12 Angry Men (1957)

Directed by Sidney Lumet
Written by Reginald Rose

Rating: 9.75/10.00 or ****

Everyone has been faced at one time or another with being on the losing side of an argument. When everyone else disagrees with you, it is difficult to voice your opinions and your supporting evidence. Sidney Lumet shows us, in one of the greatest films ever made, how one man convinces eleven others how the "convincing" guilt of a man charged with murder is not convincing at all.

The film begins with a judge describing to the jury their duty. The judge is disinterested, almost uncaring, in his speech, suggesting the verdict is all but certain. Lumet shows us a glimpse of the man, a teenager, charged with the crime. This is the last we will see of him, but you will remember his face throughout the film. His fate lies in the hands of twelve men who do not know him.

The jury is locked into a room to decide the man's guilt or innocence. It is a hot day. Each man swelters, to varying degrees, in the heat. It is an environment prone to tension, confrontation, and anger. The twelve men at first engage in small talk amongst themselves. Some bring up the case, and how easy it will be to vote for his guilt. Others talk about their work or their plans after the deliberations. And some just stare out the window, thinking about what they are asked to decide.

The deliberations, after some time of noisy unease, begin with a vote. Eleven men vote guilty, and one votes not guilty. The man who votes not guilty is Juror #8 (Henry Fonda). He is asked to present his reasoning. At first, he provides a cautionary message: "A man's life is in our hands." He wonders how they can all vote guilty without even discussing the case. This brings about varied responses, from impatience to indignation to curiosity. Gradually, elements of the crime are told. The young man has been accused of murdering his father. A neighbor sees him running away from the apartment seconds after a thud comes from his room. A neighbor in a separate building sees the boy stabbing his father. We see the type of knife used to kill his father.

Juror #8 begins to chip away at the evidence, suggesting possible alternatives to how the crime was committed, and who by. He makes clear, on numerous occasions, that he is not saying the man is innocent. He is, however, not convinced of his guilt. Lumet and writer Reginald Rose, then, are showing us what reasonable doubt entails. A nagging feeling is not reasonable doubt. Convincing arguments should be detailed with supporting evidence regarding a juror's doubt. With time, Juror #8 begins to show us this evidence.

He first convinces a new person to listen: Juror #9 (Joseph Sweeney). His reasoning for supporting Juror #8 is interesting:

This gentleman has been standing alone against us. Now he doesn't say that the boy is not guilty, he just isn't sure. Well it's not easy to stand alone against the ridicule of others, so he gambled for support and I gave it to him. I respect his motives. The boy is probably guilty, but - eh, I want to hear more. Right now the vote is ten to two.

Now that he has at least one member willing to listen to him, he begins to show the others reasons for his doubt. He will eventually go through each element of the case, and present evidence to convince other members of the jury to also begin to doubt. The knife, for example, he easily found in a shop. He shows how the man's lack of memory regarding the movie he saw that night (his alibi) is not circumstantial evidence; it is common, especially when a major event occurs thereafter (which, of course, is his father's death). He does this by asking a series of questions to another juror. He shows how the direction of the stab wound would not match how the man would attack his father. He shows how long it would actually take his neighbor to reach the door to see the boy running out of his apartment, which does not match his statement at trial. Finally, with the help of others, he shows how the witness to the murder may have had trouble seeing the murder given her less-than-perfect eyesight.

But he faces stubborn men who take more than logic to convince them, again to varying degrees. Some are swayed by the mounting evidence of doubt. Others are less impressed. Juror #7 (Jack Warden), for example, is indifferent. He's in a hurry to go to a baseball game thereafter. Juror #11 (George Voskovec) calls him out on it, asking him how he dares to base his judgment on the fate of a man's life on whether or not he gets to see a baseball game.

Juror #10 (Ed Begley) is a stubborn old man who is clearly racist. At first, his words are subtle but stinging. Before long, his words are more obvious, and intentions more clearly malicious. There is a scene of stupendous direction and poignance, as Juror #10 spouts a long, desperate monologue in which his racism becomes fully realized. All but one of the jurors get up from the table, abandoning him and his words. Only Juror #4 (E. G. Marshall), a cold but thoughtful man who makes decisions purely on logic and reasoning, remains and tells Juror #10 that his words have been spoken and heard. "Now sit down and don't open your mouth again." After his true motive has been exposed, Juror #10 has no support for his guilty charge, and he has no choice but to change his vote to not guilty.

Juror #4 is himself not impressed, since he is most convinced by the neighbor who actually witnessed the murder. But when others begin to express their doubts that she would clearly see it, given it was nighttime and she wears glasses, he becomes convinced. There is reasonable doubt regarding the eyewitness account, and he unblinkingly changes his vote. Here is a man looked upon fondly in the film. His viewpoint differs from Juror #8, but he uses the same basic system to look at evidence.

Juror #3 (Lee J. Cobb) refuses to vote not guilty, even after the evidence has clearly been presented with reasonable doubt. His refusal is alluded to but not clearly evident until the end of the film, when the vote is 11-1 for not guilty. He is asked to provide his reasons:

Everything... every single thing that took place in that courtroom, but I mean everything... says he's guilty. What d'ya think? I'm an idiot or somethin'? Why don't cha take that stuff about the old man; the old man who lived there and heard every thing? Or this business about the knife! What, 'cause we found one exactly like it? The old man SAW him. Right there on the stairs. What's the difference how many seconds it was? Every single thing. The knife falling through a hole in his pocket... you can't PROVE he didn't get to the door! Sure, you can take all the time hobblin' around the room, but you can't PROVE it! And what about this business with the El? And the movies! There's a phony deal if I ever heard one. I betcha five thousand dollars I'd remember the movies I saw! I'm tellin' ya: every thing that's gone on has been twisted... and turned. This business with the glasses. How do you know she didn't have 'em on? This woman testified in open court! And what about hearin' the kid yell... huh? I'm tellin' ya, I've got all the facts here...

He has become enraged. He looks at a picture of his son, nearly the same age as the accused, and begins to tear up the photo. He wanted him guilty, because of the strained relationship he has with his own son. The scene is heartbreaking and perfectly acted. The rest of them are silent, saddened and maybe even sympathetic to the fellow juror's pain.

Lumet and Rose show us how jurors paint pictures and are swayed toward their biases, whether fair or not. Racism, impatience, personal problems, or dependence on certain evidence at the exclusion of other evidence -- each juror is a question mark, and no juror is the same.

The room is so warm. The tensions are so high. There is disagreement, charges of incompetence and irrelevance, accusations of looking too critically at the evidence. With time, the characters sweat more and more, their voices strain more and more, their eyes look more desperate. Each juror gets a scene in the spotlight, and each time the point is perfectly executed. And at the center is Henry Fonda, his clear and matter-of-fact portrayal masking something more personally motivated: the crushing strain of having a person's life partially in his hands.

The directorial work is first-rate. The camera peers the faces and eyes of its characters, especially during monologues. The room seems smaller and smaller throughout the film, a result of clever camera work (See several critics' reviews of the film for more information on that.). There is occasionally a noticeable din in the room, suggesting disorganization, impatience, and nervousness. And the actors give each character interaction such charge and intensity.

This is a movie any law student should see, and any potential member of a jury should take to heart. The lines are clearly drawn here between doubt and bias, reasonable doubt and unreasonable doubt, actual evidence versus circumstantial evidence. It is easy to be convinced, but it is much harder to do the convincing. It is easy to form an opinion, but no matter which one is chosen, you should be able to support it. Juror #8 says the burden of proof is on the prosecution. This is true. The defense only needs to provide reasonable doubt, not proof of innocence -- and even then, the jury can still find reasonable doubt if the defense shows none. However, for a "not guilty" plea, support for reasonable doubt is critical. A juror should decide based on interpretations of evidence, not on personal whims.

Above that, though, this is such an engrossing movie. The writing is crisp, clear, and intelligent. The acting is sheer perfection, the directorial touch and style is always correct, and the camera always shows the most revealing angle.

The vote is now 12-0. Not guilty. Juror #8 walks home. Juror #9 meets him.

Juror 9: Hey, what's your name?
Juror 8: Davis.
Juror 9: My name's McCardle. Well, so long.
Juror 8: So long.

The movie ends on the right note. Their duty is finished. The deliberations are now over. Their lives are back in motion. The man's true guilt is unknown, but the right decision was made.

Ben-Hur (1959)

Directed by William Wyler
Written by Karl Tunberg
Based on the novel by General Lew Wallace

Rating: 5.00/10.00 or **

One of America's most beloved and most rewarded films comes across, to me, as a Bible lesson. To be sure, this is somewhat intentional. After all, the subtitle is: "A Tale of the Christ". Strange, since Christ is little seen (and his face is intentionally prevented from being seen). Also strange, since Ben-Hur, the title character of the film, is front-and-center throughout the film. He sees Christ first giving him a drink when he is parched as he is forced into slavery. Ben-Hur sees him again as he is marched off to his death. And what do you suppose Ben-Hur does? He offers Christ water. I said it was a Bible lesson.

Movies generally don't work as Bible lessons, but they are often revered nonetheless. Films such as The Passion of the Christ are acclaimed by the very groups you would expect to be highly praiseworthy. And most film critics jumped on board. The Last Temptation of Christ, on the other hand, was tarred and feathered by religious groups and critics alike. It seems that, in order to be a good religious film, you have to follow the book the way the Book says it goes.

My question is: Why? We don't hold "autobiographies" to the same rigid standards. Or docudramas of actual events. Or war stories. Or anything else. Why do the stories in the Bible require such strict adherence in art forms?

The answer, it seems, is that to go "against the grain" of what's recorded in the Bible, which (of course) varies from religion to religion, is insulting. To the religion, or to God, or to those powerful enough to shout out in protest.

Well, as an amateur critic, I reserve the right to shout out at bad movies, and this is one of them. Ben-Hur is a lengthy epic about...something. I'm not quite sure, since the message is fundamentally altered from the first two-thirds to the final third. The movie preceding the intermission is a classic "betrayal" epic, with longtime friends Ben-Hur (Charlton Heston) and Messala (Stephen Boyd) at odds because of the people and governments they represent. Messala is a soldier for the Romans; Ben-Hur represents the Judean people and their beliefs. Eventually, Messala condemns Ben-Hur to slavery over an accident involving a Roman soldier. His mother and sister are imprisoned in a dungeon for years.

His slavery is brutal. He helps navigate (by oar) Roman warships to and from battles. In one such battle, he saves his very slave master, Arrius (Jack Hawkins), rather than escaping slavery. Arrius rewards him by taking him in and teaching him the Roman ways of life. In fact, he is rewarded Roman citizenship, and Ben-Hur and Arrius become close friends. But Ben-Hur's desire to find out the fate of his family becomes too much, and he returns to Judea.

Of course, this is where the film begins to crash and burn. Up to this point, it was an interesting and unflinching look at Ben-Hur's character. How he develops, endures pain and suffering, helps others even when it results in more pain and suffering. He is helped along, of course, by the appearance of Christ, who offers him water when his masters refuse to let him drink. This scene was well done, but of course, manipulative. We know that Ben-Hur will return the favor, in the most unfortunate of circumstances. After all, where would the message be more effective than at Christ's crucifixion?

Ben-Hur does return to Judea, believes his mother and sister have died even though they actually are alive but suffer from leprosy, and vows to avenge Messala's betrayal. He does avenge his betrayal, and learns of his mother's and sister's fate before he dies after the inevitable confrontation.

And here -- well, here comes the Bible lesson. When Ben-Hur returns the favor to Christ, the mother and sister are cured of their leprosy as he is crucified. And the hope and power of Christ's love make the ending happy and joyous, hopeful and triumphant.

Hollow and vomitous. The film never gels the two parts to my satisfaction. After Messala's death, the movie seems disjointed, and when the focus becomes Christ's crucifixion, everything that transpired before seems to be forgotten and unimportant. It's as if we endured a long and occasionally engrossing story just to show its viewers that by "doing good to others, including God", you will be cured. I know a sermon when I see one.

Bible lessons, sermons, whatever are manipulative by definition. They encourage you to think or behave in a certain manner, rather than thinking or behaving from your own whims and experience. Art should be persuasive, demonstrative, and contemplative. This film tries, and fails, to be all three. Manipulation is not a method of persuasion; rather, it is a method of propaganda. This is what separates Ben-Hur from The Last Temptation of Christ. The former is a sermon teaching a lesson; the latter is a demonstration of an alternative viewpoint.

Scorsese was unfairly criticized for his film, often being called blasphemous or ignorant of the real goings-on behind Christ's death. Scorsese was deeply religious, and purposefully made his film in which he shows the many temptations that Jesus would surely have endured. How is that blasphemous? Because he was shown to actually consider these temptations? It's not as if he was ever led into temptation; to refuse temptation, you first need to know what those temptations are.

Ben-Hur should be criticized, instead, for being too force-feeding. Its message is positive and hopeful, but is it really valuable or flexible? This film seems much more intolerant than Scorsese's more ambiguous and thought-provoking work. Why are we not shown, for example, the Romans viewpoint? Why are Romans portrayed as simply "Rome, or be damned!"?

Ben-Hur is not demonstrative, either. We are shown Christ's crucifixion, but we are not asked to understand why he was crucified. We are shown Messala's death, but we are not asked to determine whether we should accept it as a good thing or not. We are not shown Ben-Hur's parting of ways from Arrius and his Roman citizenship. We are simply given the reasons and the interpretations we are meant to take from them. Romans are bad. Messala is evil (one-dimensional). Be nice, and you will be rewarded.

Thus, Ben-Hur is not contemplative. It doesn't make you think. It makes you infer. It doesn't have a moral choice; it teaches a lesson.

Art should expand a viewer's horizons, not contract them into one way of thought. It may give you the facts, or their version of the facts, and then let you decide. This film doesn't want you to decide anything. It wants to teach a sermon, and then for the viewer to say amen. This isn't a great movie; this is a Bible lesson. That belongs in church, not in theaters.

Rashomon (1950)

Directed by Akira Kurosawa
Written by Akira Kurosawa & Shinobu Hashimoto
Based on stories Rashomon and In a Grove by Ryunosoke Akutagawa

Rating: 8.75/10.00 or *** 1/2

Kurosawa's great works may be most recognized by Rashomon, a film that defied the use of flashbacks by making them untrustworthy. Flashbacks, often used before and since as omnipotent memories of events as they actually unfolded, are told here as memories of events as humans have told them. The truth is not what we see at all, nor what we hear. Instead we hear a version of a story, which is contradicted by someone else. The flashback is no longer truth; instead, it is a visionary creation.

Of Kurosawa's many acclaimed films, Rashomon may be the most innovative and the most important. Rashomon helped to create a philosophy to be filmed time and time again. Here, we are told a story of a rape of a woman and a murder of her husband through four points of view. One is supernatural (from the husband, who is dead), one from the bandit who raped the woman, one from the wife, and one from a witness. No story matches, and the three involved in the attack each claim themselves as the murderer (making the husband's story one of suicide).

We are told this story in present day by three men. The priest (Minoru Chiaki), the commoner (Kichijiro Ueda), and the woodcutter (Takashi Shimura). The priest and the woodcutter hear the stories during a summons of the wife and bandit. The commoner meets with them afterwards, as a result of a pouring rain forcing them to take shelter. As the priest and woodcutter tell the three stories, the commoner is revealed to be the source of reason. He is not surprised by the clashing of stories.

The film, as a result, is a story of human selfishness, witness exaggerations and fabrications, and guilt. No solution is provided, but a resolution is found. The resolution involves those random acts of humanity that are few but cherished. The human spirit is a dark but hopeful thing, the very reason to be discouraged and encouraged at the same time.

Kurosawa is clever in his presentation. The flashbacks involve common consistencies between or among them, teasing the viewer into thinking that certain actions were more likely to have occurred than others. In some depictions, the bandit (Toshiro Mifune) is sympathetic; in others, he is cruel and heartless. Interestingly, the wife (Machiko Kyo) is given a similar depiction, making a true victim hard to depict. Stunningly, the husband (Masayuki Mori) is shown to be innocent in one flashback and malicious in another. One flashback shows the wife as an authoritarian; another shows the husband as domineering.

Kurosawa implements several visual and stylistic cues that progress the proceedings. His use of rain in the present is an excellent contrast to the sunny past. The woodcutter's run through the woods is a nice way of transitioning the scene from the present to the past. The camera often pans the sky and canopy, entrapping the viewer in the highly claustrophobic woods. The close-ups of the wife and bandit as they tell their stories are revealing. Again, Kurosawa employs the hyperbolic voices for his characters, making the words spoken tinged with urgency.

And the present-day scenes are important because they reveal the true motivation behind the movie. In essence, the movie asks the viewer why we should be proud of the human spirit. It dares us to think of reasons. And then, it helps us find them, not by resolving the story, which is clearly not resolvable -- even if the true story is revealed, would we believe it? Instead, he presents us with another situation, and gives us a more hopeful outcome. Why? Because this is what life is all about. Choices. Some we make are bad; some are good. And always, there will be versions of those stories to tell.

The film's fourth version of the events is given by an eyewitness, the woodcutter. This is important, because he is the most frustrated by the contrast of stories told. This either means he cannot believe the other stories would clash so strongly with his because they are self-damning, because he remembers them so differently, or because he wants to remember them so differently. At the beginning, he says that he does not understand. Has he willed himself to believe something that did not transpire? Did culture bias his story? Did his sympathies with one individual cloud his memories?

We don't know. And he doesn't. The movie Big Fish reveals this human tendency. In it, a dying father and husband, known for his larger-than-life stories, talks about how he is dying as he is dying. The story is fairy-taleish, almost operatic in its visual and melodramatic splendor. And as his death by story is revealed, that in the middle of a pond in the arms of his wife, he actually dies in a bed with family at his side. We remember things, or predict things, by exaggerating them. Whether by making the story more profound, more unrealistic, more dramatic. But we always remember what we say we have seen. The woodcutter doesn't understand because he is told what he doesn't remember.

Miller's Crossing (1990)

Directed by Joel Coen
Written by Joel Coen & Ethan Coen

Rating: 8.50/10.00 or *** 1/2

The camera looks up at the canopy. The sky seems unreachable with trees so tall. And so many. There are many inescapable settings in Miller's Crossing. There are large rooms full of old-fashioned decor. There are apartments that look like large, empty studios. The streets are lined with bars, auditoriums, and businesses. No houses, though. And Miller's Crossing, in the wooded lands out of town, have those tall trees. Once you go into the woods, it is almost impossible to escape.

An opening image of the film is a hat, worn by the film's protagonist Tom Reagan (Gabriel Byrne). The hat blows around in the breeze, almost out of sight from the camera, but deeper into those woods. The melancholy Irish music often hints at the struggle surrounding Tom's chase to find the hat and wear it again.

The hat, we come to find, represents Tom's internal struggle between his heart and his mind. His heart is found in two places. One is with his mob boss, Leo (Albert Finney), firm but also forgiving. He is loyal and has a heart. He is not into the mob life for the crime, and maybe not even the power. He is in it because he's good at it. He's a salesman, cheerful and persuasive. It may be glory he is after now. He doesn't seem vindictive or petulant.

Leo is in love with Verna Bernbaum (Marcia Gay Harden), a young dame with a fierce sense of independence and intelligence. She fends for herself but is deeply vulnerable. She is torn between her love for Tom and her sympathy for Leo. She returns Leo's affections to keep her brother Bernie (John Turturro) out of trouble from competing crime boss Johnny Caspar (Jon Polito), who wants Bernie's blood because of his betrayal and refusal to pay his dues. Johnny talks to Leo to convince him to stop protecting Bernie. His argument often involves the word "principle", a key theme throughout the film. Principles, we come to find, are a crime life ideal and almost never a reality. The closest to living with those principles is Tom, who always seems like he chooses what he should be doing, but is clearly driven by his heart -- much the same as Leo and Verna.

The plot thickens as we learn that Bernie is not as ignorant as he seems, Caspar's second-hand man Eddie Dane (J.E. Freeman) has a secret regarding his loyalty to Bernie, and Tom's refusal to kill another is not as black-and-white as it is at first presented. To describe the storyline is futile. We are much more interested in how the layers of the characters are revealed. How each character's motives are driven not by occupation but by their love or loyalty for others. Eddie Dane seems and looks evil, and is required to. This is what Caspar wants. But his loyalty to Bernie, only revealed subtlely and with time, makes his drive to make Tom and Leo suffer extreme. Caspar, meanwhile, is so driven by his principles that he is blinded by everyone's important disregard of them.

Leo's love for Verna costs him his friendship with Tom, as Tom reveals his relationship with her. But, we see that Tom does it only to save Leo. But the words have been spoken, regardless of what went on behind them. We see that Verna's true loyalty lies with family, but she is torn apart by her feelings for both Leo and Tom. At one point, she tells Tom that they deserve each other because of their mutual betrayal of Leo. Leo's response seems to agree.

Above all of the character interactions and complications is a city torn apart by gang warfare. The competing gangsters wage war throughout the city. Law enforcement can only watch and enforce whatever the more powerful gang's whims desire. The war ends up stockpiling casualties, with each character's death appropriately presented. Some scenes of violence are given a humorous exaggeration; others are given a brutal journalistic feel.

Miller's Crossing is a melancholy noir. It has elements of Sophocles, in which the destinies of the characters seem to be determined by their past actions. But each character is given a chance to live; some just choose their heart or their job over their lives. The dialogue throughout sparkles, as unreal in everyday life as those vast, empty rooms. The words and the scenes do not match the actions and the times (perfectly, anyway), and they should not. The words are the only sincere things to go by here. The actions are not. Often, we do not know the motives behind the actions until after the words are spoken. The words are our sources to the character's souls. And those vast, empty rooms cage them into this life and these choices. The words seem unreal, almost like the ultimate facade, but they are the only source of sincerity in the film.

This is one of the Coens' best films. Their presentation, as unique as ever, is sadly too unconventional for popular success. This movie, in particular, was overshadowed by two other gangster films that year: The Godfather III and GoodFellas. This film is much better than the first and almost as good as the latter. The Coens craftily execute their plot, as always, but they remain focused on the characters. In essence, we don't care what happens to the characters so much as why they choose to do what they do. We care about their motives. How interesting and ultimately effective to explain the plot by characters, rather than vice versa.

When I re-watch Miller's Crossing, I keep coming back to the hat. Tom explains to Verna in one scene:

Verna: What're you chewin' over?
Tom: Dream I had once. I was walkin' in the woods, I don't know why. Wind came up and blew me hat off.
Verna: And you chased it, right? You ran and ran, finally caught up to it and you picked it up. But it wasn't a hat anymore and it changed into something else, something wonderful.
Tom: Nah, it stayed a hat and no, I didn't chase it. Nothing more foolish than a man chasin' his hat.

Tom always chased his hat. He finds it after a poker game in Verna's possession. He puts it back on after he says goodbye to Leo. Tom finds his hat, but in the process, we see his heart. He wears his hat after his most devastating decisions. His heart is broken, but his mind will heal it.

He's a foolish man. But he's my kind of fool.

The Birds (1963)

Directed by Alfred Hitchcock
Screenplay by Evan Hunter
Story by Daphne Du Maurier

Rating: 5.25/10.00 or **

There are films that gain a sort of fan momentum. Hitchcock's own Vertigo, for example, was a bomb at the box office and was critically a toss-up at the time of its initial release. Now, it is widely acclaimed as one of the best films ever made. Many films gain this momentum in generally one of two categories: the "independent" cult-like fanatics (for example, Donnie Darko) or the critical "think-twice" (for example, Star Wars). However, there is a third category, and this is the one The Birds falls under. And that is director recognition.

I sometimes wonder, for example, if many people like Steven Spielberg films because they are directed by Steven Spielberg. I can't imagine anyone liking War of the Worlds, but they are out there. The critical success of Minority Report remains a mystery to me. And the shocking scenes of war in Saving Private Ryan seem to have blinded some critics from noticing the lack of thematic weight or plot reasonability after the 30-minute D-Day sequence. Spielberg is capable of great movies (Jaws, Raiders of the Lost Ark, and Schindler's List) and even great moments within good movies (Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Jurassic Park, Amistad) -- but he's a wildly uneven director who tends to manipulate his viewers more often than encouraging them to react for themselves (E.T., AI, Empire of the Sun).

The same goes with Hitchcock. Hitchcock has made at least one superb feature (Notorious) and several very good ones (Psycho, Rear Window, Rope), but others remain a mystery to me regarding their popularity (To Catch a Thief, Vertigo, Spellbound, The Man Who Knew Too Much, North by Northwest). Perhaps the biggest mystery is The Birds, which is a messy film full of manipulative character subplots amidst a danger completely external to the characters. Strangely enough, I think the film is popular because the danger comes from -- birds.

Now, it is somewhat admirable, if not a little quirky, that Hitchcock and writers would think of birds to bring about suspense. It sure beats the old standbys of chainsaw masochists, characters with scissors, needles, and knives in their skin, or characters you can't even see from time to time -- especially when these characters are laughably one-dimensional and predictable. And at least the birds are merciless in their targets. They'll target kids, women, grandparents, anybody. I suppose that's what builds up the tension and suspense in this film.

But, if not, Hitchcock always supplies his dose of ambiguous character motives and manipulations. Such as how Melanie Daniels (Tippi Hedren) is spooked by her new man's mother, Lydia (Jessica Tandy). Or how her new man's ex, Annie Hayworth (Suzanne Pleshette), seems somewhat distant but still eerily connected to him. And the chemistry between Melanie and boy-toy Mitch (Rod Taylor) is observable, with a combination of amusement and camaraderie. But the mysteries behind the motives and the seeming unacceptance of Melanie don't matter to the birds.

Which is a problem, see, because the movie may as well have starred any family, any loner, any townsfolk. Why do they focus on these characters? Why should we care?

Hitchcock's best suspense films were always carried by its characters, who always supplied the suspense themselves. In general, there was at least one villain, sometimes seen, sometimes not, that always drove the plot forward -- and the tension upward -- in his films. And the villain's actions typically were not focused upon -- but instead, everyone's responses to them -- maybe even the villains themselves.

It's not interesting to see characters respond to a huge supply of malicious birds. They are, understandably, scared. They protect their property, close up their rooms, run for their lives, and so on. The brilliance of Jaws was that the shark was commonly unseen, only assumed to be there. That, and it was focused on three characters who had different motives behind their intentions of killing the shark. That's missing here.

An overall plot is, too. This is most noticeable when the film ends. The scene is unforgettably haunting, but also hollow and disappointing. I sit there afterwards and ask myself, "What was the point? To be scared?"

I'm not really sure what the point was. That birds can take back what we thought was ours? That people can be afraid of things they see as commonplace? That they should be? That they could be?

And why these characters? Why do I care that Melanie is a rich girl from San Francisco who is intrigued enough by the confident demeanor of a man to drive up to his home out of town to send him lovebirds? Why is the mother's authoritarianism interesting or even important?

I don't know the answer to these questions, and after watching the film a few times, I don't think there are answers to these questions. That doesn't make good suspense. That doesn't even make a good movie.

Double Indemnity (1944)

Directed by Billy Wilder
Screenplay by Billy Wilder and Raymond Chandler
Based on the novel "Double Indemnity in Three of a Kind" by James M. Cain

Rating: 9.25/10.00 or ****

Know why you couldn't figure this one, Keyes? I'll tell ya. 'Cause the guy you were looking for was too close. Right across the desk from ya.

These are Neff's words to Keyes. Neff has just admitted to the murder of an innocent man. "For money. And for a woman." He didn't get the money. And he didn't get the woman. Neff lost everything, including the thing he probably cared about most.

Double Indemnity is a film noir at its finest. It contains the criminal plot, the two players, the likable investigator, the greed for money, and the dialogue. What this noir has that makes it such a memorable one is the mystery behind everything. The motives remain unclear, and the actions do not match the motives each admits to. This is a film about the worst of intentions, and the inevitable fallout from these motives.

At the surface, the plot is simple and straightforward. Neff is an insurance salesman. He's relatively successful. He goes to the Dietrichson household to sell accident insurance to Mr. Dietrichson (Tom Powers), who is in the oil drilling business. He is not there, but his wife Phyllis (Barbara Stanwyck) is. He immediately seems to fall for her. She is edgy, independent, witty, and cunning. Each conversation they have is a test to see which one has the better retort. Consider this round:

Neff: You'll be here too?
Phyllis: I guess so, I usually am.
Neff: Same chair, same perfume, same anklet?
Phyllis: I wonder if I know what you mean.
Neff: I wonder if you wonder.

Each one knows what the other means, but of course, they do not say it bluntly. They are testing to see how the other reacts. They communicate after the talking. Not only is this a clever approach and an appropriate symbol for how the two of them work together, it is also completely engaging to watch unfold. The dialogue is so crisp in its biting tone. I wanted to applaud several times when watching the film. On multiple occasions, I rewound to hear the words again.

Neff wants to come back to sell him the insurance when he is at home, but he really wants to see her again. Soon, they meet outside the home, and after more games with words, she slowly convinces him to help murder her husband. Her motive is easy enough to understand. She is miserable with him, he has lost a fortune in the oil business, and the insurance policy Neff provides could be a quick source of cash for her. Neff plots a way to murder him so that they receive the most cash, due to the "double indemnity" clause in the insurance policy.

The plan is for Mr. Dietrich to be killed before a train ride (where the double indemnity clause is valid), then for Neff to ride the train as Mr. Dietrich, and to jump off the train, where Phyllis will drop the body of Mr. Dietrich on the tracks. In that way, the death resembles an accidental fall out of the back train car. The scheme goes off without a hitch, but as Neff walks later that night, he senses his ultimate doom.

Neff's supervisor and father figure Keyes (Edward G. Robinson) investigates the "accident". Slowly, he begins to suspect a crime was committed, but he is unsure of who the accomplice to Phyllis is. Through intelligent combing of clues and motives, he figures out how the crime was committed, but it is unclear if he suspects Neff. This leads to several nail-biting scenes. One occurs when Phyllis was to meet Neff in his apartment, but Keyes drops by to talk about the case. She approaches the room but hears voices, so she hides behind Neff's front door as Keyes walks to the elevator. In another, a witness on the last train car who talked to Mr. Dietrich (i.e., Neff) just before Mr. Dietrich fell off the train (Neff jumped off) is brought into Keyes's office, and Neff is asked to observe. In another spine-tingling scene (after the murder), Neff learns of troubling behavior conducted by Phyllis from Mr. Dietrich's daughter from a previous marriage.

Wilder films moments of revelation with restraint. In the scene in which Lola (Mr. Dietrich's daughter) tells Neff of the potential murder of her mother by Phyllis, at the time a nurse of the family, Neff's realization is cleverly subdued but immediately noticeable. When Neff confronts Phyllis on the issue the first time, the scene is riddled with the same sparkling dialogue that has gone on between the two of them throughout, but now we sense the desperation in both of their modes of speaking.

As Neff discovers the true motives of Phyllis at the end of the film, their confrontation is electric but unnervingly calm. Wilder films this with brute force bitterness and a tinge of melancholy. The two of them had something, and both sense regret. But both of them knew what they were getting into, and both of them were blinded by each other to realize what the inevitable outcome was to be.

Wilder was always known for his bitterly sarcastic approach, and this film certainly contains it. The action is cast in this light; the words of the characters become more tense and curt with time. The facade of noir-speak remains, but the meaning behind the words becomes clearer. It never ceases to amaze me how powerful dialogue can be if in the right hands. Wilder was a master of making this dialogue come to life. But, he is mindful to never make the movie about the words. It is the response to the words that matters to him, and his painstaking approach to look at the characters' faces to see how they respond to certain events is what makes the film so effective.

The cinematography helps here. Lighting is critical, as scenes are cast in dichotomous shades of black and white, sometimes masking the characters when they are masking themselves, other times placing them in full light when their intentions are revealed. Scenes are shot in varying ways. Some scenes are matter-of-fact, almost journalistic in nature. Others are shot in "strained" format, using off-angles or long distances to convey character confusion or tension.

Wilder keeps the emotion hidden with Phyllis and Neff, but he brings it to the surface with Keyes. Keyes has a big heart, according to Neff, and it is clear that Neff adores his friend and boss. Keyes wants to make him a partner, but Neff does not feel suited to be his aide. He likes it just the way it is. There is a hint of a stronger relationship between the two throughout the film, at least the yearning for one. Neff frequently mentions his love for Keyes, and Keyes has a key moment where he returns the sentiment. Of course, given the time and place, this can only be alluded to (and may not be the actual intent), but Wilder was not shy with his characters. I suspect he was pleased to see many respond to their relationship in this manner. Personally, I get much more of a father-son vibe, and the film works with either interpretation in place.

The film is approached using flashback. Neff records his memories of what transpired to Keyes. He has been shot, but he plans to escape. His confession seems contradictory to his plans, but his guilt and his love for Keyes is too strong to keep back. When Keyes finds him in the office, nearing death, the two have a wonderfully bittersweet exchange:

Neff: Know why you couldn't figure this one, Keyes? I'll tell ya. 'Cause the guy you were looking for was too close. Right across the desk from ya.
Keyes: Closer than that, Walter.
Neff: I love you, too.

Wilder could always say what he wanted to without saying it at all.

The acting is stellar. Fred MacMurray plays Neff with a suave, but hesitant demeanor. He is absolutely convincing as a man weakened by his impulses but strengthened by his no-nonsense attitude. Barbara Stanwyck plays Phyllis with a brisk, seductive air. She is stunning in her scenes, coming across as fierce, sly, and driven. Edward G. Robinson plays Keyes with his heart on his sleeve, an intelligent man who is always thinking of the right thing to do but very loyal to those who mean most to him.

When Neff and Keyes share their exchange at the end of the film, one cannot help but wonder why Neff would go to the trouble of killing a man for money (He was a successful insurance salesman.) and for a woman (He may have been attracted to her, but he didn't seem to be in love with her.). He may have done it as a response to impulses, a sexual attraction to Phyllis, or because he was simply caught up in the moment. But, when we discover what means the most to him (Keyes), we wonder why he couldn't remember that in the first place. So does Wilder.

Carlito's Way (1993)

Directed by Brian De Palma
Screenplay by David Koepp
Based on two novels written by Edwin Torres

Rating: 5.00/10.00 or **

Subtlety has never been director Brian De Palma's strong suit. Any viewer of Scarface is aware of this. For Scarface, De Palma chose Al Pacino as the main character. Pacino is not known for his subtlety, either, though he has used it with major success. Pacino is certainly most well known for his larger-than-life roles, often with at least one but more frequently several ranting monologues. Indeed, Pacino relishes these roles, and his eagerness for the material is certainly evident in his films. It is not surprising, given De Palma's success with Scarface, that he would ask Pacino to star in another one of his films.

This film is not Scarface 2. On the contrary, the premise is quite different. Instead of a character seeking power at the expense of morality (or sanity), the main character of this film seeks a way out of his criminal life. The material requires a different kind of portrayal, a wiser, quieter character with drive to seek a better life. Pacino is capable of doing such a role, but it is clear that De Palma is not able to direct such a story.

De Palma's first problem is that he gives away the ending right from the get-go. It's not a spoiler to say that Carlito does not survive. It is the very first scene of the film. We are not shown who kills him, or why, but we are shown the end result. This film is not Shakespearean. Instead, De Palma takes the approach of Sophocles, but this is a poor choice for many reasons. First, each directorial cue after the opening sequence tries to build tension and suspense regarding Carlito's future/survival. Each action scene is less suspenseful because we know exactly what happens to him, and where. We know he'll survive in any location but Union Station. So why all the action scenes? At this point, they serve no purpose.

There are many movies that opt for the "destiny determined" approach. It is dangerous if not presented properly. The best film to use this approach that I have seen is Road to Perdition. It is easy to determine the fate of the characters in the film, but that wasn't the point. The point was whether they could redeem themselves before they died. (Another theme was that the characters would do anything for family, and that often meant their lives.) Sam Mendes cleverly did not give away the ending in his film. So, knowing that the characters died was not enough to take away the suspense. We didn't know when, where, how, or why. Thus, the scenes in which danger loomed in that film had quality suspense. De Palma throws this away. He could have made a much more effective film without the opening sequence.

Of course, this approach also puts a dent in the "redemption before death" theme. In essence, Carlito redeems himself right away by promising to stay out of the criminal life. The trouble, as De Palma shows us, is that the life does not stay away from Carlito. All of his friends and family are somehow tied to crime. One by one, they encourage to go back to that life. Or try to set him up. Or...

Carlito is released from jail on a technicality. After a typical Pacino-rant scene in the courtroom, which is regrettably melodramatic and almost cheesy, Carlito promises to not return to his criminal ways. His lawyer is long-time friend David Kleinfeld (the superb Sean Penn). David is slowly tailspinning from a life of drugs and gangsters. His life appears to have originated from one of innocence, but enough time around drugs and criminals has taken its toll. He begins to steal money to buy drugs from people he should be staying away from. Carlito is aware of this behavior (gradually, that is), but his intense loyalty contributes to his own demise. This aspect of the film is the best, since Penn gives such a tremendous performance.

Then there's Gail (Penelope Ann Miller). Gail is Carlito's lifeline to one away from crime. Sadly, the character is underused and underdeveloped, making Gail one-dimensional and uninteresting. This is a character that has so much promise in so many action films and/or thrillers -- but they are often sacrificed for the action/suspense. This is a bad choice, as it makes scenes with this character feel like a jolt of calm, knocking out momentum with the better thrillers and boring audiences to tears in the worse ones. This one is more the latter than the former, making any scene with Gail feel like obligatory peace in the midst of the tension De Palma tries to develop otherwise. Unfortunately, Penelope Ann Miller can do little with the material.

De Palma presents scenes of great power in the film, often using the "luring to the dark side" approach. There is one scene where, under his former life, he would be required to kill somebody. Instead, he lets him go, to the dismay of his friends. This, of course, provides a not-so-subtle hint as to his future demise, but the scene itself is powerful because we can see just what Carlito is battling to become a free man.

Money is Carlito's weakness. He needs a stash of cash to get out of town, though one could argue he could go anywhere, really, to save up the money. Why he stays in the streets he grew up in remains a bit of a mystery. Yes, he is comfortable there, and he has a relatively quick source of income. But why would he not realize the inherent dangers of staying here? Well, in fact, he does -- so it makes me wonder why he wouldn't just leave.

Carlito's plan is to raise the money he needs, and then go to the Bahamas with Gail for a quiet life. But he has many hurdles to go through, including his unstable friend David, a vengeful prosecuting attorney (James Rebhorn), a young up-and-coming gangster (John Leguizamo), competing gangsters who believe David has stolen money from them, and a betraying friend (Viggo Mortensen). Mortensen, in particular, gives a memorable performance, despite his one scene. All others give standard fare efforts.

Pacino, himself, is at times a bit shaky. Often, he is reserved but commanding, exactly what is required of his performance. His scenes with Gail seem artificial, though, even uncomfortable. He also tends to overact the big scenes, reverting back to his Scarface portrayal to a degree. Sean Penn, on the other hand, is phenomenal. His squirmy, neurotic performance is unforgettable. It would foreshadow his great acting performances to come.

De Palma is given great material to go on here. Themes of redemption, destiny, nostalgia, and loyalty are all available to him. The reason he fails at making a compelling film is because he does not treat the material in an effective manner. The decision to underdevelop secondary characters, besides Sean Penn's, makes for many scenes that are uninteresting, manipulative, or pedantic.

Sealed destinies require suspense in action films. The choice to give away the ending impedes any attempt at developing any sort of tension during the film. Carlito says at one point, "He's got a good future if he lives past next week." At least that future was unknown.

Seven Samurai (1954)

Directed by Akira Kurosawa
Screenplay by Akira Kurosawa & Shinobu Hashimoto

Rating: 7.25/10.00 or ***

Akira Kurosawa was a master filmmaker. His movies are commonly revered as some of the greatest collective works in cinema history. I have seen two of his films, Rashomon (to be reviewed in a few days) and Seven Samurai, and I can tell that these accolades are well-deserved. But, while I have a great respect and admiration for Kurosawa's Seven Samurai, I am hesitant to call it one of his masterpieces.

Kurosawa was a co-creator of the epic. While he may not have made the original, he surely solidified its existence in the movies for generations to come. For one thing, his three-part format remains a constant in many war epics. More recent movies such as the overrated but moving Saving Private Ryan, the travesty that is Pearl Harbor (the movie), and the space epic Star Wars have strong resemblance to the foundations of Seven Samurai. Kurosawa's introduction to characters, preparations for battle, and war scenes remain copied from war story to war story, and for this, he must be recognized as either an originator or an invigorator of a genre.

His shooting techniques were also first-rate. Frequently, Kurosawa goes for the ensemble. He is strongly observant of the surroundings as much as the people. In stark contrast to Ingmar Bergman's focus on the human face, Kurosawa is more intensely fascinated with a person's environment. He films several shots of the seven samurai in silhouettes, or as figures hard to discern from the wilderness. He films battle sequences with recognizable landmarks in the background. Many shots feature a collection of characters in which the scene is more important than any one of his players.

This makes his approach to this epic an ensemble piece. But, Kurosawa is careful to keep the number of players limited. Besides the seven samurai, we only are introduced to a select few other characters. This keeps the story easy to follow and the characters we do know even more sympathizable. Kurosawa is also clever to keep us from knowing any character in the opposing force.

Seven Samurai tells the story of a group of villagers in a rural Japanese location. The village is attacked annually by a group of bandits. They are savage attackers, often raping women and killing children, stealing most of their food and possessions, and burning their property. The village will not stand for another attack, and so they seek the employment of samurai to protect them. In exchange, they offer food and clothes to the samurai.

The seven samurai are introduced individually. The samurai given the most memorable personalities are Kambei (Takashi Shimura), the old, wise, cunning leader; Kikuchiyo (Toshiru Mifune), the rambunctious, drunken, troubled, but driven man; Katsushiro (Isao Kimura), the young man who dotes on his leaders but soon learns the troubles of battle; and Kyuzo (Seiji Miyaguchi), the quiet expert swordsman. Each actor gives a memorable performance. Shimura and Mifune are perfectly complementary. Shimura is restrained and subtle; Mifune is charged and outgoing.

Kurosawa employs a curious technique of emphasizing character dialogue and actions. Many scenes are tinged with loud bursts of talk, or sudden, sometimes violent, movements. This technique does not feel real or seem real, but it has the strange effect of keeping the viewer interested. A scene of relative calm is suddenly pierced with the very loud, overdone shouts of an actor or their equally exaggerated actions. It provides motivation to stay tuned. It takes some getting used to, but it works.

However, when watching the film a few times, I get the sense that the movie lacks greatness. Part of it, I am sure, is because I have seen so many movies like it. In many ways, this was the original, so this criticism is invalid. However, it lacks the thought-provoking themes that live in many of his other films, and most great ones. I also grew weary of the battle scenes in the latter half of the movie. They are well-crafted and realistic, especially given when it was made, but they last a bit too long to keep my sustained interest. I also thought the lack of character development with the three other samurai limited emotional impact given their impending battles. (At least one of these characters dies, with continued limited emotional impact.)

Finally, I found the survivors and the deaths a bit too predictable. This is a petty criticism, but it did also contribute to my lack of emotional involvement during the battle sequences.

What I think Seven Samurai details is the masterful craftsmanship that Akira Kurosawa had acquired by this point. Many of his other movies, Rashomon included, show us his mastery of substance. His best movies contain both. Seven Samurai is a good movie, but its lack of substance makes me hesitant to call it anything more than that.

Brokeback Mountain (2005)

Directed by Ang Lee
Screenplay by Larry McMurtry & Diana Ossana
Based on the short story by Annie Proulx

Rating: 9.00/10.00 or ****

There is a moment in every great movie when I realize it is such. These moments define the movie and become a part of the viewer, probably forever. No one forgets the walk down the stairs in Notorious, or the scene where Vito Corleone learns it is Michael who avenged the attempt on his life, or Jake La Motta punching the walls of his prison cell. Great movies have these distinct moments that define themselves and, hopefully, in some way, humanity.

The scene I am referring to in Brokeback Mountain, Ang Lee's greatest film, occurs just after Ennis and Jack part ways for the first time. They have a conversation in which both inquire what the other one will be doing. "Will you come back next summer?" "No, no..." Both aren't saying what each of them is thinking. They will miss each other, and they will never be the same. And then the jolting scene of realization. Ennis, depressed and torn apart with grief that he may never see Jack again, punches the walls of a building in furious anger. He is a man lost in a world that does not understand and condone his sexual orientation, and he will lose everything because of it.

Brokeback Mountain is not a movie promoting gay rights, though it does show the insane evil regarding its lack of societal acceptance. Instead, and very wisely, the film is about love. Forbidden love, really, by a society that will not tolerate it. So much so that Ennis, himself taught early in life how unacceptable homosexuality is, is not sure if he can live with himself.

Ang Lee could have made this film in the realm of moral choices and social commentary. He does not. He always focuses on the love between Ennis and Jack. This is what makes the movie so powerful and so effective. This is one of the best love stories put to film. In a perfect world, the fact that the love is between two men would not matter. Alas, this is not a perfect world. But it is nearly a perfect movie.

Ennis Del Mar (Heath Ledger) and Jack Twist (Jake Gyllenhaal) meet one summer in the mountains of Wyoming, tending and herding sheep for the season. They are to protect them from predators, and from the elements, while managing to survive on beans, mostly. Not an easy task, considering the bears afoot and the highly variable weather common in the summertime in the Rockies.

Much of the first third of the film features just these two men, who gradually grow a bond. Their bond becomes stronger with time, and one night, they have sex. The sex is abrupt and chaotic, reactionary in nature. This is important, as it shows the conflict each character has, not with each other, but with how society has only taught them to hate what they are doing. The next day they tell each other it is a one-night thing, that what happened cannot happen again. But, they are in love, and they cannot stop feeling what they feel.

I should stop at this point and mention how very brave and how very effective Ledger and Gyllenhaal are in their portrayals. Both actors were heterosexual, and we still live in a society where homosexuality is admonished, taunted, and ridiculed. Just today, I read an article in which a government official believes homosexuality is worse than terrorism. It is amazing, for as how far we have come in accepting any person, no matter what race, gender, ethnic group, religious choice, and social class, that sexual orientation remains a troubling source of conflict. These actors are actors in the truest sense of the word, courageous in their choice of role and profoundly moving in their performances. Both give portrayals that are knockouts in this film. Ledger tears into his role with such a volatile combination of self-hatred, guilt, and a yearning for a happier life. He speaks little, but his actions are unforgettably voluminous. Gyllenhaal, whose Jack Twist is more outgoing, is purposefully quiet, more subdued in his emotions, giving his character the subtle nuances that make each scene where he puts his feelings on his sleeve all the more powerful.

The summer ends, and they part company. Ennis will be marrying Alma (Michelle Williams). He does not expect to return to the job the next summer. And Jack soon returns to his life of rodeoing, soon primarily in west Texas. Jack does go back to Joe Aguirre (Randy Quaid) the next summer to inquire about the same job as before, but he is turned down, because of his homophobia (Joe found out the previous summer while following them on the job.). So, he rodeos in west Texas and meets Lureen (Anne Hathaway). They soon marry. Both Ennis and Jack become fathers.

But their distance and lack of contact become too much. After four years, Jack breaks the silence, and sends Ennis a card asking if they could meet again. Ennis readily agrees, and soon Jack visits Ennis. They quickly greet, and their feelings rush back again. Alma sees them kissing but does not say anything as Ennis and Jack depart for the evening.

Alma spirals out of control with her discovery. She says nothing and does nothing. She is not able to cope with what she has seen because she has no way of coping. Her husband is gay, and her friends cannot find out. She has no one to turn to.

Strangely, Ennis does not, either. Apart from Jack, but Jack can only visit him for a short time each year. This becomes their routine. Jack visits Ennis at Brokeback Mountain for a week every few months of the year. He then returns to his life in Texas with Lureen and his child. And Ennis returns to his, but he and Alma soon separate. After years of bottling up her anger (even after their divorce), she finally confronts him furiously one day. Williams is electric in this scene. Her anger floods to the surface, and Ennis leaves quickly.

Jack is alerted to the divorce and quickly returns to Wyoming, but Ennis is reluctant. He tells of a time when his father showed his brother and himself (at a young age) two rural farmers hanged for their alleged homosexuality. They cannot be together in a society that will not tolerate them together. Jack leaves, distraught. And Ennis lives on, with fewer and fewer possessions, more alone than ever.

Anne Hathaway, as Jack's wife, also gives a tremendous performance. Her last scene, in which she talks to Ennis, is simply stunning. She devolves from a fierce, independent go-getter to a cold, hard woman as her marriage with Jack ages. In the last scene, we see what her discovery of Jack's homosexuality does to her.

Lee presents a film of great intelligence. Neither the wives nor the men are portrayed as villains. Instead, they are all portrayed as people trapped in a world they do not understand and within the walls of the very rooms they cannot live in. They have no source to turn to, and no way out without a crumbling of their lives and livelihoods.

The final minutes of the film deal with the aftermath of Jack's death. He dies at the hands of people who cannot accept him. After Ennis talks to Lureen in Hathaway's superb scene, he goes to Jack's parents. Lee does not embellish on melodrama here; instead, the scene is poignant because of its stunning silence. He discovers a shirt he thought he lost the first summer he met Jack. The shirt was in Jack's closet. He also discovers how unaccepting his father was by his few, harsh words.

But Lee always remains faithful to the film's purpose. It is a story of forbidden love, lost in the chaos of society and at the hands of the people who could not overcome it. Ennis is now in a trailer with virtually nothing. He is without anyone. He lost the only thing he loved, and that means he lost everything.

Audition (1999)

Directed by Takashi Miike
Screenplay by Daisuke Tengan
Based on the novel by Ryu Marakami

Rating: 7.00/10.00 or ***

I don't really want to talk about the content of this movie. This is a movie that is best served cold. I was lucky enough to know virtually nothing about the film beforehand, and I think this is how all viewers should see it. In terms of presentation, this film is assured and effective. And unforgettable.

Unfortunately, since the point of these movie reviews is to explain the movie and to give my opinion on it, I cannot just say that I recommend the film and leave it to you to find it and watch it. So, I'll say a few things. But if you want to watch the movie cold, stop reading. And be warned that this film is not for the weak of heart.

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Ok, spoilers follow...however, I'll be purposefully ambiguous whenever possible.

The movie stars Ryo Ishibashi as Shigeharu. Shigeharu is a widow; his wife died several years ago. His son Shigehiko (Tetsu Sawaki) wants him to re-marry. They get along well. Their relationship is that of amusement, respect, and mutual admiration. They talk, but very little with each other. It is sensed that they don't need to to get along; in fact, that is how they probably get along so well.

Shigeharu takes his son's advice and begins looking for a girlfriend. With the help of his friend, a strange set-up takes place where an audition for a film is conducted. Except the film is not real, and the actresses are not wanted for their acting talents. Instead, it is an audition to be Shigeharu's new boyfriend. But Shigeharu reads a letter from an actress that he cannot shake. He is taken by the letter so strongly that the audition is really more of a confirmation of his initial thoughts. He wants her, and no one else.

She is Asami (Eihi Shiina). Little is known about her, and what is revealed turns out to not be consistent with what she has reported on her resume/cover letter. Shigeharu's friend does not trust her, and her mysteriousness begins to grow more concerning. But Shigeharu is blinded by love.

Up to this point, which is nearly 45 minutes into the film, Audition feels like a romantic comedy. It is not. Oh, boy, is it not. There is a scene at this point that totally changes the dynamic of the film. We see Asami alone in a darkened room, with the phone ringing over and over again. And there's a bag lying on the floor. Shigeharu is calling her, but she remains still. It's hard not to start wondering why that bag is in the scene.

We see a close-up of her face, and we soon see something so startling, that everything after that scene is colored by that event. As far as impact of build-up, director Miike is masterful here.

The film becomes a horror story of epic proportions thereafter. Miike deals with terrorizing pain, reality versus fantasy, and how humans cope with things they cannot fathom. There is a key line in the film, during a scene of such ridiculous horror, that rings true and may summarize the whole film: "Words create lies. Pain can be trusted."

Strangely, Miike provides counterarguments. When Shigeharu encounters moments of anticipated agony, the film shows us completely different fabrications of the same developed story. Miike is toying with the viewers here, and effectively. Fortunately, Miike never cops out. He remains true to the actual story, though by this point it becomes more difficult to tell what is true and what is false. Of course, that is the intent, but it tends to blur the impact of the reality a tad.

These fabrications, though, disappear back to the anticipated agony. Strangely, pain is true to everyone surrounding the victim, but never to the victim. And the words -- well, they lie to everyone else.

Miike's presentation is original, compelling, and involving. Scenes border on the cruel near the end, but unimaginable terror is supposed to be cruel. I'm just not sure if it's appropriate for entertainment value, surely not my favorite kind. However, this is a personal taste. What bothers me more is that Miike makes the last half hour of the film so abstract, so fantasy-based, that it begins to muddle the film's intent and purpose. In a strange way, the very point of the film is its very flaw. However, it sure is an unusual, unique, powerful film, especially knowing nothing about it beforehand.

Psycho (1960)

Directed by Alfred Hitchcock
Screenplay by Joseph Stefano
Based on the novel by Robert Bloch

Rating: 7.75/10.00 or *** 1/2

When movie discussions center around scary movies, Psycho always seems to come up. As well it should. In essence, it is the creator, or at the very least the co-creator, of the slash-and-dash film. People remember the shower scene, and the revelation about the mother at the end. These two scenes, while deserving of their fame, are almost a mixed blessing. Because they seemed to have overshadowed the brilliance of the film's setup.

Alfred Hitchcock is often deemed as the master of suspense. Often, his films feature his most used trait: misdirection. Psycho is probably the best example as it has one of the more frequent numbers of cases of this. When Marion Crane (Janet Leigh) is murdered approaching halfway into the film, it is a true shock to the unbeknownst viewer. Hitchcock has led us to believe that she is the main character of the film and that she must remain alive through the whole film. But, she is killed at the hands of Norman Bates (Anthony Perkins).

Before this most famous of scenes, Hitchcock supplies many potential angles the movie could go. She steals money from her office before she leaves on her fateful trip. During her ride off from the city, she is followed by a policeman. And we tense up. We don't want her to get caught with the stolen money. He eventually drives off in a different direction, but she remains unconvinced of her safety. She switches cars. As she buys a new car, a policeman stands across the street at a distance. But she escapes without being arrested.

Next, as blinding rain forces Crane to stop at the Bates Motel, she meets with Norman. Here, Hitchcock leads us to believe their interaction will be the key point to the film. In chilling scenes between Norman and Marion, we learn (as Marion does) that Norman is troubled and is quite touchy about the subject of his mother, who we hear admonishing Norman at the mansion beside the hotel. It is only by this point we can sense where this film may be headed, but we still expect Marion to live, at least a lot longer than she ends up living.

Hitchcock crafts a series of scenes that feel like stand-alones. Suspense slowly mounts with each scene, and tension is often raised by inaction. Hitchcock always knew that the best movies hinge on the suspense and not the surprise. But, clearly, he also knew that the best surprises were often a result of quality suspense. Consider a hypothetical scene in which a killer with a knife is chasing an innocent victim. The scene is dark; there are cul-de-sacs here, and narrow hallways there. We know two possible outcomes: the victim's escape or the victim's capture/doom. Now, depending on how well we know the character, we may want him/her to survive to varying degrees. So, there is suspense here, if earned. But we know the outcomes.

Hitchcock, at his best, knew that the best suspense comes unexpectedly. We not only are not sure of a character's safety, but we're also not quite sure why. Psycho succeeds because Hitchcock employs this methodology. Everyone remembers the high-pitched, urgent strings when Marion is stabbed in the shower. Why are these strings so memorable? Well, yes, Marion is murdered in the scene. But who murders her? The strings foretell a scene we don't expect, and one we can't immediately explain. But I bet we get scared if we hear them again.

All fingers point to Norman, but the scene is clearly ambiguous. Could it be Norman's mother? We're not quite sure. What's going on here?

Norman enters the motel room and finds her body. He is repulsed by the scene, but he quietly cleans the room up. The scene is wonderful for a couple of reasons. First, it allows the viewer to absorb what was filmed. The shock wears off and has been replaced by something else. Not hatred for Norman, but instead curiosity. Why would he do something like that? What's his motive? And what about his mother?

When Norman dumps Marion's car (with body in the trunk) into a lake (or a bog, given the look of the "water"), the car stops sinking for a moment. It's impossible not to want the car to sink entirely. Hitchcock succeeds in changing the format of the whole movie. Now, we know the movie is about Norman.

And that is the second reason the clean-up scene is so brilliant. It now places the emphasis on Norman, and we begin to see him as, strangely, the protagonist. How Hitchcock (and Perkins) so effortlessly pull(s) this off remains one of the greatest film transitions in the movies.

There is crucial build-up to two final scenes, one bloody and one horrifying. The first sequence is brilliantly shot from above, to again keep the scene ambiguous. No faces -- only action. But the next murder gives us important clues. What we observed in the shower scene is repeated here. Now, we're sure of it. We're just not quite sure who it really is. This makes the final discovery so utterly shocking -- we really don't know. We may think of it beforehand, but we don't quite buy it. After all, we heard the mother talking. We saw a murderer with female clothes. Twice.

Hitchcock's shocking scenes only work because he misdirects so effectively. Instead of giving his viewers one of two options, he leaves it up to the viewer to decide what may be going on. We have to figure it out for ourselves. In great suspense films, there are not two options, but many more than that.

The last scenes of the film, after we learn who the real culprit is, are stunningly awkward and out-of-place. Why give the viewer the motives after we learn about the people? Isn't it scarier, more chilling, and more satisfying to let the viewer decide for himself/herself? The psychiatrist explains to the victims' friends/family the whole story, perfectly, to a tee. No explanation is better, but any explanation is underwhelming. Hitchcock's misstep here, for me, almost takes the whole impact of the movie away. The most horrifying of crimes are the ones left unexplained. The same goes with films.

Hannah and Her Sisters (1986)

Written and Directed by Woody Allen

Rating: 9.00/10.00 or ****

Woody Allen, like Charlie Chaplin, likes to play the outsider. In Annie Hall, he plays a person so hateful of himself, he cannot stay attached to his true love because he couldn't believe that she could. In Hannah and Her Sisters, Allen plays a man attached to a family driven by emotion and dreams, not only because of their collective energy, but also because he thinks he has no idea what that feels like.

Allen plays Mickey, a television producer/writer in Manhattan. He is constantly worried about disease and death. If he isn't ill, he thinks he is anyway. One day, a medical appointment regarding his ears ends with him fearing he has cancer. Doctors want him to come in for more tests. He begins to worry. Incessantly. He begins to ponder his past, where he went wrong, why he's never been on the right path.

Mickey is the ex-husband of Hannah (Mia Farrow). Hannah is the source of stability in her family. Her parents, played by Lloyd Nolan and Maureen O'Sullivan, are entertainment elders. They have lived a grandiose, turbulent life. He has cheated on her, and her career choices, as well as her possible alcoholism, have been less than ideal for him. Hannah comes to their rescue in one scene. After a particularly ugly fight, Hannah's mere presence is some sort of peaceful intervention. She is the caregiver.

Mickey's and Hannah's personalities do not quite match. It is easy to see why they are divorced, not as easy to see why they were together. In one telling flashback, Mickey and Hannah discuss having children with family friends. The scene is uncomfortable for many reasons, perhaps most importantly because Mickey's worries do not match Hannah's wishes. Mickey and Hannah have a cordial divorce, and it is easily observed how he wishes he could still be a part of her life and their family.

Hannah is married to Elliot (Michael Caine). Elliot is loving to Hannah, but he has fallen for Hannah's sister Lee (Barbara Hershey). Lee is Frederick's (Max von Sydow) girlfriend. Frederick is an artist so disgusted with society that he has lost all touch with it. Lee is his only source connecting to the outside world. Frederick keeps her around, promising to teach her the ropes in art and life, but she soon becomes too enclosed within his claustrophobia and wants out.

When Elliot confronts Lee regarding his feelings, she only hesistantly rebukes. Soon, she returns his feelings, and Lee escapes Frederick's pitiful dependence. This scene is key to the movie, the very thing that Mickey seeks. When Lee regards Elliot's feelings, Elliot rejoices in a moment of pure ecstasy. He is joyous, overcome with happiness. Compared to Mickey, Elliot knows exactly what he is looking for.

But, Lee is not convinced. Indeed, Elliot's refusal to break Hannah's heart remains, even after a few months of his affair with Lee. In a key moment of the movie, Lee says to him that he is probably "more in love with Hannah than he knows". So Mickey is with the family. Mickey recalls a date with Hannah's sister Holly (Dianne Wiest). The date is a disaster. They have nothing in common. She is a risk-taker, overtaken by drugs and fear, and entertained by the very things Mickey despises most.

But, they meet again some time later, and Mickey realizes they have a connection. They both have a desire to write. For Mickey, it's his way of communicating to the world how much dread there is within it. For Holly, she needs to express how she has come to this point and how she needs to move forward. They bond over this mutual need, and Mickey has once again returned to the family.

Hannah and Her Sisters works so well because it is so strikingly observant of each character's wishes and desires. They always revolve around other members of the family. Each member provides some personality trait that makes the sum better than any of its parts. Hannah is the center, the moral compass maybe. Lee is the loving, innocent sister. Holly is the rambunctious, rebellious sister. Her parents are the troubled family authoritarians. Elliot and Mickey are attracted to multiple members of this family, because (collectively) they are nearly perfect in their imperfections.

Allen tells the story with strong, commanding directorial strokes. Scenes are played out like chapters of a book, even with titles beginning the sequences. He often creates creative diversions in his narrative, but he never loses his way. These only serve to enhance the drama these characters evoke, whether by talking, fighting, or dreaming. These are real people, who only want to find what they need and need what they want.

When Mickey finds out he is cancer-free, he is at first jubilant but soon nervous. Now that he has found life again, he is faced with the sudden reality that he does not know what he wants to make of it. But he wants to find out. Allen shows us that this is why Mickey belongs in Hannah's family, even if he is an outsider looking in.