#25: You Can Dream When The War Is Over.

(The Cranes are Flying, 1957, Mikhail Kalatozov)

WARNING: The spoilers are also flying.

Watching The Cranes are Flying finally made me fully understand why I'm still working on this project. A lot of the time I get kind of worn out with this little experiment. I think to myself, "I don't want to watch all of this random stuff, I just want to watch Mean Girls and Fargo and talk about movies that I already know that I love." I have to force myself to bump foreign films and documentaries up to the top of my Netflix queue, and then I shudder a little bit when they show up in the mail. I know that I started this project myself, and nothing is forcing me to complete it, but I really feel like I've committed myself to it and now I have to stick it out, even through the things that I don't like or don't want to see. Then, miraculously, on my train ride to Seattle I watched The Cranes are Flying and I remembered why I wanted to start this in the first place.

I mentioned in my post for M that it's one of my favorite films, but I failed to mention that the first time I saw it was for a film history class. If it hadn't been for that class it might have taken me years to sit down and watch M, or I may never have seen it at all. The List did a similar thing for me with The Cranes are Flying. If it hadn't been on The List I probably would have never even heard of it, let alone seen it. Which would have been a great tragedy, because it's remarkable. In 97 minutes it manages to allow the audience to fully connect with the main character, Veronika, and almost feel her pain right along with her. On top of that, it's uniquely and beautifully filmed in a way that I would have never expected a 1950's Russian film to be (not that I know much about Russian film, but The Cranes are Flying certainly shattered all of my expectations).

The Cranes are Flying is about two people in love. Veronika (played by Tatyana Samojlova, who reminds me of a Russian Audrey Hepburn or Natalie Wood) is in love with Boris (played by Aleksey Batalov), but Boris goes off to fight in the war and Veronika is left alone. What's even more heartbreaking is that she doesn't get to say goodbye. When she goes to his house to see him off he is already gone, and she gets lost in the crowd when she goes to find him with the other soldiers. Her only token of him is a squirrel doll that he got her for her birthday, chosen because his nickname for her is Squirrel. Their love is sweet and pure, and watching her face as she realizes that she's not going to see him for one last time before he goes to the front is heartbreaking.

I think what I really liked about The Cranes are Flying is the fact that even though it's definitely about war, it's really just about people. I found myself actively feeling bad for Veronika, honestly wishing that Boris was still alive and was coming back to her. I don't often feel that for characters in movies. I mean, I care about the characters, but I fully wanted to believe that Boris wasn't dead and that the couple would get to live the life that they were planning together. And when she finally realized that he was really, truly not coming back I had to stop myself from crying on the train between Portland and Seattle. It was like how I sometimes feel when I watch Moulin Rouge (which, tragically, is not on The List). I find myself actively hoping that Satine won't die and she and Christian will continue to be happy and in love. Sometimes I even stop the DVD before she dies and pretend that it ends that way. But, alas, it is not. Nor is it that way in The Cranes are Flying. Which is tragic, but probably much better for the integrity of the film.

I am genuinely glad that I have seen The Cranes are Flying. It's a movie that I will recommend to people, and it's something that I would show to a film class if I was ever lucky enough to be teaching a film class. And I have nothing but The List and this project to thank for it. For the first time in a few months I am supremely happy that I am taking this on because it has exposed me to something that I can truly and honestly say that I love. It has renewed my faith in foreign films and The List, and I just could not be happier about it. So thank you, The Cranes are Flying. Now I won't dread it when a foreign film shows up in my mailbox.

#24: Well, Nobody's Perfect!

(Some Like It Hot, 1959, Billy Wilder)

Some Like It Hot is easily one of the most perfect comedies ever made. It's has mobsters, cross-dressers, musicians, and dirty old men. It stars Jack Lemmon, Tony Curtis, Joe E. Brown, and Marilyn Monroe. And it was directed by Billy Wilder. I mean, it has a lot going for it. So, even though I had vowed to watch more of the "weird movies" on The List, I decided to revisit Some Like It Hot in honor of Tony Curtis's recent passing. It felt like the right thing to do, and after a week of being sick I decided that I deserved something that was going to make me laugh.

Here's a basic rundown of the plot of Some Like It Hot: two musicians witness the St. Valentine's Day Massacre, and in order to escape being murdered by Spats Columbo they disguise themselves as women and join an all-girls band whose star is Sugar Kane (played by Marilyn Monroe). Tony Curtis's Joe becomes Josephine and Jack Lemmon's Jerry becomes Daphne. Of course, this being a comedy, much of the "dress up as women and escape the mobsters" plan goes awry. Joe ends up falling in love with Sugar, and he carries out that love by pretending to be the millionaire owner of Shell Oil. Jerry, on the other hand, ends up as the object of someone else's affection, which would be just fine if it weren't for the fact that the someone else is a man, and that man falls in love with Jerry's female alter-ego Daphne. Joe E. Brown's Osgood falls hard for Daphne, and Jerry is willing to play along with it in order to reap the benefits of being loved by a millionaire. Then, if that's not complicated enough, Spats and his gang all show up at their hotel and Joe and Jerry must escape, all with the added trouble of dealing with their respective paramours.

I usually try to avoid plot synopses in these posts unless I'm writing about a movie that I expect few people to have seen or if the plot is especially complicated. Some Like It Hot has neither of those problems. I expect most people to have seen it, and the plot is definitely not that complicated. In this instance I pretty much just used the plot synopsis to take up space. That may seem shameless, but the truth is this: I don't have a whole lot to say about Some Like It Hot other than that it's a great film and everyone should see it. I could ramble on about that for a few hundred words, but that's boring and unexciting, so I just gave kind of a rundown of the plot, even though that's kind of boring and unexciting also. And now I'm rambling on about the reason for the plot synopsis because I'm really reaching for things to write about here, people.

I do want to close with this, though. I bumped Some Like It Hot to the top of my Netflix queue the day that Tony Curtis died because I thought it would be an appropriate way for me to honor his passing. I'm not a wild Tony Curtis fan, but I know that he was a very popular actor, and I thought it was a good idea to somehow recognize the end of the life of someone who contributed quite a bit to the American film industry. However, while watching Some Like It Hot, I was struck by something. Tony Curtis was, up until a month ago, the last surviving star of Some Like It Hot. He may have even been the last surviving cast member, but I have absolutely no way of proving that, so I'm going to stick with "last surviving star." Which is incredible. This film was made in 1959, just barely over half a century ago, and none of the stars of the film (or the director, for that matter) are alive anymore.

While Some Like It Hot is definitely a funny movie, I had a seriously sobering moment when I came to that realization. It was an interesting glimpse of human mortality and the impermanence of life, and even though I was laughing like crazy at Tony Curtis ripping of one of Jack Lemmon's "chests," I was kind of happy for that moment of reflection. For me, in a way, the fact that none of the stars of the film are still alive somehow elevates it. It made it distant and unreachable, and for some reason it was that much better for it. Now more than ever it feel like I was watching not just a film, but a piece of history, and it makes me feel good to know that this particular piece of history will live on and make people laugh for many, many years to come.

#23: You Betcha!

(Fargo, 1996, Joel Coen)

Warning: There are spoilers ahead, doncha know? Yah, you betcha!

Going into this post I know that there is absolutely no way that I'll be able to write anything that will adequately describe how much I love this movie, or the Coen brothers in general. I adore them. That's all. I'll admit that I haven't seen all of their movies, and there's at least one that I won't see because I don't want to tarnish my opinion of them, but I am entirely convinced of their brilliance, which Fargo is an excellent example of. It's genius, and that's all there is to it.

The Coens are clever guys. Fargo begins with text that reads "THIS IS A TRUE STORY. The events depicted in this film took place in Minnesota in 1987. At the request of the survivors, the names have been changed. Out of respect for the dead, the rest has been told exactly as it occurred." Well, that's a lie. Kind of. In reality, the Coen brothers drew inspiration from a few different cases and sort of combined them and relocated them in order to get Fargo. Two of the cases that form the basis for the story (the kidnapping of Virginia Piper and the murder of Carol Thompson) actually took place in Minnesota. Essentially, those two incidents were combined to become Jerry Lundegard's plot to have his wife kidnapped and then have his father-in-law pay the ransom, which he exaggerated so that he could pocket most of the money to pay off his debts. The third crime that inspired the Coen brothers actually took place in Connecticut, was far more gruesome, and ended being one of the most memorable parts of the film. That event was the murder of Helle Crafts, whose husband killed her and attempted to dispose of her remains with the help of a woodchipper.

So... why the "based on a true story" introduction? The Coens have said that they added the disclaimer to encourage viewers to suspend disbelief, which actually makes some sense. As Joel Coen himself puts it, "if an audience believes that something's based on a real event, it gives you permission to do things they might otherwise not accept." And, in a way, Fargo is presenting the truth, it's just the truth through the Coen brothers' filter. It's a few truths mixed with some fiction and then all mashed together to make one really good movie about a pregnant police chief and some really inept criminals. Someone gets put through a wood chipper, but it's not Lundegard's wife. Lundegard does hire two guys to get rid of his wife, though he hires them to kidnap her rather than murder her (I guess she ends up dead anyway though, so that's kind of a moot point). But the point is that the truth is mixed in there. Sure, the disclaimer asserts that the entirety of the film is truthful, and that's a lie, but the film isn't entirely untruthful either, which is kind of what makes it fun. It's fun to pick the little tidbits of truth out of the fiction.

I feel like this post is really short considering how much I like this movie, so I'm going to spend a little bit of time on the cast, because it really is a remarkable cast. William H. Macy plays Jerry Lundegard so well that "perfectly" doesn't seem to be a strong enough word. He stutters, sweats, and all together fails to hide his guilt, all while his incredibly expressive face shows every note of panic and fear that crosses it. Steve Buscemi and Peter Stormare play Carl Showalter and Gaear Grimsrud, the two criminals hired to kidnap Lundegard's wife. Showalter just can't stop talking, with Buscemi making him simultaneously insufferable and somewhat sympathetic. Stormare plays silent, chain-smoking Grimsrud with calm and patience, until his patience with Showalter finally cracks and he murders him and shoves his body into a woodchipper. Finally there's Frances McDormand, whose portrayal of Marge Gunderson won her an Academy Award. Marge Gunderson is arguably the only character in the film who has any idea what she's doing, and while she doesn't succeed in stopping any of the crimes from being committed, she does succeed in catching the criminals. Her bubbly "Minnesota nice" accent makes her seem air-headed and silly, but she's tougher than she looks and she knows what she's doing. As the only one of the main characters who's unequivocally good, Marge Gunderson gets exactly what she deserves; to go home to her husband knowing that she's a good person who's done a good job. And Frances McDormand got exactly what she deserved; a nice, shiny Oscar.

So that's it. I love Fargo, and I love the Coen brothers. I'm excited that some of their films that I haven't seen are on The List because it will give me a chance to evaluate some of my thoughts about their entire collection of work. For now I just hold Fargo close to my heart as one of those films that is just good because it's good. It's well-written, well-acted, and well-directed, and there's not much more you can ask for.

#22: Brad, Your Sister's Turning Into a Fox!

(Fast Times at Ridgemont High, 1982, Amy Heckerling)

Fast Times at Ridgemont High has gained most of its fame and notoriety from one particular scene in which Phoebe Cates, clad only in a skimpy red bikini, emerges from a swimming pool and proceeds to unclasp the front of that red bikini and reveal her breasts. In 1982 that scene fueled the fantasies of thousands, perhaps millions, of high school boys, and Fast Times at Ridgemont High went down in history because of it. Well, that, and the fact that it was one the first film roles for future Oscar-winner Sean Penn, who plays perpetually stoned surfer dude Jeff Spicoli. But it's mostly famous for that bosom-baring scene, which I suppose is completely understandable.

The Guardian justifies Fast Times at Ridgemont High's placement on The List by saying that "everybody here became a star, down to minor player Forest Whitaker," which I guess is also completely understandable. Sean Penn and Forest Whitaker have both gone on to win the Oscar for Best Actor, Phoebe Cates went on to star in another popular 80's movie in which she didn't show her boobs, Judge Reinhold had various parts in various comedies and family films, and Jennifer Jason Leigh continued to be hot in a bunch of movies and TV shows. Also, Nicholas Cage has a very small role, and we all know the career he's had since 1982. So yes, Fast Times at Ridgemont High is certainly studded with future stars and Phoebe Cates's breasts, but I'm just not sure that's justification enough.

I choose to believe that the most remarkable thing about the film is its source material. At the age of 22 Cameron Crowe was writing for Rolling Stone and decided to go back to high school and document his experiences there. The book that he wrote ended up becoming Fast Times at Ridgemont High. However, the character of "Cameron Crowe, undercover writer" is noticeably absent from the film. That's because while he was writing the book he decided to leave himself out of it for fear that it would negatively impact his ability to accurately portray what high school was like for the people he was observing. Which is pretty cool, I guess. I just ended up not finding the film all that compelling or exciting. It was a portrait of high school experiences, sure. But the high school life that was shown in the film was radically different from mine, so I found it hard to connect or even care.

However, I think what irks me the most about Fast Times at Ridgemont High's appearance on The List is The List's lack of Almost Famous, a film that is based on Cameron Crowe's early experiences as a writer for Rolling Stone and is also written and directed by Crowe himself. While the film is fictionalized and not a literal retelling of his life, it is a version of his life told through his own filter. It also happens to perfectly encapsulate a life that I occasionally wish that I had; the sometimes unglamorous but never unexciting life of a music journalist. Like Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Almost Famous is an essentially true story translated to film. Unlike Fast Times, Almost Famous has a structured plot and characters that I actually found myself caring about and sympathizing with. As such, I feel it is more deserving of a place on The List. But, alas, I do not get a say in that.

The rundown is this: I don't think that a film which is primarily famous for the presence of boobs is a legitimate addition to a list of films to see before you die. Sure, if you're attracted to girls that kind of thing is great fun, but I'd wager that it's safe to say that approximately half of the movie-watching population isn't attracted to girls, so this movie doesn't need to be on the list. Almost Famous should be. And for those who are uncertain about my logic, let me say this: there are boobs in Almost Famous, too. There are just interesting characters and an engaging plot as well.

#21: Alice Thought to Herself...

(Alice, 1988, Jan Svankamjer)

I'll admit, I've been putting off the weird stuff. The List is filled with bizarre films that I have never heard of, and for the last few months I've been avoiding them. I haven't necessarily meant to, I keep reminding myself that I have to watch ALL the films on The List and not just the ones that please me, but I've still attempted to dodge the ones that make me cringe a little when I read their descriptions. Like Eyes Without a Face. Or Audition. I wasn't ready yet, okay? Okay. But after I wrote #20 I realized that the time had come to watch something weird. I suppose one could argue that Blue Velvet was pretty weird, but it's in English and doesn't have stop motion animal skulls, so I'm going to argue otherwise. Alice is weird.

Alice was also mercifully short. At 86 minutes it was fairly easy to swallow, even though I did have to stop it after the first 30, take a nap, and come back later. My brain just couldn't take that much stop-motion weirdness all at once. And that's coming from someone who loved The Nightmare Before Christmas the first time she saw it at age 5. But The Nightmare Before Christmas is charming in is absurdity. It has cute songs, and a cute little ghost dog, and a likable main character with good intentions who just happens to be a bit misguided in them. Alice doesn't have any of that. And Alice is based on Alice in Wonderland, so you'd kind of think it would be inherently charming. It's not.

First of all, the little girl who plays Alice looks an awful lot like she could have played one of the scary twins in The Shining. Except blond. Sure, she's got big blue eyes and could easily be cute, but the way it's filmed makes her seem nothing short of terrifying. Second, there is nothing charming about a caterpillar who's really a sock with glass eyes and dentures. Most of the usual Wonderland characters are unusual approximations of themselves. The White Rabbit is actually a mounted white rabbit that pulls free of its mountings and roams around in stop-motion. Complete with unblinking glass eyes. And the Mad Hatter is a very large, wooden marionette that looks like a cross between Don Quixote and a Hasidic Jew. The March Hare is a giant wind-up toy. Some of the little woodland creatures are not creatures, but just skeletons or skulls with glass eyes and weird limbs. And the caterpillar is a sock. It's more than a little unusual. Thirdly, the entire film is narrated by Alice, including the other characters' dialogue. And when the narration is something like "said the Mad Hatter," or "muttered the White Rabbit," the camera shows a close-up of Alice's mouth. Eerie.

I do have a few good things to say about the film. For one, the mad tea party scene is really cool, despite frequent eerie close-ups of Alice's mouth narrating the scene. It plays out well, with interesting cuts and the March Hare frequently needing winding since he is, after all, a wind-up toy. Also, the playing card characters are pretty cool since they are actual playing cards. But overall, Alice was just a weird, surrealist journey that I couldn't really commit to. I wanted to, in a way, because I like the Alice in Wonderland story, but I'd rather just have a colorful Wonderland with cute rabbits and a charming but insane Mad Hatter. And maybe Alan Rickman's voice behind the caterpillar. Maybe that's too much to ask.

#20: You're Gonna Need A Bigger Boat

(Jaws, 1975, Steven Spielberg)

I have many favorite stories about the film industry. My all time favorite is about The Shining, and it involves Kubrick being crafty and cunning and all around incredible. However, the time is not yet here for me to tell that story. My second favorite Hollywood story is about Jaws and its incredible, captivating soundtrack. When Steven Spielberg first heard the score that John Williams had written for the film, he thought it was an elaborate joke. He laughed and said, "that's funny, John, really. But what did you really have in mind?" Of course, John wasn't kidding, and the soundtrack to Jaws became one of the best, most famous, most easily recognizable films scores of all time.

I started with this story not only because I love it, but because it sets an interesting tone when thinking about the success and, let's face it, sheer brilliance of Jaws. While this incident with the score certainly wasn't a "mistake" or an "accident," it certainly was kind of a misstep. I don't know how John Williams convinced Spielberg that his score was actually a good idea, but it's sure a good thing that he did because it's easily one of the most defining elements of the film. Even Spielberg himself has now said that the film wouldn't have been half as successful without the now infamous score. But what about the other signature elements of the film? The shark-eye perspective as the giant man-eater takes down his victims? The incredible cast who seemed to be born to play their respective roles? Were they just things that Spielberg thought were jokes at first? Well... not quite.

The filming of Jaws was plagued with problems. The mechanical shark (which Spielberg named Bruce, after his lawyer) often proved to be a lot more trouble than it was worth, breaking down frequently and famously getting stuck on the bottom of the ocean during its first swim. So how did Spielberg respond? He decided that instead of filming the shark cruising through the ocean, the camera would become the shark, and many of the early attacks would be seen from its perspective. Which, in the end, proved to be a way better idea than just using shots of a very fake looking mechanical shark that adamantly refused to do the job it was built to do. Just like with the score, Spielberg has now admitted that the camera-as-shark technique possibly saved the film from unforgivable cheesiness, and actually contributed to it's overwhelming success.

Another excellent, defining feature of Jaws is its cast. I mean, really. Is there anyone better to play a salty old sailor who's dedicated his life to killing sharks than Robert Shaw? If I didn't know better I'd believe that they actually just found a crusty sea captain, handed him a script, and hoped for the best. And then there's Richard Dreyfuss, whose wit and snark make him the perfect choice to play the marine biologist who's just dying to catch a shark that would seal his place in the academic world. Finally, there's Roy Sheider, who just wants to keep his town safe, despite his complete lack of knowledge of sharkly behavior. These are the men we all know and love as the main cast of Jaws, so it comes as something as a surprise that none of them were the first choice for their respective parts.

Peter Benchley, the author of the novel on which the film is based, wanted Paul Newman, Steve McQueen, and Robert Redford for the three main characters (god knows which man would have played which character). Charlton Heston was originally considered for Sheider's role. Jeff Bridges and Jon Voight were both under consideration for Dreyfuss's. And, while all these men were or are very fine actors, can you even imagine? It's a really good thing that, for whatever reason, these men were unavailable or uninterested because Jaws just wouldn't be Jaws without Sheider, Dreyfuss, and Shaw. It just wouldn't be right.

Jaws was only Spielberg's second feature-length theatrical release. At 28-years-old he was looking to establish himself in Hollywood, and Jaws allowed him to do just that. But holy crap, what a happy accident it was. Imagine if the mechanical shark had worked just fine, if Peter Benchley had gotten his way in the casting department, and Spielberg had convinced John Williams to change the score. What would the film have been? Probably pretty bad, that's what. And Spielberg would have had to struggle to recover from a very serious misstep. We may never have gotten Raiders of the Lost Ark, E.T., Jurassic Park, or Schindler's List, and we would have been the poorer for it. But then, we also wouldn't have had to suffer through Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, so maybe it wouldn't have been all bad.

#19: This Is War! This Is Not A Game Of Cricket!

(Bridge on the River Kwai, 1957, David Lean)

WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD!!

I’m not sure what the reason for it is, but honor has never really been a driving factor in my life. It might be the times we live in, or the society we’re a part of, but I never find myself thinking that when I’m doing something I’m doing it primarily for the honor of it. Let’s be honest, it’s almost always for personal gain. It’s just the way it is. I’m not necessarily saying I’m happy about it, sometimes I think it would be nice to live in a time where a person’s most important quality is their honor, but we live in a world where honor is on the list of important things somewhere far below monetary holdings and good looks. Which is why Bridge on the River Kwai, where honor is valued above all else, is such a fascinating watch.

Bridge on the River Kwai is essentially a story about two colonels, Col. Nicholson of the British army and Col. Saito of the Japanese army, who have to build a bridge. Saito must do it because those are his orders, and Nicholson must do it because he is a prisoner of Saito. In reality, both must do it to preserve their honor. In the interest of time and space, I’m going to focus on Saito, even though Nicholson is played by Alec Guinness, Oscar winner and future Jedi Master. In the end, though, I think Saito is the much more interesting character.  I can talk about Alec Guinness down the road when he’s actually a Jedi.

So here’s the deal: Saito is bound by the Japanese traditions of honor. He must have the bridge built by his deadline, or he has to kill himself. It sounds harsh, but to not have the project completed by the time his superiors say it must be would be extremely dishonorable and disrespectful, and the only way to regain that honor would be to commit seppuku and remove himself from the world. Saito uses a number of methods (mainly torture) to try to convince Nicholson and his men to build the bridge for him in order to meet his deadline and avoid having to end his own life. However, Nicholson refuses to defy the Geneva Conventions and allow his officers to work, so Saito is stuck. Well, kind of. After a few days in a hot box without food or water, Nicholson changes his mind and says he will help get the bridge built as long as Saito upholds the Geneva Conventions and doesn’t make the officers do manual labor. The shake on it, and the both go on their merry bridge-building way.

Long story short, they get the bridge built by the deadline, and everyone’s honor is restored, right? Wrong! Because now Saito must contend with the fact that the building of the bridge has essentially become a British project. The Brits designed the bridge and built the bridge, and all he did was order them to do it. Due to his inner torment, Saito brings his ceremonial knife with him to the bridge during it’s unveiling, and we are left to presume that he is going to commit seppuku anyway. Because, you know, a bridge built entirely by British hands is just as dishonorable as no bridge at all. And then it gets complicated.

While Saito’s inner battle is raging, Nicholson discovers that the Brits have rigged the bridge with explosives so that it will blow right as the first train crosses over it. When Saito and Nicholson get down to the exposed wire, the audience knows that Saito has the knife in his coat. But does he cut the wire? NO! Why? HONOR! If the bridge is destroyed by British forces, Saito cannot be punished because the evidence of his lack of involvement in the project will be reduced to toothpicks. And he would have still met his deadline, solving the initial “meet the deadline or kill himself” problem. He’s saved. Well, kind of. Until he gets shot at least. But that’s really not the point.

I guess that after 4 rewrites I still don’t really know where I’m going with this, except to pose this question. If Saito had lived, and the bridge had exploded because he didn’t cut the wire… would that really have restored his honor? In my mind, not really. By not cutting the wire he allowed the bridge to be destroyed, causing Japanese deaths and a huge inconvenience for the Japanese army. I guess this question is kind of irrelevant because he did die, but I didn’t really know what else to write about this movie. Which, by the way, I really liked. Just don’t ask me to explain why.