Category: all time favorites

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pride and prejudice

There’s a never-ending discussion in my family about which adaptation of Pride and Prejudice is the best. Most of my sisters prefer the BBC miniseries led by Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth, with its period-accurate costumes and closer adaptation of Jane Austen’s original novel. But as much as I appreciate that series, my heart has been captured forever by the beauty and joy of the 2005 film. When the soundtrack starts to wash over me as the film opens, I feel somehow like I’m coming home.

As we wander through the Bennets’ house at the beginning of the film, we meet five sisters and their slightly-overwhelmed parents and glimpse the chaos and the joy of their shared life. The Bennet sisters, both in their close bonds and their petty squabbles, remind me so much of me and my own sisters. I can’t help but smile as I watch them. And, though they are trying to navigate a very different society than my own, their struggles are so familiar. They’re looking for love and security, worried about their futures, their reputations, and ultimately their hearts. 

This rendition of the classic story allows the characters at its center to be open with their emotions, less tied to the reticence that would have been expected in their era. As a result, we get to see their confusion and their longing, their hope and their fear, more clearly than in other adaptations. We witness the awkwardness they experience as they try to navigate the etiquette of their complex society with varying levels of success. We cringe with Elizabeth at the self-absorption and naivete of her younger sisters, and we feel foolish with her when she realizes the ways she has judged others incorrectly. We see Darcy’s discomfort and uncertainty, which give those who don’t know him the impression of arrogance. We hope for the best with Jane, and mourn with her when her expectations are dashed. And, of course, we experience Mr. Collins’ complete obliviousness to all social expectations and the general cloud of discomfort that surrounds everyone who interacts with him. We get to enter into these characters’ lives, to experience their emotions along with them, and we care more deeply for them as a result.

Beyond the excellent performances of the cast, which beautifully capture Austen’s iconic characters, the craftsmanship of this film makes all the difference. The cinematography is breathtaking, full of life and color and gorgeous landscapes. The soundtrack matches it for beauty: the piano-led score is one of my favorite musical pieces on earth. And the costumes, while criticized by some of my sisters for being less than period-accurate, play a key role in helping us understand the characters better. To give just one example, we first meet Darcy dressed in stiff, formal, dark clothes. Later, when he meets Elizabeth at Pemberley, he’s wearing a brighter coat with the buttons undone–he’s opening up. And, of course, when he and Elizabeth meet on the moors, he’s lost all the formality, the layers of vests and waistcoats that represented the barrier he’d built, and he approaches her in vulnerable hope.

I could talk about the moments in this film I love for hours–the scene where Darcy and Elizabeth dance and the rest of the world falls away; the sheer panic when Elizabeth realizes that Mr. Collins is about to propose; the delight of watching Mr. Bingley rehearse his proposal with Darcy by the lake…and so many more. But more than anything, I love this story. It’s the story of two people whose lives intersect, and who make snap judgments about each other. Who choose the wrong paths and communicate poorly, so it seems impossible that they could ever find their way to each other. But who are wise and humble enough to reconsider their original perceptions and to realize that the other is worthy of love. It may be set two hundred years ago, but it’s a story that never gets old.

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all time favorites reviews

memento

Many films have compelling narratives or interesting story structures, but it’s rare for the two to combine in perfect harmony. When I try to explain this concept, I often mention portions of Terrence Malick’s A Hidden Life, where the slow, deliberate pace matches the long imprisonment of the main character and allows the audience to endure the weary monotony with him. Christopher Nolan takes this to another level with Memento, masterfully intertwining its narrative with its structure from start to finish to create a haunting, compelling film.

Memento’s structure, with a primary storyline moving backward and revealing the motivation for each chunk of narrative after we’ve seen the result, is uniquely disorienting. As viewers, we haven’t experienced anything like this–it doesn’t hit the familiar beats we’re used to encountering and we’re never sure what is coming next. This uncertainty places us in the same state of mind as Leonard, our protagonist. With him, we’re disoriented and nervous, unsure who we can trust and what led to the situation we’re witnessing. As the movie continues, we start to piece things together in a way Leonard can’t, but every new scene forces us to reorient ourselves as we try to figure out what’s happening.

And every time we think we understand what’s going on, a new revelation pulls the rug out from under our feet. We think Natalie is helping Leonard, but realize that she suspects him of being involved with her boyfriend’s disappearance and is manipulating him. We think Teddy is untrustworthy, but we learn that he is one of the only people who knows what’s going on and has tried to help. We think Leonard is pursuing justice for his dead wife, but discover that the guilty party was already found–and that the story he tells of his wife’s death is not the full truth. Even the things Leonard is most certain of, that he tattoos on his body so he won’t forget them, turn out to be less than trustworthy. 

Leonard uses his system of tattoos, polaroids, and notes to function in a world that could quickly become overwhelming, but he also uses it to deceive himself. He builds a reality that gives him a purpose, destroying or twisting details to give himself mysteries to solve. He tells himself that he is doing all this for justice, that he’s on a noble quest to avenge his wife, and that, despite his amnesia, he’ll know in his heart when he’s finally accomplished his goal. But we find out that he and Teddy already found and punished the man responsible–and that Leonard chose to forget it. He burns the photo that recorded the moment of vengeance and erases that reality from his world. Then, when Teddy threatens his carefully constructed world with the truth, Leonard decides he’s an enemy and chooses to eliminate him.

All this exploration of meaning and memory occurs within a meticulously-scripted story, directed and performed to perfection. Though the film wrestles with big philosophical ideas, we never feel like we’re sitting in a lecture. We walk with Leonard through frustration and uncertainty, and we wonder what we would do in his situation, how we would make sense of the world. And those questions, more than anything, are what stick with us when the screen fades to black. Memento shocks and terrifies us–we could never be like Leonard, taking lives in order to feel like we have a purpose. But the film asks us to consider the ways in which we are deceiving ourselves to create a more comfortable world. What we’re choosing to forget because it’s convenient. And, ultimately, whether we can trust our past selves, our memories, or the truths that we build our lives around.

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a few good men

Long before Tom Cruise learned to scale skyscrapers and hang off the side of planes, he proved his skill as an actor in smaller, character-focused films like A Few Good Men. I’m always amazed by how many of my friends haven’t seen this film (and regularly make them sit down and watch it with me to remedy the situation). The costumes in this 90s classic occasionally look dated, but the ideas at its center are just as vibrant and important as they were when the film was released. 

From the very beginning of the film, we understand that Sorkin is presenting a conflict between idealism (Demi Moore’s passionate Lieutenant Commander Galloway) and pragmatism (Cruise’s swaggering Lieutenant Kaffee). When Kaffee is assigned to defend two young Marines accused of murder, Galloway worries that he’ll handle the case with the same cavalier disregard that he’s displayed throughout his brief career as a lawyer. He’s not interested in high-stakes arguments, seeking instead to add to his plea bargain total and win a set of steak knives. So the first battle of the film comes long before they enter a courtroom, as Galloway must try to convince Kaffee to give the defendants a fair chance.

As the film continues, we see Galloway’s persistence pay off, as her determination to pursue justice gradually transforms her colleague. We see Kaffee slowly start to believe that his defendants are worth fighting for, though his knowledge of the law means he is still pessimistic about their chances before a judge. We watch him and his team endure a roller coaster of hope and disappointment, and see him choose to stick with the case when every instinct tells him to walk away.

So, unsure of how they’ll win the case but determined that they’re doing the right thing, Kaffee and his colleagues prepare to make their defense–and to face Jack Nicholson’s intimidating Colonel Nathan Jessup. As Nicholson and Cruise battle, all the tension that has been building throughout the film comes to a head. Emotions rise as the young lawyer faces a veteran who can hardly believe he’s been forced to suffer the indignity of appearing in court. We see the moment when Kaffee lays everything on the line, where he decides to risk everything for his clients. And we watch him prod and probe and frustrate Jessup until he explodes, in one of the most iconic moments in cinema. I get chills when Jessup admits his culpability. No one, including him, expected this to happen and the whole courtroom is in shock.

Unfortunately, Jessup’s admission doesn’t immediately acquit the defendants. The court delivers their verdict, convicting the young Marines of conduct unbecoming to an officer and dishonorably discharging them from the Corps. After listening to Kaffee and Galloway defend their clients, we’re surprised by this decision. But the convicted officer recognizes it as a just condemnation, reminding his comrade that they “were supposed to fight for people who couldn’t fight for themselves.” They chose to follow the culture of unquestioning obedience that surrounded them, to listen to the orders of their superior officer even when they knew those instructions were wrong. If they were to truly exemplify the honor and duty they believe in, they should have chosen to stand up and do what was right, no matter what consequences they faced.

I love the smart, witty dialogue that overflows from Sorkin’s screenplay, but, even more, I love the ideals at its heart. The uncompromising commitment to justice, despite the consequences. The passionate advocate who pleads for the defendants even when they’ve fallen short of their own ideals. The way it asks us to think about who we obey, about who bears the responsibility for our actions. I’ve seen A Few Good Men more times than I can remember, and the questions it raises never get old.

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academy award nominees all time favorites reviews

the social network

Every time I look at my shelf of DVDs, intending to watch an untouched Criterion Collection film I bought aspirationally, I have to stop myself from picking up The Social Network instead. If someone forces me to name a favorite movie, this is always one of the contenders in my mind. I’m still irrationally bitter that it lost the Best Picture award to The King’s Speech in 2011. I brought a copy all the way to South Africa so my sister could watch it with me. I love this film.

An essential part of The Social Network’s appeal for me is Aaron Sorkin’s writing. No matter how technical the subject matter, he crafts dialogue that is almost musical in its rhythm. The film’s opening conversation perfectly captures this flow, as Erica tries to carry on a normal discussion while being constantly interrupted by Mark’s three-thoughts-ahead statements. Sorkin matches quick, witty conversation with an idealistic view of the world–his stories are grounded by a clear sense of morality, with protagonists who are trying to do the right thing despite the obstacles they face. His writing makes me believe in a better world, in politicians and lawyers who choose truth and justice rather than personal gain.

David Fincher has quite a different view of the world, a much darker and bleaker perspective. He is often drawn to violence and chaos, filling the movies he directs with characters who are delusional or framing their husband or serial killers. The darkness here is much subtler than in films like Zodiac or Gone Girl, but it still lurks around every corner. Through his eyes, The Social Network is not simply a story about a man building a website or about legal battles in boardrooms. It’s a look at how power warps perspectives, how the pursuit of even a worthy goal can become all-consuming, and how genius comes at a cost.

As collaborators, then, Sorkin and Fincher come together to paint a nuanced, complex picture that manages to walk the thin line between propaganda and condemnation. The film lets us draw our own conclusions about Mark Zuckerberg and his company, but informs us with a series of revealing parallels. As it begins, the view cuts from students partying at exclusive clubs to Mark sitting alone, coding in his dorm room. We immediately understand that he wants to be admitted to those social circles and that his actions throughout the film will be driven, at least in part, by his desire to prove himself to these people. Later, we watch Mark and the Winklevoss twins taking two different paths as they each explore the creation of a new website. Mark sees himself as above the rules, and he is happy to offend people and ignore social norms in service of his ideas, unconcerned about the collateral damage. The Winklevoss brothers, in contrast, assume that the system around them will work in their favor as long as they behave like gentlemen–and find themselves coming up second both in business and in sport. The whole film is bookended by two differing declarations about who Mark is, leaving the viewer to determine which perspective is the most accurate.

And, at its heart, the film shows us Mark’s values through the lens of his contrasting friendships. Eduardo invests both time and money to support Mark’s project, even before he knows whether it will be successful. He sees the two of them as a team, working together to create something revolutionary. Mark, though, views Eduardo’s successes apart from Facebook as competition and disloyalty, building up a list of grievances he ultimately uses to cut his friend out of their shared venture. In exchange, he foolishly shifts his allegiance to Sean Parker, whose flashy success and irreverent attitude align with Mark’s view of himself. Despite his paranoia, his drug habit, and his self-destructive tendencies, Mark chooses Sean. Even worse, Mark acts as if he doesn’t care that this choice hurts his friend. In his mind, the success of Facebook is worth any sacrifice, so he leaves Eduardo behind and moves on.

It’s hard to remember that Facebook had only been a public site for four years when this film was being made. The Social Network is eerily prescient in many ways, capturing Mark Zuckerberg’s close control of his invention, the legal proceedings he would be embroiled in, and the way the site would so quickly become ubiquitous around the globe. Most significantly, though, I think it foreshadows the way Facebook would redefine friendship–how easily it would tempt us to substitute a series of shallow connections for true relationships. And it reminds us to look up and ask ourselves if a website can fill our emptiness. Can it make us feel like we belong? As the film closes on Mark refreshing the screen over and over, hoping that Erica will accept his friend request, it seems that the answer is no.

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all time favorites cheesy but i love them reviews romantic comedies

the princess bride

I have trouble grasping the fact that there are people in the world who don’t love The Princess Bride. Even though I nearly have the ninety minutes memorized, I could watch the film any day and be delighted by the humor, the romance, the adventure, and the sheer joy overflowing from this treasure of a story.

At this point, it’s hard to tell whether The Princess Bride was written perfectly for my sense of humor or whether it’s been part of my life for so long that it has molded my taste. Either way, it’s one of the wittiest films I’ve ever seen. Dozens of lines from the film have become iconic for my generation–it’s almost impossible to make it through a wedding weekend without delivering the “mawwage” speech. The dialogue throughout the film is delightfully written and impeccably delivered, especially by Wallace Shawn and Billy Crystal. I know the punch line to every joke but still find them hilarious every time.

The Princess Bride is funny, but it’s also so much more. It’s a romance, with Westley and Buttercup’s love story at its heart. Unlike many modern romantic comedies, the film’s belief in the power and beauty of love is always earnest, never ironic. When Westley declares that even death cannot stop true love, only delay it for a while, we believe him. And as we watch him and Buttercup defeat every obstacle that stands between the two of them and happily ever after, we’re convinced that they’ve got it right. 

While the hopeless romantics among us (me) are enthralled by the love story, The Princess Bride is just as much a swashbuckling adventure as it is “a kissing book.” Inigo Montoya’s quest to avenge his father’s honor is thrilling, and his riveting duel with Westley is one of the best sword fights I’ve ever seen on screen: perfectly choreographed, perfectly scored, and perfectly filled with surprise reveals. Throw in pirates, shrieking eels, cliffs of insanity, giants, poison, fire swamps, and rodents of unusual size, and the story is bursting at the seams with excitement. Plus, the ideas behind some of the slightly-dated effects are genuinely scary. A machine that could suck away years of your life? Absolutely terrifying.

For me, at least, I think the movie owes much of its success to the frame narrative: a grandpa reading a story to his sick grandson. Even the most cynical, uninterested viewer finds their reluctant counterpart in the grumpy child, but they can’t help being entranced along with him. But, more importantly, this frame immediately lets us know what kind of story to expect. The film is a fairy tale, and it never pretends to be anything else. So we aren’t surprised by the elements of fantasy–we know what kind of world we’re entering as the story begins. And, though it may be cheesy and over-the-top at times, it’s a world I love visiting. It’s a world where the heroes overcome every obstacle. Where the villains are defeated. Where true love is not only a reality but an unstoppable force.