Entries run chronologically from bottom to top.
In high school, everything is dead serious, and everything’s a joke. Your mind groans under the weight of classes and crushes. You exchange notes. You wonder who to sit beside in first period. As this bountiful comedy whirls around its loose ensemble, it absorbs every one of those ridiculous details. It soaks in graffiti, band logos, and pin-up posters. Some of its tacky minutiae blossom into visual gags: Judge Reinhold serving seafood while wearing a huge pirate hat; Sean Penn as a blithe stoner stumbling out of a hotboxed VW bus; or a student cheating on a test with notes scrawled on her upper thigh. These images are slightly cartoonish, yet still emotionally credible. They’re preposterous enough to feel true.
When the film works blue, with bits about blow jobs and masturbation, it does so with clear affection for its naïve characters. After a boy’s lightning-fast orgasm makes Jennifer Jason Leigh droop in disappointment, the camera stays right on her face. She sits halfway up, still nude, mouth agape, and watches him put on his pants. (You can see Leigh’s venomous career taking shape.) The scene throbs with sympathy. It’s a mercy when the next cut reveals Leigh slicing sausage in a pizzeria as she gossips with her best friend. Their banter’s written with a sexual frankness that prefigures and outdoes Kevin Smith’s whole filmography. Their solidarity takes the sting out of adolescence’s self-inflicted humiliations.
Richard Widmark sneers. Donna Reed glares. Together they ride from Arizona to Texas across a cactus-dotted expanse. They strike up an obligatory courtship, plausible only through their shared bitterness. He slaps her. He kisses her. The soundtrack fills with horses’ hooves and ricocheting bullets. Reed wears a cream button-up with a yellow bow around her neck. Sometimes the button-up’s striped and the bow is forest green. She tops off the look with a wide-brimmed black hat. (Costumes by Rosemary Odell, who spent two decades in wardrobe at Universal.) Though Backlash’s tangled plot may underserve its leading lady, at least she can still cut an angry Technicolor figure against the desert sands.
This effects-heavy jungle adventure carries hints of horror. (The men behind Re-Animator were behind this, too.) A cigarette butt crashes like a meteor, sparks and ashes scattered in its wake. A red scorpion lumbers along like a Harryhausen nightmare. The film’s climax is Rick Moranis nearly spooning a child into his mouth, like a PG-rated restaging of Saturn Devouring His Son. Threats of dicing, drowning, and broken bones loom at every turn. To quote The Night of the Hunter, “It’s a hard world for little things.” The streamlined screenplay shrinks the kids about twenty minutes in, then allows for two minutes of falling action once they revert. In between, some mild comedy with the worried parents runs parallel to the kids’ plight. Most of the film’s attention, though, goes to its towering sets. Pebbles and blades of grass stretch up to the sky with an uncanny grandeur. Grooves in a floorboard become rilles in the surface of an alien world. God, I love it when movies play around with scale!
The visual grammar of this minimalist marvel develops in a rhythmic back and forth. First the driver’s seat, then the passenger seat. Driver’s seat, then passenger seat, over and over across ten short chapters. No two shots, mind you: just one person or the other, speaking or reacting, with rolling glimpses of Tehran visible through either window. As the car loops around the city, the driver—a candid divorcée played by and partly based on actress Mania Akbari—exchanges desultory chitchat with the friends and sometimes strangers who sit beside her. They discuss religious etiquette, vent about their personal lives, and usually circle back to their frustrations as women in a world run by men. Horns honk in the distance. Other cars roar past. Her only male companion is her preteen son (played by Akbari’s son), whom she chauffeurs through a few of the film’s chapters. He whines and cracks wise; he addresses her without a shred of respect. Per King Lear: “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is / to have a thankless child.” Like the rest of the film, her conversations with him are never didactic, nor especially dramatic. They’re just plain and poignant examples of two people talking side by side in a moving vehicle.
That loaf of bread has a soul. Your dead grandparents miss you. Your family’s house cat is a latent Iago figure, eager to sabotage your adventure. Ah, but these are only a few of the terrors that await within the opulent cosmology of The Blue Bird. Tourneur stages this grotesque fantasy with a lot of illusory cuts and dissolves. Stop-motion propels animated furniture around a living room floor. Tinting differentiates the film’s episodes: pink for the Palace of Happiness, cerulean for the Palace of Night. (Sometimes overlaid with a patina of nitrate decay.) Veiled maidens, in the theatrical style of early cinema, embody moral principles. They shepherd a pair of impressionable siblings from palace to palace for a nightlong lecture. It’s a zero-nuance hazard to the emotional health of children wrapped up in a wealth of spectacle.
The deliberately rote plot plays like a series of Hogarth engravings, with a dash of Modern Times and A Man Escaped. It follows a laborer’s rotten luck from destitution on Helsinki’s dull streets to a prison cell and on to a formulaic life of crime. Silent-style gags undercut the tragedy. A garage roof caves in as soon as a car pulls out, for example, and a fade from a single beer on a table shows the surface now crowded with empty bottles. The actors speak within a narrow range of volume and inflection. Turo Pajala—who plays Taisto, the laborer—tends to restrict his emotions to his bushy black eyebrows, which he furrows when agitated. The characters share only a little back story, and their dialogue contains few narrative signposts. Instead, they live in the present tense, bracing themselves for the next spin of Fortune’s Wheel.
Astaire and Rogers play second fiddle to Irene Dunne, who stars as a Parisian fashionista. She sings the show’s big numbers, and while she’s a daunting soprano, her voice grows shrill as a songbird on “Yesterdays” and “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” (She’s no Billie Holiday, certainly, nor can she match The Platters’ Tony Williams.) Dunne spars with tall drink of water Randolph Scott for some haute couture romance. But their quarrel’s flimsy, the chic gowns are absurd, and everything in Roberta feels like a pretext for a pretext. It’s like the fake Polish accent and moniker wielded by Ginger Rogers’ chanteuse: “You’ve got to have a title to croon over here!” Well, you’ve got to have a narrative backdrop if you want to stage some dancing. It all takes place within the decadent Art Deco confines of the fashion house and nightclub. RKO glamour: lovely to look at, if a bit oppressive in the absence of fresh air.
Teens stranded on the side of the road decide to share some scary stories. My favorite premise! After a quick, ’50s-set retelling of “The Hook,” they launch into a trio of longer urban legends. The first pits two newlyweds against an unseen monster besieging their RV, and it’s atmospheric, but it drags a bit. (Does any one chapter in a horror anthology really need two sex scenes?) The second is about the little girl who mistakenly believes it’s her dog licking her hand. This iteration stirs up some vintage digital panic by making her a chatroom habitué. Her stalker is a dead ringer for Bob from Twin Peaks. The last story initially seems like it’s going to be a lukewarm twist on “The Vanishing Hitchhiker,” but gradually grows bolder and weirder than expected. It’s a sentimental ghost story lit by a thunderstorm that goes hopping through time like low-rent Alain Resnais. The wraparound narrative with those stranded teens turns out to be a downer of a dud, but honestly the whole hour and a half is worth it for that third story.
The horror movie structure is familiar. The weekend trip to a secluded estate, the hosts’ odd behaviors, and the mounting heebie-jeebies have all served as wonderful genre clichés since the heyday of Segundo de Chomón. But this story’s hero has an incentive to swallow to his fear, to grin and bear it, since he’s the black boyfriend among his white girlfriend’s family. Daniel Kaluuya’s face clenches with unease from start to finish. How could he detect a conspiracy within a smokescreen of implicit racism? Peele lines the film with satire and coils it around motifs like teacups, photography, and dead or dying deer. He quotes (and inverts) images from I Walked with a Zombie and The Shining. Get Out gooses the audience with traditional thrills while also inducing a deep and lasting discomfort.
Lulu is a spinster aunt who acts as maidservant to her brother-in-law’s household. She fixes dinner, washes dishes, and tries to stay invisible. Lois Wilson plays her with a shrinking blankness sometimes punctured by mild dismay. (Had the film been made a couple decades later, Olivia de Havilland might have played the part.) A joke wedding with a serious punchline wrenches Lulu out of this tiresome routine. She suddenly finds herself the subject of Sunday gossip on the church lawn—”a woman who ain’t regular.” Sexual purity, elopement, bigamy: everything’s on the table in this light domestic melodrama. Its conflict swells into a question of small town hypocrisy vs. womanly self-determination; it’s a delight when the latter wins out. The film ends on a gentle visual gag that lays out text via chalkboard rather than intertitle. It’s a wry denouement for a silent movie where words are always at odds with action.