JOIN US AT OUR NEW HOME

Hello!

For those of you who have been following along loyally or sporadically, on our website or through RSS, we would like to invite you to join us over at our brand new blog home: http://81bestpictures.wordpress.com. Yes, on Sunday the Academy will crown its 81st feature film, and we just have to keep up with the changing times. 80bestpictures.blogspot.com is hereby officially retired.

It's been a long, wonderful two years with these Best Picture winners, and although we tend to move in fits and starts, we're enjoying this rewarding project now more than ever. If you've had fun reading us thus far, stay tuned as we take on the last 35 films on our lineup. (Hopefully, the next few decades will move faster than the last few!)

All the best,
Eitan and Shira
81bestpictures.wordpress.com

The Godfather Part II (1974): Shira's Take

I don't get it. How can anyone possibly think that this movie is better than the Godfather? I honestly think that this movie is worse in every way. No, scratch that. Talia Shire is slightly less annoying in this movie. But Marlon Brando's Vito is way better than Robert DeNiro's (though all that background was definitely interesting), and I'd rather sympathize with Michael than see him as this ice king. In the first movie, you see his amazing transformation, and it's so sad and powerful. Where is the equivalent in the Godfather Part II? Maybe it's like the people whose genetic code makes cilantro taste like soap to them...it's just not in me to understand what's so great about this movie.

In addition to judging it as part of this Godfather saga, I also made sure to keep an open mind and watch it as a movie, separate from the first. As a movie, not as a sequel, it was definitely good. There was a lot of great drama--Robert Duvall's Tom Hagen and Talia Shire's Connie Corleone started to actually feel like substantial characters. And, of course, John Cazale's Fredo. Fredo is really the star of this movie. He is the only character we genuinely feel for. The whole Hyman Roth and Frank Pentangeli business was a little bit hard to follow, and I think I'm gonna have to watch it again to fully grasp it all. I think my favorite scene was when Tom Hagen went to Senator Geary, who had been with a prostitute when she was murdered. It's implied that Michael orchestrated this to get Geary on his side as an ally, and it is just so totally messed up (in a way that I love movies to be).

I think the biggest problem about this movie is that 1958-1959 Nevada is just not as pretty as 1945-early 50s in New York. The colors of the first movie are so much eerier and prettier. Everything about this movie felt very much like my least favorite part of the first movie--when Michael goes to talk to Moe Greene in Vegas. Trashy, bright t-shirts do not mesh well with elegant Sicilian mafia families. The only shots I remember loving in this movie took place in the prequel portion with Robert DeNiro. Anyway, it's an 8/10.

The Godfather Part II (1974): Eitan's Take

"Seeing you reminds me of New York... the old days."

I've been waiting for almost two years to have this chance to rewatch The Godfather Part II and fully articulate my numerous problems with it. I had seen it at the beginning of my college career and felt truly disappointed, but before watching it tonight, my father implored me to give this film a second chance. Sorry, Dad.

Imagine you're Francis Ford Coppola for a second. You've just made your sprawling yet intimate masterpiece, and everyone wants more. You have a three-plus hour palette on which to flesh out the brilliant tragedies of the first installment. But instead, you opt for a cumbersome, jarring sketch of a handful of tiny, trivial moments in the lives of previously fascinating film characters. This Frankenstein of a film -- culled from a grab bag of decent parts and stitched together awkwardly and obtusely -- serves little purpose but to remind us of what an organic, warm, intelligent treat the first film is. For the entire running time of Part II, as ideas get stretched thin and the plot aggressively overstays its welcome, we can't help but recall the tremendous pleasures of its predecessor -- the funny and subtle performance of Marlon Brando, the rise (or is it fall?) of Michael Corleone and the intimate time we spend watching his descent into the crime underworld, the rich subplots in Italy and elsewhere. I could go on. The Michael segments of Part II are a bleak death march. The rich emotional tones of the first film are replaced here by one single sustained note: Michael is cruel, ruthless, vindictive, etc., and there is no way to approach this other than overdone pathos. Soul-crushingly banal plotlines, such as Michael's various business dealings in Vegas/Cuba, the Senate hearings, the shocking revelation about Kay's abortion, keep the Michael parts trudging along in a constant state of morose self-possession. In widening the scope of the Corleone drama, Coppola and Puzo completely lose themselves. It's like C-SPAN and CNBC rolled into one.

There is still quite a bit of good in this film, and I should state emphatically that I don't dislike this film the way I dislike American Pie: Band Camp. I dislike it partially because the Michael segments are such an insult to the first film, and partially because they're such an insult to the flawless -- yes, absolutely flawless -- handling of the "young Vito" narrative. I don't have a broad enough vocabulary to express my deep admiration for the artistry in this third (or so) of the film. First of all, it may contain some of the most beautiful, iconic moments in cinematography history: the festa, the train leaving Corleone, nearly every scene on the busy and beautiful streets of tenement-era New York City. DeNiro's performance matches Brando's note for note, in humor, physical presence, and hypnotic fascination. Is Michael simply an uninteresting character? This film would suggest that Vito's life arc is really the only interesting one, but we know from the first film that Michael is a brilliant character, and that the weak and joyless turns his life takes in the late 50's are really just an embarrassing mishandling of a potentially great epic life story.

The ultimate shame of The Godfather Part II is that in overemphasizing the unbearably bleak and tepid Vegas/Cuba Michael story, Coppola and Puzo miss out on giving young Vito his full due. This dark, haunting, gorgeous, and highly atmospheric section deserves a full, proper film of its own. Instead, it's gracelessly glued to a lumbering 2-hour slog, full of soulless ghosts wandering around their tacky homes. It's sort of like watching Padma Lakshmi tie the knot with Salman Rushdie, or Carla Bruni with Nicolas Sarkozy, or Marilyn Monroe with Arthur Miller. Why do beautiful things always pair up with such ugly ones?

Vito's 1/3 of the film gets a 10. Michael's 2/3 gets a 5. The film overall, however, is a muddled mess that clearly needed some more work, some more love, and clearly some more Brando. 6/10.

The Sting (1973): Shira's Take

I love watching movies I grew up on and understanding the prostitution references and homosexual undertones (which are always present in Robert Redford movies). I also love watching movies in which the screenplay and visuals overshadow the actors. I mean, it's hard to steal the spotlight from Redford and Paul Newman, two of the greatest American actors, but they really do take a backseat to the amazing story and great setting (including costumes by one of my favorite strong women, Edith Head). Really, though Redford is technically the star, this is an ensemble movie with great ensemble actors. Lots of "I know her!" and "Wasn't he in Fast Times at Ridgemont High?"

There's not really much to say about the Sting. It's really just entertaining and fun 'til the end. The viewer is in on the joke, but there is a little bit of a twist, which really makes the con as delightful for us to watch as it must have been for Hooker and Gondorff to carry out. Eitan pointed out a similarity to the French Connection (a chase scene underneath and in the subway station). I think everything about the Sting is like the muted, family-friendly French Connection. Instead of a sleazy drug ring, we see the glamour of conning Irish mafia lords. Clearly, in 1936, the Great Depression was nearing its end, but it seems to me that it's still a time period conducive to a depressing atmosphere. The Sting acknowledges its chronological setting when Hooker mentions the Depression, but it gives us an alternate view. On the other hand, the French Connection takes a time period that is not especially gritty and shows us the scummiest, most unsavory side of it. Of course, I could just be falling victim to the typical moviegoing trap--thinking anything with Robert Redford in it is polished and pretty and everything else is dirty by comparison.

I think I've stopped making sense. This happens when I have little to say about a movie. But I like it. 9/10

The Sting (1973): Eitan's Take

One of the best things about watching these films chronologically is that we really get to see trends emerging. During a long stretch of the 30's, I remarked about how Best Picture winners tend to be films about ambitious, powerful, larger-than-life men. During other periods, we've been treated to the rise of the epic, the gritty New York drama, the stage-to-screen musical, and with the dawn of the 70's, New Hollywood and the reimagining of the complex American psyche. This is what makes The Sting such a blast to watch -- amid a sea of self-important films, propelled or hampered by their bloated ambitions, here's a film that doesn't give a damn if it's the Great American Film or just another silly studio backlot period caper. That it's a really great film, funny and clever and warm, is like some happy accident.

Of course, reuniting the two boy geniuses from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid has something to do with it. Sometimes, it seems like "chemistry" was a term invented to describe what Paul Newman and Robert Redford share; every sly look, every thumb of the nose, every boyish cackle and shared moment of too-clever planning is executed flawlessly by these guys. It's a shame they only made two films together. Nowadays, we're used to con man or crime movies where everyone is playing everyone, and the whole film is nothing but a shambolic web of blink-and-you-miss-it lies and deception -- yeah, we get it... the audience gets the biggest con. Here though, mostly because Newman and Redford are too good together, we assume that the film isn't playing nasty tricks on us. It's their show, and we're along for the ride.

The film looks and sounds great too. While The Godfather uses dark browns and beiges to capture the slippery morals and dark machinations of the crime world, The Sting uses the very same color palette to create a playful and engaging world. The back alleys, the sham storefronts, the poker room on the train, and the "FBI lair" are drained of their color so we can pay attention to the richness of the performances and the decidedly non-showy cleverness of the screenplay. (It does take a lot of work to craft a screenplay this quick and witty and have it not descend into smug, self-referential gooeyness.) This is a film that wisely asks the audience to view its inner world as a comedy, even as most of the actors are playing it straight. There are no cheap-o gags and no yuks. Every laugh, especially the ones after a long buildup, such as in the pitch-perfect Newman vs. Shaw poker scene, is well-earned.

I'll admit I'm a sucker for a good heist/con caper. Even the pompous and self-important Oceans Eleven has stayed with me over the years. There's something magical about watching a long con unfold. I love sitting back and seeing how every little element -- the bogus sets, the fake accents and mustaches, the slick sleights of hand, every little prop required to make "The Wire" con work so simply and so well -- comes together to form something too sinister and well-thought-out to dismiss as just a prank. And it helps the film, rather than hinders, that George Roy Hill and author David Ward lay out the film within the simple narrative framework of showing each part of the con ("The Set-Up," "The Hook," "The Sting," etc.) as it plays out.

The Sting is really just a lovely film, and one of the only Best Picture winners that allows itself to be nothing more than pure, smart entertainment. It's far from perfect, and it definitely drags at the end, but it's tough to give it demerits when it all congeals so perfectly. 9/10.

The Godfather (1972): Shira's Take

Gosh, this movie sucks.

But seriously, I feel like I did when I was forced to write about Casablanca. What can you possibly say about such a cinematic masterpiece that hasn't been said? Absolutely nothing. So I'll say the things that have been said by others but that come to my mind right now. I think that about 90% of the shots in this movie are completely iconic. If you'd never seen it before, you would still recognize it from almost any still image. Part of this is the use of color and light. No other movie looks like the Godfather (though I haven't seen parts 2 or 3 yet, so maybe they do as well).

Though I've never read Mario Puzo's book upon which this movie is based, I have heard pretty awful things. But Puzo collaborated with Coppola on the screenplay, and it turned out pretty amazing, so I think maybe this story just needed the medium of film. This was my second time watching the Godfather, and it was actually better this time. I am very much looking forward to seeing part 2 now and recognizing all the classic lines I know so well (especially, "I know it was you, Fredo. You broke my heart.") You can tell I'm scrounging for things to say.

Oh, one stupid little note. I remember the first time I saw Boogie Nights, which was a few months after the first time I saw the Godfather. In the scene in Boogie Nights where Floyd Gondoli came to Jack Horner to ask him to switch to video, I was reminded of the scene in the Godfather where Virgil "The Turk" Sollozzo asks Don Corleone to join the narcotics industry. Boogie Nights has since become one of my favorite movies, but this is the first time I've had the privilege to watch the Godfather since. Honestly, there are a number of Jack Horner/Don Corleone parallelisms, and I'm excited to watch Boogie Nights soon (as I probably watch it every other month or so) in this context. Obviously, the Godfather gets a 10/10

The Godfather (1972): Eitan's Take

Whenever characters in a movie or TV show go out to the movies -- and this happens in Seinfeld quite a bit -- they always end up seeing some vaguely anonymous, obviously fake popcorn flick. I watch these scenes and wonder: do they have all the same movies we have in real life? Or in this parallel universe, do they have a completely different history of cinema and thousands of movies that don't exist in our universe? What I'm getting at is this: we should consider ourselves privileged, maybe even humbled, that we live in a world where a film like The Godfather exists. Like Casablanca, this film is ingrained in our consciousness regardless of whether or not we've seen it; it's just who we are. We were all born to love this film, and watching it for the first or second, or in my case the fifth or sixth time, one gets the sense that the film satisfies some crazy, innate Platonic ideal -- we all have to discover it on our own, but it waits for us and reveals itself slowly, poetically, elegantly, until we can do nothing but acquiesce to its awesome power.

It's basically pointless to try to write something breezy and clever about The Godfather. So much ink has been spilled over it already, and by much more talented and insightful people -- not to mention the fact that every human who takes him or herself seriously has seen this film by now and has their own approach. Someone once said that batting against Sandy Koufax was like eating soup with a fork, and that's pretty much how I feel about tackling The Godfather in a critical way. Like any great art -- Shakespeare, Da Vinci, Mozart -- The Godfather is too epic, too perfect, too unassailably well-constructed to comment on and then feel good about myself in the morning. Maybe this is a cop-out, but I honestly can't start breaking this film apart into its constituent units and letting you know how much I love it. My admiration for and fear of this movie should be self-evident.

Most American films live in the shadow of this behemoth, and for good reasons. From the first lines -- a paean to immigrant values -- to the last -- a powerful passing of the torch to a first-generation American -- it is truly our nation's finest film. It's not my favorite, not by a long shot, but if there has ever been a better rendering of the 20th century American story on film, I definitely don't know about it.

10/10.

The French Connection (1971): Shira's Take

First and foremost it must be said that the first half of this movie is not good. It is totally uninteresting, and the details of the smuggling plot are hard to follow. Second, there is not much character development, which is typically the most important thing to me in any narrative-based art-form. Disclaimers aside...The French Connection is great. I don't miss the character development when Gene Hackman is just so totally awesome. And the second half really makes up for the first. The moment the movie gets interesting is when Jimmy "Popeye" Doyle (Gene Hackman) desperately tries repeatedly to get on the same subway train as Frog #1, Alain Charnier (Fernando Rey). That scene is followed soon after by the classic car/subway chase scene, which is just so incredible in every way. That fifteen minutes (or so) of no dialogue develops Popeye's lust for the job more than hours of dialogue in any modern cop movie (Michael Mann's Heat for example). Add to that, of course, the fact that he absolutely does not care a bit when he kills Mulderig at the end. Priceless.

Really, the car chase scene on its own is the perfect movie, edited flawlessly. Nearing forty years later, and they're still making video games that attempt to be as cool. This endless determination, never looking back (except for when you almost run over a baby carriage), running into everything in your way, smashing up the car like crazy -- it is the ultimate cop movie scene. So yes, I will be giving this movie a 9/10, in spite of its awful first 45 minutes.

The French Connection (1971): Eitan's Take

It could be argued that The French Connection is the purest genre film to ever win Best Picture. From the first frame to the last, this is a film that never pretends to be anything but a smart, propulsive thriller about the dark alleys and gangland hideouts of New York City. Its characters barely have time to speak; they're mostly running, shooting, plotting, catching glances, leaning around corners. You get the drift. The film's major flaw is perhaps its biggest asset as a straightforward thriller: we never really get to know anyone in the film. The film's protagonist, Popeye Doyle, and its villain, Alain Chenier, are just tokens -- two unstoppable forces set into motion. Chenier's primary goal is to be swarthy and evil and to groom his lush salt and pepper beard while cackling over heroin deals. Doyle's primary goal is to run, yell, and shoot until he has his man. We never learn what motivates these men (and the various cops-and-robbers archetypes that surround them). We only see what they DO. Arguably, this is enough.

After Patton, which is a largely cerebral exercise, The French Connection is a huge relief. It's a big, loud, kinetic, bloody pulp film with porkpie hats, big guns, the best (and best-edited) car chase in the history of cinema, and a host of absolutely iconic shots featuring various police officers snooping through the gritty streets of Manhattan and Brooklyn, hot in pursuit of deliciously evil French goons who somehow discover a way out every time. That was a run-on sentence, but this is really a run-on movie; it's constantly in a state of dizzy climax, moving from setpiece to setpiece with that zippy, intoxicating "New Hollywood" feel. Hackman and Scheider deliver pitch-perfect performances; even though I don't think their characters are that deep per se, there's a lot in Cloudy and Popeye that you can sink your teeth into. There's no showy compassion, there's no silly moments of introspection, there's no feigned complexity. These are guys who do their job well and live by the skin of their teeth, and Hackman and Scheider capture the grit and professionalism of these two characters perfectly. The only misstep, perhaps, is the gratuitous post-coital scene in Popeye's apartment. Sure, it's funny that he picked up the biker girl, and it's even funnier that she cuffed him to the bed with his own cuffs, but a scene so removed from the plot should tell us something about who these guys are. Instead, it's a five minute piffle in the middle of a taut, suspenseful police procedural.

And about that car chase, because no discussion of The French Connection is complete without a discussion of those fifteen glorious minutes. A lot of films since 1971 have attempted to recapture the magic of Friedkin's most audacious setpiece. Speed, The Matrix Reloaded, The Italian Job, Ronin, Terminator 3, Crank, every post-Moore Bond film, you name it. This particular car chase is incredible because it feels real and terrifying, and it's absolutely integral to the plot. There's no goofy-ass fruit carts or plate glass windows here; it's basically hand-to-hand combat, but the fighters are a busted coupe and a speeding subway. The tension and excitement of the scene doesn't come from shit blowing up -- it comes from Doyle's raw desperation and heroism.

This is far from a perfect film, and it feels quite dated. But it's hard to deny that the Academy made a VERY non-traditional pick here -- even moreso than with Midnight Cowboy, which was basically a romance film -- and they picked a truly exciting genre film at that. A solid 8/10.

Patton (1970): Shira's Take

I think I should preface this by saying movies like this are so not my thing. I find Patton an entertaining character, which is what kept me awake and sane while watching this movie (other things that contributed to my not-gouging-my-eyeballs-out: Karl Malden's adorableness and Patton's aide Codman's-Paul Stevens's-resemblance to Scott Bakula). Early on, I enjoyed myself by seeing Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade in everything from the Nazi headquarters to tanks. This is how I survive while watching long movies about things I'm not interested in.

I guess I'm supposed to talk about George C. Scott's performance and how great it was. It was great. Really. I can see why it's ranked in great performances lists. And I love the anecdote about why he refused to accept his Oscar--the competition between actors being a "meat parade." Interesting dude, playing an interesting dude. But I have little interest in watching an interesting actor play an interesting asshole for three hours, interspersed with battle scenes. Not my thing.

Awesome editing and cool cinematography/art direction bring it up to a 7/10.

Patton (1970): Eitan's Take

I'm a huge fan of the Call of Duty series of video games; I think anyone who grew up with fighter jet posters on their walls and a lump in their throat every time they visited the Air and Space Museum finds themselves magnetically drawn to those first-person WWII epics. The one problem with Call of Duty 2, my favorite in the series, is that you have to play the North African campaign in order to beat the game. To those who skim the pages of history, the campaign in Tunisia remains something of a mystery. Why were we there? What did Hitler want from those sun-stroked deserts? If the whole campaign was basically fought with tanks, couldn't those resources have gone elsewhere? These questions, and the general grimness of the Tunisian desert, are the reasons why Patton is not as flawless a film as I remember it being. The real meat of the war was the majestic fights among snow-capped French trees and in the rolling hillsides of Belgium. We certainly can't change history and take the Africa story out of Patton's career, but the mundane slog of the first half of the film has failed to hold up over the years.

This is not to say that Patton is a disappointment or a bore. It's very far from that. And while it is perhaps one of the most straight-laced Best Picture winners ever -- it certainly lacks the colorful flamboyance and rhetorical flourishes of Lawrence of Arabia -- it is clearly a film as gritty, odd, tough, and passionate as its subject. General Patton was many things: a rebel, a genius, a raving psycho, a grandstander, a shameless self-promoter, a brave man with few hesitations. George C. Scott's thunderous, performance captures all that and more. He stomps through scenes, cackles, plots and speechifies, and generally acts like the brilliant wart on the US Army's butt that he really was. Comparing it to his performance as Gen. Buck Turgidson in Dr. Strangelove, it's hard not to feel like Scott was more or less typecast; then again, maybe this is the role he was always supposed to play. In Lawrence of Arabia, David Lean captures the simmering intellect and the proud weirdness of the poet warrior at the center of the story through outlandish visuals. Patton provides a daring look at the other grand creature of the desert, and it is the film's overall matter-of-factness (while still allowing Patton's lunatic humor to shine through) that shows us how and why this larger than life human being came about.

The second half of the film is undoubtedly better than the first. Moving to familiar territory -- I hate to be Euro-centric, but most of what I care about in WWII was the post-D-Day campaigns in Italy, France, and Germany -- the film picks up the pace and gives us a look at a man desperately trying to regain (or maybe gain for the first time) a sense of glory and power that his higher-ups took away from him. From his funny and warm speech at the Doughnut Club to powerful and evocative moments on the snow-filled battlefields of Bastogne, we get a glimpse of the kind of man Patton was when he was trying to prove something -- as opposed to the first half, when we get the man who thinks he's already proved everything. It's a more humanizing act in the story, and the beautiful cinematography and elegant pacing serve to highlight the robustness of Patton's one-of-a-kind personality within the context of the larger European war.

It's somewhat odd that the Academy picked this film, which is really not an anti-war film by any stretch of the imagination, for Best Picture during the waning days of the Vietnam War. Every other war film to win the award -- All Quiet on the Western Front, The Bridge on the River Kwai, The Deer Hunter, and Platoon -- is loaded to the brim with cynicism about the art and execution of battle, and yet this war-glorifying film came in the midst of the most hated military operation in our nation's history. It's just curious.

I always prefer films about soldiers to films about commanding officers. It's simply more interesting to watch the day to day struggles of "regular guys" than it is to watch grown men sit around a table and count the nameless, faceless casualties. But Patton is a powerful film that has always stuck with me and probably always will, regardless of the distance it keeps from the real horrors of the battlefield. I give it a 9/10.

Midnight Cowboy (1969): Eitan's Take

We're getting to the point where it's going to be very difficult to separate my own preexisting opinions and emotions about these films from the critical/cultural viewpoint I'm supposed to be lending in this project. Midnight Cowboy has been one of my favorite films since I was a teenager. In this small, strange package, I always felt there was an epic and intimate story about masculinity, sex, sadness, urban alienation, and surrogate families; my heart ached for it when I was younger, but seeing it tonight, my appreciation for this absolutely brilliant film only grew.

It doesn't even need to be said that Jon Voight and Dustin Hoffman turn in elegant, heartbreaking performances. Through the bleak storyline and dirty cityscape, their Joe Buck and Ratso Rizzo stand out as two of the most indelible, flawless portraits of wounded masculinity ever committed to celluloid. Director John Schlesinger, who never directed a better or more vital film, gives these two loners room to breathe. Their interactions -- always lying somewhere between painful and funny -- are written and filmed with grace and trust.

Roger Ebert has said that this is a good movie with a masterpiece inside, trying to break free. I've always viewed it the other way around; despite all its potential flaws (self-conscious 60's cinematography, gimmicky editing) it amounts to way more than the sum of its parts. What could have been a trite story about loneliness in the red light district is instead an atmospheric, heart-crushing study of the late-60's collision between idealism and the harsh light of depressing cultural truths. But we are rarely tempted to see Joe and Ratso as vessels of a cultural message (the way we see Virgil Tibbs and Bill Gillespie in In the Heat of the Night). Instead, they are the quintessential drifters, desperately shuffling through a world too grim and fast-paced for their tastes. In that sense, the movie is completely timeless -- they will always resemble the desolate fringes of any culture, anywhere, in any decade. It should be said, also, that the film deals with Joe Buck's queerness in a sophisticated and disarming way. I give the film a lot of credit for that.

This is one of the most important, inescapably haunting and brilliant films ever made, and I fully appreciate its broad influence on popular culture. But it is also a deeply personal film for me, and one I have definitely grown older with. 10/10.

Midnight Cowboy (1969): Shira's Take

This movie won Best Picture? Even for 1969, that's hard to believe. There is just absolutely nothing remotely glamorous or enjoyable to watch. It's painful throughout. From the first moment we know Joe Buck is going to ask a woman to pay him for sex through Rico "Ratso" Rizzo's illness, we the viewers are uncomfortable. But it's really good at that. This movie has the causing pain to its viewers thing down. And honestly, I'm glad I watched it. Though it was made immediately after Dustin Hoffman stopped being adorable (he was deliciously disgusting in this movie), it was also made before Jon Voight's skin began to melt off his face, and he was cute in his naive way. Of course, the ideas about loneliness and friendship were really interesting. And Hoffman really did give an unbelievable performance. I mean, I've seen the majority of his Oscar-nominated performances (all but 1974's Lenny) and this one blew the others away.

Various thoughts on things about the movie: The music was...well, I hate "Everybody's Talkin" so I suppose you know how I felt about the music. There were a number of rather obvious but still enjoyable symbolic camera shots--Rizzo's dead face with the reflection of the palm trees he wanted so desperately to experience comes to mind. The drug-induced hallucination scene was cheesy, but every movie to come out in 1968-1969 was obligated to have one scene that would be more enjoyable on LSD. A better/more depressing movie to come out in 1969 that wasn't even nominated for Best Picture is They Shoot Horses, Don't They? I'm still wondering whether the gay thing was an intended subtext or not. Anyway, it's an 8/10.

Oliver! (1968): Shira's Take

Oliver! True to its punctuation, this is a very big movie--are there any musicals that aren't? But, despite everything, it felt very slow and very long. Each song was about a minute-and-a-half longer that it needed to and had any right to be. And a number of the songs were totally unnecessary and awkward. With the way the movie was going, I kind of expected grumbly Bill Sikes to sing a, "I'm just a misunderstood miscreant..." type song. I definitely drifted in and out of paying attention to lyrics in many of the big numbers, like "Who Will Buy?" and "Consider Yourself." Though I definitely appreciated those songs as introductions to the yuckiness of 19th-century London and the shiny whiteness of the suburb.

All things considered, I did not hate this movie. I did not even dislike it. I appreciated Fagin's blatant Semitic stereotype and Bill Sikes's disturbing sexiness (thanks Oliver Reed for proving yet again that you can be simultaneously a drunken jerk and a beautiful, beautiful man). I liked the costumes, though I felt they were period-inappropriate, as many of the coats were late Victorian or even Edwardian, and Oliver Twist was written in the early-Victorian era. I was a big fan of how incredibly '60s everything was, especially the hair and camera angles/shots. There is one quick-zoom (I'm not sure the technical term), which immediately reminds the viewer that this movie was filmed in the late '60s. The acting was good. I really liked Jack Wild, who played the Artful Dodger. It was probably my favorite supporting role. His awesome bow-tie didn't hurt.

My own little notes...I love that we're watching these movies in order, because I can note that this is the second Best Picture winner (after It Happened One Night) to feature a sleeping-in-a-haystack scene. Fagin's look and attitude reminded me of Jim Carrey's portrayal of Count Olaf (Brett Helquist, illustrator for Lemony Snicket, probably drew inspiration from Dickensian fashion). Everything about this movie was like the poor man's James and the Giant Peach (the Henry Selick movie musical)--poor, pathetic orphan, dirty England, evil adults, and a great supporting cast. Mark Lester, who played Oliver, even had a similarly pathetic voice to the kid who plays James. 7/10

Oliver! (1968): Eitan's Take

I sometimes forget how dark and visionary the work of Charles Dickens can be. I read most of his great books (Great Expectations, Bleak House, David Copperfield) and loved them, but time has dulled them in my memory. Seeing Oliver tonight brought back a lot of recollections about the grim choreography of his greatest narratives. I've never read Oliver Twist, and before I saw this musical adaptation I was wary; would it be a trifling children's musical, along the lines of Mary Poppins? Would it be a bland British snoozefest a la Tom Jones? I was surprised and pleased to find out that it is neither. Oliver is a flawed musical, carried end to end by some cliche moments and quite few unmemorable songs, but aside from some basic quibbles with the narrative, I was enthralled with Carol Reed's insightful and bold handling of the story, as well as the guts it took to address what is essentially a children's story with such an unapologetically dark tone.

Carol Reed is the mastermind behind The Third Man, so I shouldn't have been surprised that this film was elegantly and inventively shot to the point of breathlessness. Some of the musical sequences, especially "Consider Yourself," are filmed with such agility, precision, and warmth, that I may very well consider them to be among the finest moments in cinematographic history. There are no iconic shots, per se (as opposed to the many such moments in The Third Man), but as with the best sequences in the great movie musicals we've watched -- the opening shots of The Sound of Music, the garage dance in West Side Story, basically all of An American in Paris -- the whole scene feels indelible from start to finish. Besides the obviousness of the period sets, there is absolutely nothing in the artistic design, costuming, camerawork, or choreography that feels the slightest bit contrived. The film has no manners. It is unconcerned with making us happy or delighting us with saccharine imagery. Each song and each dance reveals another layer of Dickens' story -- its bleakness, its whimsy, its sharp approach to the hideousness and beauty of crime, its unrelenting aura of violence and fear. Adapting Dickens' formal prose into a musical might seem like a daunting or ridiculous idea, but the fact that the film preserves the author's narrative ingenuity while translating it into a production so elaborately conceived and executed is a testament to the gamble it took for Reed to take on the project to begin with.

The performances are similarly refined, and no review of this film would be complete without a complete and utter appraisal of the dark, deranged performance of Oliver Reed. It might just be that he looks a lot like Javier Bardem, but I sensed a lot of Anton Chighurh in his portrayal of the vicious Bill Sikes. (Why was this rated G?) His absolutely terrifying eyes peering through the mail slot at Oliver, his jacket filled with crowbars, and those weapon-like muttonchops all account for something, but Oliver Reed's performance is way more than the sum of his parts. Of course, the character is written as a remorseless thug, but few actors other than the frightening-in-real-life Reed could have pulled off this brave and intense a performance.

Oliver is, quite simply, one of the two or three biggest surprises for me in this project so far. I dreaded it for a long time as the G-rated-gagfest that stood in the way of watching Midnight Cowboy. But having seen it, I can almost say that this is far darker, far more sophisticated, and far more deranged (you only need to see the shot of Sikes dangling, stone dead, over the Tim Burtonesque setpiece near the end of the film to believe me) than the X-rated, death-and-despair Best Picture winner that followed. The haunting retelling of a familiar story, the brilliant art design, the crisp and inventive late-60's cinematography, and the incendiary direction of Carol Reed earn this film a 9/10.

In the Heat of the Night (1967): Shira's Take

While "They call me MISTER Tibbs!" has clearly become the most quoted and memorable line in this movie, I must say that my favorite was when Gillespie (Rod Steiger) said, "I got the motive which is money and the body which is dead." Priceless.

For such a well-acted, well-written, well-shot, well-directed movie, In the Heat of the Night's plot was definitely lacking. I know it's based on a book, so I theoretically have no right to complain about the plot, but to me PLOT MAKES A MOVIE. And this movie's plot felt like a bad episode of Law and Order. The last twenty minutes or so are paced so poorly that I'm not totally sure I even understood them. It didn't help that all the tall, lanky yokel-y guys looked exactly alike, and I mistook part of the story for incest. And did they explain why the bit of fern or whatever the orchids grew in was in the car? You can tell by how inarticulate I am in writing about this movie that I didn't really follow what happened in it. And, I'm sorry, maybe if I had seen this in 1967 I would have liked it, but it can't compare to a later movie (that I had already seen) about heat waves and crazy racism--Spike Lee's Do the Right Thing.

I loved Sidney Poitier and Rod Steiger. I've always wondered about the fact that Steiger won an Oscar for this performance and Poitier wasn't even nominated. I think it's fair. Poitier was good, but Steiger was way better. Plus, the idiotic Guess Who's Coming to Dinner came out in '67 as well, and I think the two Poitier performances probably split the votes and he didn't end up nominated. The photography was awesome. 1967 was a year for good cinematography (with Bonnie and Clyde winning the Oscar). In the Heat of the Night wasn't even nominated, but it totally had that hip, funky New Hollywood vibe. 7/10

In the Heat of the Night (1967): Eitan's Take

Released in the thick of the Summer of Love, Norman Jewison's truly incendiary In the Heat of the Night is the first Best Picture winner we've seen that has felt really immediate, really visceral, and really contemporary. Its brilliant social critiques are obvious (or, at least they are now) and its central mystery is hardly worth blinking an eye at, but the atmosphere of the film -- Poitier's tough and intelligent performance, the classy jazz and blues score, and the crisp writing, to name just a few elements -- is soulful, rich, and thrilling. Nowadays, a hack like Paul Haggis could probably take the same material and turn it into a hodgepodge of liberal guilt-inducing malaise, but it's tough not to admire the risks this film took in 1967.

Of course, watching a slightly preachy detective film about a black man coming into a town of redneck racists and saving them from themselves (Blazing Saddles, anyone?) requires a bit of patience and some acquiescence to the shopworn cliches of both the film noir and the racial reconciliation drama. But as with so many great genre pics, it's easy to forget about the hamminess of this approach when the performances and the dialogue are so unforgettable. Poitier's performance is a brilliant melange of passionate anger, soul, grit, and jazzy coolness. Rod Steiger (pre-bald-creepiness) matches him note-for-note, imbuing what could have been a tacky caricature with just enough emotional depth and hurt to believe his willing partnership with a mostly despised black detective. We know that they'll eventually solve the crime, and a film this complex cannot rest on a simple, "Law and Order"-style investigative framework. At the same time, it cannot be content with only busting taboos and failing to provide an exciting story. That it manages to do nearly all these things at once, while remaining edgy and thrilling, is a great testament to the artists behind it.

It would be easy to criticize this film for being a simplistic, easily-digestible apologia for middle-class, white liberals to stand up and pat themselves on the back for enjoying. If I was more cynical, I might very dismiss it as that myself. But within this film's historical context -- it was released at the dawn of New Hollywood, and is the subject, along with the four other Best Picture nominees that year, of the supposedly excellent "Pictures at a Revolution" -- I refuse to write it off and ignore the new, edgy, ambitious cinematic aesthetic that it embodies. I certainly don't enjoy or even admire it as much as my two favorite 1967 Best Picture nominees, The Graduate and Bonnie & Clyde, but it was a worthy winner nonetheless. It's too bad that 2004's winner, Crash, took a similar set of narrative ideas and morphed it into an absurd after-school special.

8/10.

A Man for All Season (1966): Eitan's Take

Was Sir Thomas More a brilliant political dissident, or merely a valiant fool who waged a pointless fight against the King of England? Fred Zinnemann's fascinating, powerful film manages to address this question in a philosophical and complex way that More himself might have admired. The audience is never patronized or diminished by the proceedings; we are given complete credit as judges of Thomas More's conscience, and as arbiters of right and wrong in 16th century England. The film celebrates More's protest, but also allows for several interpretations: maybe More was just a cryptic and angry man, or perhaps he had a bizarre death wish. It is even possible to see him as a saint or a martyr. Most of all, Zinnemann lets More's unbelievable story breathe. It is a great credit to the director and playwright/screenwriter that they could capture the life of such a fascinating man.

Technically, the film is marvelous. The cinematography, especially, was rightly awarded an Oscar. rom the imaginative and fanciful shots of the British countryside to the dark interiors of More's jail cell in the Tower of London, Ted Moore captures the atmospheric essences of More's career -- the freedom of his early political and philosophical influence and the claustrophobia of his intellectually stifled years in prison. The set and production design is somewhat stagey, but it doesn't detract from the power of the story. And the dramatic pacing, executed flawlessly by Zinnemann, gives us a chance to evaluate the dark and unfortunate corners of every character.

Paul Scofield is impressive, of course, as the self-righteous/actually-righteous Thomas More, exposing all the virtues and neuroses of the great thinker. But leave it to Robert Shaw to steal the show... when his Henry VIII is on screen, puffing out his chest and bellowing about his right to a divorce, the whole film gains a few more horsepower. I wish he had more screen time; the film does drag at times, and we can always use more Captain Quinn to lighten things up.

I was thinking when I saw Revolutionary Road last week that the lives of these characters would be better if they just got a divorce. Of course, the same goes for A Man for All Seasons -- sometimes, you do just want to scream at the screen, "JUST LET YOUR OBNOXIOUS KING DITCH HIS UNLAWFUL WIFE, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE." But this film, which allows us to admire More as much as we question him, gives us the full dimensions of a political and religious conscience, and allows us to understand the steadfast philosophical roots of all who dare to oppose their governments. It is a film I admire more than I enjoyed, though, and it earns an 8/10

A Man for All Seasons (1966): Shira's Take

What do I say about a movie like this? I feel like I shouldn't be allowed to watch them, because I'm about 70% incapable of liking them. Slow, consistently paced, grim in plot. Watching Paul Scofield's performance (which, despite what I'm about to say, I thought was really powerful and great) was painful. He has a completely blank affect the WHOLE movie. In these small play-like movies (of course, this one IS a play), it's difficult to notice anything but the plot and characters. The characters and plot were both interesting, but I already knew the bulk of this story.

Maybe I should talk positives. The screenplay was really flawless. I wish I had taken notes, so I could give examples, but it was teeming with subtle moments of great character development and plot progression. The acting was awesome. As I said, I loved/hated Paul Scofield. Other notables included the crazy Robert Shaw as Henry VIII and Leo McKern as the endlessly evil Thomas Cromwell (side note: though I know it's a different Cromwell, I couldn't help getting the Pyrates Royale's version of Young Ned of the Hill in my head any time his name was mentioned). It's just that slow Renaissance-era period films are not usually my thing. 7/10

The Sound of Music (1965): Shira's Take

I think it's around now that we're getting to movies for which I really don't have much to say. I mean, I've seen the Sound of Music, and everyone else has too. What can be said about it that hasn't yet been said?

The photography/cinematography is great. Clearly, the Austrian and Bavarian filming locations help, but even the indoor scenes (probably shot in a Hollywood studio) are beautiful. In every way My Fair Lady is shot like a musical play, the Sound of Music is shot like a film. I can't imagine seeing the play version, when the sets could not possibly compare. And, of course, the songs are great. Unlike Audrey Hepburn, Julie Andrews actually COULD and DID sing, and her voice is much more memorable and melty than Marni Nixon's dubbing in My Fair Lady (though, interestingly enough, Marni Nixon played a bit part as one of the nuns in the Sound of Music as well). The characters are great, the story is great, etc.

But the main problem with this film is its sudden tone shift with little development. Though the Baroness and the Captain (Christopher Plummer) seemed to be genuinely in love, and the Captain and Tennille--oops, Maria--seemed to have a compatible, friendly, platonic relationship, suddenly the Captain was in love with Maria out of nowhere. Dancing together once does not add up to love. And what's with this, "I loved you when you blew the whistle," and all that crap? I'm sorry, it's just NOT true to the viewer. The intermission has ended, and there is not a lot of time left in which to suddenly cram in a mutual love declaration and wedding, a singing performance, AND the Anschluss. So they take a sequel's worth of plot and fit it into half an hour. Pacing suffers, and the end product suffers. Either way, it's a 9/10.

The Sound of Music (1965): Eitan's Take

One of my major problems with all the hubbub surrounding bland underdog films like Slumdog Millionaire is that critics (and, eventually, audiences) project onto the film an affect of feel-good triumph that isn't really there. I wasn't standing in the aisle cheering at the end of Little Miss Sunshine; I was looking down at the floor wondering if I had any popcorn left. When you compare these modern day "triumph of the human spirit" films to something like, say, The Sound of Music, it's sort of like listening to a MIDI version of Shostakovich's Piano Concerto No. 2 and then going the next day and seeing it performed by the London Philharmonic. The Sound of Music is the king (or is it queen?) of all feel-good movies; this is a once-in-a-millennium explosion of pure exuberance. Other films need not apply.

Although the film's first half is undoubtedly its strongest -- with its swooping crane shots, vivid and imaginative cinematography and choreography, and lump-in-your-throat-it's-so-heartbreakingly-beautiful music -- I was pleasantly surprised with how well the second half holds up, and how the dark and complicated themes of Nazi oppression were dealt with more intellectually and artfully than I had remembered. Pauline Kael once commented about how saccharine and embarrassing this film was; on the contrary, I think it's actually a very serious film about how art can defeat fascism, and how finding one's creative outlet gives the soul wings, so to speak. Julie Andrews wanted to be Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady, but this is by far the better role for her. Running through lush fields, bursting into song, her red bob bouncing up and down, she is the very definition of joie de vivre, something that she could never have shown in the frumpy->angry->elegant->stilted Doolittle role.

One thing that also separates this film from the rest of the pack is the way it truly makes use of the on-location shooting to really leap off the stage. My Fair Lady is hampered only by its staginess, but Robert Wise allows his camera to charge energetically through the scenery, capturing the timeless beauty of the Alps like no one ever will again, as well as the stately Bavarian architecture of the von Trapp mansion and surrounding Salzburg. With the exception of the abbey, nothing here looks like a set--it is all so beautiful that you just want to cry, and sing, and cry some more. You try watching Christopher Plummer singing Edelweiss that first time (when he looks sort of like Johnny Cash) and not having to wipe tears from your eyes.

Maybe this film only exists to prove how much of a sucker I really am. Well, try and make me care. 10/10. Glorious. Perfect.

Props to my mom for making a themed dinner for our viewing party. She actually -- I kid you not -- prepared warm apple strudel and schnitzel with noodles. Unbelievable.

My Fair Lady (1964): Shira's Take

I think this is the first time I've watched a best picture winner in the context of this project and disagreed with my former opinion. I had ranked this movie from the hundreds of times I'd seen it in the past 5 stars, the equivalent of 10/10, on Flixter. My opinion is slightly changed.

Audrey Hepburn and Rex Harrison have absolutely some of my favorite onscreen chemistry ever. They have a Benedick and Beatrice thing going on. I'm not saying that Eliza ultimately should have returned to the ungrateful, obnoxious Henry. I'm just saying I like how much they hate each other, and I like how much they secretly love each other. Another positive--subtle, interesting choreography (my favorite being in the horse races scene). This pairs with wide, swooping photography to make for a big, beautiful musical film. The costumes (designed by Cecil Beaton, who also did fabulous costumes for the otherwise awful Gigi) are astonishing. I mentioned to Eitan at one point: "If I owned ANY dress in this entire movie, I would wear it every day for the rest of my life." And since we're talking musical here, I have to mention the songs. Every single song is a hit. Not all songs are necessary in terms of plot ("Get Me to the Church on Time", "I'm an Ordinary Man", etc.), but they are all catchy and enjoyable with great lyrics.

Now to get to why I've changed my rating of this movie since the last time I saw it. There are extremely boring patches, and they really should have been edited out. I'm sorry, but this movie could be 2.5 hours long and not lose ANYTHING. The story drags right in the beginning (before Eliza goes to Henry's house), in slight patches throughout, and especially after the ball scene. It seems that many scenes could be shortened by about a minute or two, as well. But it definitely has to be said that I really appreciate the ending. It is an intriguing ending for a love story, and I actually think it had a lot of influence on the less conventional films of the late 60's and early 70's (The Graduate, for one, in its uncertain ending). All we know is that Eliza and Henry care about each other and embrace each other's obnoxious habits, based on Eliza's smiling at Henry's rudeness. I doubt that the filmmakers intended to imply that Eliza and Henry would get married. Indeed, I think they and the Colonel would end up three bachelors, as Henry hypothesized. Charming, and interesting. 9/10

My Fair Lady (1964): Eitan's Take

I had forgotten how damned annoying Audrey Hepburn is for the first 45 minutes of My Fair Lady. Stomping, shrieking, growling, and yelping, she almost threatens to derail the entirely gorgeous affair. The fact that this film is, in spite of that early performance, so utterly charming, fulfilling, and likable is a testament to the working-overtime magnificence of it all. The shimmering costume design and orchestration, the soulful performance by Rex Harrison, and the meticulous design and direction make for a really wonderful affair. Technically, the film is a complete masterpiece; one only needs to watch the truly awesome "day at the races" sequence to get a feel for how much director George Cukor cares about every detail of the production. It's certainly the best musical about linguistics ever made.

I know that the film is an adaptation of a musical, which in turn was an adaptation of George Bernard Shaw's Pygmalion, so I can't exactly comment on the film's plot and content -- almost none of it is original. But I noticed some things tonight that I had never paid attention to before. First, coming just a few years after West Side Story (which, as you may recall, I pooh-poohed with glee), it's truly great to watch a musical that has deeply flawed and complicated characters. The relationship between Higgins and Doolittle starts as you might expect, and we watch with admiration as the eloquent but abrasive professor works wonders on the dirty street scoundrel. But over time, as Higgins' true nature (possessive as all hell, putting the "My" in "My Fair Lady") emerges, the film takes on rather tragic tones, as complex personalities collide. The simplicity of the subplots (Freddy's voyeurism, Eliza's father's tongue-in-cheek transformation) serves as a contrast to the epic clash between Eliza's growing sense of maturity and independence and Higgins' overpowering chauvinism and control-freak approach. When the film aims for some proto-feminist themes, it comes off slightly awkward, but more often than not we get what social ideas are at stake in Eliza's makeover.

One more thing: despite some truly inventive artistic direction, there are many parts of this film that simply do not escape their roots on the stage. For example, "gritty" downtown London is a victim of preposterous design. Tom Jones was a bleak and muddy affair, but at least its peasant London actually looked dirty.

I saw My Fair Lady for the last time nearly half my life ago, and it remains a stunning, unusually complicated piece of work. It's not my favorite musical to ever win Best Picture (Chicago, of course...) but it comes close. I remembered it being a 10-level masterpiece, but my early anger with Hepburn's screechy, ear-splitting performance brought it down to -- gasp! -- a 9. Lovely film.