Sunset Gun

Fool's Gold--'Fool For Love'

In the canon of the late Robert Altman's extensive oeuvre, Fool for Love is not a film that initially stands out—even to some hard core Altman-philes. In fact, a few even forget that the multi-faceted American director helmed the thing—it's a Sam Shepard creation all the way.

But not entirely. Though based on Shepard's play and starring the intense, rugged, easy-on-the-eyes actor, it contains those Altman touches that mark his other "smaller" pictures like the brilliant Three Women, Come Back to the Five and Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean, Streamers, Secret Honor and Vincent and Theo—all works that show just how versatile Altman was. And certainly, Fool for Love is actor friendly, something consistent with the director—he allows them the freedom to develop their own characters with little interruption. Wisely, he typically casts correctly, and so someone like Kim Basinger, who in 1985 hadn't proven her mettle quite yet, gives the strongest performance in the film. She was terrific in LA Confidential, but if Oscar's were at all just—she would have been nominated for this film—as a put upon, trailer trash babe, she's absolutely ideal.

The story has two very broken people oozing anger, confusion and of course, heavy sexual attraction that is, in an almost satirical way, so wrong it's right. Playing, to a certain extent, classic American archetypes, Shepard is Eddie, a jean clad cowboy who comes back to the love of his life May, an exotic, drop dead gorgeous blonde with perpetual bed-head (an 80's Baby Doll if we ever saw one) while living in a remote Texan motel. Obviously a modeling scout (or Eli Wallach) hasn't been around these parts because May is attempting to go on with her life via a new beau—the safer, boring Randy Quaid.

Meanwhile, milling about the motel is a drunken old man (Harry Dean Stanton) who watches the fireworks with both relish and worry. As we'll learn, there's more to this kook than a guy who believes Barbara Mandrel to be his wife. Chiefly, that Harry Dean is the father of both Eddie and May, albeit through different mothers. The incestuous bond has seriously screwed them up but also ties them deeply in that classic Southern fiction manner a la novelist Erskine Caldwell, William Faulkner and Carson McCullers.

But the incest isn't the main batch of fireworks for Fool for Love. It's the relationship between Eddie and May and the writing and acting delivered by Shepard and Basinger. Without talking down to their characters, the film gives these people bursts of violence that range from angry words (Basinger is particularly good at letting it out) to literal, acts of brutality (for instance, Eddy breaks down May's door when she refuses to open it—May kicks him in the crotch immediately after kissing him). It also allows them humor within the darkness. When May rubs her head insanely Eddy snaps (and we're not sure why this makes us laugh) "you need an aspirin or something?" And it's also just plain sexy—not just for the actor's outward looks of Texan gorgeousness, but their taboo, fiery passion that manages to be both a play on saucy paperback fiction and real life. Leave it to Altman to balance these two elements splendidly.

Altman creates a remarkable otherworld in the dusty landscape these people inhabit. Not only does it look like an authentic, old motel but something from an existential void—a resting place for losers or a supernatural last stop in life. Shot with a painterly touch, the picture ventures into a hybrid of Wim Wenders/ David Lynchian territory that's highly provocative. Altman also successfully fuses the past with the present in scenes with Stanton, merging him into the adult characters and acting as a ghost without being pretentious about it. And this picture could play uber pretentious, but it remains grounded in an offbeat, humanistic realm that keeps it from teetering over the edge into city boy, Southern Gothic.

Fool for Love is a lovely oddity, a timeless character study and like other "smalller" Altman films, a picture that should be rediscovered. And it's all kinds of mad sexy.

Kim Morgan On DVD, Mitchum, Dead End, Burnt Offerings and Ike

He's one of my all time favorite actors, so of the DVD's released today, none get me more excited than the Robert Mitchum Signature Collection Box Set. In it you will find Sydney Pollack's The Yakuza, Otto Preminger's terrific noir Angel Face (which has a great car crash scene), Joseph von Sternberg's sultry Macao, Vincent Minelli's Home From the Hill, Fred Zinneman's The Sundowners and Burt Kennedy's The Good Guys and the Bad Guys. 

Sure, there's other stuff being released, but it's all about Mitchum for me.   

In the meantime, read my Film and DVD reviews at Strange Impersonation and anything else I’m thinking at Pretty Poison.

As for now, Three Obsessions (in addition to Black Snake Moan of course):

1. Dead End (1937) The first in the series of pictures that depicted that rough and tumble group of depression-era youths, The Dead End Kids (later known as The Bowery Boys) is also one of their best. Though Angles With Dirty Faces is their finest film appearance (They Made Me A Criminal with John Garfield is a strong contender as well), Dead End was our first glimpse of the wise-acre bunch that included Billy Halop, Huntz Hall and Leo Gorcey (you really should read his autobiography--a total gas). Beautifully directed by William Wyler, the picture stars Humphrey Bogart as a gangster returning to his old neighborhood, a slum where the boys fight, steal and generally run amuck to the concern of the nice young woman Sylvia Sidney (gorgeous) who’d like better for them. Though the boys are snarly little jerks at times, they're often very funny and touching. The film offers a sensitive look at what its title states—a dead end—and how the poor are fighting for survival. As the nice architect Dave (Joel McCrea) states about the boys: “What chance have they got against all this? They gotta fight for a place to play, fight for the likes of something to eat, fight for everything. They got used to fighting. ‘Enemies of Society,” it says in the papers. Why not? What have they got to be so friendly about?” Indeed.

2. Burnt Offerings (1976)  I remember watching this on TV as a kid and it scared the ever-living shit out of me. And watching it again, I don't care what the critics say--it still holds up. This is largely due to its exceptional cast. Oliver Reed? He's both frightening and incredibly sympathetic as a dad who tries to drown his son in the swimming pool (he feels bad about it later). And when Karen Black (whom I worship) is scary, she's beyond terrifying. She's also crazy sexy on top. And then there's the added benefit of a sublime Bette Davis being both natural in that hip grandmother way, and then nutjob over-the-top when she starts quite literally, falling apart (my god when her back goes out, watch the fuck out). The Shining-like tale of a family affected by the hauntings of an old mansion they’ve rented for the summer showcases some seriously horrifying moments. One that still gets me involves Black, her fingernails and a music box. Yes, a music box is actually scary. Creepy, sometimes funny but grim to the end, the film does offer up some helpful advice: Whatever you do, don’t rent a home from Burgess Meredith.

3.Ike and Tina, Musikladen 1974 I'm one of those people who love Ike and Tina Turner so much that there are days where their break-up makes me ridiculously sad. I mean, why? Why did Ike have to take it so far? Anyway, if you've read this blog, you know I've sung both their praises and especially, Ike (Ike, a lot) who I think is truly, the father of rock and roll. With that, I collect every Ike and Tina record and performance I can get my hands on and this performance is one of my favorites. "Get it On." Ike in massive sunglasses singing (I love it when Ike sings) while playing guitar on a stool, Tina belting out her insane talent while decked out in a skimpy brown get-up, The Ikette's in weird orange dresses--this is the personfication of long legs, cocaine eyes and absolute pure, dysfunctional sex (the best kind). Why did it have to go away?

Black Snake Crawlin' In My Brain

O.K. Craig Brewer...

What are you trying to do to me? Honestly. Have you been listening to my phone conversations with my two closest friends? Did my pal Michael Jenkins (who got to make out with a girl in your movie—lucky Michael) tell you of my hothouse and mostly romanticized desires to not only visit but live in Memphis? Did you know Michael is Conway Twitty’s grandson? Have you heard how I feel about the early work of Mr. Twitty?

Anyway, my readers all know how excited I am, almost perversely so, about your sure to be masterpiece, Black Snake Moan. I took a break for a while (though I’ve been covering my fascination at my MSN Blog) but as REO Speedwagon put it, I can’t fight this feeling any more. I saw the trailer last week and…Holy. Shit. Not only does Christina Ricci look like the girl all my guy friends dreamed their babysitters would look like when they were seven-years-old (actually, one friend hit the jackpot when, at 14, he lost his virginity to a babysitter who looked something like Ricci’s character—one of the greatest experience of his life) but truly, the hottest in her entire movie career.

And Samuel L. Jackson, whom I revere in any film, looks so perfect, it almost pains me. Yes, pains me. You’re tapping into that Warren Oates, Jerry Lee Lewis, Slim Harpo “King Bee,” Take-your-hat-off Bandit part of my brain that makes me wish Karl Malden would yell at me for “Slopping around in a slip.” And it’s your fault, Mr. Brewer, that when I watch this trailer, I think, in my own sick way, that I want Jackson to chain me to that radiator. I want that steak dinner. And I want to hear him sing “Staggerlee” (which, as I heard from a friend who saw the film in Austin, your soundtrack is beautifully old school Blues)—perfect.   

So I ask you again Craig Brewer. Why are you messing with me so much? And more importantly, are you reading my diary?

Dammit. I thought I could shake my anticipation for Black Snake Moan, but, as Hank Williams, and Jerry Lee so beautifully sang, Craig Brewer: “You win again.”

You Bitches!--'The Wicker Man' Redux

"The Wicker Man" is proving what I originally wrote when I first saw the film--it's the funniest comedy of last year. So I'm returning to my original review of LaBute's re-make with some additional comments based on a fresh viewing...

Here's the deal with The Wicker Man-- if Neil LaBute intended the film to be a darkly comedic male nightmare, the kind of vision Norman Mailer wakes up to in a cold sweat, it's a smashing success. If not, I don't know what the hell to make of it. The picture sure didn't scare me (though it may scare men), but it remains weirdly entertaining and at times, hilarious. In fact, since my third viewing of the film, I find myself in the lonely position of defending the picture, albeit with many questions. Though most critics found the film laughably absurd, I think LaBute's Wicker Man might be a work of wickedly hilarious subversion. A cult classic in the making.

After all, LaBute is no stranger to pitch black comedy, particularly between the sexes. Check his Carnal Knowledge salvo's In the Company of Men, Your Friends and Neighbors, The Shape of Things and the softer, gentler Nurse Betty. All films propel the viewer into a world in which men and women say and do despicable things to one another. Because of this, LaBute's often been labeled a misogynist. I've always thought that unfair since his men are frequently worse than his women. If you remember Jason Patric's speech in Your Friends and Neighbors regarding the greatest sex of his life (it involves locker room and...rape), you'll know what I mean. And what about Nurse Betty? Greg Kinnear is the supreme ass in that scenario, not poor confused Renee Zellweger. And I tend to agree with HL Mencken when he said, "a misogynist is a man who hates women as much as women hate each other."

But The Wicker Man? Well...wow. The women making up the matriarchal community Nicolas Cage finds himself stuck in are bad. They are bad-bad. These women will break every man's spirit to the point of not allowing them to speak. Even the cute little blonde girl-children are pint sized bee-otches.

Which is why the picture is intriguing, bizarre and downright daring. Casting Cage was one weird move. Try as he might, there's nothing regular about Nicolas Cage (especially when, in one of the film's now more infamous scenes, he's donning a bear suit) and I think that's the point. When we first see his cop, he's checking out a self-help book in a diner. He's not drinking a cup of Joe or flirting with the waitress, he's thinking of ways to improve his beaten down life. After he witnesses a car accident, he's traumatized, eating psychiatric medication and sitting around his house in a daze.

Soon he's searching for the lost daughter of an ex girlfriend on a remote PNW island inhabited by a bunch of severe, hippie dippy/Amish-looking women (led by Queen Bee Ellen Burstyn) who aren't friendly and treat their few men folk like slaves. At times their community reminded me of certain gals (sorry, womyn) who taught Women's Studies at my old college, The University of Oregon (sorry, that was so easy but so true). It also recalls all those ladies who run goddess shops, wear lots of purple and glare at anyone not shopping with a cotton sack.

Or is this community of bee-keeping, white-wearing lasses an exaggerated portrait of what all women secretly desire? To tame and control their men? Is this LaBute's wickedly funny point?

Again, I don't know. Or rather, maybe I'm choosing to believe that, instead of a bad horror re-make of a cult classic (the original I won't get into but you should see), he's crafted a subversive comic polemic concerning militant feminism. I'd like to think the latter because, well, that's just a lot more interesting.

And again, a lot more amusing. Truly. Because, are we not supposed to laugh when, near the end of the film, Cage delivers a near-roundhouse kick to Leelee Sobieski's face? This nice man (and Cage gives us no reason to think he's anything but) is reduced to his most primal instinct by first punching a woman in the face (shades of Steve McQueen socking Sally Struthers in The Getaway) and in the film's second moment of shock (and humor), pulling out the karate on Sobieski. Please don't misunderstand, I'm not for smacking the ladies, but in this instance, I laughed. I laughed a lot. I also laughed heartily when a tormented Cage screams at his oppressors, "Killing me won't bring back your goddamn honey!" Or when he yammers on and on and with increased vocal volume and speed about the doll. And then there's that bear suit I was talking about....

So please, Mr. LaBute. You meant for me to laugh. Right? Because I strangely enjoyed your movie and I'm not sure if I want to discover even more flaws within myself.

But hey, I am a woman after all.

*Note: Another amusing bit of weirdness. The film is dedicated to Johnny Ramone.

*Also, watch clips of  some of the film's finest moments.

O.K. It's official: I fucking love this movie.

Happy Birthday Faye Dunaway

I love Faye Dunaway. I loved her from the first movie I watched her in (Bonnie and Clyde) to the time I saw her in the flesh a few years ago at the Arc Light Theater on Sunset. Standing behind a small woman in the concession line before dipping into I Heart Huckabees, this woman began yelling at the employees. They were taking forever and she wanted her root beer now dammit! Not knowing who the person attempting to start a mutiny against the Arclight employees was and noticing the poor workers maniacally fixing a broken till, I said (nicely), “Come on. Calm down. They’re having some problems.”

And then, to my shock, the head that whips around to take a look at me is none other than Faye Dunaway. She says (with that unmistakable Dunaway boldness mixed with a giggle): “But we’re going to be late to our movie!”

Shocked that I had just unknowingly told one of my favorite movie stars of all time to “calm down” and agreeing that being late for a movie is a huge pet peeve of mine, I was happy that she didn’t mind my slight admonishment. Instead, she became sweet (to us patrons anyway) and asked people what movies they were seeing—“I Heart Huckabees” I told her. “Oh, I heard that’s good—I need to see that.” What was Ms. Dunaway going to be late for? “Shark Tale.” Giving me that nervous smile, and grabbing her soda, the diva in her shiny sweat gear and baseball cap bolted into the crappy animated adventure.

I almost wanted to cry.

The guy in line said: “Did you know who that was?”

Well yes, but not until she turned around. Though she did have that something—even while standing behind her I noticed it. And when she looked at me it was absolutely electric. I don’t care how much older she is. I don’t care if she’s had work. I don’t care if her hair was scrunched into a not-too-concealing cap—This is a star.

Which is why I always found it disconcerting that the WB reality show, The Starlet, would call Faye Dunaway the ultimate of its title. The gorgeous, powerful star of (to name just a few) Bonnie and Clyde, The Thomas Crown Affair, Chinatown, Network, The Eyes of Laura Mars, Mommie Dearest and Barfly a starlet? I think not.

Just as the word “diva” has been distorted by the likes of Mariah Carey (though Whitney Houston has earned her title I suppose, drug problems alone), "starlet" is Norma Jean before Marilyn, Lana Turner as a teenaged sweater girl, Alicia Silverstone in all those Aerosmith videos. Sure, Faye had to start somewhere—but she was always off the charts. She must have been born with that neurotic poise, that quality in Chinatown that made the scene in which she discusses the flaw in her eye so vulnerably unique. I always love her small moments—like when she wolfs down her hamburger in Bonnie and  Clyde or when she grabs all those corn cobs in Barfly, or the horror movie flicker of pent up rage directly before she smacks the shit out of Christina Crawford over the wire hanger fiasco. And no one, not even Joan Crawford could say, “I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at the dirt!” with such beautiful determination.

And who can forget that kiss with Steve McQueen in The Thomas Crowne Affair? Oh Faye...no one. No one can fill you heels.

So when I watched the past Starlet, I had a mixture of pride and sadness for Dunaway. This was just proof that the Paddy Chayefsky penned Network—the film Faye won her Academy Award for— was brilliantly prophetic. But I loved watching Dunaway, even if the show revealed less about any of the aspirant's talents (they all had very little) and more about Hollywood's harshness for interesting women. Interesting older women. Knowing that superstar Faye has so much more in her than being TV’s greatest Simon Cowell (she’s more Addison DeWitt really) made me kinda mad.

Not mad at her mind you, just mad at the dirt.

Here's to more film work in the future and, Happy Birthday Faye Dunaway. You're one of the last true movie stars.

It's A Beautiful World We Live In--'Idiocracy'

Mike Judge’s Idiocracy was one of the greatest films of last year. And not just one the greatest films barely anyone saw, but one of the greatest satires to hit screens in a long time. Truly, the movie could be paired as a double feature with Alfonso Cuarón’s Children of Men. Only, unlike the lack of children of Cuarón’s tale, there’s too many kids in the dystopian future of Idiocracy—kids and adults who are dumb— really dumb. And yet, for anyone who’s walked among the masses in a strip mall, they’re all believably dumb.

You might have heard the story behind Judge's comedy (released today on DVD)— it was shelved a few years after completion and released by Twentieth Century Fox as a throw-away, a let’s-forget-this-movie-was-ever-made dump. No advance word, no posters, no trailers, nothing. Why? No one knows for sure, but I’m thinking that attacking Starbucks, Fuddruckers, Carl’s Jr. and Costco had something to do with it. Oh yes, and Fox News, can’t forget that beacon of “fair and balanced” broadcast journalism. Fittingly, this is exactly the kind of DEVO inspired treatment Idiocracy is mocking—that big business rules and there’s very little we can do about it. So, like Judge’s Beavis and Butt-head , his now classic Office Space and his TV Show King of the Hill, Idiocracy (and the predicament it fell into) is both darkly hilarious and deeply sad.

Judge sets his film in a future 500 years forward (well, not exactly forward) in which the entire population has been dumbed down beyond mediocrity—the mass consumers, Big Gulp guzzling, latte lovers have inherited the earth.These are the people who think Carl’s Jr. Ads are so funny and “extreme” that the burger joint's tagline has become “Fuck You. I’m eating.” And Fuddruckers has finally blatantly de-evolved into the Beavis and Butt-head joke it’s always been-- "Buttfuckers."  Sentence structure is lost, and the English language is a hybrid of hillbilly, urban slang and Valley speak.

Entering this destroyed landscape of mass garbage is the most average guy in the world, Joe (Luke Wilson) sent from the present via an Army experiment that’s gone horribly awry (he was only supposed to hibernate for a year but his superior was caught pimping and…). Along with him is a prostitute named Rita (Maya Rudolph) who’s got nothing to lose except pissing off her pimp.  The joke, of many, is that in the future, boring, no motivation Joe is the smartest guy in the world. And as such, he’s enlisted by the stupid’s to help solve their problems—like why plants won’t grow. I won’t ruin it for you but the lack of green has something to do with water only being used in a toilet.

Yes, the humor is often lowbrow, but that's exactly the point. It’s rare that a movie this smart displays such deft comic timing concerning the asinine. What’s also wonderful about Idiocracy is that, underneath the incredibly caustic worldview (Mike Judge is really giving the finger to a lot of people and institutions here) there’s a tragic sweetness (Judge’s use of Buck Owens' bittersweet instrumental “Buckaroo” is especially potent). Weirdly, you come to care about Joe’s dim-wit lawyer Frito (a hilarious Dax Shepard) and find the President of the United States, or rather, the former smackdown champ (Terry Crews) somewhat charming. The message Judge conveys is that both big business and the public’s embracing of mindless popular entertainment has destroyed us. So in a sense, it’s not really Frito’s fault that he’s so fucking stupid. It’s our fault.

I can handle blame, and so can most people. Why Fox possibly couldn’t is not only overly fearful and controlling, but, as Frito might say, retarded.

2006: Another Crazy Year In Movies--With A New Addition

My 2006 year in film made me feel...schizophrenic. So many terrible movies (Da Vince Code). So many disapointments (The Black Dahlia). So many...what the hell (Basic Instinct 2). I'm very open minded about films, high and low, but even I was surprised by how many different types of movies I found masterful. Movies that normally irritate me, I loved. Movies I was certain would suck put me on the verge of emotional breakdown (Rocky Balboa). And re-makes? This year, a few of them actually worked. Really worked.

So it was tough going coming up with my top ten. I'm taking the easy way out by now picking two number ones (I just saw Children of Men on Jan. 3 and must include the film) and then listing ten more alphabetically (this list goes to...twelve). And yes, that is The Break-Up you see gracing this page. I told you I was suprised with myself.

1. The Departed : Who would have thought that Martin Scorsese's greatest film in 10 years would be a ... re-make? Not I. But indeed, The Departed (adapted from the terrific Hong Kong actioner Infernal Affairs) is not only one of Scorsese's greatest, it's the best film of 2006. Crackling with a rough wit supplied by a cast in top form (Jack Nicholson, Leonardo DiCaprio, Matt Damon, Mark Wahlberg, Martin Sheen, Alec Baldwin and the fantastic Vera Farmiga), the Boston-set story of cops and crooks and the myriad ways they work and screw with each other, is endlessly fascinating and filled with that special kind of verve and violence Scorsese stamped on world cinema so many years ago via Mean Streets. It may not Goodfellas but it's damn near close.

1. Children Of Men : There is just no way I couldn't add this picture after being so dazzled and moved by it last night. Director Alfonso Cuarón's crafted a work of startling brilliance that not only understands our own current war-time fears (and perhaps, malaise) but also that deep-seated doomsday feeling many of us bury under layers of denial. I wonder how a soldier in the thick of Iraq would take this movie? Set in 2027 London, with an infertile population and war everywhere, the film's look at chaos is so visceral, it literally left me shaking. Cuarón also shoots the film and its elaborate, stunning pursuits with such incredible virtuosity, there are moments where I felt like I was right there in the middle of the gunfire. I don't want to spoil any of the film's shocking and stellar moments, but there is a sequence in a car that's so incredible, I was almost ducking for cover. And Clive Owen is phenomenal--cynical, scared, heroic, emotional--so real. His is the performance of the year. Remember to sit through all the credits--the great Jarvis Cocker tune is especially incendiary.

And, the rest in alphabetical order:

The Break-Up: I know, I know. I can't believe this made my list either but, dammit--the film simply works. And it suffered from a lot of things, but not one of them the movie itself: Bad press (the whole Aniston-Pitt saga) and bad promotion (a romantic comedy?). But the dark little story offers one of the most realistic and humorous looks at exactly what the title states -- a couple really not being able to work it out. Highly unpleasant (which must have turned countless Aniston-loving viewers off) and disarmingly touching, I was shocked, shocked by what an impact it made. And...Spoiler alert...the ending turns the typical romantic comedy on its ear when you just know, these two will probably never even be friends. The final scene is a killer.

Dave Chappelle's Block Party: As directed by visionary wizard Michel Gondry, this eccentric, lovingly-filmed documentary is so infectiously good natured, so easy going, so wonderfully refreshing, that it leaves you significantly energized. His examination of a block party thrown by comedian Dave Chappelle is also tremendously and genuinely positive -- something we all could use a little more of these days.

The Descent: Oh. My. God. This is not only a superb horror film but an intriguing study of the psychology of women. There's also a potent, perverse sexuality about the picture what with the various women facing slimy, disgusting monsters in deep caverns. And then there's the crazy girl. Which reminds me--make sure to see the original ending. Terrifying and brilliant, I still can't get this movie out of my head.

The Hills Have Eyes: Alexandra Aja's remake of Wes Craven's creepy cult classic is (hold on to your hats) even better than the original. I'm serious. It's a terrifically tense, genuinely scary and frequently funny study of not only family vengeance, but of a mutant wasteland that we (well, the American government) created. The movie is a potently subversive blast of masterful pulp.

Little Miss Sunshine: It almost makes me fucking sick. This is normally a movie I would loathe. I mean, just be on the same level as all those others who dislike its sweetness and light and yet (thanks to the actors, mostly)...I fell for the thing. A film that could have been overly-wacky, obnoxiously precious and exceedingly corny, Little Miss Sunshine is instead startlingly genuine and touching. A sweet paean to the unending quirkiness of families, and a celebration, of sorts, to losers everywhere, this journey of a chunky little girl's dream to become a beauty queen is hilarious and tender. And her sexed up dance routine concocted with grandpa Alan Arkin (who is his usual terrific self here) makes the creepy sexuality of child beauty paegants blatant and in-your-face- real. It also features a brilliant Steve Carell in a performance that, if the Oscars had any guts, would be nominated.

Marie Antoinette: Sofia Coppola's third film is so beautifully photographed (all that pink!), so evocatively scored (New Order, Bow Wow Wow, Adam Ant) and so overtly superficial (shopping, shoes, pastry eating) that many critics missed the point. And boo on them. The story presents the iconic French queen as giggling teenager who is really just clueless about the world around her (famine, peasants, brown sack clothing...all that annoying stuff) and offers keen insight into her insulated world. The end result is a transcendent, mesmerizing fever dream of gorgeousness. Barry Lyndon gone Vogue, which to some sounds horrible but to me is almost perversely wonderful.

Pan's Labyrinth: With his grim and gorgeous fairy tale, director Guillermo del Toro proves himself a true visionary, a filmmaker of such boundless creativity and subversive daring that his visions left me, at times, absolutely awestruck. But there's more than just intensely vivid imagery and fantastically crafted creatures, there's a story (of a lonely little girl living amidst the Fascist regime of 1944 Spain) that blend reality and metaphor into a movie that is sensational on all levels. A work of art.

Perfume: The Story of a Murderer: If you were significantly moved by the tracheotomy kiss of Tom Tykwer's The Princess and the Warrior, you'll appreciate the director's mesmerizing take on love, sexuality, fear and horror. So it's perfect then, that Tykwer adapted Patrick Suskind's Perfume: The Story of a Murderer (about a young man of 1766 France who crafts perfume out of the beautiful women he murders) into an olfactory masterwork -- a movie that's so hauntingly beautiful, so terrifying and yet, so weirdly romantic and sad that like any great scent, it lingers for days.

The Proposition: Helmed with a stunning, rough-hewn, motley crew of a cast (Guy Pearce, Danny Huston, Ray Winstone) and spiked with Sam Peckinpah grime (as written by Nick Cave), director John Hillcoat's offering is grit most true. Elegiac, dark and wonderfully blood soaked, the outback set western is a gloriously vicious affair that drags you by the hair and never lets you go.

Volver: The one director bringing back the classic women's picture of Hollywood's yesteryear (Mildred Pierce, All That Heaven Allows, All About Eve) is Pedro Almodovar -- and God bless him for it. The film, starring a sensational Penelope Cruz, soars with humor, pathos, affection and wit.

Honorable Mentions:

Idiocracy

Brick

Half Nelson

Hostel

Inside Man

Rocky Balboa

Special award goes to this movie for making me a blubbering, hysterical mess. Jesus. The moment Rocky see's Burgess Meredith's face in a moment of punch-drunk extremity, I almost had a nervous breakdown. This really should be on my top ten but I just watched it this morning and I'm still trying to process just why the movie is soooo good. Was it great or am I reacting for personal, mythical reasons as...I dunno, an American? Or is Rocky reminding me that the world isn't such a great place anymore? Fuck it. Rocky rules.

The Worst:

X-Men: The Last Stand
All The King's Men
The Da Vinci Code

Movies I haven't seen:

Apocalypto, Letters From Iwo Jima, Flags Of Our Fathers, Inland Empire.

More on Best DVDs and Film moments soon...