Tag Archives: David Lynch

Best films by decade: The 2000s (intro and movies 1-5)

3 Aug

If the movies of the seventies were glum and dilapidated; the eighties overblown and reactionary; the nineties garish and silly; the 2000s were sincere and unpredictable.

The decade began with commercial planes crashing into high rise buildings in New York; it ended with robotic planes reigning missiles onto villages in the desert sands. It started with Bush and ended with Obama. From boom to bust, the cycle of American capitalism kept spinning.

September 11 haunts the 2000s, a spectral shadowy ghost. The decade can only be understood through the attack and subsequent U.S. response. America flexed its muscles abroad. At home, we grappled with the nasty realities of life that we had been inoculated against for so long. The violence, the suffering, the uncertainty that so much of the world has to deal with was now a part of the daily American experience. Every movie, at home and abroad, seemed to be asking the same question: What does it mean to be American? And just what is America?

The big entertainment story of the 2000s was television. The Wire, The Shield, Arrested Development, Breaking Bad, Deadwood, Mad Men, Generation Kill, John Adams and The Office are all superb—and superior—entertainments that take the best of movies and combine these with the best of television. The result is an astonishing variety of shows that utilize the language of films, the patience of novels and the length of TV. The comedies got smarter, the dramas more cinematic. Internet-based movie sites allowed fans to watch television shows in huge chunks. Shows that failed, like Arrested Development, developed fan bases after being canceled. The paradigm of television changed.

There were two movie stories. The first was a tidal wave of foreign films, where directors around the world caught the moviemaking bug and, finally, eclipsed their American counterparts. It was the uptick of globalism, a cross-pollination of cinematic ideas.

World cinema re-emerged. Iran and South Korea birthed dozens of great filmmakers, and Germany/Austria stamped the decade with an astonishing output of films. Greater Scandinavia finally stepped out of the shadow of Ingmar Bergman, and Denmark in particular produced a crop of fantastic new filmmakers. Australia re-emerged with a newfound dedication to top-notch genre filmmaking.

Back in the States, the movies were relying more and more on special effects. Streaming movies online started as an oddity and ended the decade as the norm. U.S. movie companies responded with bombastic technique, pushing first big blockbuster movies with budgets that rival some small countries’ GDP, and then later with 3D.  Advances in technology allowed for superheroes to enter the fray, and they soon became a dominant force, crowding out other types of films. What was uncool, even fringe, became popular.

The U.S. filmmaking technique remains incredibly high—even our bad films are often very well made—but what’s often missing is daring, interesting writing, strangeness.

Still, some very fine U.S. movies appeared. The mavericks from the 1970s were still around: Spielberg, Scorsese, even Coppola returned to make a few films. And the filmmakers of the 1990s—Paul Thomas Anderson, Quentin Tarantino, David Fincher and Greg Araki, too—delivered on the early promise of their careers.

The second major movie story was documentaries. Digital film allowed for outsiders, skilled amateurs and old pros to make smaller, cheaper films. There was an explosion of documentaries—partly fueled by the reality TV boom that began in the mid-1990s—on a variety of subjects. I’ve excluded documentaries from my lists so far—they often feel starchy and affected to me, in a way that a great movie is not—but in the 2000s there were so many good ones that I had to include three.

Hollywood has always vacillated between two polar extremes: the lightweight superficiality of Los Angeles—sun-drenched happy people, middle brow melodramas and the unbearable lightness of living in a place with no past, only future. And the gritty artiness of New York—existential cops and drug addicts, struggling actors and the distinct weight of living in the entryway into America and the American dream. It’s new wealth versus old money, the suburbs versus the city. (The rural has never had much of a voice, or a presence, in Hollywood.)

The films of the oughts hovered between these two polar extremes, as did I. After graduating college, I went to my first job as an editor. I left Montgomery for Atlanta, Atlanta for Spain, Spain for Iowa, and Iowa for Chicago. I scrounged and scrimped. I roamed and I rambled. I wrote and wrote and wrote. I collected rejections. I watched too many movies. I started multiple careers. I got married. I even had a child.

Tough, stoic, piercing, beautiful, each frame a master class in moviemaking.

1. Army of Shadows/The White Ribbon—The best film of the 2000s was originally released in the 1960s, but never in the States. It’s Jean Pierre-Melville’s best film, high praise indeed, a beautiful and devastating exploration of the French Resistance during World War II. The Resistance fighters descend into a morally murky world, soon not fighting the Nazi occupiers at all; by movie’s end, they are essentially killing each other off to prevent any leaks to the enemy. The great Lino Ventura plays the lead with a world-weary stoicism, so deadpan that even when he’s killing Nazi soldiers he barely blinks. Each shot could be an Edward Hopper painting. The movie uses a number of techniques, including interior monologues, long tracking shots and shadowy lighting, and has some harrowing scenes, including multiple executions. But the movie unfolds with such a serene beauty—at times it feels like the visual equivalent of a Bach violin concerto—that the treacherous, violent world of the French Resistance feels radiant.

Darkness at the edge of town. A tour through small-town hell.

The White Ribbon— Director Michel Haneke appeared on the scene in the late 1980s, and made many interesting films. They shared a number of traits, including vicious characters, pointless violence, and beautiful compositions that mask a detached view of human depravity. I find his early films to be mechanical, cold, and annoying. His take on Kafka is humorless and pressed clean of eroticism (although dimpled with sex). Funny Games is brutal and brutalizing, unsubtle and punishing to the viewer. Then he made the excellent Cache (number 9 on the list). But nothing prepared movie fans for The White Ribbon, a somber, meditative black and white movie on a mysterious series of escalating crimes in a German village before World War I. The movie unfolds at a calm, measured pace, but the subject matter is so unsettling that it feels like a pulpy thriller. There are a few hundred people in the village, including a young tailor (narrating from some future time), his love interest, a misanthropic doctor, his two children, and a number of peasant farmers. The craft of the film is enthralling, and while watching it’s hard to find your moral bearings. Mistreated by the adults, the children begin to mistreat each other. There’s a causal chain of violence, intimidation, manipulation and exploitation. There are suicides and a murder, a bird is impaled ritualistically and a horse is killed. It’s a ghastly small town gothic with socio-political undercurrents. Haneke’s argument, by movie’s end, is clear: the heady stew of oppressive religiosity, racial purity, ethnic intolerance, and crippling poverty results in nothing less than the Nazi party. One to haunt your dreams.

The new pillar of fire—oil—in Paul Thomas Anderson’s best film.

2. There Will Be Blood/The Lives of Others—Paul Thomas Anderson emerged in the early ’90s as a filmmaker with superior talents. Every film was superb, but his adaptation of Upton Sinclair’s Oil is his best film so far, a riveting character study of a driven misanthrope mad for oil prospecting. Daniel Day-Lewis stars as Daniel Plainview, an unscrupulous oilman who begins prospecting on the land of the Sunday family. The teenage son, Eli, is a local fundamentalist preacher, and soon Eli and Plainview are working each against the other for control of the land, the oil, and the hearts and minds of the people of their west Texas town. Anderson’s images are so strong, he makes the whole moviemaking thing seem so easy, and he gets excellent performances from his actors. Anderson’s argument is clear: Oil is money is power. And religion is influence is power is money. And the two together is this country we call America. Feels classic and contemporary at the same time, an amalgamation of all of Anderson’s influences. You can see John Ford and Robert Altman, Orson Welles and Ingmar Bergman, Antonioni and Renoir and Kazan and just about every other great filmmaker since the Lumiere brothers first captured those happy people on the beach.

The dangers of being passive in service to the evil state; you lose your humanity.

The Lives of Others (2006)—Greater Germany—I’m including Austria—had a banner decade. The White Ribbon, Revanche, Downfall, Soul Kitchen, The Beider Meinhoff Complex, and Mostly Martha all came out the 2000s, and every film on this list is an absolute smash. The Lives of Others is the tidiest and most theatrical of the films, made with warmth and love. It follows a stony Stasi agent assigned to ruin the life and career of a well-known East German playwright.  The playwright’s girlfriend is a great stage actress who has been forced into a sexual relationship with a high-ranking East German official. The Stasi agent’s slow realization that the state apparatus he works for is not only flawed but also evil is a wonder of writing and acting. The thawing out of his soul is one of the great stories of redemption. The best thing about this movie, however, is the pacing. The best dramas play out like thrillers, and this movie turns white knuckle before the end.

A devastating portrait of a couple falling in and out of love.

3. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind/Zodiac—Charlie Kaufman often misfires. He’s wordy, precious, self-involved and more interested in internal digressions than telling a good story. (Look at the endings of his movies; they are almost all an unraveling of the story you just spent two hours watching. Synecdoche, New York is a criminal theft of the audience’s time.) He’s clever, often funny and has plenty of ideas, but he’s also solipsistic and, well, annoying. But here, with director Michel Gondry (who carries a predilection towards silliness), Kaufman wrote a great script with an idea ripped from a Philip K. Dick short story. A service will delete an ex-lover from your memory, leaving only tiny little ghosts of that person’s existence. Jim Carrey plays Joel, a man whose impulsive girlfriend, played by Kate Winslett, has paid for the service and had every memory of him surgically removed. Crushed, he decides to do the same, but in the middle of the process, he tries to hold on to the fleeting moments. What follows is a terrifying, and often very funny, surreal journey through his distorted memories. They’re subplots, some great acting, and a devastating portrait of a relationship falling apart. The movie is as visually inventive as the script, with disappearing walls and repeating patterns in libraries and streets. It really feels like peering into someone’s fragile mind, watching the tiny little lights go out. I wish Kaufman had made three films with Gondry instead of Spike Jonze.

The beautiful and terrifying true story of San Francisco’s most notorious serial killer.

Zodiac—The best film ever made about the police mind at work and the intricacy of investigative processes. Director extraordinaire David Fincher recreates the various personalities obsessing over the Zodiac murders in 1970s San Francisco. He cuts no corners, jamming the audience into the morass of paperwork and red tape, the competing law enforcement agencies and the messiness of solving a complicated case. The murder scenes are conducted with technical panache and a slavish devotion to the facts. The result is a movie that feels like the best of documentary and fiction. Fincher is the best craftsman we have, and when he has good material, he is a marvel. This is great material, with a great cast, including Mark Ruffalo, Jake Gyllenhall, Robert Downey, Jr. and Elias Koteas. A crime can shape a city in profound ways.

An artist’s heart, a pianist’s hands, and a gangster’s brain.

4. The Beat That My Heart Skipped/Pusher III—A French adaptation of the 1970s American cult film Fingers, and it’s absolutely stunning. Roman Duris, one of the busiest and best French actors, plays a disturbed young man working as a strong arm for his thuggish, unscrupulous father. His real love, however, is music, something he gave up long ago. But when he stumbles onto a piano tutor, he slides back into his real passion. With one foot in two worlds, he struggles with the existential weight of rehabilitating his soul with music. Meanwhile, his father comes to loggerheads with stone cold gangsters. The original is quirky, intriguing, and ahead of its time, but loses its footing halfway through. The French movie improves on the original’s mistakes. Durain does an excellent job playing an artist who has lost his art, a thug with a nagging conscience. As he rediscovers his gift for music—and the failures that accompany any art—he tries to remove himself from his father’s life. Audiard, the director, went on to make Un Prophet, another very fine crime film.

A drug-addicted middleman in a bewilderingly violent universe.

Pusher III: I Am the Angel of Death—The middle Pusher movie follows Tony, released from prison into an unforgiving world. Tony is a drug addict, cretin and creep, but Mads Mikkelson plays him with a warm humanity, and you end up cheering for him. But the episodic nature of the movie—each scene ends with Tony enduring some new humiliation—makes this the weakest of the three movies. But with Pusher III, director Refn delivers the strongest in the series. Mid-level Drug kingpin Milo—Frank’s enemy in the first movie and sort of lurking around the edges of the second—takes center stage, following 24 hours in his rough and tumble life. Refn frames the drug trade as a high stakes bureaucratic affair, and Milo is in trouble. He receives a shipment of new drugs. A young turk tries to rip him off. His daughter is getting married. He is fighting off his own drug addiction. And some old underworld types are making life difficult for him. And, perhaps worst of all, he’s a terrible cook, and slated to make the food for his daughter’s wedding. Refn mines each small situation for immense tension, and by the end of the film it’s almost unbearable. But there’s humor, too, much more than the first two films, a loosening up. Zlatko Buric, who plays Milo, delivers a sterling performance of a violent man trying to be a decent human being, trying and failing. Unforgettable.

The youth of Brazil, armed and running wild.

5. City of God/Mulholland Drive—A glittering diamond of a gangster film, beautiful, rousing, rambunctious, tragic and sad. Based on a true story, City of God follows a group of young poor Brazilians as they splinter into drug dealers, gangsters, murderers and thieves. The lead is a shy aspiring photographer who winds up, through his childhood group of friends, ensconced in a gang war between rival factions of drug dealers in the slums of Brazil. The movie lurches backwards and forwards in time, using every cinematic trick in the book, and the result is a genre-shattering work of iconoclasm. It’s a more stylized, adult-oriented Pixote—with an absolutely smashing soundtrack—but the hardship of the homeless children, the casual violence, and the petty strivings of the street urchins make City of God one of the best movies of the decade.

The nocturnal side of the dream life, a winding, craggy road through the Hollywood hills.

Mulholland Drive—A return to weird greatness from David Lynch. Lost Highway was an intriguing movie, marred by an overcooked visual style (percolating down from the world of music video that saturated the 90s; parts of Highway look like a Marilyn Manson video). But Highway has its acolytes, and it is a very disturbed movie-going experience. Straight Story was next, a major departure for Lynch and is mostly a success. Mulholland, however, was to be Lynch’s return to television. The first hour or so is the pilot. When the network passed on the project, Lynch took the footage, shot an extra hour or so, and then released it as a film. It’s a quintessential story of Hollywood, movies and acting. (Lynch reveals his hand having Penelope Ann Miller play the super of an apartment building.) The dream logic of the movie can only be understood through the quest for fame. Naomi Watts delivers a star-turning role as a woman bent on becoming a famous actress. She finds in her aunt’s Hollywood apartment a naked woman with no memory of how she got there. Along the way there are gangsters, hitmen, a dream that can kill you, and a theatre with a live show that can drive you mad. Lynch changes the rules once again. Magical, frustrating, and jaw-dropping. It must be experienced.

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Best movies by decade: the 1980s (19-26)

31 Aug

The past's future that looks a lot like the present.

19. The Breakfast Club/Blade Runner—Critically, John Hughes is a divisive figure; commercially, he’s a smash. He treats teenage suffering, angst, and longing seriously, and here shows a world of raw, mistreated youth. The villains are the unseen parents and the bullying school teacher. Here he uses a very strong brat pack cast: Emilip Esteves, Molly Ringwold, Judd Nelson, Alley Sheedy and Anthony Michael Hall. The film has some weak spots, especially the absurd marijuana dance sequence and some of Judd Nelson’s jokes, but in the aggregate it’s a sterling example of teenage suffering made manifest. Too easily dismissed, but not easily forgotten. Blade Runner—A lot is made of this Ridley Scott film. I’ve always been on the fence. It is a good film, but I’m not sure it’s great, partially because I’m so fond of the novel. Harrison Ford plays Rick Deckard, a detective who hunts replicants, robots that appear to be human, so lifelike that they often themselves don’t know they are fakes. The future looks a lot like the present, only with more pollution, noise, distraction. Ford is at his best when he plays arch, unemotional characters, and here he gets to fumble through the most existential of plots. As he hunts down the rogue replicants, he begins to suspect his own humanity, as well as the humanity of the entire human race. It’s an up and down movie, but when it’s up, it dazzles.

 

An exercise in occult absurdity, but also funny.

20. Ghostbusters/Amadeus/The Empire Strikes Back—No purer expression of the silliness of pure cinema. A great, comedic cast (although some of the humor hasn’t dated well): Bill Murray, Dan Akroyd, Harold Ramis, Sigourney Weaver, Ernie Hudson, Rick Moranis and Annie Potts. The story follows supernatural detectives, of a sort, as they begin their business of capturing and storing ghouls and ghosts. A movie with few ideas, but fun, fun, fun. Amadeus: The legend of Mozart, the angelic composer and rakish man, as filtered through the mad excess of the 1980s. A very fine, very interesting play is adapted to the screen by Milos Forman and the author of the play, Peter Shaffer, with interesting, if at times mixed, results. The music is great, and F. Murray Abraham, who sometimes is prone to overacting, does a fine job as the jealous, insecure Salieri. Tom Dulce is problematic as Mozart; he lacks the gravitas the role requires. The play only works if behind the youthful chatter there’s a great, probing mind at work. I like this film, but I’m not sure it’s going to stand the test of time. The Empire Strikes Back: The story goes that when George Lucas saw a rough cut of the second Star Wars movie, directed by Irving Kushner, he said, “He’s ruined my movies.” Of course, he’s wrong. The second film is stranger, more mythic, and more personal than the all of the others, and the final action scene is the best scene in the entire long-winded cycle. The movie is torn between a half-hearted Buddhist mysticism and a brutal sense of existential hopelessness. The entire film is essentially the brutal extermination of the rebel forces, where mid-level officers chase our heroes from one end of the galaxy to the other. The result is a blockbuster with a chilling, morose center.

 

The Dark Crystal—inspired, puppeteered madness.

21. Blues Brothers/The Dark Crystal—John Landis’s follow-up to Animal House is a larger, bigger spectacle. The basic conceit is Belushi and Akroyd’s deadpan shtick in contrast to the thigh slapping verve of those great soul song and dance numbers, and a placid disassociation with the absurd chaos that surrounds them. There are amazing scenes: James Brown as a reverend; Aretha Franklin as a fed up waitress; the car chase along I-90 and the final blues show. The film has some problems, mainly an outsized reputation based on the individual pieces as opposed as the sum of the parts. But when it works, it’s a hell of a viewing. The Dark Crystal: Jim Henson’s artistic statement about good, evil, and the therefore unseen power of puppeteering. It’s a kid’s movie with ideas. A small, dwarfish creature named Jen, believing himself to be the last of the Gelflings, finds himself caught in a longstanding conflict between the peaceful, agrarian Mystics, and the violent, bird-like Skeksis. Jen journeys across a dangerous, surreal landscape, where he hopes to save the world and perhaps fall in love. It’s a fantastic little movie, better than most fantasies, the otherworldliness of the plot amplified by the strange puppets and plot.

A movie as charming, and cloying, as Matthew Broderick singing in the shower.

 

22. Ferris Bueller’s Day Off/Biloxi Blues—A great movie about the inevitable clash between the old and the young. Matthew Broderick offers a stellar performance as the titular character, a know-it-all wiseguy who is too clever for the adults to understand. He’s decided to take his final day off from high school, taking his girlfriend and best friend along for the ride, and he wants to end his childhood with a bang. Ferris’s flaws are the movie’s flaws. Both are smug, self-involved and too cute. But Ferris’s virtues are the movie’s virtues. Both are charming, funny and intriguing. Biloxi Blues: Mike Nichols’s gift, or one of them anyway, is to make things look easy. Here he adapts Neil Simon’s play about his stint in the army, utilizing Matthew Broderick as Simon’s stand-in. The film follows Broderick as navigates the various personalities of basic training, and his conflict with his drill sergeant, played with laid back brio by Christopher Walken, in what is probably his finest performance. Walken balances his tendency to undercut his films with a smirking irony with a believable, compelling character. One of those movies you can watch over and over.

 

Space laser opera as refracted through the dream logic of David Lynch.

23. Dirty Dancing/Dune—A very fine film about first loves, growing up, and the days before the huge cultural shift of the 1960s. Jennifer Gray is very good as Baby, a well-meaning but sheltered girl from a middle class background. She and her family spend the summer at a family camp retreat, where she becomes infatuated with local dance instructor and absurd hottie Johnny, played by Patrick Swayze. The film offers it’s ideas in subtle, half-concealed flashes—the illegal abortion; the Ayn Rand acolyte; the well-meaning liberal who wants to go on a freedom ride but can’t see the meanness he dishes out to his own staff—and the result is a rare thing: kids see one movie, adults see another. This is a very difficult thing to do, and speaks to the film’s timelessness and popularity. Dune: An underrated blast of science fiction weirdness. David Lynch corrals, and ultimately harnesses, the unwieldiness of Frank Herbert’s epic novel. In the far future, multiple royal houses fight for control of the spice trade. The spice is a drug that allows a specialized guild to fold time and allow for faster than light space travel. The spice is mined from enormous worms that slide and burrow through the desert planet’s vast sandy surface. A large cast of characters war against each other with intrigue, assassins, and outright warfare, all through an idiosyncratic lens of a ritualized, arcane society. The sets, costumes and treatment are simply fantastic. Naysayers should give this film another look.

 

Yes, that's a snake tattoo rising out of his pants. John Carpenter was never subtle.

24. Escape from New York/Batman—John Carpenter had an incredible B-movie run, including Halloween, The Fog, The Thing, Starman, Christine and Big Trouble in Little China, a body of low-budget work that is brutish, nasty, unsentimental, and unparalleled. (Excepting Samuel Fuller, of course.) He deals with the dark, with murderers, ghouls and casual dismemberment. He is not subtle. He is not kind or nice. He had missteps, and his later films are miserable. But in his early career, he is a grand raconteur of the dead and the dying. His movies are often stuffed with ideas. His worldview can be summed up in a few words: the universe is cruel, capricious and violent, full of sucking black stars and dark matter; the human body is frail; and death can come at any time, and it is meaningless. In New York, the island of Manhattan is taken to the logical conclusion of the 1970s crime spree films and turned into the nation’s penal colony. When the president crashes into the island, one man is sent inside to bring him out. Co-stars B-movie experts Lee Van Clief, Harry Dean Stanton and Donald Pleasance. Batman: The 1980s were a great time of grandiose pop posturing. Tim Burton’s stagey, loopy take on the Batman mythology is dark and twisted, and although badly dated and outshined by the recent films, an intriguing take with a dazzling performance by Jack Nicholson as the Joker. He plays it as a murderous, baffling clown, a very literal interpretation that works. His overblown performance steals the movie away from everyone, including Burton, who at times seems a bit lost amidst the jagged sets and smog and rain machines. Still, appropriately grim.

 

An epic characters study of an American communist.

25. Reds/Parenthood/Peewee’s Big Adventure—Warren Beatty’s distills the visual style of Woody Allen, the narrative pacing of Coppola and the social engagement of Elia Kazan. into an epic character study of infamous American communist, John Reed. The film is patient, warm, suitably outraged and honest. Beatty’s acting skills were always meager; he picked good directors and didn’t work much, and the result is a body of work that is impressive, considering his wooden, flat delivery. But, watching this film, which is too long but very fine, it’s clear that Beatty could have been a very fine director.  Parenthood: A suburban take on Hannah and Her Sisters, a comedic romp through the tough challenges of adulthood and parenting. The cast is excellent, especially Diane Wiest, Jason Robards, Rick Moranis, and Steve Martin. Martin and Moranis especially let down their comedic defense shields and show a hard cherry pit of humanity. Look at Martin’s performance in particular; he could have been a very intriguing dramatic actor. This is a very fine movie, funny and touching without being corny. Peewee’s Big Adventure: Who knew that Pee Wee Herman, Paul Reubens’s arrested man child, was such a prescient creation? We can see traces of Pee Wee’s refusal to grow up, compromise, or accept the hard realities of the world in all of our schlubby, fat and soft characters peopling every comedy released. This is a funky little film, a road movie following the ultimate house-bound nerd. Time rests uneasily on this relic of a former age, but there’s something

 

The Running Man: violent, silly, prescient.

26. The Running Man/Raising Arizona—Sometimes it’s the cheesy movies that get so much right. Schwarzenegger had a big-money decade in the 1980s, turning his hard body and weak grasp of English into an improbable blockbuster machine. The films are dated; the blasé violence, from a distance of over 20 years, now seems vicious and nasty; the jokes are terrible; and the acting is, across the board, mediocre. But his body of work does hold little gems, including Predator, Terminator, Total Recall, and later, True Lies. Running Man is a very fine little satire that prefigures the reality TV craze. Schwarzenegger plays a policeman in a totalitarian state who has been falsely accused of committing a massacre. His only way out of a life sentence is to participate in a game show where felons must duel with all-star murderers who hunt them down through a series of combat spaces, all for the delight of the viewing public. Raising Arizona: Inspired lunacy. Nicholas Cage, who when contained by a great director is a very fine actor, plays a dumb as hell thief married to a barren cop. They decide to steal a child from a wealthy family of septuplets. The wealthy father hires a mercenary to track them down, while Cage’s former criminal partners appear to make life difficult for the struggling couple. It’s a Warner Brothers’ cartoon writ large, a slapstick onslaught of stylized violence at a breakneck pace. At any dozen moments the film could have fallen apart, but it doesn’t, and it is this recklessness that gives the movie such machine gun energy.

Honorable mention: The Long Good Friday; The Outsiders; Poltergeist; Highlander; Paris, Texas; Hoosiers; Labyrinth; Class of 1984; Scarface; The Last Temptation of Christ; Chariots of Fire