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(I was saving this for a later date, but since you’ve been so patient with the delays, Dear Reader, I thought you should have it now).

The difference between liking movies and loving them may well be a matter of scenes. Most people I know who “like” movies take them fairly seriously, since filmed entertainment is possibly the dominant art form in our culture. But people who love movies, and I like to think I am one of them, always want to show you scenes. We can be terrible to watch a movie with, we’ll start whispering, “Here comes a great scene, watch this scene” or “That was the best scene EVER, wasn’t it amazing?”

I think this is because an adoration of cinema develops when you begin to break down the components and see how they tick, and it’s so much easier to do this within a more isolated moment. Two hours of moving images and sound is overwhelming, it’s very difficult to get highly analytical without taking a tremendous amount of time. Scenes are the building blocks of movies, and all of their little textures comprise the depths of a film’s personality.

So with that in mind, and fully aware that many of you might clock out, allow me to go all geek on you and reveal some of my favorite scenes:

1. I love the little son of a b___!—The Shining

I have watched this scene so. Many. Times. It’s one of the most hypnotic things ever committed to 35 mm. The setup is simple: Jack Torrence, a beleaguered recovering alcoholic, wanders through a haunted hotel until he finds himself at a dry bar. In a moment of weakness, he confesses a desire to slip into his old habits, and then…well…just watch the scene. Don’t read the comments below until you do!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ED3rw-21upw

Is Lloyd real? Is Jack really drinking something? We can’t know, and the more I watch the scene, the more I wonder how much it even matters. The emotional journey of this scene is real. Jack begins in a state of terrible anger, an exhaustion with the harsh reality of sober life, and this is expressed to the audience through a piercing, nearly unbearable score (0:28). This awful, shrill noise lets us know what it’s like for our protagonist to live his life without the smooth embrace of alcohol. Now notice what he says here (1:16): “I would give anything for a drink. I’d give my ___damned soul for a glass of beer.” What occurs next is not a coincidence; it would seem that Jack’s advertisement has enticed an interested party.

The way he licks his lips (1:31) makes me feel parched every time, you can almost taste the dryness in his mouth. Now here’s a piece of really superb film making accomplished by breaking rules: notice that Jack acknowledges a presence in front of him (1:38) soon after, but the camera…holds. This is unbearably jarring, anyone who has seen a movie in their life knows that a cut to whatever he’s looking at should come next, but Kubrick drags it out for 20 awful seconds, the audience getting more and more spooked all the time. What is he looking at? When we finally see it, the image drops like a sledgehammer (1:52). The bartender is looking at him with hungry eyes, like a predator’s. Notice that he never blinks once.

Now what this scene is really about, aside from all the technical genius and Nicholson’s incredible performance, is addiction. It’s about the sweetness of compulsion, of how incredibly good it feels to give in and let go. Look at the relish with which Jack describes his order (2:21), and notice how lovingly the sound design crafts the tiniest shift of the ice cubes in his glass. Meanwhile, the audience gets more and more frightened, because we know things Jack does not: that this hotel is haunted, that the spirits here are evil, that Jack is alone in this room. Therefore the scene accomplishes one thing by doing another: by making addiction seem so wonderful, it draws out how horrible it is.

There is so much I don’t have time to get into: why does Jack think he has money in his wallet, but doesn’t? Where does Lloyd come from? I don’t think, as many assume, that Lloyd was a bartender at the Overlook. The dialogue suggests that he was a personal favorite of Jack’s back home, so the hotel chooses his appea…see, there I go again. The point is, this scene is so intoxicating because it has so many levels. The acting is not natural, nor does it intend to be. Instead, we are watching something like a ballet, an exaggerated dramatic performance, and by pushing these notes to extremes we can examine even the tiniest details of the moment in focus. Absolutely classic scene.

2. Any of you boys smithees?—O Brother, Where Art Thou?

By no means a scene of the same complexity, but I think it’s notable for being so gut-bustingly hilarious that it continues to make me laugh. Really lasting cinematic humor is normally built around jokes that aren’t spoiled by knowing what will happen next.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dkBArqISsJo

The comedy here is built on waiting for the pin to drop. Clooney’s Everett manages to struggle onto the train, but we know he is chained to two other inmates. Now Everett immediately begins running his mouth, and since this is more or less the opening scene of the film, the Coens are cluing us in to the silver-tongued absent-mindedness of their character. Meanwhile, the framing stays low until (0:42), which pulls back into a surprisingly high shot. This is significant because it’s very far from the point of view of his audience, which would seem to be the obvious coverage. Instead, the Coens opt for a wide-angle that distorts and shrinks Clooney, making him look goofier and smaller.

And the pin still hasn’t dropped. We know that Everett should be helping his companions, and even though Tim Blake Nelson’s Delmar seems to be making it, we still have one more to go. (0:45) Oh! There it goes, the pin is falling, but it hasn’t quite landed yet. For about three seconds, Everett keeps rambling off while the situation grows more and more dire behind him until WHAM (0:48).

The reason this scene is funny is the echo. Everett talks so fast, and with such flippancy, that when circumstances put an unexpected period on his speech, his dialogue bounces around in our minds a few extra times, and its absurdity increases dramatically. I’m not sure why the human mind does this, but when something is cut off suddenly like that, we tend to review what we just heard automatically, trying to see if there was a causal relationship between the words and their sudden termination. There’s also a vague sense that Everett is on the business end of divine intervention: he’s being struck upside the head by fate for being a moron, in perfect timing with his stupid behavior. The construction of the words he says right before getting yanked is as important as the timing of when it occurs: “Or, if not smithees per se, were you otherwise trained in the metalurgic arts before straightened circumstances forced you into a life of aimless wandering—” WHAM and then he’s off.

It just gets funnier each time.

3. All shapes and sizes, Vincent—Pulp Fiction

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a7u832uSmvk

This one is strictly for the dialogue, and it’s very self-explanatory, so I’ll just let you watch it. The real meat of the scene doesn’t kick in until (1:30), the banter about pigs is pretty throwaway, but once the real discussion gets going, it’s some of sharpest dialogue ever constructed. Pretty much everything Jules says about what miracles are and how they affect you is dead-on. And, since it’s Tarantino, you have to love that his version of spirituality is equatable to the show “Kung Fu.”

4. Why didn’t you shoot her?—Ronin

The greatest car chase EVER. It’s not up for debate in my opinion. Most people cite “The French Connection” and “Bullitt,” both of which are masterpieces to be sure, but when you put aside sentimentality, “Ronin” has them beat. You just can’t touch this thing. There are two main chases in the flick, but this one, occurring near the end of the film, is a little better.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ITS5GkkqgEQ

The trick to a great car chase is to pour a tremendous amount of money and time into actually doing it. Even with modern special effects, you cannot replicate the sensation of speed created by taking real cars up to and past 100 MPH, which they absolutely did here. Studio bosses, of course, would just as soon do everything green-screen and CGI, which is why a pure-blood beast like this one is such a treasure. Director John Frankenheimer needed a car chase, so he went out and drove some cars really fast. It’s that simple. Even more special, the stunt drivers often had the actors in the cars with them, in order to get convincing “look at Robert DeNiro drive” photography. It absolutely works, not only because you see scenery whizzing by behind him, but because he genuinely appears on the edge of his seat. The sound is also key: for most of the chase, there is no music, and the roaring engines in the mix are the actual motors of the cars you’re looking at. Everything screams authenticity, as well it should, since Frankenheimer is a former race car driver.

There are too many golden moments to mention. (2:56) is the single most incredible piece of driving mastery I’ve ever seen on film. The insane darting between traffic at (3:21). The unbelievable hand-brake turn at (4:01). The headlong dive into oncoming traffic at (4:57), and then again but twice as difficult at (6:00). Check out the aerial shot at (6:22) which is basically intended to inform you: “Yes, we really did it.” Apparently, there were over 300 stunt drivers involved in that single shot. The weaving ballet of cars at (6:27). The hits just keep coming, until the spectacular finale, where Bod DeNiro and Jean Renot end up feeling strangely like the bad guys (7:58). As they loiter above the wreckage, firing rounds at their hapless victims while heroic construction workers come to save them, a funny moment of self-awareness occurs. It’s not a particularly heroic conclusion.

But it IS one heroic chase. Man oh man, it does not get better than that. The sad thing is that I’m limiting myself to one scene per movie, because there are so many others from this unheralded masterpiece: the agonizing surgery scene, the discussion of the 47 Ronin, the hits just keep coming. If you have not seen “Ronin,” SHAME on you!

5. A Rather Interesting Coincidence—Harvey

In the whole history of cinema, there has rarely been a film as magical as “Harvey.” Its charming yet sophisticated tale of a grown man with a six-foot tall invisible rabbit for a best friend, “Harvey” is filled to the brim with big laughs, big heart, and just the right tinge of mystery. This particular scene occurs when a young psychiatrist and his assistant track Jimmy Stewart’s Elwood Dowd down, convinced he is loopy and in need of internment at their asylum. Dowd, completely unaware of any foul intentions because of his warm disposition towards all of humanity, entertains them as close friends, and soon they are engaged in a discussion of his tremendous, two-eared friend.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VfCZ6Q2iq1I&feature=related

Now on very simple level, this scene is just mesmerizing. Stewart’s voice is so soothing it almost rocks you to sleep, and the muffled sound of music playing in the bar next to them creates a wonderful night time ambiance. On those levels alone, the piece would work, but a careful observer may notice some extra dimensions. Consider the disparity, for example, between what Elwood tells you and what is most likely true: Dowd explains that he introduces random people at the bar to Harvey, and that few of these same folks ever come back (1:20). He is certain that this is because of “envy,” but we know in the back of our minds that Elwood’s new friends probably come to the conclusion that he is insane, and thus stay away. And of course, this sweet but oblivious gentleman seems to be under the impression that the rabbit’s name “just happens to be Harvey,” when the listener quickly decides that the pooka (that’s what the rabbit apparently is) named himself on the spot (3:34). So now we see that as we watch this magical scene, our minds are processing things on two levels: firstly, the way Elwood perceives them, and secondly the way that we do.

Now here’s the real genius of the scene: you may think that Dr. Sanderson and Ms. Kelly are just window dressing, people for our hero to ruminate to, but in fact they are just as important to the scene’s success. We have already established that everything Elwood says works on two levels, so it must not be considered a coincidence that he has two listeners. Sanderson, the more analytical and dispassionate one, represents our understanding of Elwood’s delusion, of the cold facts sitting behind the myth. Kelly, a much more emotional human being, signifies how profoundly wise this man is in spite of his misconceptions, and how illuminating his way of living is. If you look at their performances, you can see that they are both involved in what’s going on, but in different ways: Sanderson is studying, thinking, considering, while Kelly is submerging into the moment, being changed by it. The script does this because it knows that the audience is experiencing both of these emotions, and giving us a vehicle for them on-screen makes the scene more effective.

Also consider the subtext of this scene: what kind of man spends literally all of his days in a bar (0:13)? Dowd is almost inevitably an alcoholic, which would keep with the film’s later assertion that the titular spirit is fond of drunkards. Because “Harvey” is such a class act, the flick resists the temptation to spell this out too loudly, but it adds a layer of grit and reality that makes the character more real. Elwood is such a wonderful, compassionate human being that he needs a real shortcoming, something that keeps his character human.

I also must point out one of the most wonderful little gems of humor I’ve ever witnessed in a film. Go to (2:38), and watch Elwood’s description of his meeting Harvey for the first time. He says “I heard a voice behind me saying, ‘Good evening Mr. Dowd.’ Well I turned around and here was this big six-foot rabbit leaning up against the lamp post. Well I thought nothing of that because when you’ve lived in a town as long as I’ve lived in this one, you get used to the fact that everyone knows your name.” The audience is sure that Dowd is going to finally confess how odd the company he keeps his, but instead he ruminates on the fact that Harvey knew who he was. It’s such a slight joke that most people (myself included) totally miss it, but what an incredibly deft little moment. Also, Elwood notes that he had just put Ed Hickey in a cab because he had been “mixing his rye with his gin.” I find it supremely unlikely that Dowd had not also been doing the same thing.

The key to this scene is perception: Elwood sees the world one way, everyone else another. But in this back alley for one hushed moment, the doctor and the nurse (and by proxy us) are forced to see the wonder and magic of Dowd’s world, and to consider that while his stories may or may not have the air of fact, they are still incredibly true. The movie seems to quietly suggest that Harvey is actually real, and that’s all well and good, but even if he is, the real illusion in Elwood’s life is his inability to see his drinking problem. Elwood Dowd should be little more than an average drunkard, but his kindness and compassion towards all people makes him the most mysterious and profound of human beings. This whispered piece of movie magic is about the power of selfless love for your neighbor, and how it transforms the world around you.

6. Even to a guy like me that’s cold—The Dark Knight

You knew it had to be here, Dear Reader. We both knew. The verbal showdown to end all verbal showdowns. The Dark Knight, only a year or two into his campaign, comes up against a foe who equals his determination, his drive, and his ability. This is probably the most frightening moment in Batman’s life, sitting in an interrogation room across from a man who wants to dissect him like a frog in biology class.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5C0_jDBxJ8w

Much has been said about this scene, but what it really amounts to is an argument over human nature. On the one hand, of course, is Batman, who hides his desperate optimism towards the human race with an angry facade. Bruce can growl and sneer all he likes, but fundamentally his crusade is built on the belief that his example will inspire people. He also believes in order, rules, you might say he’s a dogmatic man. And then we have the Clown Prince of Crime in this corner, who advocates chaos. It’s not a mindless decision, either, the Joker quite accurately observes that the rules of society are promptly abandoned when inconvenient (1:23). Therefore, in his eyes, the more you order peoples’ lives, the more you build unfairness and hypocrisy into the foundations.

So two freaks sit in a room and dish it out, arguing over the true nature of the people cowering in the next room (0:19). The difference between them, and the reason that the Joker comes out ahead of Batman in this particular encounter, is that the former is more self-aware. The Dark Knight deludes himself, trying to keep one foot in the door of normalcy, but his enemy wisely reminds him: “Don’t talk like one of them, you’re not…even if you’d like to be (1:04).” For the Joker, Batman is the only other person living anywhere near his world, he can actually relate to him, and you can sense his frustration with the Caped Crusader’s stubborn insistence on justifying himself by “their” standards.

This is also an interesting moment in that it could not have happened on “Batman: The Animated Series” or in a lot of the comics, because we’re dealing with such a young Dark Knight, maybe the youngest ever (excepting “Begins” of course). He’s been Batman for a little while, but his enemies have thus far been flabbergasted at his very existence. Now comes a man who stands eye to eye with him, and our hero is just not mature enough to handle it. A particularly chilling moment happens at (2:33), when Batman blocks the door with a chair as Gordon tries desperately to stop the interrogation. This is such a brave thing to put into a summer blockbuster, and it’s so spooky because it makes sense for the character. The Dark Knight is exactly that, he’s dark, and the fact that he exorcises it through righteous means cannot always save him from himself. How far is he willing to go?

No one can deny that Batman loses this fight, and so does Gordon. In that sense, this scene is intensely pessimistic, because we watch our bravest and strongest heroes torn down. By the end of the film, however, Bruce will have come to understand how true the Joker’s statement was: “You have nothing to threaten me with. Nothing to do with all your strength (3:03).” He will accept that men like this cannot be handled with violence, that the only way to defeat the Joker is psychologically. At the climax of the film, it is the citizens of Gotham who stand up to this madman, who decide they will not turn on one another even in the face of death. I think that’s an incredibly relevant, important message in today’s world.

7. Some day, and that day may never come, I’ll call on you to perform a service for me—The Godfather

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5_RcT9qCCFo

God help you if you haven’t seen this one. I’ve definitely noticed in myself a fondness for seductive, hushed dialogue scenes, where characters say more to each other than just their lines (see 1, 5 and 6). Although there is a deep reservoir of emotional and psychological insight in this scene, I think I’ll focus a little more on the composition and technical elements.

The lighting on display here is the stuff of legend, because it’s so daring. Even for the 1970s, a period when fresh and exciting new ideas were overflowing at the theater, the smokey atmosphere that cinematographer Gordon Willis established is breathtaking. Notice how they’re unafraid to let the key players have shadows on their faces, even when they’re speaking. There is very little textbook method to this scene, it’s all gut and intuition, and the payoff for such a daring attitude is how real the moment seems. It’s one of the very few sequences that creates profound ambiance, even with the sound turned off. It’s an incredibly dark scene, I think a lot of DPs would have told you it was too dark if they had been on set. And since these were the days before non-linear editing or quick turnaround prints, Coppola took quite a risk with so little light.

The framing is wonderfully effective, mostly because it stays out of the way. There are no glamorous shots, the whole thing is meant to be silky smooth and invisible. We are watching the titular Godfather ensnare this bereaved man, and it would be a costly mistake to yank us out by composing in a loud, obnoxious way. I think that’s why this movie has so many iconic moments: Coppola simply allowed them to happen.

I’m also a big fan of that cat in Brando’s hands. It wasn’t a scripted thing, Marlon discovered it hanging around the set and incorporated it into the scene, but it’s hard for me to imagine this moment without it. The little furball is utterly seduced by Corleone, writhing happily in his massive hands, and there’s a vague feeling that this man controls everyone in the room much the same way. He could enforce ruthlessly, and maybe he does sometimes, but giving people exactly what they want is a far more dangerous weapon.

8. All those who are blood type AB, raise your hand—Oldboy

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4CKxDMOF4EI

By no means a film for everyone, “Oldboy” is violent, grotesque and harrowing. The difference is, its monstrosity is more akin to classical tragedies like “Oedipus Rex” than the splatter flicks that came and went in popularity a few years ago. There are plenty of people reading this blog who should never even get within a mile of this movie, and having only seen it once I’m not sure I’ve made up my mind on its ethics, but the craft involved in its construction is undeniable.

This sequence has fast become one of the most legendary fight scenes in film history, and with good reason. In an age where most hand-to-hand combat is shot in extreme close-ups then edited to the point of utter confusion, “Oldboy” covers the whole fight with a single wide angle shot, which runs unbroken for three minutes. On top of this, our vengeful protagonist dispatches at least a baker’s dozen cronies by himself. Using only a hammer.

Sure, scenes where one guy takes out an army are common, but not like this. Usually, the good guy stands in the middle, and his opponents take turns stepping into a politely timed roundhouse kick. All the while, we know it isn’t real, but we sort of play along for the hell of it. This fight is a mob scene, the entire group descends on their prey at once. As the conflict unfolds, we realize that the unbroken take is far from a gimmick: the director knows we would be content to suspend disbelief, but he is not content with that. He wants us to believe it could actually be done, maybe even by you and I. It would be clumsy, sweaty and unpleasant, but certainly possible…so long as you wanted it bad enough. I think this is an overarching theme in “Oldboy:” people are capable of almost anything, it’s simply a matter of how motivated they are.

I also love the humorous note that ends the scene. Priceless.

9. Chow Yun Fat versus everyone in the world…Chow wins—Hard Boiled

It shouldn’t be legal to make a gunfight this awesome.

10. Oh Danny Boy—Miller’s Crossing

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_IEet3GLWzs

Watch it first, without me telling you anything.

Did you watch it? Admit it, you didn’t think that was how it was going to play out. You’d have been even more surprised if you’d seen it in the context of the whole film. Hoo boy.

It starts off like so many hit scenes in so many gangster flicks: the ailing veteran, relaxing at home, unaware that the young turks are coming to put him down. They draw nearer. We have flashbacks of the fruit stand scene in “The Godfather.” They burst into the room, ready to draw blood.

And then we remember that this is a Coen Brothers film, and these boys don’t play by the rules. Using quick tactical thinking and years of resolve-building experience, the old mafia kingpin (as played by the great Albert Finney) sort of…how do I put this…”pwns.” That may be the only word that can describe it. He even blows up the getaway car as its fleeing the scene. In his place, I’d be grateful if I didn’t pee my pants. The thing I appreciate about this scene is the element of slapstick that is incorporated into it. The Coens’ films are incredibly idiosyncratic in their willingness to let a serious scene play a little funny. Consider the Looney Tunes death of the second mobster, and how few directors would deliberately do that.

11. You Make My Dreams Come True—500 Days of Summer

A pretty recent release, this one seemed to divide audiences more than it deserved to, probably because Diablo Cody-phobes mistook it for a crass cash in on “Juno.” In reality, “500 Days” is sensational: a light, breezy romantic comedy with sharply drawn characters and pleasing artistic flair. People like me who complain that rom-coms are not bad inherently but as a result of their execution should be forced to watch this gem. Joseph Gordon-Levitt, continuing his much-deserved meteoric comeback, carries the movie effortlessly on his shoulders, while the bewitching Zooey Deschanel artfully matches him. It’s quirky, inspired, and genuine, a completely worthwhile investment of your time and money.

This scene represents one of the movie’s high points. The set-up is that our lead character has just spent the evening with the titular Summer, a girl he has pined for endlessly. He finally got her, and now it’s the next day. Watch, and then we’ll discuss:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2seAJsrtIbQ&feature=related

How magical was that? Tell me you didn’t have a big grin on your face and I’ll call you a liar. The careful escalation of the moment is what makes it work: we immediately become suspicious as every single pedestrian smiles at Tom, but before we even have time to process it, he seems to be best friends with complete strangers, shaking hands with every passerby. And then he starts dancing. And then they start dancing. And in under a minute, “500 Days” has blasted off into a fantasy world. It’s a big gamble, but an even bigger payoff, as no one can deny the absolutely transcendent energy the sequence achieves. What makes this scene a masterpiece is that it finds a way to communicate joy visually.

A dance number in an otherwise traditional narrative is a tricky proposition, and can only work when it provides something that could not be achieved any other way. In this case, “500 Days” needs to get you involved with Tom, needs you to feel as happy as he does, and it only has precious minutes to make it happen. The quickest and most effective way to do this is to make Tom’s walk to work as fun to watch as it was for him to do, and that requires something extraordinary. The movie needed something profoundly visual, a gag so dramatic that it would make this moment stand out for the audience, because it stands out for him. It’s scenes like this that remind us of something important about cinema: it is not a literal medium. Movies are not about facts, they are about dreams and emotions. The quest should be to make something real, but never mind if it’s accurate.

12. The Chicago Way—The Untouchables

The standard choice for a scene from this movie would normally be the train station shoot-out (which, of course, is lifted from Battleship Potemkin), and while that’s certainly a great sequence, I’m more attracted to this one. I like personal scenes like this, quiet moments where decisions that shape entire lives are made in whispered tones. You’ve probably already noticed that by the selections we’ve been through so far.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7g0RLyxP13o

With all respect to Kevin Costner, who is fantastic throughout the entire movie, this scene is so great because of Sean Connery. The man has become something of an ironic figure in popular culture, and it’s not difficult to see why: modern stars like Christian Bale and Jamie Foxx go to methodical extremes for their roles, often destroying their bodies in the name of art, whereas Sean refuses to even alter his accent. He comes from an older breed of movie star, one that is less fashionable today, and while that’s all well and good, it should never be forgotten that the man is famous for a reason. Just because he won’t alter his cadence doesn’t mean his sheer believability can’t carry scenes like this one.

Of course, any time you let David Mamet write dialogue for two men, you’re gonna end up with something sharp. The man is a maestro of testosterone, he expertly crafts alpha males with broken noses and piercing eyes. I submit that this is one of the finest conversations ever composed on a sheet of paper. It’s believable yet poetic, the hardest of balances to strike. There’s an anticipation to the scene: we know these characters are about to embark on a dangerous, exciting mission. We want to see Costner’s Elliot Ness succeed, we want to bring Capone down, and here at last is the grizzled old timer who’s going to show him how. But first, Connery’s Jim Malone has to convince him to take the fight “all the way.”

You may notice, although I hope you don’t, that the cinematography and editing on this scene are only so-so. The angles are maybe just a bit too extreme, the cuts are a bit loud, and if you watch Connery closely it’s pretty obvious that his body is jumping to different positions on every take. But who cares, really? De Palma lets the scene play out in two basic masters, an incredibly wise move, because audiences respond to great acting when it unfolds in front of them undisturbed. By the time we’d even have an opportunity to notice problems, we’re so sucked into the inertia of the characters that we don’t want to.

Like I said, Sean is the reason the scene works. The nuances he builds into his performance are endlessly seductive, and a lesson in compelling acting. Notice his body language on the line: “Do you want to do that? Are you ready to do that?” The way he cranes his head to the side, like he’s condescending a small child. And of course, the fire and brimstone in his eyes when he tells Ness, “That’s the Chicago way.” Everything in his performance is seasoned by decades of experience; no lines are wasted, everything has a shade of a different tactic Malone is using against Elliot. And of course, deep down, both men already know how this conversation is going to end. Notice how nervous Costner plays Ness: even though he never says it, we know he is accepting Malone’s terms. We know this man is going to go outside the law. That’s why this scene is so exciting: the audience senses that the moment it’s over, the real action will begin.

Thanks for your patience, everyone, we are—like it or not—back on the air. A new post will soon follow.

They’ve come and gone, and now it’s time for me to complain about them. Or maybe not, you won’t know until you read! As a sidebar, let me advise you that Number 18 on our list is…good. The review is in draft form right now, but it’s quality. You guys should be excited. Onwards!

First thing’s first, watch this. You WILL thank me. http://www.cracked.com/video_18156_a-trailer-every-academy-award-winning-movie-ever.html

Best Cinematography to Mauro Fiore, “Avatar”–I’m sure people scratched their heads a little at that win. I’m conflicted about it: on the one hand, the camera techniques they used were pretty cutting edge, and certainly cinematography played a major role. On the other, Cameron was most likely his own operator for a majority of the shoot, and you can’t deny that a lot of the “lighting” that happened was…in a computer. We have a separate Oscar for that. Was the key light on Sam Worthington in front of a blue screen really so impressive that it needed an Oscar?

Best Score to Michael Giacchino, “Up”–Sadly, I don’t agree with this one. If there was some way to give this guy an Oscar for his work on “Lost,” I would do it in a second…in fact, maybe that’s what the Academy’s really doing here. But the truth is, there were some really excellent scores this year, and “Up” wasn’t one of them. Clear winner should have been “Fantastic Mr. Fox,” the music for which was as integral an element as any other, licensed or composed. Really magical stuff. Believe it or not, an acceptable runner up would have been Hans Zimmer for “Sherlock Holmes.” Now the flick wasn’t much to remember, but the music was breathtaking. I am content that he was nominated though, it shows that people noticed his accomplishment. Indeed, Zimmer seems to do his best work with bad movies: his “Da Vinci Code” is elegant and mysterious, so is “Angels and Demons.” Go figure.

Best Visual Effects for “Avatar.” Like there’s any debate. It won and it deserved it, end of story. The sad thing is, both of the other nominees (“Star Trek” and “District 9″) would have been my shoe-ins if they had been released in any other year. “D9″ especially is pioneering in its ability to get top-notch VFX done on a relatively insignificant budget; their methods should be studied as the wave of the future. And “Star Trek” was just a masterpiece visually, there’s no other way to put it. It really is a shame they both had to come out in 2009.

Best Writing (Original) for Mark Boal, “The Hurt Locker.” Look, I love “The Hurt Locker,” but I don’t think the script was its strongest asset. Truth be told, the story kind of peters out in the late second act. “Locker” is a masterpiece on the strength of the gritty visual experience it provides, not necessarily because it could be mistaken for Arthur Miller.

Best Lead Actress to Sandra Bullock, “The Blind Side.” I haven’t seen the movie, but the woman earned that statue from a business perspective alone. “The Blind Side” would have been lost forever in the back room of a Blockbuster Video if it wasn’t for Sandra hefting it up on her pale little shoulders. From an acting perspective, I won’t comment authoritatively since I haven’t partaken yet, but I should note that a really great lead performance often sends shock waves. People talk about it, you hear about it, etc. I felt shock waves about Sandra, so I’m willing to bet she had this award coming.

Best Animated Feature to “Up.” Bite me Pixar, “Fantastic Mr. Fox” was twice the film “Up” was. I love you guys, but I’m sick of you grandfathering into the awards every time you make a movie featuring cute animals and a protagonist who learns the meaning of love. “Up” was one of your weaker efforts, only “A Bug’s Life” ranks lower, and I don’t think you needed this. Meanwhile, “Fox” was a daring throwback to stop motion with a complex, three dimensional story about a man (or a fox, as the case may be) learning to put his past behind him. It was an intelligent, mirthful, spirited ride through a genuine fantasy world, and it was snubbed.

Best Actor in a Supporting Role to Christoph Waltz, “Inglourious Basterds.” Absolutely.

Best Adapted Screenplay to Geoffery Fletcher, “Precious.” I have not seen “Precious,” so I can’t officially make a call here. Oh the hell with it, it’s not like I don’t get a pretty good sense of the damned thing from the trailer. It’s an inner city drama, right? Okay, then I get the drift enough to make an outside call. I mean does a Tyrannosaurus Rex appear in the third act and bite someone’s head off? No? Then there’s probably nothing in there I couldn’t reasonably see coming (although to be fair, that is most likely the fault of a blabber mouth trailer). “Up in the Air” should have taken it for crafting a story that is a mordant reflection on the economic crisis, and how it’s affected Americans psychologically. A funny, powerful, relevant script and it was also snubbed.

Best Director to Kathryn Bigelow, “The Hurt Locker.” A thousand times yes. This is the award they tend to get right more often than the others, and they couldn’t have nailed it more perfectly. James Cameron could have won and it would have been deserved, but I knew basic human nature on the part of the voters would keep him from being allowed to have that much success. No matter, Kathryn was just as deserving, and her win is a triumphant call to women around the world who want to get behind a camera. For too long white men have ruled the director’s chair, and it needs to change.

But even ignoring that, “The Hurt Locker” is a feat of directing. The script, as I said, is not perfect, and the actors are all good but they don’t carry the thing. This movie became what it was because a director had a vision and made it happen. Each palm-sweat-inducing suspense sequence was a masterpiece of Hitchcock-ian audience manipulation. Truly great work.

Best Lead Actor to Jeff Bridges, “Crazy Heart.” I mean, I think he had it coming for “The Big Lebowski,” so good on ya.

Best Picture to “The Hurt Locker.” Yeah, okay. For the record, Dear Reader, you may recall that I called this win, and was right. I’m just saying, bow before me. Anyway, “Locker” was a great movie, it was relevant for our times, and it wasn’t some stiff-necked drama, so I’m happy for it. A deserving winner, to be sure. My personal choice is still “Up in the Air,” because it has a tighter script, the direction is just as good, and the subject matter is even more relevant. But hey, that’s how these things go, you can’t always get what you want.

I’m realizing as I think about it that I’m saddened by “Inglourious Basterds” not winning in the script, directing, or picture department. That was a really bold, original film, and I’d become quite endeared to the notion that the Academy would embrace it for that. Oh well, I suspect it will earn a place next to Tarantino’s best remembered movies anyway.

“What About Bob?” (1991, Directed by Frank Oz)

Although my aim in this list is always to represent the films that have most impacted me thus far in my life, I can’t deny that there’s a certain added bonus when I get to stand behind a movie I feel is underrated. “What About Bob?” is a comedy so blisteringly funny, and so adroitly composed, that its rapid fade into obscurity remains a mystery to me to this day. It deserves to be remembered as one of Bill Murray’s crowning achievements, and it also proves once and for all that Richard Dreyfuss is in possession of considerable comedic talents which are criminally underused. The director, Frank Oz, is not a man whose work impresses me very much; his strongest talent may be the ability to get the hell out of the way and let his performers work. But for this picture, his invisible technique is exactly right, and his admittedly solid understanding of composition and timing buttress the zanier elements of the film, keeping everything level. The movie goes off like a Swiss watch, clicking into place flawlessly without a forced beat or a stretched plot point. And it’s funny. Oh brother, is it funny.

You think he’s gone? He’s not gone. That’s the whole point: he’s never gone!

The story centers around Bob Wiley (Bill Murray), a lovable puppy dog of a man who is crippled by neuroses which make him extremely agoraphobic and paranoid. He is the textbook definition of “harmless,” but seems incapable of functioning normally in his life as a single man living in the city. Desperate for help, he turns to a psychiatrist named Leo Marvin (Richard Dreyfuss), whose career is taking off thanks to his new bestseller “Baby Steps.” Marvin meets with Wiley and diagnoses him (quite accurately) as needing family connections, but he’s distracted by his career and an impending vacation with his wife and two children, and doesn’t give Bob much thought. This proves to be a mistake, because Bob soon appears at the family’s lake house, earnestly seeking more guidance for his life and quietly ingratiating himself into Leo’s world.

The first thing to marvel at about this movie is the script. Even though Bill Murray allegedly improvised so much of his dialogue that an accurate screenplay could never really be written, the structure of the movie is still the product of obvious care and consideration. There is a delicate tight rope being walked between all three major characters: Bob, Leo, and Leo’s family. All three of them want different things, all of them must contend with one another to get them, and yet they must all remain intensely sympathetic to the audience. Bob in particular is a tricky subject: after all, he is in no small way stalking his psychiatrist, and yet he must never read as creepy or potentially dangerous. He must be persistent enough to warrant an interesting story, but innocent enough for the audience to like him. Leo Marvin is harder still: his hatred of Bob escalates to almost Biblical proportions, he is obviously a seriously flawed family man, and nothing about his psychiatry is particularly impressive. This is a man with almost no cards in his favor for sympathy, and yet if we cannot understand and appreciate why Bob is driving him so insane, the movie doesn’t mean anything. The script wins a victory here by sidestepping plays for sympathy and relying on fleshing Leo out as fully as possible: he is a three dimensional person with hopes, fears, and values that are clearly related to us. He’s ambitious, yes, and sometimes it gets the better of him, but he does not intend to neglect or marginalize his family. We see that he spends a great deal of time with them, and we see that they matter to him more than anything, but he is (quite ironically) not gifted at communicating with them. These are subtle character beats revealed in the tiniest wrinkles of plot and dialogue, and “What About Bob?” nails them. Leo is the hardest kind of character to sell, because he is the most realistic: he’s not a saint, but he’s not a bad man either—he’s just a person with flaws.

Already you can begin to understand the complexity of the story that is evolving. For the movie to work, the audience must watch every scene from multiple distinct perspectives and sympathize immediately with both. There are three discrete narratives packed into each scene of the script: Bob’s wonderful vacation, Leo’s “Cape Fear” style nightmare, and the Marvin family’s amused encounters with an eccentric new friend. As each conflict happens, all three movies play out in real time, and we the audience constantly jump from one to the next. The reason “What About Bob?” is so incredibly funny is that we can never settle on which interpretation is actually “right.” They are all right. This may be the fundamental truth about life that the movie is dedicated to: everything is interpretation.

Dooooccttooorrr Leeeeooooooo Maaarrrvvviinnnn

All of this would be nothing without great acting, but “Bob” has that in spades. Murray gives, to me, his best comedic performance bar none. I know choices like “Caddyshack” and “Ghostbusters” are more popular, but my heart will always belong to Bob Wiley. Dreyfuss is an astonishing physical and verbal comedian; he begins the movie getting laughs from the tiniest gestures, and by the end he is raving madman on par with any I’ve seen. Very, very few actors could have handled such a wide breadth of comedic performance, but Dreyfuss is on fire from start to finish. It’s sad that his job is a little thankless, but everyone who really loves this movie can quote Leo’s lines just as fast as Bob’s. Need proof? Watch the clip below, and wait for the 00:23 mark.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F5ZSyAuNMCM&feature=related (At 00:45, watch Bob quietly cycle through names for Leo, trying to find the one that doesn’t anger him)

The nice thing about a comedy is that its success is more easily measurable: if you laughed, it probably did its job. The trade-off is, however, that once the punch line has been revealed, return trips to the well often deliver diminishing returns. Not so here. The film hits some bizarre magic mark of immediately funny and yet even funnier on repeat viewings. The jokes seem pretty standard on the first spin, but somehow they just hit with more impact every time you see them again. I don’t know exactly how that’s accomplished; maybe it only happens when the comedy comes from deeply felt characters, whom we can relate to over and over. Or maybe some jokes are just so well-built that they last. Whatever the case, “What About Bob” is a comedic titan, avoiding all the pratfalls of lesser entries in the genre: gross out gags, sagging second acts, bizarrely serious climaxes, zany supporting characters that mess up the tone, etc. This is a precision engineered piece of entertainment, written and directed by people who know how to make comedy work. The craftsmanship of this film is designed to highlight the story and downplay the egos of the people making it. I find that kind of film rarer and rarer these days.

There’s a deeply buried psychosis to the film, and I must admit I find it fascinating. At its core, it’s a deeply tragic story about a man who is punished excessively by the Fates for his sins. Leo does not want for love of his family, he does not abuse or neglect them in any way, but he struggles with selfishness and seems limited in his capacity to accept them for who they are. Along comes Bob, who literally thrives on being part of a family, and soon poor Dr. Marvin is on the outside looking in, as if he doesn’t even belong in his own home. The movie never explicitly says so, but the real reason Leo grows to hate Bob so much isn’t just the annoyance: it’s the fact that Bob’s unselfish, giving nature is a painful reminder of everything he is not. The sting of seeing his family revitalized by this man is certainly disproportionate punishment for Leo’s crimes, but life is unfair. On some level, we could expect Leo to try and learn from Bob, but who among us would really do any better?

We can’t be expected to understand him, he is so far above us. We’re like ropes on the Goodyear blimp.

Human beings are deeply territorial by nature, we are naturally designed for monogamy and we jealously defend the people we lay claim to. Dr. Marvin has made a career from intellectualizing human emotions, breaking them down into little pieces and controlling them logically, but those skills are useless here. What Bob presents him with is an obstacle he is not trained for: a primal attack on his territory. It doesn’t matter whether or not Bob intends to take Leo’s family (most likely not, but we get hints that he is not blind to what’s going on), because if events are not altered that is simply what will happen. Countering this requires Leo to call upon his deeper, more primal passions, but this is a man not comfortable enough with himself to do so. Indeed, that disconnection from his baser instincts may be what holds back a more passionate relationship with his wife and family, or what restrains him from giving more freely of himself to others. Bob, meanwhile, is a lustful man by nature; he avoids logic almost entirely, using emotion as the rudder of his ship. He does not categorize who he is to this family, or give a name to what he wants from anyone, he is simply compelled forward by the force of his desires. He wants love, he wants companionship, and he seeks it honestly and openly. Leo’s attempts to prevent this intruder from taking his family are all pitiful, calling on the borders of society to hold his opponent back. When those fail, as they always eventually will, Leo reaches within himself and realizes how broken and crooked the mechanisms of communication with his deeper self are. The discovery rocks him to his core, and sends him over the edge.

I know it’s bizarre to say this, but “Bob” is a spiritual sibling with another film of a very different genre: Scorsese’s “Cape Fear.” Although I would argue this is the superior film of the two, both are masterful examinations of how modern society has made men docile, uncomfortable with our own selves, and crippled from calling on our primal resources to respond to threats on what is precious to us. Our relative safety becomes a curse, a handicap that mutes the passions we need to contend with the uncertainty of life. “What About Bob” milks this for comedy, “Cape Fear” uses it for suspense, and both work completely naturally.

If there’s a lesson that I take away from “What About Bob,” it’s that you must hold onto what matters to you, and hold it yourself. Society has laws and rules of conduct which are fine, but there will always be a mild element of arbitrariness to them, and they will never really be able to protect you from the most basic parts of human nature. Leo is not in regular contact with the deepest wells of his emotions, so he cannot manage them, and they produce childish violence and rage. Bob, a wreck on the outside, is nonetheless a master of primal urges, and his comfort with them makes him Leo’s ultimate nemesis. At the end of the day, for all our sophistication and culture, we cannot leave behind our instinct, and instinct is never more important than in relationships. People want to feel a connection with one another that transcends societal boundaries. If we are to do this, we must make peace with the deeper and more mysterious parts of who we are, and we must reveal those dark corners to one another. Leo Marvin was a man who tried to hide from himself. Bob Wiley was God’s reply.

Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986, Directed by John Hughes)

For a few years in the 80s, a mysterious writer/director named John Hughes came out of nowhere and gave teenagers a voice. Most people think his gift was the ability to make realistic films about adolescence, but I disagree; even the most down-to-earth of them (“The Breakfast Club”) feels theatrical to me. What John did do better than anyone else was write teenagers the way they saw themselves. He captured a feeling of youth, as if he had never forgotten what it was like to be young. His movies were about the way teens saw things, which was a natural fit for the cinema, because at that age the world is big, exciting, terrifying, and fundamentally mysterious. This is the secret to a John Hughes film: they are always about the unknown, because his subjects are young enough not to be saddled by a lifetime of biased knowledge.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jIuD6YtaFxQ&feature=related (This is one of the best-edited scenes in comedy history. Watch how each element plays off of the other. “Do you have a kiss for daddy?”)

I have great respect for most of the films Hughes made, but “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off” is easily my favorite. Aside from simply being funnier than anything else he ever did, “Bueller” wins my heart because it is purely magical. I have never known a movie whose spirit was so full of wonder and joy. It’s hard for me to even express in words how much my soul is lifted by the film’s relentless energy and constant, unyielding excellence. And let it not be forgotten that this is not some simple comedy whose aim is only to entertain: “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off” has a very genuine and thoroughly developed world-view, and makes a bold statement about the things that are important in life.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TO68zwTXFWk

The film uses a fourth-wall violation technique that I must admit I am particularly weak to. Ferris addresses the viewer as if they are his inner monologue, stepping away from the action of the scene to discuss things with us. I find this to be an incredibly absorbing tactic, especially since Matthew Broderick’s performance is so natural that I never question it for a second. We follow the titular hero’s thought process as he masterfully fakes sick to his parents and takes the aforementioned “day off.” From there, he scoops up his girlfriend and his borderline-catatonic best friend and heads into downtown Chicago for a day none of them will ever forget.

Ferris is one of the better written comic characters of his time, a fairly original blend of Falstaff mischief and Prince Hal intelligence. He forces his neurotic friend Cameron Frye (who is also faking sick but doesn’t think he’s faking), to crawl out of bed and come pick him up (Ferris doesn’t have a car…it’s a touchy subject). As if that wasn’t enough, he employs him to crank call the principal, even steals his father’s prized Ferrari. It is at this point we as the audience are allowed to ask: is Ferris Bueller the world’s biggest jerk? It would be easy to assume so, but then we have reason to sneakily suspect that Ferris has more on his mind than cutting class. Everything he, Sloan and Cameron do seems built to force his friend to man up and take chances. Ferris confides in us that he’s worried about he and his best friend’s chances of staying in touch once they graduate high school, and he bemoans the bad choices Cameron’s lack of self-respect might lead him to make down the road: “If things don’t change for him, he’s gonna marry the first girl he lays, and she’s gonna treat him like sh**, because she will have given him what he has built up in his mind as the end-all, be-all of human existence. She won’t respect him, ’cause you can’t respect somebody who kisses your a**. It just doesn’t work.”

It takes a few viewings to notice, but eventually one realizes that Ferris’ “day off” is all about Cameron. He is raging against the dying of the light, trying to heal his suffering friend before they lose each other forever. Cameron has never experienced love from his parents, who are cold and distant, and he has never had a girlfriend. Ferris is the only connection he has. About half way through the movie, Bueller disappears for a few minutes, and his girlfriend Sloan gets a few minutes alone with Frye. She is tender with him, and he opens up and confides in her; perhaps Ferris knew that would happen, too. And then there is the climactic showdown between Cameron and his father’s car, which has replaced him as the object of love and affection in the family. It’s a heart-wrenching scene, movingly performed by all three actors, and a serious emotional climax for an otherwise giddy and lighthearted film. It’s unlikely that Bueller had this kind of event in mind when he set out to exorcise his friend’s demons, but it was what needed to happen. When he and Sloan have left Cameron to deal with the consequences, she asks Ferris if his friend will be all right. He smiles and replies, “Yeah. For the first time in his life, I think he’s going to be just fine.”

Ferris, like any good hero, has a number of sworn enemies. Principal Rooney, the uptight, dimwitted jerk who runs the high school, makes the terrible mistake of attaching his entire self-worth to the successful apprehension of his wayward student. At every turn, he grows more desperate (and more unprofessional) to subdue Bueller, to extinguish the fire of youth that stands as a painful reminder of how old he’s become. Ferris’ sister Jeannie is constantly antagonized by the prim rose path her brother gets to walk through life. I find her to be a fascinating character, because there’s a fundamental “chicken or egg” question hiding in the fact that Jeannie hates everyone because everyone hates her. In her eyes, she is hated so she hates, but to the world it goes the other way around. I have known many people like this. There is no question that Ferris is the favorite in the family, and that Jeannie has probably lived her entire life in second place. I also think she’s a more relatable character than she appears: we have all known people who seem incapable of doing wrong in the eyes of others, and we have all felt unloved by comparison. Jeannie’s journey from a girl who cannot let go to a woman who makes peace is as satisfying as anything in the film. And Charlie Sheen’s cameo is almost worth the price of admission.

At the end of the day, however, “Bueller” is a comedy first and foremost, and a masterful one; not a single joke falls flat. Its punchlines come almost unrelentingly, a deft mix of physical slapstick, dry wit, situational comedy, dramatic irony, screwball and melancholy. Only a film about youth could contain this many tones without bursting at the seams. “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off” is more than just a great comedy and an insightful character drama, it’s a key to those things in our heart that get buried with time and age. This is no mere film; it may be the closest cinematic equivalent to the fountain of youth.