John Dule's 100 Favorite Films Thread
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John Dule
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« Reply #75 on: February 14, 2022, 02:04:24 AM »

#23: Silence (2016)



I know by now that I'm in the minority on this one, but Silence is my favorite Scorsese movie. It's also the movie that best encapsulates my feelings on religion-- it is neither irreverent nor reverent, and it instead walks the careful line of portraying events without commenting on moral matters. While I enjoy Ben-Hur and The Life of Brian in equal doses, Silence's utter indifference to the morality of its characters' actions mirrors the indifference of the almighty to the sufferings of man. Thus, the "silence" these characters experience is both God's and the filmmaker's.

It was bold of Scorsese to choose this approach. Had this movie been made a few years earlier, The Passion of the Christ would have been fresh in people's minds and the studio might have forced him to portray the Christian missionaries in Silence as genuine martyrs. However, he got his movie made the way he wanted (it was a passion project of his for years), and the result is just as morally ambiguous and brutal as his gangster films. It is a fitting tone for this subject.

Visually, the movie is everything you'd expect from an expert director filming an era as aesthetically rich as feudal Japan. The framing of the shots and the use of natural lighting are beautiful, and many clever visual details (like the Japanese inquisitor who somehow deflates into his robes when particularly annoyed) are memorable. I don't think there's a shot in the film-- from the beginning in Lisbon to the conclusion in Japan-- that isn't worthy of being hung in an art gallery.

Silence achieved little recognition and won few awards. Perhaps 2016 audiences weren't in the mood for a somber, three-hour deconstruction of the intransigence and follies of faith. Nonetheless, I regard this among the greatest historical dramas ever made, and among the most visually (and philosophically) rich films on this list.
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« Reply #76 on: February 14, 2022, 02:11:31 AM »

Have you ever watched the 1925 version of Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ? Of the three full-length film adaptations of Wallace's novel, it certainly follows the text the closest, including subplots and parts of the text that the others chose to omit.

Like Andrei Rublev, I've wanted to see the 1925 Ben-Hur for years, but I haven't been able to find a decent copy of it anywhere. Would you say it's better than the '59 version?


The 1925 Ben-Hur was released on blu-ray over ten years ago so it shouldn't be too hard to find a decent copy, especially compared to most silent films.
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John Dule
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« Reply #77 on: February 14, 2022, 02:24:48 AM »

Have you ever watched the 1925 version of Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ? Of the three full-length film adaptations of Wallace's novel, it certainly follows the text the closest, including subplots and parts of the text that the others chose to omit.

Like Andrei Rublev, I've wanted to see the 1925 Ben-Hur for years, but I haven't been able to find a decent copy of it anywhere. Would you say it's better than the '59 version?


The 1925 Ben-Hur was released on blu-ray over ten years ago so it shouldn't be too hard to find a decent copy, especially compared to most silent films.

I should note that when I say "find," I mean "pirate."
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« Reply #78 on: February 14, 2022, 02:27:58 AM »

Have you ever watched the 1925 version of Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ? Of the three full-length film adaptations of Wallace's novel, it certainly follows the text the closest, including subplots and parts of the text that the others chose to omit.

Like Andrei Rublev, I've wanted to see the 1925 Ben-Hur for years, but I haven't been able to find a decent copy of it anywhere. Would you say it's better than the '59 version?


The 1925 Ben-Hur was released on blu-ray over ten years ago so it shouldn't be too hard to find a decent copy, especially compared to most silent films.

I should note that when I say "find," I mean "pirate."

Of course, my point was that I think the 2011 disc would've found its way online somewhere by now.
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John Dule
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« Reply #79 on: May 18, 2022, 11:26:29 AM »

#24: In Bruges (2008)



My DVD copy of In Bruges features a quote on the cover describing the movie as a "hilarious, twisted pleasure." This is both a gross misrepresentation and an understatement. I pity the poor people who walked into this movie expecting a quirky, action-packed Guy Ritchie-esque crime comedy in the vein of Snatch or Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels. At the same time though, the movie is genuinely hilarious... if you approach it with the right perspective.

In Bruges is the tale of two hitmen who hide out in the well-preserved medieval Belgian town of Bruges after one of them bungles a hit. The decision to set a fundamentally violent story in such a quaint location may seem like cheap juxtaposition at first, but there is more to it than that. The film is a deeply painful exploration of how the postmodern world lacks moral absolutes, and while our characters agonize over their moral choices, the shadow of traditionalism looms behind them in every frame. Bruges represents the last remnant of that long-dead faith-based world these characters have moved beyond, and it now exists only as a tourist destination-- a "f**king fairytale town." The gargoyles and gothic architecture, though beautiful, seem strangely hollow and otherworldly in this modern context.

It is this hollowness that makes Bruges well-suited as a setting for Ray's purgatory. As a guilty man trying to repent, Ray (Colin Farrell) is sent to this purgatory by his boss, Harry (Ralph Feinnes), to await judgement, accompanied by his hitman companion, Ken (Brendan Gleeson). While Ray is torn between either moving past his crime or succumbing to self-loathing and guilt, Harry and Ken pull him in both directions. Harry adheres to a rigid morality that leaves no room for redemption and thus commands Ray to suffer; Ken, meanwhile, favors forgiveness. As these moral philosophies play tug-of-war, Ray is caught in the middle-- uncertain, lost, and crippled by self-doubt, his experience encapsulates both the overwhelming fear and limitless opportunities of a godless world.

In Bruges is a beautiful, intelligent, and funny film that can be appreciated on every level from popcorn entertainment to Nietzscheanism. I wholeheartedly recommend it, if for no other reason than to see Colin Farrell in a movie that's actually good for once.
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John Dule
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« Reply #80 on: July 25, 2022, 09:44:48 PM »

#25: Paths of Glory (1957)



In many ways, I view Paths of Glory and Come and See as counterparts. While Come and See depicts the horrors of war on the ground, Paths of Glory is about a different kind of horror. Here, there are few scenes of battlefield gore or physical brutality-- somehow, the movie makes the audience feel that same reflexive, instinctual repulsion by depicting posh, well-dressed aristocrats conversing in ornate meeting rooms. Make no mistake-- this film is every bit as stomach-churning as the most graphic war movies. This is because it seeks to explore not just the atrocities themselves, but how those atrocities come to be.

How is that, you ask? Simple: Egotistical, power-hungry leaders lacking in empathy and concerned only about their status and reputation. Paths of Glory is populated by authoritative, upstanding patricians who wax poetic about honor and duty-- right up until they have to assume any responsibility whatsoever for the catastrophes they create. At that moment, the façade is stripped away, and we see these men for what they are: reprehensible invertebrates in fancy costumes, utterly divorced from the effects of their decisionmaking. The one honorable character in the film-- Kirk Douglas' Colonel Dax-- is given the impossible task of resisting this savage collective, and the best scene comes when his superior utterly misunderstands his motives (and in fact, can hardly conceive of the existence of an honest man). Though they wear the same uniform, these characters might as well speak different languages and come from different planets.

While I don't use this standard for all films, I often like to ask myself whether a movie could be transported back in time-- 200, 500, 2,000 years-- and still make sense to people in that era. This helps me consider whether the themes the movie addresses are truly universal. And aside from technological differences, if shown to a soldier in Ancient Assyria, the Roman Empire, or Medieval Europe, I believe that Paths of Glory would lose very little in translation. The elements of human nature it displays sadly transcend time and space.
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John Dule
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« Reply #81 on: September 25, 2022, 03:16:56 PM »

#26: There Will Be Blood (2007)



As I've alluded to recently in my criticism of Lord of the Rings, my favorite stories typically explore a broader point about the human condition, philosophy, politics, economics, or sociology. I like stories that use one individual's tale to serve as a microcosm of a larger message, because I believe that storytelling is an essential rhetorical strategy that enhances these debates. While my personal taste causes me to generally dislike movies that focus on spectacle or "slice of life" mundanities (and I often regret that I can't get more enjoyment out of them), I can nonetheless appreciate "microcosm" stories even if they directly criticize my worldview. In fact, I'd almost say I enjoy these stories more, because they force me to engage more with the material.

That said, I wouldn't say There Will Be Blood is completely antithetical to my worldview-- which is counterintuitive, given that on its surface this is a cautionary tale about rapacious capitalism, greed, and the chaos of industrialization. This is a film about an era of rapid change, and it personifies the remaking of America in its two main characters. Daniel Plainview, played by Daniel Day-Lewis, represents the new horizon of capitalism and enterprise; Eli the preacher, played by Paul Dano, represents the twilight years of the age of superstition and magical thinking. What I love about this film is that this transition is neither condemned nor celebrated-- both of these characters represent the worst of their respective philosophies, and their tug-of-war is a microcosm of the greater battle in America between capitalism and spirituality.

While Daniel Plainview may be the archetype of the 1900s robber-baron, he is not played as a caricature. The movie goes out of its way to humanize him; when his rig is destroyed by fire, his first instinct is to save his adopted son (of course, having done this, he immediately returns to the rig to salvage his losses). And the subplot in which his half-brother attempts to reconnect with him is a heartbreaking addition to the film. When I first saw There Will Be Blood I didn't fully understand the point of this element to the story, but it is a deeply emotional way of illustrating how Plainview's success has isolated him from others-- deconstructing even the bonds of family to the transactional level. When he discovers his brother's true motives, he breaks down, mourning the loss of his relationships with his fellow man.

This film may be "about" oil and capitalism, but it is really about the struggle for the soul of America. It never devolves into preachy moralizing, nor does it lionize or demonize the two perspectives it depicts. The result is a story that leaves us all feeling somewhat tainted by the excesses of these characters. It's possible that I took the complete wrong message from this film (I cheered at the end), but the hallmark of great art is that it is open to interpretation, and those interpretations reveal deep truths about the audience's personality and worldview.
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John Dule
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« Reply #82 on: March 18, 2023, 12:49:45 AM »

#27: American Beauty (1999)



The highest achievement in storytelling is to construct a narrative that is equally satisfying from both literal and metaphorical perspectives. On one level, the author presents moving and relatable characters with whom the audience connects individually. But on the metaphorical level, these characters act as parts of a whole. Each character's struggle illuminates a different aspect of a moral or philosophical problem, and the situations presented in the story become microcosms of a broader commentary on this abstract subject. Whether the audience agrees with the author's views (or whether the author chooses to push one particular viewpoint at all) is irrelevant. The story is satisfying because it seamlessly unifies the particular and the abstract.

American Beauty follows in humanity's long tradition of moral parables. On a literal level, the story of Lester Burnham is tragic, relatable, and compelling. But as a metaphor, the film truly shines.

Alan Ball's script is a moral screed against superficiality. And when one grapples with superficiality, no setting is more appropriate than the streets of suburban America. Well-manicured lawns, perfectly quadrilateral hedges, and tacky faux-colonial homes flesh out the mise en scène; virtually every location in the film feels artificial. And Ball populates this environment with equally artificial characters-- however, some are just as disgusted with this world as we are, and they wish to break free.

Our protagonist Lester Burnham (in a spot-on performance by a sad-sack Kevin Spacey) is one such disgruntled suburbanite. Losing his patience with his wife's incessant superficiality, he embarks on a journey of self-reinvention. However, this journey is itself driven only by a different brand of superficiality-- Lester buys a Pontiac and starts lifting weights mainly to attract his teenage daughter's high school friend Angela. Angela too is addicted to the perception of others, craving attention and relishing in the effect her physical appearance has on men. It is only when Lester finally sees her for who she truly is that he abandons his quest to win her affections, and in so doing rids himself of his obsession with outward appearances. In American Beauty, redemption comes by perceiving and accepting truth, while rejecting the artificial.

These characters are archetypes, and they are written as such-- their dialogue occasionally verges on robotic. But American Beauty distinguishes itself by treating its archetypes with genuine compassion. No character in the film is irredeemable, and each of them elicits our sympathy in some way (despite the fact that most of them serve as antagonists to their co-stars). This approach subverts the audience's perceptions by first presenting flat stereotypes that invite quick judgement, and then revealing layers of characterization that cause us to rethink our superficial analyses. By not vilifying its characters, the film is able to explore with empathy the many ways humans cope with the fear of being perceived by others.

Only one character in American Beauty has transcended this fear: Ricky (Wes Bentley), who simultaneously sees the world for what it is and does not care how others see him. His ability to find beauty in imperfection is the antidote to the suburban artifice he inhabits, and he moves through this world like the Nietzschean Ubermensch, unchanged by the opinions and judgments of others. He serves as the movie's spiritual guide; he has confronted the primary moral question of the film and triumphed over it, and now he must help others reach enlightenment. But ultimately Ricky's solution to the problem is just one possible approach, and the film's refusal to overtly moralize leaves room for other paths.

American Beauty is both a perfect slice-of-life black comedy and a perfect philosophical treatise. Synthesizing these two halves elevates the film far beyond the standard Hollywood dramedy, and certainly beyond the standard Best Picture winner. It's shocking that this movie won the Academy Award-- the irony of a film denouncing superficiality being praised by a room full of spray-tanned, Botox-injected attention whores is not lost on me-- but its themes ring even truer today than in 1999.
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« Reply #83 on: March 19, 2023, 11:16:21 AM »

Glad to see this thread continue.
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John Dule
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« Reply #84 on: March 26, 2023, 02:21:56 AM »

#28: The King of Comedy (1982)



I’ve seen many critics describe Rupert Pupkin, the protagonist of The King of Comedy, as “ambitious.” This is not the whole picture. The tragedy of Rupert is that he has the desire for success but none of the determination to achieve it-- but on a more fundamental level, I’m not convinced that what Rupert actually desires is success. This film is a portrait of a character who craves personal connection, and he seeks to satisfy this craving through shortcuts, deceit, and delusion. It is the ultimate tragedy of the film that even obtaining his ostensible goal cannot give Rupert what he truly wants: human affection.

Though Robert De Niro mostly plays Rupert cartoonishly (in a completely out-of-character yet pitch-perfect performance), he infuses every line with a shade of melancholy, letting the mask slip at just the right times. The result is a genuinely disturbing-- and entertaining-- portrayal of delusion, which is largely effective because De Niro taps into a universal aspect of the human experience. Who among us hasn’t fantasized about what we might say on a talk show, or daydreamed about fictional conversations with our heroes and icons? As the film progresses, the audience grows increasingly uncomfortable. How close are we to becoming Rupert?

In the end, a small flutter passes over Rupert’s face as he stands before his adoring masses, having finally achieved his dream. Though affirming, the applause he receives is inherently impersonal. He smiles shyly and awkwardly; there is no catharsis and no resolution. Rupert’s quest to be loved has made him a celebrity, an occupation where genuine interpersonal affection is ironically hard to come by. Standing on that stage, he somehow feels lonelier than ever before.

The King of Comedy’s relentless interrogation of its audience is even more relevant today, which is perhaps why the film was remade for the manchild demographic in 2019. The allure of status and fame has only increased with the advent of social media, to the point that Rupert’s obsessive behavior now feels almost healthy in comparison. With brutal honesty, the movie reminds us that public adoration is no substitute for human affection. Using one to sate your appetite for the other is like eating sawdust.
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« Reply #85 on: March 26, 2023, 02:55:53 PM »

I recently saw Memories of Murder for the first time. I need to watch Come and See yet, but I'd like to do it quite soon.

Come and See is a A+ film. The greatest war movie of them all.

I've seen it in the meantime. It's good but not entirely my cup of tea, but that's the case for most war films.
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John Dule
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« Reply #86 on: April 06, 2023, 03:52:37 AM »

#29: Pig (2021)



With Pig, Michael Sarnoski has explored new cinematic terrain to an extent few filmmakers ever do. This is not just an original story or an original screenplay. It is an original genre-- one I can only describe as “compassionate revenge.” It acts as a transgressive antidote to the thematic emptiness of modern blockbusters. The victories Robin Feld wins are spiritual, not physical-- he confronts his adversaries using empathy and understanding, completely disarming them. This approach ultimately renders his revenge deeper and more fulfilling than any infliction of physical harm could achieve.

Nicolas Cage plays Chef Feld with the same wholehearted dedication he brings to every role. Though Cage’s acting has become a meme in recent years, it’s a testament to his range that he can seamlessly transition from straight-to-Redbox trash to a film like this. While this performance (like so many others of his) is frustrated, impatient, and angry, he also embodies the self-restraint and wisdom that comes from experiencing loss. The result is a more subdued version of Cage that reminds us why he is one of the greatest actors of all time.

Cage has named this role as his favorite of his own performances, and it’s not hard to see why. The film explores themes of authenticity and the importance of baring one’s true self to the world-- something Cage has done throughout his career. For someone of his profession, Cage has always seemed remarkably unconcerned with public (and critical) perception. He takes roles that he personally finds interesting, and seems particularly attracted to low-budget films that grant him latitude to innovate with his acting. Even his stage name-- “Cage”-- represents his refusal to use his family connections to advance his career and his desire to explore his personal artistic vision through his own craft. This mirrors his character in Pig, which creates a perfect unity of actor and role not seen since Michael Keaton in Birdman.

In contrast, the side characters in Pig are obsessed with social perception. They do not attempt to find their true selves through their vocations; rather, they seek to craft presentable facades to hide behind. Cage’s sidekick in this film is a self-conscious restaurant supplier (Alex Wolff) who lives in the shadow of his successful father. He spends his days listening to self-help audio recordings in order to appear refined and cultured, and only with Chef Feld’s guidance does he begin to work past his insecurities.

But the film’s best scene comes when Feld confronts one of his former pupils, who has similarly become addicted to critical praise, financial success, and social status. By simply asking questions about his work, Feld tears the man to emotional shreds. Though this confrontation lasts only a few short minutes, it creates a compelling ideological conflict about the nature of art, embodied in two fully-realized characters and fueled by the best acting I’ve seen this decade. This interaction is later contrasted with a more understated scene in which Feld revisits another former protege-- a baker-- who chose a different career path than that of her tutor. But Feld recognizes that she, like him, is pursuing her art for its own sake. The fact that she does not crave his approval immediately earns his respect. Once again, the film employs simple, slice-of-life, character-driven scenes to make sweeping commentary about art, individualism, and how to lead a fulfilling life. The way this script juggles the particular and the universal is masterful.

I could say a lot more about Pig, the beautiful world it creates, and the empathy it displays towards its antagonists. However, the film’s spectacular finale should be experienced with no prior knowledge whatsoever. All I can add is this: after the Covid-19 lockdowns ended, Pig was the first movie I saw in theaters. It was well worth the wait. I unreservedly fell in love with this film the second I finished it, and I would recommend it to anyone who wants to see the most creative actor of his generation employing every ounce of his talent.
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« Reply #87 on: April 06, 2023, 11:55:33 AM »

Dule, you have an interesting perspective on American Beauty, and one I have never taken. Perhaps it is worth a rewatch.

I want to ask you how you place it alongside Fight Club, Office Space, and American Psycho in what I view as a turn-of-the-century masculine rejection of white-collar work and frustration with having been civilized and subordinated to norms and bureaucracy.
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John Dule
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« Reply #88 on: April 06, 2023, 12:21:16 PM »

Dule, you have an interesting perspective on American Beauty, and one I have never taken. Perhaps it is worth a rewatch.

I want to ask you how you place it alongside Fight Club, Office Space, and American Psycho in what I view as a turn-of-the-century masculine rejection of white-collar work and frustration with having been civilized and subordinated to norms and bureaucracy.

This list is mostly unranked, but if I had to rank them I'd probably go:

1) Fight Club
2) American Beauty
3) Office Space
4) American Psycho

I've honestly been postponing my Fight Club entry in this list until I can rewatch it again. Every time I see it, I take a different interpretation of it. People have called it everything from ascetic alt-right MGTOW propaganda to a leftist screed against capitalism. I mostly think it's a commentary on the numbing effect of modern consumer culture, but I'd be lying if I said most of my enjoyment of it is unrelated to Brad Pitt being cool.

Office Space will likely make an appearance on this list at some point. As for American Psycho, I do like it, but I always thought that it took its parody to such gratuitous extremes that it unintentionally became a sexploitation film. Perhaps I'm just biased these days because of the law students I've met who "identify with" Patrick Bateman, but it often reminds me of an ostensibly "antiwar" movie that-- through its "cool" set pieces and dialogue-- ends up glorifying war. Overall I think it's a brilliant movie on its own, but its pop culture impact has soured me against it.
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« Reply #89 on: April 06, 2023, 04:58:41 PM »

'Pig' is still high on my radar of movies I want to watch, but I haven't managed to come across it on any of the platforms I am subscribed to yet.
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John Dule
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« Reply #90 on: April 12, 2023, 04:22:02 AM »

#30: Mulholland Drive (2001)



At some point in our lives, we've all done something we instantly regret-- something that fundamentally alters our perception of ourselves. These moments feel surreal. They are frightening to confront, and so we indulge in fantasies in order to distract ourselves from our guilt. But reality always encroaches on our delusions, creating a nightmarish cycle of regret, repression, and realization. Whether you cheated on a high school test or hired a hitman to kill your lesbian lover, you've experienced this-- and you know it's incredibly disorienting.

With Mulholland Drive, David Lynch brilliantly captures this essential aspect of the human experience. It's a shameful element of life we usually don't discuss, which makes it all the more powerful to see it depicted in a visual medium. In the past, I've occasionally been critical of Lynch's style (regardless of what his fans say, his version of Dune is an unmitigated disaster)-- but when his skills are employed to depict abstract human emotions, he truly soars. His surreal set pieces, vaguely sedated characters, and eerie, ominous narrative digressions perfectly encapsulate the feverish dreams that haunt the mind after a traumatic experience.

As if that wasn't enough, Lynch then connects this psychological repression to the unattainable ideal of narrative storytelling. Movies are the ultimate fantasy-- I can't tell you how many times I've indulged in clips of Terminator 2 or The Big Lebowski after spending a particularly rough day in the real world. But this is just another facet of humanity's primal fear of engaging with reality. After constructing an engaging (albeit confusing) narrative about a kind-hearted bubbly blonde helping her beautiful amnesiac friend, Lynch suddenly pulls the rug out from under us with some of the most brutal plot twists in cinematic history. The result is an attack on the very idea of film as escapism, making the audience painfully aware of the contrast between dreams and reality.

I would not recommend Mulholland Drive to everyone. The wooden dialogue and stilted performances prior to the film's final act can be very off-putting, and the movie really needs to be seen twice in order to appreciate all the connecting tissue between its two worlds. However, if anyone's looking for a cold splash of realism in an era of increasingly escapist (and substance-free) filmmaking, Mulholland Drive is the ice bucket you need. Just be prepared for the deeply depressive state you'll find yourself in by the end.
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« Reply #91 on: April 12, 2023, 09:32:58 PM »

Dule, you have an interesting perspective on American Beauty, and one I have never taken. Perhaps it is worth a rewatch.

I want to ask you how you place it alongside Fight Club, Office Space, and American Psycho in what I view as a turn-of-the-century masculine rejection of white-collar work and frustration with having been civilized and subordinated to norms and bureaucracy.

This list is mostly unranked, but if I had to rank them I'd probably go:

1) Fight Club
2) American Beauty
3) Office Space
4) American Psycho

I've honestly been postponing my Fight Club entry in this list until I can rewatch it again. Every time I see it, I take a different interpretation of it. People have called it everything from ascetic alt-right MGTOW propaganda to a leftist screed against capitalism. I mostly think it's a commentary on the numbing effect of modern consumer culture, but I'd be lying if I said most of my enjoyment of it is unrelated to Brad Pitt being cool.

Office Space will likely make an appearance on this list at some point. As for American Psycho, I do like it, but I always thought that it took its parody to such gratuitous extremes that it unintentionally became a sexploitation film. Perhaps I'm just biased these days because of the law students I've met who "identify with" Patrick Bateman, but it often reminds me of an ostensibly "antiwar" movie that-- through its "cool" set pieces and dialogue-- ends up glorifying war. Overall I think it's a brilliant movie on its own, but its pop culture impact has soured me against it.

I never got into American Beauty whatsoever (even before Spacey was outed as an actual pedo), but I love the other three.

It’s funny how Office Space/Fight Club/American Pyscho are all vastly different movies about the same thing as well. All masterpieces of cinema.
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« Reply #92 on: November 19, 2023, 11:42:03 PM »

#31: Fight Club (1999)



After seeing David Fincher's latest outing, it's nice to revisit a film that doesn't waste the audience's time apologizing for itself. Fight Club is a unique blend of tongue-in-cheek satire and a complete lack of self-awareness that I find irresistibly charming. Here is a movie that truly manages to have it both ways: It mocks pseudophilosophy while simultaneously spawning its own generation of pretentious college philosophy majors; it satirizes what we now call "toxic masculinity" while giving audiences perhaps the ultimate archetype of macho bravado; it is undeniably profound and undeniably shallow at the same time. In short, this is my favorite kind of movie: Intelligent pulp.

When I first saw Fight Club, I knew nothing about its premise, its director, or the author behind the original novel. I was expecting-- and somewhat dreading-- a boxing movie; something in the vein of Raging Bull or The Wrestler but less stylistically inventive. Imagine my shock when I realized just how incorrect my expectations were. But no matter how surprised I was by Fight Club, I was even more surprised by the reviews I read, which called it everything from a communist screed to fascist propaganda to an anarchist manifesto. Fight Club is not really any of these things: It's a piece of introspection. On one level, it unironically presents Chuck Palahniuk's views on consumerism (views I happen to share). But in a wonderful twist, it travels to such extremes that it becomes a parody of that mindset, teaching the audience a valuable lesson about the necessity of self-doubt. If he were a lesser writer, Palahniuk could have wasted this story preaching to his choir of disaffected Gen-X fans. Instead he provided them with a much-needed slap in the face.

Tyler Durden is the perfect vessel for this message. With impossible confidence, he spends the first half of the film luring the viewer in with plagiarized Nietzsche quotes and anti-corporate platitudes that are tailor-made to appeal to emasculated office drones. The dichotomy in casting between Pitt and the sad-sack, baggy-eyed Ed Norton could not be more perfect here: Pitt is magnetic in this movie, and as Project Mayhem develops, viewers find it difficult to break out of the trance he's placed us in. Through his sheer charisma, he makes us truly tempted to follow him in his misguided praxis. This is the power of personality.

When I say that Fight Club is extremely self-aware, I mean that it expertly demonstrates how fascist, authoritarian systems can develop even within movements that the author finds sympathetic. But in another sense, the movie is completely oblivious to the fact that many viewers would unironically identify with Tyler and would spend the next 20 years idolizing his "philosophy." In this sense, the movie does its job almost too well. Instead of providing a valuable warning about the dangers of personality cults, it creates its own cult of personality. This is certainly a flaw in the storytelling, but it's so hilariously ironic that it almost adds to Fight Club's allure.

If Fight Club feels dated, it's probably because the subjects it tackles have been dissected ad nauseam by every counterculture movie and TV show since. This is because these issues remain unresolved. In 2023, the choice that the movie offers modern men remains essentially the same: Either succumb to consumerism and conformity, or become a cynical political extremist with a self-contradictory philosophy. Both options are just as unappetizing as they were in 1999.
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