John Dule's 100 Favorite Films Thread

[Stand with l'Empereur Macron against entitled Eurotrash!]

#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.

[Your False god Won't Save You]

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.

[Stand with l'Empereur Macron against entitled Eurotrash!]

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."

[Your False god Won't Save You]

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.

[Stand with l'Empereur Macron against entitled Eurotrash!]

#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.

[Stand with l'Empereur Macron against entitled Eurotrash!]

#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.

[Stand with l'Empereur Macron against entitled Eurotrash!]

#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.

[Stand with l'Empereur Macron against entitled Eurotrash!]

#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.

[Ishan]

Glad to see this thread continue.

[Stand with l'Empereur Macron against entitled Eurotrash!]

#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.

[Senator Laki]

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.