BLIND SPOT #6: The French Connection

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know this wasn't on my original list. But it was playing at Film Forum and I'm playing catch-up with this project as it is, so I decided to take it in and write it up.

It's my blog. I'll do what I want!

This one had me hooked right from the blaring score and quick zoom-in title card. It announces itself as an exciting thriller right from the start, and damn if it doesn't deliver on that promise. The beginning, though, plays a little uneasy now: Within the first five minutes, Gene Hackman's "Popeye" Doyle runs down and assaults a black man after a surprise raid on a bar in a black neighborhood. The "n word" is used. A lot. And with all that's been happening recently, it made me more that a little uncomfortable; it felt like something that couldn't be explained away with the old "oh, but it was a different time," excuse. Doyle's casual racism is only denounced by his partner (Roy Scheider! Why didn't I know he was in this movie?!?) long past the point where it loses its effectiveness with their perp. In a film that wasn't very good, it would be difficult to get over it. But thankfully, The French Connection is a VERY good film, and elsewhere... what riches!

Friedkin is a master of suspense, very nearly on par with Hitchcock. It's what gives Bug such a creepy-crawly feeling of inevitable tragedy, and what saves The Exorcist from some questionable acting. The two centerpiece scenes here are terrific edge-of-your-seat, sweaty-palmed mini-masterpieces. I'm talking, of course, about the two scenes involving the subway. One underground on a platform, where Doyle plays cat-and-mouse with the crime ring's mastermind (the great Fernando Rey), and the other, the film's famous car chase, in which Doyle isn't chasing a man in another car, but rather a man in a subway on elevated tracks. The platform scene ends with the above shot - Rey's perfect smirk and wave at Doyle, letting him know that he was onto the policeman the entire time (even better: it apparently happened just this way in real life). It's a thrilling moment at the same time as it's utterly depressing - how are they ever going to catch this guy?

But Doyle catches a break later when a sniper meant to assassinate him misses and goes on the run. Doyle misses him on the subway, but commandeers a car on the street (every single person in the screening laughed at this) and chases the train to its next stop. It's easily one of the best car chases ever filmed, looking like it's taking place on real city streets that haven't been blocked off (and in fact, some weren't - Hackman actually did almost hit one car and was sent spiraling into a pole). It's so good actually, that when Doyle finally catches up with the guy, as he's coming down the stairs, thinking he got away scot-free, I actually was still on the edge of my seat, convinced that he wasn't going to get his man. Of course he does, in memorable fashion.

The film also gets at the mundanity of being a police officer in subtle ways I've never seen before: Check Doyle's gloves when they're on stakeout, all tattered and hole-y... actually, check all of the scenes when they're on stakeout, doing nothing but watching and waiting, outside in a city where it's seemingly always winter. Even the scene where they strip a car looking for drugs feel more procedural than exciting. But in that mundanity, Friedkin somehow finds deep wells of suspense. He's helped, of course, by a ferocious performance from Hackman, who tears through just about every scene he's in even if he's standing silent. He's a jumpy bundle of pent-up angry energy, an absolute live-wire, and compulsively watchable despite his questionable morals. Pairing him with Scheider, always a thoughtful, grounding presence, was a brilliant choice.

The French Connection more than lives up to its reputation as a killer police thriller. It is full to bursting with fantastic location shots of New York City, and the grittiness those provide makes the film feel even more authentic. Since the police officers who investigated the original case were involved in all aspects of production (the real-life Doyle plays movie-Doyle's Chief), it had that authenticity going for it already, but the location shooting really adds so much to this. You almost feel like a fly on the wall of the entire city watching this investigation unfold, something that is even now all too rare in films. Unlike In The Heat of the Night, which was released only four years earlier and really shows its age, The French Connection still feels as fresh as the day it was released.

The French Connection
Year: 1971
Directed by: William Friedkin
Screenplay by: Ernest Tidyman
Starring: Gene Hackman, Roy Scheider, Fernando Rey, Tony Lo Bianco
Oscar: 5 WINS - Best Picture, Director, Actor (Hackman), Adapted Screenplay, and Editing. Nominations for Supporting Actor (Scheider lost to Ben Johnson in The Last Picture Show), Cinematography (Owen Roizman lost to Fiddler on the Roof), and Sound (also lost to Fiddler on the Roof).
Rating: *****

Blind Spot #5: The Third Man

Yes, I know, I have slacked terribly on this project. I've just been busier than I thought I would be and found myself wanting to do other things with my free time than watching movies (WHAT?!?!? BLASPHEMY!!!!). But then I saw that Carol Reed's The Third Man was playing at Film Forum, and I pretty much had to go. And I'm so glad I did, since the film was completely surprising in that it was not what I expected at all.

I've always heard The Third Man talked about as one of the greatest noir films. It may be, but it's a far far funnier film than I ever associated with the genre, which is defined by pitch-black films like Double Indemnity or The Postman Always Rings Twice. The Third Man, while it has the necessary canted angles and deep shadows, simply doesn't FEEL like a noir. It's not even black comedy. Instead,  it's practically satire.

The downright jaunty zither score that opens the film is the first clue that this isn't going to be a dark twisty thriller. The second is Joseph Cotten, who isn't just playing a bumbling American in Austria - he's playing THE bumbling American (and it's a terrific performance as that). Sticking his nose in not just where it doesn't belong, but where it is neither needed nor wanted, Holly Martins is an author of cheap paperbacks with titles like The Lone Rider of Santa Fe, and he plays that Western bully personality to the hilt, asking questions and butting in on international affairs because his best friend, Harry Lime, just couldn't POSSIBLY be the horrid racketeer this British officer says he is. Never mind that Lime died just before Martins arrived in Austria on his friend's invitation, Martins is going to prove everyone wrong.

Of course, if the canted angles were our first clue that something is rotten in the state of Austria, the second would be the name of Orson Welles in the credits. I don't know that the film necessarily plays differently knowing that Welles is playing Harry Lime, but I suspect that people would be on the lookout for him even if they didn't know, and with the amount of time spent talking about Lime, it's probably pretty clear that the man is nowhere near dead. Welles has said that all he had to do to play the part was to just show up, since the script does such a great job of building up Lime as a character, but I would disagree. The part cries out for someone like Welles; someone with a larger-than-life presence and a rather arch way of delivering a line. I mean, look at that face up above. That's when Lime makes his first appearance in the film, letting Martins know he's quite alive thank you very much, but not saying a single word. Very few actors could pull off a shot like that, and Welles is at the very top of that list.

But, as the reviews have said, the real star of the show is that climactic chase through the sewers, which boasts some of the greatest noir cinematography ever. It's not surprising that the film is labeled as noir when it includes shots like the one of Welles above, or like this one:

I mean, that is fucking GORGEOUS. And it's taking place in a sewer (well, not really. Apparently Welles refused to shoot any scenes in a sewer, so he shot his stuff on soundstages. But still...). Never has a drainage repository ever looked so beautiful.

I thoroughly enjoyed The Third Man. It is a film full of unexpected pleasures, from Trevor Howard's perfectly dry British colonel, to the hilariously sharp script by Graham Greene, to the great performances by Cotten and Welles, to that justly famed cinematography. It's rare that a film with such a reputation as this one has can actually surprise you, but that's exactly what this great film did.

...although it did take me a whole week to get that damn zither score out of my head!

The Third Man
Year: 1949
Directed by: Carol Reed
Screenplay by: Graham Greene
Starring: Joseph Cotten, Orson Welles, Trevor Howard, (Alida) Valli
Oscar: 1 WIN - Best Cinematography (Black & White). Nominations for Director (Reed lost to Joseph L. Mankiewicz for All About Eve) and Editing (lost to King Solomon's Mines)
Rating: ****

Blind Spot #4: In The Heat of the Night

Written as part of the blogathon hosted by Ryan at The Matinee.

Here's the thing about Norman Jewison's In The Heat of the Night: I always thought it was Carroll O'Connor, TV's Archie Bunker, who played the white Southern cop opposite Sydney Poitier's Virgil Tibbs. It's not. It's actually Rod Steiger. And every time I see him in this film, I can't get O'Connor out of my head, because Steiger looks so much like him. AND, as if to add to my confusion, O'Connor played this part in the 80s TV series based on this film. Mind = BLOWN. It's not necessarily an impediment to watching the film, but it causes such a weird misfire in my brain whenever I see it that I feel like I have to mention it right off the bat, kind of like a disclaimer.

None of this is to disparage Steiger's Oscar-winning performance, which lives up to its reputation. He's incredible here, as the police chief of Sparta, Mississippi who slowly (VERY slowly) wakes up to the fact that maybe, just maybe, African Americans are worthy of the same trust and respect as white people. Or maybe just this one particular African American, played by Sidney Poitier in an incendiary performance. Poitier's barely controlled rage throughout his performance as Virgil Tibbs, Philadelphian police officer caught up in a murder investigation in the racially hostile South is quite a thing to behold.

I was inclined to watch In The Heat of the Night as part of the Blind Spot series after reading Mark Harris's staggering Pictures At A Revolution, a brilliant exploration of the films in the running for Oscar's Best Picture of 1967. I had seen the other four (Bonnie and Clyde, Doctor Dolittle, The Graduate, and Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?) but not the eventual winner. The book is a must for anyone who loves movies, particularly anyone who loves the Oscars, and is quite a marvel in how it fuses Hollywood history with the story America at large in this time period, one of its most tumultuous. Harris does let his typical journalistic integrity slip a little, though, in that he makes it pretty clear that he would pick Bonnie and Clyde for the win. I'm not sure I agree with that (my pick would probably be The Graduate), but watching this film now, I can't help but agree with the conventional wisdom that this was Hollywood's attempt to keep on the better side of history, while still remaining utterly conservative.

It's not that In The Heat of the Night is a bad film (like its closest analogue the not-quite-as-woeful-as-some-say-but-still-nowhere-near-Oscar-level Crash), it just isn't a particularly revelatory one. While it does handle a very thorny, tricky subject with an almost surprising level of realism (unlike Stanley Kramer's rose-colored-glasses look at similar subject matter that same year, also starring Poitier), there isn't a whole lot of nuance. It paints in rather bolder strokes than I was expecting, given its reputation. For every scene like the famous slapping scene (which prompts a brilliant nearly silent, confused response from Steiger) there's a scene like the also-famous "They call me MISTER TIBBS" scene, which is pitched so high as to almost approach camp. But the atmosphere courtesy of master cinematographer Haskell Wexler, as well as the careful character work done by Steiger and Poitier, keep the film firmly grounded in reality at all times.

But even still, In The Heat of the Night is a murder mystery police procedural, and not a great one. There's tension in the film's most racially-charged scenes, but the murder mystery itself doesn't have any real sense of urgency or danger to it. What makes the film worthy is mostly in the lead performances of Steiger and Poitier. The question then becomes: Are the racial elements and performances enough to lift it above the average police flick? The answer is: Yes and no.

It's near-impossible to separate In The Heat of the Night from its time and place. It might lose something with time, especially in the wake of all the many police procedural stories we've seen since, but in its way it is a groundbreaking film. All the evidence you need of that is to look at Sidney Poitier's filmography: How many times before this did he get to play a competent, but imperfect professional who still got to speak truth to power? Hell, how many times did he get to do so AFTER this? It's not a perfect film about race relations in the 60s, but all things considered it's probably the best we could have gotten: Neither completely cynical nor completely optimistic, the film suggests that everyone has their own prejudices to overcome, and the only way to do so is through respect. I may not love In The Heat of the Night, but I definitely respect it. I may not fully support its Oscar win, but I certainly don't begrudge it.

In The Heat of the Night
Year: 1967
Directed by: Norman Jewison
Screenplay by: Stirling Silliphant (based on the novel by John Ball)
Starring: Rod Steiger, Sidney Poitier, Lee Grant, Warren Oates, Larry Gates, Beah Richards
Oscar: 5 WINS - Best Picture, Best Actor (Steiger), Best Adapted Screenplay (Silliphant), Best Sound, Best Editing (Hal Ashby). Nominations for Best Director (Jewison lost to Mike Nichols for The Graduate) and Best Sound Effects (lost to The Dirty Dozen)
Rating: ***1/2

Bind Spot #3: Diary of a Chambermaid

Written as part of the series hosted by Ryan at The Matinee.

While watching Luis Buñuel's Diary of a Chambermaid this weekend, I kept asking different "Why..." questions. Namely, why did I choose this particular film for this project?

I mean, I know why in theory: Of the Buñuel films I own, this was the earliest, and it seemed like a good warm-up for both the current version with Lea Seydoux in the title role (as perfect casting for Benoît Jacquot as Jeanne Moreau was for Buñuel) and Buñuel's later psychosexual masterpiece, Belle de Jour with Catherine Deneuve. Unfortunately, I don't really think it ended up being either of those things, nor was it overall a good representation of Buñuel as a filmmaker.

Things start off well enough, with shots of scenery passing outside of a train window just out of focus enough for us to be not entirely sure what we're looking at. But it eventually becomes clear, and we see Jeanne Moreau as Célestine, a woman from Paris come to the country to serve as chambermaid to a bourgeois family. The family certainly has its quirks: Madame seems to care far more about the things in the house than the people in it, including her own husband who, incidentally, apparently comes on to everything with boobs and legs. And of course, the patriarch, to whom we are introduced as he shoots a butterfly off a flower, only to proclaim instantly afterwards that he has both never shot a gun before and actually quite likes butterflies. Serving him is one of Célestine's primary duties, and in addition to having her serve him herbal tea, he wants her to wear and walk around in some old boots.

That's pretty much the extent of anything sexually perverse in the film. Yes, Monsieur makes some advances to Célestine, which she rebuffs - only after flirting with him extensively (after which he takes the other, "ugly" maid out into the barn to do things with). And yes, there is some drama around a young girl who for some unexplained reason hangs around the house and whose body is found at around the film's midway point, having been raped and murdered. It is strongly implied, although never spoken outright, that the house's farmer/handyman Joseph, who is quite politically active in France's nascent fascist movement, committed this crime.

And that right there is my biggest problem with this film. In adapting the novel by Octave Mirbeau, Buñuel and screenwriter Jean-Claude Carrière (this is the first of several collaborations between the two, another reason why I chose this film) chose to update the novel's turn-of-the-century setting to the 1930s, a time of some political unrest in France. Apparently. I don't really know French history THAT well. But whatever the history was, politics makes many appearances throughout the film, and strangely, the film ends with Joseph, a proprietor of a café, just like the one he had talked about starting with Célestine (she became intimate with him in order to confirm her suspicion that he killed the little girl). He cheers on protestors saying (among other things) "Vive Chiappe!" Jean Chiappe was a popular police prefect who, because of his very right-leaning politics, had successive governments try in vain to remove him from his post. In February 1934, they finally succeeded, and the far-right leagues launched a demonstration in protest, which - this being France - rapidly deteriorated into a full-on riot against the government. Buñuel had a personal vendetta against Chiappe because he banned L'Age d'Or when he was police prefect in Paris.

Anyway, history lesson aside, the decision to cede the film's final scene to Joseph is odd, since Célestine is very obviously our main character. In the end, she marries the blowhard ex-Army officer neighbor of her former employers, hires the "ugly" maid she used to work with to work for her, and gives the impression of becoming everything her employers were. Not worse, but certainly no better. The film could have ended there just fine. But it continues on to the protest scene with Joseph, and I'm suddenly lost. I'm sure this ending probably had more meaning to the French audiences of 1964, but it went way over my head. Yes, seeing these hordes of people marching in the streets is chilling, but it does not seem of a piece with the story of the rest of the film. There's been political talk in the film, so it doesn't come completely out of left field, but it hasn't been the main storyline, and this one scene hijacks the narrative in such a way that I had to question the entire film I just watched... and not in a good way.

If there's a reason to see Diary of a Chambermaid, it's Jeanne Moreau. She's perfect as Célestine, impenetrable yet somehow completely open. We are constantly aware of what she's thinking, even if what she feels about it remains a tantalizing mystery. She single-handedly gives the film whatever sexiness it has, and that gorgeous face makes the last scene perfectly ambiguous - is Célestine happy to get what she has always wanted and becoming just like her employers whom she hated, or is she finding that this life that once seemed so great really isn't fulfilling at all? It's great, great work.

Buñuel is certainly on good form for most of the film, as well. Diary of a Chambermaid is certainly a great-looking film, and while it largely lacks the surrealist imagery that is a hallmark of the director's work, it does contain its fair share of striking images - the butterfly getting shot off the flower; the dead girl's bare leg, snails slowly crawling up it; and one particular shot of Monsieur and Madame that looks for all the world like a split-screen, emphasizing just how separate their lives are.

But for me, this Diary of a Chambermaid doesn't nearly live up to its potential. The material seems like a good fit for Buñuel, but he doesn't do enough with it: It's not sexy enough, not perverse enough, not funny enough, not subversive enough, and in the end, not focused enough. For all that happens, it doesn't feel like a story with an arc, just a series of events with an arbitrary endpoint that practically comes out of nowhere. Could that be making a larger point about life? Perhaps. But I don't think so. Not in this case. In this case, it looks like Buñuel's personal stuff got in the way of making this as good as it could have been.

Diary of a Chambermaid (Le Journal d'une Femme de Chambre)
Year: 1964
Directed by: Luis Buñuel
Screenplay by: Luis Buñuel and Jean-Claude Carrière
Starring: Jeanne Moreau, Michel Piccoli, Georges Geret, Françoise Lugagne, Jean Ozenne, Daniel Invernel, Muni
Rating: **1/2

Blind Spot #2: On The Waterfront

When you think about the stature of Elia Kazan's On The Waterfront, it's kind of amazing that I have made it this far in life, and in cinephilia, without having the ending spoiled. Basically all I knew of Kazan's Oscar-winning masterpiece was its two most famous scenes: Brando's "I coulda been a contendah" speech and the scene with Eva Marie Saint's dropped glove. That's it.

Watching the film for the first time was an interesting experience. At first, I was disoriented, not really able to tell what exactly was going on or who exactly anyone was. But then the film slowly started answering those questions as it went along, both on a factual level and on an emotional one. Before I understood what role Lee J. Cobb's Johnny Friendly played in the film's dockside community (is he a mafioso? Or just the guy with the most power?), I understood on an emotional level more or less what he did and why, and how Brando's Terry Malloy got involved in it. And then later, as Terry revealed more and more of his history, everything really clicked into place.

Unfortunately, the reveal of Terry's history reveals the film's one flaw, and to my eyes, it's a pretty big one: Given the role his brother Charlie (the great Rod Steiger) played in putting Terry in this situation, and the role he winds up playing by the film's end, he's pretty much a non-entity in the film until that scene in the taxicab more than halfway through. I had no real conception of who Charlie was, and his connection to Charlie went over my head until that scene (it had been said that Charlie and Terry were brothers, but for some reason it never clicked in any previous scene that THAT person was Charlie). Given his status in Charlie's story, it's a bit odd that he isn't a larger presence in the first half of the film.

But really, that's nitpicking.

On The Waterfront announces itself as a larger story than it appears to be - via a majestic shot of a large ship in a harbor, and Leonard Bernstein's booming score. From this widescreen opening, it becomes much more small-scale, focusing in on its characters the way only the theater-trained Kazan could do. But Kazan was smart in his filming, too. Eva Marie Saint's Edie is the only blonde in the film, so she looks from the very first like she has a permanent halo - an angel too pure for the likes of this den of mugs and rats. Constant shots through fencing emphasizes that these characters are all trapped in prisons of their own making. They may get a happy ending, but it certainly isn't going to be perfect. This life won't allow for that.

It should come as no surprise that Terry is so good with the pigeons kept in rooftop coops. Although our introduction to him is other characters commenting about his lack of smarts, his line about pigeons and hawks shows that he might be smarter, or at least more perceptive, than even he knows. He may have to be pushed, but when under the gun, Terry does what's right. He's always known the difference between right and wrong, he just needed the push. And Karl Malden, as the town's priest, knows how to push.

As always with Kazan, the cast here is top-notch. That's to be expected when you see the names on this cast list, but even still, the way they all work together here is really special. I especially love the antagonistic relationship between Brando and Malden, such a turn-around from their previous work together in Kazan's A Streetcar Named Desire. The unsung hero of this one, though, was that score. The main theme is totally swoon-worthy, and the punchier moments really carry scenes that might otherwise feel a bit flat, and elevate already powerful moments, like Brando's climactic walk to work.

That scene, by the way, is so much the film's high point that again I'm kind of stunned that I managed to see it unspoiled. The editing, alternating shots of Terry's feet, bloody face, and what he sees through blurred vision, puts us in his position so effectively that you can feel Terry's struggle to walk and, eventually, stand up straight. And then the boss, saying directly into the camera, "Let's go to work!" It's a victory, simultaneously joyous and deadening. After all that, he now has to go through a day's worth of intense physical labor?!? Terry Malloy is a true hero. The kind of hero America needs so desperately, even today: One who can speak truth to power, and despite the beating he may get from that, stands up and does what he has to for the good of not just himself, but his community. It's inspiring.

On The Waterfront
Year: 1954
Directed by: Elia Kazan
Screenplay by: Budd Schulberg
Starring: Marlon Brando, Karl Malden, Eva Marie Saint, Lee J. Cobb, Rod Steiger
Oscar: 8 WINS - Best Picture, Best Actor (Brando), Best Supporting Actress (Saint), Best Director, Best Writing-Story and Screenplay, Best B&W Cinematography (Boris Kaufman), Best B&W Art Direction-Set Decoration, Best Film Editing. Nominations for Best Supporting Actor (Cobb, Malden, and Steiger lost to Edmond O'Brien in The Barefoot Contessa), and Best Score (lost to The High and the Mighty)

Rating: ****

Blind Spot #1: The Purple Rose of Cairo

I can't think of a better film to start the Blind Spot Series (much love to Ryan at The Matinée for starting this amazing blog series!) than Woody Allen's The Purple Rose of Cairo, because it is all about love of the movies.

But even knowing the basic plot going in, I was not prepared for just how funny Purple Rose would be, nor was I prepared for the turns its plot would take. Yes, Mia Farrow's depression-era abused wife Cecilia goes to see the fictional film The Purple Rose of Cairo so many times that Jeff Daniels's sweet-hearted, safari-suited character Tom Baxter walks right off the screen to be with her, but what happens after that is Woody Allen's true stroke of genius.

Not only are the theater patrons amused and appalled in equal measure, not only do the other characters in the film within the film sit around and grouse about the asshole who walked off the screen and left them without a way to continue the movie, not only does the theater owner call the producer and distributor to take care of the problem, but the studio calls the actor who played the role (Jeff Daniels again) to fix it!

Leave it to Woody Allen to treat this fantastical premise completely realistically. And I do mean completely: Even Tom's money isn't real.

Everything follows a completely sound train of logic, making the entire thing seem even more absurd than it actually is. Especially when we get two versions of Jeff Daniels, the actor and the character he created, getting into metaphysical arguments about who's who and who's the better person. It's hilarious stuff, especially for this performer. This is a really unique way to tackle the identity issues that can come with being an actor: What would happen if the character your played in a film - the actual character, you as the character - appeared in front of you in real life? Is he you? Some version of you?

One of many great little details in the film is how Tom expects the real world to behave like the movies - when he starts to get hot and heavy with Cecilia, he expects the world to fade-out and for time to jump to after they've had sex. He has no idea what sex is like, because movies of that time never showed anything beyond some relatively chaste making out. Which makes his visit to a brothel with Dianne Wiest (LOVE. HER.) especially hilarious.

And then, Tom actually brings Cecilia into his movie for a patented Hollywood-style nightclub montage. The perfection of The Purple Rose of Cairo, the film-within-the-film, is glorious to behold. The actors, including Edward Herrmann, Van Johnson, Deborah Rush, and Zoe Caldwell, are clearly having a blast playing classic film tropes of characters, and the style of the film is so perfect (from the literal title cards to the soundtrack to the afore-mentioned montage) that you might actually buy that this thing was a real Hollywood film from that time.

But let's get back to the actual film. I think that anyone who loves movies can relate to Farrow's Cecilia. I felt like I knew her almost immediately, as she goes to the movies so much that she knows the people who work in the theater by name. I make it a point to try to go to the movies once a week - I budget it as a necessary expense, not a fun thing to do if I have the money. And haven't we all wanted to meet a movie star in real life - let alone actually be in a movie for real? Cecilia gets to do all of that. And even when things don't work out so well, she still has the movies. A new one comes out every week!

Apparently there was some criticism of the film when it came out because of its ending. People claimed it wasn't "happy". To which I first have to say: Who says all films have to have a happy ending? And frankly, I agree with Woody Allen, who retorted, "That was the happy ending." There is no way to end this story more happily. If Cecilia runs off with actor Gil, there's no way they would live happily ever after. He's so self-absorbed that he would eventually leave her for someone else, and with nothing, and she'd be right back where she started. If she runs off with the fictional Tom, they won't get far before the harsh realities of life will come crashing down on them both. Tom isn't just fictional, he lives (quite literally) in a fantasy world, and has no idea how to live in the real one. Nope, no matter how you slice it, Cecilia eventually has to face the music and realize that life, with all its ups and downs, must be lived. It doesn't always end happily, but that's why we have movies. Life can't be like them, but they sure are nice to escape to.

The Purple Rose of Cairo
Year: 1985
Written and Directed by: Woody Allen
Starring: Mia Farrow, Jeff Daniels, Danny Aiello, Dianne Wiest
Oscar: Best Original Screenplay Nomination (lost to Witness)

Rating: ***** (Personal Favorite level)

My Movie Birthday Present to Myself

I know some may consider it uncouth, but every year I get myself a present for my birthday. It's my own special version of RuPaul's "If you don't love yourself, how in the hell are you gonna love somebody else!" maxim (can I get an AMEN up in here?). Usually it's something that either doesn't cost anything (taking the day off work is a popular favorite) or that doesn't cost much (splurging for a peppermint mocha from Starbucks as opposed to my usual Dunkin Donuts french vanilla coffee in the morning).

This year, I choose to give myself the gift that keeps on giving: Participating in The Matinee's Blindspot Series!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!

The idea is, every month you watch a cinematic staple that you really should have seen by now, and write it up. Realizing that my "Watchlist" on Letterboxd is well over 700 titles(!), I figured that giving myself the gift of knocking off one a month was the least I could give myself this year - it's like joining the Fruit of the Month Club or something!

So, with some help from my bookshelf full of Criterion DVDs and Blu-Rays that I bought during 50% off sales - most of which I haven't watched yet - I have finally whittled it down to this year's 12.

Grand Illusion (Jean Renoir, 1937)

Bicycle Thieves (Vittorio di Sica, 1948)

The Third Man (Carol Reed, 1949)

Seven Samurai (Akira Kurosawa, 1954)

On the Waterfront (Elia Kazan, 1954)

Smiles of a Summer Night (Ingmar Bergman, 1955)

Diary of a Chambermaid (Luis Bunuel, 1964)

In The Heat of the Night (Norman Jewison, 1967)

The Godfather (Francis Ford Coppola, 1972)

Nashville (Robert Altman, 1975)

The Purple Rose of Cairo (Woody Allen, 1985)

The Silence of the Lambs (Jonathan Demme, 1991)

 

I went through many iterations of this list. I tried to vary the genres, time periods, and countries as much as I could - and limited myself to only one per director. You may have noticed a slight lack of comedies on this list, and the thing is, I've seen a lot more of those. But it bothered me, so I swapped out Persona for Smiles on the Bergman front. But the truth is, no matter what films I ended up choosing, I'll watch all the ones I want to watch someday. I will. Maybe even this year. But these are the ones which will "officially" be a part of this project.

And to start, very soon there will be a post on the first one I watched: Woody Allen's delightful The Purple Rose of Cairo.