The Sword in the Stone (Wolfgang Reitherman, 1963)

Cast: voices of Sebastian Cabot, Karl Swenson, Rickie Sorenson, Junius Matthews, Ginny Tyler, Martha Wentworth, Norman Alden, Alan Napier, Richard Reitherman, Robert Reitherman. Screenplay: Bill Peet, based on a novel by T.H. White. Art direction: Ken Anderson. Film editing: Donald Halliday. Music: George Bruns.

The last animated feature supervised by Walt Disney, The Sword in the Stone is often considered a kind of landmark in the eclipse of Disney animation from which the studio didn't recover until the late 1980s. The first novel in T.H. White's Arthurian tetralogy The Once and Future King, The Sword in the Stone had been a Disney property since 1939. The success of the Lerner and Loewe musical Camelot, based on the final two books of White's quartet, may have helped spur the studio to revive the project, but the result is rather unsatisfactory. There are some bright moments, particularly the shape-shifting duel between Merlin and Madam Mim, but the film has nowhere to go after the climax when Wart pulls the sword from the stone and becomes King Arthur, so the plot feels unshaped and unfinished.

Deception (Irving Rapper, 1946)

Bette Davis, Paul Henreid, and Claude Rains in Deception

Cast: Bette Davis, Paul Henreid, Claude Rains, John Abbott, Benson Fong. Screenplay: John Collier, Joseph Than, based on a play by Louis Verneuil. Cinematography: Ernest Haller. Art direction: Anton Grot. Film editing: Alan Crosland Jr. Music: Erich Wolfgang Korngold.

The highlight of Deception is a scene in which Claude Rains, as the imperious composer Alexander Hollenius, invites his ex-mistress Christine (Bette Davis) and her new husband, the cellist Karel Novak (Paul Henreid), to dine with him at a fancy restaurant before Novak is to play Hollenius's new concerto. While Christine and Karel stew, both eager to get the composer's approval so the cellist can make a career break, Hollenius plays the epicure, constantly rethinking the menu and the accompanying wines and keeping the couple from their goal. It's Rains at his best. In fact, he's the chief reason for seeing this somewhat overproduced melodrama, with its sometimes laughable skirting of the Production Code's strictures on sex. Would a worldly European like Novak really be so terribly shocked to find that Christine had been Hollenius's lover? Would Christine really be so determined to conceal the secret that she'd kill for it? Davis pulls out all of her mannerisms -- she disliked the film -- while Henreid struggles to rise above his usual passivity as a leading man overshadowed by his leading lady.

Police Story (Jackie Chan, Chi-Hwa Chen, 1985)

Jackie Chan and Ken Tong in Police Story

Cast: Jackie Chan, Maggie Cheung, Brigitte Lin, Kwok-Hung Lam, Bill Tung, Yuen Chor, Charlie Cho, Chi-Wing Lau, Hark-On Fung, Hing-Yin Kam, Mars, Tai-Bo, Ken Tong. Screenplay: Jackie Chan, Edward Tang. Cinematography: Yiu-Tsou Cheung. Production design: Oliver Wong. Film editing: Peter Cheung. Music: Kevin Bassinson.

Jackie Chan's debt to Buster Keaton has never been more fully displayed, or indeed more fully repaid, than in Police Story, which has a Keatonian moment when he latches onto a passing bus with the crook of an umbrella. Chan plays a cop who goes from hero to goat and back again in this story of an almost one-man crusade against a drug lord. The climax involves the near-total destruction of a shopping mall, with one spectacular set-up after another.

Local Hero (Bill Forsyth, 1983)

Peter Riegert in Local Hero

Cast: Peter Riegert, Peter Capaldi, Denis Lawson, Burt Lancaster, Fulton Mackay, Norman Chancer, Rikki Fulton, Alex Norton, Jenny Seagrove, Jennifer Black, Christopher Rozycki, Gyearbuor Asante. Screenplay: Bill Forsyth. Cinematography: Chris Menges. Production design: Roger Murray-Leach. Film editing: Michael Bradsell. Music: Mark Knopfler.

Local Hero is one of those small charmers that pop up occasionally, get rave reviews, and then sort of fade into the background. It's worth rediscovering, principally for Bill Forsyth's affectionately whimsical take on human beings. Another writer-director would have played the subject -- an American oil company's plans to exploit a small Scottish fishing village -- for more blatant satire and social commentary. But Forsyth is more interested in the people than the issues, so he keeps sending the film off into little eddies of contingency and irrelevance. On the way to the village, for example, the representatives of the oil company, Mac (Peter Riegert) and Oldsen (a startlingly young Peter Capaldi, years away from Doctor Who), accidentally hit a rabbit with their car and decide to bring it with them and nurse it back to health. The rabbit is doomed for the dinner table, but its presence in the story speaks more about the characters than it does to any larger theme the film might be concerned with. Forsyth keeps us cheerfully off guard throughout the film, with features the larger-than-life Burt Lancaster in one of his most humanizing roles.

Burn After Reading (Joel Coen, Ethan Coen, 2008)

George Clooney in Burn After Reading

Cast: George Clooney, Frances McDormand, Brad Pitt, John Malkovich, Tilda Swinton, Richard Jenkins, Elizabeth Marvel, David Rasche, J.K. Simmons, Oleg Krupa. Screenplay: Joel Coen, Ethan Coen. Cinematography: Emmanuel Lubezki. Production design: Jess Gonchor. Film editing: Ethan Coen, Joel Coen. Music: Carter Burwell.

One of the Coen Brothers' goofy dark comedies, and perhaps the darkest if not the goofiest, with a couple of fatalities that tend to take the levity out of the film. Mostly it's a showcase for the comic skills of some usually serious actors, with Brad Pitt the standout as Chad, an addle-brained employee of a gym who happens upon a disc that he thinks is full of government secrets he can sell to its owner for a reward. It doesn't work out well for him or anyone else. This is the Coens at their chilliest, with no one you much want to root for.

The Souvenir (Joanna Hogg, 2019)

Honor Swinton Byrne and Tom Burke in The Souvenir

Cast: Honor Swinton Byrne, Tom Burke, Tilda Swinton, Richard Ayoade, Jaygann Ayeh, Jack McMullen, Hannah Ashby Ward, Frankie Wilson, Barbara Peirson, James Dodds, Ariane Labed. Screenplay: Joanna Hogg. Cinematography: David Raedeker. Production design: Stéphane Collonge. Film editing: Helle le Fevre. 

From the moment we hear the George Sanders purr of Tom Burke's voice, we know that the character he's playing is a bit of a cad and that the slightly awkward and slightly androgynous Julie (Honor Swinton Byrne) should be on her guard. But as it turns out, Julie gets the best of a relationship in which he's mostly in it for her (or her family's) money. She gets the experience she will need to become a filmmaker. The Souvenir ends with the promise of a "Part II," which is not what we usually expect of our arty, thoughtful movies these days, but which is probably something of a necessity to complete the thoughts that Joanna Hogg implants with this semi-autobiographical story, drawn from her own early days as a film student. The callow Julie has a big idea: make a serious drama about an impoverished working-class  boy growing up with a sick mother in a blighted British industrial city. Considering that she's from a family that's anything but impoverished and working-class, she's advised that she should stick to what she knows. But since she doesn't know much of anything about life, that's a problem. Hogg was a late bloomer as a filmmaker: She made her first feature film, Unrelated, in 2007, when she was 47. The Souvenir is a reflection on coming of age in Thatcherite Britain, and it forms part of a slowly growing corpus of films about British artists and intellectuals that demonstrate Hogg's mature and melancholy vision of the state of the world. 

The Lodger (John Brahm, 1944)

Merle Oberon and Laird Cregar in The Lodger

Cast: Laird Cregar, Merle Oberon, George Sanders, Cedric Hardwicke, Sara Allgood, Aubrey Mather, Queenie Leonard, Doris Lloyd, David Clyde, Helena Pickard. Screenplay: Barré Lyndon, based on a novel by Marie Belloc Lowndes. Cinematography: Lucien Ballard. Art direction: James Basevi, John Ewing. Film editing: J. Watson Webb Jr. Music: Hugo Friedhofer.

Laird Cregar's great gift as the heaviest of heavies was to elicit a kind of sympathy for the bad guys he played. Which is no easy task when you're playing the most infamous of serial killers, Jack the Ripper. Marie Belloc Lowndes's novel was only "based on" the notorious murderer of ladies of the night -- it wasn't explicit that the character was Jack (whoever that was) -- and the earlier filmings, particularly Alfred Hitchcock's 1927 silent version, The Lodger: A Story of the London Fog, followed her lead, perhaps because Hitchcock's lodger was played by matinee idol Ivor Novello, which led to a twist in which the character turned out not to be the killer after all. But screenwriter Barré Lyndon and director John Brahm were perfectly happy to capitalize on the Ripper's perennial notoriety. This is a good, atmospheric version of the story, with effective shadowy, expressionistic camerawork by Lucien Ballard, and a solid cast.

The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (Michael Powell, Emeric Pressburger, 1943)

Anton Walbrook, Roger Livesey, and Deborah Kerr in The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp

Cast: Roger Livesey, Anton Walbrook, Deborah Kerr, James McKechnie, Roland Culver, Ursula Jeans, Valentine Dyall. Screenplay: Michael Powell, Emeric Pressburger. Cinematography: Georges Périnal. Production design: Alfred Junge. Film editing: John Seabourne Sr. Music: Allan Gray. 

This time around, I had to ask myself: Why does Casablanca (Michael Curtiz, 1943) feel timeless when The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, a film from the same year, seems so dated? Is this just the American in me, forced to dredge up knowledge of British history that might be more ingrained in a Brit? (Though I really doubt that most Brits today are familiar with David Low's political cartoons from the 1930s and '40s that featured Colonel Blimp, a corpulent old walrus of a Tory, who satirized British complacency and jingoism.) Or is it that the Powell-Pressburger film is more detailed and searching, more engaged with what it means for a country to go to war, than the Warner Bros. romance, which is "still the same old story," cast in a wartime mode, so that we respond more immediately and viscerally to it? This is a handsome movie, with beautiful Technicolor and some engaging performances, but it takes work to appreciate its story, whereas you can just let Casablanca wash over you.

The Petrified Forest (Archie Mayo, 1936)

The Petrified Forest (Archie Mayo, 1936)

Cast: Leslie Howard, Bette Davis, Humphrey Bogart, Genevieve Tobin, Dick Foran, Porter Hall, Charley Grapewin, Joe Sawyer, Paul Harvey. Eddie Acuff, Adrian Morris, Nina Campana, Slim Thompson, John Alexander. Screenplay: Charles Kenyon, Delmer Daves, based on a play by Robert E. Sherwood. Cinematography: Sol Polito. Art direction: John Hughes. Film editing: Owen Marks. Music: Bernhard Kaun. 

Robert E. Sherwood was once America's pre-eminent playwright, winning three Pulitzer Prizes for drama (plus one for a biography of FDR's relationship with Harry Hopkins). But his plays are rarely revived today, and The Petrified Forest shows why: It's talky and its characters are more vehicles for ideas than human beings. The protagonist, Alan Squier, wears the label Effete Intellectual like a badge of honor. The leading lady, Gabrielle Maple, is the Wide-Eyed Naïf. The villain, Duke Mantee, is all Animalistic Evil. The actors who play them in the film -- Leslie Howard, Bette Davis, and Humphrey Bogart, respectively -- do what they can to bring them to life, but they still have to speak Sherwood's lines, or the equivalents provided by screenwriters Charles Kenyon and Delmer Daves. Sometimes the dialogue consists of things no human being ever found the way to utter: "The trouble with me, Gabrielle, is I, I belong to a vanishing race. I'm one of the intellectuals.... Brains without purpose. Noise without sound, shape without substance." Howard makes what he can of this self-pitying poseur, but who sheds a tear when he gets his comeuppance? Bogart, who was in the original Broadway production along with Howard, fares a little better: All Duke Mantee has to do is snarl and growl his lines. It's not prime Bogart, who learned to give a little more depth to his bad guys, but it gave his career a boost after Howard insisted that Bogart be cast in the role instead of the then better-known Edward G. Robinson. Davis comes off best, especially when you remember that her previous teaming with Howard was in John Cromwell's 1936 Of Human Bondage as the slutty Mildred, a character 180 degrees away from the dewy-eyed hopeful Gabrielle. The rest of the cast is entertaining, though Charley Grapewin's gramps, a garrulous old foof who can't help telling tale tales about his encounter with Billy the Kid, gets a little grating after a while. The cast also includes two African-Americans, Slim Thompson as the wealthy couple's chauffeur and John Alexander as a member of Mantee's gang. They are not stereotyped, and they have a brief moment of interaction in which the gangster lords it over the chauffeur, one of the few moments in which the reality of black life in America surfaces convincingly in a mainstream mostly white movie of the era. 

Demon Seed (Donald Cammell, 1977)

Demon Seed (Donald Cammell, 1977)

Cast: Julie Christie, Fritz Weaver, Gerrit Graham, Barry Kroeger, Lisa Lu, Larry J. Blake, John O'Leary, Alfred Dennis, Davis Roberts, Patricia Wilson, Dana Laurita. Screenplay: Robert Jaffe, Roger O. Hirson, based on a novel by Dean R. Koontz. Cinematography: Bill Butler. Production design: Edward C. Carfagno. Film editing: Frank Mazzola. Music: Jerry Fielding.

I'm still more afraid of insufficient human intelligence than of artificial computer intelligence, but I appreciate the prophetic quality of Demon Seed, a film that finds itself resurfacing today amid our uneasiness about social media and the invasion of privacy. Whenever I address my Echo Dot as "Alexa," I will be reminded of Julie Christie's Susan trying out voice commands on her wired house, which has turned from a servant into a jailer and rapist. The movie, unfortunately, looks a little cheesy today -- the cinematography is occasionally murky and the set-ups cluttered -- and it lacks a leavening sense of humor, which often makes horror sci-fi more fun and frightening. I question the waste of an actor of Julie Christie's caliber in a role that's mostly a passive woman-in-jeopardy cliché. And for that matter, why is the only woman scientist in the film Chinese? Are we stuck in the "sinister Oriental" mode here? There's a lot of muddle and loose ends in the plotting: What's the point, for example, of Susan's work as a therapist for a young girl, other than to use the kid as a bit of leverage that Proteus can wield in his torture of Susan? And why do we learn so late in the film that Susan and Alex lost a child, who died of leukemia, some time after we are told that one of Proteus's first achievements was a cure for leukemia? Still, Demon Seed holds its place as an unsettling view of the future that has become our present.

Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House (H.C. Potter, 1948)

Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House (H.C. Potter, 1948)

Cast: Cary Grant, Myrna Loy, Melvyn Douglas, Reginald Denny, Sharyn Moffett, Connie Marshall, Louise Beavers, Ian Wolfe, Harry Shannon, Tito Vuolo, Nestor Paiva, Jason Robards Sr., Lurene Tuttle, Lex Barker, Emory Parnell. Screenplay: Norman Panama, Melvin Frank, based on a novel by Eric Hodgins. Cinematography: James Wong Howe. Art direction: Carroll Clark, Albert S. D'Agostino. Film editing: Harry Marker. Music: Leigh Harline.

Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House was made during the boom in house construction that followed World War II, so it had a ready audience in young couples with dreams of lovely homes. That audience tends to regenerate, so it's no surprise that the original film was loosely remade in 1986 as The Money Pit (Richard Benjamin) and even more loosely in 2007 as Are We Done Yet? (Steve Carr). The original is the best, of course, thanks largely to its trio of stars: Cary Grant, Myrna Loy, and Melvyn Douglas bring their immense charm and comedy skills to what is essentially a routine domestic sitcom. The pitfall in such a story is predictability: We know that every plan the Blandingses make will go awry, and usually in ways we can see coming a mile away. And the film has a smug racism characteristic of its era: A "faithful retainer" played by Louise Beavers, who seems to have no life of her own outside of serving the Blandingses; she follows them from Manhattan to Connecticut dutifully, and when she saves Blandings's job by coming up with an advertising slogan for his client, his response is to tell Mrs. Blandings to give her a $10 raise. We even see her in a newspaper advertisement as a kind of Aunt Jemima figure, grinning over a ham and her slogan.

Ismael's Ghosts (Arnaud Desplechin, 2017)

Ismael's Ghosts (Arnaud Desplechin, 2017)

Cast: Mathieu Amalric, Marion Cotillard, Charlotte Gainsbourg, Louis Garrel, Alba Rohrwacher, Lászlo Szabó, Hippolyte Girardot, Jacques Nolot, Catherine Mouchet, Samir Guesmi. Screenplay: Arnaud Desplechin, Julie Peyr, Léa Mysius. Cinematography: Irina Lubtchansky. Production design: Toma Baqueni. Film editing: Laurence Briaud. Music: Grégoire Hetzel, Mike Kourtzer.

Even people who know Arnaud Despechin's films better than I do seem to agree that Ismael's Ghosts is something of a mess, a series of scenes and incidents that are sometimes brilliant in themselves -- such as the tantrum that the elderly film director Henri Bloom (Lászlo Szabó) throws while boarding a flight to Israel, where he's to receive an award -- but don't cohere enough to make thematic or emotional sense. Just the fact that we have characters named Bloom and Dedalus should be enough to clue us in that we're dealing with a literary imagination as well as a cinematic one: There's also the reappearance of a woman though to be dead whose name is Carlotta, an allusion to Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo (1958). As we sort out the various relationships -- who's married or related to whom -- we also have to figure out what one segment has to do with another -- why, for example, do we sometimes seem to be in the middle of a spy thriller and the next we're examining the love life of a filmmaker? Eventually, we realize that some scenes are from the film Ismaël Vuillard is directing, but what that film has to do with his domestic and creative troubles is another matter. Nevertheless, it's entertaining enough to watch actors like Mathieu Amalric, Marion Cotillard, and Charlotte Gainsbourg do their thing, so if in the end you don't particularly feel compelled to piece it all together, there's still been some well-spent time.

Clue (Jonathan Lynn, 1985)

Clue (Jonathan Lynn, 1985)

Cast: Eileen Brennan, Tim Curry, Madeline Kahn, Christopher Lloyd, Michael McKean, Martin Mull, Lesley Ann Warren, Colleen Camp, Lee Ving, Bill Henderson, Jane Wiedlin, Jeffrey Kramer, Kellye Nakahara, Howard Hesseman. Screenplay: John Landis, Jonathan Lynn. Cinematography: Victor J. Kemper. Production design: John Robert Lloyd. Film editing: David Bretherton, Richard Haines. Music: John Morris.

Clue was something of a dud with critics and audiences when it premiered, but it has developed a following over the years. The idea was a daffy one: Make a movie based on a board game. But the game's roots are themselves cinematic: the murder mystery that takes place in a mysterious mansion, with an array of suspects and murder weapons. So all the movie version needs to do is provide backstories for the various characters -- Miss Scarlet, Colonel Mustard, Professor Plum, et al. -- and some way of staging the murder so that the killer's identity remains unknown until the final reveal. Of course, the charm of the game is that the players are the detectives and the killer, weapon, and location of the crime vary every time it's played. Unfortunately, the screenwriters -- and there were many other hands in the script beyond the credited ones -- decided to go crazy and provide a multitude of victims, as well as three potential endings. The gimmick of showing a different ending each time was one reason the film flopped in theaters, and only really made sense when it was released on video and all three solutions to the mystery could be sampled. What the film has going for it is mainly a cast of comic actors familiar from Mel Brooks movies, Saturday Night Live, and other TV shows. There are a few bright lines but also a lot of unfunny running around, and any comedy that opens with a gag about stepping in dog shit has to work awfully hard to overcome that.  

La Vie de Jésus (Bruno Dumont, 1997)

La Vie de Jésus (Bruno Dumont, 1997)

Cast: David Douche, Marjorie Cottreel, Kader Chaatouf, Sébastien Delbaare, Samuel Boidin, Steve Smagghe, Sébastien Bailleul, Geneviève Cottreel. Screenplay: Bruno Dumont. Cinematography: Philippe Van Leeuw. Production design: Frédérique Suchet. Film editing: Yves Deschamps, Guy Lecorne. Music: Richard Cuvillier.

From its enigmatic title to its uncompromising lack of narrative structure, Bruno Dumont's first feature challenges a viewer's patience but ultimately, I think, rewards it. Dumont has explained (sort of) the title as a reference to Ernest Renan's 1863 book of the same name, a biography of Jesus that purges all miracles and holiness from its story. There are no miracles or holiness to be found in the life of Freddy, a young lout growing up in a small town in northern France, where his mother keeps a bar and occasionally nags him about his idleness. It's the kind of town where people spend a lot of time sitting on their front stoops or staring at the television. Freddy spends his time with his chums, riding motorbikes around the countryside, playing drums in the town band, having sex with his pretty girlfriend, and raising a caged finch that he enters in chirping contests. The finch's frantic movements in its confinement may be a kind of metaphor for the turmoil behind Freddy's usually impassive façade, which shatters only when he experiences one of the epileptic attacks that send him to therapy. Naturally, so much aimlessness gets Freddy into serious trouble, but the film ends with only a symbolic redemption as he escapes from police interrogation, rides into the country, and lies in the tall grass, staring into the sky and starting to cry. The bleakness of Dumont's vision of the life of Freddy and his cohort of fellow layabouts can be trying, and Dumont makes no attempt to leaven his story with humor. Yet I found myself drawn in by the performances of a group of nonprofessional actors, and I appreciated Dumont's references in a Criterion interview to his film as a kind of equivalent to Flemish paintings of idling peasants and burghers. 

American Gigolo (Paul Schrader, 1980)

American Gigolo (Paul Schrader, 1980)

Cast: Richard Gere, Lauren Hutton, Hector Elizondo, Nina van Pallandt, Bill Duke, Brian Davies, K Callan, Tom Stewart, Patricia Carr, David Cryer, Carole Cook, Carol Bruce, Frances Bergen. Screenplay: Paul Schrader. Cinematography: John Bailey. Art direction: Edward Richardson. Film editing: Richard Halsey. Music: Giorgio Moroder.

"So quick bright things come to confusion." One moment Armani-clad Julian Kay is weaving smoothly through L.A. traffic in his Mercedes or striding confidently into the Beverly Hills Hotel, and the next he's standing in a lineup of suspects in the brutal murder of one of his clients. American Gigolo has always divided critics between those who think it's shallow and humorless soft-core porn and those who find it "stylish and surprisingly poignant." I tend somewhat toward the latter view: It seems to me an American version of something like Jacques Demy's Bay of Angels (1963), with Richard Gere's Julian as a kind of equivalent of Jeanne Moreau's platinum blond Jackie Demaistre -- a lost and lonely soul adrift in a glamorous setting. It's America on the cusp of the Reagan '80s, before AIDS. The stories of male prostitutes have never been given the attention by the movies that they deserve. Perhaps it's because in a male-dominated society the question of who's exploiting whom is a little more complicated when the prostitute is a man, typically seen as the one to be pleasured rather than the pleasurer. Paul Schrader suggestively makes Julian's procurers a woman and a black man -- figures that a good-looking white male like Julian would typically not find himself subordinated to. I don't think American Gigolo fully explores all of its potential, but it rewards a second look to examine its multiple subtexts.