Notorious (1946, Alfred Hitchcock)

"A man doesn’t tell a woman what to do; she tells herself."

Despite its superior artistry, Alfred Hitchcock’s noir romance Notorious never attained the same degree of notoriety as the Michael Curtiz’s comparable Casablanca. The two classics share a number of important aspects: captivating star Ingrid Bergman, consummate character actor Claude Rains, and a plot fueled by Nazi intrigue that forces patriotic loyalties in conflict with deepest individual desires. The master of suspense brings an unmatched level of restraint to every aspect of this work. The postwar spy story requires the characters to conceal the truth, and forces the actors to reveal their thoughts through the smallest nuances of facial expressions. Leading man Cary Grant plays against type, burying his manic screwball charm under layers of self-control. The film’s romantic moments manage to duplicate the same tension level as the thrilling espionage scenes. Under a mask of bitterness, the two lovers hide their own vulnerabilities as tirelessly as they protect their undercover identities. Hitchcock’s stylistic flourishes (rotating camera, tracking shots, zooms, edits) make a lasting impact, because he holds back the most powerful punches until the ideal knockout moment.

Mean Streets (1973, Martin Scorsese)

"You don't make up for your sins in church. You do it in the streets."

Before Martin Scorsese, Robert DeNiro, and Harvey Keitel achieved legendary status, the three young men collaborated on the low-budget crime drama Mean Streets in 1973. As a smaller, independent film, it lacks the polish of something like Coppola's The Godfather (1972). Too much polishing here would obscure rather than illuminate Scorsese's subject. Most scenes revolve around petty, unglamorous criminal activity: low-level scams, debt collection, shakedowns, vandalism, drunken brawls, and senseless shootings. In short, these crimes are disorganized. The title uses the word 'Mean' not just in its ordinary sense, to suggest anger and cruelty, but the word unearths its more traditional associations: the low, dirty, small, and ugly aspects of life. The people near the bottom of the barrel prey on the few people unfortunate enough to be below them. Meticulous craftsmanship infuses every sight and sound with authenticity. Handheld cameras bring the audience into the barrooms, the bathrooms, the bedrooms; the back-rows, the backseats, and the back-alleys, to breathe the same air as its characters. Scorsese's conflicted attitude towards his 1970s Hells Kitchen setting (genuine affection along with genuine loathing) emerges through this intimate story. Protagonist Charlie (Keitel) stands in for the filmmaker. Burdened under Catholic guilt, he attempts to make a better life for himself, but only while fixing the tragic flaws of his friends at the same time. His longtime companion, the violent Johnny Boy (DeNiro), acts on impulse without any greater plan, dragging everyone else back down to his level. The character fails to find the proper equilibrium between the loyalties to religion, community, and self, but with any luck Scorsese himself may have achieved some balance, through his art.

Goldfinger (1964, Guy Hamilton)

"Pussy Galore? I must be dreaming."

It might be fair to say that if you don't like Goldfinger, then you don't like James Bond movies. Scottish star Sean Connery is widely considered to be the true incarnation of the British agent, and Goldfinger often receives mention as the greatest entry in the most successful franchise of all time. Goldfinger is not only an action movie, but an action movie template: slick introductory scene, catchy theme song, flashy opening credits, beautiful women, more than one roll-in-the-proverbial-and-actual-hay, puns and innuendo, inventive ways to kill, some high-stakes cardplaying, expensive drinks, a gadget session with some new toys, ego-stroking flirtations with the secretary, a briefing from the ineffectual boss, an obligatory car chase, plenty of mindless thugs, a series of captures and escapes, a ticking time bomb in need of defusing, and an escalation into a spectacle-heavy finale. The James Bond universe is by no means realistic, but instead a PG version of how most men would like the world to work. The story, the props, and the supporting characters all serve the same function as the Bond's signature tuxedo: accessories to make him look cool. This film's iconic trio of antagonists become mere subjects for Bond's conquest: outwit the mastermind criminal (the soliloquizing Goldfinger) on the biggest scale, defeat the physically dominant rival (the silent Oddjob) in hand to hand combat, and seduce the femme fatale (the vaguely lesbian Pussy Galore) through masculine charm. Goldfinger delivers what all James Bond films promise to deliver, a shameless male fantasy that is equal parts violent, sexual, materialistic, and comedic. Perhaps sensing that something was still lacking, this one even finds time for an extended golfing sequence.

It's a Wonderful Life (1946, Frank Capra)

"Strange, isn’t it? Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?"

After surviving the Great Depression, the Second World War claimed over 60 million human lives between 1937 and 1945. The final months of 1946 saw the release of three classic films: William Wyler’s The Best Years of Our Lives, Michael Powell’s A Matter of Life and Death, and Frank Capra’s It’s a Wonderful Life. As those echoing titles suggest, the era’s greatest directors were preoccupied with find some perspective to help the human race to continue living. Much like Orson Welles’ Citizen Kane, Capra’s soul-searching flashbacks show the audience the moments that transformed a boy playing in the snow to a tired adult man on the brink of death. Whereas Welles set out to find the meaning in the life of a great man, Capra’s story finds the value in the life of ordinary man (who nonetheless demonstrates his own greatness). A simple fantasy premise involving a guardian angel becomes as a thought experiment to answer the question quite directly. After a lifetime of cashing in his dreams to bail out his ungratefully needy small-town, he comes to see himself as nothing more than $500 of life insurance. A prolonged vision sequence reveals a world where he never existed, using the negative to expose the positive. Brought to life by the legendary Hollywood everyman James Stewart, George Bailey shows that the highest emotional peaks can be reached only after exploring the lowest depths of despair. Despite countless parodies and valid complaints of sentimentality, his journey retains its emotional power. Sooner or later, misfortunes will pile up and every man finds himself staring over the edge like George Bailey. Without the benefit of miracles of the heavenly or fictional variety, perspective is our only guardian angel.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (2008, David Fincher)

"Your life is defined by its opportunities... even the ones you miss."

Although The Curious Case of Benjamin Button suffers from a cumbersome and somewhat bland title, but the adjective ‘curious’ perfectly describes the final product. Filmmaker David Fincher made a name for himself as Hollywood’s prince of darkness: the bleak subject matter of his neo-noir thrillers could be matched only by his color palette. His often detached sensibilities made him a strange choice indeed to visualize Eric Roth’s screen adaptation of F.Scott Fitzgerald’s short story. The cradle-to-cradle tale of an oddball loner who ages backward through a tortured lifelong romance, would seem to require the light heart of someone like Spielberg (who not coincidentally was originally attached to the project). Roth’s screenplay achieves little with its potentially intriguing premise, and, as many viewers noted, instead comes across as a generic retread of the chocolate-box life lessons from Roth’s own Forrest Gump, only without the jokes. Fincher’s perfectionist tendencies still ensure that the film impresses on a technical level, using computer graphics masterfully to blur the line that separates special effects from cinematography and makeup. However, the combination of monotone voiceover narration, flat characterizations, ineffective symbolism, and a meandering narrative structure drains the film of whatever visual power it possesses. The script detracts so much that the film’s two-minute teaser trailer, a silent montage of striking images synchronized to “Aquarium: Carnival of the Animals,” remains a significantly stronger artistic achievement than the nearly three-hour film it advertises. The Curious Case deserves credit for replicating a full century of time periods and ages while maintaining a consistent style, but the work still lacks any unifying vision. Perhaps the film, like its protagonist, developed backwards. Benjamin Button began its life as a bloated $100 million blockbuster and a double-digit Oscar contender, instead of growing up naturally from an infant story worth telling.

Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939, Frank Capra)

“I guess this is just another lost cause, Mr. Paine. All you people don't know about lost causes. Mr. Paine does. He said once they were the only causes worth fighting for.”

The path to adulthood requires a series of compromises with many youthful ideals. As the famous saying goes: “When I was a child, I spoke as a child; I understood as a child; I thought as a child; but, when I became a man, I put away childish things.” With Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, the great American director Frank Capra crafted a timeless cinematic reminder that most adults put away one too many things during that process. The principal characters of Capra’s political drama each represent different positions on the spectrum from naïveté to cynicism. The titular Jefferson Smith (in a justifiably career-making performance from James Stewart) brings the purity of a literal boy scout to the chambers of the United States Senate. His incorruptible nature creates a problem for amoral business tycoon Jim Taylor, who controls the switches for the home state’s political machine. The tropics between these two poles are inhabited by the jaded realism of Smith’s world-weary assistant Clarissa Saunders (Jean Arthur) and the pragmatic utilitarianism of senior senator Joseph Paine (the eminent Claude Rains). Capra's film transforms potentially tedious congressional procedure into a thrilling battle of wills. The boyish Jeff requires both veteran savvy and a soldier’s fortitude. Not all our ideals shared with children are immature, and adult cynicism often results from childish cowardice rather than genuine wisdom.

The Seventh Seal (1957, Ingmar Bergman)

“ This is my hand. I can turn it. The blood is still running in it. The sun is still in the sky and the wind is blowing. And I... I, Antonius Block, play chess with Death.”

With The Seventh Seal, Swedish filmmaker Ingmar Bergman cried out to the heavens, and then to the depths. He died half a century later, still waiting to hear a response. This film lives on, remembered more widely than any other work from his distinguished career, due to its stark imagery and its direct treatment of a subject as universal today as it was during the Middle Ages. Death is inescapable. Bergman dramatizes the human struggle with mortality through the story of a medieval knight, Antonius Block, playing chess against the Grim Reaper. His opponent is unbeatable, and even the most cunning tactics will only delay the end-game as long as possible. The film’s setting allows Bergman to emphasize the desperate follies that a society will embrace in its attempts to outmaneuver Death. The Bishop (organized religion) offers the empty promise of immortality. Knights will wage murderous crusades for the glory of their god. Waves of Pawns will be sacrificed (here, the torture and burning of heretics) to win divine favor. Even the strongest castle fortress, represented by the Rook, provides no defense against the Black Death (through the bubonic plague or some other form). Seemingly, the most sensible strategy for any man is to devote himself to his Queen, to enjoy the pleasures of life while it lasts.

Barry Lyndon (1975, Stanley Kubrick)

“Though this encounter is not recorded in any history books, it was memorable enough for those who took part.”

After making three masterpieces about the future, Stanley Kubrick returned to the past with an extravagant adaptation of a nineteenth century novel. This film chronicles the unremarkable life of Irish peasant Redmond Barry, a thoroughly ignoble and selfish weakling, as he rises and falls in the British aristocracy. Throughout the epic, Kubrick alludes to paintings: often literally as set decoration, sometimes visually through his shot compositions, and other times metaphorically through a narrator that treats every event as rigidly predetermined. Barry himself is flat, static, immobile, a prisoner of his own nature and circumstances. The background for this portrait, the society around him, is rigid in its own way. The culture obsessively imposes man-made rules upon this chaotic existence: rituals for dueling, war, military protocol, titles, social status, secession rights, marital obligations, and card games. The characters go to ridiculous lengths to bribe and cheat their way around their own equally ridiculous rules. In truth, the dispassionate universe obeys its own laws of chance and causality, without any regard for human concepts of fairness. Most stories begin by looking at the background and then zoom in on an individual. In Barry Lyndon, both Kubrick’s camera and his narrative does exactly the opposite. Perhaps the only way to view humanity objectively is to step back far enough that the humans appear to be objects.

Magnolia (1999, Paul Thomas Anderson)

"There are stories of coincidence and chance, of intersections and strange things told, and which is which and who only knows? And we generally say, "Well, if that was in a movie, I wouldn't believe it." Someone's so-and-so met someone else's so-and-so and so on. And it is in the humble opinion of this narrator that strange things happen all the time.”

Following the trail blazed by American pioneer Robert Altman, Paul Thomas Anderson helped popularize a peculiar subgenre, the ensemble drama with intersecting storylines. Three subsequent Oscar winners used a similar canvas to explore the scope of a particular issue (Traffic: drugs; Crash: prejudice Babel: language). In Anderson’s Magnolia the means are ends in themselves. An energetic opening montage, coupled with voice-over narration, recreates a series of unbelievable yet factual stories. Not content to tell a story with an implausible plot, Magnolia aspires to tell a story about implausibility itself. Patterns emerge as the camera follows the simultaneous melodramas of a double-digit collection of characters. Seemingly everyone’s life is filled with suffering and regret. These people are not only similar, but in a sense they become one unified character, wrestling with terminal cancer, drug abuse, marital infidelity, and child cruelty from every angle. This person also screams out so many curses from the cradle to the grave, that a diagnosis of Tourette syndrome might be appropriate. Each cast member exercises his vocal cords and flexes his emotive muscles. Two hours after the audacious opening sequence, Anderson makes another bold creative decision to use music to highlight their interconnectedness. Another half hour later, he becomes even bolder by manipulating the weather, almost with the divine hand of fate. This nonstop barrage of human misery, punctuated by these instances of the filmmaker’s bravado, either elevates itself to masterpiece status or collapses under its own ambitions (depending upon your perspective).

The Grapes of Wrath (1940, John Ford)

"Them Okies got no sense and no feeling. They ain't human. Human being wouldn't live the way they do. Human being couldn't stand to be so miserable.”

Orson Welles’ Citizen Kane became the default choice for greatest American film, but Welles himself preferred “the old masters,” by which he meant: “John Ford, John Ford, and John Ford.” With striking black-and-white photography, flawless editing, and revelatory performances, Ford’s adaptation of John Steinbeck’s Nobel Prize-winning novel makes a strong claim for Kane’s lofty position. The Grapes of Wrath surrounds the viewer with the profound sadness of a Beethoven sonata. Before the story even begins, the characters already have suffered as many hardships than the heroes at the ending of a tragedy. Darwin, however, would offer more insight into this story than Aristotle. The Joads, a family of Oklahoma sharecroppers, have become an obsolete organism. Nature has reduced their once fertile soil to a dusty wasteland. Whenever they manage to pick themselves off the ground, some harsh force drives them back down, whether natural, economic, legal, or political. Their struggle to survive even requires physical acts of self-defense. Nevertheless, this species retains its dignity. Their search for meaning amidst such suffering elevates their humble dialect to poetry. Beyond their words, though, a gallery of genuinely woeful faces will haunt the viewer quite permanently.