Saturday, September 12, 2009

Top 100 Films 65-56

65.I’ve been agonizing over this one for a while, first because it’s been some time since I’ve seen it so the exact progression of events is a bit muddled in my head, second because even if they weren’t, I’m not sure I could put to words the allure that this considerably underrated Ingmar Bergman film has for me. Like much of Bergman’s cannon, the atmosphere of The Silence defines the film more than its events do (and wouldn’t you know, it’s a very solitary atmosphere). In fact, the whole film seems to run on a throbbing disconnect between family, between culture, and between this life and the next. Not surprisingly, there’s a lot here that just doesn’t make one lick of sense. Why the singular tank in the streets? What’s up with the dwarfs? But like Last Year at Marienbad, (comparisons between the two are apt) it’s best not to demand answers from this one. Bergman himself was more interested in questions anyway, especially at this stage in his career. From that lengthy period when he grappled with the existence of God, The Silence is surely his most compelling work.

Would you rather have fish or meat for dinner?

What would you have preferred if you were having meat?
I dunno, veal.

If you were to have beef rather than veal, would you prefer a steak or a roast?
A steak.

Had you answered roast, would you have preferred it rare or well-done?

Well, honey, you’re out of luck. My roast beef’s a bit overdone.

Jean-Luc Godard always has so much to say in his films that often he forgets (or actively avoids) how to loosen up and have fun. Not so in A Woman is a Woman, which is joyfully packed with playful exchanges like the one above. Plus it’s a musical, or at least, it’s sort of a musical, and this insistence on wading halfway into a genre without ever committing to a full plunge must make this one of the most self-conscious movies ever made. The whole thing’s a blast though. The minor touches that Godard slips in don’t go unnoticed; like the casual references to his earlier films as well as Truffaut’s, or seeing them haul the floor lamp around the apartment at night, which gets me every time. Anna Karina rocks the color rock like it’s never been worn before and she brightens up every frame of the classic, yet dreary Parisian streets. Her presence is irresistible, and the giddy, just-awakened love we have for her is no surprise since we’re seeing her as Godard did early on in his attraction to her. And though it’s Karina’s movie through and through, it’s nice having Jean-Paul Belmondo (I especially enjoy his simple conman schemes) and Jean-Claude Briarly along for the ride. The interactions between all three amount to comic perfection. There’s really never a dull moment, mainly because jump cuts conveniently sidestep anything boring, but Godard and Karina bring so much energy to this mix that it’s a joy the whole way through.

I’m always surprised not to see Stroszek ranked among Werner Herzog’s greatest films. Sure it doesn’t boast an insane performance from Klaus Kinski, but instead we get the most endearing idiot to ever find himself on screen, Bruno S., the very definition of an amateur actor. Bruno, along with his girlfriend and elderly neighbor, leaves Germany behind and heads for the promised land of Wisconsin seeking a new and better life. But the life of an immigrant is rarely a glamorous one, and Bruno and company find a strain not just on their finances, but on their own little oddball family. It sounds like the story of just about every immigrant to the good ol’ US of A, and I’d have never taken interest in the first place had Herzog not been at the helm. That’s exactly what this classic tale of chasing the American dream needed though, the gaze of a foreigner whose dreams were always far grander than any newcomer here could every imagine. How familiar Herzog was at the time with America I can’t be certain, but two things I do know are thus: first, that he ended up making Stroszek after getting sidetracked from his quest to dig up Ed Gein’s mother’s grave; and second, that he approaches every minor utter obscurity in the heartland with the utter fascination that only a foreigner could. The America we see in Stroszek has no streets paved with gold, but it hardly takes place in an immigrant ghetto either. The country instead is characterized by its people, auctioneers, mechanics, even an animal magnetism expert; and unforgettably by its roadside attractions. Herzog and Bruno have to come all the way to Middle America to marvel at an animal sideshow event, complete with a chicken that just won’t stop dancing. It may be the strangest depiction of our country displayed on film, but more than a few notes of it ring true. In exploring the place on his own terms, Herzog finds the bits that set us apart from the rest of the world, though not necessarily for better or for worse.

One of the only films that I’d seen for the first time in 2009 to make the list (I believe 3 others did as well) I’d prefer to have another viewing before deciding how to explain it’s brilliance, but since it’s a little hard to come by a copy, I’ll do my best without. Nicholas Roeg, co-director and cinematographer, rarely gets the credit he deserves, and he’s surely shot films more beautiful than Performance, but maybe never one so effective (even there I’m stretching, The Masque of the Red Death nails the mood of Poe’s story with haunting precision). The point stands though that it takes an act of inspired genius to craft a tale of identity and (as the title would suggest) performance that so in your face as this; stuffed with violence and hypersexuality and filmed like a frenzied plunge into a rockstar’s life behind the scenes. Mick Jagger brings his larger than life persona to the film, and James Fox pulls out the performance of his career to go head to head with him. The resulting experience is a delirious pitfall with a real head-scratcher left at the bottom for us to mull over. But these bits of confusion don’t hurt, they add to feeling that this may all have sprung from an extended hallucination from too many wild nights stacked on end.

Ack! I just realized that I totally shorted Donald Cammell on co-director credit in the graphic. How insensitive of me. Well, credit where credit is due. He's responsible for the script, so that makes the wonders of this as much his doing as Roeg's.

61. For a cinematic mindfuck of the first order, I actually walk away from Being John Malkovich with relatively few questions, (save for ‘why doesn’t John Cusack chose scripts this good more often?’) but that’s ‘cause in spite one insane convolution on top of another, the film does a remarkable job of explaining, and subsequently holding to, its own logic. The plot hurdles from just-plain-weird to batshit-crazy as we move from the story of a creepy puppet guy who works in an office built for dwarfs to a hysterical scheme for exploiting the portal to another man’s body (that would be Mr. Malkovich) to a nefarious quest for eternal life. And yet each time Charlie Kaufman and Spike Jonze up the ante, we can only laugh; shocked that it just dared to go where no film had gone before.

Maybe that’s not quite true, but then again, it’s one of the only films I know that refuses to settle down. To call it escalation doesn’t even begin to do the screenplay justice. The film refuses to settle down and thus there’s no window for minds to wander out of. The film demands our fullest attention (just try bringing someone up to speed on this one, impossible) but what more can you ask for in a movie? At turns it’s hilarious, unsettling, sensual, powerful and introspective. It defies genre. And of course there’s a handful of memorable offbeat performances at the center of it all, including the all but unrecognizable Cameron Diaz. Her baffling love triangle, sort of quadrilateral, with John Cusack and Catherine Keener drives much of the film along and brings out career best performances from all involved. But had the lot of them not been so damn good, this would be remembered as Malkovich’s show. He brilliantly pulls of an intentionally self-aware performance that goes well beyond any part an actor ever imagine playing. Much as the film boggles my mind, I can’t imagine his reaction upon first seeing the script. Only from the warped brain of Charlie Kaufman could all this have sprung.

For an avant-garde filmmaker, Kenneth Anger’s output is surprisingly all quite uniformly good; that is to say, his experiments largely pay off. But within his fascinating body of work, The Inauguration of the Pleasure Dome stands out as his masterpiece. He transports us to the very visual realm of Xanadu, not perhaps what you’d picture from Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s poem, yet steeped in mythic lore just the same. The film runs a mere 45 minutes, but you’d never really know. Time has no bearing on this hypnotic barrage of images. It’s the kind of film that can only adequately be experienced, not described. It initiates a kind of trance, provided you’re willing to get over how damn odd the whole thing is and surrender yourself to the visuals. My recommendation would be to turn off the lights and eliminate all possible distractions before getting started. Considering how short it actually is, there’s no sense in interrupting the otherworldly sensation this conjures up.

The times they are a changing in Sicily during the course of the Risorgimento, and The Leopard captures the moment through an intimate portrait of a member of the country’s dying nobility. Luchino Visconti’s exquisite masterpiece sets a high bar for epic filmmaking. Breathtaking visuals, a sublime score by Nino Rota, and a collection of the finest costumes ever designed for film add weight to unflagging grandeur of the whole affair. Visconti paints a world so beautiful that we never doubt how resolutely the old guard would hang on to it while the younger generations fight equally for its betterment. The performances are towering. Alain Delon and Claudia Cardinale, among the best European actors of their day, give a face to the country’s youth. Burt Lancaster is astonishing as the Prince, understanding of the changing world around him, but emotionally worn down by it as well. His character is a great man, yet a fragile one. So rarely do we see the most distinguished and imposing of figures reveal their vulnerabilities as he does, however selectively. It may just be the best performance of the 1960s. Overall, a film of soaring ambition that never misses its mark, but hits its most magnificent stride in the final hour with an extended celebration sure to win back the attention of less patient audience members. It’s an astonishing accomplishment for both Vicsconti and Lancaster.

I would struggle to compare Withnail & I to any other comedy I’ve ever seen. It’s more British than Beef Wellington, yet doesn’t fall into the company of the Pythons, Ealing studios, nor the more contemporary comedy of Simon Pegg or Ricky Gervais. It also succeeds in simultaneously hitting both the high and low brow, a satire on social rank that finds a great many laughs from drugs, homosexuality and drunken antics. Bruce Robinson’s screenplay is sharp and built around three characters whose typically extreme interactions (extreme, because excess of drink begets such behavior) keep things hilarious from start to finish. Paul McGann plays I, the more timid of the titular characters, whose inability to control the downward spiral of their country weekend seems to be the principle conflict of the film. Richard Griffiths is Withnail’s well-to-do uncle Monty who happily puts his nephew and friend up for the weekend in his country cottage under the illusion that I may have eyes for him. They’re both marvelous, but it’s Richard E. Grant as Withnail who (drunkenly) drives the film to such great heights.

Withnail may either be the worst person in the world, or the best. That would depend on whether you’re his roommate, or just a casual acquaintance, and it would certainly depend on whether you’re stone sober or soused out of your head as he is for most of the movie. He’s a coward who attracts the most exciting of situations. He’s a gifted performer forced to use his acting talents to secure a few drinks thanks to his perpetual unemployment. Most remarkably, he’s a fallen bourgeoisie, possessing all manner of an aristocrat from speech to attire, and disdain for the only food and drink he can afford because it doesn’t sooth his highly evolved palate. Withnail is a character built larger than life, and as wretched as he treats his constant companion I, his presence feels like an honor. Withnail can out-drink us, out-talk us, and out-class us, and he may in every way be too good for us, but we get to have him nonetheless. I’ll raise my glass to Withnail, and he’ll raise his bottle right back at me.

I’m the odd one that prefers the pseudo-sequel to The Umbrellas of Cherbourg to the original tearjerker musical. It all stems from the conditions I watched it under. I usually can count on a musical to lift my spirits when I need it most-there’s no more perfect form of cinematic escape-but if my love for Jacques Demy’s perceived masterpiece is flagging (and it ain’t much, it would easily make an alternate top 100), it’s because I went in expecting a very different film then I ended up getting. Imagine my elation though when I discovered The Young Girls of Rochefort, every bit as gorgeous as Umbrellas, yet without the teary melodrama. Instead, it’s a celebration of musicals, one that’s impossible to overlook if you’re in love with the genre. Demy brings in Gene Kelly for chrissakes, and the aging dance master is in a fine a form as ever. At the center of it all, Catherine Deneuve and her real life sister Françoise Dorléac are positively radiant; glamorous young girls hopelessly in love and living in the most colorful seaside town ever dreamed of. I’ve heard catchier songs in musicals before, but here the combination of sound, color and oft-grand staging make my weepy heart race in anticipation of a happy ending. And if I’ve not spoiled it already, that’s exactly what I get.

I want to be a Tenenbaum. I’ve always wanted to, since long before the movie was even made. It might be that I’d like to picture myself living in style in one of New York’s most colorful apartments. Or perhaps I crave the talents, for writing, business, tennis or otherwise, that come so naturally to the gifted Tenenbaum offspring. Or maybe it’s the desire to dive into the world of indie quirk without all the saccharine cutesiness that’s now a staple of it. One way or another, Wes Anderson’s storybook tale of family dysfunction introduces a world that’s got plenty of class, wry humor and appeal, and dammit, I want to be part of it.

But why? The characters are hardly people you’d consider lucky to have as friends. Royal’s a grade-A fraud, Margot’s stoicism is a constant frustration, and Chas’s overbearing parent act is no less irritating. It’s also no small matter to ask the audience to accept, much less cheer for, a brother/sister romance, even if they’re only stepsiblings. Of course all these characters endear themselves to us, because although they’re types are exaggerated to extremes, they’re interactions and epiphanies all feel distinctly human. And we do cheer for Margot and Richie to find happiness, though if we’ve gotten to that point, we’ve already come to terms with the awkward situations the film relishes as the foundation of its humor. There’s no place the film won’t go for the sake of a dry chuckle; dog fighting, mental illness and a mortal wound or two, but with the amount of detail that Anderson manages to slip between the frames, it’s bound to take a few viewings to catch everything. Of course, I can think of few films that I’d more eagerly revisit. It’s a strange world these Tenenbaums live in, mostly by their own fault, but that’s what really makes it so inviting.

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Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Top 100 Films - 75 to 66

75.Guests gather in abundance in a classic manor house for a weekend of mayhem, maybe even murder. I am powerless to resist the allure of this tired scenario. I could offer any number of explanations why, and while I’m musing on it, why not start with the manor house itself. A sprawling mansion (or castle or chateau or whathaveyou) is a genuine modern labyrinth, and rarely an empty one at that. Never does one room get all the action. Guests and servants move from room to room. Everyone has an agenda. In film, at times we see this all at once, but more often than not we remain in the confines of one room, simply aware that more is going on that we’re not privileged to see.

The Rules of the Game pulls off the difficult task, more successfully than any other film, of showing us the whole picture. It’s a tremendous feat of direction, benefiting greatly from the use of deep focus shots that Jean Renoir pulls off better than Citizen Kane even managed to. But like I pointed out above, he was using the perfect setting. The mansion in the film is appropriately sprawling. I couldn’t even begin to draw a map of the place, not that I’d want to. On occasion we observe rooms from beyond the doorway to another. People move to and fro in manic fashion, and just when we think all the action before couldn’t be more overwhelming, the camera pans in a quick 180 degree motion and reveals yet another roomful of motion. There’s not a main character to be found, but instead a handful of intermingling passions among the many gathered at the house. We jump from one plot strand to the next not merely seamlessly, but artfully. There’s a delicate build to the mayhem of this house, tightly controlled chaos if you will, and watching it unfold is mesmerizing.

Of course, there are a lot of other reasons to love The Rules of the Game as well, but they’ve been talked about time and time again and there’s not much I’ll be able to add to the conversation. Suffice it to say that it’s a film worthy of its acclaim, above all else because it actually demands something of its viewers. There’s a lot to keep track of, and far more to consider about lives of the bourgeoisie and the proletariat than is readily spelled out for viewers. It’s a film packed with so much that the bar it sets is nigh unreachable, but that’s just how Jean Renoir rolls.

I’ve always found the practice of one artistic medium exploring another not only compelling, but also strangely daring. Film has taken on theater, photography, painting and so forth with rather limited success. I don’t say that harshly. It’s not that all these films are failures, they just don’t adequately capture the creative process at their subject’s core. Films tend to be about the artists, not the art, and as such they are little more than that most uninteresting of genres, the biopic. But leave it to Jacques Rivette, the most underrated of the Nouvelle Vague masters, to be the great exception to this case.

La Belle Noiseuse makes no attempt at brevity. Through the course of four hours, we follow an aging artist as he returns to his trade to create the masterwork he had failed to years ago. Michel Piccoli plays Frenhofer the artist. Modeling for him is the incomparable Emmanuelle Béart. Their interactions alone in the studio naturally take up a great deal of the film’s time, and the relationship they have stands far from the typical artist/model cliché. That is to say, she’s no traditional muse to Frenhofer. He abuses her, contorting her body into impossible poses, and the physical abuse begins to take a mental toll. Mixed throughout are lengthy hand sketches, each abandoned in frustration in favor of a new pose. But of course great art isn’t created over night, and within the confines of the studio we can’t help but give the film our undivided attention because we can feel this greatness in the works. Never has a film given such insight into the artistic process. Never have four hours passed by so unnoticed.

Odd that one of the greatest science fiction films only incidentally exists in the genre. There’s no overarching critique of society in Solaris, and despite the epic feel that its length and critical standing lend it, everything here boils down to the personal struggle of the protagonist, Kelvin. The shot early on in the film driving unhindered through the streets of Tokyo sends us off on a mesmerizing journey. We move along to the space station, and like Kelvin, find the experience hallucinatory. Memory and reality mingle, but not without a cost. There comes a point when neither seems quite right anymore, but we’re too far gone at that point to turn back. Tarkovsky’s pacing is slow, but deliberate, and the delirious visions are so arresting that getting lost in them feels only natural. And as usual, Tarkovsky sends you off with an ending that stands your every hair on end.

72.Eraserhead is the closest a film has ever came to replicating the stuff that nightmares are made of. Analysis doesn’t do it justice. Like all the wildest dreams, it can only be described by experiencing it. It works because despite the utter insanity of it all, it never feels as though David Lynch has haphazardly thrown this together. Maybe there’s a method to the madness, I’m inclined to think there is, but understanding isn’t the key to appreciating a film of this kind. That doesn’t mean I don’t have a good time pondering the possible interpretations, but I’ll be damned if I could offer any insight into its inner-workings. Might as well tackle the mysteries of the universe while I’m at it. One thing I can be sure of though; in heaven, everything is fine.

It’s become so entangled in its downright mythic production history that it’s possible to forget that Fitzcarraldo is actually as great a film as it is a personal achievement for Werner Herzog. For those not in the know, Fitzcarraldo is about an opera aficionado who decides to build an opera house in the South American jungle. The task at hand requires the monumental task of moving a boat between two rivers, quite literally hauling it up a mountain. That’s exactly what he does, not just Fitzcarraldo, but Herzog himself. Trees are cleared, the hill is smoothed, and a pulley system strong enough to carry the ship up and over is constructed by hundreds of natives. And it works. Both the character and the director move mountains. How’s that for inspirational?

Of course, it takes a madman to undertake such an endeavor. Herzog fits the bill, but it’s baffling that he ever thought of anyone but Klaus Kinski to play the titular role (he originally started filming with Jason Robards before abandoning that footage). Kinski falls perfectly into the role of a man whose blind ambition begets this perilous scheme. But there’s no man whose man enough to make Kinski back down except for Herzog himself. It’s a role that no one else could have stepped into. It’s also a movie that no one else could have made. But for the safety of casts and crews everywhere, maybe that’s ok.

70.It’s easy to include all corners of adolescence as if they were the same when bringing up great films about childhood, but while there’s at least a handful of classic films surrounding young kids, those at the turning point between junior high and high school are very sorely represented. What so marvelous about Whisper of the Heart is that it taps into a very real concern of kids that age, or at least one that was very real to me, the question of what you’re going to be when you grow up. Just as the film shows, that impending move from one school to the next seems like a very real jump into adulthood. Pulling you forward is the desire to accomplish something and the fear that you’ll fall behind. Holding you back is the remnants of early childhood imagination. The film gets it right. I recall feeling very much like Shizuku eight years ago when I was in the same spot.

But I didn’t see this first as an eighth grader, I saw it as a sophomore in college, and I could only smile at the thought that what once seemed like the biggest transition in the world really didn’t amount to much. And though many circumstances are different, I still find a lot of the same desires and worries tugging at me that I did back then. All these worries may seem insignificant in retrospect, but when you’re in the midst of them, they’re the biggest thing in the world, and that’s all Whisper of the Heart needs to drive its story. With not so much as an antagonist, the film makes this oft overlooked portion of life a truly sublime journey, complete with romance, personal struggles and flights of fancy.

Long before The Battle of Algiers rocked the Casbah, those pesky French were still causing trouble for the city. Hiding from them inside the labyrinthine walls of the Casbah is Pépé le Moko, (Jean Gabin at his most dashing) a notorious crook, thief and lover. Pépé plays the true anti-hero, a man with as many enemies as he has lovers. But he knows his streets better than any of the French officers operating on the outside could ever hope to, and as long as he remains within his quarter’s high walls, he has the advantage in this intense cat and mouse game. His playful relationships, with the pursuing police and women he’s pursuing, grow increasingly complicated. Likeable though he may be, his story never seems destined to end happily.

The only thing more fascinating than Pépé is the space that surrounds him. The cinematography of the Casbah is wonderfully evocative of the most intricate mazes, and the city literally forms both Pépé’s refuge and prison. Film noir owes considerable debt to this one. Few cities have appeared as twisted as the streets and alleys of the Casbah do here. It’s a wonderful example of a film’s location defining it as much as character does. That’s something we don’t see nearly enough of, but boy is it done well here.

The entirety of Drowning By Numbers feels very inevitable, and I mean that in the best way possible. But what else is there to expect from a film where the central gimmick (not actually connected to the plot) is the successive appearance of numbers 1 through 100. The film moves toward an end that becomes fairly evident early on, but the path we take to get there is so sick, twisted and amusing that we hardly mind the formula that we seem to be following. And I don’t mean this falls neatly into the cliché’s of a genre; it’s predictable in the way a board game is. Observe for a little while and you’ll get the basic idea.

And I suppose that’s exactly what Peter Greenaway was going for. Throughout the film he breaks apart various fictional children’s games and inserts a derivative segment concerning them here and there. It keeps the pace up and fits perfectly with the film’s playful nature. Bernard Hill’s performance as the town coroner is memorable, as is Michael Nyman’s score, and as usual for a Greenaway film, the visuals are enough to drop your jaw to the floor. That would be the magic of Sacha Vierny though; credit where credit is due. But the combination of those three has never produced less than interesting results. Drowning By Numbers is no exception, and as it also happens to be one of Greenaway’s most accessible films, there’s no reason not to give it a shot. Except by accessible, I didn’t mean easy to find, which it’s not. Since there’s never been a region 1 DVD of this, I guess you’ll just have to take my word for its awesomeness for now.

Ha! It seems pretty definitive to claim that The English Patient is my favorite film to win best picture, but I look around at the rest of my list and well, it is. And I’m all right with that. It easily falls into my passion for romantic epics, and though people complain about the length, I think it’s actually far more eventful than most films of its kind. Hell, there are basically two main storylines, one happening from the bed of an abandoned villa and one unfolding gradually through flashbacks. Boring? I suppose, if you’ve got a short attention span. Really though, I actually enjoy how much of a punching bag this film has become for some people. It got an entire episode of Seinfeld dedicated to complaining about it and people still like to seize upon it as some grand Oscar travesty (partly because they’ve not seen/don’t know enough of the winners to find a more worthy one to complain about, but also partly because they think The Departed was the best film to ever win the award). Hey, I’ll hear anyone’s case for why some film is the best of that generally subpar cannon, but I’ll stand by this one of the best. Oh, why not, I’ll even tell you why.

First, yet again, I’ve never read Michael Ondaatje’s book on which the film was based, but by all accounts the adaptation pulled quite a feat by translating everything in a way that could work for the screen. What could have easily amounted to pages of precise description of the limitless Sahara and the Italian countryside are expressed through stunning cinematography. Gabriel Yared’s understated score backs it all up without ever overpowering the scene. And of course, the performances rise far above the sappiness that I usually freely accept from romantic epics. It’s where I first truly took notice of Juliette Binoche and where she began her steady ascent to becoming nothing short of my favorite actress, a title she’s consistently held and only grows more secure with each film I see her in. But she seems to be the only that gets all the credit among this cast when really Ralph Fiennes and Kristen Scott Thomas are just as phenomenal. The more I watch, in fact, the more enamored I become with Scott Thomas’s performance. It helps that she’s got a classic beauty like few others these days, but she’s so alluring that I’d never doubt her power to make a man betray his country for her. Well, this is getting a little long. I bet you’re bored. I guess it’s like the mini-review version of this movie. Don’t like it? Then you can just go sit in your corner and watch Forrest Gump and we’ll agree to disagree.

Maurice Jarre’s spooky score open this Grand Guignol of French horror films, setting the glorious bursts of a gothic pipe organ against the blur of passing trees, gnarled and exposed without the cover of leaves to cloak them. But if you think trees look sinister without foliage to enshroud them, wait till you see a human stripped of her skin. Maybe ‘wait’ is the operative term. The first half of Eyes Without a Face runs on the steadily burning question of what lies behind that haunting white mask. Our fear, of course, is of what might lie behind that ghostly white exterior, and thus there’s a risk in revealing her face too early in the film. But by the time we get a peak, there are enough other terrors to seize us that the film holds steam right up to the ethereal conclusion. And yet despite the incredible amount of restraint applied to most of the story line, several moments lapse into downright gruesome detail. It’s obviously enough fake, but for a film that’s just hit its fiftieth year they hold up darn well. The traumatic visions of a face being sliced off, even with the limited effects, make you squirm as much as any of today’s torture porn flicks do. The difference is that Eyes Without a Face never dwells on these moments too long; they’re minor indulgences adding gravity to an already disquieting plot.

Horror films have had a good run on this list up until now, which isn’t something I’d have expected before devising this list, but this is the last for now. There’s one more coming somewhere down the road, but not just yet.

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