Best Films of the '70s

by Brian, Greg, and Lons

Part Two

Brian

Aguirre: The Wrath of God - Werner Herzog: Opening with an unforgettable shot only matched by its final one, Werner Herzog’s Aguirre: The Wrath of God traces a man whose ego segues into lunacy. Starring the director’s renowned collaborator, Klaus Kinski, Aguirre begins simply as a vast series of men roaming through mountains in the 16th century, seeking gold. They are confident and self-serving, especially Kinski’s Aguirre, whom takes over the conquest through force, taking the men down the Amazon with its pitfalls and dangers seen as nothing more than annoying obstacles. Herzog has never treated nature idly and Aguirre is the prime example. The callousness of man is outdone by his surroundings as Aguirre’s crew is picked off by native villagers, rapids and starvation. Yet, each death emboldens Aguirre, who Kinski revels within, carrying a manic screen presence. When Herzog’s final shot spins around in circles, a deeper meaning lurks forward, all while the director speaks with a unique voice, putting forth an improvised epic that teeters on chaos.

The Godfather - Francis Ford Coppola:

The first half of cinema’s life has Citizen Kane, the second features The Godfather. Whether the picture is superior to its extraordinary sequel will be endlessly debated for decades and nothing new to that discussion will be found here. Still, for my money, Michael Corleone’s first less than eager steps into the family business is the favorite. Weighted by a legendary performance by Marlon Brando as Don Vito Corleone, The Godfather lures new followers each day, brought in by Francis Ford Coppola’s faultless storytelling and Mario Puzo’s elegant script. Every character is a real attraction to watch, from Robert Duvall’s Tom Hagen, an integral part of the family despite not being a member of it, to troubled son Fredo, a still underappreciated John Cazale. One of the film’s finest concepts is Michael’s reluctance into the mafia. Pacino’s intelligence and charm lends him a real appeal from his first conversation at his sister’s wedding. Michael loves his father but does not respect him, a world of power and wealth is of no desire for him. The love becomes respect when Michael has to avenge his fallen father, leading to his slow descent that closes with the baptism/murder scene. There is nothing quite like a piece of art that not only is touted as the pinnacle of its genre but matches the hype, and for those who have yet to see The Godfather, know that you are in for such a treat.

Harold and Maude - Hal Ashby: Hal Ashby’s Harold and Maude may be the biggest inspiration for writer/directors of the 1990s. The movie’s influence can be seen all over, with Wes Anderson being the biggest culprit. If you have to emulate a movie, Harold and Maude is a primo selection. The quirky tale of a young man who fakes suicide and longs for death who meets an elderly woman who spends her days riding motorcycles is irresistible. With Cat Stevens’ lush music layering the story, Ashby weaves its all with a dark humor that never winks an eye and refrains from preaching its message, letting the two leads, Bud Cort and Ruth Gordon, fill Colon Higgins’ script with an assuredness and humanity that gives Harold and Maude a heart that reverberates long past its initial viewing.

Life of Brian - Terry Jones: Even though fans of Monty Python tend to quote The Holy Grail with greater fervor, Life of Brian remains a comedy classic, so enriched with laughs that its seems difficult to believe a comedy troupe which specialized in short television bits could craft two of the funniest films in a decade. The late Graham Chapman is Brian, a nice fellow who longs to do good where he can, make friends and please his ever nagging mother. It all takes a turn for the worse when a number of Jerusalem’s townsfolk take Brian for a messiah, much to the Roman’s chagrin. Despite being a clear copy of the life of Jesus, the Monty crew treat the Christian’s famous fellow with due respect, instead lampooning society’s needs to be defined but what group he or she belongs to, all others be damned. The laughs that occur include a debate over the meaning of a messiah’s lost sandal, correcting protest spelling errors and a discussion over whether the Roman’s, despite the sanitation, the medicine, education, wine, public order, irrigation, roads, a fresh water system and public health, have ever really done anything helpful for humanity. The Monty Python crew was never as consistent again after Life of Brian, but with a movie this rapturous, that could be for the best.

Marathon Man - John Schlesinger: One can not help but feel for Dustin Hoffman’s Thomas in Marathon Man. Thomas lives in his dead father’s legacy, studying history in New York with little money, struggling to find a date. All problems seem a distant memory by the end of John Schlesinger’s conclusion, as Thomas must deal with his secretive brother, Nazis and dentist drills in a spiraling series of circumstances. Hoffman is remarkable hear, showing once again that when it comes to the finest actors of the 1970s, Hoffman should be in the discussion with Paciono and de Niro more often than he has. As Thomas, Hoffman is a scared, confused young man and his performance only heightens Schlesinger’s directing and William Goldman’s script. By the time Laurence Olivier shows up as the wretched Dr. Christian Szell, the thrills are already in full effect. Marathon Man’s most well known scene, where Szell pries information from Thomas with a dentist drill is rightfully touted as cringe worthy, as Schlesinger lets the instrument roar in anticipation, screaming for a victim, with Olivier coldly asking, “Is it safe?” Twists turn and the story, like Thomas, is nothing like one could predict at the outset, and Marathon Man rightly stands as arguably its decade quintessential nail biter.

Rocky Horror Picture Show - Jim Sharman: The ultimate cult movie. No need for a pondering any other. Rocky Horror Picture Show, warts and all, is an explosion of singing, dancing, leather and cross dressing that enthralls the senses. A wealth of unforgettable songs blare forth, with the two-punch of “Time Warp” and “Sweet Transvestite” taking the viewer, along with the beloved Brad and Janet down a new kind of rabbit hole. A bomb when released, Rocky Horror Picture Show lives on, with thousands of people dressing up, belting the tunes, reenacting the movie and adding his or her own touches to midnight shows across the country every weekend where newcomers emerge with each screening. When I was young, my older brother used to partake in Rocky regularly, which confused me to no end. I asked a friend whose sister would join him, “Why are they going all the time? For one, the movie is overrated and two, the one with Mr. T is totally the best of the series.” Corrected of my silly misconception, I grew to become, like all willing to fall for Tim Curry’s lusty and inviting eyes, a follower, hitting up midnight screenings years later. No other movie can boast the group nature Rocky Horror Picture Show instills and few can rival its spirit of freeness and fun.

Star Wars - George Lucas: Endlessly quotable with probably every minute of it being mocked, lovingly and angrily, Star Wars is, above all, a damn good time. George Lucas made a movie, though certainly not as groundbreaking as some say, works so precisely by way of its variety. No favorite character lurks over the others. Chewbacca, Darth Vader, Obi-wan, Han Solo and even Grand Moff Tarkin have die hard fans. The same is true for the story. The Death Star exploding, the first sight of Vader, and Chewie’s chess match all pop and standout on their own and in the larger context of the picture. Before the nostalgia, poorly received prequels and army of toys, Star Wars was an exciting adventure, worthy of its critical love and wild fandom. As the years go on, and despite the efforts of Lucas, the effects are dated and continue to become more so. Oddly, that may add to its legacy in the way the original King Kong has, triumphant as a definitive piece of pop culture cinema.

Straw Dogs - Sam Peckinpah: Sam Peckinpah’s second 70s picture, Straw Dogs, is an ideal example of the decade’s film world. The movie is a rough at the edges, far from perfect work that also bursts with energy and emotion, a world where no emotions are hidden and the bluntness of one’s opinions can lead to trouble. In adapting Gordon Williams novel, "The Siege of Trencher’s Farm", Peckinpah and fellow screenwriter David Zelag Goodman crafted a narrative about an American man and his wife living in a small English village. The man is Dustin Hoffman’s David Sumner, an unlikable researcher who leaves his native country, prone to avoid confrontation at every turn. Unfortunately, David’s wife Amy, a superb Susan George, is a temptress to the town, though her intentions as such have been debated by the film’s fans and detractors since it’s 1971 release. Peckinpah draws the audience in with tranquil fits of joy, shattered with vitriol and violence. The brutality of Straw Dogs is constant but never excessive, even if it may feel as such at times. Peckinpah longed to show the impact quick bouts of bloodshed could cost. As the last half hour crescendos from anxious self-defense to acidic vengeance, Straw Dogs reveals that while Wild Bunch remains Peckinpah’s most acclaimed work, it is not his most bold statement on society and how we live.

Suspiria - Dario Argento: In a decade where horror came into its own, Dario Argento’s Suspiria stands as unique vision of shock and surrealism. Set in a ballet academy, Suspiria opens with a grisly and eerie murder, the first of many. The initial slaughter is the movie’s best known, nightmarish in nature and nearly impossible to get out of one’s head. No doubt Argento’s film is hard to watch at times but it remains ever enticing. With the help of cinematographer Luciano Tovolo, Argento dumps vivid streams of purple and red on each shot, building sequences that have been compared to a Disney take on horror, most often Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. There are scarier, subtler and frankly better horror movies made since Suspiria, but few, if any, are as imaginative.

The Tenant - Roman Polanski:

Following up Chinatown, Roman Polanski returned to a genre he had mastered years earlier with Rosemary’s Baby, the horror thriller. Starring himself, The Tenant is a creepy, crawl under your skin tale of a man who takes a lease on an apartment in France, not yet fresh from the suicide attempt made in it days earlier. Quiet and content, Polanski begins to unravel as his neighbors infect his mind, staring out of windows in the middle of the night, accusing him of false orders of misconduct and seeking his sides in bouts against other residents. Everyone wants to be alone and any invasion of one’s solitude is a heinous act. Polanski shoots it all with long takes, a restrained score and the occasional uncomfortable close up - the latter used to great effect, allowing a tension and paranoia to take hold. When Polanski’s character stumbles through his apartment and finds a human tooth in the walls, panic becomes palpable. Life does not get easier or saner from then on and the subsequent lunacy has to be seen.

Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory - Mel Stuart: Few family films work as cult ones too and that is part of the magic of Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory. The horrific nature of what is happening on screen, accompanied by eerie songs, is coated with a candy covering. It's a tale of not the strong surviving, but rather the pure. Gene Wilder's work is appropriately celebrated here. His Willy Wonka is a wild, intimidating man, with a devilish grin and the ability to furiously snap at anyone who disobeys the rules. The scene where Wonka screams at Charlie has a resonance that lingers with adults who watched the movie as children. For a generation, it is the most intoxicating film from their youth, never losing its cool like so many early favorites. The source can be seen in the Wonka and Charlie moment. An adult world stands in the center of a fairy tale and not in the postmodern, pop-culture referencing sense. The Wizard of Oz carries a similar tone. Oz blossomed with make believe, an outsider in a dreamy new realm, like Charlie in Wonka’s factory. The world had a cruelty, however – a sense of danger. Allowing a film for all ages to carry its starkness gives it timelessness, especially handled as masterfully as Mel Stuart’s movie does. That Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory is as fresh and alive more than 30 years later, despite its iconic stature, is a true testament to its quality.

Young Frankenstein - Mel Brooks: It may not be the most popular or most quoted of Mel Brooks’ pictures, but Young Frankenstein is undoubtedly the best. A send up/homage of 1930s cinema, Brooks’ film is a classic tale of a man trying to rid the sins of the father from his palette and that of his peers. When the past calls, however, Dr. Frederick Frankenstein leaps at the possibility of rejuvenating life into the dead. With the trusted help of Igor, a riotous Marty Feldman, Gene Wilder and Brooks wrote a flawless script, with hard laughs done to perfection by Wilder’s Frankenstein and Feldman. “What knockers,” “Abby Someone,” “There wolf, there castle” and, of course, “You take the blonde, I’ll take the one in the turban” are only a handful of lines the Young Frankenstein lovers say with smiles on their faces and glee in their hearts.

Halloween - John Carpenter: When people talk about sequels killing the legacy of why people loved a film in the first place, the horror genre always pops into mind. Halloween may be one of the biggest fatalities of the syndrome. Nearly 30 years after its release, with a bevy of sequels and prequel/remake on the horizon, many see Halloween as just another slasher flick. I know I did. When I first watched the movie, surrounded by friends at a party a few days before the titular event, I expected nothing of it and got that in return. I watched it idly; positive I was only missing out on a few random, mindless splaterific takedowns of teenagers. Well, I was wrong. John Carpenter’s picture, with the help of co-writer Debra Hill, is a terrorizing, mountain of a movie. The scares do not so much pop out as leer at you from around a dark corner, with a towering Michael Myers, knife in hand, ready to swipe. As Jamie Lee Curtis runs in fear, a dread takes hold and Carpenter’s minimalist direction and score make the waiting for the monster almost as horrifying as when Michael Myers appears, and that he lives up to be the chilling figure he is toted as is damn fine filmmaking.

Greg

Alien - Ridley Scott: The 1970's may be primarily known for its prestige films, but its popcorn pictures easily stand up against the best of any decade. Take Alien, a defining film in both the genres of science fiction and horror. In many ways, it's surprising that these two genres are not successfully combined more often when you think about how much fear surrounds what science could potentially bring us. Also of note, is the fact that while the film's protagonists are exposed to the ultimate danger through science, said danger is itself an element of nature. Am I reading too much into things here? Maybe, but that's what was great about the popcorn fare of the time. You could pick apart the subtleties of what Ridley Scott was trying to say with Alien, or you could just enjoy watching Sigourney Weaver evade the ultimate killing machine.

American Graffiti - George Lucas: George Lucas is quite possibly the most important figure of the past 40 years in film. From pioneering new technologies in visual and sound effects, to completely redefining the Hollywood blockbuster, Lucas' legacy is undeniable. And what's so remarkable about American Graffiti is that it's a wonderful stand-alone film that bears little to no connection to everything Lucas is remembered for. The film is an amazingly on-the-nose meditation of nostalgia and growing up. As much as I love Star Wars (and I could go on for hours about how much I do), it has always saddened me that those films ended up monopolizing Lucas' career and we never got to see him make another more personal film like American Graffiti.

Chinatown - Roman Polanski: Although there have been many forays into noir in recent decades, few have been able to transcend fetishism for movie buffs in love with the films of the 1940's. Chinatown, however, is a shining example that the genre can be every bit as effective several decades removed from the film-noir boom. The film hits all the right buttons, providing the trademark noir twists and archetypes, yet it very much feels like a product of the 70s. I can't quite think of a higher compliment than to say that Chinatown successfully marries the two greatest decades in American film.

Close Encounters of the Third Kind - Steven Spielberg:

In Steven Spielberg's first film after gaining recognition with Jaws, we got our first taste of what the master could do with a budget and the result was one of the greatest science fiction films of all time. E.T. may be the film people tend to gravitate toward, but Close Encounters was the first to fully employ Spielberg's talents for the mundane and fantastic, albeit with a more adult narrative. What I really love about Close Encounters is that it is a film about alien visitors and there is not a single explosion or laser blast, but it's easily as exciting as any of the formulaic sci-fi invasion epics we get pummeled with every summer.

The Deer Hunter - Michael Cimino: One of the most effective anti-war movies ever, The Deer Hunter stunned audiences with its uncompromisingly bleak depiction of the effect of the Vietnam War on veterans. The film also gave career highpoints for stars Robert De Niro, Meryl Streep, and especially Christopher Walken. Walken is always a welcome presence on screen, but very few films have really shown the raw talent the guy has the way The Deer Hunter did. At three harrowing hours director Michael Cimino's magnum opus is an emotionally exhausting film to sit through, but it's a positively stunning work that should be required viewing for anyone with an opinion on the cost of war.

Lenny - Bob Fosse: I suppose my list is mostly composed of well tread ground when it comes to appraisals of the films of the 70s (and in my defense the decade provided quite a surplus of widely acclaimed cinema), so I'm glad I managed to fit a less talked about gem in there. I've spoken at length about my admiration for the work of Dustin Hoffman and Lenny is one my favorites of his catalogue. The movie also won me over by heavily featuring two things I have quite a passion for, First Amendment issues and edgy (i.e. politically incorrect) humor. And I can't proceed without crediting Lenny for having one of the most effective executions of the faux-documentary style I have ever seen. All in all, a great film that should be checked out by anyone who thinks they've mined all the great work of the 1970's.

Monty Python and the Holy Grail - Terry Gilliam, Terry Jones: And now for something completely different. Monty Python and the Holy Grail really doesn't have much on its mind aside from making people laugh, but boy does it get the job done in that department. One of the most timeless comedies ever, The Holy Grail is every bit as funny now as it was in 1975 and I honestly can't imagine an era when it will not be just as universally hilarious. I'm not sure if it's the overall silliness of things like the Knights who say "Ni!" or perhaps the Brits know something we don't when it comes to humor, but whatever the case may be, Monty Python is pretty much the perfect comedy.

Network - Sidney Lumet: Satire can be a tough genre to crack. Balancing humor and cultural observations can prove difficult for the deftest of filmmakers and writers, and even when they do hit the mark they usually date themselves pretty quickly. So what's truly amazing about Network is that if anything it has gotten more relevant over the years. What's somewhat frightening is that so many have heard Peter Finch's "I'm as mad as hell and I'm not gonna take it anymore" out of context and have adopted it as some kind of anthem just like the television viewers in the film. Perhaps if more people would actually watch the movie they are quoting, today's television and media would be a little less sensationalistic (but I wouldn't take that bet).

Superman - Richard Donner: A year after Star Wars changed all the rules about what could be done in on the silver screen, America's greatest pop culture icon finally got a worthy film adaptation. The film was in production already when Star Wars opened, so it's debatable what, if any, influence one had on the other. However Lucas' film certainly ushered in a new era in filmmaking where the limitations of the medium were beginning to erode, and Superman cemented the notion that if you can imagine a story, Hollywood can show it to you. To paraphrase the movie's one-sheet: for the first time movie-goers truly believed a man could fly.

Taxi Driver - Martin Scorsese:

Though the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences seems to have just discovered him a few short months ago, the rest of us know that Martin Scorsese has been making some of the best films of the past 4 decades. While I love many of Scorsese's films and at least like the rest, I must say that I consider Taxi Driver his crowning achievement. Though it's arguably Scorsese's only signature film that does not involve the mob, that deviation from the filmmaker's obvious strengths is clearly not a detriment. Also missing is the director's trademark use of pop music, with a jazzy score in its place. What fans will recognize however are Scorsese's social commentary, his stark depiction of on-screen violence, his unmistakable visual flair, and Robert De Niro which are all very present. The penultimate scene in the film where Travis Bickle's story meets its inevitable conclusion is perhaps the best scene in the career of a filmmaker known for amazing scenes.

Lons

Hardcore - Paul Schrader: The phrase "so bad it's good" gets thrown around a lot, usually to describe things that are simply bad.  Someone once told me that Rush Hour was "so bad it was really good," when actually the opposite is true.  Rush Hour is so good at being a bland, generic, easily-marketed piece of mainstream fluff that it's really really incredibly bad.  But Paul Schrader's Hardcore, the story of a strict Calvinist single father searching Los Angeles' porn-n-sleaze underground for his missing daughter, somehow manages to be both grindingly, painfully awful and ingenious simultaneously.  Schrader based his film on the Western classic The Searchers, a crusade to save a "ruined" girl from an loathed but never-seen enemy, but in practice his film's a fish-out-of-water comedy.  George C. Scott's sheltered Grand Rapids naif wanders around the scummiest back alleys of late '70s Hollywood, hassling prostitutes and erotic masseuses for information, accompanied by the world's worst private eye (a wry Peter Boyle).  It's like a Neil Simon letter to Penthouse Forum.  Schrader clearly ran out of movie before shooting his action ending, so the climactic fistfight between Scott and a professional dirtbag named Rattan plays out in an S&M dungeon that looks like it was thrown together in about 2 hours from scraps leftover from the set of TV's "Hercules."  And if the notion of George C. Scott having a fistfight in a hastily-decorated S&M dungeon doesn't make you want to watch this movie, perhaps you'd be more comfortable at a different website.

Barry Lyndon - Stanley Kubrick: This is Stanley Kubrick the perfectionist at his most perfect.  Really, it's almost like the work of a film making robot, able to produce some of the most beautifully composed shots ever set to film but with absolutely no inclination towards making an audience care about the actual story.  Kubrick's "rake's progress," languidly following the titular character's rise and fall, is extremely eventful and yet also somehow insignificant.  Perhaps the point is to view a biography we might ordinarily consider fascinating from the perspective of a deity or some other wholly unconcerned or sympathetic party, to look on the tiresome rituals and behaviors of humanity with fresh eyes. 

Duck, You Sucker - Sergio Leone: Uncommonly epic and entertaining, even by Sergio Leone standards, this story about unlikely revolutionaries adrift in Mexico showcases all the director's strengths.  Dazzling action sequences drenched in Leone's trademark style are interrupted occasionally for fiery political rhetoric and insights into the inevitable disappointment that follows genuine periods of change.  Yeah, Duck You Sucker is a Western about the perversions that necessarily come to taint any long-term endeavor, no matter how well-intentioned. The central players - Rod Steiger and James Coburn - are both inhabiting rather ridiculous, larger-than-life characters, but manage to anchor them in reality just enough to make them endearing and sympathetic.  I can't say as much in favor of their accents (Steiger plays a Mexican and Coburn an Irishman), but Steiger's exaggerated pronunciation may have inspired Pacino's similar patois in Scarface.  And such a quibble barely mentions a merit considering the film's many highlights, particularly its driving Ennio Morricone score.

Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia - Sam Peckinpah: Like some of his other late masterpieces, Peckinpah's most personal (even autobiographical?) film was derided in its own time and has only found a fanbase subsequently on video and DVD.  How any fan of Westerns, action films or just the cinema in general could fail to appreciate Bennie's (Warren Oates) gruesome, drink-fueled adventure along the road to ruin is quite simply beyond me.  An impressive bounty has been placed on the titular cranium, belonging to a man Bennie knows to be dead.  Bennie accepts the grim assignment of digging up this man, Alfredo, and cutting off his head, but soon begins to resent the task.  What right does anyone have to demand that this man's grave be desecrated, or to make such extravagant demands of Bennie, for that matter? Few films have spoken so honestly and angrily about personal defeat, the dread-inducing knowledge that entrenched power wins every conflict, every time.  Peckinpah knew defeat well, knew the feeling of powerful people forcibly exerting their influence from afar, and he renders Bennie's increasing frustration at the unseen, external hand guiding his dark odyssey with palpable rage bubbling just underneath the surface.  Until the climax, when it explodes. 

The Getaway - Sam Peckinpah:

All of Peckinpah's films identify with outsiders, and The Getaway pretty openly asks you to sympathize with a murdering bank robber.  Doc McCoy is Steve McQueen at his iconic best: tough, distant, quiet and cool.  We root for him not only because he's played by Steve McQueen, but because everyone else around him is such a heel.  McCoy's wife Carol has essentially sold herself to a politician to get Doc out of jail, and there's unbelievably another catch - they have to rob a bank together and give over half the proceeds.  All this set-up takes a bit too long, though it's certainly pleasant to look at, thanks largely to Lucien Ballard's bright, crisp cinematography.  But once the sinister Rudy Butler (Al Lettieri, best known as Sollozzo from The Godfather) begins to give chase after Doc and Carol, the tempo picks up, and The Getaway transforms into one of the superior action films of the '70s.  Taking a two hour journey through this polluted, gleefully amoral world of greed and murder with Doc doesn't necessarily make him more likable, but it makes some of his choices more understandable.

Don't Look Now - Nicolas Roeg: Nicolas Roeg throws several horror movie cliches around in Don't Look Now, but it's not really a horror movie.  The film's Venice is filled with supernatural mysteries and shadowy terrors - from serial murderers to psychic sisters - but they're distant elements on the edge of the frame.  Roeg's focus remains squarely on two events, essentially the first and last things that happen in the film.  Everything else is questionable at best, a subjective matter, and essentially beside the point.  In the film's opening scene, Laura and John Baxter find their daughter drowned in a small pond near their property.  A while later, they're in Venice so John can perform restoration on a church, and they share some peculiar experiences, seeing visions of their little girl or meeting psychics that claim to see her.  Roeg plays around with time throughout the movie in a variety of ways; at one point, he intercuts a scene of Laura and John making love with the two of them getting dressed and going out afterwards.  The comparison may be between their inability to save their child, the frustration of not being present when their daughter died, and the more general lack of power over time.  It's almost as if all the events in Don't Look Now have already happened, and John and Laura are living through a retrospective that's been cut together (a technique Roeg uses more prominently in Bad Timing).

F For Fake - Orson Welles: F for Fake is Orson Welles' "Penn and Teller" moment.  After a career of using trickery to entertain and enlighten, he peels back to curtain and shows off how it was really done.  The cinema, Welles demonstrates, is all about deception, just a more sophisticated version of sawing a box in half.  A scenario is presented as reality, and yet it is not real; it is the culmination of a variety of fraudulent processes, from writing a script to blocking out a scene to developing the film using a certain process to editing segments of that film together to look continuous.  F for Fake looks at the forgery of cinema by examining the world of art forgery, specifically an art forger named Elmyr de Hory.  According to his biographer, Clifford Irving, De Hory was a criminal genius; only he knew the difference between an original painting and his own work (and sometimes even he gets confused!)  The story takes an odd twist when it's revealed that Irving, the man writing a book about De Hory's forgeries, is himself a master at fraud, having convinced the nation that he has contacted reclusive millionaire Howard Hughes.  (Irving's story was the subject of this year's Richard Gere film The Hoax, which I did not see).  Welles purpose isn't really to relate this strange anecdote, but to examine our assumptions about the differences between reality and fakery.  One stunning scene finds Welles considering the cathedral at Chartres, a hauntingly beautiful piece of architecture fashioned by an unknown designer. The cathedral has stood for so long, has endured so many centuries, that it no longer matters who designed it and who gets credit for its construction. It simply exists as a monument to the greatness that mankind can achieve.

The Passenger - Michaelangelo Antonioni: As with most Michaelangelo Antonioni movies, he's not really given any hints as to what The Passenger is all about.  Frustrated journalist David Locke (Jack Nicholson) finds a dead body in the hotel room next to his.  It's a guy he met briefly that day, a stranger he knows nothing about.  So he decides to trade identities with the guy, makes it appear that he has died, and promptly disappears.  And not only that, but he starts living out the guy's life, keeping to his schedule and attending his appointments.  He meets a young girl (played by Maria Schneider and identified only as "Girl") who comes along with him.   It turns out, dead guy was an arms dealer, and now David's committed to making some sort of large-scale delivery to some rebel group.  Why do Locke and this girl want to get involved in all this?  They don't really have anything to gain by this adventure, and it could get them killed.  And what was David running away from? It's not so much that Antonioni craves ambiguity for its own sake.  Really, he wants to move beyond these questions.  He could invent some sort of reason for Locke's escape, but it's makes the film more intriguing to leave the question open.  Antonioni's true purpose is more about examining identity, how a few small traits and ticks and pieces of identification essentially add up to a person. Locke and this dead man are basically interchangable commodities. So long as they provide that which is expected of them, show up at the right places at the right times with an ID card, no one cares if it's the "correct" person.

California Split - Robert Altman: One of Robert Altman's best and most underappreciated films, this comedy-drama about degenerate gamblers couldn't really be any more charming or likable.  Elliot Gould and George Segal largely improved their performances as Charlie and Bill, gambling addicts who drift from casino to casino chasing an ever-diminishing and increasingly expensive buzz.  At first, their excesses are all fun and games, but eventually, after a disastrous run in Tijuana, the stakes are raised significantly and Altman's lightly edgy comedy turns a bit sad.  Amazingly, Altman made this film in the same year as the similarly-brilliant Thieves Like Us.  Unbelievable.

The Parallax View - Alan Pakula: Among the best of the '70s "paranoia thrillers," Alan Pakula's Parallax View is one of the most claustrophobic films ever made.  Master cinematographer Gordon Willis, who I'm certain worked on several films on this collected list, shoots the whole film with an eye towards surveillance video.  We can barely make out what's happening during some of the climactic scenes, getting only the ankles and shoes of the protagonists, or a dark shot from behind someone's head.  It's almost as if we're the villains, coolly monitoring a potential threat until it's time to put a stop to it for good.  Joe Frady (Warren Beatty, playing version of himself #4) uncovers a strange, sinister plot being perpetrated by the Parallax Corporation, but no one will believe him.  He becomes trapped in something of a Catch-22: the more evidence Frady compiles against Parallax, the less in touch with reality he seems.  Pakula's film, like some of the later work of Oliver Stone, pushes beyond the disillusionment we all feel in our federal government, whose excesses and criminality seem to just become more and more prevalent and disgraceful over time, into a full-bore anxiety attack.  It's an expressionist film about panic, realizing that your freedom has been an illusion and that you're at the mercy of indifferent forces far greater than yourself.

The Last of Sheila - Herbert Ross: Stephen Sondheim, apparently, liked to plot out elaborate games and puzzles for his friends to work out, and the practice inspired this wickedly clever murder-mystery-comedy with an extremely '70s version of an all-star cast.  James Coburn (again) stars as eccentric multimillionaire Clinton, whose wife Sheila died walking home after a party.  One year later, he invites several of the attendees from that party for a pleasure cruise on his yacht.  They include Dyan Cannon, Ian McShane, Richard Benjamin, Raquel Welch and James Mason as old friends with glamorous lives and horrifying secrets.  Clinton has concocted an elaborate game he wants them to play, a game seemingly designed to pull all the skeletons out of all the closets.  When Clinton turns up dead, it's agreed that the survivors will have to solve his puzzle in order to unearth the culprit.  The script (by Sondheim and Psycho star Anthony Perkins) is an absolute marvel of invention, composed of not just one puzzle but several interlocking mysteries.  And director Herbert Ross brings a light comic touch to the proceedings; it never gets bogged down with excessive details, and amusing dialogue and character moments never take a backseat to the laborious workings-out of the story.

Killing of a Chinese Bookie - John Cassavetes:

My favorite John Cassavetes film is a heartbreaking collision of grit and tenderness, a wholly sympathetic portrayal of an aging loser desperately clinging to his delusional playboy persona.  Cosmo Vitelli (Ben Gazzara in a brilliant, subtle turn) is at once proud and pathetic, a strip club owner with a ferocious gambling addiction who takes great pleasure in the sense of community he's fostered with his dancers.  Vitelli owes some very bad people some money, and they convince him to pay back his debt by murdering the alleged bookie of the title.  Cosmo is not a violent man by nature, and the decision to trade this stranger's life for his own, we gather, is the culmination of a life-long downward slide, a brutal succession of missed opportunities and unrealized goals.  Cassavetes includes some of the trappings of gangster films - shootouts, double-crosses and elaborate threats of violence - but the heart of the film is Vitelli's strip club, the Crazy Horse West, a private, pitch-black little world where he forever holds court, alongside the equally broken-down, and ironically titled, emcee Mr. Sophistication.

The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie - Luis Bunuel: What's consistently amazing about Luis Bunuel's Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie is not so much its brilliance.  That's to be expected from Bunuel, one of my favorite directors and among the cinema's most inventive guiding lights.  It's his mastery of pretty much every conceivable genre, from the horror film to the social comedy, that I can't get over every time I watch this movie.  Freeing himself from the constraints of conventional narrative - in which a situation logically proceeds from set-up to conflict to resolution - also allows Bunuel to pivot quickly between a diversity of moods and styles.  The audience becomes trained to expect such inconsistencies; hyperactivity becomes part of the atmosphere of Bunuel's metafiction.  The film, essentially a surreal comedy, concerns six middle-class assholes who continually attempt to share a meal together but never quite manage the task.  The phony world that these superficial twits inhabit is thus reduced to the level of crude farce, their manners and carefully-crafted public personas rendered ridiculous by the increasingly-absurd circumstances in which Bunuel continually places them.

Terrifying Girls' High School: Lynch Law Classroom - Norifumi Suzuki: Terrifying Girls' High School hit DVD a few years back as part of No Shame's superlative "Pinky Violence" DVD Collection.  It's easily the best of that bunch, a ferocious sensual assault that's the angriest, most caustic and downright gruesome high school drama you're likely to see.  Ever. Three tough new students (including "pink film" legend Reiko Ike) are thrown into the mix at an All Girls' academy that's more Oz than Vassar.  The girls must deal with an administration full of perverts who keep discipline by allowing certain cliques of girls to torture and humiliate others.  (The film opens with a young student having her blood methodically drained out in a science lab.)  It certainly makes for some entertaining viewing, let me tell you, as all manner of vile punishments and retributions are doled out between the school's most vicious students.  The film culminates in an incredibly executed, surprisingly large-scale school-wide riot, as the cops face off against the yakuza-trained student body.  Norifumi Suzuki, who made a successful career out of the pink sub-genre, really outdid himself with this one.  If you only see one Japanese film about hot yakuza biker chicks fighting teachers and police officers in a All-Girls School battle royale, make it Terrifying Girls' High School.

The Wicker Man - Robin Hardy: The Nicholas Cage remake of this film was more than a travesty.  It was like eight travesties all wrapped up together into one enormous uber-travesty.  Director Neil LaBute managed to surgically remove every single element that makes Robin Hardy's 1973 classic memorable.  Surely he realized that without the sex and religion, the story doesn't make any sense, right?  I mean, the guy's a writer.  Anyway, the original film is the ideal, a perfect mixture of horror and camp, two styles that don't necessarily go together.  A little bit of camp goes a long way, and tends to undermine the mounting tension required to make a film frightening, as Rocky Horror Picture Show makes perfectly clear.  And it's true that Hardy's film is more amusing than scary.  But it undeniably build up a sense of dread as it goes along, with the pious and rigid Sergeant Howie (Edward Woodward) investigating the freaky religious cult run by the serpentine Lord Summerisle (Christopher Lee, in one of his most iconic and celebrated roles).  The movie is downright silly for a while, as Howie becomes more and more unnerved by the cultists' liberated sexuality and overt paganism.  And of course, it builds to one of the classic shock endings/final shots in all of the movies.  Movies like The Wicker Man are particularly precious, I think, because there are so few other films that succeed in exactly this way, that can maintain a sense of play and the illusion of anarchy for 100 minutes.

Straight Time - Ulu Grosbard: Dustin Hoffman never gets to play edgy any more.  Now, everyone remembers him as Tootsie and Benjamin from The Graduate, so he gets cast as goofy, genial old softies in paper-thin buffoonery like Meet the Fockers and the disgraceful Stranger Than Fiction . (From full-time hack Marc Forster!)  But back in the '70s, Hoffman would get roles like steely but vulnerable ex-con Max Dembo.  After his latest stint inside, Max gets out determined to do it right this time, to build a real life.  Unfortunately, his plans begin to come apart immediately.  He doesn't report in to the halfway house his first night out, but instead gets his own hotel room, which icauses strife with his hardass parole officer (M. Emmett Walsh, amazing in a brief supporting performance).  He has an old friend from inside (Gary Busey) over to his room, and the guy immediately wants to shoot up on his bed. The only job he can manage to land after all that time in prison is at a bottle factory. There's more than a hint of inevitability to Max's gradual descent back into a life of crime.  Hoffman plays him as more of a conman than a bank robber; he's so good at feigning regular-joe sincerity, the wounded victim of circumstance who just wants a normal life, he has himself fooled.  He certainly has us in the audience fooled, for a while.  In an instant, perhaps a moment of weakness but more likely a moment of clarity, Max remembers who he is and what he's all about.  From that point on, there's no looking back.  Max makes sure of that.  He convinces wide-eyed employment office clerk Jenny Mercer (Theresa Russell) and his old partner Jerry Schue (Harry Dean Stanton) to come along for the ride, and sets out, determined, after his next big score.  Quentin Tarantino borrowed some of the sequences from Ulu Grosbard's masterful crime drama for Reservoir Dogs, but QT's never made a film with this kind of heavy melancholy.  This is the story of a man who systematically sets out to destroy all of his options, and then lashes out when he succeeds.  A stellar achievement.

Charley Varrick - Don Siegel: Speaking of films from which Quentin Tarantino has borrowed...Charley Varrick.  QT repurposed two elements of the film: Walter Matthau's trailer home became Michael Madsen's trailer home in Kill Bill V. 2, and John Vernon's monologue about "a pair of pliers and a blowtorch" comes out of Ving Rhames' mouth in Pulp Fiction .  So that only leaves about 99,998 great moments that you can only see by watching this movie.  Don Siegel's Charley Varrick marries his typically sharp eye for action along with an exceedingly clever screenplay by Dean Riesner and Howard Rodman, making it one of the few times in Siegel's career where the material actually merited his abilities.  Charley and his wife Nadine have been supplementing his modest exterminator's salary by robbing local New Mexico banks.  Their most recent score, unfortunately, goes down while the bank is in the middle of laundering money for the Mafia; Charley makes it away clean, but with a deadly hitman named Molly (Joe Don Baker) fresh on his trail.  What follows is some of the best tough-guy filmmaking of the '70s, with Charley repeatedly called upon to outwit the crafty gangsters creeping up from just one step behind.

Shogun's Samurai - Kinji Fukasaku: Sonny Chiba stars as Yagyu Jubei, a swordsman who becomes embroiled in a fight between two brothers over their late father's throne, in Kinji Fukasaku's epic blend of historical drama and action.  I've always enjoyed Shogun's Samurai because it's comprehensible.  Owing in large part to my general ignorance of the details of Japanese history, I typically find these kind of period political thrillers incredibly entertaining but equally confusing.  Shogun's Samurai might not be the best samurai film - it's surpassed in artistry by Hiroshi Inagaki's Samurai trilogy, Okamoto's Sword of Doom and some of Kurosawa's masterpieces of the genre - but it's among the most engaging and immediately accessible.  Fukasaku's provided a terrific primer of some of the delights Japanese cinema has to offer and just an all-around great lazy afternoon movie.

Captain Kronos, Vampire Hunter - Brian Clemens: I'm a huge fan of Britain's Hammer film studio, responsible for so many classic horror films of the '50s and '60s (Hound of the Baskervilles, The Mummy, The Curse of Frankenstein and so on).  By the mid-'70s, when Captain Kronos came along, tastes had changed, and the studio experimented, mainly unsuccessfully, with more nudity and excessive gore.  The only real creative leap that worked out well was Captain Kronos, a charming mixture of Hammer's old-fashioned macabre atmosphere and an Errol Flynn-style swashbuckling comic-adventure.  Kronos was clearly meant to kick off an entire series of fantasy films, in which the Captain travels around the countryside with his hunchbacked assistant, Prof. Hieronymos Grost, slaying vampires, saving beautiful young maidens and cracking wise, but the film was a flop.  Watching the 1974 film today, amidst a glut of post-modern reinventions of the horror genre, it's clear Brian Clemens good-natured parody was just ahead of its time.

Continue to Part III