement). After four years of living with them, Hunter has assimilated Walt and Anne as his own parents, even calling them “Mom” and “Dad.” This is a unique family dynamic, because just as Hunter has accepted Walt and Anne into his life, they have accepted him into theirs. They treat him as their own child, and when Travis returns, it’s understandable that they would have trouble adjusting. There is a risk of this dilemma falling into over-the-top melodrama, but Wenders (along with writers L.M. Kit Carson and Sam Shepard) never allows it to delve in that direction. In fact, the beauty is in how we can attach to every character as they face these major questions.

Travis’s and Hunter’s relationship grows steadily. It doesn’t happen right away, though—when we see Hunter decide to go home from school with his friend instead of with Travis, we sense how much it hurts him. But as Hunter begins to open up, we come to find that he always hoped his real father would return. Even though he calls Walt “Dad,” the thought of Travis being alive always lingered in his head. And although Travis has trouble remembering his past (he doesn’t even recall Hunter’s age), we feel that Travis regrets not being a part of his life. This culminates with Walt showing Travis an old home video depicting both of their families having a vacation getaway at the beach. Accompanied by slow, melodic guitar music, we see the rush of memories come flooding back to Travis as he watches. Just as Paris, Texas, represents a happy place for him, so does this video, showing a time in his life that now seems so far away. It’s one of the emotional high points of the film, because we finally get to see what it was that Travis lost, and what it is that he hopes to bring back, especially for his son. From there, we see the two connect, with Hunter walking with Travis home, and Travis showing Hunter pictures of his younger self.

(Cont.)

One of the most famous scenes in Milos Forman’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975) also foreshadows its oncoming tragedy. The hellraiser R.P. McMurphy (Jack Nicholson), desperate to throw some variety into the repetitive, mundane life of a mental institution, asks head nurse Ratched (Louise Fletcher) to have the television turned on to the World Series. The patients take a vote, with McMurphy getting the winning vote just after Ratched has ended the meeting. Angered but not deterred, McMurphy circumvents the outcome by pretending that he is watching the game, filling in his own commentary along the way. Through his energy, he gathers and excites the other patients, as if they were all there at the game together. It’s an emotional high point for the characters. But it is tragic, because in the end, they’re only playing pretend—the television is still turned off.

No matter. The beauty of Forman’s film is what this moment represents. Here is a story about bucking the system, questioning and challenging authority, and breaking out of the restraints that hold us down. It’s no surprise that this would be released in the mid-seventies, as the country was going through major cultural and societal changes. Vietnam was still fresh in people’s minds, the era of Nixon and Watergate changed the perceptions of authoritative figures, and the Cultural Revolution fed the desire to be unique and different. The time of 1950s optimism was long gone, replaced by feelings cynicism and skepticism. American filmmaking was also going through changes. The American New Wave pushed for more experimentation—stepping away from the tried and true practices of studio-bred storytelling for something more personal. This is a movie that is entirely representative of its time, which would explain why it was (and still is) so embraced.

It would only make sense that a story about rebellion would have the ultimate rebel as its leading star. Jack Nicholson was the poster child of the time, his characters fully encompassing the persona of the counter-culture. He didn’t look like a regular movie star, and in this movie he certainly didn’t act like one. But that is what makes him so special. There is a quality in Nicholson that very few actors possess. His mischievous nature and enormous charisma allow him to get away with just about anything. He is the quintessential “anti-hero,” winning our sympathies even when he does ludicrous things. In his award-winning role in As Good As It Gets (1997), he plays a borderline racist, homophobe, and misogynist, but somehow we find ourselves rooting for him. What makes him a special actor is that he recognizes this quality. In About Schmidt (2002) he masks it to powerful effect.

McMurphy is arguably Nicholson’s most iconic character, winning him his first of three acting Oscars. It may be hard today to step back and examine just how unconventional this character really was. McMurphy is a jailed convict, pretending to be insane to get out of doing hard labor. During his initial interview at the mental institution, they briefly mention his encounter with a young girl that led him to being locked up in the first place. He is rude and crude, and often has moments of outbursts just to get under the skin of the doctors and nurses. But what draws audiences to him is how he treats the other patients as people instead of subjects. He engages with them as individuals, and encourages them to break their normal routines. This can be both a benefit and a hindrance. The idea of McMurphy helping the patients through his own enthusiasm is admirable, but can they be “healed” just through McMurphy pushing them along? According to him, the best way to treat the patients is by getting laid, going out and playing basketball, and breaking the rules. A respectable sentiment, but there is an underlining level of sadness. This story can only end one way, but that makes the film all the more powerful.

More needs to be said about how good Louise Fletcher’s performance is, as well. While Nicholson rallies the troops and gets all the attention, Fletcher takes the thankless job of the villain. The fact that audiences so detest Nurse Ratched is testament to how believable she was. Fletcher is so cold, so inflexible, and so machine-like that she is less an individual person and more of an overarching idea. Her voice remains calm to the point of almost being monotone, and the way she so strictly obeys the rules can be damn near maddening. Notice the way she conducts the daily group meetings with the patients. Ratched has a way of breaking down a character by simply asking questions and using her version of logic. This makes her quite fascinating. Yes, she is methodical in her approach, but she never goes too far. She always stays within the boundaries, and while the characters turn against her, she herself never crosses the line. It’s a slippery slope to play on, and Fletcher does it in remarkable fashion. Her Oscar win was well deserved.

While the metaphor we’re presented with is an important one (and can still be put into use today), there are elements that stick out noticeably. The casting of the patients has become more curious as time has gone by. Maybe Danny DeVito and Christopher Lloyd weren’t well known back then, but today they are certainly recognizable. This poses an interesting issue here. We can’t criticize actors for playing mental patients, but because time has made them more famous, the manipulation shows a bit more. Their mental handicaps are presented only when they are needed for the story, and disappear at just the right moments. They seem to get better the more they interact with McMurphy, and rescind to an almost catatonic state when Ratched and her team give them their medications. Does this mean that one can be cured of their ailments by simply hanging out with Jack Nicholson? An even clearer example is when McMurphy escapes with the patients on a fishing trip. As people come up to them and question what they’re doing, McMurphy introduces each as a doctor, accompanied with a perfectly timed expression. Is this scene funny? Absolutely. Is it realistic? Not really. But maybe reality isn’t what we need. The theme of freedom is what’s important, even if the portrayal of medical treatment may not be entirely accurate.

(Cont.)

“Let’s go.” – Pike Bishop

Two simple words, but to the men of Sam Peckinpah’s The Wild Bunch (1969), it means so much more. To them, it means taking a stand, helping one of their own in desperate need. And, most importantly, it means that they will most certainly not live to see the end of the day. Their time has come; what they once knew to be the ways of the world are quickly slipping through their fingers, and what is left has no room for their kind. It is one of the greatest of all westerns, a gritty and raw look at a lifestyle that does not fit with the time during which it is set. The people that inhabit this story are lined with age and exhaustion, but they continue with their ways because they simply do not know how else to live. They would rather stick to what they know best than be anything else.

We are presented with the central themes very early on. A group of kids gather around in a circle to see a scorpion get devoured by an army of ants. As the scorpion gets buried out of sight, the children cover the mound with sticks and branches and light it on fire. The interesting thing to note is the look on the children’s faces. Notice how much fun they are having, the glee that they exhibit while an animal gets torn apart and burnt alive. This detachment—the lack of sympathy towards life and death—is the main focus of the film. As our protagonists move through the plot, they come against instance after instance of man’s loss of humanity and honor. Murder and carnage are what replaced it, along with advancement in technology and war just on the horizon. They see how people can kill without remorse or second thought, and try as they might to adjust and adapt, sooner or later Father Time will catch up to them.

The leader of The Bunch is Pike Bishop (William Holden). An old robber who sports a limp and what seems to be a permanent grimace on his face, Bishop is the man who notices the group of kids in the earlier scene. The sight of the kids has an effect on Pike that isn’t mentioned, but is felt throughout the film. He knows he can’t be a criminal forever; technology has become too sophisticated, authorities have become too smart, and people have become too dangerous in general for him to continue his life on the edge. The other members of his group realize this, too. Pike’s right-hand man, Dutch (Ernest Borgnine), knows this all too well. But, like Pike, Dutch is already set with himself; it is too late for him to change. In one of the quieter moments of reflection, Pike and Dutch talk next to a campfire, with Pike describing how he wouldn’t want his life to be any other way. Before going to sleep, Dutch turns to Pike and says, “I wouldn’t want it any other way, either.”

1913 is the year the story is set, and this is very important to know. With the twentieth century already in full swing, the code of the Wild West was already dying, if not already dead. Industrialization was developing rapidly, and the world was on the eve of entering WWI. When The Bunch notices an automobile (some of them seeing one for the very first time), they talk about how it would be used in the war, and how they hear of some actually having the ability to fly. Clearly, they are not aware of how fast the world is advancing, which makes their own predicament all the more fascinating. The Bunch—that includes Pike, Dutch, the Gorch brothers Lyle (Warren Oates) and Tector (Ben Johnson), the crazy old-timer Freddie Sykes (Edmond O’Brien), and Angel (Jaime Sanchez)—seem to be living in their own bubble. They are now on the outside looking in, and instead of trying to be a part of the change, they try to escape from it. It is not surprising that a big plot development involves their attempt to run to Mexico. Not only are they trying to outrun the authorities hot on their tail, they’re trying to outrun modernization, as well.

Perhaps the one major character that can understand their situation is Deke Thornton (Robert Ryan). Thornton was once a member of the group, but after spending time in jail, he gets hired by a major railroad company to lead the bounty hunters against his old partners. Thornton knows their style and predicts their movements, and can guess where Pike will take the men as if he were reading his mind. Yet, he can also understand them and feel the same things they do. Of all the major characters, Thornton is the one who looks the most tired, as if at any moment he could collapse in a heap. He represents the past, and that is evident in the company he keeps. The other men that are hired to accompany him are savage, dirty, and without discipline. They hoot and holler and fight amongst themselves—Thornton knows that they would not stand a chance against Pike and his men. In a telling scene, Thornton and his group ambush The Bunch as they try to rob a post office. After a bloody shootout that leaves many people dead (including innocents), those on Thornton’s side run around, picking up valuables from victims who were shot. The way they scramble around is similar to the movements of animals, and their disregard for the loss of human life reflects the laughing children of the opening scene.

(Cont.)

If someone who has never seen a Hitchcock film asked me to recommend the one they should see first, I would pick Rear Window (1954). Not only is it highly entertaining and full of well-developed suspense, but it also incorporates everything that made Alfred Hitchcock great. We have romance, witty comedy, and sparkling dialogue, mixed with moments of terror, shock, and surprise, all clicking together in the best way possible. It is also headlined by arguably two of the biggest stars in the history of the movies. It takes its time, feeling its way through the hints and clues, gathering all of the information for us, so that when the climax does happen, we know exactly how we arrived there and what is at stake, as we clench our fists, eagerly anticipating the reveal of how it all ends up.

What I admire about Hitchcock is how he was able to perfectly balance his artistic sensibilities within the confines of a mainstream production. Yes, he did work within the studio system, with all the big names and big budgets that came along with that. But rarely did he ever veer away from making the kind of movies he wanted to. Each of his projects had his own personal touch injected in—whether it be in the story, the themes, or the technical elements. If you were to follow the path his career had gone, you could clearly see patterns surfacing over and over again. This is why he is considered an auteur, in the way he put his own fingerprints on a project, even though they were financed by big studios. This is a very difficult thing to do, and there are very few filmmakers who have done it, which is why I appreciate his work so much. He was tremendously sound and inventive as a director, able to create material like that of an artist, but he also had consideration and respect for the audiences he made films for.

The fascinating thing is how the premise of Rear Window, when broken down, represents the very idea of watching movies. Hitchcock turns the camera towards the audience, and examines the reasons why people have a strange curiosity toward others. The center figure, the photographer L.B. “Jeff” Jefferies (James Stewart), throughout the plot is constantly peering and spying on others. With his binoculars and high-zoom camera, he can see just about anybody in his sights in perfect detail. This voyeurism, at its base level, is creepy and wrong, but how different is it compared to someone watching a movie? When we watch a film, we are seeing complete strangers during a certain timeframe of their own lives. What is it that makes us interested in seeing these stories, and why (in certain instances) do we become so attached to particular ones that they become major factors in our own personalities? When Jeff is questioned by his love interest, Lisa Fremont (Grace Kelly), about whether it is right or wrong to watch a person who is completely unaware of the watcher’s presence, Hitchcock also questions us (the audience) about the nature of filmgoing.

It was a stroke of brilliance by Hitchcock, John Michael Hayes (screenplay), and Cornell Woolrich (short story) to limit the film to within the parameters of an apartment. With Jeff stuck in a wheelchair, his leg in a cast due to an accident while on the job, he is put into the same position we are. We see what Jeff sees from the perspective inside his room. With nothing to do and his windows wide open because of the hot summer weather, the only way Jeff can pass the time is to see into all the other apartment buildings adjacent to his (in one of the most impressive indoor sets ever constructed). It’s important that Hitchcock’s camera stays in the room. Because Jeff is partially handicapped and relegated to a small space, it heightens the potential for suspense. There is clearly a claustrophobic feeling involved, especially since Jeff is physically unable to protect himself if trouble were to somehow find him. As the story develops and Jeff’s situation begins to close in on him, his escalating feeling of helplessness resonates effectively from the screen. This is one of Hitchcock’s best exercises in thrill-making, by limiting his main character’s freedom and having the danger come straight for him.

Film, as it is so often described, is a “show me” medium. Filmmakers can make a much bigger impact if they can show a story unfold rather than have a character describe it in exposition. This film is a master class in that very concept. Hitchcock doesn’t only tell one story, he tells multiple stories, each with its own arc. Notice when Jeff looks around to the other apartment windows and sees everyone else, the characters presented are just as fleshed out as those in the main plot thread. We have the dancing Miss Torso (Georgine Darcy) and her hope that her lover will soon return home, or the piano man (Ross Bagdasarian) who struggles with writing his next piece. The older couple (Sara Berner/Frank Cady) that sleeps on the fire escape also makes an impression, especially their dog that will eventually play a pivotal role, as well as the newlyweds (Rand Harper/Havis Davenport) who handle their “business” behind closed shades. Miss Lonelyhearts (Judith Evelyn) has the saddest story, stuck home alone with a desire to find her one true love. And of course Lars Thorwald (Raymond Burr), the suspicious-looking man whose invalid wife mysteriously disappears. These are all presented visually and with little dialogue, and yet by the end we clearly understand how each of the stories are resolved, a credit to the superior editing and direction.

Hitchcock could not have gotten a better cast even if he tried. Each of the players fills their respective roles to the brim, leaving an impression even while having limited screen time. Two supporting actors stand out from the rest. The first is Wendell Corey, who plays police detective Doyle, Jeff’s close friend. Detective Doyle is the type of police officer we will see many times over in other movies, the kind that questions the main character’s beliefs and theories. But Corey gives Doyle a more believable touch. In a lesser movie, Doyle’s character would be angry and unpersuasive for no reason. Here, he doesn’t simply disregard Jeff’s assertions that Thorwald murdered his wife, but handles them logically and understandably. He does his own small investigation into the matter, and even though in the end he is proven wrong, he never feels like someone we would be against. In fact, Doyle may very well be the most believable character in the film; his actions and thoughts would arguably be the ones we would have if we were in the same situation.

(Cont.)

“Sooner or later, everyone who loves movies comes to Ozu.” - Roger Ebert

How true, and what an amazing experience it is to discover him. Yasujiro Ozu, the master director from Japan, is one of the great storytellers, on par with all the great names that have come and gone. But unlike his native contemporaries (Akira Kurosawa, Kenji Mizoguchi, Masaki Kobayashi, and so on), Ozu reached his distinction in a much more subtle way. He did not tell epic stories of samurai battles, mysterious ghost stories, or grand struggles for survival. Instead, his films were much more intimate, quieter, focusing on lives we see everyday, or perhaps lives we live ourselves. And yet, the power and emotion that they evoke resonate just as strongly (or even more so). He examines the inner workings of the human soul with a touch as light as a feather, and as a result we come away startled by how well he managed to make us feel with as little as he actually gives us.

Late Spring (1949) is arguably one of the top three films Ozu ever made, a story that is so heartbreaking and yet so perfect in every decision made and every word spoken. What makes Ozu so effective to me is that he had a supreme understanding of human relationships. He was able to tap into what makes us connect to our friends, family, and lovers, and then test those bonds with obstacles that are all too reasonable. Very often, there are no true “villains” in his movies, but rather situations and social expectations that force characters to go against what they truly wish for. He would routinely visit the same kind of theme regarding family. That is the main topic in his other two masterpieces, Tokyo Story (1953) and Floating Weeds (1959). Tokyo Story involves the regret that a couple’s children have for not spending enough time with them, and in Floating Weeds, the head of a traveling performance group faces his past in the forms of his old lover and illegitimate child. Both are similar in the idea of what a “normal” family is, yet different in their execution, and both are equally moving.

Post-war Japan is the setting for this film. We meet an old professor named Shukichi Somiya (Chishu Ryu), and his daughter, Noriko (Setsuko Hara). Noriko’s mother died many years ago, and since then the father and daughter have been living together, with Noriko helping take care of Mr. Somiya. Their bond is clear; they truly love one another and enjoy each other’s company, but things are starting to change. Mr. Somiya is getting older, and he realizes that his time is running short. Noriko is now 27 years old, still single, seemingly content to remain by her father’s side. In post-war Japan, 27 is an age where women were already expected to be married and have a family, and that is what dominates nearly all the conversation that happens here. Apparently, being married and having children is what constitutes being “happy” in the Japan of this era. But throughout the story, Shukichi refuses to acknowledge that idea, stating continuously that being with her father is what makes her happy. Unfortunately, Mr. Somiya worries that after he passes, Noriko will become lonely. We learn that Noriko had worked in a labor camp during the war, and was just recovering from a serious illness. At the urging of Noriko’s Aunt Masa (Haruko Sugimura), Mr. Somiya reluctantly agrees that Noriko should find a husband, even if that isn’t what he or she truly wants.

And that is the main crisis at stake here: the tension between what others believe Noriko needs, versus what she desires for herself. This is a fascinating dynamic, where we have a father and a daughter who both want the same thing, but with one pushing against it because of what society deems to be the right path. Their relationship is strong, but not inappropriate. We wonder why Noriko would rather spend time with her father than with men her own age, but luckily Ozu never crosses that line. The situation they deal with is more emotional/psychological than it is physical. Noriko, in a way, detests physicality and sexuality. When she hears that Mr. Somiya’s friend Onodera (Masao Mishima) married a much younger woman, she describes it as “filthy.” After a bike ride and moment of flirtation with Mr. Somiya’s assistant Hattori (Jun Usami), Noriko removes herself before things have a chance to develop. No, the bond and affection that Mr. Somiya and Noriko share has more to do with the ordeal they had to go through during the war and the loss of Noriko’s mother than anything else. They understand what the other has experienced, and for them to separate (through Noriko’s marriage) would be to cut that bond. But Mr. Somiya urges her to do that, because that is what’s expected.

I learned that Yasujiro Ozu dealt with this very story in his own life. Ozu never married himself and lived with his mother until she passed in 1961; he would die of cancer two years later. While the genders are different, the issue is the same. It’s apparent that the character of Noriko represents Ozu himself, and how he dealt with living with a parent his entire life. The fact that the character was switched to a female helps combine both his personal experience and his feelings toward gender roles during that time. That is why the film has such an effect, because of how closely it touched its maker’s heart. While this movie can certainly be described in any number of different ways, and analyzed through many different lenses, it’s hard to detail just how powerful it truly is. It is one of those films that is best understood when watched. To see Noriko try to resist the constant badgering of her friends and family, and for Mr. Somiya to join with them even though inside he feels differently, is an affecting exploration that builds ever so slightly. This could have fallen off the edge into bad melodrama, but Ozu never allowed it to go there. It is so nuanced, so tender and introspective with its storytelling, that by the very end the slightest action or word spoken can provoke an immense emotional reaction.

Ozu never goes over the top with this film. Everything, from the acting to the writing to the direction, is subdued and understated. In terms of direction and cinematography, Ozu may not be the first person you would think of when naming a “visual” director. I would argue that Ozu is one of the most visually accomplished of all directors; his work with cinematographer Yuharu Atsuta has given us a film with stunning photography. Even more amazing is the fact that Ozu and his collaborators often did this while very rarely even moving the camera. Routinely, the camera would simply sit, allowing Ozu to work more with composition within the frame. If we were to examine the placement of objects within the sight of the camera, we would notice numerous moments where light sources barely find their way below the top of the frame, and at the bottom sits a teakettle or some other mundane item. This does not necessarily mean much in the grand scheme of the story, but it does add a unique texture to the visuals, a stylistic choice that Ozu would use again and again in his career.

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If I had the chance to somehow visit any world of the movies, I think I would first choose the one inhabited by Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. It’s a place of elegance, joy, and a sense of being carefree—where your biggest worry is having to wear the right tuxedo or dress, and even people of little means smile as if everything is going to be alright in the end. It’s a place where terrible things don’t happen to good people, and all that’s left is love, music, and dancing. No wonder a film such as Swing Time (1936) would be released in the middle of the Great Depression—it gave audiences something to escape to, to be a part of something fun and fancy for two hours away from the tough realities of the world. Some people watch movies that depict real life; the beauty of this movie is that it depicts a life we dream of having.

The film is one of the great musicals ever made, right alongside classics such as Singin’ in the Rain (1952) and West Side Story (1961). I’ve returned to this movie over and over again, and part of the reason is how elegantly simple it is, and yet so effective in what it sets out to do. Using a word like “magical” may come off as a bit much when describing a film, but for this there is no better term. As with a dance, you know you’re seeing something wonderful when it looks effortless, and director George Stevens made this movie appear as if it were just that. There are no fancy camera tricks or elaborate editing choices; everything is done economically, but to full measure. Often times, the camera simply sits and watches just as we do, and yet what happens on screen is as captivating as anything else you could ask for. Chemistry and enthusiasm come with breezy ease here, and while much of that has to do with the music by Jerome Kern and direction by Stevens, there is no denying that the biggest reason has to do with its two main stars.

Astaire and Rogers. Rogers and Astaire. These are two names that will forever be linked together, and rightfully so. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers were a perfect on-screen duo, and while each of them had success on their own (with Rogers winning an Oscar in 1941), there is very little debate that they were better as a team. They made ten films together throughout the 1930s, and while each of their outings has its own special quality, this (along with 1935′s Top Hat) stood out as their very best. Sometimes, realizing that something works cannot come analytically, but through a feeling. Astaire and Rogers felt right together. Not only were they tremendous dancers, but they had a pitch-perfect chemistry that drifted into scenes that didn’t even involve dancing. Both can exchange one-liners and witty quips like hotcakes, and keep the other going like an intricate juggling act.

Take, for instance, their first dance scene together, during the “Pick Yourself Up” number. Astaire plays Lucky, a gambling dance performer traveling to New York in hopes of a making quick buck. Rogers plays Penny, a dance instructor Lucky happens to run into. He has followed her into her dance studio to take a lesson, and playfully pretends he has two left feet in the process. When Penny gets frustrated, gives up on the lesson, and almost gets fired, Lucky brings her onto to the dance floor at the last second to show how great of a teacher she is. Watch the look on Rogers’s face as she is surprised that Lucky can not only dance, but that he can dance really well. The accomplishment of this scene is to see Penny come to this realization as the dance is happening. Watch as Lucky pulls them together in sync, and soon enough the two are step by step, riffing as if they were playing the music themselves. I love seeing them work together, making this dance that is filled with high energy, all the while expressing themselves as if they were doing it by second nature.

In all of the Rogers and Astaire films, the plots come by as a second thought to the musical and dance scenes, and many of them dealt with similar traits. They usually involve their characters meeting, falling in love, becoming separated due to some misunderstanding or lightly developed plot device, and resolving in the final scene with a musical number and a good ol’ laugh to be shared all around. Here, we see Lucky in New York hoping to raise $25,000 to impress his fiancée’s father and to earn his blessing for them to get married. Things change when he meets Penny, and their opening dance scene inspires her boss to enter them as a team to perform in a fancy nightclub. On Penny’s side, things get complicated when Ricky Romero (Georges Metaxa), the musical director of the club’s band, has his sights set on winning her heart, even if it means refusing to play music for them. These are all elements that are at play, but none of them really get in the way of Lucky and Penny being together most of the time. In fact, both of their potential obstacles don’t feature much in the film at all, leaving plenty of room for Lucky and Penny to develop their relationship.

And how exactly is that relationship built? Through dancing and music, of course! Dancing is truly an art form when it has the ability to tell a story without the use of words, and through the dance scenes in this film, we can see how Lucky’s and Penny’s dynamic changes, even very subtly. With the first dance scene, we have a playful flirtation, a breaking-the-ice kind of routine. By the time we arrive at the “Waltz in Swing Time” number, they are completely in rhythm with one another, reflecting their blossoming affection. Watch closely during this dance, and you’ll notice that many of the same steps are carried over, and yet it captures a different feeling, because Lucky and Penny are now in a different place in their relationship. They turn and switch positions, going from fast to slow and back again. There is a kind of unpredictability here, a spontaneity in the steps that makes us feel as if they can do just about anything they want to on that dance floor. It’s a lovely moment between two lovely people, and the lightness in their dancing is both refreshing and whimsical.

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There are some filmmakers whose work is so recognizable that you can tell that a project is theirs without even having to read the credits. Whether it is in the camera work, choice of actors, or the themes that they delve into, many will leave a noticeable imprint on their work without even realizing it. The French coined the term auteur to describe these specific kinds of directors. Pedro Almodovar fits precisely this description. Hailing from Spain, Almodovar is a person whose films look and feel one-of-a-kind—many may try to make the same type of story, but very few (if any) can make theirs quite as effectively as he can. His movies range from comedic to dramatic to horrific and everything in between, but all are distinctively his. One of his very best is Talk to Her (2002). Of all his films, this is the one that I’ve returned to the most, and is the one I associate him the most with.

That is not to say that he hasn’t made other movies worth noting. Almodovar’s career has been filled with many notable entries, and as I have worked my way through them, I have been impressed by the way he has been constant with the quality of his output. What makes him such a fine director is how he is able to mold similar themes and stories in very different genres. He can make a comedy such as Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown (1988), or something bordering the line of a horror film in The Skin I Live In (2011), and yet both are completely and unmistakably his own vision. All About My Mother (1999) is one of his most known accomplishments, involving the story of a mother grieving over the death of her son; it won him the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film. Regardless of what genre he works in, all of Almodovar’s films deal with similar traits: they involve relationships, deceit, gender roles, and sex, often taken to a place we may not be expecting.

The stories that Almodovar creates can often be described as melodramas. I find it unfortunate that the term “melodrama” has a negative undertone when describing contemporary cinema, as if being labeled “melodramatic” is somehow a detriment to a film’s success. Like all other genres, melodrama can work when handled and executed in a positive manner, as Almodovar has proven time and time again. With Talk to Her, Almodovar has created a film of deep emotional complexity, setting us up with certain thoughts and beliefs and then challenging those ideas in the film’s ending passages. Based on his own standards, the film is subtler in what he wants to tell, even when containing shocking and disturbing moments and scenes. But it is certainly quieter, more introspective, examining the thoughts and feelings of the main characters more so, rather than focusing on exposition. That is where the power of Talk to Her lies—in examining these people and their actions, and how we can relate (or not relate) to their decisions and their ultimate fates.

Talk to Her is all about making connections; how we interact with people and the reasons why we make the relationships that we do. There have been many times in life where I have walked past a person only to become their friend at a later time. The circumstances that pull people apart and bring them together are at the heart of this film. We open at a theater, where performance artists show off their latest production. It’s no coincidence that the show involves two blind people trying to find their way around a room, with a third performer desperately trying to prevent them from running into the dozens of chairs littered around the stage. In the audience two men sit—strangers to one another at first, but who will become closely associated as the film moves forward. They are Benigno (Javier Camara) and Marco (Dario Grandinetti). Benigno is a well-regarded nurse working in the local hospital, and Marco is a journalist whose main accomplishment is writing a number of successful travel guides. While coming from different backgrounds, Benigno and Marco found themselves in that theater at the same time—literally sitting next to each other—experiencing the same performance and being moved in similar ways. The scene will be referenced later in the film, but it quickly establishes the theme of relationships: how easily they are made, and how easily they can be broken apart.

Benigno and Marco meet again soon after, but under a different and much more saddening situation. Lydia (Rosario Flores), a famous bullfighter and Marco’s lover, was gorged by a bull and brought to the hospital in a coma. Benigno finds himself in charge of taking care of a young woman named Alicia (Leonor Watling), a beautiful young ballet dancer who is also in a coma after suffering a traffic accident, and with whom he has secretly fallen in love. A strange place, to be sure, for Benigno and Marco to meet again, with both women they care for in catatonic states. Benigno, at this point, works to help Marco through his ordeal, giving him advice and teaching him to cope with how things are, even telling him that talking to Lydia will help. It’s interesting to note that at this moment, Almodovar is already playing with our expectations and assumptions. Benigno is not a doctor but a nurse; and as for Marco, he is put in a situation where all he can do is retreat into himself, reflecting on his relationship with Lydia and patiently waiting to see if she’ll ever wake up. In all too many movies, the male characters are put in positions of action, where the only way the story can progress to a satisfying conclusion is if they do something about it. That’s not the case here.

The film sets up a fascinating dynamic between the men and their female counterparts, and between Benigno and Marco themselves, as well. There is very little that Benigno knows about Alicia personally, only being connected to her through his fascination and near-obsession with watching her dance in the building next to his apartment, prior to her accident. For Marco, what he thought he knew of Lydia gets turned upside down and causes him to reexamine their entire relationship from the beginning. He met her while attempting to write about her professional career and the tumultuous marriage she had with her ex-husband (who is also a famous bullfighter). Marco’s feelings toward her deepen during the scene when, after he has driven her home, she runs out of her house screaming, frightened by a snake she found inside. It’s an interesting (and humorous) piece of character development, to see a woman who has a made a life from battling with enormous and dangerous beasts, and yet runs at the sight of a much smaller animal. What Marco believes of Lydia’s true feelings is revealed to be false as the film progresses, and that causes him much inner conflict. It’s clear that he loves her, but how can he simply push that love aside after learning the truth of her, especially while she’s still in a coma? What comes out of Benigno and Marco’s predicaments is a friendship based out of mutual understanding. They know what the other is going through and thus each tries to help the other. This partnership, however, is put through the ultimate test as the film moves into its second half.

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“Off the record, on the QT, and very hush-hush.”

So says reporter Sid Hudgens (Danny DeVito) at the end each of his articles in the tabloid paper Hush-Hush. While Sid works as a supporting character in Curtis Hanson’s masterful crime drama L.A. Confidential (1997), his part is essential in establishing and maintaining the tone and style of the piece. There is a reason why Sid is the main narrator, setting up the story and guiding us through its intricate twists. He is representative of the ever-growing fascination the public has with scandal and sleaze news, especially when it deals with the glitz and glamour of 1950s Hollywood. While that kind of journalism seems to dominate mainstream media today, Sid is a symbol of its birth. In a time when Hollywood and the movie industry were in their so-called “golden age,” this movie peers beneath those layers toward its seedy underbelly in gritty fashion.

The film is one of the great crime movies ever made. Based on the novel by James Ellroy and co-written by Hanson and Brian Helgeland, it tells the story of three cops trying to solve a mystery in each of their own unique ways. One thing to note is the style of the film. I love film noirs, and one of the great accomplishments here is how Hanson takes those influences and infuses them without making things feel overtly stylized. The problem that many modern filmmakers have when creating a modernized version of a film noir is that they copy all of the visual style, but none of the heart that made those movies so special. This movie did it right. All of the texture is there: the suits, fedoras, cigarettes, femme-fatales, smoky rooms inhabited with morally questionable characters. But what sets this apart from the rest is the incredibly high quality of storytelling mixed with a very well-executed focus on characters. While there are many things happening in the movie (there are reportedly 80 different speaking parts), we stay grounded because we understand each of the characters’ motivations.

I say that because the plot of the story is a highly intricate, labyrinthine puzzle of events. At first glance, events in the film may seem episodic and unrelated to one another, but as the film moves forward in its very headstrong pace, we begin to see the strings that connect each to the other. This requires a great deal of contribution from the viewer, who must draw the lines between the dots just as the characters do as well. Even now, I still find myself impressed with how everything seems to fit together into a perfect whole. The story of the film revolves around the Los Angeles police department and their efforts to take down organized crime within the city. In an opening montage, we are introduced by the brief appearance to the mob boss Mickey Cohen (Paul Guilfoyle). After Cohen is arrested and sent to jail, his hold on the drug market is released, sending criminals into a free-for-all for its control. While we don’t even hear Mickey speak, his presence casts a dark shadow throughout the course of the movie.

Steadily, quiet clues and minute details begin to form that could go unnoticed at first watch. A woman who looks like she had her nose broken sitting in the back of a mysterious car; a man who claims himself to be an ex-police officer; prostitutes who have had makeovers to look like movie stars; hoodlums with a car in their garage full of shotguns—all seemingly unrelated, but somehow connected by some devious means. They all circle the main crime of the film, which is the killing of a number of people in the late night café The Night Owl. A gruesome scene which also included the death of a recently released but respected officer Dick Stensland (Graham Beckel), the crime becomes priority number one by the department, which must close the case or be smeared by the media and lose the confidence of the people in the city. Already tainted by the recent beatings of Mexican prisoners on Christmas Eve, the department—headed by lead officer Dudley Smith (James Cromwell)—takes an almost personal vendetta against those that committed the Night Owl Murders. When the case is laid out for participating officers, the entire room becomes filled wall-to-wall with those eager to do what needs to be done, by any means necessary.

It is at this point where the film takes a unique turn towards being something special. Each man in the department wants to solve the crime and seek justice for those that committed it, but each has their own moral code and acts according to that. That’s where we see the film become more nuanced, in the way that each officer operates within the framework of their own personality, trying to do what they feel is right but working together with those who have their own idea of what that means. An important element at play is the camaraderie (or lack thereof) of the men who work in the department. Many of them feel that there is a bond within their group that should not be broken. When one person knows that their partner has their back and would not rat them out, you feel like you can get away with just about anything. During the assault on Christmas Eve, the story would not have gotten out if it wasn’t for a photographer who caught them in act. This idea of “togetherness” is important within the department—they must take care of their own to help protect the city. The problem is, that same idea can lead to corruption. When no one is willing to testify against their own, the police department can become just as dangerous (maybe even more so) than the very criminals they are hunting. Anyone who would be willing to expose that very corruption would put themselves directly in harm’s way. Luckily, by the end of the film, we end up with three of them.

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There are some films that have become so familiar to us that watching them again feels a bit like coming home. We know the characters, we know the sequences, and sometimes we can even say the lines of dialogue before they come. They are so a part of who we are that we associate the film with our own upbringing. That’s how I feel every time I see Robert Zemeckis’s Back to the Future (1985). One of the essential films of the 1980s, I feel that it’s safe to say that just about everyone knows and has seen it, and for some of us, couldn’t fathom what growing up would be like without it. It does everything that you can expect out of pure entertainment—with names, places, and images that have lasted in contemporary popular culture. I’ve become so familiar with the film that I can’t remember the first time ever seeing it.

One of the elements that the film accomplishes so well is taking the idea of our parents’ youth and imaginatively running away with it. As kids, we never thought that are our fathers and mothers could have been like us: young, naïve, confused, and even foolish to a certain degree. They always seemed to be there, telling us to do our homework or clean up our rooms, and grounding us if we ever got into trouble. Could you honestly imagine what it would be like to see them as teenagers, having the same feelings that we had at that age? I wonder, if I had known my father at 18, would we have had similar interests, maybe even have become friends? That’s the beauty of the movie, to take this impossible premise and set it within an action comedy sci-fi adventure. And with that, Zemeckis—along with co-writer Bob Gale—crafted a story that feels a part of its time, and timeless, simultaneously. There’s a reason why the film is continuously shown on television throughout the years. If you were to say the term “flux capacitor,” chances are someone next to you will know what you’re talking about. That’s how big this movie’s influence has been.

We all know the story. Marty McFly (Michael J. Fox), the young and precocious kid, gets in way over his head through his friendship with the wacky scientist Dr. Emmett Brown (Christopher Lloyd). Not much is explained as to why this teenager would befriend such a borderline nut job, and perhaps it’s wise not to delve in to it too deeply. But the main story involves Marty, at the time helping Doc Brown record the very first successful use of his time traveling machine, accidentally being sent from his present time of 1985 back thirty years to 1955. His town of Hill Valley goes through a dramatic change with his teleportation. Buildings and roads he has known to be broken down and dirty are now new and fresh; people that he recognized as older adults are now younger kids. The future mayor of the town is a clean-up boy at the local café, and the clock tower he knew to be broken is fully working and maintained. Needless to say, this is not the world Marty is used to, and so he turns to the 1955 version of Doc Brown to help him repair the time machine and return back to the Hill Valley of 1985.

Oh, but before he can do that, Marty runs into a little snag. The great fun of this movie is seeing how Zemeckis and Gale play with the properly titled “space-time continuum.” With someone from a certain time traveling back to the past, any interference he has with that world will directly affect the future (his present). As Doc Brown so enthusiastically poses, any interaction he has with other people could lead to dire and dramatic consequences. Well, nothing is more dramatic than Marty accidentally running into and interacting with the 1955 versions of his parents, Lorraine (Lea Thompson) and George (Crispin Glover) McFly. Much is made of Lorraine and George meeting and ultimately falling in love. It is explained that Lorraine instantly developed an attraction to George when her father inadvertently hit him with his car. Marty completely forgets this, and when he saves his father and gets hit himself, Lorraine’s feelings get targeted towards him. On paper, the idea of a protagonist’s mother developing feelings toward him shouldn’t work at all, and thus became one of the biggest points of contention against the film being made. But luckily, the writing sidesteps becoming too disturbing, and rather focuses on Marty’s attempts to bring his parents back to each other. Because if they do not ended up falling in love, Marty (along with his two siblings) will be wiped away from existence.

So we have the complication involving Marty and Doc Brown fixing the time machine and sending Marty back to 1985, along with the issue of Marty trying to get his parents together, but really that only scratches the surface of how much fun this movie actually is. Of all the movies I’ve seen, very few have had such replay value as this, and that is because there are so many elements within the film that have become iconic. Let’s start off with the town itself. It’s no secret that much of the film was shot in the back lot of Universal Studios in Hollywood. The city center, which incorporates the town square, clock tower, café, and theater, has become one of the most remembered sets in all of the movies, and has played a center role in each of the following sequels. Those that have taken the tram tour at Universal Studios will instantly recognize it, as it is one of the main attractions of the tour. One of the highlights of the movie (and the trilogy over all) is seeing how the town changes throughout the different times—how things that are dramatically different still stay familiar to the viewer, thus creating an anchor for us to reference as the story takes its turns.

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