Until the End of the World (Wim Wenders, 1991)

William Hurt and Solveig Dommartin in Until the End of the World 

Cast: Solveig Dommartin, William Hurt, Sam Neill, Rüdiger Vogler, Jeanne Moreau, Max Von Sydow, Chick Ortega, Elena Smirnova, Eddy Mitchell, Adelle Lutz, Ernie Dingo, Ernest Beck, Christine Oesterlein, Kuniko Miyaki, Chishu Ryu, Allen Garfield, Lois Chiles, David Gulpilil, Justine Saunders, Paul Livingston. Screenplay: Peter Carey, Wim Wenders. Cinematography: Robby Müller. Production design: Sally Campbell, Thierry Flamand. Film editing: Peter Przygodda. Music: Graeme Revell.

Wim Wenders's almost five-hour-long cut of Until the End of the World may be the most self-indulgent film I've ever seen, and I've seen Heaven's Gate (Michael Cimino, 1980). The original cut of Wenders's movie was 20 hours long, but it was reduced to just under three hours for its first European release and to a bit over two and a half hours for American audiences in 1991. It failed with the critics and the box office. Wenders finally re-edited it to the 287-minute version released in 2015 and now being shown on the Criterion Channel. But it really seems to me to be two movies stitched together by Sam Neill's voiceover narration. The first half is what Wenders himself has called the "ultimate road movie," a characteristic genre for the director of Alice in the Cities (1974), Kings of the Road (1976), and Paris, Texas (1984), starting in Venice and then bouncing to Paris, Berlin, Lisbon, Moscow, Tokyo, San Francisco, and finally Australia, where it settles for the second half. This half is a sci-fi film about experiments with perception and dreams that take place in the shadow of a potential nuclear holocaust. The first half is often funny; the second half isn't. I'm not prepared to call Until the End of the World a masterpiece, unless it's a masterpiece for cineastes, who can indulge themselves to the fullest in tracing the allusions and influences that shape the movie. The characters played by William Hurt and Solveig Dommartin, for example, spend time in an idyllic setting in Japan where they're tended by characters played by Chishu Ryu and Kuniko Miyaki, actors familiar from the films of Yasujiro Ozu. Hurt's character's parents are played by the iconic Jeanne Moreau and Max Von Sydow. Wenders even evokes his own past by casting Rüdiger Vogler, the star of Alice in the Cities and Kings of the Road. It's a witty film in many regards, but as I said, self-indulgent. And 287 minutes is a kind of forced binge-watch, which makes me think that Until the End of the World would have made a terrific miniseries for Netflix or Hulu if they'd been around in 1991.

The Boy With Green Hair (Joseph Losey, 1948)

Pat O'Brien and Dean Stockwell in The Boy With Green Hair 

Cast: Dean Stockwell, Pat O'Brien, Robert Ryan, Barbara Rush, Richard Lyon, Walter Catlett, Samuel S. Hinds, Regis Toomey, Charles Meredith, David Clarke, Billy Sheffield, Johnny Calkins, Teddy Infuhr, Dwayne Hickman, Eilene Janssen, Curtis Loys Jackson Jr., Charles Arnt. Screenplay: Ben Barzman, Alfred Lewis Levitt, based on a story by Betsy Beaton. Cinematography: George Barnes. Art direction: Ralph Berger, Albert S. D'Agostino. Film editing: Frank Doyle. Music: Leigh Harline.

Joseph Losey's The Boy With Green Hair has endured, mutating with the times to reflect whatever social issue dominates at the moment. When it was made in the postwar 1940s, it was intended to carry a strong antiwar statement -- one that RKO's new owner, Howard Hughes, hated so much that he tried to re-edit the film to eliminate it. Today, it might be seen as echoing some of the passion behind Black Lives Matter. In any case, it's a film close to the liberal heart, produced by the premier Hollywood liberal, Dore Schary. Fortunately, it makes its point without preachiness and, mercifully, without overindulging in whimsy. (An exception to the latter is the boy's fantasy about his grandfather's encounter with a king.) Dean Stockwell, 12 years old at the time but looking a couple of years younger, gives a refreshingly natural performance as the boy, Peter, free from the cutesiness that often weighed down performances by children in that era.

Green Book (Peter Farrelly, 2018)

Mahershala Ali and Viggo Mortensen in Green Book

Cast: Viggo Mortensen, Mahershala Ali, Linda Cardellini, Sebastian Maniscalco, Dimiter D. Marinov, Mike Hatton, P.J. Byrne, Joe Cortese, Maggie Nixon, Von Lewis, Iqbal Theba. Screenplay: Nick Vallelonga, Brian Hayes Currie, Peter Farrelly. Cinematography: Sean Porter. Production design: Tim Galvin. Film editing: Patrick J. Don Vito. Music: Chris Bowers.

Peter Farrelly's Green Book is not a bad movie, just an unoriginal one, especially with its soft-landing, feel-good ending, set at Christmas no less. It's certainly among the least worthy best picture Oscar recipients of recent years, especially from nominees that included such original works as Spike Lee's BlacKkKlansman, Alfonso Cuarón's Roma, and my personal favorite, Yorgos Lanthimos's The Favourite. What Green Book has going for it is powerful performances by Viggo Mortensen and Mahershala Ali and a sharp reminder of the cruelty and injustice of the Jim Crow era, in which a phenomenon like the Green Book, a travel guide for Black people in an age of segregated accommodation, was necessary. The film has been criticized for resorting to the White Savior trope, in which Mortensen's Tony Vallelonga saves Ali's Don Shirley from mayhem and possible death. There is, in fact, a White Savior in the film, but it's the off-screen Bobby Kennedy who rescues Vallelonga and Shirley from jail in a Louisiana "sundown town" after a well-placed phone call by Shirley to his well-connected lawyer, a moment in which Shirley plays Magical Negro to Vallelonga's White Savior. The film tries to be even-handed in depicting the growing rapport between the two men, in which each tries to correct the other's flaws, namely Shirley's hauteur and Vallelonga's crudeness. It doesn't entirely succeed, largely because the point of view in the film is white, that of Vallelonga's son Nick, who wrote the screenplay. The Shirley family, in fact, protested the treatment of their relative in the film as a "symphony of lies," falsely portraying Shirley as alienated from the Black community and estranged from his brother. Setting aside any issues of accuracy -- Green Book is a fiction film, not a documentary -- the real problems with the movie are two: One, that it treats racial tensions as a thing of the past, something hardly acceptable in the age of Black Lives Matter. The other is the heaviness of its clichés, which are those of almost any odd-couple road trip movie, which led some of its critics, mindful of another undeserving best picture Oscar winner, to dub it "Driving Dr. Shirley." 

Sweetie (Jane Campion, 1989)

Michael Lake, Karen Colston, Tom Lycos, and Geneviève Lemon in Sweetie

Cast: Geneviève Lemon, Karen Colston, Tom Lycos, Jon Darling, Dorothy Barry, Michael Lake, Andre Pataczek, Jean Hadgraft, Paul Livingston, Louise Fox, Ann Merchant, Robyn Frank, Bronwyn Morgan. Screenplay: Gerard Lee, Jane Campion. Cinematography: Sally Bongers. Art direction: Peter Harris. Film editing: Veronika Jenet. Music: Martin Armiger.

Jane Campion's Sweetie is a sharply filmed, deftly styled, rawly acted family tragicomedy, and one of the most remarkable feature directing debuts in movie history. I use the word "tragicomedy" reluctantly because there's no easy way to capture the tone of Campion's film. It can make you laugh but uneasily, because its characters are so damaged and unpredictable that there's an element of pity and fear in our responses to them. The point of view is largely that of Kay (Karen Colston), a neurotic young woman -- among other things, she suffers from dendrophobia, the fear of trees -- with a sister, Dawn (Geneviève Lemon), aka "Sweetie," who dances on the edge of psychosis for much of the film until she finally goes over the edge. Kay is the kind of person who, when a fortune teller reads her tea leaves and sees a man with a question mark in his face, almost immediately runs into one. He's Louis (Tom Lycos), who, when Kay meets him, has a lock of hair dangling down over a mole on his forehead, an irresistible embodiment of the prophecy of the tea leaves. Louis has just gotten engaged to another woman, but before you know it, he and Kay are living together. Their life has just stalemated into sexlessness when Sweetie arrives, with her "producer," a narcoleptic guy named Bob (Michael Lake), in tow. Eventually, we meet Kay and Sweetie's parents, Gordon (Jon Darling) and Flo (Dorothy Barry), and learn that Gordon has spent most of his life spoiling Sweetie, encouraging her to believe that she has an abundance of talent. Summary of Sweetie fails at this point to capture the crisply distanced way that Campion presents this ensemble and works out their interplay. Her achievement in this film has been likened to the films of David Lynch and Jim Jarmusch, and there are moments that for me recall David Byrne's True Stories (1986) -- the Australia of Sweetie is very much kin to the Texas of Byrne's film -- but Campion is really doing her own thing, and doing it well.

The Death & Life of John F. Donovan (Xavier Dolan, 2018)

Kit Harington and Chris Zylka in The Death and Life of John F. Donovan

Cast: Kit Harington, Natalie Portman, Jacob Tremblay, Susan Sarandon, Kathy Bates, Ben Schnetzer, Thandie Newton, Jared Keeso, Chris Zylka, Amara Karan, Emily Hampshire, Michael Gambon. Screenplay: Xavier Dolan, Jacob Tierney. Cinematography: André Turpin. Production design: Anne Pritchard, Colombe Raby. Film editing: Mathieu Denis, Xavier Dolan. Music: Gabriel Yared.

I had read some of the reviews, noted the abysmal 21% ranking on Rotten Tomatoes, and knew that The Death & Life of John F. Donovan had barely been released in the United States. But how bad could a movie that featured three best actress Oscar winners as well as such celebrated performers as Thandie Newton and Michael Gambon really be? Maybe this was a case of a film that simply went over people's heads and will be rediscovered in a few years to become a cult film. Well, no. This is not an unappreciated gem. It's a mess of a movie about the perils of celebrity, with an embarrassingly off-the-mark treatment of life in the closet, and some uncomfortable echoes of real celebrity secret lives that only add queasiness to the mix. The denouement of the film is sheer hackery: There are two Big Speeches, one by Kathy Bates and the other by Gambon (in a kind of wise old man ex machina appearance), that are supposed somehow to resolve the film's theme, but are only anti-climactic. Is it well-acted? Yes. Kit Harington hasn't quite escaped the aura of Jon Snow in the film, partly because the title role calls on him to be a hugely successful TV star, but he has a looseness and natural delivery that he was never allowed in the fantasy confines of Game of Thrones. Jacob Tremblay, as the young, starstruck fan who becomes a pen pal with Donovan, shows that he really is the capable child actor that Room (Lenny Abrahamson, 2015) suggested he was. Natalie Portman and Susan Sarandon do what they can with badly written roles. It's said that writer-director Xavier Dolan's original cut of the film was four hours long, and that the trimming to the current two-hour length involved jettisoning the work of yet another major actress, Jessica Chastain, so it's possible that some of the incoherence of the film stems from desperate editing. But nothing about the movie really makes me want to watch the director's original cut.

Le Corbeau (Henri-Georges Clouzot, 1943)

Pierre Fresnay and Ginette Leclerc in Le Corbeau

Cast: Pierre Fresnay, Ginette Leclerc, Micheline Francey, Héléna Manson, Jeanne Fusier-Gir, Sylvie, Liliane Maigné, Pierre Larquey, Noël Roquevert, Bernard Lancret, Antoine Balpêtré, Jean Brochard. Screenplay: Louis Chavance, Henri-Georges Clouzot. Cinematography: Nicolas Hayer. Set decoration: Andrej Andrejew. Film editing: Marguerite Beaugé. Music: Tony Aubin.

No film that has something to offend everyone can be all bad, right? Henri-Georges Clouzot's Le Corbeau was made during the German occupation of France, and it managed to alienate both the Vichy regime and the Resistance, and even to be banned after the liberation. To be sure, it's a somewhat unpleasant film, a psychological thriller in which almost everyone is something of a rotter. But at the time, it was subjected to suspicion of being a kind of allegory of the situation in which France's towns found themselves, to be an attack on informing on one's fellow citizens and an undermining of the morale of the populace. Someone in the unnamed village where the film takes place is sending anonymous poison-pen letters to everyone else, exposing the secrets and sins of the townspeople, but especially aiming at Dr. Rémy Germain (Pierre Fresnay), a fairly recent arrival to the town, accusing him of being an illegal abortionist. The letters are signed "Le Corbeau," the crow (or if you prefer an allusion to Edgar Allan Poe, the raven). Germain himself is not an altogether likable character: He's a bit crabby and he's carrying on an affair with both the beautiful wife (Micheline Francey) of the local psychiatrist, Dr. Vorzet (Pierre Larquey), a much older man, and with Denise Saillens (Ginette Leclerc), who sometimes fakes illness to get Germain's attention. The vicious letters cause an uproar, in the middle of which a young man commits suicide. Uncovering the identity of Le Corbeau becomes a pursuit that is doomed not to end well. Clouzot's skill as a director, abetted by cinematographer Nicolas Hayer's manipulation of light and shadow, makes all of this unpleasantness watchable, but it's easy to see why it got under people's skin.

The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner (Tony Richardson, 1962)

Tom Courtenay in The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner

Cast: Tom Courtenay, Michael Redgrave, Avis Bunnage, Alec McCowen, James Bolam, Joe Robinson, Dervis Ward, Topsy Jane, Julia Foster. Screenplay: Alan Sillitoe, based on his story. Cinematography: Walter Lassally. Production design: Ralph W. Brinton. Film editing: Antony Gibbs. Music: John Addison.

Tony Richardson's The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner owes some of its prominence in film history to being grouped with other "Angry Young Men" films, such as Richardson's own Look Back in Anger (1959), Jack Clayton's Room at the Top (1959), Karel Reisz's Saturday Night and Sunday Morning (1960), and Lindsay Anderson's This Sporting Life (1963), working-class dramas that gave a boost to such young actors as Richard Burton, Laurence Harvey, Albert Finney, and Richard Harris. Tom Courtenay also got a leg up on his career, largely because he, more than director Richardson, is what holds The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner together. Richardson's direction lacks focus and tension. For example, he occasionally resorts to brief bursts of sped-up action that almost make me hear "Yackety Sax" playing in the background. The essence of Alan Sillitoe's screenplay is that, as Kris Kristofferson put it, freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose. Courtenay plays Colin Smith, sent to a reformatory, called a Borstal in Britain, for robbery. The oily, autocratic governor of the institution, played by Michael Redgrave, quickly spots Colin's aptitude for running and grooms him for a race he has arranged between teams from the reform school and an upper-class public school. Colin relishes the illusion of freedom that long-distance running gives him, but when the time comes for the race, he realizes that he's just being used by the governor to enhance his image, so he throws the race at the finish line. The bulk of the film deals with Colin's rebellion against the family in which he grew up, his involvement with a young woman, and the small crimes he and a friend commit before he finally gets caught for the theft. But there's not much shape to the film's flashback integration of this background story, and the film falls slack when it should be building to a climax. Still, Courtenay's performance and solid support from Redgrave, from Alec McCowen as a smarmy school counselor full of hack psychology, and from the fine character actress Avis Bunnage as Colin's mother help keep the film alive.

The Phantom of Liberty (Luis Buñuel, 1974)

Cast: Adriana Asti, Julien Bertheau, Jean-Claude Brialy, Adolfo Celi, Paul Frankeur, Michael Lonsdale, Pierre Maguelon, François Maistre, Hélène Perdrière, Michel Piccoli, Claude Piéplu, Jean Rochefort, Bernard Verley, Monica Vitti, Milena Vukotic. Screenplay: Luis Buñuel, Jean-Claude Carrière. Cinematography: Edmond Richard. Production design: Pierre Guffroy. Film editing: Hélène Plemiannikov.

The most famous, or notorious, scene in The Phantom of Liberty is the one above, in which a group of well-dressed people sit down at a table on flush toilets, and begin to discuss scatological matters. Eventually, one man excuses himself to go to the "dining room," a small private place where he can eat in privacy, an act that evidently would be disgusting if done in public. The film is a kind of tag-team of episodes, in which a secondary character in one scene becomes the central character of the next, all proceeding though dreamlike situations. In movies, dreams are typically not much like our real dreams; they're usually soft-focus and full of portentous events. But Luis Buñuel and his co-scenarist Jean-Claude Carrière know better: Real dreams seem to proceed with the kind of groundedness of daily life, but with logical inconsistencies that we don't question as we're dreaming them. For me, the most dreamlike sequence in The Phantom of Liberty is the one in which the Legendres (Jean Rochefort and Pascale Audret) rush to their daughter's school because she's been reported as having disappeared. When they get there, the little girl is present, but everyone behaves as if she has really disappeared. When they go to the police to report her disappearance, the girl accompanies them and even supplies information about her age, height, and weight to the police, who thank her and the parents and proceed to investigate the case. This is perhaps the most playful of Buñuel's films, though it contains his usual keen satire of bourgeois manners and mannerisms, and is chock-full of ideas about how we conform to conventions and rules that are at base arbitrary and irrational.

Scaramouche (Rex Ingram, 1923)

Ramon Novarro and Alice Terry in Scaramouche

Cast: Ramon Novarro, Alice Terry, Lewis Stone, Lloyd Ingraham, Julia Swayne Gordon, William Humphrey, Otto Matieson, George Siegmann, Bowditch M. Turner, James A. Marcus, Edith Allen, John George, Willard Lee Hall, Rose Dione. Screenplay: Willis Goldbeck, based on a novel by Rafael Sabatini. Cinematography: John F. Seitz. Art direction: Harold Grieve. Film editing: Grant Whytock.

A year after Ramon Novarro, as Rupert of Hentzau, threatened to steal Rex Ingram's The Count of Monte Cristo away from Lewis Stone's Count, we find the two actors in reversed roles. In Scaramouche Novarro is the dashing hero and Stone the cunning villain. Actually, Scaramouche could have used a bit more dash and cunning in both roles. Novarro isn't given much opportunity to display the impishness he brought to Rupert, even though a title card proclaims, in Rafael Sabatini's words, that Novarro's character, André-Louis Moreau, "was born with the gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad." Nor does Ingram provide enough swashbuckling for Novarro to do: Most of his duels are fought off camera, and the crucial one with Stone's Marquis de la Tour d'Azyr is somewhat awkwardly staged. Ingram seems to be more interested in Harold Grieve's opulent sets, beautifully filmed by John F. Seitz, and in the menacing crowd scenes of his version of the French Revolution and the Reign of Terror. It's all hokum, of course, but it has its moments.

Palm Springs (Max Barbakow, 2020)

Cristin Milioti and Andy Samberg in Palm Springs

Cast: Andy Samberg, Cristin Milioti, J.K. Simmons, Peter Gallagher, Meredith Hagner, Camila Mindes, Tyler Hoechlin, Chris Pang, Jacqueline Obradors, June Squibb, Tongaya Chirisa, Dale Dickey, Conner O'Malley, Jena Friedman, Brian Duffy. Screenplay: Andy Siara. Cinematography: Quyen Tran. Production design: Jason Kisvarday. Film editing: Andrew Dickler, Matt Friedman. Music: Matthew Compton.

Maybe it was John Keats who invented the now-familiar trope of the "time loop." The figures on the Grecian urn celebrated in his ode seem to be stuck in one: The lovers "cannot fade," but will be "For ever panting, and for ever young." Of course, they don't know that; only the observer of the figures does, and the fact teases him "out of thought, / As doth eternity." And it was Shakespeare who noted that "our little life is rounded with a sleep," just as the day of the characters in Palm Springs is. The concept of the time loop, as established for most moviegoers by Harold Ramis's great 1993 movie Groundhog Day, is that it actually exists only for an observer who happens to be caught in it, as Bill Murray's character was in the film. The task of this observer is either to persuade others to recognize his plight or to find a way out of it. In the 1992 episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation called "Cause and Effect," written by Brannon Braga, the crew of the Enterprise is caught in a time loop that ends with the destruction of the ship and the crew, but everyone on board begins to have feelings of déjà vu as the event repeats itself; they eventually figure out a way to end it. Andy Siara's screenplay for Palm Springs takes a direction more in line with Groundhog Day by having three people aware of the loop: the wedding guests Nyles (Andy Samberg) and Sarah (Cristin Milioti) and the enraged Roy (J.K. Simmons), who blames Nyles for getting him caught in it. Eventually, Nyles and Roy give up and decide to seize the moment and endure an eternity of a single repeated day, but Sarah spends her time learning quantum physics to break the loop. Palm Springs doesn't break any new ground for the time loop trope, but it's engagingly conceived and entertainingly played, and it occasionally teases us out of thought about eternity, too.  

Ad Astra (James Gray, 2019)

Brad Pitt in Ad Astra

Cast: Brad Pitt, Tommy Lee Jones, Donald Sutherland, Ruth Negga, Kimberly Elise, Loren Dean, Liv Tyler, Donnie Keshawarz, Sean Blakemore, Bobby Nish, LisaGay Hamilton, John Finn, John Ortiz. Screenplay: James Gray, Ethan Gross. Cinematography: Hoyte Van Hoytema. Production design: Kevin Thompson. Film editing: John Axelrad, Lee Haugen. Music: Max Richter.

It's said that there are really only two types of sci-fi movies: space Westerns and mind-bogglers. The Star Wars canon would be the archetype of the former, Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) of the latter. But James Gray seems to want to bridge the types in Ad Astra, with some exciting action sequences in the first half of the film, including a spectacular fall by the protagonist, Roy McBride (Brad Pitt), from a space station near enough to the Earth for him to be affected by gravity, and an exciting chase sequence involving moon pirates. But then the film shifts into something more mythic, a father-son fable with overtones of Oedipus and Laius, Daedalus and Icarus, Orestes and Agamemnon, Abraham and Isaac, and so on. It goes from action to introspection so suddenly that it lost a lot of its audience, who may have gone in expecting something like Armageddon (Michael Bay, 1998) and found themselves watching something more like Terrence Malick's The Tree of Life (2011), and not just because Pitt sometimes seems to be reprising his character from the Malick film. Gray also makes nods to the Kubrick classic, with some wry twists: In 2001, for example, space flight has been commercialized, so that people travel to the moon on Pan Am (an airline that went out of business before the real 2001 rolled around). In Ad Astra, the moon flight is on Virgin, and Gray slips in a dig at today's commercial aviation when Roy requests a blanket and pillow and is told that the charge for them is $125. Earthlike crime and corruption have also infected travel in space: Not only are there pirates on the moon, the international competition for mineral rights has bred distrust. The American program has been militarized, with the usual consequences of rank-pulling and official secrecy screwing things up. Pitt carries the film as he has never carried one before, having developed a gift for revealing the internal torment carefully masked by external stoicism. I have a feeling that Ad Astra, though reckoned a bit of a box office disappointment at the time, is going to grow in stature over the years, along with Gray's reputation as a director.

Come Back, Little Sheba (Daniel Mann, 1952)

Shirley Booth and Burt Lancaster in Come Back, Little Sheba

Cast: Shirley Booth, Burt Lancaster, Terry Moore, Richard Jaeckel, Philip Ober, Edwin Max, Lisa Golm, Walter Kelley. Screenplay: Ketti Frings, based on a play by William Inge. Cinematography: James Wong Howe. Art direction: Henry Bumstead, Hal Pereira. Film editing: Warren Low. Music: Franz Waxman.

Shirley Booth won an Oscar for her portrayal of Lola Delaney, a middle-aged frump married to an alcoholic chiropractor (Burt Lancaster) she calls "Daddy" or "Doc." We first see Lola coming downstairs in a ratty chenille robe to answer the doorbell; it's Marie Buckholder (Terry Moore), a college student answering an ad for a room Lola has for rent. Marie takes a look at the room and tells her she'll think it over. When Doc finds out that Lola has decided to take in a roomer, he's angry and forbids it. But when Marie returns to say she wants to rent the room, only Doc is home -- Lola has gone out to buy some orange juice for his breakfast -- and when he gets a look at the nubile Marie, he agrees to rent it, along with another downstairs room that Lola calls her "sewing room," though there's no evidence that Lola ever uses it for that. And so begins the film version of the first of William Inge's plays about sexual frustration. The movie would have us believe that Marie rouses a repressed desire in Doc and also makes him want to protect her, as if she were the child he and Lola lost, but as with most of the works by the closeted playwright, it has a strong gay subtext. When Marie, an art student, brings home a classmate, a young athlete named Turk (Richard Jaeckel), to pose for a poster she's creating, Doc is shocked to find the well-built Turk, in a track suit that shows off his muscles, in his living room. He immediately begins professing his concern for Marie's honor, her supposed virginity, but we can sense that he's more than a little aroused by Turk. We learn, too, that Doc was an only child, coddled by his mother and always shy around women, and that it was only because Lola was more than a little sexually forward that he got her pregnant and had to marry her. The real disappointment in the movie is the radical miscasting of Lancaster as Doc. He was 15 years younger than Booth, and no amount of gray at his temples can cover up his athletic vitality and make us believe that the two are supposed to be the same age. Still, despite the screenplay's disingenuousness about sexuality and the stagebound character of its action and dialogue, Booth's performance is worth savoring and there are moments of genuine feeling in the film.

The Animal Kingdom (Edward H. Griffith, 1932)

Ann Harding, Leslie Howard, and Myrna Loy in The Animal Kingdom

Cast: Leslie Howard, Ann Harding, Myrna Loy, William Gargan, Neil Hamilton, Ilka Chase, Henry Stephenson, Leni Stengel, Don Dillaway. Screenplay: Horace Jackson, based on a play by Philip Barry. Cinematography: George J. Folsey. Art direction: Van Nest Polglase. Film editing: Daniel Mandell. Music: Max Steiner.

The odd, arch, talky The Animal Kingdom is based on one of Philip Barry's plays about rich people yearning to be free, like his Holiday and The Philadelphia Story, film versions of which were directed by George Cukor in 1938 and 1940 respectively. And here the connection among the films gets more intricate, for the director of The Animal Kingdom, Edward H. Griffith, had directed an earlier film version of Holiday in 1930, also starring Ann Harding, with a screenplay by Horace Jackson. And Cukor was an uncredited co-director on The Animal Kingdom. Moreover, the 1932 stage version had starred Leslie Howard, as well as William Gargan and Ilka Chase. So maybe everybody concerned with filming The Animal Kingdom was a little too close to the material, because the movie is a bit of a mess. The central love triangle -- Daisy Sage (Harding) is the former mistress of Tom Collier (Howard) who plans to marry Cecelia Henry (Myrna Loy) just as Daisy comes back into his life -- is clear enough, but the movie is cluttered with secondary characters whose function in the lives of the central characters is a bit obscure, as if their backstories were more interesting than what we actually see on the screen. Tom, for example, has a butler named Regan (William Gargan) who is an ex-boxer completely unsuited to his duties as butler, which causes tensions with Cecelia. What Tom and Regan's obligations to each other are based on remains unknown. Daisy similarly has a friend named Franc (Leni Stengel), who plays the cello and speaks with a German accent, attributes that are obvious but of no significance to the plot. Still, there are some bright lines and some nice pre-Code naughtiness like a reference by Tom to a brothel he used to visit in London, not to mention the fact that the film is quite open about the relationship between Tom and Daisy: At one point she refers to herself as "a foolish virgin... Oh, foolish anyway," which is the kind of line no American movie could get away with for several decades after the 1934 Production Code went into effect. But I think I might have enjoyed The Animal Kingdom more if I didn't think it was radically miscast, that Loy should have played the somewhat free-spirited Daisy and Harding the more conventional Cecelia. In fact, this was a breakthrough role for Loy, who had been typecast as sultry, often "Oriental" women. In The Animal Kingdom, Loy comes across as sexy and Harding as bland, which is the reverse of the way it should be. Their pairing shows why Loy became a major star and Harding began to fade out of films in the mid-1930s. But both deserved better than this comedy of manners that's more mannered than comic.

Smithereens (Susan Seidelman, 1982)

Susan Berman in Smithereens

Cast: Susan Berman, Brad Rijn, Richard Hell, Nada Despotovich, Roger Jett, Kitty Summerall, Joni Ruth White, D.J. O'Neill, Joel Rooks, Pamela Speed, Tom Cherwin, Edie Schecter. Screenplay: Susan Seidelman, Ron Nyswaner, Peter Askin. Cinematography: Chirine El Kadem. Production design: Franz Harland. Film editing: Susan Seidelman. Music: Glenn Mercer, Bill Million.

Smithereens is at least a documentary of attitude, a portrait of a moment in the history of youth. It aspires to the lasting achievement of the early French New Wave, to become the punk era's Breathless (Jean-Luc Godard, 1960) or The 400 Blows (François Truffaut, 1959). If it doesn't reach those heights, it's only because Godard and Truffaut got there first, and Susan Seidelman's film can only feel like an echo of them in spirit. But it can also transcend them because its protagonist, like its director, is a woman: Susan Berman's Wren displays a gutsiness and vulnerability inaccessible to Godard's Michel Poiccard and Truffaut's Antoine Doinel. Made for chicken feed on 16mm in the crumbling Manhattan of the early 1980s, it set Seidelman on a path to the big time, though it can also be argued that she never again quite displayed the ingenuity and intensity of vision that she shows in Smithereens.

Z for Zachariah (Craig Zobel, 2015)

Margot Robbie, Chiwetel Ejiofor, and Chris Pine in Z for Zachariah

Cast: Margot Robbie, Chiwetel Ejiofor, Chris Pine. Screenplay: Nissar Modi, based on a novel by Robert C. O'Brien. Cinematography: Tim Orr. Production design: Matthew Munn. Film editing: Jane Rizzo. Music: Heather McIntosh.

Z for Zachariah is based on a young adult novel, but it's a movie for grownups who know how to savor its treatment of race, religion, sex, secrets, and lies, and moreover who aren't troubled by its failure to provide solutions to all the problems it crams into a microcosm. When I say "based on" I mean that literally: I haven't read the novel on which it's based, but the Wikipedia summary suggests that screenwriter Nissar Modi took only the premise of that book -- surviving a nuclear holocaust in a kind of new Eden -- and crafted something very different, adding a third character and changing the race of one. I have the feeling that if the film had been made by an "art house" director like Kelly Reichardt, for example, or a French director like Olivier Assayas, and with actors that cause no stir at the box office, unlike the beautiful and starry Margot Robbie, Chiwetel Ejiofor, and Chris Pine, it would have made more of a sensation among critics than the middling 79% "fresh" rating it gets at Rotten Tomatoes. Because it's a mostly low-key drama simmering with sexual and racial tension. Its ending leaves closure up to the viewer, as the best films do. And despite the cast seeming a little too rich for the film's blood -- they do look a little too well-groomed and well-fed for survivors of the apocalypse, as several critics noted -- the performances are top-notch.

Duck Soup (Leo McCarey, 1933)

Harpo Marx, Chico Marx, Zeppo Marx, and Groucho Marx in Duck Soup

Cast: Groucho Marx, Harpo Marx, Chico Marx, Zeppo Marx, Margaret Dumont, Louis Calhern, Raquel Torres, Edgar Kennedy, Edmund Breese, Leonid Kinskey, Charles Middleton. Screenplay: Bert Kalmar, Harry Ruby, Arthur Sheekman, Nat Perrin. Cinematography: Henry Sharp. Art direction: Hans Dreier, Wiard Ihnen. Film editing: LeRoy Stone. Music: John Leipold; songs by Bert Kalmar, Harry Ruby.

The best of the Marx Brothers' movies, largely because it's nonstop nonsense. There are no breaks for a harp solo by Harpo or cute piano playing by Chico. There's no "real-life" romantic subplot like the ones Irving Thalberg inserted into the movies the Marxes made when they moved over to MGM. (This was the last movie they made at Paramount.) The songs are all excuses for goofy production numbers. This is the one with Harpo and Chico running a peanut stand and tormenting Edgar Kennedy as the lemonade seller. This is the one with the mirror routine involving Groucho and Harpo (and eventually Chico) in nightshirts and nightcaps. This is the one in which Groucho (aka Rufus T. Firefly) exhorts the troops with "Remember, you're fighting for this woman's honor, which is probably more than she ever did." (The temptation to quote is irresistible.) The woman in question is, of course, Margaret Dumont, sailing stately through the turbulent sea of Groucho's puns, insults, and double entendres. For once she has a match in enduring the brothers with aplomb: Louis Calhern takes everything they can dish out and keeps plowing ahead. Duck Soup was not particularly well-received at the time, but it has grown in favor since the sentimentality that weighed down later films like A Night at the Opera (Sam Wood, 1935) and A Day at the Races (Wood, 1937) has gone out of style. If I had to pick the funniest film ever made, and thank god I don't, it might be this one.

3 Faces (Jafar Panahi, 2018)

Behnaz Jafari and Jafar Panahi in 3 Faces

Cast: Behnaz Jafari, Jafar Panahi, Marziyeh Rezaei, Maedeh Erteghaei, Narges Delaram. Screenplay: Jafar Panahi, Nader Saeivar. Cinematography: Amin Jafari. Production design: Leila Naghdi Pari. Film editing: Mastaneh Mohajer, Panah Panahi.

It's probable that, because of my superficial acquaintance with Iranian film, I kept comparing Jafar Panahi's 3 Faces to films by Abbas Kiarostami. Like Kiarostami's And Life Goes On (1992), it concerns a journey from Tehran into the remote villages of the country, and like that film and his Through the Olive Trees (1994), it ends with a virtually wordless scene shot from a long distance. But from what I know from reading about Panahi and his work, this may be more hommage than mimicry: Panahi, who is forbidden from making films in Iran and nevertheless has made four since he was imprisoned and sanctioned, is keen to make statements about life and art in his country, and allusions to its most celebrated director are certainly in order. 3 Faces follows the actress Behnaz Jafari and Panahi, playing themselves, as they journey into northwestern Iran to try to find Marziyeh, a young woman who wants to attend the conservatory in Tehran and become an actress. In a desperate attempt to elicit their help, Marziyeh has made a video on her phone in which she appears to commit suicide. She sent the video to Jafari, who is so shocked by it that she drops out of the film she's making and enlists Panahi in trying to track down the young woman. What follows has been called a "road movie," in which actress and director drive an SUV along dirt roads deep into the hills to find out if Marziyeh really committed suicide or if she faked it to get attention. The bulk of the film is made up of some oddball encounters along the way and a struggle with the villagers who detest Marziyeh for her nonconformity, as well as with the woman's family, which is at odds over her ambitions. Marziyeh turns up alive, having taken shelter with Shahrzad, a former actress whose career ended with the Iranian revolution, and who lives a hermit-like life in this remote village, regarded with suspicion by the locals. "Shahrzad" is one of several spellings of "Scheherazade," the legendary storyteller of the One Thousand and One Nights.  We never see the film's Shahrzad, but she's central to the film's themes; for one thing, the name means "world-freer."  The family member most opposed to Marziyeh's pursuit of a career is her brother, who is so angry about his sister's flouting of tradition that he has to be restrained and shut in his room when Jafari and Panahi arrive at the family home. At the end, when Marziyeh's father is asked for permission to let her go to Tehran with the actress and the director, we see Panahi waiting outside -- Jafari has told him that it's best to let the women handle it -- as the furious brother emerges. The men keep their distance; Panahi gets out of the car and looks through a wire fence as we see the brother pick up a stone; then we hear the sound of a car alarm. The film cuts to an interior of the SUV as it drives along the familiar winding road, heading back to Tehran. There's a large cracked spot on the windshield. The beautiful understatement of scenes like this only heightens our sense of the injustice done by politics to art.

The Wild One (Laslo Benedek, 1953)

Mary Murphy and Marlon Brando in The Wild One

Cast: Marlon Brando, Mary Murphy, Robert Keith, Lee Marvin, Jay C. Flippen, Peggy Maley, Hugh Sanders, Ray Teal, John Brown, Will Wright, Robert Osterloh, William Vedder, Yvonne Doughty. Screenplay: John Paxton, based on a story by Frank Rooney. Cinematography: Hal Mohr. Production design: Rudolph Sternad. Film editing: Al Clark. Music: Leith Stevens.

The best performance in The Wild One isn't Marlon Brando's, it's Lee Marvin as Chino, the head of a rival motorcycle gang. Marvin brings a looseness and wit to the role that is lacking in Brando's performance, though the role itself calls on Brando to do little but act sullen. He also looks a little porky in his jeans and leather jacket, and his somewhat high-pitched voice gives an epicene quality to Johnny Strabler, leader of the Black Rebels Motorcycle Club. Brando does, however, get the film's most familiar line: When Johnny is asked what he's rebelling against, he's drumming to the beat of the music on the jukebox and retorts, "What've you got?" But it's a measure of the general mediocrity of The Wild One that this exchange is immediately reprised by someone telling others about Johnny's retort, essentially stepping on the line. There are a few good moments in the film, mostly contributed by Marvin and by some effective choreography of the motorcycle riders, as in the scene in which good girl Kathie Bleeker (Mary Murphy) is menaced by the gang and then rescued by Johnny. But censorship sapped the life out of the film: The motorcycle gangs are scarcely more intimidating than fraternity boys on a spree. There's an attempt to spice things up with a scene between Johnny and Britches (Yvonne Doughty), a female hanger-on with the rival gang, suggesting that they once had something going on, but the bit goes nowhere and seems mainly designed to allow the actress to display her perky breasts in a tight sweater. As with any of the countless biker movies that capitalized on the box office success of The Wild One, there's a queer subtext to be explicated in all this male bonding, but it doesn't add much to a movie that now seems as dated as the flaming youth films of the 1920s.

Symbiopsychotaxiplasm: Take One (William Greaves, 1968)

Cast: Patricia Ree Gilbert, Don Fellows, Jonathan Gordon, Bob Rosen, William Greaves, Susan Anspach, Audrey Henigham, Stevan Larner, Terence Macartney-Filgate, Maria Zeheri. Screenplay: William Greaves. Cinematography: Stevan Larner, Terence Macartney-Filgate. Film editing: William Greaves. Music: Miles Davis.

Most of the experimental filmmaking that flourished in the late 1960s and early 1970s is forgotten and even unwatchable today. But one film that has endured, even though it went mostly unseen until the 1990s, is William Greaves's Symbiopsychotaxiplasm: Take One, which is a movie about making a movie -- and maybe even a movie about making a movie about making a movie. It's that intricate a concept. It may sound banal: Filmmaker Greaves assembles a crew of actors, sound techs, cameramen, and others, to make a movie that may or may not be called Over the Cliff, in Central Park. But he also hires a crew to film the filming, and himself carries a camera that he uses to capture whatever strikes his fancy at the moment. The ostensible movie is about a couple in the midst of a breakup, and we see a couple of tests of actors for the roles, among them Susan Anspach, who would go on to have a notable career in movies. He seems to decide on Patricia Ree Gilbert for the role of Alice and Don Fellows for Freddy, and we see a crucial moment in their breakup, when Alice berates Freddy for making her have a series of abortions and then accuses him of being a closeted homosexual. But Greaves, the director, doesn't seem to know quite which way to go with the performances and the story, to the consternation of the crew, whom we see griping about his direction. And that's about it, except for a concluding scene in which the crew encounters a homeless, alcoholic intellectual who delivers his semi-coherent thoughts about the state of the world. Describing Symbiopsychotaxiplasm does indeed reduce it to absurdity. But it has a way of drawing you into the apparent incoherence of the situation, of making you realize that film is a collaborative art that needs a central consciousness to succeed. You may even wonder if Greaves is as big a fool as some of his crew seem to think he is. He wasn't, of course -- he's cannily playing a role. He was an important documentarian who started as an actor, trained at the Actors Studio, and went on to produce the National Educational Television series Black Journal, as well as major films about the Black experience. When he failed to get funding for the theatrical release of Symbiopsychotaxiplasm, he shelved it. Eventually, after some prominent people, such as Steve Buscemi and Steven Soderbergh, discovered it at the Sundance Film Festival in 1992, it got the audience it deserved, and in 2015 was added to the National Film Registry of the Library of Congress. 

Calamity Jane (David Butler, 1953)

Allyn Ann McLerie and Doris Day in Calamity Jane

Cast: Doris Day, Howard Keel, Allyn Ann McLerie, Philip Carey, Dick Wesson, Paul Harvey, Chubby Johnson, Gale Robbins. Screenplay: James O'Hanlon. Cinematography: Wilfrid M. Cline. Art direction: John Beckman. Film editing: Irene Morra. Songs: Sammy Fain, Paul Francis Webster.

Doris Day sets some people's teeth on edge, and I have to admit that when she's butching it up in Calamity Jane, she sometimes gets on my nerves a bit. But mostly I'm a fan: She had real cinematic presence, good comedy timing, and one of the sweetest singing voices of any star, with an ability to put a song over. I wish that she had been cast as Annie Oakley in Annie Get Your Gun (George Sidney, 1950) instead of the bumptious, brassy Betty Hutton, or as Nellie Forbush in South Pacific (Joshua Logan, 1958) instead of the blandly perky Mitzi Gaynor. But instead we have a string of somewhat undistinguished Warner Bros. musicals, culminating in Calamity Jane, which is an almost unabashed rip-off of Annie Get Your Gun, down to the casting of Howard Keel, who was Frank Butler in the 1950 film. Keel as Wild Bill Hickok and Day as Jane even get an insult-trading duet, "I Can Do Without You," that recalls "Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better" from the Irving Berlin musical. The Sammy Fain-Paul Francis Webster song score for Calamity Jane is of course nowhere near the equal of Berlin's, with only the Oscar-winning "Secret Love" lingering in anyone's memory, and that perhaps mostly because it has been adopted as a kind of LGBTQ anthem. The film itself has attracted a lot of attention because of its supposed queerness: It has a drag number, performed by Dick Wesson as the hapless Easterner who has been hired as a performer because his name, Francis, made the saloon owner think he was a woman, but most of the comment has been about the relationship between Jane and Katie Brown (Allyn Ann McLerie), who set up house together in a montage to the tune of "A Woman's Touch." Subtext aside, the movie is lively and energetic, and Day works her ass off in the role. Still, if you want a taste of what could have been, seek out the recording of Annie Get Your Gun that Day made with Robert Goulet as Hickok.

The Prestige (Christopher Nolan, 2006)

Michael Caine, Scarlett Johansson, and Hugh Jackman in The Prestige

Cast: Hugh Jackman, Christian Bale, Michael Caine, Scarlett Johansson, Rebecca Hall, Piper Perabo, David Bowie, Andy Serkis, Samantha Mahurin, Roger Rees, Ricky Jay, Daniel Davis, Jim Piddock, Christopher Neame. Screenplay: Jonathan Nolan, Christopher Nolan, based on a novel by Christopher Priest. Cinematography: Wally Pfister. Production design: Nathan Crowley. Film editing: Lee Smith. Music: David Julyan.

With his low-budget feature Following (1998), Christopher Nolan showed a genius for making the preposterous plausible, and he followed it up well with Memento (2000). But although he managed to get his footing again with Inception (2010), after his excursion into the comic book world of Batman, in The Prestige he lost control. It's a dark thriller about dueling illusionists with a sci-fi twist that seems to take to heart Arthur C. Clarke's assertion, "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic." As Nolan is careful to show from the outset, stage magic is technology-based, a careful use of low-tech apparatus like trap doors and collapsible cages that can prove accidentally deadly -- or intentionally so, as the sacrifice of several pigeons demonstrates, and the film's plot will exploit. But as the rivalry between illusionists Robert Angier (Hugh Jackman) and Alfred Borden (Christian Bale) heats up, The Prestige wanders into the fancifully futuristic, a sort of molecular cloning technology devised by no less than Nikola Tesla (David Bowie). The problem for me -- if not for the fans who give The Prestige an astonishingly high 8.5 ranking on IMDb -- is that this insertion into the story of a real historical figure, who never crafted anything of the sort, is about as cheesy as turning Abraham Lincoln into a vampire hunter. It undermines the suspension of disbelief we need to appreciate the film's intricate plotting (complicated by Nolan's non-linear narrative technique) and enjoyable performances. I didn't get the exhilaration I expect from a thriller's twists and turns, but instead a kind of numb depression set in.

Summer Hours (Olivier Assayas, 2008)

Jérémie Renier, Juliette Binoche, and Charles Berling in Summer Hours

Cast: Charles Berling, Juliette Bioche, Jérémie Renier, Edith Scob, Dominique Reymond, Valérie Bonneton, Isabelle Sadoyan, Kyle Eastwood, Alice de Lencquesaing, Emile Berling, Jean-Baptiste Malartre. Screenplay: Olivier Assayas. Cinematography: Eric Gautier. Art direction: Fanny Stauff.  Film editing: Luc Barnier.

Summer Hours sounds like the title of a film by Yasujiro Ozu, but the resemblance doesn't stop there. It has the melancholy tinged with humor of that master's films, and like his Tokyo Story (1953), it begins with a family gathering and the subsequent death of the matriarch. But it takes place in another country half a century later, and milieu is almost everything. Now we are in France, and the characters it centers on, the siblings Frédéric (Charles Berling), Adrienne (Juliette Binoche), and Jérémie (Jérémie Renier), are caught up in the global economy, with all that implies about letting go of the past, of pulling up roots. The Marly siblings, their spouses and children, and their mother, Hélène Berthier (who took her maiden name back after the death of her husband), are apparently content with their lives, but happy families are really not all alike. Olivier Assayas's story centers on a legacy, the stuff of 19th-century novels and murder mysteries as recent as Knives Out (Rian Johnson, 2019). But Assayas never lets his film sink into melodrama or the flamboyant acting out of squabbling heirs. It's about mature people facing the inevitable. Hélène (Edith Scob) has inherited the house owned by her uncle, a famous artist, which is filled with valuable works of art, though it is rather run down and very much lived in. The decorative panels by Redon are marred by damp, a broken plaster statuette by Degas is shoved into a cabinet -- itself a work of art -- in a plastic shopping bag, the art nouveau desk is cluttered with papers, and a couple of Corots hang casually in a hallway. When the family gathers there to celebrate Hélène's 75th birthday, she pulls the oldest, Frédéric, aside to give him some instructions about what to do with things when she's gone. This invariably awkward discussion is handled by Assayas and the actors with truth and finesse. Soon, sure enough, Hélène is dead, and the rest of the film is about the family coming to terms with the consequences of a legacy all of them treasure but none of them really has room for in their lives. It might be classified as a character study rather than a drama, but Assayas and company build such intimacy with the characters that we can feel the drama as intensely as if it dealt with matters of great moment and urgency.

Atonement (Joe Wright, 2007)

James McAvoy and Keira Knightley in Atonement

Cast: Keira Knightley, James McAvoy, Saoirse Ronan, Romola Garai, Benedict Cumberbatch, Vanessa Redgrave, Juno Temple, Brenda Blethyn, Harriet Walter, Jérémie Renier, Alfie Allen, Patrick Kennedy, Daniel Mays, Nonso Anozie, Gina McKee. Screenplay: Christopher Hampton, based on a novel by Ian McEwan. Cinematography: Seamus McGarvey. Production design: Sarah Greenwood. Film editing: Paul Tothill. Music: Dario Marianelli.

Atonement -- and I'm speaking here of Joe Wright's film and not the novel by Ian McEwan on which it's based -- tries to have it both ways: It provides both a happy ending in keeping with the lush, romantic production and a bleak surprise ending perhaps truer to the epic wartime sequence that interrupts the romance. But by doing so it demonstrates that what may work on the page as a provocative fable doesn't entirely work on screen. Both film and book ask a key moral and aesthetic question: Can art provide both truth and justice? Briony Tallis (Saoirse Ronan as a child, Romola Garai as a young woman, Vanessa Redgrave in old age) seeks redemption for a lie, but in the end she thinks she has achieved it by lying again, by writing a work of autobiographical fiction that is untrue to what actually happened. That moral conundrum comes as a kind of surprise at the very end of Wright's film, but it's anticipated on every page of McEwan's novel, a trick that can only be pulled in literature, where the unreliable narrator is a familiar device. There's a problem, too, in visualizing McEwan's story, where both the opulent country-house setting and the portrayal of the Dunkirk retreat, with its celebrated long traveling shot, tend to overwhelm the narrative and the depiction of the characters of Briony, Cecilia (Keira Knightley), and Robbie (James McAvoy). The actors, fine as they are, keep getting upstaged by the images. It's what it was called at the time, an "Oscar-bait" movie, and it won for Dario Marianelli's score, and picked up nominations for best picture, for Christopher Hampton's screenplay, Ronan's supporting performance, for Seamus McGarvey's cinematography, and for art direction and costumes.

Rendez-vous (André Téchiné, 1985)

Lambert Wilson and Juliette Binoche in Rendez-vous

Cast: Lambert Wilson, Juliette Binoche, Wadeck Stanczak, Jean-Louis Trintignant, Dominique Lavanant, Jean-Louis Vitrac, Jacques Nolot, Anne Wiazemsky, Olimpia Carlisi, Caroline Faro. Screenplay: André Téchiné, Olivier Assayas. Cinematography: Renato Berta. Production design: Jean-Pierre Kohut-Svelko. Film editing: Martine Giordano. Music: Philippe Sarde.

The volatile, nigh unpredictable behavior of the characters in Rendez-vous keeps the viewer off balance, which is not unexpected from its screenwriters, two major French writer-directors, André Téchiné and Olivier Assayas, who delight in making their characters walk on a moral tightrope. At one point, the story looks like a familiar pattern, a love triangle involving Nina, an aspiring actress (Juliette Binoche); Paulot, a naively infatuated young man (Wadeck Stanczak); and Quentin, a swaggerer who at some moments brandishes a razor (Lambert Wilson). But things keep taking odd turns: Quentin dies in what could be an accident but is possibly a suicide, and then returns as a ghost, or at least a figment of Nina's imagination. Enter, too, Scrutzler, a theater director (Jean-Louis Trintignant) who wants to put on a production of Romeo and Juliet, and casts Nina, who really isn't very good, against the objections of the producers, only to reveal that he had in mind Quentin for Romeo -- for rather perverse reasons. Meanwhile, Paulot, who works as a real estate agent, pursues Nina, only to reject her after finally succeeding in having sex with her -- a bliss in proof and proved, a very woe. It's all very well-acted -- this was Binoche's first major film role -- but there's something unfocused about the story, as if the writers were making it up as they went along instead of having a clear goal in mind.

Inside Daisy Clover (Robert Mulligan, 1965)

Natalie Wood and Robert Redford in Inside Daisy Clover

Cast: Natalie Wood, Christopher Plummer, Robert Redford, Ruth Gordon, Roddy McDowall, Katharine Bard, Peter Helm, Betty Harford, John Hale, Harold Gould, Ottola Nesmith, Edna Holland. Screenplay: Gavin Lambert, based on his novel. Cinematography: Charles Lang. Production design: Robert Clatworthy. Film editing: Aaron Stell. Music: André Previn.

As a satire on Hollywood and the star system, Inside Daisy Clover occasionally feels slack and uncertain. That may be because it was adapted by Gavin Lambert from his own novel, and authors are sometimes not the best judges of which parts of their books to transfer to film. There seem to be characters in the movie who haven't been given as much to do as their prominence suggests, such as Daisy's sister Gloria (Betty Harford), or Baines (Roddy McDowall), the assistant to the studio head, a role more generously cast than the function of the character in the story deserves. But I think a major problem stems from when the movie was made: in the mid-1960s, when the Production Code was on its last legs, and before films like Easy Rider (Dennis Hopper, 1969) and Midnight Cowboy (John Schlesinger, 1969) showed filmmakers what they could get away with. So although Inside Daisy Clover shook free of the Code's strictures against homosexuality and let Robert Redford's character, Wade Lewis, be revealed as gay (or, in a departure from the book, bisexual), you can still feel that people in the film aren't using the kind of verboten language that they would have in real life. Once, for example, Daisy (Natalie Wood) says "damn" and is reproved by her mother (Ruth Gordon) for using "those four letter words." When Daisy scrawls in anger on a wall, you expect stronger language than her graffiti contains. Lambert and director Robert Mulligan are chafing at the restrictions but haven't been given the go-ahead to take the film as far as it wants to go, so there's a kind of tonal dithering -- lunges in the direction of black comedy, as in Daisy's suicide attempt, that fall short of the mark.

Portrait of a Lady on Fire (Céline Sciamma, 2019)

Adèle Haenel and Noémie Merlant in Portrait of a Lady on Fire

Cast: Noémie Merlant, Adèle Haenel, Luàna Bajrami, Valeria Golino, Christel Baras, Armande Boulanger, Guy Delamarche, Clément Bouyssou. Screenplay: Céline Sciamma. Cinematography: Claire Mathon. Production design: Thomas Grézaud. Film editing: Julien Lacheray. Music: Jean-Baptiste de Laubier, Arthur Simonini.

It isn't just the title of Céline Sciamma's Portrait of a Lady on Fire that made me think of Henry James. It's the film's delicate and subtle treatment of a Jamesean theme, the intersection of consciousnesses, and the fact that Sciamma, as James did in some of his stories, uses an artist as a vehicle for developing the theme. I also found the film something of a revelation of Sciamma's great talent after watching two of her previous films, Water Lilies (2007) and Girlhood (2014). The contemporary setting of those films necessitated a kind of documentary realism that is set aside for Portrait of a Lady on Fire, with its 18th-century setting and more rigid moral codes serving as limitations on its characters, defining their roles and allowing us to confront their responses to the limitation with clarity. It's also fascinating, I think, to compare Sciamma's film with Abdellatif Kechiche's Blue Is the Warmest Color (2013), a film heavily defined by the male gaze, while Sciamma's view of the lesbian relationship of her characters, Marianne (Noémie Merlant) and Héloïse (Adèle Haenel), is an exploration of female "looking." There are extraordinary moments that perhaps only a woman might have imagined, or imaged, throughout the film: The abortion that takes place with the maid Sophie (Luàna Bajrami) lying across the bed while a baby plays with her face; the festival that seems to be made up mostly of women, at which Héloïse's dress catches fire; Marianne leaping from the boat to rescue her paints and canvases; Marianne propping a mirror against the nude Héloïse's mons veneris so she can sketch a self-portrait on page 28 (the page number will become significant later in the film) of Héloïse's copy of Ovid, where the story of Opheus and Eurydice is told. Reviewers of the film reached a little too often and too eagerly for the word "masterpiece," an epithet that can only be applied by time, but it's certainly an extraordinary film, made so by fine performances, and by Claire Mathon's cinematography and Dorothée Guiraud's costumes, which often evoke the paintings of Chardin.

Too Many Girls (George Abbott, 1940)

Hal Le Roy, Lucille Ball, Richard Carlson, Eddie Bracken, Desi Arnaz in Too Many Girls

Cast: Lucille Ball, Richard Carlson, Ann Miller, Eddie Bracken, Frances Langford, Desi Arnaz, Hal Le Roy, Libby Bennett, Harry Shannon, Douglas Walton, Chester Clute, Tiny Person, Ivy Scott, Byron Shores, Van Johnson. Screenplay: John Twist, based on a play by George Marion Jr. Cinematography: Frank Redman. Art direction: Van Nest Polglase, Carroll Clark. Film editing: William Hamilton. Songs: Richard Rodgers, Lorenz Hart.

When Desi met Lucy -- that's the most memorable thing about this silly college musical that was directed on stage by George Abbott, who brought over several members of the original cast when he was hired to make the film version at RKO. It was designed to be a vehicle for Lucille Ball, an RKO contract player who hadn't been in the stage production and whose singing voice wasn't up to the demands of the Richard Rodgers and Lorenz Hart songs of the original show, so she was dubbed by Trudy Erwin. Among the cast hired out of the original were Eddie Bracken, Hal Le Roy, and Desi Arnaz, as well as a young chorus boy, Van Johnson, who has a couple of lines but goes uncredited. Although Arnaz is paired in most of the film with Ann Miller, he and Ball hit it off when they weren't on screen and married shortly after the movie wrapped. The story is nonsense about Connie Casey (Ball), a playgirl whose father wants her to settle down and go to college at his alma mater, Pottawatomie, in New Mexico. But he also hires some bodyguards, four young college football players, to keep her out of trouble. And so it goes, as the four bodyguards lead the Pottawatomie football team to a string of victories, and one of them, Clint Kelly (Richard Carlson), falls hard for Connie. It's very loose-jointed stuff, with some lively musical numbers spotlighting Arnaz, Miller, Frances Langford, and a large company of dancers directed by LeRoy Prinz, but a lot of dull filler in between. It's amusing to see Eddie Bracken before he got stereotyped as a doofus in Preston Sturges movies, and a crewcut Richard Carlson before he wound up as the very square star of such 1950s sci-fi movies as It Came From Outer Space (Jack Arnold, 1953) and Creature From the Black Lagoon (Arnold, 1954). 

Red Road (Andrea Arnold, 2006)

Kate Dickie, Natalie Press, and Martin Compston in Red Road

Cast: Kate Dickie, Tony Curran, Martin Compston, Natalie Press, Paul Higgins, Andrew Armour, Carolyn Calder, John Comerford, Jessica Angus, Martin McCardle, Martin O'Neill, Cora Bisset. Screenplay: Andrea Arnold. Cinematography: Robbie Ryan. Production design: Helen Scott. Film editing: Nicolas Chaudeurge. Music: Glenn Gregory.

Andrea Arnold's Red Road walks the fine line (not always steadily) between psychological drama and melodrama, between hard-nosed realism and sentiment. At its best, it takes us somewhere we haven't been (and probably didn't want to go), the Glasgow housing project of the film's title, and immerses us in some desperate lives. It uses the hand-held camera technique associated with the Dogme 95 moment splendidly, so that we stay off-balance physically as well as emotionally throughout the film. At its worst, a rather perfunctory sort-of-happy ending, it feels like an unconvincing attempt to wipe away the film's grit. It's a story about Jackie (Kate Dickie), a young woman who works as a professional voyeur, spending her days watching a bank of video monitors that record the goings-on in a particular slice of Glasgow. When she spots malfeasance, she can alert the police. But mostly she's watching people going about mundane tasks in decidedly unlovely places, so small wonder that her attention wanders and she fixates on individual people, such as a man walking his aging English bulldog. And eventually she lights on someone she knows: His name is Clyde (Tony Curran), and she has reason to become obsessed with him, because of something that happened in the past. Arnold lets us piece together the story as the film goes on, and she does so skillfully. It was Arnold's first feature -- she had previously won an Oscar for best live-action short with Wasp (2003) -- and it earned her much praise, including the Jury Prize at Cannes. Whatever its faults,  it repays your attention, not to say your endurance of some of its uglier moments.