10

More taggery via Minge, this time in regard to my favorite films. Instead of the 20 films he did, I've chosen just the top 10; this list can change from day to day, so this list should be not thought of as in any way definitive. I also had a lot of trouble putting the films in order, so I chose the arbitrary alphabetic order. I also tried to avoid using the same directors over and over, in favor of casting a wider net.

All About My Mother. Nuns. Transexuals. Performance art. Hookers. Lesbians. Drugs. Birth. Death. Acting. AIDS. Hope. The most complex and ambitious expression of Almodovar's melodramatic aesthetic, weaving the influences of mid-century Hollywood directors like Douglas Sirk (see below) into something modern and monumental and wholly his own. This followed a long period of critical neglect for Almodovar, and a full recovery from something of an artistic slump for him that persisted throughout the 1990s. I think the surprise of finding a film of his so entertaining and thoughtful helped resuscitate his career internationally. He has yet to disappoint us by making another Kika. Plus, this was the first time I wondered if Penelope Cruz might actually be a decent actress. Who knew? Evidently, the Spanish. They never cease to amaze.

An American in Paris. So many people claim to prefer Singin' In The Rain to this movie, but I always thought that one didn't flow particularly well, and I prefer the studio-bound evocation of Paris that you get in this film, particularly during the much-derided ballet section. Plus, y'know, Oscar Levant, so bonus.

This is the movie (well, this and The Pirate) that made me fall in love with Gene Kelly: his muscular acrobatics seemed the perfect expression of a certain post-war restlessness, just as Fred Astaire embodied the fantasies of ease and affluence for Depression-era audiences. Plus, I just love Vincent Minnelli's musicals. (It was either this one, or Meet Me in St. Louis, but this movie flows a little smoother for me.)

Fight Club. My inner straight guy digs this movie. I think my inner straight guy might have the hots for Helena Bonham Carter. My outer gay guy has the hots for Edward Norton, so everyone is happy! Plus, any movie that includes a talking penguin...

Only dark spot: Meatloaf's tits. Ick. But at least he's not singing.

Hairspray. Yes, I'm a poseur. But in terms of sheer entertainment, this is the John Waters movie that does it for me. It balances precariously between earnestness and irony. It is clearly a subject that means something to Waters: he wrote about the model for the fictional dance show in Crackpot, and it evidently stuck with him. The colors are pretty, the performances are perfect, the hair is elaborate, the cameos are just right, and the music is great. And it was Divine's last film.

The Heiress. This movie is on the list solely for the performance of Olivia de Havilland. The moment her performance changes -- and it does take just a moment -- from the naive optimism of the beginning of the film, to one filled with by bitterness and lost opportunity -- is one of the most chilling moments in movie history. It is made even more chilling by the fact that you can't even see her face when that moment occurs, and that the change is clear only by the tone of her voice. This, then, is acting at its most sublime and elemental. And anyone who has ever been burned, who has ended up chiding themselves for the stupid decision they made by making themselves emotionally vulnerable to someone who ended up betraying them, will be touched by the ending, one that manages to be both tragic and triumphant.

Letter From An Unknown Woman. Evidently I love weepies. They don't get much more weep-tastic than this. Ophuls' continental melodrama is witty and maudlin, and occasionally you get the urge to grab Joan Fontaine and shake her until she gets over it. But you know she won't, you know that this fatalistic scenario can only be resolved one way. And even with foreknowledge, I still always cry. As above, RE: the tragic and triumphant. A classy, elegant melodrama.

Orpheus. Ah, the inscrutable French. The post-war landscape adds to a sense of desolation in Jean Cocteau's retelling of the Orpheus myth. As with Beauty & the Beast, this movie is chock full of surreal images that linger in your memory long after you've seen the movie -- the emissaries of death, for instance, uniformed and astride their motorcycles, seeming not unlike Nazi predators, prowling the countryside. Unlike the earlier movie, the story isn't particularly escapist. It's brutal and depressing and so gorgeous. Much like the eponymous hero, as portrayed by Jean Marais.

Run Lola Run. The film itself is so packed full of action that you don't even get a chance to consider the themes that underlie it all until you've left the theater. Stuff about the nature of reality, the nature of cause and effect, why techno music is the best music to use when you're cleaning the house. It's a smart film that isn't particularly interested in convincing you of how smart it is, it just does what it does, and you fill in the gaps. You get out of it whatever you're willing to put in, and I love that. Plus, the image of a red-haired Franka Potente running through the streets of Berlin have become sort of iconic.

Shaun of the Dead. It makes with teh funny. I don't tend to be a zombie-movie fan -- or, in fact, a fan of much of what passes for horror movies in the past 30 years -- but I love this one. Partly because it can be viewed as a gory metaphor for growing up, for taking responsibility for your own life, your own happiness, and those that you care about. The passing away (in this case, literally) of former things, and making a life for yourself, unencumbered by the past. Plus, there's a happy ending, something you don't often see in your run-of-the-mill zombie flicks.

Written on the Wind. Let's see: it inspired Dallas. It features Rock Hudson at his dead sexiest. Oil drills simulate sex throughout the Texas landscape. Russell Metty's beautiful lighting, which does not correspond to any light that occurs outside of a Hollywood studio. Dorothy Malone kills her father with a masturbatory dance to the frenetic strains of "Temptation". Gorgeous Technicolor. The fact that the protagonists are cyphers, and the antagonists are the ones you want to triumph. And check out this dialogue:

Kyle Hadley: "You filthy liar!"
Marianne Hadley: "I'm filthy -- PERIOD!"

Dude, this movie is genius, my favorite piece of camp, ever. And yet, every time I see it, I end up crying be the end. In spite of the irony, which Douglas Sirk always insisted was intentional, it still touches something in me, and that's why I love it. It's why I always name this, when asked to name my favorite film. Which then explains the look of confusion from whomever asked me in the first place.